Dan & Dan - The All Seeing Sigh, Part I.

   I woke with a startled intensity, encased inside of an old tomb of sorts. Gasping for air, feeling the dust and dirt leave my lungs, every bone within my body ached and creaked to life. Complete darkness surrounded me. My mind racing to put things into perspective, I desperately groped and clawed at my stone coffin. My hands meet my chest, and feel a long beard trailing down to my belt. My hands come up to my face, and I am greeted by wolverine-scale nails. How long I have been out? Or in, rather. Suddenly, I hear the faint sounds of a shovel scraping against stone. I hear the sing-song coo of a familiar voice. Then: daylight.


  I'm alluding to this guy digging me up: Dan Auerbach! Yup.

"What ... When am I??" I coughed, struggling to stand as Dan helped me out of my (apparently) freshly-dug grave.

"What is that, you say-ee? You ain't been in there too lo-ong, baby boy." Dan laugh-sang as he dusted me off.

"What the fuck are you talking about? Look at me! What year is it?!"  I screamed at Dan, clutching his shoulders and shaking violently, dust clouding the immediate area.

"Re-mem-ber when, we were drinkin', that bottle of Wild Turkey?" Dan coughed, waving dust away from his face. "I said you couldn't pull a full-on David Blaine, and then you bet me you co-ould. I, guess, you, won."

"What?!"

Dan laugh-sang again; "Something like six, seven years, broth-errr!" He smiled, slapped a hand on my shoulder, singing excitedly; "Now come on, lets go get some pa-ee-a-ee-a-ancakes."

There is no situation in existence that a short-stack can't fix.

   After shaving and, to my own embarrassment, "showering" in the restroom sink of a local Denny's, I sat back down with Dan just as our glorious pancakes had come to the table. Blueberry. Thank Homme. There was a small hi-def television in the top corner of the bar, local news muted as to not disturb the older folks sitting there. Right in front of me, Dan was steeped hard in the newspaper wings clutched in his hands, spread wide open like an albatross in flight.

"Whatchya reading?" I said, between fork-fulls of pancake bits, and gulps of orange juice.

Dan said nothing to me, only flipping the albatross wings around, so that I could see what he was reading with such quiet intrigue. I scanned the paper, cheeks bursting with un-chewed pancake.

"Who the fuck is Miley Cyrus?" I mumbled. My eyes then met the picture of the headline.

Just in case you've, say, been buried for the last seven years: Miley "Tongues-alot" Cyrus.

 "Dan," I chuckled, "Look at her face, man. Total money-shot face. What is that all about?"

"O-oh-O-oh-OOOooooh face, weird, baby!" Dan cooed in return.

   He then flipped the paper back around and went back to reading the headline. I continued to shovel pancake into my mouth, until someone asked for the television to be turned up. It was a little girl with her mom, eating breakfast at the bar. Miley Cyrus was in the news, and she apparently was coming to town on her new tour.  

More tongues. It's as though the spirit of an old and great lizard species had crawled its way into her soul, took over, and is now on a path of world domination. Or something. Slowly, pieces began to come together inside of my mind. Memories flashing back of something related to a wrecking ball of sorts ... And an achy, breaky, heart. Lightning struck me.

"Dan, are you seeing what I'm seeing? The one closed eye? The open mouth? Symbolism, and etc?!" I whisper-shouted as I lunged across the table, grabbing Dan by the collar of his jacket. "Illuminati Sex-Cat!! Paul Lynde was right!!"

"No one fucks with the Center Square, misss-ter!"

"Hey, Broth-errr, you allright? You were down, in-tha-groun', for a pretty long while." Dan said, slowly removing my hands from his collar.

"Dan, you gotta trust me on this one. Lets just go to this concert tonight so we can see what the fuck is really going on. And if I'm wrong, I'll buy you a bottle of Wild Turkey."

"Hell yeah, boy-ah!" Dan replied, slapping my hand to confirm the deal.

We threw down our money for the short-stacks, grabbed our gear, and busted through the doors into the sun without pause: we had a show to see.

