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     | |      c   o   m   m   u   n   i   c   a   t   i   o   n   s     | |

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  ...presents...                     Sunday

                                                         by Peter Flechette



                      >>> a cDc publication.......1990 <<<

                        -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-

_______________________________________________________________________________





     "Ton-EEEEEEE!  Are you coming to church or not??"  Mom's voice reverb-

erated down the narrow, wood-paneled stairway leading to Tony's basement room.

Tony Lundquist, who had been about to drop the needle, froze.  He rolled his

eyes toward the stained ceiling, gave the fist-sized volume knob a hefty crank

clockwise and dropped it.



     "StrangulationmutilationcanceroftheBRAIN!  Limbdissectionamputationfrom

amindDERANGED!!" he shouted as the ninety-eight second micro-opera

"Necrophobic" shuddered and buzzed his big black speakers.



     This -he knew- would do the trick, and he was not disappointed as he

faintly heard Mom shout: "When I return, young man, you and I will have a

little talk about MORAL DECAY!"  So he'd have to sit through another of her

ever-briefer lectures; big fucking deal.  One thing Tony had learned in his

past fourteen years is that the punishment was always a better deal than the

consequences of NOT biting back.  Sure, his body had hurt for two weeks after

he stabbed that nun with the compass point.  But he sure as hell hadn't been

sent back to that school.  Soon after, Dad moved off to Montana and took his

leather belt with him.  Unlike Daddy, Mom would never hit him; she would just

chew him out and swallow yet another heaping helping of guilt which would

further distend the Belly of our Savior.  Tony thought of a hugely pregnant

Jesus hanging bleeding from the Cross with large, gravid breasts and laughed

loudly over the barbedwirespeedmetal cracking the paint and wondered, for the

ten-thousandth time, if he was going insane.



     Bill Olson had watched Tony's mom leave the house across the street and

walk hurriedly toward church.  He quickly grabbed the large dufflebag and

headed down the stairs.  Closing his own front door behind him, Bill walked

across the street to Tony's house and ducked into the garage.  Arriving at the

side entrance which led indirectly to Tony's room, Bill rapped on the aluminum

screen door twice, then three more times.  No answer.  Bill cursed under his

breath: "Goddamn your blood, Tony, turn that down and answer the fuckin' door!"

Bill knew that he only had an hour or so before his mother returned from

worship and he had to tell Tony all about the unbelievable "yank film" he had

seen on the PLayboy Channel last night.  Mind-boggling juggernauts!  Tony was

gonna shit!!  A lull in the din faintly assaulting Bill's eardrums manifested

itself and he feverishly repeated the secret knock.



     The cheaply-manufactured hollow-core door swung open to admit Bill.  "Hey

buddy, you are gonna SHIT!" he chortled as he scurried into Tony's private

domain.  "What's with all the pills, pal?"



     "I dunno," replied Tony, scooping up a few of the spilled aspirin and

pouring them back in the bottle.  "I ain't been feeling well."



     "Bullshit!  You're trying to get HIGH, Jack!  That won't work and don't

try smoking banana peels, either.  My brother had a friend who tried that and

he went blind.  You can get cyanide poisoning from the fumes of the burning

banana."



     "Bullshit."



     "You're the one who's fulla shit!"



     "It's bullshit."



     "You callin' my brother a liar?!"



     Tony flopped on his unmade bed.  "Nah, I just think it's bullshit.

Whatcha got in the bag?"



     Bill brightened.  "You ain't gonna BELIEVE what I got in the bag.  But

first I gotta tell ya about last night.  They went out and forgot to lock the

fuckin' box, man!!  I had the Playboy Channel goin' all night!!  They had WOMEN

ON SEX which was pretty dumb; some psychologist who looked like a dyke yakkin'

about the G-spot was like, a total myth and how women could only obtain

pleasure through non-sexist-oriented pornography and a buncha stuff.  But after

that they had SEXCETERA and there was this great thing on public sex in New

York with this chick in a black leather jacket that was just like flashing guys

on the street and EVERYTHING!"



     "You're shittin' me!"



     "I swear!  It was really awesome!  She had these whompmonster tits!  And

she'd like lick her lips and stuff.  The guys on the street were just totally

gassing.  And then they had this... oh man, you're not gonna believe this!  It

was like in Japan and they had this restaurant where these Japanese guys go to

eat really disgusting stuff so they can get their dicks hard.  The cook is just

smiling away and he's chopping on this slimy fish with a big knife.  And they

eat all this stuff just so they can get boners!  I dunno; maybe the women in

Japan are weird or something.  They were drinking wine that had a SNAKE in the

bottle; pickled snake.  And they ask this guy what he's eating and he says: RAW

HOG TESTICLE!  He's stuffing this gross thing in his mouth and his girlfriend

is just sitting there woofing!  It was mind-slicing!!"



