Sex Pistols(A Ballistc Affair), a story by Greg Tate


      In Marina’s experience, the boys with the most guns were always the most beautiful boys, the most game boys. 

    They only boys she wanted to talk to at the parties,  the only ones she could see herself going home with at the end of the night. 

   Marina always demanded they wear their little buddies to bed, holstered and strapped across their bare nekkid chests.

She loved the feel of grooved, tippled metal grazing her stomach, breasts and ribs.

 She lived to absorb the lovetaps a weapon’s icy weight doled out when her one-night beaus took to tossing and tumbling her around. 

    One fellow, a true professional, revered among his cronies as a killer’s killer, brought three sidearms when he came to bang and gt banged in return up against her—her: the 38 he kept strapped across his chest, the 22 he’d taped to his thigh, and this oldskool miniature, tubular zip gun of a thing which he kept clipped to the Prince Albert piercing  clamped onto his phallus.  (She told best female friend Duck that she had never, ever, in her frothy recollection, come harder. )


    She didn’t keep any guns in the house. They meant nothing to her if they didn’t come with a simmering male body attached.  

   There was one guy  who spoke of a desire to rub his unholstered weapon’s barrel round and round her clitoris and then pump it’s clipless stock on her labia majora, but she refused him. She liked the idea but instinct told her to save it for a less gung-ho guy–the kind of guy who’d have to be convinced that was such a good idea.   

 Marina refused to acknowledge her ‘taste in men’  as a fetish. 

She could recall having sex and even enjoying it without guns being flashed or being used to fondle her.And  when her work required it she could even manage a projectile orgasm without a firearm grinding against her ribs. For this reason she refused to countenance the notion that the pleasure she took from sex with gunmen made her some kind of addictive, freaky gun moll. As always with Negroes, it’s the reductive label that they hate (straight, bi, gay, dominant, submissive, fetish freak) more than the act itself. This is why we so commonly hear things like ‘I fuck men but I’m not gay’ and so forth. Labels tend to read like prison sentences to Blackfolk who often find their freedom in fluid states of being. This is even more true of Blackfolk like Marina who fancy themselves a breed apart. Her, a fetishist? She just couldn’t see it, no matter how often friends called upon Freud for backup. It helped that what she knew about fetishes, in a clinical sense, was next to nil. This is why, to her  mind, if there were no elaborate rules and no special make-up or studded leather harnesses  and no feverish theatre of the repressed mind going on when there were small arms centerstage, then she was no fetishist. As far as she was concerned it was simple: she just liked boinking guys with guns strapped on because she mightily liked the feeling of those hard, slick, powerful, life-determining things bumping and jumping her bones. 

She would admit to loving the element of risk involved.  Some of her guys wanted to remove their bullets first, and she would let them; that was no biggie for her. Registering the click of the safety was as close as she came to  security measures. What she didn’t always like was the extreme roughness of some of the more stubbled grips or when some of the left handed guys wore their pieces with the grip pointed inward as that made her feel like her titties were being hammered against..  

    The few and far between occasions she had slept with women let her know her taste in girls ran towards nothing more deadly than spiky jewelry and small blades–preferably unsheathed since she didn’t mind a few nicks and cuts here and there and favored the shiver she caught whenever she spied small streaks of blood splattering the sheets. Nothing her regular cleaning lady wasn’t used to or couldn’t emotionally handle. 

  (In her time with Marina that poor woman had had to clean up far worse stains. None worse than those left behind after her Guinness book escapade–a 72 hour stunt involving live chickens, lusty robot zombies, roman candles, and a steotypegically-correct Talking Hottentot Booty doll. This performance is now officially recorded as the world’s longest continuous work of  performance-art. 

   One critic even went so far  as to  describe the piece as ‘bridging the gap between Yoruba, necrophilia and the African genome’. That fanciful prose description was much to the disgust of her Yoruba practicing father, mother and two older brothers, all of whom were forced to hear about it in grand detail a self-congratulatory dinner in the Hamptons Marina threw for herself after not being nominated for a Tony award that same year.

(‘ I mean,  really, a Tony, Duck? I mean, C’mon, how monumentally uncool is that? They day I quit the business is the day they hand me a Tony. I mean, I’ve had my un-acceptance speech ready for years.’)


    If Marina would not admit to being a textbook fetishist, she would cop to being a very Wild girl– ‘Yes, I’m that perfect heretic that stereotype tells us every upright preacher’s daughters must turn out to be.’


Marina had long ago decided that embracing the stigma of being seen as a godly man’s wildchild demanded much from her outrageous imagination. 

     In her late 20s she  became fond of saying to friends and (always-kept-distant) relations how, ‘Having discovered my role early in life I decided to give it all I had. What was left,  I gave to Off-off Broadway.’ Her current show was a faux-feminist extrapolation, The Virtues and Varieties of Our Virgin Mother’s Orgasm’. 

      In it she and 27 other women  portrayed a composite of orgasmic states that had been dutifully researched by Marina and her co-writer/ best friend Duck over a five year span in several predominantly Catholic countries. Holy and unholy states of ecstasy were all given their due in the course of the performance’s thirteen  hour run.    