Stay tuned for

 The All Seeing Sigh, Part II: Tongue'd Be The Queen 

 

Brothers, Bourbon, and Battle Axes: A Letter, Part II - The Conclusion.

Once we had arrived in Danbury, Dan, The Squirrel, and I stopped at a diner. Being up for what felt like a century on top of the drive started to make everyone cagey, and once The Squirrel started barking orders and scathing comments, we decided an IHOP was the best place to calm our nerves before the inevitable shit-storm that was looming in our near future. Dan and I split a plate of pancakes while The Squirrel (or as I was calling him "Hunter") ate more grapefruit, imbibed more Bloody Marys, and had more bacon than John Goodman first realizing how awesome bacon is. Up until the IHOP, i wasn't sure if Dan was seeing Hunter as I was. During the drive he had somehow strayed away from every comment about Hunter I had said, but now he was staring in amazement at the furious activity happening across the table.

With a start, Hunter looked up at us, covered in the mashed bits of his gigantic breakfast. "Well?! What are we waiting for, you scum-sucking pig-fuckers?!" Hunter shouted in disgust. Dan and I nodded, flipped the table, and promptly sped-walked out of the IHOP. As per our traditional exit from any establishment.


We tip still: we aren't animals.  

We arrived at the prison in Danbury where Lauryn Hill was being held for standing up for her beliefs. Apparently while Dan and I were off planet fighting inter-dimensional beings that took the form of Oprah, the world started locking people up for childish bullshit. Surprisingly, the prison itself was completely unguarded on the outside. It was a drab, faded red brick structure, with the usual litany of towers and fences with barbed wire. The windows looked lifeless, the grass in the yard un-kept, Dan and I were starting to get a bad feeling about this. Hunter ran up my leg, arm, and rested on my shoulder again, shouting; "Get in there, you FOOLS!! We have to show these Flag Suckers a lesson!" Being pushed by Hunters incessant chatter, Dan and I stalked into the front doors, weapons at the ready.

For some reason, I feel like I am in post-apocalyptic Alabama ...    

I kicked the large double doors open in one thrust, sending one breaking off of its hinges and crashing to the checker-tiled floor with an audible thud. "Helllooo?" Dan said softly into the darkened room. "No guards, no prisoners, what gives?" I said to Dan. In that moment, The Commissioner of the Internal Revenue Service, John Koskinen, lept down from the second level balcony facing the front doors we had just crashed through. He fell fast, but slowed to a crawl just as he was about to hit the ground, and softly landed on both feet. "Welcome, gentlemen. I presume you are here to free Miss Hill, is that correct?" Koskinen said, his words filling the entire room and stifling all other sound into a deafening lull. Dan, Hunter, and I said nothing. Koskinen went on; "I do hate to inform you, but what will be quite impossible: She is mine to do what I will, as are the rest of you!!" We three still said nothing. We only stood there, tripping balls, holding swords out with the tips at the darkness, listening to an imaginary squirrel. Koskinen, visibly outraged at this point, folded like a cheap card table; "Ar-are you guys even listening to me?! I mean, I am a powerful demon, threatening you, and you're just ... Standing there! Why does no one take me seriously?!" 

 

Don't let the smile fool you: he is dying on the inside.  

And with that little-girl tantrum, Koskinen threw himself at Dan, Hunter, and I. I have never heard a fury like his, and to this day I shiver deep within my bones whenever I see a CNN Housing Market Report. Although his fury was mighty and Hell-bent, Koskinen was no match for our blades and guns, anointed and blessed by Josh Homme, The Devil. We somehow were able to snap out of our collective tripping experience, and at the last moment, cut down our foe. It all happened within a moment in time: blades flashing in the dark, the black and oozy blood spraying out of the Revenue Collectors body like a waves of slick oil. Once his body evaporated into the fires from whence he came, we saw a door behind the smokey pile. It was a cell, and inside of it was one Lauryn Hill. 

Seen here looking surprisingly like Oprah ...   

