Archive for the Sausage Makers Society Category

The Taxidermist

Posted in Sausage Makers Society on May 16, 2019 by A lo Hawk

Ajax Chaste was a virgin like his parents. When he was three years old he was adopted by a kindly, childless couple, Paul and Becky, who lived on an inland farm.  The Chastes were about the same height and weight and wore similar flannel shirts and blue jeans. They had matching haircuts and mannerisms; they kept a portrait of David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust on the mantel over the fireplace in their farmhouse near Ketchikan, Alaska.

Ajax was a Native American Inuit. His birth parents were born on Baffin Island in the Nunavut Territories of Canada and had moved to the west coast of Alaska in 1982 so his mother could work the cruise-ship trade and father, an experienced whaler, shipped out on commercial fishing boats for months at a time. He disappeared with ship and crew in a violent Pacific storm in 1984. Mom used her own assets to attract a rich whale and sailed away on the Regal Princess, leaving Ajax abandoned behind the hedges of the local dog kennel.

In his new environment of verdant pastures and rolling hills, Ajax was surrounded by a variety of domesticated animals; plus he sought out all of the wild critters and creepy creatures he could find. Farm life was strenuous and regimented but daddy Paul taught him how to butcher hogs and snap chicken necks. Whenever he could escape his chores he would run with the Australian cattle dogs or stalk the barn cats.

Ajax felt a deep ancestral love of animals but he loved them equally whether alive or dead. He did not discriminate between animate and inanimate flesh. If a creature was behaving badly, a quick whack on the head with any handy blunt object would make it more cooperative. But if he accidentally killed it, the fun would be over and he would feel an unpleasant tingle of sadness. He decided when he got older he would do something to correct this sorrowful state.

Ajax became obsessed with herpetology. He had a pet iguana named Darwin. He dissected frogs in his room and began skinning snakes to make belts and hatbands to trade at the rural school he attended on Saturdays. Once, he found a dead deer in the woods. Apparently, it had broken its leg in an accident then collapsed and died of dehydration and exposure. He returned to it every day to watch the decay; fascinated with the eruption of maggots, the cloud of flies, the evidence of scavengers. To him, it represented the whole circle of life, death, and re-birth. It was the most significant spiritual experience of his young life.

Ajax was raised in the Church of Androgyny. When he turned 16, he submitted to the Nirwaan, the Sacred Rite of Castration where the testicles are surgically removed. This was the only time in his life he has taken a drug; he was injected with Ketamine, a potent tranquilizer and anaesthetic. The High Priest who performed the ceremony was a fully emasculated eunuch; he’d had his penis ceremoniously amputated in devotion to the faith.

Always a quiet, reserved kid, Ajax became an even more taciturn teen-ager, spending his days in his room listening to moody bands like The Cure, Bauhaus and Depeche Mode while working on his secret projects. When not secluded in his bedroom in the attic, he would roam the countryside hunting, trapping and fishing using the traditional methods of his Inuit ancestors. A lonely kid with no friends, his adopted parents convinced him to go to a psychiatrist to find out why he was so repulsive to others. After a series of tests, he was diagnosed with Schizoid Personality Disorder. His symptoms included Alexithymia, or the inability to express emotions, and Eccedentesiastia, which is constantly hiding behind a fake smile.

In high school, now using the nickname AJ, he became interested in robots and joined the Robotics Club. He enjoyed building the radio controlled metal war machines and he won many battles at state-wide death match contests. He even gained grudging respect from his fellow geeks yet they still refused to invite him to the post match celebrations. He was eventually kicked out of the club when he began covering his mechanical creations with animal hides and installing tiny speakers which emitted high-pitched predator cries.

AJ was born with Occular Amblyopia (a deformed, lazy eye) but it went untreated because his birth parents were suspicious of doctors and disturbed by the bad omen. Young master Chaste realized the grey, wandering pupil was repulsive to people so he usually wore an eye patch in public. Despite this superficial handicap, he was a good student and earned adequate grades to be accepted to the University of Alaska in Anchorage. His strong kinship to animals and the support of his adopted parents encouraged him to pursue a Veterinary Technician degree. If all went well he would eventually transfer to Fairbanks for veterinary medicine school.

AJ developed severe insomnia while at school and had to avoid all stimulants. He would walk the streets at night and find stray dogs and cats. When he brought them home he would break their legs or poison them to learn their physiology and how to heal them. He was never cruel; he performed these experiments humanely with a minimum of pain. He would often steal bottles of Acepromazine to sedate the animals.

