Ah Mix Tapes
Mix tapes!...god this takes me back, It was Montmartre 1923 as I recall . Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and me were sharing absinthe breezers in Chez Janou, near Place des Vosges (a delighful little gem Ezra Pound had stumbled across when hunting for sailors the previous fall).

Fitzgerald, of course, was currently in his pupae stage so alcohol was off the menu until he'd emerged from his crysalis. We were in deep discussion of our current Jive Bunny selections for our mix tapes when Hemingway announced his new book about the doomed love affair between an impotent milk boy and his herd of pig bitches: "a Farewell to Farms", I believe he called it.

Afternoon tiptoed into evening carried on Fitzgerald's anecdotes of his time force feeding cheese to unwary Japanese tourists until someone spilled Stein's pint and she glassed the waiter, we left shortly after.

(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 10:14, 23 replies)

Gertie wasn't touting that god awful Pink poem again was she?
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 10:18, closed)

wasn't she just!
and James Joyce was only sporting the very same

we could have died I tell you!
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 10:22, closed)

Ah yes, Paris in the 30's
A few years later. Henry Miller was working on his seminal mix tape for the prostitutes of Montmartre. I remember sitting on the flea-infested mattress as he pumped away at the bloated arse of a middle-aged whore. The reedy strains of a violin drifted inside from a street musician and Henry withdrew his glistening schlong to announce: "No fucking Celine Dion this time!"
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 10:22, closed)

that was no whore frank! it was common knowledge Hilaire Belloc was touting his septic sabre wound as an engorged bloated quim to confuse the tourists
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 10:32, closed)

And poor old Anais
had to put up with no-knickers June.


*EDIT* THIS is why I LOVE B3ta!
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 11:30, closed)

ah yes
'no-Knickers June' - my favourite bank holiday

you wore blue? the germans wore grey? ah yes, I remember it well
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 11:41, closed)

Fitzgerald...
Fresh from another beating from Zelda, wandered into the cafe and saw Hem sharpening a pencil.

"Still working on that mix tape, Hem?" he asked.

"The list is done. It is a good list," he replied.

"Boyz II Men? I would never have thought," remarked the effete lush.

"That's because you have a tiny pecker. You are not a man," said Hem.

Scott blubbed and picked up a jug of absinthe.
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 11:57, closed)

“Wot no selections from Pat Benatar's 'Crimes of Passion' album!” a dark figure declared from the cafe door

“Jack London! you old bastard! I thought you were in Budapest!" exclaimed Hem

“Ezra wired me, told me of “a list” to be compiled - I couldn’t let the boys down” said London

“but Benatar Jack! what madness is this?” replied Hem

“damn it Hem! her signature song 'Hit Me with Your Best Shot' was her first to break into the US Top 10 and eventually sold more than four million copies in the USA alone - to leave it off the list would be a crime!”

the waiter sighed from under his fez and topped up Fitzgeralds jug. Scott was oblivious to the escalating testosterone levels
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 12:16, closed)

Love is a battle field!
Everyone looked round to see Joyce abusing himself into a handful of Nora's pants.

"OK," said Hem. "That's a classic."
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 12:29, closed)

and so Jack ’ I would rather be ashes than dust’ London, oyster pirate, deep-sea sailor, hobo, Alaskan prospector, finally, for the first time in his life, compromised

“aye “Love is a Battle field”..a classic, of that there is little doubt, take out 'Hit Me with Your Best Shot' and let it occupy that place in 'THE LIST' ” said Jack

silently under the table Hemingway reholstered his pistol and returned his hunting knife to his belt
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 12:35, closed)

"you gonna let Hem push you around like that Jack, ya big Pussy!" chirped Fitzgerald from his absinthe induced stupor
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 12:59, closed)

"Oi! I'm the only big pussy around here!" Shouted out June as she delicately lifted her blue silk dress to reveal that indeed she was No-Knickers June.
She turned to Henry, waited for him to light yet another cigarette and then unzip.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 13:33, closed)

Henry lay June across the table, his hands tracing the outline of her firm buttocks, a shaft of light from the cafe window played through Hem's cigar smoke to fall on her trembling body like a scene played out through a movie projector.

her longs legs lifted and Henry teased the fishnets over her toned dancers thighs...

she felt a distance throb between her loins..growing in intensity... causing her to gently thrust her hips

...rythmically now, as she abandoned herself to the sensations rippling through her heated body
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 13:52, closed)

put it away, June!
said Henry. You were my muse in New York but now it's Anais lighting my fire. And pre-teen whores at Madame Dufois'.

"We shhould have CColour me Badd!" slurred Scott from his pile of vomit in the corner.

"Shut it, you mincin' fag!" yelled Jack, his hand tensed on a blade.

"Yeah, cork it you cunt," added Henry, simultaneously working on a sentence comprised almost totally of words he'd made up."

"My pencil. It's broken. That's your fault," said Hem. Picking up an axe.

"Nice shaft," remarked Anain Nin, emerging from the ladies' with Stein after yet another personal journey...
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 13:55, closed)

“this is only a 60 minutes cassette you lupicious faggot!, if we have Colour me Badd we’re going to have to take out Stein’s Thompson Twins track” shouted Miller

“lupicious!? that’s not even a proper word! you made that up!” screamed Hem

“ IS too! it means babbling, blathering and verbose!” shouted Miller

“ you’re thinking of loquacious! you fatuous fucktard” yelled Jack , his fist tightening on his hilt, and his other on his sword

Joyce completey spent, tossed Nora’s pants across the room, a sodden mass of man paste hitting Fitzgerald in the chops just as he was about to protest the Colour me Badd omission from the list

"will someone please fuck me!" implored June, spread eagled on the table

as if on cue, Stein made her play

...
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 14:34, closed)

In moments
Stein felt an aphorism bubbling up from her depths. "A vulva is a vulva is a vulva" she said imperiously, waiting for someone to applaud. And she set about June's drenched twat.