"Hey guys," she said to us as we approached through the smoke, "What's up?" the three of us looked at each other, then at Lauryn Hill, puzzled as all get-out. "We came to help you get out. We saw what was happening, truly an injustice and a crime in and of itself," Dan said. Just as puzzled as we were, Lauryn Hill looked at us through the barred hole in the heavy steel door and said; "What? Why would feel the need to help me? I deserve to be in here: I haven't paid taxes in years." And with that she turned around, sat back down at a desk in her cell, and continued living about her life. Without pause, Dan, Hunter, and I just shrugged and walked out of the place. We came to the conclusion on the way back home that, no matter who you are, you ... You, uhh ... Wait, that isn't right. We learned that, um ... We learned that. I guess we learned nothing, about the IRS, and about whether or not we are in fact obligated by law to pay federal taxes.

Forever Yours,

Dan Gathers 

Brothers, Bourbon, and Battle Axes: A Letter.

Hello there,

It has been a long time since I last wrote, I know, but if there were any excuse I would probably have, not the best, but the most understandable of the bunch. My disappearance was abrupt yet entirely necessary for the sake of my own life, and that of my good friend/drinking buddy/partner in defending all that is good-and-holy: Dan Auerbach. Ah yes, I can remember it like it was almost three years ago ...


Dan on any given day.
 ... Dan had just come back from touring every known square foot on the planet with his band The Black Keys, and wanted to dip into the batch of medium-grade bathtub swill he affectionately referred to as "Bathtub Whin," which was really just one part whiskey, one part gin, some unknown ingredients, and a dash of mescalin. Dan said the mescalin was "for the comedown," and at the time I thought he was referring to how awful the drunk (and hangover, for that matter) would be after imbibing any amount of the ungodly mixture he had sitting in a bathtub in the Mississippi backwoods for months at a time. I had never drank the stuff. Usually he would offer and I would decline, he'd write a song about some young woman messin' with his har-arrt, and we'd go get Justin Bieber banned from The United Kingdom.


If those limey, tea sippin' powder puffs can do it, so can we.
However, on a particular morning in the month of February, in the year of 2011, I had accepted his offer and drank heartily from the old wooden cup Dan had bored out of a nearby tree stump with nothing but his bare hands and some good ol' fashioned elbow grease. I was having a hard time. It felt as if I had hit rock bottom, not knowing what the future held, and not understanding the past or present. Our work defending music and all that is good and righteous was not proving successful: Hip-Hop had turned into some terrible one-legged, lock-jawed, quasi-retarded version of itself. And whats more, Alternative music may as well have been written and produced by a single man, for it was an endless sea of repeating harmonies and rehashed hooks. Country music was somehow more vomit inducing than before. The ancient form of Polka was but a shadowed husk of its former self. It was only Rock that stood strong, and a good thing too, for evil will always look for a foothold in the world. She had a wise group of elders who meticulously cared for, and fastidiously watched over the realm of Rock. One of these said elders was Satan himself: Josh Homme.


The Devil is more laid back than you think.
Outside of that Dan and I were losing ground. Something had to change, something had to react and snap back the equilibrium to ensure the safety and progress of Music. This is essentially what Dan and I were discussing while I began to drink my second cup.

Dan: "What're we gonna doooo, brotha? We can only accomplish so much. Ev-er-y time we send one of these demons to he-ell, baby, two more pop up in its place."

Me: "Wasn't Lauryn Hill sent to prison recently?"

D: "Yeahhhh, baby! Good thinkin', alright. Maybe we can scoot out there tonight and scoop her up."

M: "Break her out! Fuck yes, this is just what we need. Go get your shit on."


"Goin' to jail never made me want to pay taxes more." Said a future Lauryn Hill.
And with that we were off to Danbury, Connecticut to break Lauryn Hill out of prison, because damn the Man. We grabbed our gear, hopped into the 1968 Nova parked outside of the backwoods cabin, peeled out and prepared ourselves for yet another adventure in the aims of saving the very soul of music. As soon as we hit the highway, the mescalin hit me like an entire warehouse full of brick shit-houses, complete with a million semi trucks fully loaded with bricks. It hit me hard is what I'm sayin'. Specifically, as hard as a brick.