After graduation, Mr Chaste was hired as a Vet Tech in a small veterinary clinic on the outskirts of the city. He got a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist of a traditional Ulu knife, his favorite blade for skinning hides. He began pursuing an amateur taxidermy hobby at night after the clinic was closed. Using the bodies of animals brought in for cremation, he filled their urns with wood ash and practiced his skinning and tanning skills on the corpses. The forms were sculpted from polystyrene, wood and wire. Gears and servo-motors replaced joints and muscle. This mobile menagerie was placed on every shelf and flat surface of his mobile home.

Eventually he ran out of space in his trailer and storage shed. One evening in his workshop he had an epiphany. Distraught pet owners were willing to pay exorbitant sums for pet memorials. What could be more memorable than your best friend preserved in an eternal, peaceful pose displayed in a shrine of honor in your home? He could create lifelike stuffed animals, place them in tasteful settings and charge premium prices.  The following day he formed an on-line taxidermy service specializing in deceased pet re-creations. He called the company LIFELIKE REMEMBRANCES. One rich client paid him $10,000 to re-make her poodle Trixie with motion sensors; a voice chip containing dozens of barks, whines, and whimpers; and fully articulating tail, ears and jaw.

With his new taxidermy business taking off, AJ was earning double his salary at the clinic. He fantasized about creating an exotic animatronic petting zoo if he could only acquire the valuable hides. All things considered, his future was looking bright. That was before he choked his boss to death.

Ax Jackyl and Mr Chaste

Posted in Sausage Makers Society on May 14, 2019 by A lo Hawk

Despite having a lazy eye, AJ Chaste was always a voracious reader. His right eye, a chestnut brown, was focused and penetrating; while the left was an opaque grey and prone to frenetic movements. With a slight turn of his head he looked around the office and saw the ugly metal bookshelf containing his current collection of professional and hobby reference books. There were several thick veterinary manuals, an over-sized set of encyclopedias with gold script on the spine — Van Dyke’s Illustrated African Big Game Anatomy Vol I-IV, The Art and Science of Taxidermy, How to Skin and Brain Tan any Mammal, Fundamental Prestidigitation, and The Deck of Deceit: 52 classic card tricks.

In the bottom drawer of his beat-up desk he kept his guilty pleasures — a book on hypnotism, a frayed and split copy of the HP Lovecraft novel Re-animator, an autobiography by Aleister Crowley. In the cramped bathroom down the hall were stacks of Mechanical Animation magazine as well as a thick folder stamped — Universal Zoology of Known Extraterrestrial Beings: Roswell Project.

AJ opened his eyes and looked down through wet strands of his long black hair and saw the motionless body on the table. He had his hands around the throat of his boss, Chuck. In a flash, he recalled the argument in his office; the threats, the sudden violence leading to the sudden sweet silence. Chuck had discovered the BS, the Bad Stuff he had been doing at the clinic at night. He was going to expose his plan to mechanically re-animate all of the dogs and cats brought to the facility for cremation or disposal. He had to fix this. He had to get home to his workshop and his tools. He had to get to work.

Chuck was a rather stout fellow, so moving his limp body from the office, down the stairwell, out of the building to the deserted parking lot and into his truck required a tremendous amount of energy. By the time he got the Chuckster to his workshop in an old wooden shack behind his double-wide mobile home, he was exhausted and collapsed onto a bare mattress,  falling like a widow-maker into a catatonic sleep.

The next morning was chilly and he returned to the shed to find the pale, nude body undamaged but beginning to stiffen. Too much time had passed to perform a neural defibrillation experiment on the brain but the organ was too valuable to waste. After removing the head with a swift whack of an axe, he strung up the ungrateful dead man by piercing the achilles tendons with slaughterhouse meat hooks and winched the chain toward the low ceiling beam. Using his favorite ulu hunting knife, he disemboweled the humanimal and prepared the flesh for skinning.

The taxidermist knew human skin was more delicate than other mammal hides he has tanned so he worked carefully. Once the skin was removed, he placed it in a bucket of water to soak while he returned to the carcass for butchering. By lunch time, he had carved and wrapped a winter supply of prime Chuck roast and processed fatty ground Chuck to put into the freezer. He took the juicy heart, ribs and a long strap of fatback into the house for seasoning. The remaining usable meat was cut into thin strips for drying into jerky.