Miller and Hem exchanged looks and rolled their eyes at the ridiculously verbose old dyke. Then they looked at each other longer, two preposterously masculine men forever proclaiming their virility. Hem winked. Henry ran a tongue round his lips.

"Get a room!" shouted Joyce, stumbling over a table and landing in Fitzgerald's vom.

"What about 'Total Eclipse of le Heart' yelled a dumpy little potato of a man. All turned to see.

"Shit - it's Sartre," said Anais under her breath. She exposed a breast to get a bit more attention.
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 14:50, closed)

"If Sartre's having that, then I'm having Hasselhoffs 'Jump In My Car'" declared Miller, from under the fleshy undulating orgy - the room now resembling an animated butchers window

spunk and female ejaculate repatterning the walls like Jackson Pollocks bollocks
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 15:34, closed)

What's the point
I'm not having Hasselhoff?" yelled the Gallic midget philosopher. "He's an imperialist buffoon!"

"Better that than a short-arsed garlic vegetable!" jeered Jack.

"Yeah, I'll show you who's an imperialist!" drawled Fitzgerald, dragging himself out of his stupor. "I'll show you the mettle of a Yankee man!"

Miller and Hem chuckled at the vomit-besmeared toff and made a bet with Joyce that their Jazz Age companion would be down in thirty seconds.

The two men rushed at each other and Sartre fist connected with Fitzgerald's nose, splashing it all over his face in a mass of cartilage and blood. The rummy loser dropped like a sack of frites.

"Right - Bonnie Tyler it is," said Hem, crossing out The Hoff.

"Not so fast!" yelled a vaguely familiar voice.

All turned. It was Charlie Chaplin dressed as the Little Tramp.
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 15:47, closed)

"you can fuck right off!" growled London, waving his sword in a wide arc which circumscribed it's deathly path clean through Chaplin's neck, Miller's forehead, Sartre's pale doughy face and Stein's left tit.

Blood jetted into the air. The pink frothy mixture of spunk and blood bubbled and gushed down the cafe steps as London made his escape the mix list in his teeth.

it was at this moment Fitzgerald's absinthe binge had caused him to emerge, prematurley, from his pupae state. His crysalis cracked and his sodden mutated mass emerged onto the wet entrail strewn floor on alien legs.

"did anyone order the side salad?" said the waiter, Franz Kafka, bouncing unsuspecting from the kitchen alchove

the thing that had once been 'Fitzgerald' let out a deathly wail
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 16:17, closed)

Miller dropped.
Then Sartre. Chaplin mimed for a while before the last drops pulsed from his neck.

"We have to get that list!" said Hem.

"I have a photographic memory - I've memorised it," said Joyce.

But at that moment, the insect that was Fitzgerald took Joyce's head into his scything mandibles and bit it off. The wound was fatal.

"This is all my fault, I'm afraid," said Kafka. "You're all in my dream."

"Great," said Hem. "Now we're trapped in a world of absurdity and ambiguity from which there is no escape but death, and where reality has no boundaries with the imagined."

"Fancy yourself as a critic now, do you?" sneered Stein.

"Better a critic than a desiccated, no-talent old bean-fiddler," remarked Hem before turning into a giant hedgehog and burrowing under the table.

Stein made to reply, but the Fitz-insect inserted a proboscis into her brain and sucked it out with a gurgle.

"That's pretty gross," remarked the barman. Or rather bar woman, for it was none other than Virginia Woolf.
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 16:46, closed)

The door to the bar opened
A shadow fell over the mass of seething humanity.
"Zut alors! Zis iz pathetic...all ov you, pathetic" Simone muttered, her perfect red lips barely moving. "Jean Paul! 'Ome! Now! Vite!'

She turned on her stilettoed heel, tossed her perfected coiffured head and stormed out. Sartre scuttled behind her in a cloud of gitanes smoke, head bowed and hissing, "'Ell iz ozzer peepole"
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 17:02, closed)

Fin
Kafka stepped over the bodies and dropped a coin into the juke box. The strains of Colour Me Badd's "I wanna Sex You Up" began to throb from the speakers and Virginia smiled coquettishly.

"Is that a pen in your pocket, or..."
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 17:11, closed)

Kafka had no time to waste.
with "I wanna Sex You Up" pulsing through the cafe. Kafka spun on his heel, winked at Simone, and Unbottoning his waistcoat he unstrapped the beretta and Uzi concealed within. Tumbling over the bar he sprayed the Fitz-Sect with lead. Chunks of Scott meat exploded out of it’s carapace, showering the cafe in bloody meat and poorly conceived derivative american prose.

“U got da skillz!” exclaimed Woolf, besmitten

“the names Kafka, Franz Kafka”

“you da bomb !” swooned Wolf as she stepped back. There was a faint click. A tile slid inwards.

“woman what have you done! you’ve set the alarm, this place will be swarming !”

“with what!” exclaimed Woolf

“with that” Kafka pointed with his Uzi. The cafe shook with the newly activated march of the Marcel Proust Robot army. The first of the Proust-Bots appeared in Theberton Street as Franz summoned the Kafka-copter

Simone fainted onto Sartre...
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 17:16, closed)