Just in case you didn't understand what I was talking about.
Startled, I quickly cranked my head towards Dan. "What the fuck is going on?!" I shouted at him, loud enough to be heard over the music he had blaring. His head slowly turned as to look me dead in the eyes, and very calmly whirred; "The mescalin is knocking on your door, my brothaaaa. Will you answer?" The mescalin. I had completely forgotten already. Jesus, this stuff is incredible. Suddenly I was on fire. No, i was ice. No, a squirrel! "What the fuck IS this?!" I said, pointing to my reflection in the side mirror. Dan and I appeared to be surrounded by a thick white light, and for some reason the squirrel popped into existence on my shoulder this time. He was wearing an old bucket hat and some aviator glasses, smoking a never ending and never ashing cigarette. He looked at me, smiled, and started headbanging along to the music.


"The squirrel is asking you to stop by that Burger King on the left ... Better do what he says."
My mind was racing, my heart like a sturdy war drum, thrumming the beat the universe created Everything with. Mere words beyond these are incomplete, as they do not get anywhere near accurately transmitting what was happening. I suppose I could tell you that the sensation the bathtub Whin produced can only be described as to what it would've been like to have main-lined Hunter S. Thompson's unfiltered blood. We bent time and space in the Nova, and the three of us made it to Danbury without incident.


End Part I Of Brothers, Bourbon, and Battle Axes: A Letter.

An Open Letter To Glenn Beck. By Dan Gathers.

   There are plenty of crazy people in the world today. Kim Jong Il, Nancy Grace, and Oprah Winfrey are a few examples of such devestating madness that the world deals with every day. But then there are special people with a special kind of crazy. This is where you come in, Glenn Beck. Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you. I have seen, in my time, a copious amount of the insanity that passes for news. But Beck, I must hand it to you, because you are just a big 'ol steaming pile of something else.

Yup. A giant, flaming, steaming pile.    Now granted, I haven't put myself through the torture of reading <b>any<i> </i></b>of your books, or for that matter, any reviews of them. But I have sat myself down, strapped in, and witnessed the carnival ride that is your show on a few occasions. See, it is this thing that I do every now and then: I put myself in the position of people who would otherwise eat all of the shit you're handing out. I do this because there are moments where a true version of yourself pops out, as if to gasp fresh air due to it being held down by the other monstrous personality that possesses you. And I find this version of you refreshing, to say the least.


Although, I'm not really sure which is which.

   One of these personalities of yours, Mr. Beck, paints himself up to be some type of national hero, and a patriot. You come on your little show and spout historical fact to paint the public-at-large a picture they otherwise wouldn't be able to see. Information is your weapon, and you wield it like a Viking warrior, slicing and dicing those who oppose you into quivering Nazi-giblets. Oh yeah, I almost forgot about the whole Nazi thing. You must love the Nazis, in one form or another. Everything you draw up on that chalkboard of yours, somehow, always relates to Nazis. Or, if you have recently overplayed the Nazi card, you tend to enjoy anything Anti-Christ.


"Obama-care is just another way of saying Nazi-commie-socialist-anti-christ!"

   But then underneath all of the fake crying, concern about the general public, and screaming about supposed historical proof to your theorems, is the real you. And after careful consideration and study, I've come to the conclusion that they are both, in fact, one. You come onto your show and let loose all of the insanity you have trapped within that big, fat head of yours, and dress it up as fact. FACT. You then proceed to slip out little phrases pertaining to how no one should listen to what you have to say because you are nothing but a clown. A clown who paints his face and dances dramatically for money. So, if anything, you're a clown prostitute. Now here's my historically proven fact to back this claim up:


Pictured: Fact.

What Happened To You, Hip Hop? By Dan Gathers.