     Marina herself played two roles in the production. In the opening minutes she played a kidnapped nun named Mariah who develops Stockholm syndrome and has sex-starved visions of dressing her captors in robes and habits and humping them to death.

     In the second act she came on in the role of an East Harlem woman not so unlike herself who was going for the Guinness Book world record in projectile-orgasm yardage from her low-rise futon. 

      Though all of Marina’s understudies required  a fluid-shooting harness and unsightly catheter tubes taped near their private parts, Marina was a natural at long-distance female ejaculation. On her best nights she could fling precious bodily fluids  just a few inches shy of the light array mounted ten feet above the  set. 

      According to the skit’s plot, the day a Guinness film crew arrived they’d find her character’s  prone form set to erupt like a volcanic geyser or a gushing whalespout. One  all too ready to shoot off at a moments notice and head its spew directly for the heart of the sun, or at least the set’s  backprojected reasonable facsimile. 


       Somewhere during the middle of  the  run Marina was approached by the enterprising young photographer and filmmaker Aron Dearborne to star in a fictional documentary he was shooting on a group he described as ‘the Busted Afro-Victorians’. 

      This motley crew of  scenesters based their exploits on a mutual exploration and exploitation of  Wharton (and Scorsese’s) The Age of Innocence and Chester Himes’ scandalous Harlem Renaissance novel Pinktoes. 

       Marina was not part of their set but she knew most of them by sight from various venues found in Black Bohemia at the time.  She naturally found perverse joy in the irony of going from nudity on Broadway to being corseted, mummified and strapped into the longflowing raiments of  the Afro-Victorian’s salon straitjackets.    



       It was at one of Dearborn’s photo shoots that she met Bono Pruitt, another beautiful star/outsider Dearborn had brought in to break up the drawn-and-puckered monotony of the underage Afro-Victorian clique. 

     It would be through Pruitt  that she’d became acquainted with the Chimurenga Twins (later known as ‘the Robo Coptic Boy when they abandoned theatre for music) who kept an  Afro-Warholesque enterprise on Governor’s Island.

     Thus it came to pass that while performing on the Chimurenga’s catwalk our Mz. Marina made indelible eye contact with three massive ruffians who insisted they only be addressed collectively and indiscriminately, as The Big Truck. 

(Never  as just ‘Big Truck’, either; even if they liked you they had no tolerance for people who got too familiar too fast and rushed past the definitive article.) 

    It further came to pass  that  while hanging out and about with The Big Truck that Marina became introduced to their little brother, The Definitive, a solo act who naturally, only allowed himself to be addressed as ‘The Definitive’.  

      The Definitive would turn out to be, point-blank, the only man she would ever meet whose sex-with-guns desires rivaled, if not outstripped her own. 


     Their ballistic love affair  began when The Big Truck having learned Marina was a gun freak brought  The Definitive to catch her on Broadway.  

     Having been informed by his brothers of her adoration for men who carried heat to bed, The Definitive flashed her from the fourth orchestra row with some of his most prized pieces. There was the transparent glock with all synthetic moving parts he kept in a shoulder holster. There was the midget sawed-off he barely concealed bulging beneath the thigh  of his tear-off cargo pants. There was the loaded and fully-operational toy derringer locket which swung from a chain to the left of his heart. There was also, lest we forget, his piece de resistance, a row of powder-packed gunshell-shaped fronts fenced across his front teeth.  


      Marina, who could barely contain her delight in this exhibition , raced through her first ovation, skipped the company bow, and  barely said goodbye to anyone before running off into the night with The Definitive. That night, for the first time in the show’s two year run, her vaginally projected spume was seen arcing high enough to bounce when it splashed onto the  catwalk.

The Definitive lived in a private building just across 110th Street. 

     His bedroom turned out to be a gun toting shrine. It was indeed, a veritable firearm lover’s temple; one that came replete with several seven foot glass gun racks.

      These were wrapped around  the room’s cylindrical circumference and stocked with every sort of rifle, pisttol, gunmount, and ammo-belt imaginable. 

      The bed itself was designed after the rounded recoil chamber of a Tommy Gun. The  curved walls and ceiling were pasted with several of The Definitive’s  personal-best target-shooting posters. 

     Between two of  the gun racks there was an polished ebony bureau, a special holding place, he told her, to memorialize all his one-time only pieces–all the ones that had bodies on them  that in his humble opinion, ‘would never be found,  least not in one piece.’ 

        An altar sat atop this bureau laced and littered with dead looking metallic flowers and an Ogun-like statuary figure carved from an alloy she couldn’t place. There was also on the bureau’s top  a necklace composed of animal fangs and bronzed shell casings.  

    While Marina undressed and freshened up, The Definitive dumped the red silk sheets draping the tommy-gun mattress with a treasure trove of weaponry from various nooks and crannies. He then sprinkled another sprawling selection of ordinance around the bed as if they were  romantic rose petals, (his ‘petals of evil’ Marina called them).  


