DRIFTIN_ALONE
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Возраст: 40 Зарегистрирован: 24.11.2004 Сообщения: 1604 Откуда: Минск Благодарности: 80/173 | Добавлено: Вс Апр 24, 2005 4:53 am | |
The Jamiroquai name is copyright Jason Kay/Epic/Sony/blah, blah, blah. If you like this, tell me. If you hate it, tell me....just don't take this very seriously. It isn't meant to be. Names have been changed to protect the innocent, but if you're smart, you'll know which band member's which in this. This premise was concocted in a hyperactive state induced by assorted energy drinks and shouldn't really be attempted again. Sorry for the long post.
The Great Treyholio
One day, the performer was laying on the couch in black t-shirt and silver adidas sweats, remote in one hand, beer in the other. Today, he was going to devote himself to the sole purpose of rotting his mind with television.
“Let’s see what’s on,” he mumbled, hitting one button. The television showed a ultra-fast red streak that soon settled into a Ferrari Formula One machine getting thrown through the Eau Rouge at Spa. “Year-in-review, saw it on the road,” he said to himself. He flipped again to find that popular soap opera that never seemed to end. He remembered that it had something to do with a street. “To hell with soaps,” he still said, changing the clicker. It stopped on a late breakfast show whose presenter was a ditzy blonde that seemed to have a pneumatic chest tucked beneath her curve-accentuating dress. “Been there, done that-literally,” he said. Click.
The ad caught him by surprise with a giant siren and an in-your-face announcer. “Hey you! It’s time for the world’s most satisfying candy bar! Fudge chocolate, peanut butter, pecans, caramel and nougat rolled into the HIT STICK! Get satisfied...take a hit!”
His eyebrows were raised after that. He had always liked to eat stuff like that. As if on cue, his stomach began to growl, so much that one of his German Shepherds that was lying at the foot of his couch raised his head in interest.
“No, no, it’s not the other one, it’s me,” he chuckled. “Hang tight, I’ll be right back.” Getting off the couch, he grabbed his keys and hopped into his car, making a beeline for the nearest petrol store to indulge his sweet tooth.
The sports car zipped off of the local road that led from his home, and onto the highway. This guy was known to be a major speed freak, and the people on the highway that knew him by the sight of his black machine weren’t disappointed as he nearly blew their doors off. He found the exit and eventually, the local convenience store.
The man behind the counter wasn’t more than twenty, but had been lucky to meet the local hero on several occasions. So whenever he popped in, he was more cantankerous than with normal customers.
“Hey, back from touring, I see,” the clerk said.
“Yeah, Niles, I’m back, but not for long, mate,” the performer replied. “I have to be in Paris in two weeks to start the European tour.”
“Jeez, it never stops with you, does it?,” the clerk asked in shock.
“No, it never does. There’s fans to be won, albums to sell, parties to get drunk at....,” the performer said. “By the way, you got any of those Hit Sticks the telly’s been bangin’ on about?”
“Sure do,” the clerk said, lifting up a heavier-than-it-seemed box of Hit Sticks onto the counter “I’ve already gone through five boxes of these this week, they’ve been selling like pints at the pubs.”
“I’ll take one, can’t blow my stack over ‘em just yet,” the performer said with a grin. “Oh, and this bottle of Jolt Cola.”
“Um, Trey?,” the clerk asked timidly.
“Yes, Niles, what’s up?”
“You’re not gonna eat them together, are you?,” the clerk asked.
“Why of course!,” Trey answered. “I haven’t eaten all day!”
“Well...I’ve heard rumors about these Hit Sticks and Jolt Colas,” Niles said in a hushed voice. “It’s said that if you eat them together, they will cause to have a psychotic episode...you’ll only speak unintelligible statements, walk in a hyperactive trance, the works. What’s more, when the moment comes, it will make you into the thing that you think of BEFORE you’re hit with the rush.”
