Sweetleggs Morreteeth. The King of Hearts. Lady Emeraldagger Lightning.
Influences
Female magic. Kittens. Angelina Jolie. William Powell. Pierre Henry. Antonin Artaud. William Burroughs. Samuel Beckett. Philip K Dick. William Gibson. Stanislaw Lem. Steven Soderbergh. Mario Bava. Dario Argento. Neil Gaiman. Tr3nt. Zeus.
Sounds Like
Dolly Parton making out with Stephen Stapleton?
Bette Midler in a secluded corner with Marilyn Manson?
Britney Spears at Starbucks with Burzum?
Lita Ford shopping at Icing with Elend?
The Cult watching Andy Griffith with The Red Krayola with Art & Language?
A slimy, gray mold of clouds blankets the city. Trapped beneath this canopy of depression, a stench of ungodly filth squirts like pus into the nostrils of the citys denizens. So rank you can taste it, the air is besmirched by the pungent decay of the human species, by the rank, encrusted bowels of a species dying out, choking on its own vomit in a pool of piss and shit.
San Francisco chokes on the flotsam of decadence and deprivation that call it home. Its streets crowded with manics desperate to escape themselves and their so-called lives. Years have passed since a sober soul has survived a night in this dung-ridden pseudo-metropolis.
And here we find the heroines of our tale. Two young women, seemingly impervious to the corruption of souls which surrounds them.
But perhaps not so impervious, for their subtle stagger speaks not of childhood polio nor ice skating terrorism, but rather of spirit-lifting and Spirit-dampening spirits. Theirs is the stumble of perfect happiness found deep inside the bowels of a bottle.
Sweetleggs and Lady Emeraldagger Lightning, whose journey through this befouled and overwrought cowtown will lead them to a revelation greater than those of all the prophets of shady, double-crossing, God-infested religions combined.
Their hearts alone in this fecopolis are untainted. Around them an angelic halo of sweet liqueurs and spicy rums provides a shield of innocence and cleanliness. As if some potent God reached down from His Heaven to bless the streets upon which they walked, feet never touching the grimy, diseased ground.
Sweetleggs, where are we? gigglesEmeraldagger Lightning.
I think were in Heaven, Emerald Sweetleggs replies, smiling as if to free the damned from their chains, bringing Lucifer and his minions to their horn-knobbled knees with a toothy glint of pure charity.
Thats what I thought! proclaims Emeraldagger, reaching out and steadying herself on the gold shimmering arm of a passing Seraphim, It only too honored to offer its services to such as Gods favorite creations.
Can you hear that song?
The sound of a perfect womb spinning a tapestry of genetic desire the likes of which no Earthly ear has ever heard before?
Yes, thats The One I mean!
I can hear it Sweetleggs!
Thats us!
Our hearts beat in unison like Siamese twins never separated. Our blood pumps through veins pristine and clear as glacial lakes. Our bodies radiate a warmth that shall some day fetter the sun and teach it kajira happiness.
We are a sound only a god could hear.
We are a sound no god could make.
But wait, what is that dank, musky noise, beating the beat of an anti-christ thump?
Sweetleggs, it carries me, a gust of aural wind, foul like a demons sulfuric gas, but perfect like a reptiles desire.
We are free here, enmeshed within this clot of sound, our own bodies the instruments of perfect melody and this darkness the corrupting pulse of every mammalian heart!
We are music.
No, we are the death of music giving birth to the future of sound.
There, behind that Green Door.
Yes, I hear it emanating from within.
Ring the bell.
Im scared. Its too ideal.
Like an invitation to the opening of a new H&M?
Like an exclusive, invitation to the opening of a flagship H&M with Stella McCartney as our bag jockey.
Mmmmmmm
Ring the bell.
A weak chime spurts forth before dying on the breath of burning copper.
Darkness seeps out from under the door. And when it opens the stench of decayed masculinity bowls our heroines onto the street where they cling to one another, supported on their feet only by the encompassing wings of an Angelic Host raced down from Elyssium to perform this service.
Who disturbs my sleep? a voice caked and frayed, unused in centuries, seeps from a putrid maw and overgrown visage.
Stepping forth in unison, our heroines proclaim,
We do. We heard your song, beating dark and filthy in the street and recognized a world stillborn but waiting.
Begone, I have no time for
And in the glazed, dead eyes a spark. This subhuman creature, post-mammalian, a masculine atrophy of impotent chemicals, experiences something it has not known since before it survived the death of time, a feeling, a movement inside the shambles it calls a fleshly home.
What is this? it asks.
It is the rebirth of music the girls reply as one.
We are what must become of sound if life is to survive the three realize simultaneously.
Hurry, enter, we have much to do, the revitalized pustule of a man grunts as his faculties begin to clear and the neurons in his catatonic mind begin to reconnect and fire.
Like have a martini! declares Sweetlegs.
And you need to take a shower, adds Emeraldagger hoping shes not being too blunt with this cataclysm in slippers.
And as our heroines pass through the Green Door forever what? is born.