   This is a good week to talk about music, since so much of it pisses me off lately. Namely what has happened to hip-hop is what needs to be discussed, in a deep and serious manner. One of which clearly hasn't happened, and it leaves me wondering how the fuck it is still the pink elephant in the room. So yeah, get ready for a white dude going on an unnecessary diatribe about how modern hip-hop sucks. Check it.


Hip-hop.

   Ok, so I know I'm not the best authoritative figure when it comes to rap and hip-hop. I did, however, put in my time while growing up listening to the shit a lot. And a lot of what I remember was pretty fucking legit. The fathers of hip-hop is what we're talking about here. People like Nas, Ice Cube, Snoop Dogg, Biggie, etc. And all these dudes did was rap about important social and economic issues. Yeah, granted they did say things like fuck, and shit, and bitch a lot. But they rapped about what they knew, which was typically about some pretty hard shit. And about weed. Lots, and lots of weed.


Fucking hip-hop.

   Then, suddenly, it started to fade and warp into something new. New isn't always a bad thing, because it is this change up that makes the art and poetry of rap a dynamic and living thing. And all was hot. A younger generation of rappers took hold of the helm and turned out some of the best, socially conscience rap yet. But then, and there is always a but it seems, it morphed into this ugly, sterile monster when the unthinkable happened: people suing over sampling. Sampling was the, the cigarettes to coffee. Or the cigarettes after sex. Or cigarettes and any type of alcohol. And then it just gets taken away from artists, just like that. The water that helped this long-standing redwood survive gets shut off. Yet, there were some who could rise above it, and write and/or  produce their own samples and music.


Motherfuckin' hip-hop.

   Others, however, have taken their own path down this new road. Now I am not asserting one is inherently better than the other, I clearly have my own preference. But this half, this yin to the yang, is a smash up of what used to be considered (something along the lines of) electro, along with whatever the fuck else it may be. I guess it could be because these particular artists enjoy certain drugs, like ecstasy for example, and do them fucking a lot. So then, on this other half, we have an amalgamation of crazy shit.


Not exactly sure what this is all about, but it's probably not what we're looking for.

   You have to admit, a mothafucker could get tired of hearing about all of your guns, and bitches, and cars, along with all of your other crazy awesome shit. Maybe, instead of hearing about your grill, a listener wants something with substance. It doesn't always have to be serious, it can be just someone wanting to rhyme for the sake of rhyming. It's that open mindedness and shared experiences that can appeal to just about anyone willing to put forth a keen ear. Life is a hard, and fucking insane journey. Sometimes people want to hear some good music while they burn one down.

What The Hell Happened, Kings Of Leon? By Dan Gathers.

   There are, throughout history, times when a group of people come together to make something awesome, inspiring, and completely kick ass. In this case, we are specifically referring to music and how it can shape the minds and hearts of angsty people the world over. Music like the kind made by Kings Of Leon. Who can forget the wild nights turned on by the whiskey-fueled screaming and slurring of KOL front man Anthony Caleb Followill? I can't tell you how many times I got a much needed boost of man-the-fuck-up-ittude from classics like; "Wicker Chair," "Black Thumbnail," or the blood churning "Four Kicks." They were there when I had challenging break-ups, fights with friends, and just when I needed to kick out some fucking jams. But for the last two releases they have switched tracks, and lost some of that angry, alcohol induced momentum. And not to mention, the fun and raw sound that made them unabashedly abso-fucking-lutely great. Lets take a glaring look at the hipster-rockers whom, however brief, brought rock and roll back from the dead only to hogtie it, drive it out to the middle of the desert, and put two in the back of its head.


It got what was coming to it.

   Way  back in 1999, four young men came together to become what is now known as Kings Of Leon. With their debut EP Holy Roller Novocaine, they completely blew off everyone's lid. It had been a long time, at that point, since the music world had heard such power and attitude, the two main components that make up what is known as "Rock." After another EP, and some heavy drinking, they managed to power-fuck our ears with their first full length album Youth and Young Manhood. Things were going well for the four desperados of rock. They were touring like mad and making a name for themselves.


As well as looking tragically mopey-cool.

