Capuchin monks fronting heavy metal outfits, the underbelly of the fall of the American Empire. There’s a recession coming, if not a depression; off the coast like some speeding hurricane that the National Weather Service has assured will not make land.
But it will.
Everything in its place. A few wars on the go, a few more we’re bankrolling, a few more waiting in the wings just in case we run out. We’re manufacturing fear faster than breast implants in the greater Miami area, being talked down from ledges and bridge railings by television commercials, and have fallen in love with the idea that somewhere out there that perfect someone is waiting to save us from the shipwreck of our lives. Everyone’s going to get paid, laid, and famous. Everyone’s going to cash in their stocks and head for the sunny south to retire on some beach where the drinks are complimentary and security keeps the beggars away.
You know, I respect whores because at least they have the balls to admit why they’re getting fucked. I remember some years ago the front door opening and a new purchase arriving, paid for with a credit card that had been gifted a friend by some guy she was having it off with when he came to town on business. He had a wife and kids at home, which makes him a scumbag without question, but also produces a whore in the process. The only difference being that she didn’t have the balls to admit it. No one does, men or women. If you’re going to get fucked, at least have the guts not to decry afterwards that that wasn’t your intent, that you weren’t looking for something out of it. Because if it wasn’t, and you weren’t, then why’d you do it in the first place?
Whores in the hundreds of millions peer into mirrors every morning, drying their hair, using the towel to wipe the steam from the mirror, blank stares while shaving, expressionless while pouring over product; cologne, perfume, whatever masks the smell. Maybe the radio is on, maybe some generic pap is pouring through the speakers being lauded over by DJs paid to disregard how bad it actually is. Maybe the television is on, maybe the news – corpses and candidates, stocks and bonds, travel and fashion, entertainment by the time you put your pants on.
You’re out the door, but you never leave. A citizen of the world that the world’s thrown up on itself. Gracious enough to hold your hair for you, to rub your back, everything’s going to be all right, just you wait and see.
This shit will kill you, true as bullets. Your own head, your own heart. Life will do away with you sure as there’s carts to horses. That’s what you’re here for. Or didn’t nobody tell you?