Trey looked at Niles dumbfounded. “That’s the biggest load of bollocks I’ve ever heard, mate!,” he exclaimed. “Somebody’s been messin’ with your head, man...I’d go to that guy and kick his ass if I was you. Anyway, here’s your Euros. Keep this place in one piece, right, Niles?”
“Sure thing, Trey, have fun in Paris,” the clerk said as his famous acquaintance walked out the door, candy and cola in hand.
The highway leading back to Princes Risborough was filled with minimal traffic and best of all for Trey, no cop cars. His foot was mashing the gas pedal as he approached the triple digit mark on his speedometer. With one hand, he was holding the wheel, while with the other, he fed himself the Hit Stick which was already down to its last third.
“DAMN! THIS is some good stuff!,” he exclaimed. “Crap, I think I bit off more than I can chew...better get the Jolt Cola.”
Ditching the candy, he used his free hand to untwist the cap, grab the bottle, and gulp down as much of the double-caffeinated beverage as he could. At that time, the radio station was playing a brief promo for one of the disc jockeys. It was well known that the DJ loved old American TV shows, so much so that he put clips of them into his own promos.
“I AM CORNHOLIO!,” the promo suddenly screamed. “I need t.p. for my bunghole!”
He grinned, or at least as much he could with a mouth full of cola and candy. That got him to thinking about the last thing he saw on the telly before he went to bed the night before.
“Beavis and Butt-head....those crazy-arsed Yanks,” he thought. “That Cornholio thing was genius.....I AM CORNHOLIO, I NEED TP FOR MY BUNGHOLE! COME OUT WITH YOUR PANTS DOWN! ARE YOU THREATENING ME? Crazy, bloody -GURK!-
The performer slumped over the wheel at an angle, jerking the car into a hard right turn heading off the highway. As he blacked out, his eyes were threatening to bulge from their sockets, and his mouth was curved in a sinister smile.
He peeled himself off the faded brown grass and surveyed the landscape, shaking slightly in his eyes. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was there was a totaled Ferrari Enzo lying in the ditch next to him, and that somehow, he didn’t lose his life. The landscape kept changing colors as the grass went from brown to green to blue to purple. The sun looked like it was going to melt. If he only knew that he had found a way to get stoned without hitting weed....
“Uh...where am I?,” he stated. “Is this, uh....some prank? Uh, I really hope this was some prank.”
He shrugged his shoulders and began walking across the highway for no reason, completely oblivious to what was coming next.
“Dammit, not another Jamiroquai song, I hate that f-cking bastard!”
The car ride between the foursome of goths was never really pleasant from its beginnings, but they were all united in the fact that they all hated the cat in the hat and his mob.
“Hey Wellesley, turn that Kiss crap off,” Seth shouted from the back.
“Will do,” Wellesley replied, turning the radio to a death metal station. “Boy, I’d love to see how that big-hatted twat would do against a giant mosh pit!”
“Poor Trey Kay would be ripped to pieces, and it’d be good riddance,” said Jen, the smoker in the front seat. “I’m sick of his crappy music and his crappy band....the UK needs metal, they just don’t have the balls to admit it.”
“I’d frickin’ punch that bastard in the face if I ever saw him,” Seth replied. “How about you Robin?”
Robin was too busy snoring to reply.
“Ah, screw Robin, he doesn’t say anything important anyway,” Seth answered.
The performer was walking into the third lane when he saw the blue car full of metalheads coming at him. In a normal state of mind, a human would try to get out of the way, lest he become front page news in the Times. But in his state, he wasn’t human. He stood there, eyes still wide, arms still shaking, smile still sinister. Energy pulsed through him so much, he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t think of the oncoming vehicle as a cue to get out of the way....but as something else....a threat to him. With that, he responded the best way he knew how. He pulled his black t-shirt over his head, exposing his somewhat hairy stomach, and began to speak violently at the car.
“Are you threatening me?! I AM THE GREAT TREYHOLIO! I NEED HIT STICKS FOR MY FACEHOLE!”
