The lips of the last perfect man, twisted and red like dead fish as words fall like puke on the scuffed up floor. His crazed. drugged out eyes burning phosphorescent, behind clear glass, screaming for recognition. He removes the belt from his pants and double-wraps it around the American Youth's neck as he lets out a low long wail. The youth's eyes roll back into his head as he twists and convulses in an asphyxiated shudder of divine orgasm, red hot blood pressing the against the features of his face. pants fall to the floor. "Worship at the altar of Krillin," he spits through serpentine features, the Youth falls limp on the floor in one extended GAAAAAAAAASP.
Krillin produces two tablets from the pile of rags in the corner of the room, and with a hand outstretched says "The body of christ" and tips his head back as he gnashes one of the tablets with through clenched teeth. He digs a razor into his skin, foam forming at the corners of his mouth. He crushes the other tablet in hand and presses the fragments into the fresh wound, "the blood of christ" drips onto the floor and is quickly absorbed into the tongues of eager acolytes. "SANCTIFY my temple!" he screams through his nose, as the acolytes douse themselves in lubricant and urinate on the floor, fully nude they gather, the cracking of joints echo through the writhing of limbs forming a singular mass on the floor. Krillin deftly navigates the pile to its center, slipping through mouths and anuses in a profoundly serpentine display.
A low drone fills the room as the human machine pulses with the glory of innocence, Krillin at its center, his mind bursting with images, tears streaming down his pale face. He sees his mother, he remembers the warm hot chocolate, the chilly snap of a Minneaopolis winter, and the crisp crunch of snow under his boots. He remembers the way the streetlights cast an orange glow on his childhood home. He remembers snowball fights with the neighborhood kids and his father pulling sleds up and down the block. He remembers sitting with his sister and brother, listening to school closings on the radio as the his mother cracked eggs into a warm frying pan. The synapses of his brain pop with blue electricity as he feels these memories swirling around him. He reaches out, tries to grab them, but they pass right through his sweat slicked fingers and drop into the void.
A shadow crosses his face as the walls tremble in the rapture of orgasm, his skin dissolves as his humanity passes into the cold confines of the living machine. The razor still clenched in his fist plunges deep into his belly, he arches his back and points the handle up to heaven. Like ravenous dogs the acolytes rip and tear at Krillin's flesh and begin fucking the hole in his chest in a drug fueled frenzy. "Make me human," he gasps spraying the blood from his lungs, his chest swells with dirt and semen. Spiraling towards death he lies motionless within a state of euphoric bliss, as the life drains from his mortal flesh he feels the face of God smiling in acknowledgement of his only son.
Twisted and wretched, Krillin slips and slithers through the dimly lit bar. Krillin wants to fuck Doug, Krillin wants to fuck Craig, Krillin wants to fuck Josh, Krillin wants to fuck Ian and Krillin wants to fuck me. His face is beady, tiny openings smaller in proportion to his tiny body. His skin is smooth and taught, I can see the outlines of bones protruding from his skin. "Meet me in the bathroom!!" he squeals like the pig he is to no one in particular; he lives to have good times and fuck with impunity. He pours the lubricant over his head like a monk preparing for self immolation...deeply ritualized. "You guys want drugs?" he asks with a hand down his pants, burning with naked lust.
"We need to get the fuck out of here!" I say, scanning for the nearest exit. The tour is over we are all dead. Doug turns to face Krillin with a sense of morbid curiosity.
"I don't know guys, I don't think we should write of Krillin so soon." I glower at him with unbridled intensity as I slink away in search of a place to hide.
Krillin and two youths form a dog pile on the floor and his lubricated body slides over them in a display of bacchanal excess. "I AM DRUGS!" krillin wails as he beats his naked chest.
Escaping outside a witch sits smoking noxious Indian cigarettes. "You guys need a place to stay?" she spits through the criss cross of crooked teeth. "You can stay at my apartment if you kill me. I have board games and money," she says, spilling quarters from her purse and into the cracks of the sidewalk. Krillin walks out of the bar with the look of in a euphoric daze as the smell of sweat, and dried semen exude from his pores. He lights a cigarette and exhales deep satisfaction.
KRILLIN: I thought you guys from New York would know how to party.
KYLE: FUCK YOU KRILLIN.
DOUG: I smoked weed one time.
KYLE: FUCK YOU DOUG.
KRILLIN: Lick my skin, it will melt your brain.
JOSH: I think I am going to have to pass, I'm pretty tired.
KRILLIN: (removes dildo from pocket) You guys ever play around with one of these? It will blow your mind.
"I'm in this band y'know but i fucking hate music. I fucking hate these people. I fucking hate myself." the razors slashes at the fools throat as his blood spills onto the concrete in spurts. "This is the only way out. The same way i came in."