Following a hearty meal of spicy bar-b-que, he was energized to resume work unnoticed on his parcel of land at the dead-end of a half empty trailer park. He put the head in a vise and sawed open the skull. Taking a soup ladle, he scooped out the grey matter and filled a large sauce pan. Adding water, he cooked the brain until it became a pink-grey mush, then let it cool. Meanwhile, the water was gently squeezed out of the bundle of skin and it was draped over a smooth log. A rib bone was used for fleshing any excess fat and rough tissue from the epidermis. The skin was then stretched and attached to a wide wooden frame with fish hooks and line. He took a sponge, dipped it into the lumpy soup and coated the entire skin with the tanning mixture.

When the human canvas had cured, it was hung inside a rusty steel drum set on concrete bricks for smoking. A small punky fire was maintained beneath it all day; he checked it frequently to make sure the precious bolt of fleshcloth was not burned. The next day, the skin was cut to the rough pattern of a shirt and pair of pants. Sinew was used to sew the garments together. The result was a crude but supple leather outfit suitable for daily light activity. The faint trace of a navy tattoo could still be seen on the right shoulder of the long-sleeved shirt.

AJ sensed it was time to get out of town for awhile so he packed up his truck with dried food and camping gear. With Neil Young playing on the radio, he steered toward the road to Denali, or ‘The High One’ in the Athabaskan language. It was September and the full Harvest Moon hung like a pumpkin in the sky. The native son found the isolated area he knew contained acres of ripe huckleberries, thimbleberries and salmonberries. He planned to get up early and spend the day filling several buckets with berries for canning. It was risky to camp in an area crowded with hungry bears so he built a roaring orange fire to compliment the giant orange orb in the sky.

He heard the low, guttural growl around midnight and instantly snapped awake from a light nap. A loud cracking of branches warned of a large animal thrashing forcefully through the foliage in the direction of his camp. Two large red eyes, glowing like the coals in the fire, blazed from the thicket then slowly rose above the brush. A vague shifting shadow appeared to be standing on hind legs and it emitted a raspy, supernatural snarl that was unmistakably hostile and imminently dangerous. In the fading light of the dying campfire, it was impossible to determine if the creature was an angry bear, rabid wolf or berserk yeti. AJ reached for the big Rough Rider Bowie knife on his hip as the menacing hulk leaped into the air towards him.

Barely able to pull the blade from the sheath and aim it toward his attacker, he was knocked to the ground by a feverish, hairy brute. The impact of the falling bodies drove the knife’s curved clip point deeply into the animal’s chest as its jaw clamped down on AJ’s shoulder and several of its razor claws raked his torso. For an agonizing moment the two hominids were locked in an existential embrace with each hell-bent on survival. At last, an anguished, high-pitched howl pierced the man’s eardrums and the injured beast staggered backward, turned and lunged through an opening in the undergrowth.

Bleeding and in shock, AJ attempted to assess his injuries. He could see two oozing puncture holes on the back of his right shoulder in the muscle above the scapula, as well as three long parallel slices of raw tissue across his torso exposing the ribs. The damaged flesh burned intensely and had a foul odor, as if the creature’s fangs, claws and saliva contained a toxic chemical. The pain eventually receded while the fluid in the wounds coagulated to stop the bleeding. He stumbled to a nearby creek to wash the gaping lacerations with cold glacial silt water which re-ignited the agonizing fire spreading across his torso to his extremities. Relentlessly, the heat crept up his neck and consumed his head. Finally, his skull felt like a match-tip being rubbed against sandpaper. Skskskchchchiiixxx!!!

The contaminated man woke up lying next to the rushing creek with the midday sun blinding his eyes yet warming the chill in his bones. His head was pounding as he crawled to the bank and lowered his body toward the cold swift water. Taking several big gulps, sitting up caused his head to spin and he vomited the silty water back into the creek where it instantly washed away. When the nausea subsided, he haltingly shuffled to his truck for a roll of fishing line and a small hook. Semi-reclined on the passenger seat; with shaking hands he sewed shut the long scratches on his ribs and the two craters on his shoulder.

