Another dead hero

[Sepia]

Start your engines. PUHlease. Crumple up the tinfoil and get ready to freebase, look out the window for the last few seconds of SUN.

Entrance left: An animated man with with a bottle of vodka in his hand singing in something he percieves as russian, badly disguised english and a badly disguised excuse for a man.

Drunk man: Oh would it be succhh like this, my gentle gramps, that I am alive and you are dead and now we celebrate you because you are dead OI PUT ON SOME MORE GOGOL BORDELLO IM LOOSING MY BUZZ

Drunk man exits.

Entrance right: A philosopher dressed up as part of the old roman senate with a cup of something radioactive green in one of his hands. Whispered voices go through the audience and they conclude in their wisdom that it's supposed to be wormwood.

Philosopher: We celebrate today on this day of death. Gramps Frank they called him because he always sung on Franks wild years and did indeed drive a nail through his wifes head. What tickles me on this carnivale of the damned is that we celebrate and mourn them as they pass. We celebrate the memories they embedded into our thick skulls and we mourn that they won't conceptualize further memories. We never do this to the living ones, we never do this to those we truly love, shyed away by what might happen. In life, there is an aye or it is a nay. Say that out loud, fast. Hoho. It seems that when those we care for dies, a gulf or a chasm is being opened up into a world we never want to pass into as everyone wants to go to heaven but noone wants to die and the onslaught of -- (voice trails away as the philosopher leaves the stage leaving the audience bewildered as he did not drink the wormwood)

EXTERIOR: Backyard

And then there's this girl right, this lovely little lass and she's got these nice tits, you know the tits you haven't seen unpackaged but you see them now in their package and you still want to fondle them up and down and you'd like for her to say something outrageous that would tickle your fancy and you engage in a hot talk, swiping sweeping swords of words and mad utterances none of you going twentythree skiddoo but heightening the whole fucking thing to epic proportions and you both think about that segment in sandman with the oldest game but it's not, it doesn't matter anymore it's way too tacky for you because you ooze and smell and feel so fucking cool and you are fucking cool, people namedrop you as they pass your table and pass the bar and pass the street and there's this rockstar up in the air in a boeing 7something7 that tell your tale as he passes by drunk on gin and pepsi max and the last thing he remembers before he crashes down into obllivion is that nice set of round, perky delightfully esthetic tits that noone knows how boggle and juggle but she's going low on ammo and she knows it backfires but it's what she has left and she quotes bill hicks and then you counter it with some good old fashioned gysonic hate and she sighs and let go and says "all my heroes are dead" and there's the president of united states, cut in with cut ups holding onto that red telephone of his sighing while a monkey jumps off his back and he says "Don't worry gentlemen. They lost their cool, no need to liberate them".

You choke on something that's not really there but more powerful than anything you've had in your mouth lately and she's on the brink of tears and she ages ten twenty years in a couple of seconds and her tits droop, fall beneath her belly and they slouch outwards with their small eyes, those small beady little eyes burning icecold coal into a heaven that was lost long ago now eventhough it was merely ten twenty seconds but it's gone now and it won't be back again. She regains composure, doublesits on the back of twenty beasts, hurtling towards a disaster waiting to happen to seal it off within and inside an empty shell, a throne of husks, happiness is slavery in the world of qlippoth and she's. She's just there, within the sleight of a hand, a magician bouncing on top of the tvset and this is is is is

INTERIOR: Stage

Entrance left: A jester.

Jester: And so my merrily wobbily, so goes the tale of exceeded tragedy. Two that should have been the lovers of our age, neophytes born again as bonnie&clyde deluding themselves into a vicarious position where they drank their nectar with hobos. Oh, isn't this fate in it's most sickly deluded smile. You see, reality is breaking up and my words need no longer contain anything than what I myself agrees to. You see, this IS reality. and. it. is. breaking. up.

EXTERIOR: Backyard, rain

Someone keeps singing nick cave and singin' in the rain, people are smiling because they're drunk but they tell all the pretty girls and boys that they weep in their hearts, they are men but men with emotions and they can cook too but this is a bleak black day because HE/SHE/IT is dead and there's a man with an ayn rand tshirt selling tshirts with HESHEIT images in the front and on the back in stencil-graphitti lettering ANOTHER DEAD HERO exclaiming that something had happened, here, and it was so profound. We celebrate HE SHEIT NOW that death has claimed and we're getting so drunk because that was what it would want. It doesn't matter who it was, what they stood for and then there's people with bill hicks and john lennon and jimi hendrix tshirts and everyone catches on it and the guy with the old wornout hendrix gets all the pussy and cock he could desire because hey, he's gotta be authentic and there's a discussion-

Man: Remember that party when hicks died? damn that was awesome
Wo: Yeah, i really respect him for what he said he should have been now not then
Man: yeah, i know what you mean

Man steps onto the bar holding his bottle of budweiser and says TO BILL HICKS, TO JIMI HENDRIX AND BOBA FETT, TO ALL OUR DEAD HEROES and the bar jumps in and they salute their dead heroes

Because now their dead and the silent majority grows the balls to drop their lines, play like they did because a saint was born, a martyr was born for the ignorant masses never desiring to do anything except talk and it doesn't matter because they're so filled with the best intentions and the road is paved gold and it is so wide and so beautiful and all along the road in the lamp posts do they hang as the yuppie fucks sing and dance underneath them and salutes them and takes a piss at them because it's all the same, because they'll go home to do whatever they did before someone died but one night every ten years they walk on that golden road and there's no wind, the air is still and you can only hear the creaking of leather and the sighs of all the dead heroes.

[Thurnez Isa]

I like the style of this one
the last paragraph works very well as one long continual sentence

[The Littlest Ubermensch]

I once again have been floored by the awesomeness of one of your exploded essays/experiments/stories, Sepia. I really dig this one. It has a flow thats at once stuttery and filled with a sort of Kerouac-ish flow. I like the juxtaposition of the ideas of both the destruction of reality as a whole and the removal of all the honor of our fond memories of the martyrs who showed us how to expand our consciousness. (At least thats what I got from that.) Its a very honest and poignant portrayal of the emotions surrounding those ideas.  for you.