Post by Prolapsed Wrecked 'em on Jul 30, 2009 1:20:51 GMT -5
[It’s been two weeks since we last saw Dragon and Dr. Torres’ therapy sessions. Who knows what’s been discussed during that time. Who knows what kind of maniacal thoughts have come out of his head in that time… but it’s something we’re only going to have a glimpse into. Dragon’s last statement the last time we saw him was that he had killed his mother twenty years ago but all that does is raise suspicion about where it goes from here? Is he wanted for the murder? Was it accidental? Is it all in his head?
We close in on another beautiful southern Californian evening in the city, as Mickey Dragon walks through the hustle and bustle of Hollywood, California’s vast nightlife. Sunset Boulevard, one of the most famous streets in all of America, is home to hundreds of tourist attractions. Tonight, though, Mickey Dragon could give a flying piss less about what shit tourists are looking at. He went to his weekly therapy session with intent on describing each intricate detail about what happened twenty years ago with his mother, but rather, found a note hanging on her door.
The camera focuses on the note, written on a blank piece of copy paper, folded in half. In black Sharpie marker is an address. “8901 Sunset Boulevard” and a time of “10pm.” The note crumples in the large hands of Mickey Dragon. The camera turns and sees the evil in his eyes as beads of sweat glisten from his bald head. He wears a simple black t-shirt with the words “Great American Nightmare” scrawled across them with a skull as the backdrop. His combat boots slam down upon the pavement as if they’re taking out frustration on a whiny child begging for candy. The camera pans around and finds the site from which the paper asks him to be, a legendary bar on the Sunset Strip. Whisky A Go Go. The marquee on the sign says “Surprise inside.”
Dragon enters the line with hundreds of teenie bopper faggots whose hair has too much “product” and the girls are more shallow than Raenius’s choice of women after a long night of punishing his liver. Around him is the very fiber of American 20s and he spitefully despises each of them and their too-tight muscle t-shirts, plaid shorts, and --spiked wanna-be rocker hair. Axe products -- or as Raenius loves to remind Dragon -- LYNX products, have made pussies out of American men thousands at a time. The few fuckwits within earshot babble on about who was doing what recent drama on what recent reality television show, another complete blasphemy of American culture. Has everyone gone off to become television stars nowadays?
Dragon slowly reaches the velvet rope to enter and is eye to chest with a man who obviously suffers from gigantism… and mental retardation. His polo shirt is black and his name is stitched into it. “Keith.” Standing a good seven feet tall and having spiked blonde hair with teeth more crooked than a British meth user, he’s prepared to palm people by the heads and throw them like a shot put. Standing beside him, his trusty sidekick, wearing an identical black polo shirt with his name etched into it. “Leon” is a much shorter stocky black man wearing an earpiece. Must be the brains of the operations, otherwise “Keith” would be wearing the headset.]
Keith: ID?
[Dragon looks Keith in his beady crossed eyes with a look like “are you fucking serious?”]
Keith: ID sir.
[An exasperated sigh as Dragon reaches into his back pocket, removing his wallet. He flips it open, showing his ID to the bouncer. His flashlight scans over the card a few times as Keith inspects it to be sure it’s authentic. He then looks back at Dragon, then again at the ID.]
Keith: Nevada ID, eh? Where?
Dragon: Am I not going to get in if I don’t answer you?
[Keith seems surprised by Dragon’s answer and pulls his head back looking down at the bald dome glistening in the evening moonlight. Dragon looks up past his wallet at the doofy looking string bean holding his ID.]
Keith: Just making conversation.
Dragon: Well make it with someone else, Lerch.
[Leon unclips the velvet rope and allows Dragon pass into the club. As he approaches the door, he hears the ear-piercing, yet revering sound of Metallica’s “Call of Ktulu.” Dragon grabs for the large brass handle and swings it open to reveal quite the interesting sight. The room is dark, glowing from black lights and smoke machines. Dragon looks around the bars to see if Dr. Torres is, somehow, here or not. For some reason though, he just doesn’t see this as her scene. Perhaps she had something else to do and needed the night off, so she found something Dragon would be interested in. Fuck, thanks. A bar that actually plays decent music. Now to just find a bunch of alcohol and a pit to get his Johnson off in and he’ll be set.]