Earlier, he noticed the big, broad leaves of the Devil’s Club plant growing on the far side of the creek and he knew the spiny stalks could be mashed up and used as a healing salve. The autumn sun dipped below the horizon before he completed the complex task of retrieving the plants, carefully peeling and processing the stalks into pulp, applying the poultice and securing the restrictive bandages. Exhausted, he fully reclined in the truck cab and chewed on homemade jerky as moon glow shone through the windshield. Suddenly, a discordant chorus of wolf howls shattered the man’s quiet reverie and sent violent spasms throughout his body which tore at the fresh trauma.

The next two days were spent in a high-grade fever dream; he repeatedly hallucinated leaving his body to run with a wolf pack endlessly chasing an enormous caribou herd. When the fog cleared, he discovered his wounds had almost completely healed. Starving, he ate the remainder of his provisions then fired up the beat-up rig and returned to the highway. Undecided for a brief moment, the manimal hybrid intuitively decided to head north to the city of Fairbanks. The first thing he did when he arrived was to find the nearest branch of Wells Fargo bank, withdrew a large sum of cash and closed out his accounts.

The newcomer lived out of his truck’s camper top; sometimes he ate fresh road kill but mostly he fished for Chinook and Coho salmon, Arctic Grayling and Northern Pike from the Tanana River. Gradually, he regained his strength and even managed to put on a significant amount of new muscle mass. He began to sleep-in later and later in the morning preferring to stay up late at night. His skin itched constantly and he grew facial hair which was unusual for an Inuit male. Always a meat eater, he would occasionally supplement his diet with corn, squash, beans and berries. Now however, the thought of eating any fruits or vegetables turned his stomach. He craved meat and the fresher the better.

The changes accelerated. His bio-rhythms were more nocturnal than diurnal. The hypertrichosis, or excessive hair growth, worsened; he was the only indian he knew able to grow a thick, full beard. For the first time in his life he became aggressive and violent. He started using the name Ax Jackyl and hung out in late night bars bullying people, starting arguments and causing fist fights. As the moon waxed and approached full, Ax got a strong urge to travel north towards the Arctic Circle where the nights were getting longer quicker. He abandoned his truck at a rest stop and stuffed his backpack with all of his knives, tools and camping gear. He easily hoisted the 80 lb sack over his shoulders and stood beneath a large green highway sign outlined in white reflector dots. As soon as he extended his thumb, a long haul trucker appeared, pulled his eighteen wheel rig along the edge of the road and opened the passenger cab door. Ax settled in as the truck accelerated to highway speed and the first pale rays of moonlight shot over the horizon. The Hunter’s Moon.

The Natural Give and Industrial Take

Posted in Sausage Makers Society on June 4, 2018 by A lo Hawk

Blinding flash of white followed by a deafening thunderclap concussion, let the sonic wave roll over and fade into the distance

Click

Sudden rotten deadfall crash explodes my meadow tranquility

Buckle snap

Otherworldly vibrations of a million cicadas haunt the night

Car engine roars

A lonely loon tremolo echoes across still lake waters

Door slams, tires squeal

A woodfire crackles while dancing flames hypnotize

A cacophony of horns honk like mechanical geese

Raindrops steadily drum against a tent wall

Deep thumping bass chord of Harley-Davidsons in harmony

Wind rustles leaves

The radio erupts with percussive beats and screeching voices

Twig snap

Jacked up pick-ups with offensive decals belch black smoke when they gun it

Chirp

Red pulsing strobe lights accompany a barking staccato siren, let the bellowing ambulance pass by and disappear into the distance

Welcome to My Nightmare: Redux

Posted in Sausage Makers Society with tags , on May 28, 2018 by A lo Hawk

Welcome to my nightmare

I think you’re gonna like it

I think you’re gonna feel you belong

–Alice Cooper

Aloha! You have found your way to my obscure blog of pre-apocalyptic angst on the ninth anniversary of its creation. We know from the pseudoscience of numerology the number 9 is a symbol of wisdom and initiation which holds the path toward mystical knowledge. Nine has all the qualities of numbers 1 through 8, i.e. 1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8=36. Add 3 to 6 to get 9. Nine rotations of this planet around the sun completes a cycle in my Temporal Triptych. 

Please Be Advised: You should NOT proceed to my abstrusive rantings unless you are comfortable with the word salad of James Joyce, the cut and paste prose of William Burroughs or what Allen Ginsberg called the “spontaneous bop prosody” of Jack Kerouac. Other crushing influences include the crude and brutish Bukowski, gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson and the OG or original gonzo journalist H.L. Mencken. My subversive style has most often been compared to the modern Sausage Makers such as The Word Butcher and King Kielbasa as well as the dystopic themes of Meat Beat Manifesto.

