Carlton Mellick III - Satan Burger

The warehouse doesn’t realize, however, that there is a group of Gorguals nearby. Gorguals are an alien race that excrete food-waste from their breasts, which work like buttocks. And there’s a hole — the breast hole — between both mounds, which lean forward over a toilet for defecation. In other words, their boobs poop. The Gorguals don’t take offense to the warehouse’s boob poop comment since they do not speak English or the language that warehouses speak; and even if they did speak English or Warehouse they would not have taken offense because crapping (an informal term) is accepted socially within their culture. Translated from Gordual tongue, the term crapping is referred to as stool liberation .

The sun is gone, eating dinner with his family, and the warehouse is taken by old Earth-toys, all punks and skinheads mauling each other and skreaking, which makes the warehouse very bitter and inclined to spit at passing ones on its carpet walkway.

Inside of the warehouse’s guts, a concert is in session. A legion of color shuffles soundly, merrily around and round-a-go. I am behind the stage, muzzy from the round-a-go crowd movements and all the shifty colors, ticking sick.

My band is playing already, but I am not yet onstage, liquor-inhaling.

Christian is running the performance, rape-screeching and scratching sheet metal with Mortician, who plays his distorted bass with a knife and a cellular phone. We are an electronic noise band, which is a very popular Japanese food creation. Actually, I didn’t mean to say electronic noise is a very popular Japanese food creation , though it is a genre of music invented by the Japanese music underground.

This is what I meant to say: the name of our band is A Very Popular Japanese Food Creation.

Very few people in the room enjoy our style of music, even though they mosh and punch each other as if dancing to it. They’re all waiting for the headlining brutal oi!/punk skinhead band to play, and that will be the start of a large kicking/punching/fork-through-the-skull festival I assure you.

Within the center of the room, there are two things: one is Vod, who is sitting on the toilet playing his bagpipes to the electronic noise, and the other thing is a history book that smells of rotten human.

History books and rotten humans are two things that you’ll always find in a graveyard. Long ago, you could only find rotten humans there and never any history books, and this made the cemetery a very boring place to visit. My mother told me, long before I came to hate her, that the whole point of going to the cemetery was to visit gravestones and a plot of dirt, where you were to put flowers if you had the money for them.

Now the whole point of going to the cemetery is to read history books. Let me explain:

It started when all the governments of the world decided that it would be a very neat idea for everyone and everyone to write journals of their lives, including every day, every moment, every thought, every person, every creation, and every thing important to each individual from day to day to day to death, so that everyone will have their memories and their life story written down, to live eternally after department. But only two copies were to be made. One is sewn into the stomach of the deceased and the other is for the public to read.

A Gravestone is not just a stone with a name and a date to another date anymore. It now has a little waterproof/airproof drawer inside that contains the autobiography of the person buried beneath. And ever since I was a child, I’ve been going to the cemetery and reading the lives of the dead. And every time I read about someone, that someone becomes alive again.

Not too many people care to read history books anymore. Nobody even cares to write them; even I have given them up due to my acid ocean eyes. I still go to the cemetery and look at the pictures and titles, but it’s disappointing to know that I can’t read them entirely.

They don’t let you steal the history books. It’s very important that you don’t, for history’s sake. But they don’t have any security guards to stop you, only the gatekeeper, and he doesn’t really care. Still, I’ve never heard of anyone stealing a history book besides myself.

I stole The Story of Richard Stein .

It was such a great history that I had to keep it. But I still had respect for the readers of the books of the dead, especially the readers of Richard Stein, so I didn’t take the book on display. I thief-slithered onto his grave one night and dug that old corpse up. I stab-cut into his gut with some pizza shears — which was quite the ass painting — and filched the book resting inside. It’s just as good, but it has a rotten Richard Stein smell on it. It’s the only book that I try to read other than comics. But I already know the majority of it by heart.

His words are called wisdom by the critics on the back cover.

Richard Stein has taught me much about the world we live in. His book is my bible. Well, something had to be. The real bible is very boring, being on the level of a bad coffee table magazine. Not that I hate everything the bible says. Personally, I agree with most of the biblical messages, I guess, but I just think the writers weren’t any good. Matthew and Mark were okay, but Luke and some others told as drome a story as a ten-hundred-page book about dentistry. (Just in case you didn’t know, drome means boring and droll means interesting, so you don’t get confused.)

The Richard Stein Bible is more like a guide to being alive than it is the story of his life. It doesn’t seem like his story at all, actually, because he wrote it in the third person, which is one reason why I decided to read his book instead of all the other histories. It is next to impossible to read every history book in the cemetery, not to mention it’s not worth reading them all since many people live very drome lifestyles. So I had to judge the whole book on reading the first paragraph, hoping it would be an interesting attention-grabber.

Richard Stein’s first paragraph was:

“The main thing that keeps the gun away from your head is thirteen hundred bottles of bourbon, eight hundred bottles of vodka, three hundred bottles of gin, two thousand bottles of rum, six cups of everclear, and four hundred twenty-two bottles of southern comfort during the course of a lifetime; but any more than that and you’ll be considered an alcoholic. Richard Stein was considered an alcoholic.”

Nan is in the round-a-go crowd with a chunky blue-haired woman named Liz, who says she has sex with small mammals. They are at a table, sitting on milk crates, sitting with two Harvey Wallbangers and two walrus-shaped skinhead guys who are trying to take both girls home with them, thinking their red suspenders are attractive enough to surpass walrus-shaped features.

“Your friends are pretty Mr. T, Nan,” Liz says, letting one of the skinheads’ hands reach around her dimpled thigh. “But I was expecting another punk band.”

Nan punches the zit-bearded skinhead, just for looking at her. “Yeah, they suck, but they’d rather have everyone hate them. I think that’s the point of being in a noise band.”

Zit Beard doesn’t leave, finding Nan’s violent reactions arousing. He snuggles her shoulder and she punches him in his tits. A smile cats up on his BIG red face, and he does it again, whisper-caressing her stomach this time — not because he wants to turn her on, but because he wants her to punch him again, hopefully harder. She elbows him in the neck. Very stimulating.

“Have you seen Gin lately, Liz?” Nan asks, elbowing Zit Beard once more for a diversion, accepting the fact that administering pain to someone other than herself is a rather enjoyable performance.