Dip my tail in blood ink, write it down in red.
Scribe the words 'Happy Meal' right across your head.
Tired of getting walked on, treated like a sheep.
Don't blame me for all the years that you were asleep.
'Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest in the house this evening.'We know already. Christ, most of us have already gone to shake the man's hand! He's probably the only one that hasn't stood up to go to the dance floor. Maybe it's the massive crowd? Nah. The guy's not bothered by huge groups of humanity huddled together. Hell? I've seen him 10 deep in crowds ten times as big as this one? Bad choice of music? Not likely. I caught him bobbing his head up and down a few times.
But still, he hasn't moved from his little corner of the second floor. Doesn't mean he's there alone, though. Been surrounded by a small cadre of what I would guess to be his friends. Owner's been over there to shake his hand and small talk a bit. Same with the DJ. Not a wallflower, lest you get that impression.
I wonder what he's HERE for, if he's not going to --
'You've known him for years, if you've been in the scene. Let's make him feel welcome, freaks and fiends ... this is Q'. The mention of his name has the crowd applauding. I won't applaud. He's one of those guys that are talked about in reverent tones ... but I honestly don't see the big hoopla. The guy's done FUCKALL in about 2 years ... I won't clap for a possible nobody.
Hm.
That's odd. Hadn't really noticed how he walked in with an overcoat on. It's pretty hot out, but it hasn't occurred to me ... not until he tossed the fucker over the balcony rail. What an attention whore. He's got a black eye?! Oh wait ... makeup. It's meant to LOOK like a black eye. His hair's messed up, like it's either wet or moussed. That football jersey is WAYYYYYY too big, easily 4 or 5XL. It looks like a dress. He's got a towel on his shoulder.
Even wearing cleats. He looks like an over-the-top football player.
'Thank you, thank you. Bitte ... keinen Peifall. Wir verlieren wertvolle Zeit. So sind Sie bereit, Ihren Kopfen dance off?' He turns to one of his friends and smiles warmly as he approaches. Asshole ... can't even be bothered to speak English to us? I know full well he can speak it. I've heard him before. The woman speaks into the microphone with a lilting ... delicate voice. It's pretty. And she's not unattracrtive either. A simple sort of cuteness about her. Nice ass, too.
'Thank you, thank you. Please ... no applause. We're wasting valuable time. Are you ready to dance your heads off?'The crowd shows their approval with a roar. He kisses the girl on the cheek before she vanishes from sight. I can't help but find myself hooting. I just want the talking to stop and the music to start. The house voice makes its' presence known once more.
'Ladies and gentlemen, DJ Crook will be taking a short intermission. Let's give it up for a short 3-set by none other than ... Q!'. I'm stunned. Q? ... behind the board?
Uhhh ... o-kay.
The room is silent for all of two seconds. It's not long before the room is bursting with music again. I can't quite make it out at first. A pair of headphones held up to his head, Q looks oddly at ease behind the mixing board. Finally a strange ... almost driven beeping is playing. Underneath it, a song is playing. I can almost hear it under the loops. And then I recognize it. Angelspit. And the song is 100% Fucked.
And amen brother. This is 100 percent FUCKED right here.
Relax, God is in control
Watch the dot, take your meds, obey my demands.
Trust my dog, time for surger--
Relax, God is in control
Watch the dot, take meds, obey my demands,
Trust my dog, shut your eyes ...
My eyes are shut now. I'm enjoying the sensation roaring through my nerves. Up in the heavens, blasting music ... literally hurling it to the people below. Bestowing upon them the gift of temporary oblivion. Let them forget their troubles. Let me forget mine. We are all one, all 100 percent fucked. There's no hiding it, no denying ... only acceptance. 100 percent fucked. And proud of it.
I don't care that some of them may not know me.
By the end, they will never FORGET me.
[/right]
Eyes closed ... I'm swaying to the music. A very seductive ... soothing machine beat. So far, so good Mr. MonoSyllable. Keep it up. My body has a mind all its' own. I'm on auto-pilot and by the feeling I get from the room around me ... most everyone else is too. We're all an ocean of motion. Churning. Undulating. Pulsating with an energy that would hard-pressed to duplicate. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I'm here now ... and that's all there is.
I know the song well, and he's jumbling the lyics up. I don't care. It fits just as well this way as it does originally. In face, he's probably got it making just as much sense. He's fairly good. Enh. We'll see.
Televise mass poison, spitting out the screen.
Keep the masses deluded with fabricated dreams.
Powdered God in a Bag from the Vatican.
I want you to FUCK OFF as hard as you can.