“I mean, why the hell is that bastard even around, isn’t disco dead?,” Jen replied before finally noticing the person aiming to become street pizza underneath their car.
“SETH! GET OUT OF THE F-CKING WAY!”
“SHIT!,” Seth screamed, as he threw the wheel of his beat-up Honda Civic to the left, swerving all four tires into a ninety-degree turn and leaving giant black marks. The car went off the side of the road, hit the ditch, and flipped into the air, landing upside-down in the cornfield with a sickening thud. Metal flew in almost every direction as the sickening sound could be heard for miles around.
And yet Trey stood still, finished with the nonsensical bile he was spewing seconds earlier, but still oblivious.
One by one, the people crawled out, bloodied with wounds all over their bodies. Metal piercings that were once on their bodies were gone, leaving massive red streaks. Their clothes were tattered beyond recognition, giving them the look of really poor London urchins transported from a Dickensian novel-if you discounted their mohawks on their heads. Jen, Seth, Wellesley, and the now-awake Robin were dazed and woozy from the accident.
“What the....where the hell am I,” Jen said, her hands reaching out for anything to get a stand on.
“Hey...hey...isn’t that the....the duuuude we were talking ‘bout?,” Robin asked before he fainted and fell on the ground.
“Ha! You did listen, you f-cking twat,” Seth replied, shaking his head. “And no....no, no....that can’t be him...he’d have to be....ugh.” He then fell to his knees and began to vomit a small stream of crimson, his body needing to take care of itself before he spoke again.
“Ow!,” Wellesley cried before falling and clutching his ankle. “I think it’s broke!”
“I AM THE GREAT TREYHOLIO!,” the bastard in the road screamed. “I am a gringo! I need Jolt Cola....Jolt, Jolt, JOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLTAAAAAA!”
With that, he left the four to their own devices, his feet moving one after the other not because of his now-annihilated mind. All the way, he chanted, “Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Hit Stick, Hit Stick, Hit Stick” as he walked on the shoulder of the highway. The chant began to increase in intensity as he passed a sign. He then cut the chant suddenly, then walked back to the sign.
“Uh.....LAWN...LUN...LOON...DAWN.....THARR...THURR....TIE...TEE...KAY-EE...EMMM. Maybe this “Loondawn” will have hit sticks and Jolt Cola for my facehole...and maybe some other things to satisfy Treyholio....they will all bow down to the almighty facehole! They MUST give me hit sticks, for I am the great Treyholio...hehe....I have no facehole...hehe...faceholiooooo....”
With that, Treyholio walked past the sign and headed straight for “Loondawn” in search of his life’s meaning and purpose. His maniacal gibberish would terrorize the nation’s capital soon enough....only thirty kilometers stood in his way, and with the sugar rush of a lifetime, it was going to be nothing.
Back at his house, a yellow Porsche pulled up to the huge mansion. Out of it came a somewhat tall fellow wearing a tank top and basketball shorts. In his hands were folders of sheet music and his two favorite drumsticks.
“Dammit, where’s the key I had in my pocket,” he muttered, shifting his things to one hand while searching in his pockets for the key with the other. “Ah, found it.”
He opened the door and entered the home. Hoping to find his good friend in the living room, he walked over to it only to find a note on the table next to the couch.
Darrell,
Out getting some snacks. Will be back soon to start finalizing beats for live tour...make yourself at home.
-Trey
“Might as well,” Darrell thought. With that, he flopped himself on the couch, found the remote, and began to wait, blissfully unaware of what had happened to his partner-in-crime....and his giant German Shepherd.
“Grrrrrrr.....”, the dog growled at him. He was now frightfully aware of where he was.
“No, no, it’s me, buddy, your pal Darrell,” the drummer pleaded. His eyes then caught the name of the canine ready to sink his teeth into him. It wasn’t the other Shepherd that liked him.
“Dammit,” he muttered as he flung himself over the couch and ran like a bat out of hell through the hallways of the home, the dog in hot pursuit.
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