So, I looks on ye Olde Book of The Faces today and finds out my archest of arch-enemies is on his deathbed. No, sirrussly, this time it is FO’ REALZ.
Owing to his nasty habits and middle-age, he wound up in a coma sometime in the last year or two. I didn’t really want to gloat, and I didn’t necessarily want him to die, either. Mainly, as far as ‘revenge’ goes, I wanted a little public humiliation for him, as well as some kind of aggravating inconvenience — not like homelessness or even, as it turned out for him, a bum limb and wounds that don’t heal, but a bunch of paperwork crap, like a combination of MVA headaches, tax problems that can be solved (albeit painfully), and for him to have to take public transportation across Baltimore (specifically, the bus).
Substitute ‘Ceti Alpha V’ for ‘Tuscaloosa,’ and leave me there alone, and I’m Khan. Or, I guess, more properly, ‘KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!!!‘ Except rather than leave the late Mr. Macaroni scattered among the stars, I wanted him nibbled to the bones by the hands-on agents of Statecraft, like parole agents, substance abuse monitors and a half-dozen MVA flags.
I met my arch-enemy only once, about five years ago, back when I was wasting my time playing with Putz Poodinski. My arch-enemy came in looking to party with Pumpkinhead and Teddy Toughnuts, both of whom were supposed to be there but too ‘partied out’ to make a plan like ‘get to the Full Moon and play some music’ happen. Arch-enemy knew who I was, and not the other way ’round, so he introduced himself and I practically blew a gasket. I was so unbelievably pissed that people I knew were on good terms with this guy.
Come to think of it, that’s when I lost any semblance of respect for the Pumpkinhead, when I quit seeing the Pumpkinhead for what he used to be, and just for what he was — a Baltimore high-life loser. Hey, people are judged by the company they keep.
God only knows why I actually stuck around and played the shit-ass Putz Poodinski gig with my ass-wipe arch-enemy around. On the one hand, of course I wanted to dish out some punishment like nobody’s business. On the other, I had my life back, and I’d be a fool to put it on ice due to another tangle with the law and some hurt feelings from a long time ago. I did a solo set, and played the songs of anti-social hatred — Gene Wilcox’s ‘Golden Chain of Hate,’ and Johnny Paycheck’s ‘Pardon Me, I’ve Got Someone To Kill,’ as well as ‘Richard Lynch’ — that put all my hard feelings to music, and cut ’em down to size a long time ago.
Not that it communicated to this asshole just how wrong what he did was, or how maybe, just maybe, he was on the thinnest of ice.
Whenever you watch some special about music on tv, they always have talking heads yammering about how people communicate thru music. Well, I’ll tell ya, in the shit-hole barrooms, that just doesn’t happen. Depending on just how shitty the shit-hole you’re playing is, people care more about when ‘the man’ arrives than any music that may or may not be transpiring.
If I hadn’t given up on trying to communicate with strangers thru music on that night, it wasn’t long after.
I was insanely angry about running into that guy when I had my shit together; I was somewhat sorry about not catching up with him when I had considerably less to live for. It turns out the guy didn’t hit town all that often; he’d always been a junkie with his head up his own ass, he couldn’t make it if he tried. Just too strugglin.’ People wished him well, but really, they were giving him the softest of brush-offs. I couldn’t see that; I quit pursuing any activities in Baltimore ‘cos I thought people were being too sweet to the turdhat. My opinion was definitely ‘This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.’
He and my first wife put the first junkie burns on me; I wrote those rotten experiences, and a few more subsequent crap experiences dealing with drug asswipe people into a song called ‘Richard Lynch.’ Of course, as you’re either a) a Superego podcast fan or b) Ralph Agresta’s DUI monitor, you’ll want to hear this:
From the 2005 EP ‘Rock Baker Is A Pirate.’
Okay, I have been a little bloodthirsty as of late. We have a mouse in the house, and it has been amusing to me to order the otherwise-useless cat to kill the mouse, in the manner of a lesser James Bond villain, such as Hugo Drax (‘See that some harm comes to him.’), or Khamal Khan (‘Go out there, and GET HIM!!!’ to Gobinda, who looks at the bulkhead of the plane they’re on and asks, ‘OUT THERE?’), or like General Zod (‘KIIIIILL HIIIIMMM!’) from ‘Superman II’. So maybe, juuuust maybe, I’ve had a daydream that looks like this: