Salad Daze Archives Unit 10 (2001)

How I Killed Punk In Its Sleep

  My talents were hired by anonymous progressives of a singularly radical bent, it seemed they wanted to warn the world of "sell-outs" taking freedoms away - or some such drivel. After fourteen centuries in the trade, one is apt to smile & nod, no matter what nonsense is provided for an excuse. One takes a 40% advance in eight figures, which is very nice indeed - & one sets to work. My medium is the dreams of my targets, fast clean & unstoppable. I never miss.

  I bring them into lucidity first, if the format allows it. To lay in comfort as one brings down the rube : the acme of a noble old service.

  Biafra was surprisingly smooth & easy. I nailed his whiny ass on a spoken-word tour. Popped in on some spy-noir crap & shook his hand. Thanked him for playing, & gave him a nice look at my astral machete. Did he ever scream!

  Ran straight over his 18th-floor balcony railing like a real trooper. One down, six to go.

  Of them all, Rollins was the most fun. For the record, the man gets - ahem,  used to get - some very interesting dreams. I have to develop a bio on waketime, & dreams, for the hit to click. For someone who  seemed to only ever do one "song" it was quite delightful to record ol' Hank's unconscious musings.

  Of course, the wonders of apnia kicked Rollins' ass. At about the eleven-minute mark he stopped jiggling around & I felt the joy of a job well done. I've always been amazed at how easy it is to deactivate human lungs.

  I could have appeared to him & rattled off some rant about a skinny little geek that was back for vengeance, in the one place where being hard isn't any use, you're a moth & I'm a flame, blah blah woof woof. I refrained - & left the poor slob to croak.

  The Rotten hit was the only other worth mention, albeit a depressing one. "Who shot J.L." was his best attempt at wit. Then he tried to say he knew I would come { he didn't } & that he wouldn't try to escape { he did, sorry to say }.

  Brains are almost as easy as lungs.  Panic at an unreal menace was an ironic fuel for a real peril. The hemhorrage was itself tres punk : John-Boy bled from eyes, ears & nose as his homely mega-marketed mug went from deep purple to bone white. Your punchline here.