I can understand the frustration in these words. Meeting someone in person that you've only known through hushed whispers is ... depressing, usually. No one can be as high and mighty in person as they seem through the veil of distance. The farther you are away you are, the reasier it is to miss their flaws ... and think them infallible. The rose-colored shades are in place and your object of affection can do no wrong. Had that happen to me once or twice. Not fun. In fact, I think I remember literally screaming for them to FUCK OFF at one point. Music can get it so right sometimes. It's ... it's unglaublich. Unbelievable.Heaven has burst open, now it's raining bones.
The chaos will erode you, breeding little clones.
Born of a fallen rib from the monkey's womb
Overcooked by cathode rays, evolved to consume.[/I][/right]
It's repeating now. A coda. A mantra. A motto. 100 percent Fucked. We ALL are, in one way or another. It's perfect. It fits the mood ... but it's going away.
BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.
A steady drumbeat buzz replaces the monotonous beeping. Sounds like someone walking briskly. Hypnotic. Rhythmic. So catchy, I find myself following the cadence obediantly. I'm starting to sweat, the tempo is faster. I can smeel and feel the heat in the room ... safe to say I'm not the only one.
DirrrrrtyGirls.
DirrrrrtyBois.
Move your ass.
Move your ass.
Move your ass.
Move your ass.
DirrrrrtyGirls.
DirrrrrtyBois.
Move your ass.
MOVE YOUR ASS.
Bingo. This will get them moving. Get them dancing. I control your inner soundtrack now, and I want to see you move. Pay your Tribute to the Gods who give such bliss on Earth. Besides, I know full well you were tired of the Drum and Bass nonsense. DJ Crook is good ... but an hour and a half? Come on. We need something different.
[/I]
DirrrrtyGirls make some noise
Move that ass for DirrrrtyBois.
DirrrrtyBois, so obscene.
Like to see the Girls extreme.[/right]
It's definitely getting extreme in here. I'm moving frantically, almost possessed.Got a girl dancing ... grinding against my leg. Her hips are swaying and popping in response to the sonic assault. She's turning away now ... bending at the hips and touching her toes before dropping her hips and raising again ... letting her rub against me as I hold tight to her dangerous curves.
The tempo is insane. Upbeat like you wouldn't believe. NO ONE is sitting down. There may not be enough room on the dance floor but that isn't stopping anyone from dancing where they are. At the bar. At their tables. Wherever. The time is right to simply abandon all inhibitions. To escape the shackles of routine ... everday life. Tonight is OUR night ... and we are going out with a BANG as the sun rises.
A lull in the song ... a heavy pounding of drums. A crescendo.
And then ... all Hell breaks loose.
I can't believe what I'm hearing. No one can.
Everyone's eyes are raised skyward, towards the madman behind the mixing board. A questioning look on all faces ... unable to help but stare in rapture. Almost like ... viewing an eclipse. That synth riff. The most famous synthesizer riff in all of musicdom. Just listening to it is an immediate uplift in the soul. It's an unspoken thing. One of those notions that you just KNOW ... but one that no one can quite grasp with their feeble words. That isn't stopping Q.
'It's the Final Countdown. Werden Sie trauem um die Nacht verlassen Sie ... oder werden Sie feiert in diesem New Morning? Gib mir deine Hande ... das ist alles ... was ich fragen will ... !'. I don't really care what he's said. It makes no difference. I can tell that whatever it is, he MEANS it. He's got his hands stretched out ... naturally, the crowd is reacting in kind.
It's the Final Countdown. I'm through playing the music. The DJ has his drinks, let HIM do it. But that won't stop me from enjoying a grand finale. It's a ... double edged sword. For you see, though I may be leaving ground ... that can only mean that I'm flying now. Soaring into a new plane. Do not cry for the past, for it is already immortalized as History. Instead ... look in wonder and amazement at the days that are to come ... for the are YOUR history, just waiting to be shaped.
I am eager to face the light of a thousand tomorrows.
And I shall let that light precede me in all that I say and do, let the intensity burn away all those attempting to destroy without giving thought to CREATION. Destruction in ad of itself is nothing to seekj it is the creation AFTERWARDS that one should look to. That does not mean cling to a past that does not WORK. Be ruthless and express brutal honesty in discarding the past. Something is wrong? CHANGE IT. Change it and do not shed tears over it. Be faithful to the Cycle.
[/I][/right]
The crowd is a sea of trance. No one is consciously paying attention. The subconscious mind, the instinct ... is directing us all. Euphoric in body-quaking goodness that is Europe's Final Countdown ... the entre place is singing along ...
... dancing along ...
We're leaving ground.
Will things ever be the same again?