   Then, in 2004, they commenced the ear-fucking once again with their second full length Aha Shake Heartbreak. This album in question was filled to the brim with singles, I mean, "The Bucket?" Fuck yeah. "King of The Rodeo?" I listened to that song on blast so much my ears bled for a week. Yes it seemed nothing could stop KOL in their quest to, rightfullly and finally, mend Rock and Rolls' tattered, bruised, and cum-soaked corpse while single-handedly taking it away from its captors: Big Music.


Allright, lets dig it up and clean it off. We gots faces to melt.

   After Rock and Roll had been nursed back to health with a healthy dose of cocaine and whiskey, they started working on their (yes, opinion) best album YET, Because of The Times. Said album had so much substance, so much grace, yet still is able to peel back the skin that once was your face. Sure, it was more polished, yeah. But playing it could still make all panties within a ten mile radius drop. It could still make you want to chug a bottle of Makers Mark and punch through the nearest persons face. Then, with no warning whatsoever, this happened ...


Corporate cock-sucking at its finest.

   When they announced this album, I'll admit, I got excited. Like, piss your pants, titter like a japanese schoolgirl excited. My joy and excitement quickly fell sway to unbelievable anger when I heard the album, in its entirety. Sure, "Sex On Fire" isn't terrible. The same goes for "Closer:" not terrible, but lacking just the same. It took me a while, and a few listens, to figure what exactly sucked so much about this album: lack of passion. See in America, they weren't (before and at the time of the album in question) very big per-se. They got radio play, still were able to book shows, and were more or less filling up these shows. But what most people didn't know was that they were incredibly fucking huge practically everywhere else. In Britain they were The Beatles status, playing sold-out stadium shows to thousands of screaming fans. Same goes for Japan. But America, for whatever reason, just didn't seem to give a shit - as always. So, in an effort to make their own country see how fucking badass they were, they changed their style up to be more radio friendly. And that leads us to this ...


...

What the hell happened, guys?

Dan & Dan: The Scourge of The Bieber.

    The weather was overcast, as usual, as Dan and I sat inside the booth at the Cafe on Jefferson St. The weather seemed to turn rainy and damp whenever we hung out together. He never notices, though, whenever this transition happens. It's as if he's bored with it, like it follows him around wherever he goes. I saw the same bored expression on his face as he played with a sugar packet.

   "When are we gonna get some a-ction, girl? I'm sick of just sittin' 'round," Dan groaned out, tossing the sugar packet at my face.

   "There's a shit-ton of people we can fight, Dan," I said to him, deflecting the packet with a spoon. "We can literally open the nearest magazine, throw a finger down without looking, and find someone who is destroying music as we know it." As if he had read my mind, Dan ran outside to grab a magazine from a nearby street vender. I followed suit, and was getting anxious at the coming battle. I caught up to Dan and noticed he was reading the newest issue of Spin Magazine. While feverishly digging through it, I stuck my hand in between two pages and said stop.

   "This is the kid: he is fucking music hard, right in the ass, with no lube whatsoever. He used to be just a kid putting shitty videos up on YouTube, but now, now he's famous. As in, won-best-artist-of-the-year famous. He must die." I said to Dan.

"But brother, this is ... "

"Yes, Dan. Justin Bieber."


Yup, this kid. Fuckin' Artist, of, The Year.

   "I don't know about this, dear brother. He's just a kid, maybe  he doesn't know any better?" Dan asked, probably to himself more than me.

   "Look, you know I wouldn't be suggesting this unless it was absolutely necessary. I mean, have you heard any of his, music? It's terrible, even for a fifteen year old d-bag like Justin Bieber. Ugh, and can you imagine?! I give it within the frame of six months that he has his own reality show."


Oh dear God, no.

   Looking into my eyes with renewed vitality and hate, Dan said "Let us go, bay-bah, you know what it takes."

