ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Ý±07 Jan 94±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±_ROR_-_ALUCARD_±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±Ý? Þ° Ý Ý A Þ° Ý Ý ?Þ° Ý A ßßßßß° Ý The Beer Mystic's Last Day On The Planet Tfile Þ° Ý Distribution Þ° ÜÜÜÜÜ Centere Þ° Ý? Þ Written by: Rabid Liberal (Joshus) - RoR - Þ° Ý A Þ_____________________________________________________________________Þ° Ý ?Þ Shawn-Da-Lay Boy Productions, Inc.úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúÞ° ÝÜÜÜÞÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÞ° °°°The HQ of SDBP, Inc - 510/237/8563°°PolySpock Project - 510/524/3649°°° °Drop Sites°°°°°° Hollow's Renaissance - 510/669/9432°°°°°Drop Sites°°°°°° The Beer Mystic's Last Day On The Planet A story by Rabid Liberal (c) 1990 Shawn-da-lay Boy Productions INC. "World of Wheels" is on TV. A chorus of cheerleaders in smilie spangles jazzes up the "star spangled banner". The PA prays with feedback, something from Job: "behold, I AM vile.. I AM the king of terrors," tying in the holy snuff king with the emerging Krusher, "champeeeeeen" Big Wheel, a Godzilla of steel on wheels the size of modest lake-side bungalows. With beer #3 I bear witness to the glorious slo-mo ecstasy of shattering glass, splintering in a crystal shimmer up to the rafters as the Krusher romps hunh-ho over the roofs of a line of mortal transport vehicles. Crushing them in an awesome symphony of buckling and imploding steel. At the intermission, Chubby Checker does an updated Twist with extra girth and sincerity. Six playboy bunnies help. But I'm lost. Which one is miss May? Which one is the cowgirl from Gillette? I fumble through data. Wonder why I'm sick, a half-melted baseball trophy molded by a drunken god, living a life of air fresheners, ill-fitting jeans and beer. What a land of mind we are! Ah, now some mediacaster, holding his ear, barks at us from above the blue smoke roar in the pit. The driver is a hero. He removes his helmet and his hair looks great even after crushing 35 cars. And now my Hagia Sophia beer is all gone. They say it's Latin for "holy wisdom". Where's it from, the Vatican? I'm from a town noted for its automobile by-products - of which I guess I'm one. I dreamt of my only car. A rambler picked clean like a carcass. Like a toothless grin. A wad of parking tickets under the windshield, blown away when the blades finally got ripped off too. But I couldn't sleep with the alarm wailing. Three hours. Counted 24,133 bottles of beer on the wall. Besides I only got 28 hours left on this planet and I got plenty to do. Three of my neighbors - I don't know them, they don't know me - were relaxing on the hood of their prey, having just hacked and bashed the car with the alarm into a hulk of gnarled steel and broken glass. It was like walking through a museum diorama of cavemen who have just butchered a twilight mammoth. The guy in the wool cap thinks he's Elvis and beats his wife. He once hung a cat from a neighbors doorknob cuz she'd shot him down. There's supposedly one rat for every person in NYC. Wonder if he's found his "vermate" yet. I asked the three for a souvenir, they threw me a hubcap with the center punched out, leaving a jagged halo. I put it on. Where's the crime of the century? I'm ready. And six beers later I'd black-eyed more than my quota of streetlights. i was out like a light myself. I dreamt of sending my diaries somewhere - the papers, a publisher. Thought has kinetic energy. It does. But it wasn't taking me anywhere. And when I finally come to it was still night. my sneaks were gone, someone had painted a scene-of-the-crime outline arond my body (a premonition or a joke?) but my halo is still warm to the touch. To revive myself I usually head for the Linger Lounge, a place of purposeful and stylish dissipation. There's a sieve in the john, behind the toilet. Check it out. In the mirror I look like Shemp - ugliest of the three stooges. I scoop a sieve of water out of the toilet's tank, then shower up by holding it triumphantly over my halo. Don't worry, there's a hole in the floor that sucks up the water. The cool water revives the bony plates, the gristle and cartilage and the wandering soul. It does! It's like wetting a dull stone which looks precious when wet. And I come out a new man. I am. No longer looking like Shemp. I'm ready to face the rest of my life - all 20 odd hours. Sure, my techniques have always been clever. But I'm tired of hanging out in dance joints. I usually stalk a table of nervous birds in jangly jewels. Wait for them to get dance fever. And when they hit the dance floor I observe them while I suck down their neglected drinks no matter sweet and gooey. It's a cheap drunk and a rather subtle way of redistributing wealth. It's a little chancy with disease and all, but adventure is the throb in the blood, the beer in the glass, the light in my bulb. How does one go about patenting new drinks anyhow? I have two surefire hits: "The Jersey Shore" (gin, Yoohoo and Alka Seltzer) and "The Jersey Sunset" (Bacardi, Pepto-Bismol and Hi-C). I pinched my wheels (no ordinary tin can) from in front of the Heartbreak Club, where the innoculated money spinners dress up in $3000 worth of leather to get real, break a sweat, act artsy. Someone had left it - my '63 abalone Lincoln - idling right there on Hudson. It was immaculate, the hood awesome as Texas in tin. A right romantic grease jock's dream. And it left me lushed, imagining the driver's face when he returns with his Euro-trash bait under his arm. Oh, sweet reverie! I adjusted the electric mirrors, electric seats, put it in gear like a warm knife through butter, elbow out the window. All the dials stared up at me. We were one. A noble cell with a mission. A time bomb waiting to go off. To get fogged up I buy beer, the best, Harp, Guiness, Grolsch, Old Peculiar cuz what good is a pocket full of chump change in hell? One of the techno-convenience society's greatest inventions: the 24-hour deli with 100 brands of beer. From Tribeca I bullet up Avenue of the Americas doing menacing side swipes, shearing door