A Violent Dream of a Scapegoat Gangster
starts out
as a fan fictional sequel/remix of Band of Outsiders
as told from the perspective of the dude in the trio that dies in a shootout
and how he ends up burning in Hell
for the sin of failing to survive a fictional narrative
so he’s getting vigorously REDACTED by a crew of demons,
and then when that got old
they made him dance the Madison ‘til he forgot how to move without making a big musical production of it
So after a few eons of this sort of treatment,
he starts to think,
“You always have to have someone to throw to the wolves”
-and here I become the dead member of that trio-
but
you know
Wolves usually aren’t that interested in what we throw to them
But we seed the popular mind with ideas about vicious wolves
To the point
Where we fucking forget how we invented the Scary Version of wolves
so we hire on actors to be those scary wolves
a tedious rondo of manufactured prophecies or three later
I get a work notice
That I must invent a new paradigm for laundry
So we recruit The Soldiers of Enemy
from unemployed theatre majors
We prop up a Champeen
Shrouded in Mystery
Glazed in Majesty
A chimerical mixture of baked goods and a hentai kraken
Pretty impressed to meet Him fresh from the oven
The Casserole that Walks Like A Man’s Man
“HOLY SHIT, SIR! You’ve got the Protagonist Mojo from Way Back!”
Way Back being a fake folk history concocted by a cadre of lawyers and lobbyists based in the benighted state of Florida
The Soldiers of Enemy are led by Crimsonsparr, a Demon of Hell,
“WE are the Nation of E.N.E.M.Y! And we’re gonna kick your ass-AHHAHAHAHAHAAAA!”
played, of course, by the toughest looking cyborg action figure we could scare up from an online auction
In strides the Champeen, a living mass of bazookas, surveillance systems, and electronic swipe enabled tentacles,
“I turned my back on nuance long ago,”
so speaketh the Champeen,
as He simultaneously works six different self-checkout stations at a Not-So-Super Wal-Mart,
(no judgment,
but
Champeen’s a bit of a grocery addict)
as He surges forth from an immaculately art directed gasoline explosion
‘tis but the first salvo in the PR Wars,
as Crimsonsparr launches his own marketing blitzkrieg,
showing how his esoteric blade techniques allow him to efficiently skin twenty full grown adults alive per day
Champeen’s oppo research reveals Crimsonsparr to have made some truly embarrassing statements in the recent past,
“My friends, I pledge to you here and now that I have only ever worn live shrimp as condoms-and THIS. WILL. NOT CHANGE!!!”
Not a good look,
but
you’d be surprised how many people became shrimp condom converts just because Crimsonsparr said it, so there you have it.
This all climaxes in a protracted series of battles that collectively exhausts the stunt performer talent pool of five national film industries. Truly, they all died on their feet.
And here I just wanted to produce a metaphysically contemplative indie.
I blame all that time I burned in Hell. Although it had its upsides, it kinda put a mean streak in me. I wanted blood. I wanted bullets. I wanted to see shit explode. I wanted to create mountainous piles of corpses. I wasn’t interested in doing the Madison anymore even if it comes naturally after all these years . . .
-and here I return to my own dreamlife-
swimming in a sea of cash
the Very God of Blogging
all ten thousand dollar bills
not a penny in sight
may as well buy the rest of the classic cars on the auction site
think I’ll buy me a right wing Supreme Court justice
think I’ll buy me a Supreme Court!
UWEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!
Cash American Prevails.
