March 2005 / Volume VI / Issue II | ||||||||||
Willie Smith | ||||||||||
Death on the Air They had me on the show. I was a guest, I was drunk; I didn’t know; I didn’t care, it didn’t matter – fuck it. They had me stuck between Ed and Johnny. Johnny was smiling over at Ed and Ed was laughing out into space. They were making light, making like I was just a drunk, didn’t have any money; looked, acted and smelled funny. So I got my gun out and gave it to Ed. He took it in the gut; never stopped laughing. Something green like caterpillar blood seeped out of his 3-piece business suit. Johnny gave Ed the deadpan. I turned and shot Johnny’s wig off. Two people in the crowd died laughing. Then I pistol-whipped his aftershave, prodded his deodorant, broke his plastic nose with the butt of my gun. I was taking my time. We had an hour and a half to kill. I shot off Johnny’s tie, suspenders, belt, backbrace, shoelaces, sock garters; turned and shot off Ed’s bra. Wheeled and shot holes in Johnny’s shoes to make him dance, but he couldn’t. He was too stiff and shattered into a thousand shiny pieces of expensive shit. That was it. The crowd gave it to me, pounding me to death with applause. Ed, who by now looked like some gigantic black beetle, got up and walked off the air. |
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RETURN to MARCH 2005 |