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Rock star groupies
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
It was 10 p.m. on a Friday evening. I hadn't slept in 37 hours, my roommate
was nowhere to be found and I was all out of Thomas' English Muffins. There
was only one action that could be taken: a full-out guitar noise jam
session. I have this band, Jolly Carcass. It consists of me and three
others who have very little idea of how to play music, only that it should
be loud, fast and vaguely disturbing to the mentally handicapped. I went in
to the Collegian and attempted to contact my "drummer" and "bassist". They
had been drinking cheap wine for four hours and listening to Steely Dan and
the Sex Pistols. Mark, the "drummer," told me that it had been a "cosmic
experience." Two hours later they met me at school. Tony, the "bass
player," was retching violently in the parking lot. I got the feeling that
this would be a good practice. When we went to my place to get our
equipment, Tony got sick again. This would set a pattern that would be
followed for the next seven hours. When we got to Donnell's house (the
"singer"), Tony locked the door of his truck and wouldn't get out. We
jumped on the truck and shook it up and down till it rolled like a small
cabin cruiser lost in a great oceanic hurricane, but still Tony wouldn't
budge as his spasm-racked body lolled about like some weird Raggedy Andy
doll. We quickly tired of this sport, as it was apparent that Tony was
going to be as useful to our band this evening as Elvis' corpse (which is
not entirely a bad idea. MEMO: work on it.), so we went inside to drink and
play scary music. Donnell was in the process of absorbing every single
second of recorded Lou Reed. The music had a calming influence on us,
especially when we picked up our guitars and started to play along, calming
that is, until Mark decided he wanted to listen to the Steely Dan album he
clutched furtively to his chest. "But we HATE Steely Dan," Donnell and I
chimed together. It had no effect on Mark's grape-sodden mind. We were
forced to listen to "Play the Game" 18 consecutive times, until he got up
to go to the bathroom, whereapon I pounced at the stereo and put on some
Husker Du. This thrust us into a more reflective mood, considering that our
cherished H?skers had just broken up, so we went outside to retrieve Tony.
We started the tidal wave routine again. He sat up abruptly in the tiny
cab, blinking his eyes in panic as if he had just been brought out of the
womb. He looked green. "No no no no! Please let me stay here! Please!
Please! No! NO! JUST LET ME SLEEP! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!,"he screamed
piteously. We decided that harsher action was neccessary. Bringing out the
foul-smelling "Fart Spray" that we had once purchased at a joke shop and
kept around for emergencies such as these, I doused all the vents of his
truck, in fact, coated every square inch of his truck with it. But it was
no use, he had passed out again. We fled the scene, fearing the mighty
spray (which, it should be noted, smells nothing like what it's advertised
to smell like but rather like some evil memory of a dead rotting cat
carcass you once found underneath a pile of brush in your back yard.). Our
"manager," Kurt, showed up about an hour later. Tony had come out of the
truck and was on the ground, his body trembling with his dry heaves. After
he was done, Tony crawled back into his truck and fell gratefully asleep.
Kurt took the spray and tossed it far into the next parking lot, vowing
that it should never be used again. We went inside to practice, playing
"Wild Thing" over and over with a mouting hysterical tension. We wanted to
be rock stars, we wanted groupies and limos and free drugs; "Wild Thing"
was the ticket to the top in our confused minds, saturated with drink and
noisy abandon. At four a.m. someone suggested we go have breakfast, which
sounded like a decent idea; there was a Denny's down the street. Before we
left we checked on Tony again to make sure he hadn't choked on his own
vomit. Sure enough, he was still alive, albeit odiferous. That's when one
of us discovered that Tony's brakes were off. This was not a good
discovery. It meant that we would now have to push his car out onto Shaw
Avenue, right in the middle of traffic, leaving Tony's fate to God and his
own sorry luck. We had no choice. Then the wheel locked. This meant he
would have to be left in the middle of the parking lot at an odd angle,
leaving him vulnerable to whichever jabbering pill-freak who might come
along looking for his parking space, doing 90 mph and swerving wildly. We
left on his emergency lights; it was the least we could do.
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