Dragon: Fuck right. I need more of this.
[Dragon quickly makes his way around to the bar which is hounded by dozens of pretty Californians. Fuck this, Dragon thinks to himself as he pushes his way through the crowd of pissants to get himself a few drinks. Below, out on the “dance floor” a solid circle pit has been started in response to the great Metallica song blaring over the screams and grunts of California’s finest. A few large men stand center in the circle while dozens, perhaps a hundred, smaller men and a few brave women, slam around the outside. Looks like just the place for Dragon to cause some mayhem tonight, should he get the right size drunk on. Finally reaching the bar with his left hand, he shoves himself up to the bar between a nerdy fat guy in glasses and a blonde with bigger tits than Dragon’s bald head.]
Girl: Asshole.
Dragon: How tight is yours?
Girl: What?
Dragon: Your asshole… how tight is it?
[SLAP]
Dragon: Ooh, fiesty little bitch. What are you drinking?
[At that moment, the bartender takes notice of the terrific tumuluses protruding from the low cut shirt of the girl next to Dragon.]
Bartender: Drinks?
Girl: Two vodka and cranberries…
Dragon: And five Black Tooth Grins.
[The bartender gives one of those looks that either means he has to take a wicked shit in the next five seconds, or he has no idea what the fuck Dragon just ordered.]
Bartender: The fuck is that?
[If you ever have to tell your bartender what's in the drink you ordered in an establishment that charges more than two dollars a drink, you've got yourself a cuntshit bartender.]
Dragon: Shot of Crown, shot of Seagram’s, and coke. Gotta be black though.
[By this point, the blonde next to him has found her girlfriend, a skinny brunette with ample leg showing from the pair of shorts. She wears knee-high gym shorts with black stripes and a pair of black Chuck Taylor sneakers. Her hair is pulled into pigtails. Sweet… handlebars.]
Girl: Jenna, I got your drink for you. Get me next round.
Jenna: Okay girl. Who’s your friend?
Girl: He’s an asshole.
Dragon: Pleased to meet ya, I’m asshole. I like to fight and drink. You are?
Jenna: A fan of yours actually. I can’t believe you don’t know who he is, Mindy.
[Dragon rolls his eyes as the bartender returns with the vodka and cranberry drinks for the vaginas. “Asshole” he thinks to himself.]
Bartender: Fourteen fifty girls. My name is Mitch, come back and see me, I'll hook you up. I’ll be back with yours in a minute, dude.
[Dragon sarcastically gives a toothy grin and a ‘thumbs up.’ "Fluffy" he thinks to himself before stopping Mindy from paying.]
Dragon: I’ll take care of this. You girls go and have fun. Find me later and you can figure out a way to make it up to me. I do take sexual favors as payment.
[Mindy quickly throws her purse over her shoulder, grabs her drink and walks into the crowd without looking back. Jenna gets her drink and turns, looking over her shoulder with a wink as she takes the first sip of her drink.]
Fluffy: You gonna hit that?
Dragon: Fluffy, I’m gonna hit you if you don’t hurry up with my whiskies.
Bartender: Who the fuck is Fluffy?
[Dragon throws the death glare across the bar, giving the cue for him to either make the drinks, or no longer have a lower mandible. Thinking wiser of it, Mitch goes to retrieve the elixer he requests. Dragon turns and looks out among the masses to see the circle pit has shrunk quite a bit with the cessation of the Metallica song. Mudvayne’s latest CD’s top track, “Fish Out of Water” plays with the few who know it preparing for war inside the circle. The song is rather intense, but not very well known. “This could get ugly” thinks Dragon as he finds something catching his eye on the other side of the club. A woman, staring a hole through his head.]
Dragon: Who the fuck?
[At that second, Fluffy returns with his five Black Tooth Grins placing them down carefully on the bar. Afterward, he looks to Dragon to pay.]
Dragon: How much, Fluffy?
[Mitch starts doing math in his head adding the five together plus the two for the sluts. He points at each one while looking at the ceiling as if the smoke in the room is going to form the answer for him. After some time…]
Bartender: Fifty three.
[Dragon throws a hundred on the bar and while awaiting the cheese nug to return, slams down the first of five heavily alcoholic drinks. Crumpling the plastic cup between his fingers and palm of his hand, he turns to look back toward the woman who, somehow, has not moved from staring a hole through him. Dragon flips the cup over his shoulder, smacking the bartender square in the eye.]
Fluffy: Hey, Jackass, your change!
[Dragon quickly turns and retrieves his change, all forty seven dollars worth, and throwing the five down on the bar, grabs up his drinks. Lifting his precious alcohol over his head, two in each hand, he slices his way through the crowd in a vicious attempt to get to the woman. Her hair covers the majority of her face and her facial piercings leave her hidden identity to be determined. Dragon bumps into a couple people and realizes he should probably lighten his load.
Dragon throws back a second drink, then a third, tossing the cups to the ground and stomping them out below his steel-toed combat boots. Now with one cup in each hand, he much more easily slices his way through the crowd reaching the main pit rather easily. At this point, Mudvayne’s great song has ceased and it’s time for something much more sinister to happen. The lights go dim rather quickly. Damnit, he’ll lose her in the darkness.
The crowd turns toward the stage as the curtain starts to separate just enough that some overly hyperactive jackass comes on stage. He starts flipping off the crowd as they scream ridiculously and chanting “psycho” over and over.]
Guy: What’s up Whisky A Go Go!!!
[What a faggy name for him to have to say to introduce whatever shitty local band they’ve got playing tonight.]
Guy: I’m Psycho Mike from The World Famous 106.7 K-Rock and tonight, you folks are in for a treat. Ordinarily, I’m coming out here to introduce the local band of the week, but just yesterday, someone came to me and the managers here in Whisky A Go Go and wanted to do a surprise concert for you guys!!
[The crowd begins to go ape tit. “Fuck” Dragon thinks. If it’s some shitty band like Autumn for my Valentine or something, I’m leaving.]
Psycho Mike: And I could stand here all day and try to list this guy’s accomplishments…
[Wait, just one guy? Better not be Beck. That guy sucked worse than Moby. Oh shit, it better not be Moby either. That guy sucked worse than… wait. This is a metal club. OZZY!]
Dragon: OZZY!!!!!!!!!
[Dragon quickly downs the final two of his drinks, crushing the cups and throwing them each toward the shitbag on the stage.]
Dragon: Get off the stage, SHITBAG!
[Psycho Mike avoids the flying debris and dips behind the curtain as the lights go out again. “Fuck the broad” thinks Dragon as he’s about to explode to Ozzy’s greatness at a very intimate show in a small bar. This place is going to shake to the core and it may even cave in on itself from the sheer awesome that is coming to the stage. The bass begins to rumble and the epic coming forth of whomever is surprising the crowd tonight is building to a near rolling boil. The crowd is stomping, clapping, screaming, and beginning to sway as one. Dragon, caught in the middle of the madness, is suddenly grabbed from behind without warning.
He turns and swings at his own shoulder level, but swings well over the head of the person grabbing him. He looks down and finds the mysterious woman standing beside him, her hair falling over her shoulder and across her face. She wears a fishnet shirt with a black bra beneath revealing quite enough skin for the mind to do its own wandering. Below, she has on a black cheerleader-style skirt with black combat boots up to her knees. Her eyes are crystal blue and her eyebrows and lip are all pierced. She smiles, her white teeth glowing in the black lights and her tongue falls from between her darkly painted lips revealing another piercing in the center of her tongue.]
Woman: Hi Mickey.
[Holy blue bloody fuck…]
Woman: Surprise.
[Shit my pants and call me Susan…]
Woman: Therapy’s over… you’re cured.
Who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead?
LIVING DEAD GIRL
[black]
We close in on another beautiful southern Californian evening in the city, as Mickey Dragon walks through the hustle and bustle of Hollywood, California’s vast nightlife. Sunset Boulevard, one of the most famous streets in all of America, is home to hundreds of tourist attractions. Tonight, though, Mickey Dragon could give a flying piss less about what shit tourists are looking at. He went to his weekly therapy session with intent on describing each intricate detail about what happened twenty years ago with his mother, but rather, found a note hanging on her door.
The camera focuses on the note, written on a blank piece of copy paper, folded in half. In black Sharpie marker is an address. “8901 Sunset Boulevard” and a time of “10pm.” The note crumples in the large hands of Mickey Dragon. The camera turns and sees the evil in his eyes as beads of sweat glisten from his bald head. He wears a simple black t-shirt with the words “Great American Nightmare” scrawled across them with a skull as the backdrop. His combat boots slam down upon the pavement as if they’re taking out frustration on a whiny child begging for candy. The camera pans around and finds the site from which the paper asks him to be, a legendary bar on the Sunset Strip. Whisky A Go Go. The marquee on the sign says “Surprise inside.”
Dragon enters the line with hundreds of teenie bopper faggots whose hair has too much “product” and the girls are more shallow than Raenius’s choice of women after a long night of punishing his liver. Around him is the very fiber of American 20s and he spitefully despises each of them and their too-tight muscle t-shirts, plaid shorts, and --spiked wanna-be rocker hair. Axe products -- or as Raenius loves to remind Dragon -- LYNX products, have made pussies out of American men thousands at a time. The few fuckwits within earshot babble on about who was doing what recent drama on what recent reality television show, another complete blasphemy of American culture. Has everyone gone off to become television stars nowadays?
Dragon slowly reaches the velvet rope to enter and is eye to chest with a man who obviously suffers from gigantism… and mental retardation. His polo shirt is black and his name is stitched into it. “Keith.” Standing a good seven feet tall and having spiked blonde hair with teeth more crooked than a British meth user, he’s prepared to palm people by the heads and throw them like a shot put. Standing beside him, his trusty sidekick, wearing an identical black polo shirt with his name etched into it. “Leon” is a much shorter stocky black man wearing an earpiece. Must be the brains of the operations, otherwise “Keith” would be wearing the headset.]
Keith: ID?
[Dragon looks Keith in his beady crossed eyes with a look like “are you fucking serious?”]
Keith: ID sir.
[An exasperated sigh as Dragon reaches into his back pocket, removing his wallet. He flips it open, showing his ID to the bouncer. His flashlight scans over the card a few times as Keith inspects it to be sure it’s authentic. He then looks back at Dragon, then again at the ID.]
Keith: Nevada ID, eh? Where?
Dragon: Am I not going to get in if I don’t answer you?
[Keith seems surprised by Dragon’s answer and pulls his head back looking down at the bald dome glistening in the evening moonlight. Dragon looks up past his wallet at the doofy looking string bean holding his ID.]
Keith: Just making conversation.
Dragon: Well make it with someone else, Lerch.
[Leon unclips the velvet rope and allows Dragon pass into the club. As he approaches the door, he hears the ear-piercing, yet revering sound of Metallica’s “Call of Ktulu.” Dragon grabs for the large brass handle and swings it open to reveal quite the interesting sight. The room is dark, glowing from black lights and smoke machines. Dragon looks around the bars to see if Dr. Torres is, somehow, here or not. For some reason though, he just doesn’t see this as her scene. Perhaps she had something else to do and needed the night off, so she found something Dragon would be interested in. Fuck, thanks. A bar that actually plays decent music. Now to just find a bunch of alcohol and a pit to get his Johnson off in and he’ll be set.]
Dragon: Fuck right. I need more of this.
[Dragon quickly makes his way around to the bar which is hounded by dozens of pretty Californians. Fuck this, Dragon thinks to himself as he pushes his way through the crowd of pissants to get himself a few drinks. Below, out on the “dance floor” a solid circle pit has been started in response to the great Metallica song blaring over the screams and grunts of California’s finest. A few large men stand center in the circle while dozens, perhaps a hundred, smaller men and a few brave women, slam around the outside. Looks like just the place for Dragon to cause some mayhem tonight, should he get the right size drunk on. Finally reaching the bar with his left hand, he shoves himself up to the bar between a nerdy fat guy in glasses and a blonde with bigger tits than Dragon’s bald head.]
Girl: Asshole.
Dragon: How tight is yours?
Girl: What?
Dragon: Your asshole… how tight is it?
[SLAP]
Dragon: Ooh, fiesty little bitch. What are you drinking?
[At that moment, the bartender takes notice of the terrific tumuluses protruding from the low cut shirt of the girl next to Dragon.]
Bartender: Drinks?
Girl: Two vodka and cranberries…
Dragon: And five Black Tooth Grins.
[The bartender gives one of those looks that either means he has to take a wicked shit in the next five seconds, or he has no idea what the fuck Dragon just ordered.]
Bartender: The fuck is that?
[If you ever have to tell your bartender what's in the drink you ordered in an establishment that charges more than two dollars a drink, you've got yourself a cuntshit bartender.]
Dragon: Shot of Crown, shot of Seagram’s, and coke. Gotta be black though.
[By this point, the blonde next to him has found her girlfriend, a skinny brunette with ample leg showing from the pair of shorts. She wears knee-high gym shorts with black stripes and a pair of black Chuck Taylor sneakers. Her hair is pulled into pigtails. Sweet… handlebars.]
Girl: Jenna, I got your drink for you. Get me next round.
Jenna: Okay girl. Who’s your friend?
Girl: He’s an asshole.
Dragon: Pleased to meet ya, I’m asshole. I like to fight and drink. You are?
Jenna: A fan of yours actually. I can’t believe you don’t know who he is, Mindy.
[Dragon rolls his eyes as the bartender returns with the vodka and cranberry drinks for the vaginas. “Asshole” he thinks to himself.]
Bartender: Fourteen fifty girls. My name is Mitch, come back and see me, I'll hook you up. I’ll be back with yours in a minute, dude.
[Dragon sarcastically gives a toothy grin and a ‘thumbs up.’ "Fluffy" he thinks to himself before stopping Mindy from paying.]
Dragon: I’ll take care of this. You girls go and have fun. Find me later and you can figure out a way to make it up to me. I do take sexual favors as payment.
[Mindy quickly throws her purse over her shoulder, grabs her drink and walks into the crowd without looking back. Jenna gets her drink and turns, looking over her shoulder with a wink as she takes the first sip of her drink.]
Fluffy: You gonna hit that?
Dragon: Fluffy, I’m gonna hit you if you don’t hurry up with my whiskies.
Bartender: Who the fuck is Fluffy?
[Dragon throws the death glare across the bar, giving the cue for him to either make the drinks, or no longer have a lower mandible. Thinking wiser of it, Mitch goes to retrieve the elixer he requests. Dragon turns and looks out among the masses to see the circle pit has shrunk quite a bit with the cessation of the Metallica song. Mudvayne’s latest CD’s top track, “Fish Out of Water” plays with the few who know it preparing for war inside the circle. The song is rather intense, but not very well known. “This could get ugly” thinks Dragon as he finds something catching his eye on the other side of the club. A woman, staring a hole through his head.]
Dragon: Who the fuck?
[At that second, Fluffy returns with his five Black Tooth Grins placing them down carefully on the bar. Afterward, he looks to Dragon to pay.]
Dragon: How much, Fluffy?
