Why won’t David Levowels tell us where Billy was the day that JFK was–
NO!
STOP THIS.
NOT OK.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: Big Dead
“…Smithsonian J. Ip Man Mexico Danger Merriweather, Ph.D, DDS, MLS, HLIC!” cut through the pain, nausea, and shame that followed a good Billypunch and I retook my senses to this sound.
The lysergic librarian? The guardian of the sacred and profane; generic and sui generis? Why was he looming above me dressed like Hercules Poirot? (In fact, he was just Hercules Poirot because I’ve never seen a photo of NW.)
He was barely five feet, but at least seven feet wide: not a speck of fat. He was like a hedge made out of muscle.
The man next to him was tall and reedy, smelled like syrup. Canadian, my sweet dick! Spider-man is British, and so is Superman; our president’s from Kenya, and our damn band is in the be-mittened hands. Soaked with beaver blood, those hands are! Back in the good old days, Bobby got some Canadian money in change and he totally lost it, and shrieked “The Parallax! We’re through the Brane now!” He took off running; they found Bobby the next morning sleeping in a culvert like a confused angel.
The Boys weren’t xenophobic, they just hated and feared foreigners. Things change.
“My name is David Le–
And all of a sudden, there was this massive roar, the sound of the sea and the sky meeting and clashing and being big together. WHOOOOSH and his lips kept moving, but I could make nothing out.
“We kidnapped you and then stuck a rubber fist in your–”
The sound of seagulls rushed about, filling every corner of my ears and again i could hear nothing.
What? I said, after a fashion. I must admit, enthusiasts: I was toying with my captors now.
” I said, MY NAME IS DAVID LE–”
From the next aisle of shelves came the sound of a homeless man who had snuck in and was now loudly molesting himself.
Maybe you could get miked a little better, I said.
Kidnapped by Big Dead!
To be further continued…
I awoke–or, rather, came to–on the floor of a long hallway. There was no natural light, but I could still see.
My head was fuzzy, and my face hurt: I had been hit. I had been struck, and repeatedly. My phone was gone.
As I looked around, I realized that it was not a hallway I had found myself in; no, I was in between parallel shelves reaching ten or twelve feet up. It was like the stacks at my college library, but with less drug dealing and clandestine gay stuff. There were books, but there were also cardboard boxes and record albums and was that an oud? and a shopping bag with “Billy’s I.O.U.’s” scrawled on it.
At the end of shelves, in the dimness, was a pair of maroon sweatpants with the elastic holding on out of sheer duty and a size XXXL black t-shirt. The clothes were suspended in the air in a human shape with no visible means of support.
Like this crazy bullshit Batman used to pull:
how the fuck did Batman even do that? There’s a lot of craftsmanship in that thing, and technology, too, it seems. Is this how Batman takes his mind off being Batman? By using his advanced Morgan Freeman stuff to permanently turn the judging glare of the teenager he pretty much murdered on him while he worked? Did he wear the Batman suit while he worked on it?
Also, at one point–stick with me here–Batman had to be molding the crotch of that thing and, seriously: don’t you take a breather and reevaluate things? You’re a grown man in a pervert suit making a voodoo dead kid in a cave and maybe law school?
You had an idea. You were doing so well and developing things and being a big grown-up writerly writer–
Yeah, those first few sentences were killing it, thank you.
—and then you squander your energy and their time–
If they’re reading this, they have nothing better to do.
—on Batman nerd-porn. Stop it and get back to the story about how you found yourself…
…sitting between the shelves when I heard footsteps. There were two of them, one lighter than the other, but they had the gaits of soldiers. They walked like men of violence and my hand went to my already-bruised face and I was frightened; most of all, though: confused? What had I done to deserve this. Besides all the things I’ve done to deserve this. Like, if there were a vote: it would be a runaway that I thoroughly need and merit a solid thrashing, but it isn’t a democracy. I’m the only one who gets to vote.
When the two men came around the corner, I could see that one was lanky and tall; the other, almost perfectly spherical in dressed in old-fashioned tweeds and a matching eye patch. He made it work, you had to give it to him.
Both of them had dangerous, drug-fueled lightning flashing in their eyes and I feared for my life. I snatched a random manuscript off of the shelf and, rising to my feet, made as if to tear it.
Don’t come any closer! I said.
The men stopped.
“NO!” the short one cried. “That is the only remaining copy of Bobby’s aborted 1978 novel, Who Is Clive Davis and Why Does He Keep Grabbing my Ding-Dong?” You mustn’t destroy it.”
His voice was plummy and flutey, yet manly. Clearly educated.
Bobby? I asked. My god…I am in–
“You are in THE VAULT, my dear boy. We have brought you here to–”
Who are you calling ‘boy?’ I said. There was a second of silence.
“Are…you…um. This is a rude question, but–”
What difference does it make?!
“because you’re allowed to say–”
ALLOWED? Check your privilege, son! I said
And then Billy leapt from the highest vantage point and punched me in the dick.
As I sank into unconsciousness, the one in the suit stood over me.
“My name is The Reverend Dr. Sir Nicholas Aloysius Kensington Flensington Jamiroqui Rothschild Baracus–
I then passed out.
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Honest. I know I’ve done this before. I wish Elvis would come back, too, but there’s MORE TO THESE STORIFICATIONS, Enthusiasts!)
The comments over at Dead.net are a constant source of fun. In their defense, they seem like nice enough guys and they pay enough attention to their grammar for my head not to explode, but they’ve groupthought themselves into a frothing pout over the lack–the DEARTH, fucker!–of product from the 1980’s.
Picasso had his blue period. The Dead had a period that blew.
Actually, two: Garcia’s rebirth, combined with Phil remembering he was in a band somewhere around ’87, gave them a few years of grace; they sizzle and smoke on, say, the MSG shows from ’88. Then Brent went and Garcia got so much smaller after that, suffering that old fate of Ophelia.
To hear the lunatics over there, you’d think there actually was a Big Dead trying to keep the fact that 1983 was the band’s peak under wraps.
Um, there IS actually a Big Dead trying–
No.
—to keep the…No, what?
No, I believe in Big Dead. You’re the voice of reason in these little sketches. Normal-type guy says something kooky and then you, Italics Man, contradict me.
…
You’re right.
I know I’m right. Read your fucking script, man.
I am such a–fuck, I’m gonna go.
Maybe you should, yeah.
…
…
…
Are..you..going to–
You have NO IDEA what it’s like to work with this guy, man!
I can dig it.
I’m going to my imaginary trailer.
That’s five, everybody!
© 2021 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments