Apocalypse!

In further proof that drinking and writing go hand in hand, I wrote this late one night with the aid of red wine and a copy of the Bible and managed to get it published in Mel's fine publication, Is Not magazine, which you might have seen on walls around Melbourne. I include it here because it was so much fun to write and I'm proud of it.

Subcultural Apocalyse!
Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, who fought back with his angels; but the dragon was defeated. Then, a bit later, I saw a beast coming up out of the sea. It had ten horns and seven heads; on each of its horns there was a crown, and on each of its heads there was a name insulting to God. And the beast spake and said, that last fight was not fair, for thou art omnipotent. And God knew it to be true, because God knows everything and knew he would kick the beast's ass with half his powers. And, feeling a trifle bored by his eternal opponent, God declared that this time the battle would be via proxies of their choice and that Satan would be entitled to conjure up subcultural humans to fight for him. And lo! There was an arena dusted in stars and the eternal battle between Good, Evil and Boredom began once more.

First come the shock troops! Fundamentalist Christians wielding lethal injections and swinging Islamofascist babies by the hair, Thou Shalt Not Kill tattooed on their chests and eyes blazing a righteous pleasure. Then, their sworn enemies, slinking from the shadows, Pro-choicers and New Lefties silvering the air with curettes and polished biographies of Mao. I choose to do this, I believe I am left therefore right, they mutter, as the Fundamentalists, eyes turned to heaven, trust in God to guide their merciful injecting hand. But God has become bored with their dogmatism, for God likes change as much as the next guy condemned to eternity and permits his followers to impale themselves on gleaming metal and paper and prove their faith the hard way. Satan grins a toothy grin and puffs smoke. He savors his triumph for a moment, before whistling in his next performers.

The Rockers and the Bosozoku roared in on ridiculously oversized motorbikes,Japanese and Westerners united against the hideous Mods. The Mods put-put around the arena on scooters, looking sharp. Their suits clash with the Rockers leather jackets. The two groups toss each other evil glares. Girls are suitably impressed. They both win and get to pass on their genes.

And now, at half time, appearing like Cheshire cats, the Dadaists. Walking, pausing, giggling amidst the carnage; a doodle in fresh blood here, a delicate composition of severed limbs and asparagus there. The Hare Krishnas! A teetering line of orange-garbed cultists, throwing cheap vegetarian food to the four winds, offering peace in exchange for Om. Several Dadaists pause. The Krishnan line falters and dies. Someone throws a fish. An aged cauliflower returns fire. More fish. More elderly cauliflower. Sound of mass suffocation arise. Satan grimaces at the scene. A draw, spakes God, amused. Is it art?

A few expatriates materialize unexpectedly and cast a disparaging look around. They uttered a few trifling words. "Not quite Rome, is it?" "You'd think He would have better taste." Amusingly irritated, God sentences them to death by tourism.

Then, after the deities have availed themselves of refreshing orange slices, the gates open again and a shuffling horde of otaku freaks come forth to face their sworn enemies, the LEET-talkin' hackers. The armies moved closer. Closer. Closer, until the geeks and otaku can see each other's teeshirts, replete with pixel-pics of Unreal Girls with Giant Bosoms, the likes of which the jaded pornmonkeys had never seen before. A vast rustling and sighing swept the crowd, as the stench of unwashed crotches heralded furtive masturbation. God delivers a stern look. Suddenly, hair sprouts from their jiggling palms, and spreads, tickling the sinners to death.

The arena is abuzz – the titanic contest closer than anticipated! And here! Look! Satan's Goths! Facing - no! surely not! - their long suffering parents. The two deities reflect in anticipation. Surely this would be a fight worth watching. Brandishing confiscated scalpel blades, the parents moved as one. "This is for the five years of angst-wank you've put me through," cries one, speaking for many. The Goths syncronize a flick of touselled hair across eyes, taking out black eye-liners and ostentatiously sharpening them. "You never understood me," spat their leader, a blackened beanpole of a boy. His mother narrows her eyes across the divide. "There was nothing to understand, you banal fuck," she screams. "Try childbirth for real suffering." But wait! Who are they in the darkness? Legions of Gothic Lolitas, fresh from Japan’s suburbs! They inch forward, peering through the dark, trying for a good view. One Goth falters. “Such… such fiendish beauty! Such suicidal grace! Such schoolgirl outfits!” he says wonderingly. The Lolitas creep forward and engulf the Goths. God cups his hand to his ear and captures a moment. “You… you understand me. You understand me and you’re sexy,” cries one. The parents seize their moment and slice outstretched wrists. The Goths sink next to their partners, bleeding on black silk. Perfection.

The final showdown. A tense silence. Satan unleashes his Skinhead Neonazis. They skulk about like uncoordinated sharks, seeking the scent of BlackJewNonWhite blood. Suspense builds. A vicious little scuffle in the corner explodes. The Skinheads home in, sensing blood and kill one of their own. Ah! God has called up his final subculture. How fitting. Streaming in, direct from LA and New Yawk, the roughest, toughest, danciest motherfucking Black Rappers the world has ever seen. The Skinheads coalesce. They form a Nazi cross. God points out they’ve reversed the arms and it’s an ancient religious symbol again. The Skinheads kick Jesus because they were wrong and make a better cross. Then they pounce. There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth and beating of heads against walls. Breakdancing destroys many barescalps. Rap challenges humiliate others into self-immolation. The Skinheads are strong and numerous and unemployed. They aim their rage at a designated Black target. They thrill in battle, in defending Whiteness against Black Cock. But! Ah! A secret weapon! The Rappers fall back and regroup, whipping out spraypaint. In a second, the Skinheads are covered in black paint. They turn on each other. One of them has sex with his cousin before committing suicide in a bunker. The others tear each other apart and flee to Argentina. It’s glorious! God wins again. You love it! You watch it again and again and again. The End.