handles and fancy trim along the way. This boat's a dream. I glide across craters the size of which we'd be able to see on the moon with the naked eye. I do felonious hot-dog donuts at Crazy Eddie's. Heads turn. I'm a bumper car wacko on a tear. Don't they understand? This is what Artaud would've done. I wish I'd had Francis Farmer next to me. She could grenade empties at pedestrians along the way, but she's dead too. It's 2am; I got 22 hours to live. I wish crazy little Jenny was beside me. I was wearing her undies as I often did when I was lonesome. I tried to call but every # was a wrong #. She'd ride her bike to the Fashion Institute of Technology with blue hair, army boots sprayed silver, holes in her T-shirt so her breasts could grace us with their peculiar smiles. We once made love with an Alligator baggie she'd salvaged from the freezer, unwrapping two pounds of chuck in my honor. It was defrosted on the counter by the time we'd finished. But chance will just have to be my copilot. at Fourteenth street I do a dramatic stuntman slide, broadsiding a silver Mercedes. The sound is meaningful. The jolt exaltingly tragic. A citizen gives chase but I lose him quickly because I am not afraid of intersection death. I course further up Sixth avenue, free of guilt and moral constraint with my nose up the tailpipe of a trembling Volvo. I run 4 red lights, scattering pedestrians. The threat of death animates them, wakes them up out of their dull lives. But I get no thanks, no howdy-dos. I challenge stunned men in important cars. Everything speeds up hell-bent beyond comprehension. At a light I gun the engine, pour a Harp over my head, comb my hair back. I'm James Dean. He's dead too. Yes, I am too short a chapter in an absurdist novel. At 34th street I make a chase-scene left, cruise down the sidewalk, watch strollers scatter, cling to Macy's windows. It's a movie. I wish my head was a camera. I hang a ralph at Eighth Avenue, pick up a hooker at 40th. She's in chemical limbo, somewhere between Flip Wilson and Dolly Parton in absurdly tight satin jogging shorts. She diddles my fiddle and holds on to her 14th street wig as we cruise crosstown. I double park at the Waldorf and block two black limos in. I drag her luded body in past the big eyes under red caps. I order beer. She likes Long Island Iced Tea with five packets of sugar. She's never seen Long Island. And we dance. Her backbone is like saltwater taffy. Her skin smells like a candy bar. I try to imagine sitting next to her in high school. How'd she get this way? We bump tables, upset drinks into faces. Her eyeballs have disappeared somewhere up into her forehead. I lead her out through the yawning doors, heels dragging, wearing out like a pencil eraser. HA! I tell the doorman that I was the model for Rothko's painting "Drunk on Turpentine". I park in the intersection of eighth and 49th. I drop of Delilah. Traffic backs up. I lean her against a lamppost, serenaded by the sealion chorus of horns. Anyone can paralyze a city this way. Anarchists with cars, listen up! The gridlock guzzler is me! I put my tub in drive and challenge the honking backed up traffic like a bull in the arena. It's 6am. Workers on their way. But they're all bereft of purpose, wired to go nowhere. Eerily preoccupied equally with weight loss and child abuse. You can either go nowhere fast or nowhere slow. I back up, demolition-derby style and put a BMW out of commission. Crushed radiator. It looks almost sculptural. The driver bangs furiously on the windshield and dash, hangin desperately onto the steering wheel. I'm becoming well-known now. I wander up Eighth avenue to Harlem, weaving deliriously a very unusual tapestry of steel misery and mayhem. Bouncing off cars from side to side. Crash nose first through a furrier's window, and kids with askew baseball caps ransack the place before I've even backed out into the traffic. Thirty-five cars to Harlem. Just like the Krusher. They're filming on a streetcorner and not only do I black-eye their jungle load of wattage and spotlights, I also manage to scatter a pack of crack dealers who seemed to be menacing the film crew. This is aggravated operation of a motor vehicle, a churning delicious hunk of illogic. By now my back bumper is dragging, trim is splayed and branching out. I head down fifth avenue. Bump cars in heavy traffic chicken-style with 100+ violations under my belt. One or two million in damages. I hit a stretch limo at 45th and fifth, doing 40. It buckles into a U-shape and I imagined it still running, running forever in a circle like a toy wind-up car. The moment of impact becomes a crime of ecstasy, orgasm and felonious vandalism for mere seconds. After that it's just hysteria, human foible and stunned collective panic. After that I just comb the outer boroughs, confident that Manhattan is all abuzz because of me and my tub. More abuzz than anything I could ever write. I find my favorite sites. The Brooklyn Bridge, the Long Island City salt mounds. Catch my breath and perspective. Then I go to various banks and yell "They have no money!" in crowded lobbies. This is, after all, how panics begin. Banks exist in out implicit suspension of disbelief. A bank run is contagious. We've seen drug companies drop to their contrite knees. But we're all free here cuz our words are empty, ashes blown into the faces of the shivering. This is the painting I wish I could do. George Grosz in crushed steel. a panic of the fat. In Central Park it's 7:30pm. Hats climb the hill with big-daddy shadows and coats the size of backyards. I'm tired. I abandon my aritist's tool with beer soaked seats. In the Central Park Zoo I talk to the seals and otters. They seem to understand, and at midnight of the 7th day I shivered, I festered, but I did not die. No activist lawyer came to my defense. The nobility of my terrorism had eluded them all. Notoriety had failed to lift me out of my meaningless anonymity. I was still alive, and in big trouble.  . The nobility of my terrorism had eluded them all. Notoriety had failed to lift me out of my meaningless anonymity. I was still alive, and in big trouble.