Krillin sticks his aerodynamic bald head into the fools gaping neck hole. His skull still slick with lube slides easily into the fool's esophagus."I'm like a fucking donut baby!" he yells pushing further, entering the lung. his feet kicking from the mans open neck.
with some other guy
and i wondered what it was like to really bleed
and i wondered what it was like to really die
and teeth and nails fell in to a coma
and you came and took my picture
of teeth and the prefect smile
and i a little bit inside
and i wonder
Doug sent me a text this afternoon claiming that Obama said on the news that America had opened a Pandora's Box of autism and that we couldn't close it no matter how hard we tried. Doug didn't give any context for this statement and I had no idea what the fuck Doug or Obama was talking about, but it sounds pretty serious if Obama said it. I tried Googling The Obama on The Google News for over an hour, but all the results were about Obama breaking a porcelain bust of Langston Hughes at Dwight Howard's house during the all-star game and trying to pass the buck for the damages to the American taxpayers. Personally, I think if Obama broke the Langston Hughes, he should pay for it and stop trying make the American people foot the bill even if it was an accident.
So has moving Brooklyn made Doug a cooler dude? Probs not. Dude doesn't even have Ray-Bans yet and he has lived there for like a month.
My resolution to go to bed before 5am remains unresolved, but whatever i get up at 2pm. I am on a reverse Torbus through hell and am slowly being consumed by anti vibes as i Benjamin Button my way back to being a helpless baby. I uploaded 3 clips from Torbus onto YouTube, then promptly deleted them after I found out the I could in fact edit them and crop them so they aren't tall guys. What is a Tall Guy? All these problems would not have existed if I didn't hold the iPhone camera sideways (tallways) on the reg, but that is the price of swag and taste in music. The criteria by which we shall all be judged. God's left and right eyes. The clip of me calling Doug a 'fucking bitch,' will make an appearance. But will this conglomeration contain anything else? Look forward to it, but don't get excited. I am an amazing videographer and I am currently penning a musical featuring the music of the Red Hot Chili Peppers about doing heroin and having sex, but not about contracting AIDS, so don't worry, it isn't like a Rent retread or anything. So editing this should be right in my wheelhouse.
So the promise of daily updates seems totally errant on my part. This lapse in judgement stems from my misguided belief that this was 2012 and that ther was wifi everywhere. Do not fret carful reader, as we have hardly abandoned the Torbus Diaries. So far Torbus has been off to what I would consider a commendable start. The band arrived to the first show in Philly a full two hours late due to the rapid deterioration of America's crumbling infrastructure. The sparse crowd at The Level Room gave the strongest reaction to the third song they played because that was the one I clapped the loudest for. After the set we met with the other bands who played that night. The entire set up room smelled like the most heinous body odor I have encountered in recent memory. At first I attributed the smell to the road-hardened touring veterans, however Josh later traced the smell to a single member of a local act who presumably slept in his own bed that night and woke up in it the day previous. We found a very gracious host to take us in for the night. She had a pretty awesome apartment, but the floors was fairly uneven. Our host wanted nothing to do with Torbus and mentioned that she didn't think Slothbear was any good, but received the entire Slothbear discography as compensation for giving us a place to stay.
6/02 - philadelphia, pa @ the level room w/ white suns, california x, hot guts and clippers
6/03 - pittsburgh, pa @ garfield artworks w/ CARE, danger animal and my captain, my sea
6/04 - columbus, oh @ cafe bourbon st w/ petit mal and fingers
6/05 - cleveland, oh @ now that's class w/ anthony doran
6/06 - chicago, il TBA
6/07 - milwaukee, wi @ frank's power plant w/ coo woo and awkward terrible
6/08 - minneapolis, mn @ 400 bar w/ american youth
6/15 - boston, ma TBA
google maps route to be posted shortly for those who would like to follow us, but of course, stay glued to spotblog and @bearslothbearsl for real time torbus diary entries.
Torbus 2012 kicks off in approximately one week. I will be accompanying the band on their trek to Minneapolis in order to chronicle as much of this tour as humanly possible. I imagine most of this data including photos, videos, raps, charts, nonfiction short stories, audio, statistics, drawings, poems and journal entries will be posted here, so be sure to bookmark this blog if you haven't already for (at least) daily updates on what's going down. Follow both my twitter (@KTomitted) and the Slothbear twitter (@Bearslothbearsl) to keep us informed on what kind of content you are most interested in seeing on this blog, Craig is also presumably going to put one of those share tabs on this blog so you can share these posts and hopefully ruin someone's Facebook/Twitter feeds while raising our Klout score into the double digits (stratosphere).
Be sure to use the hashtag #Torbus to tweet us clever messages, we may read the best ones aloud to an audience of strangers at one of the shows.
Don't fuck around this year. You know you are going to eat sausage at the Super Bowl So why not eat the best sausage and brats made by the brand that invented Sausage and Brats? When it comes to sausage quality matters; all other brands of sausage are made from 35% entrails 25% dicks 30% feces and 10% teeth. At Johnsonville they castrate all animals prior to butchering so you know you are only getting the good stuff. The Johnsonville name has been synonymous with quality for over 500 years, JAY-Z eats these fucking sausages. So this year rather than eating hot dogs and hamburgers buy like 200 Johnsonville sausages and watch your friends tear down your front door and kill each other in your living room over the delicious country smoked flavor of handmade sausages and bratwursts. Also try the "Beddar with Cheddar" sausages so good you will swear they were made with real meat or cheddar.