|I had to have a picture of something, so here's Aldo and his harmonica. No connection to the text.|
Ten years since the blinding sunshine of American shock and awe freedom lit up the Baghdad skyline, it’s important to look back on ten years of fearmongering and misery and financial disaster; and what’s happened to music since then. I sometimes endure horrifying waking caffeine-deficient headache nightmares of Steve Bartels, Peter Edge, Tom Corson and Joie Manda slavering blood in a hotel room. Manda arches his back as it sprouts with hair; his jaw opens in a painful scream as it extends, snapping and cracking and melding his bones to his new preternatural shape. Edge and Corson sniff at him with their animalistic snouts as the moonlight dances in the grooves of self-awarded gold records dusted with cocaine. Steve Bartels hangs from the ceiling in the corner of the room, licking blood from his fangs and smiling as the werewolves devour what is left of Miley Cyrus. The hotel room is filled with wailing guitar sounds of some already-rejected rock act tape and the LA heat makes the whole room simmer. Edge pants with blood on his breath as he sodomises Corson and Manda uses his doggy tongue to lick Bartels’ balls. This has been going on for hours and the internal fluids of aspiring young starlets have begun to seep into adjacent rooms; there is a scuffling noise outside and the door explodes inwards in a shower of expensive splinters that sends the table, the gold records and the cocaine tumbling into the carpet, the three wolves scuttle into the corners of the room and cower underneath Bartels as the riot police storm in. Corson catches an MP5 bullet in the shoulder and snarls as the smoke clears. Steve Barnett emerges from the cupboard, head bowed and hovering ethereally about six inches off the floor. Two police heads implode instantly and they dissolve as messy piles of cartilage into the carpet, the remaining officers still in the hallway drop into a trance and raise their weapons into their mouths. Tears stream from their eyes as they pull the triggers, spraying skull fragments and brain matter across the walls. As the wolves devour what was left of the point officers Barnett turns to Bartels and smiles and nods.
“Quickly!” says Bartels, “Bieber is in town, and Taylor Swift is saying at the Marriott”. With that the wolves disappear out of the window. Barnett hovers down the steps and stops just long enough to strangle the night porter with his mind. The three wolves crowd up in the Marriott parking lot, staring up at the rows of identical windows. Trying to remember which is Taylor Swift’s hotel room they booked before leaving the office.
Written under caffeine deficiency by Steven.