THE ZID CHAPTERS Part IV: PUNK CHURCH

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Thank you for your summation of these ZID exploits,

but you forgot to mention the intersection where Joey had to deal with cock roaches in his clothing by washing nekkid in a public swimming pool.

Then came the start and end of the Sean Chapters.



And from there, we now venture to:

THE CHURCH OF PUNKS


Now I will Martini up, before we embark.

Thank you for your patience. I’ve been at sea.

Here’s a tune for you to lubricate your liver, because we live as we are, no excuses, no worriment from them Drys. Calls for a Shanghai, let us drown them, together. I wouldn’t want to be like you Drys.


Drink, indeed, my friends, whomever you are, reading this series of curious exploits. Thank FKR, shlurred be his name, for a place where we can do such a thing,

and, of course, lovely Lady Ethyl.


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[booznik]

THE CHURCH OF PUNKS

Appropriate for Sunday, yes indeed.

It seem you already know, but never trust this "mistah willies", for he is the sort that would change his name at random, and what's more, he smells strongly of RTP, a known Dry zone.

Onward, Drunkard Punkards.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Now, it was a curious image indeed that faced us. Sean wore the only leather he owned, which consisted of three trouser belts. A belt is always a helpful tool or adornment or part of a vehicle, and so it is indicated that we must here enjoy a belt of our favorite beverage, in tribute to such a fine creation of our imbibing man and womankind.


*chug/sip/shot*


Ahem

Sean did not own any boots at all. Seeing how he and that Jerry punk rocker were aboot the same size, the spike-haired one removed himself from the ugly sight and ventured outside, only to return moments later with a pair of thigh-high glam rock boots.
Yes, Fat Jerry had some questions that needed answers.

But not now. You see, you work with what you have, and that is how some very interesting drink combinations are invented. That is the work we do, but also, each creation must never die alone, untasted by others.

Such a concept is the basis of the scientific method: peer review. We are scientists and we never let a fellow scientist falter in the brinks. Explore! Taste the new concoction, and then offer your own estimation of such a daring exploit, as is covered quite well within the threads of this inspiring board, the only one of its kind in the whole ether-world.

(Please bear with me as I walk along the unique island of Martini, perhaps there is a place that fuses the two words, maybe like “Martinique” or something else… But I am here, typing with one hand and the other is navigating a tippy, spilly glass with two olives and a tiny onion.)








Do you type with two fingers? That is me. Never embark without two fingers of liquid in your glass.


(Time for a refresh)


We descend into Drunkard depravity as we ascend to them stars above, in the moonlit sky.

.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Those two giant men left our palaver, our meeting area for discussion, our table that held one, empty bottle of wadika and many more of the old Bartyles and HateMeJaymes cheap wine/soda vessels, with nary a glance back to us.




I looked across the table to Joey, and he nodded back. He said, “This will be fucked up.”
No doubt. Clothing makes the man. Who are you?



Do you dress in a suit? Do you enjoy sweat pants? Yoga pants? Do you wear anything at all?
Me: I put on a tie when I shake my Martini, then pour it in a suitable glass. I wear nothing else.


Just kidneying ya


*Ahem*


Them two big bastards returned with a new horrifying sight to behold. Sean wore three belts somehow crisscrossed across his chest, and nothing else atop. His large arms wore spiked cuffs at the wrists. Below, his silver sports shorts were ripped and dangly, but they held his dangly parts hidden.


He looked like some sort of road warrior fellow, without the helmet.








But them boots. Oh man, them boots. Thigh high, probably vinyl, and looking to be patent leather. Or, patently mad. Imagine these in shiny leather.





Yes, indeed. This would be enough to scare anyone off.


ARRR. Me glass is empty. Shame on me.



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[The Urbane Spaceman]

Indeed, who could be blamed for laughing, and the resultant tears and locking oneself in the bathroom? It was not Joey's fault, nor was it mine. It was the whole experience.

You know, like being under the influence of ZID.

Such a thing as that has the propensity to cause giggles like a schoolgirl of the worst kind, or the snickers of those who make fun of others in order to make themselves feel better,

or even some broke-ass punks who were out of control, and about to become further out of control.

Do you see?

This was the bring, the cliff, and we were about to dive off, into insanity.

Unbeknownst to us, we simply needed to make absolutley cvertain that all aboard would be losing our footing.

That was the only way that what followed would be aloowed to happen.