[Mitch starts doing math in his head adding the five together plus the two for the sluts. He points at each one while looking at the ceiling as if the smoke in the room is going to form the answer for him. After some time…]
Bartender: Fifty three.
[Dragon throws a hundred on the bar and while awaiting the cheese nug to return, slams down the first of five heavily alcoholic drinks. Crumpling the plastic cup between his fingers and palm of his hand, he turns to look back toward the woman who, somehow, has not moved from staring a hole through him. Dragon flips the cup over his shoulder, smacking the bartender square in the eye.]
Fluffy: Hey, Jackass, your change!
[Dragon quickly turns and retrieves his change, all forty seven dollars worth, and throwing the five down on the bar, grabs up his drinks. Lifting his precious alcohol over his head, two in each hand, he slices his way through the crowd in a vicious attempt to get to the woman. Her hair covers the majority of her face and her facial piercings leave her hidden identity to be determined. Dragon bumps into a couple people and realizes he should probably lighten his load.
Dragon throws back a second drink, then a third, tossing the cups to the ground and stomping them out below his steel-toed combat boots. Now with one cup in each hand, he much more easily slices his way through the crowd reaching the main pit rather easily. At this point, Mudvayne’s great song has ceased and it’s time for something much more sinister to happen. The lights go dim rather quickly. Damnit, he’ll lose her in the darkness.
The crowd turns toward the stage as the curtain starts to separate just enough that some overly hyperactive jackass comes on stage. He starts flipping off the crowd as they scream ridiculously and chanting “psycho” over and over.]
Guy: What’s up Whisky A Go Go!!!
[What a faggy name for him to have to say to introduce whatever shitty local band they’ve got playing tonight.]
Guy: I’m Psycho Mike from The World Famous 106.7 K-Rock and tonight, you folks are in for a treat. Ordinarily, I’m coming out here to introduce the local band of the week, but just yesterday, someone came to me and the managers here in Whisky A Go Go and wanted to do a surprise concert for you guys!!
[The crowd begins to go ape tit. “Fuck” Dragon thinks. If it’s some shitty band like Autumn for my Valentine or something, I’m leaving.]
Psycho Mike: And I could stand here all day and try to list this guy’s accomplishments…
[Wait, just one guy? Better not be Beck. That guy sucked worse than Moby. Oh shit, it better not be Moby either. That guy sucked worse than… wait. This is a metal club. OZZY!]
Dragon: OZZY!!!!!!!!!
[Dragon quickly downs the final two of his drinks, crushing the cups and throwing them each toward the shitbag on the stage.]
Dragon: Get off the stage, SHITBAG!
[Psycho Mike avoids the flying debris and dips behind the curtain as the lights go out again. “Fuck the broad” thinks Dragon as he’s about to explode to Ozzy’s greatness at a very intimate show in a small bar. This place is going to shake to the core and it may even cave in on itself from the sheer awesome that is coming to the stage. The bass begins to rumble and the epic coming forth of whomever is surprising the crowd tonight is building to a near rolling boil. The crowd is stomping, clapping, screaming, and beginning to sway as one. Dragon, caught in the middle of the madness, is suddenly grabbed from behind without warning.
He turns and swings at his own shoulder level, but swings well over the head of the person grabbing him. He looks down and finds the mysterious woman standing beside him, her hair falling over her shoulder and across her face. She wears a fishnet shirt with a black bra beneath revealing quite enough skin for the mind to do its own wandering. Below, she has on a black cheerleader-style skirt with black combat boots up to her knees. Her eyes are crystal blue and her eyebrows and lip are all pierced. She smiles, her white teeth glowing in the black lights and her tongue falls from between her darkly painted lips revealing another piercing in the center of her tongue.]
Woman: Hi Mickey.
[Holy blue bloody fuck…]
Woman: Surprise.
[Shit my pants and call me Susan…]
Woman: Therapy’s over… you’re cured.
Who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead?
LIVING DEAD GIRL
[black]
