Kiwi-Flavored Zombie Piss
Agrius and friends go to great lengths to demonstrate why hillbilly folk music and death metal don't mix.
KIWI-FLAVORED ZOMBIE PISS (based on a true story)
The microphone hopped and screeched to life, blaring out angrily across an endless horizon of writhing, screaming bodies. The little gray moth, wearing entirely too much eyeliner and standing just beyond the mic, gave the bulb a few more whacks for good measure.
"Good evening. . . you barren, dust-blown, scorpion-infested Texas hellhole. . ."
The crowd lit up. A sea of waving arms. Panties, male and female, were flung at the stage.
"WE. . . are Kiwi-Flavored Zombie Piss and WE. . . are here to clusterfuck your earholes. . . with a fiery combination of 80's hair metal and Appalachian folk yodeling. . ." Groaning static. ". . .in a rock concert the likes of which this infertile Martian crater has never seen before!"
Peals of sexual panic and ecstasy. A frenzied fan rushed the stage, trying to copulate with anyone or anything she could get her hands on. One of the roadies brought her down with a spritz of industrial-strength bear mace.
"Here we have on flying-V ukelele. . . the legendary. . . Malcolm. . . "Pudding Shoes". . . MORRIS!!"
Left of stage, a pudgy white South American fruitbat wearing blackout aviator shades, an American flag bandana and an incredibly offensive black t-shirt let loose a mighty riff off his double-pronged instrument. Anyone unfortunate enough to be within twenty feet of the sound towers found themselves firing off an impromptu orgasm into their shorts.
"On thrash harp. . . Caleb the Scene Pug!"
Right of stage, a flat-faced dog in a tattered old pullover hoodie let loose. Sparks flew from the tips of his claws as he expertly climbed the stairway to heaven, got there, punched God in the chops, and climbed back down again. Titties exposed themselves all across the audience.
"Tonight. . . manning our state-of-the-art exploding hub cap rubber-band trampoline drum ensemble. . . you know him, you LOVE him. . . Nouche!"
The scrawny twink raccoon, wearing nothing but ankle waders and a paper hat with the word 'HAT' scrawled across it in bold black letters, went to beat on his incongruous, haphazardly-built instrument. He promptly burst into flames. Thankfully, someone managed to put him out before his big bushy tail could get too singed, and the show went on without missing a beat.
"On Sith banjo. . . an instrument painstakingly whittled from the harvested spinal column of his fallen patawan. . . all the way from New Orleans, Louisiana. . . Fontenot LeBlanc!"
The little albino mouse manning left-of-center made no move to pluck his ghastly instrument, being hung-over and still very much unconscious from the party the night before. The banjo (which was also rumored to be haunted) remained on top of the stool for the remainder of the concert, unused, with its rodent master curled in a tight, adorable ball between the frets, slumbering away peacefully.
"On invisible synthesizer. . . brought back from the river of death by way of secret gypsy witchcraft. . . the inventor of alternating current and that cool-ass shockey tower thing you see in the backgrounds of every Frankenstein movie. . . NIKOLA "EAT A COCK EDISON" TESLA!!
The disembodied ghost of the 19th century Serbian-American physicist waved a translucent green arm at the audience, eyes aflame with the far-off glow of unseen worlds beyond our own.
"And now that that gay-ass introduction shit is over with," screeched the moth, barreling down on the mic, all four hands wrapped around its base. "Who's ready to shit their pants in amazement?"
The crowd went wild. The daisy chain of linked roadies and guards strained against the crashing sea of bodies. The smell of piss and marijuana and raw, unbridled frenzy filled the night sky like a noxious fog.
The moth's head split in a broad toothless grin, a Cheshire smile spanning the length of his face from ear to ear. "Good. Alright, let's do this so we can get paid and get the fuck out of here. Onetwothree GO!!"
. . .
. . .
It was like Bikini Island all over again.
A concussive wave of pure, unfiltered Appalachian folk hair metal exploded forth from the stage, engulfing the outdoor stadium in electrified pink glitter fallout. The entire first fifteen or so rows of people simply vanished - their bodies shattering in a rain of brilliant green sparks as they were sent to the ninth dimension.
Fingers whizzed across strings. Ghostly tendrils danced across invisible keyboards. A mouse snored and scratched himself.
As the band played, lightning crackled in the skies above. Angry fissures snaked across the surface of the earth, splitting homes and streets, swallowing up cars and shattering windows. Lava and hellbats issued forth from the chasms, spilling into the night sky, swirling into concentric circles and figure-eights, taking the silhouettes of porn stars and all the people you had a crush on in high school.
Stars fell from the sky, and the night was swallowed up in blackness. Grass for miles around caught fire. The moon burst into flames.
Across the globe, people who were in countries too far away from the concert to hear the music nevertheless became aware of a sudden tingling in their loins. Women found themselves pregnant and coming to term. All the men started having sex with one another in massive orgy hills that blanketed the fractured landscape.
As the band shredded face with their fusion licks, cataracts dissolved. The blind could now see.
The paralyzed began to get up and walk around, dumbfounded.
The deaf, who are largely indifferent to both rock-and-roll and folk music, remained deaf.
Just as the Earth's core began to shake itself loose of its earthly bindings, a black hole opened up directly over the stage, much to the crowd's wonderment.
The sloppy axe wound in the fabric of reality seemed to hover indecisively in the sky, not knowing what it intended to do. Then, with the force of a million gigatonnes of dynamite and one suped-up '87 Nissan Stanza, it consumed the band, the stage and everyone still alive in the crowd. They stretched and warped like bendy straws, bodies elongating like taffy. Their colors blurred together in a hellish rainbow. A hellbow.
And then, just as suddenly as it came, the space anus collapsed in on itself and blinked out of existence amid a brilliant flash of white light, leaving nothing but a rain of dust wafting down to settle in a massive, mile-wide hole in the ground.
. . .
Years later, an American scientist sent with the NASA expeditionary force to study chronoton radiation dysrhythmia at the center of the crater happened upon the tattered remnants of sheet music, miraculously left untouched in the massive explosion. Furtively sealing the barely-legible notes in a hermetically sealed glass box and stowing it in the folds of his hazmat suit, the scientist brought the pages home to his 9-year-old son as a souvenir.
That 9-year-old boy would later grow up to be Gene Simmons. And the rest, my friends, is history.