This site is currently devoted to two ongoing autobiographical projects which can be accessed using the right sidebar. My Walk in the Woods chronicles my hike of the Appalachian Trail in 2008 and Everything in Moderation I ironically refer to as my fun little cyberpunk serial. If you are still viewing and would like a Pu Pu Platter of my favorite twisted essays, link up to these rough cut gems:

Burroughs inspired highly stylized Selections from US Army Survival Manual

A Kerouac tribute actually written On the Road to Fayetteville

An exploration of wickedly angelic Tween Piety in the Nation’s Capital

For those intrepid illiterati investigators who dare descend into Alice’s vortex to find A Lo Hawk’s original nightmare

Happy Trails, The Ephemeral R.A.G.

The Many Faces of Enigmatic R.A.G.

Posted in Sausage Makers Society on May 18, 2018 by A lo Hawk

Department of Homeland Buzzkill

Dedicated to denying citizens their constitutional right to pursue happiness since November 8, 2016

DHB Director Felix DeLouse

Unglued States of Absurdity

Page 2, Classified report on notorious fugitive R.A.G.

Known Activities/Behaviors continued…

…civic provocateur, aboriginal anarchist, cyber shaman, subversive thinker, eschewed athiest

Known Aliases

ALAN GRAEME / Believed to be the first alias used or suspect’s actual name. First name may be Roger. Currently off the grid, early records have been deleted.

IRREL d’AVANT / Suspect is known to travel the sci-fi and comic book convention circuits in costume as a biomechanical technician from the planet Centralia. [see attached photo]

Suspect often travels on foot using a massive hiking trail network to cross the continent. Name typically changes with geography:

MR ROBOTO / West coast trails including the Pacific Crest Trail

A LO HAWK / East coast trails including the Appalachian Trail

LA PLATA / Mid continent trails including the Continental Divide Trail

TUMBLEWEED / Sketchy information indicates limited use in the high mountains of Colorado, thought to be the suspects’ home base.

CAPTAIN COINSTAR / Leader of a roving band of homeless scavengers who “procure” aluminum, copper and other valuable metals for cash to trade for their nectar of the gods Pabst Blue Ribbon.

SERADD THE IMPALER / Dungeons & Dragons game character since college in the 1980s; a dwarf who uses a head spike to eviscerate enemies with a rhino charge to the gut.

KING KIELBASA / An online asshat, troll and flamethrower with no filter or shame. Known for sending foes a photo of his plump polish sausage.

RADIO ACTIVE GRAM / A cyberpunk mastermind personae with possible temporal distortion capabilities. [Content redacted. Additional clearance required]

THE WORD BUTCHER / Most recent iteration [no image available]. A pedantic snob who only communicates with a tightknit group of Illiterati known as the Sausage Makers Society.

Known Associates: Suspect strongly assimilates with three quinquagenarians and one tricenarian:

EDDY MUDDY aka Lobo / First known contact (FKC) with suspect occurred during the bicentennial summer of 1976 when suspect’s family moved to the same street in Round Rock, TX.

THOMAS ASCETIC aka Rogue Botanist aka The Scribe / Has written a daily journal since FKC with suspect at La Universidad de Tejas in September 1979.

GEO ECOLES aka Honey Badger / The muscle of the group met the suspect at UT Austin in 1983 under the pretense of forming a Triathlon Club.

RYE BALD aka Lumpy / The youngest member and cousin to the suspect. Considered part of a flyover american sleeper cell. Has been associated with the suspect since the early 80s.

Current Fugitive Status: Most wanted enemy of the state, whereabouts unknown, cash reward offered for information leading to the suppression, apprehension and incarceration of this dangerous encephaloterrorist.

 

Cherry Picking the Family Tree

Posted in Enigmatic Corporatic, Sausage Makers Society, Snark File on May 8, 2018 by A lo Hawk

[Fade in to a genetically ambiguous gentleman with a vacant stare holding a multi colored cube]

“Friends, are you racially confused, looking to alleviate your white privilege guilt or confirm your repressed xenophobia? Go to FindMyTribe.com and order the most accurate and complete genetic ancestry home test kit on the market.”

