Hot folk-rock band lost in New Mexico--or 1930's gangsters with creepy, greyscale skin??
The sun rose, the moon fell, and the Getaways' self-identities fractured.
"WHO AM I?!?!" screamed Steve, slobbering orange bubble gum on a long, stringed instrument he could no longer remember playing. "The mail--the mail--471 houses to go--huh?? FEDERAL FUCKING HOLIDAY??"
"Settle down there, George," barked Bob "And stop licking that damn thing. I don't know what it is, but it don't deserve whatever you're doing to it."
"I wuv Baab. I wuv Baab," murmured Ellie out of the side of her mouth Bob hadn't sewn shut.
"Throw DOWN!!" bellowed Ken Keelio, wielding the unfinished lower receiver of an AK-47 at a startled Gail and Sheila. "I'LL learn you's to shop at Target, ya brazen hussies."
There was a giant whirring, and and what sounded vaguely like "O Come All Ye Faithful" to the rhythm of a thousand drumsticks whapping a human head. More confused than ever, which meant less than usual, Sheila harmonized lustily on the chorus which alas she knew only in Cantonese.
Fame was guaranteed.
No comments:
Post a Comment