*Ahem*

Sean looked at Joey, who fell out his chair, cluthing his belly like he had been delivered a shotgun balst.

blast.

I laughed at Joey laugjhing, and Sean ,

well,

he ran off to the bathroom,

you know,

where the window was all busted out form our punk infiltration


and he slipped on them shards.

and he got a bit bloody in his landing ans scrambling to get back up.


Wait, what the thell is in this Martini?

I appear to be well Mariniated



AMrinated


Marianna

Maertini

ach.

se you tomorropw

[The Urbane Spaceman]

The scream of an old lady echoed down the little corridor and made me shnuckle my Bartules and Jaymes though my nose.


The word “Shnuckle” here refers to the sounds a drink makes when during a cough, and the liquid is sprayed out through the nose. Ya know, when you have to wipe off your screen after this happens.


Wind screen, bug screen, ‘puter screen, and health screen. It’s all the same when it comes to a shnuckle. Nothing ever comes good form it. It reduces visibility.


But I digress.


Fat Jerry chugged his Bartules (he was fond of them) and Joey dropped his Jaymes (it was quite large, but that was what he said) and I jumped up and ran down the hallway.

Sean had attempted to rise, and then slipped more on the shards, and was now lying on his stomach. He had slices small pieces of glass sticking out of his skin at various places all over his body. Dude looked like he had been in a fight with a glass porcupine.

I said, “Holy shit Sean! What the hell you doing?”

He looked up at me and said, “Bleeding.”

The other two came charging down the hallway and bumped into me, and I went down on the floor. I would like to think that I am always the last man standing, but it takes many floors to reach that level.

I found the floor. Thank goodness there weren’t any cockroaches in Sean’s apartment. He never had anything left after he ate. Poor cockroaches.


Of course, I was wearing my leather. Always mind your leather. It can protect you.


Fat Jerry crunched his way over to Sean and yarded him right the hell up. Joey opened the medicine cabinet for the tweezers, disinfectant, sponge cloths, sutures, salve, bandages, medical tape and prayer beads.

But of course, he found only a toothbrush and its paste. Hey, we were broke-ass Punkards, so no judgment. At least Sean brushed his teeth. More on Jerry later…

Joey said, “Fuck!” He straightened his tie, so to speak, and then he said, “Sean! We need some hard stuff!”


Jerry bent low and cleared the top of the toilet seat lid with the arm of his leather jacket, and he made Sean sit down before shock set in.

Blood dripped form many small cuts, and there was some blood mixed with glass shards on the floor, interspersed with various fragments and hairs of a very dirty young man whose momma hadn’t cleaned the bathroom in a long while. More on that later.


Sean looked Joey in the eye and said, “OK. I got some under the couch.”

Of course, joey nodded. He stepped back and said, “Been holding out on us, huh? Making us drink that soda pop, that tonic. Bastard.”


He left for the couch and Jerry set to picking out slivers and such form Sean’s skin.


Seeing how I was needed there any longer, I went to help Joey lift the couch. Of course, I wanted the first shot. Neck it, not nekkid.


Well, OK, necking nekkid it highly recommended, but not in this instance.

Speaking of which, let us have a sip of the lovely Lady Ethyl, shall we?

3.

2.

1.

*chug*

(Does it chug well?)



So yes, I lifted one end of the long couch that apparently had many tales to smell, and Joey scrambled about on his knees and grabbed that bottle from underneath. It was that flammable stuff, that rum form Ron Rico.

151.


Joey rose up and I grabbed his jacket. His eyes opened wide, and then he smiled, because he understood. We both looked at the neck, and saw that it was un-cracked. Now it was my turn to smile. Well, this meant only one thing.


We would have to test the purity of the bottle’s contents. We did not want anything bad to happen to our friend. This is called “The Poison Taster.” What’s your poison? Is it being Dry? I hope not. It leaves a silty taste in the mouth.


Oh, did it burn, in the right way. It has only one flavor, and that is DRINK!


After a bit of coughing (chasers are for rich folks) we had another.



Yes, the second burn was even more painful. Oh yes.


*ahem*


Joey pointed to the corridor and I nodded. Sean had been holding out form us. Now it was his turn to burn. Call it penance, call it tithe, call it flagellation, call it immolation, it would cure him of his sinning.

I almost felt happy for this. He was a stealer, and we were to stone him. I mean, he would have to take some medicine first, before we poured medicine over his stigmata.



All this talk of a burn calls for a sip.


I will make a Martini now.