[Cut to a clear tongue depressor with an ice cream scoop at one end]

“Just a quick swab of any orifice with our patented sampler and return in the sterile envelope. Within 5-7 business days receive a scientific looking report with pie charts and a notarized certificate of authenticity. But wait, you also get online access to our comprehensive terrestrial genome database and for a nominal membership fee your chromosomal sequence will be compared to our proprietary intergalactic samples. Listen to these sincerely produced testimonials…”

[Cut to a silly man in child’s clothes]

“Thanks to FindMyTribe I had to exchange my lederhosen for a kilt when I learned I am Scottish instead of German.”

[Cut to a white supremacist in drag]

“Because of My Tribe I resigned as Grandmaster of the KKK and turned in my hood and cape for the headdress and ceremonial dancing skirt of a Zulu princess.”

[Cut to a stiff in a business suit]

“I found out I am 4.8% Neanderthal so [Cut] I quit my corporate job and now wear animal skins and carry a club.”

[Cut to an androgynous being wearing a Ziggy Stardust costume]

“My mom was abducted and impregnated by an alien from Sirius. Daddy, I’m building a ship to come home to you on Dog Star. Howhooooooo!”

[Cut to website logo with mechanical voice over]

“Supplies are artificially limited so drop the remote and call this number now!”

Hail to the Sausage Makers!

Posted in Sausage Makers Society on May 3, 2018 by A lo Hawk

As the self appointed president of the fabricated literary organization known as the Sausage Makers Society I have taken it upon myself to investigate all potential members with a simple Google search. Based on the current roster here are the results:

LOBO is an alien born on the utopian planet of Czarnia and first appeared on earth in 1983. He is an immortal being with genius intellect who possesses superhuman strength, speed and stamina. LOBO earns a living as an interstellar mercenary and bounty hunter.

The HONEY BADGER is native to Africa, Southwest Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Despite the name, it is more similar to weasels than badgers. Primarily a carnivorous species with few natural predators because of its thick skin and ferocious defensive abilities; they are also skilled diggers and live alone in self dug holes.

LUMPY is an amorphous being without clearly defined shape or form sometimes characterized by a chunky, clumpy, curdled, coagulated or congealed appearance. This ambiguous mass contains a viscoelastic agent which enables it to hold its shape but will dissolve when in contact with alcohol.

ROGUE BOTANIST ADMITS BERRY HOAX, Turlock, CA. Today ex president of the California Botanical Society breaks rank with fellow botanists and reveals to the world there is no such thing as a Boysenberry. “What everyone calls a Boysenberry is actually just a raspberry soaked in a mixture of Human Growth Hormone and sugar water. ”

Finally, the Word Butcher is an obscure keyboard hack and ink slinger unknown for his crude, clunky and nondescript prose. Many have never compared his style to an offal amount of ground up vocabulary devoid of flavor and stuffed into nonsensical sentence casings.

Welcome to the slaughter house my little lambs!

A Man is Born

Posted in Sausage Makers Society on April 21, 2018 by A lo Hawk

An infant is born near the geographic center of the 48 contiguous states of america. The family unit of modern urban vagabonds; part of an early computer age cult, migrates laterally to the mid atlantic east coast, then pendulums across the continent to the emerging silicon valley, finally settling in the hill country of central texas.

A hapless child is diagnosed with psoriasis, a skin disease typically associated with red, itchy and dry, scaly skin. Prescribed treatment includes wrapping the limbs with cellophane wrap before going to bed and plenty of vitamin D and fresh air. Thus begins a lifelong medical need to be outdoors.

A little league baseball tryout turns tragic when the nervous kid pees his pants while waiting in line for the batting test. The humiliation leads to permanent disdain for the sport.

A boy scout jamboree is enhanced when gallon jugs of cider are replaced with warm beer and a clandestine mission to launch an aerial flare during a somber ceremony is successfully executed by an intoxicated patrol.

A freshman clarinet player and his friends are kicked out of the high school marching band when it is discovered they smuggled beers into their instrument cases on a bus trip to a marching contest.

A tall skinny upperclassman loses his adolescence when he and his friends pile into a small pickup after a quarry swim. A morbid conversation with the driver erupts into a fatal swerve ditch flip eject death roll silence.

Welcome to my Nightmare

Posted in Sausage Makers Society with tags , on August 12, 2009 by A lo Hawk

I think you’re gonna like it

I think you’re gonna feel like you belong

–Alice Cooper

[Redux]