     Tony recumbent on his bead, regarded Bill with a gaze normally reserved

for blithering cretins and two-headed dogs.  "Oh, yeah sure Billy.  Are you

sure it wasn't raw DRAGON testicle?  You are so fullashit..."



     "What's your DAMAGE, Tony?  I ain't lyin'!  And after this weird shit they

showed NEW WAVE HOOKERS with Traci.  And she was... great."



     "Yeah?"



     "Yeah."



     "Let's go to the mall."



     "Your mom'll kill ya."



     "Fuck that bitch."



     The dufflebag was opened in a pre-mall ritual; Bill pulling forth a rusted

and scratched single-shot 30-30 deer rifle with a broken stock, salvaged from a

neighborhood dumpster.  The two youths discussed whether this sorry-looking

piece would actually fire, Bill displaying a box of cartridges purloined from

his father's hardware store.  There didn't seem to be much hope for the old

blunderbuss, so Tony stashed it under his bed and the two shuffled off to the

corner to catch a big red bus.



     Our two young heroes disembarked at Horsedale, the newest and biggest of

the mega-malls which ringed the Minneapolis area like hemorrhoids.  The boys

made the proverbial beeline for Power Records, where they knew their buddy Rod

Gumhedd would be working.  Rod was a sleazed-out wastrel with a serious lust

for the parent-upsetting louderfasterharder shit that Bill & Tony worshipped.

Rod kept a small stash of elpees with skulls on 'em tucked in a bin across from

the CD racks, and the boys headed straight for it.  Bill picked up a copy of

LUKE 66:6 by the Buzzsaw Boners, flipped it over and whistled.  "Check this

out, man.  'On your knees for the Buzzsaw Boners: the masters of pure bellig-

erence and destruction.  A brutal assault on the senses.'"



     "Oh yeah?  Well listen to this: 'The Cruel Bastards rip the fuckin' top

right off yer skull with just one hamfisted powerchord.  Must be all those

Stooges, Dolls, Ramones, and Pistols records they eat for breakfast'" read Tony

from the back of NEVER MIND THE HOMOS, HERE'S THE CRUEL BASTARDS.



     "Good stuff, eh boys?" inquired Rod, who wore a doleful face despite his

cheery Charles Manson T-shirt.



     "Yeah!!  When you gonna get that album by the Reverb Motherfuckers?"



     "I got some bad news for you guys.  I got the axe yesterday and all this

stuff is going back to the warehouse tomorrow.  You guys are gonna have to go

to Garage d'Or from now on, 'cause that's where I'll be working.  We got a lot

more cool stuff down there, though: The Fiendish Thingies, Raped Elvis,

Duckfuckers Ahoy... real BITCHIN' bands!"



     "Aw shit, Rod, that's a fifty-minute bus ride!"



     Rod shrugged, black leather lapels gyrating.  "Hey, guys.  All these folks

out here groove on is CD's.  If you want any of this wax, you better make with

the scratch like, el mas rapido, because soon it will be gone like spit ona 

griddle."  Bill and Tony's fallen faces told the story of empty pockets and

blown allowances.



     A creeping, splitting, familiar pain like a nail being slowly driven into

his left eye socket followed Tony out into the mall with Bill (bitching) in

tow.  He reached in his jacket pocket for an aspirin and bit down on it.  The

chalky bitterness he had come to enjoy flooded his mouth.  It tasted of funeral

pyres.



     "I heard that those CD's are all gonna oxidize in about five years; the

lettering on 'em starts to rot and they all go bad.  I heard a defective CD

once on the radio and it sounded like Max Headroom on acid!"  Tony was deafened

by fantasies of breaking bones, exposed marrow, electrical wires; he barely

heard Bill's incessant chatter as they strode along the mallwalk.  It took a

hearty shout from the Queen of Jockstraps, Miss Hut-Hut-Hut herself - Barb

Johnson - to stop the pain-addled teenager in his tracks.



     "Well, if it isn't the Neezer Twins from Biology!" bellowed the six-foot

cornfed blonde teen Brunhilda, hands on hips, flanked by her giggling and

equally loathsome toadie, Cindy Nelson.  "Frog Pox!  Frog Pox!  Saaaaaaaaad!"

It was impossible to ignore or evade these letter-jacketed harpies blocking the

mallwalk like bovine pylons.  Bill sneered.  Tony stared.  Cindy struck a

phonus-balonus cheesecake pose which mocked the sexual frustrations of teenage

boys across the nation and hollered: "Hey neezlehead!  Wannna get lucky?"  She

walked up to Tony and tweaked his nose, hard, causing involuntary tears to come

to his eyes.  The two she-devils walked past in full guffaw as Bill managed to

squeak out some stilted slur rooted in venereal fiction.  Tony clung to the

railing, mortified to the core, stomach twisting like a freshly-speared moray

eel, face hot/wet/red.  He lurched towards the bathroom.