   Dan and I had traveled to L.A. in hopes to find Bieber there. The trip was perilous, as both Dan and I were completely wasted on a bottle of Night-train, but we made it in one piece. We had acted on a tip from a Bieber fan website that he was playing a secret show in L.A. at some unknown dive-bar. Dan and I couldn't resist, so we arrived just enough time before the show to make a quick stop. Dan said we needed something, mystical. Fierce. Incredibly powerful. He spoke in hushes when I prodded him for information about this awe-inspiring item during the walk to an old house that looked abandoned. As he reached out to knock on the door of this dilapidated house, he said to me, "It is not an item we seek, it is a man." Just then the door flew open, without Dan ever having to knock once. That's when we heard him, "Come in, gentlemen."


Probably in the middle of doing something cool, like always.

    I walked in to see Josh Homme, sitting in a chair with a back that was, at least, eight-and-a-half feet high, covered in the finest blood-red suede, and adorned with gold trim and golden lions legs to support it. He was wearing all black, and sipping on a glass of red wine while reading a Judy Blume book.

"Gentlemen, please, come in and sit down. Dan, I haven't seen you in a while. Tell me, what brings-you-by?" Josh crooned, while handing us glasses of wine.

   I took a long sip from the glass and responded: "We were on our way to destroy Justin Bieber. We were wondering if you wanted to join us, Josh."

"Yes, brotha, this is tr-ue, yeaaah." Dan said.

"Hell fuckin' yeah, I'll help. Let me put my shit on!"

   Then we geared up to "You Think I Ain't Worth a Dollar, But I Feel Like a Millionaire," this badass song by Queens of The Stone Age, and walked out the door to find Justin Bieber and put an end to his mockery of music.

    Day had turned to night, and a rainy one at that. Josh Homme, Dan Auerbach and I stood outside of a warehouse in the downtown industrial district. Drop after drop, the rain poured and assaulted us from every direction in a flurry. We all knew this was going to be dangerous, the air itself contained a haze of electricity and excitement. And the stench of blood. After staring at the giant rusting doors for a good five minutes, Dan stepped forward and, without a word, kicked them open.

"Lets get the fuck outta the rain, my brothas. Lets find us that Bieber clown and get outta here. I gotta ba-ad feelin' about this." Dan said over his shoulder to Josh and I while walking inside of the warehouse.

"Check corners, it is way-too-quiet for my liking." Josh muttered to Dan and I.

   Dan and Josh scanned the room, taking up defensive positions amongst the barrels and boxes, I turned and looked toward them both. "Are you serious, guys? No one is here, at least, not anymore. We must've missed our chance."

"But all of the gear is still set up. Wouldn't they have taken it when they were done?" 

"Sure, bu- ... " Suddenly, my world turned into that one boat ride in Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory. You know, the bat-shit crazy, Grateful Dead boat ride that Gene Wilder used to freak everybody right-the-fuck-out? That's what I was seeing at this very moment.
   


Make sure you eat all of the mushrooms I handed out, now.

   My world then turned to black temporarily, the light whooshing in just as soon as it had left. Coughing, I had gathered my strength enough to sit up against the wall I just face-planted into. Only to look up at one Justin Bieber, laughing maniacally with his tiny little girl-hands dug deep into his girly little girl hips. The stage lights flooded the room with colors of red, green, and blue. Justin lifted his hands from his hips and started to clap, sarcastically, clap ... clap ... clap ...

"Oh-hahaha, oh my. And who might you all be? Wait a second ... You're Dan Auerbach. And you must be the illustrious Josh Hommy."

"It's Homme."

"Haw-mmy."


"Ho-Mm."

"Whatever, what do you old fucks want? An autograph? Sorry, I don't do autographs."

   Standing up, I raised a finger in Biebers direction and shouted, "Justin Bieber, we are here to fucking kick your lilly-white ass!"

"Hahaha, do not make me laugh with such threats. I am Justin Bieber!"

   At that moment, Bieber transformed into the more tortured version of himself. And with a poof of black smoke and the screams of angels, he turned into ...


Bad Boy Bieber!!!

   "Now, prepare to die you fools!"

   The room started to shake, like, T-Rex from Jurassic Park shake. Josh, Dan and I all looked and listened, trying to determine what we were in for. Our answer came in the form of a near never-ending mob of pre-teen girls, sobbing and screaming for Justin Bieber.