Cheers, you lovely Drunkards.


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[Palinka (RIP)]

Bizarrely, there is such a thing as "Christian Punks". There's even a "How To" guide.

Many years ago (about ten, I think), when we, of The Board, used to do invasions of other boards (just for shits and giggles), we did a board invasion of a (now defunct) BBS called "Punks for Jesus". I managed to get banned after one post (I asked if it was a sin to get drunk on communion wine). They picked up on the sudden influx of piss-takers fairly quickly and they stopped accepting new members for a while (which may have contributed to their decline).

There are your fun facts, and a snippet of Board history, for today.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Now listen here, the rest of you. There is only one reason for the creation of this here Urban Spaceman ticket, and it is to tell the Truth. Otherwise, just go spit in the wind, correct?


You can thank The Insidious One, whom we refer to with a single flag, which is this:



He is known as P


He invented this opportunity for us all,in this Spaceman thing and so it must be respected, and also utilized.

Here is a tune to get your head in the game. Have you your drink all mixed, poured, and awaiting a sip or a chug?


Good.

I knew you’d say YES.


*sip*

Mmmm. I’m on Sapphire, baby, and don’t put me out. You have Lush City to thank for my new addiction, here on this wonderful isle of Martini.

Let’s go.


Joey walked right on into that broken bathroom and held the bottle out, like a burning bush. Fat Jerry looked up and his eyes lit on fire. Sean frowned. He looked like was about to cry tears of regret. Yes, he knew that he was wrong in telling us about his hidden stash. It was all about to be poured down the drain.

Of course, it has to go through the human body, because otherwise, that is abuse of alcohol.


That Fat Jerry, the pink-spiked-mohawk-haired fucker suddenly became a doctor. He said, “Good! We need to cleanse the wounds. It’s quite dirty in here, you know.”



Of course we knew. We had been living in squalor and bathroom conditions for a long time. We were punk rockers. But the thing about punk rockers is the fact that we never judge, and we never bail.

We just fuck with each other, and we cajole, razz, make fun, and dig…

But it’s all in good fun. We always have each other’s backs.



Until, that is, when you pour highly distilled ethyl-alcohol on someone’s back, over their open wounds. That can take the wind out of you. Not recommended.


“Sean, get in the tub.”

Fat Jerry was smiling in a way that made me get the willies. Sean looked over at him and said, “what you gonna do?”


Jerry said, “I want you to have a long haul form this bottle. It will ease the pain.”


Well, he shouldn’t have said that. You see, Sean was averse to pain. Yeah, I am too, and you are as well, I know. But I think, looking back, that it was a perverse pleasure of Fat Jerry to enjoy the look in someone’s eyes when they are about to experience searing pain, and you let them know it. Fuck that fucker.


Sean looked at me and Joey and he said, “Just take me to the Doctor! I promise I won’t say anything!”


I shrugged, and Joey was just eyeing the bottle, wishing he’d taken a couple more swigs before it got washed down the drain.


Sean saw his chance and he charged us.


Jerry must have known that this was going to happen, because when Sean rose up and charged forth, he pushed Sean.


Sean slipped on the broken glass and reached out, and then he fell on the side of the tub, and then he fell into it. His head did not smack the inside of the cheap, plastic tub because he stretched his arms and legs out in reflex, but now he was lying prone inside it.


Jerry muttered something under his breath, and he poured the bottle over Sean’s wounds, to cleanse his wounds.


Sean howled in pain as the strong disinfectant coursed all over his torso.


What did Fat Jerry mutter?


I know now that it was “Baptismus flaminis” because Jerry said, “We need to cauterize the wounds.”


And then he knelt and flicked his lighter.


The bathtub made a sound like “Whoosh” and the blue flame rose up and extinguished itself. There were small areas still looking like they were burning with blue flames that turned to orange flickers, and the bathroom took on the odor of burnt hair.


I cracked my shock, my horror, my suspension of disbelief, and dove for the faucets. I turned them on, and flicked the shower to ON.


“What that fuck are you doing Jerry?!” I said.


Sean let out a new sound of pain from both the burning and the cold water and he tried to get up, but he was on his back in a tiny bath tub.


Joey stepped back into the hallway. His eyes were wide as I have ever seen them.


Jerry said, “He is one of us now.”

Well, that was a whole new level of crazy for the likes of me.





Hmmm…


Time to refresh my Martini. True tales like this make a man parched, and scorched.



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