I’ve recently released my book Rumored to Exist as an eBook on the Kindle and other e-readers, for only $2.99. I’ll be running some excerpts here to let you take a look. For more info, see this post or go to http://rumored.com/rumored.
I went to Lane’s and met up with his cokehead friends and a bunch of random sluts to celebrate The Firestorm, a Satanic holiday of death and torture. We killed two of every animal we could possibly find in a giant black antithesis to Noah’s ark, and snorted meth from a full-length mirror laid across a kitchen counter. The Satanic Pope of West Virginia pissed in a chalice of wine, we picked lottery numbers out of a prostitute’s vagina, and then everyone listened to King Diamond and jerked off to roller derby tapes from the Swedish version of the USA Network. All hail Satan, yes hail Satan!
Lane and I go back a ways. It started when I ordered the new Windham Hell CD off the Internet. It’s great instrumental Satanic experimental metal, but someone hacked the site’s database, stole my credit card number, and bought thousands of dollars of collectible Barbie stuff at a flea market in Sturgis, Michigan. Why do these things always happen to me? Is it some chemical imbalance, or maybe something bad I did when I was a kid? I know you’re thinking it’s because I don’t follow the ten commandments, because I leave the toilet seat up, or because I killed my family at age seven and blamed it on drug-addled hippies, but I’m certain it’s more involved than that.
So I met Lane when I spent months calling customer service phone numbers to get my money back, and some secret extension rang through to his mom’s basement where he did a chargeback and invited me to The Firestorm. Before he ran a cult record label, Lane spent his time cutting noses off of garden gnomes and arranging them in a circle like Stonehenge in an Ohio Turnpike men’s room. Although several psychiatrists lobbied to get this behavior added to the DSM-IV, he claimed it was his higher power. After listening to the Nuclear Winter album For Those About to Puke, We Salute You backwards during a shroom trip, he shaved his head and sent a money order for $100 to the Church of Satan on June 6, 1996. He seems pretty together now, except for a weird nervous tick whenever someone mentions the movie Spinal Tap.
“Hey bro, can you chunk up another brick?” Lane appeared from the bathroom with blood and crumbs of meth hanging out of his nose, dripping down his stupid elf goatee. One of his bitches, a goth-looking vampire, dropped a five-pound block of methamphetamine into a Juiceman juicer, grinding it into pellet-sized grains of dust. “Fuckin’ killer, bro!” Lane snorted a fistful of white and sodomized a 450-pound beast of a woman with greasy, mottled hair, with a glazed over look from having the halves of her brain surgically separated. “Holy shit!” he yelled, sodomizing the huge bitch. “Fucking hail Satan! This is fucking old-school shit!” I hid behind a crate of T-shirts and read a week-old Goldmine.