"You shall see the extent of my powers! Ki---ll the---m!!!"

   The mob turned on us, growling and screeching like freshly made zombies. We knew what we needed to do. Josh, Dan and I gathered up and turned our backs to each other, took a deep breath, and raised our weapons. Josh was carrying his trusty MotorAve BelAire, with the Dark Powers of Blues located within the guitar, bestowed by Master Necromancer Mark Fuqua. Dan was using his beloved Ivory, a Lawsuit SG Custom. And I was using my trusty Katana Of Light.

   The first wave came in on us, and it didn't stand a chance. Josh lurched back and started to absolutely fucking shred on his guitar, all the while screaming "Metal heavy, soft at the core! Gimmie toro, gimmie sommore!" The girls immediately in front of him burst and shredded into a large, puffy cloud of skin, bone, and blood. Dan threw one arm up, spread his legs into the well-known "Rock Stance" and lucked out a savage and sad hook about losing his girl, and getting a new girl. The screaming, seething gathering of angered pre-teen girls in front of him combusted, and fell as ash. I got through by methodically slicing in one direction after another. I simply, more or less, stood in one place as the maddened girls rushed me, turning my portion of the fight into what looked like a meat plant: chunks and lumps, eviscerated bits, littered the floor amongst gurgles and last gasps of air.

"You're good, I'll give you guys that."

"We were just warming up, baby-child!" Dan shouted at Justin Bieber, then lunged at him, guitar-shredding fury manifesting flames shooting out all over the stage where Bieber stood. The stage engulfed, Dan backed off, only to be knocked across the room into a pallet. Bieber stood up in the dust cloud, only to disappear in a flash. This time I was the one to get hit by Bieber. He came in from the right, kicking my legs out from under me while elbowing downward into my ribcage. A deafening crunch sounded from my torso, only to crunch once more when I landed.

"Space flunky, four on the floor!!! I gotcha, bitch!" Josh Homme belted out, before opening up a sequence of notes. Bieber turned to run and get cover, except I had grabbed onto his leg with the last ounce of strength I had.

"Sh-shit!" Bieber screamed it, loudly.

   It was at that moment that Dan had come up next to Josh, and joined in on his riff. The two stood side to side, with teeth clenched so tightly you could hear them grind and crack. The notes all coalesced into a dark red mist, that took on the form of fire. This fire-mist then reared up, and came down on Justin Bieber. In a daze this fire-mist put Bieber into, long enough for me to stand up and cut him into little quivering chunks. Beiber stood for one last second, looked up before falling a part. Josh and Dan picked up the intensity of their musical assault, and turned the pile of meat into nothingness.

   Dust filled the now blood-spattered warehouse, the three of us caked in it, and standing in a circle around a smoking crater of what, used to be, Justin Bieber. We all lowered our weapons after a moment, and took stock of the situation. No one else was left, alive anyways. Before we could say a word, Beibers head rolled over, sputtering and coughing up blood while croaking, "I'll see you all in hell!" His eyes rolled back, and just like that, all of the air in the room starting sucking in toward his severed head. Hell fucking yes, his goddamn head was going to explode.



I'm going to work this photo in as much as I can.

   Josh, Dan and I glanced at each other and nodded: running to get the fuck out of this warehouse was essential. As soon as we cleared the kicked-in doors it happened, a loud and commanding POP. Everything was instantly hot, and it was impossible to breathe. We were all blown clear into the next building across from us.


Fuck yeah! Explosions!

"At last," gasped Dan, getting back on his feet, "music is once again saved. Oh baby, I got mi-ine."

"We did a good thing here today, gentlemen." Crooned Josh Homme.

"Yes we did, Josh. Yes we did. Hey, " tossing Homme a cigarette, "do you want to join up with Dan and I? We make a pretty fucking good team."

   Taking a breath after using his lighter he said "Sorry, I got-to go make music with John Paul Jones." Then walked away.


That fucking asshole.

The End.