     Splashing cold water on his head and softly sobbing, Tony pondered just

what in the fuck ELSE could go wrong today.  Home meant catching H-E-double-L

from the old witch and tomorrow meant that Goddamn Biology Test.  What was the

difference between a zygote and a mitochondria and who gave a flying fuck about

it anyway?  He knew, instinctively, that he would NEVER get laid.  Not in this

lifetime.  "Hey son, you OK?  You don't look so good..."  opined some concerned

middle-aged bathroom bystander.  Tony turned a pair of bleary eyes toward him;

Inner Third Eye pictures the bastard - the piece of FLESH - crushed in Satan's

claw, flesh rent from bone, torn and oozing... what pain Christ must have felt

as they scourged him with that splintering board!



     "FUCK YOU!" screamed Tony, for no reason he could fathom.  The citizen's

face darkened.



     "Watch your language or I'll have you thrown out of this mall.  You little

shit."  Citizen spun on his heel and stalked out of the shitter as a loud bowel

sound split the air inside one of the stalls.  Tony whirled to face the stall,

daggers in the eyes, and spied:



     Faded brown corduroys crumpled around brown leather shoes.  Brown paper

bag with brown cylinder paper bag perched on top of the contents.  Brown

cylinder with screw-top poking out front.  Bingo.  Thank you, General Molotov.

Tony rushed to the stall and deftly, with the agility of an unjaded cat

burglar, grabbed the bottle out of the shopping bag and hurtled out of the

bathroom with curses from the freshly-robbed spud wishing him an unfond

farewell.



     Tony and Bill spent the next two hours in the Everyburger parking lot

consuming most of a quart of pricey vodka mixed with soda pop, as the sun sank

in a pasty sky.



     Little unsteady steps on the dirty snow brought Tony back to the shitty

little house heated with Mom's alimony checks.  He knew she would lock his

side-door from the inside so that he would have to go through the living room

to get in.  He reached into his jacket and poured another slug into the system.

Stuff no longer burned like gasoline... more like kerosene.  The bottle slipped

from his fingers and impaled a mound of snow.  Tony blundered through the front

door and into the acrid haze of Mommy's smoldering Salem Lights.  Two in the

ashtray and one in her slit of a mouth.  "You stinking little shit.  You're

just like your father, that bastard.  He talked me out of using the coat

hanger.  Should have..." she staggered toward him, "...put a little hole..."

she put out her leathery, sweat-slimed palm, "right in the center... of...

your...forehead!"  SLAP!



     As shitfaced as the teenager was, he realized that this mother was in

worse shape.  The odor of juniper twigs boiled in rubbing alcohol tickled his

pickled nostrils.  He stepped sideways and made it to the stairs, closing the

door behind him and in front of her, twisting the deadbolt.  Slipped, grabbed

the rail and rode it all the way down to his room.  Unable to find the record;

pulled a bunch of 'em out on the floor and spotted the cast iron fist almost by

default.  Motorhead always made 33-and-a-third sound like 120 miles-per-hour

with your face hanging two inches from the asphalt, and that was what Tony

needed at the moment.  "The invisible hand in front of me" hummed over the

asphalt and Tony closed his eyes... then JERKED them open as the room began to

spin.  What a total fuckup, he thought, can't even manage to pass out

successfully.  The huge, powerful monster - blacker than Michael Milken's heart

- grabbed him around the shoulders and bit into the back of his head.  Tony

howled in anguish and fear and slid off his bed onto the floor.  His hand went

under the bed and came out with Bill's dufflebag attached ot it.



     And the copper-jacketed spire-point cartridge fit precisely into the

single chamber.



     And the point of the broken stock fit precisely in the corner of the room.



     And the crown of the muzzle fit precisely in the center of Tony's

forehead.



FiringpinslidingdownitsoilyTRACK.



DentingtheprimerscrapingtheANVIL.



FierysparksignitingthePOWDER.



BurninggasesexpandingpushingtheBULLET.



OutofthecaseanddownthetwistingSPOUT.



PickingupspeedspirallingoutpasttheCROWN.



SpirepointstretchingskinandmakingitTAUT.



ThespireofcopperbreaksthroughandgoesIN.



FragmentsofmetalshavedbylandsandGROOVES.



HurledbytherotatingprojectileintotheWOUND.



BlastofexpandinggassesbetweenskullandSCALP.



TearsthroughskinleavingthedefectCRUCIATE.



MinutedbonefragmentsshredtheBRAIN.



NomorePAIN.



     Mrs. Lundquist poured a tad more Diet Pepsi into the glass to help cut the

taste of the gin and wondered aloud: "What in the FUCK is he listening to

now??"



  _   _   _____________________________________________________________________

/((___))\|The Convent..........619/475-6187  The Dead Zone.........214/522-5321

 [ x x ] |Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362  The People Farm.......916/673-8412

  \   /  |PURE NIHILISM..........new # soon  Ripco.................312/528-5020

  (' ')  |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194  The Works.............617/861-8976

   (U)   |=====================================================================

  .ooM   |1990 cDc communications by Peter Flechette.             04/03/90-#125

\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away.

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