     When she got naked and came to embrace him he turned his body into hers in a manner assuring that the sawed-off on his thigh would lean in hard against the side of her buttocks. 

    Then, as she wrote in her diary the next day, ‘he lavishly stroking my liquefied bushy meadow and lusciously lubricious pudenda with an unmistakably expert knowledge of tension and release.’

        Over breakfast the next morning The Definitive asked Marina to pass along a letter he’d written to her producer, the one and only Malcolm Jack Spratt . 

     When she asked what was in the letter he told her it was confidential, a correspondence between Gentlemen. He added somewhat ominously how he hoped she would honor his wishes and not break the seal because ‘discovering you possess any capacity for betrayal of my trust in you might one day prove fatal.’ 

She assumed he was joking and tittered. 

She further assumed that the letter contained warning of some ridiculous gift he was going to have delivered to the theater for her. 

   When she turned the letter over to her producer, Spratt opened it quizzically, read through it with  a look of incredulous consternation and then guffawed bitterly in her face. 

          “I’d say you’ve really gone and done it this time Miss Gunswoon. You really havent read this have you? Well listen to this my friend:your pretty boy gangster friend has been kind enough to let me know that since you’re ‘His Woman’ now, it’s no longer appropriate for you to continue in my– Ha!, get that!, ‘My’!– show. 

     I’m  to sign my understanding of such, release you from your contract, then send you home to him this evening before curtain time, after having informed you that your understudy will be taking over your part. Where do you find these rubes babycakes? I mean really?”


       Marina nearly fainted. 

Less at the threat of violence implied than at the threat of actually becoming party to that dreadful  state of interpersonal coupling known as A Relationship. 

     As best she could remember she had only been in three of those ‘bejesusgawdawful  thingees’, as such,  in her life. 

The first had been shortly before she graduated from high school. 

   That spring she had gotten very close to a once lovely Serbian boy, one possessed of  a ripe and hungry mouth which had been malformed into a  permanently twisted grin by a nasty car collision the previous winter. Their three month tryst had only been set in motion by her desire to disgust her parents and her entire graduating class. 

     The second time had been her marriage to a hook –hanging sadomasochist who turned out to be battling a bout of abnormalcy before returning to brokerage, much to her disgust. 

The third had been an unrequited lesbian entreaty involving her co writer and best friend Duck who formed her only true female infatuation to date. 


       Marina, she had to admit to herself, had indeed thought about becoming The Definitive’s  steady woman for a brief but oh so brief time after their first satisfying night together but never, ever, had she considered becoming his longtime concubine. And she was certainly not the kind of woman who could be traded between fellow patriarchs in some sort of  pimpological auction block scenario.

         “So  call me a drama queen”, she declared to Duck, ‘but yes girl,  I nearly fainted right there in Jack’s office. I mean this barely out of high school barely post adolescent fool actually assumed Malcolm Jack owned my ass because I nightly perform naked in his house.  Then he’s furthermore got the nerve to think  I’m Spratt’s property like the man can just unload my ass on the open market? Oh, no. Oh, hell, no. Just what kind of  antebellum throwback is this young nigga?. 

      Okay,girl, yes, the kind who shoots people for a living but still, this is the 21st century and  certain forms of politically correct decorum need not be discarded .  So while, yes, he is precisely my kind  of  throwback, you know I’m not one to deconstruct basic feminist principles, especially at risk of my career. 

    ‘So here’s what I’ve decided: I’m going to send my understudy over to invite The Definitive to tonight’s show. She’ll request how  I’d so love it if he could bring another copy of his letter over as I seem to have lost the original in the cab I took on the way over.  Meanwhile Duck I’m going to go find The Big Truck and see if they might be able to talk some sense into that boy’s head before things really get out of hand.”

      As luck would have it though, fate kindly intervened. Duty called, and The Definitive and The Big Truck had to suddenly leave town,  therefore making Marina’s  subterfuge unnecessary. 

     Just before curtain call Marina received a message from The Definitive saying he and his brothers had a business trip but ‘don’t bother calling because we’re traveling Incog-negro, way under the radar. I’ll ding you when we get back which should be in about two weeks.”


      With that mysterious, serendipitous adieu The Definitive was virtually gone, leaving only worrisome vapor trails and big, Roy Lichenstein sized thought balloons of anxiety to form over Marina’s head. 


    “What the hell is this shit, Duck ? Two weeks of him having the upper hand, the element of surprise? Oh, no. Oh, hell no, I’m not with that”.

      Marina now had no clearcut way to outfox The Definitive and counter his insane demand for her retirement. 

The stress alone was enough to make her think about quitting the show and even show business.  


 “Call me a drama queen but I am ready to just quit this whole highfalutin Broadway diva life. Just take all my savings and run off  for a spell. Like go see some friends in Sicily or Sardignia or Dakar, or Bari or…Hell, even Albania might be relaxing this time of year.”


      What she chose to do instead was to go into her own form of protective custody, a witness protection program of her own invention as it were. One where’d she’d take the low roads, do a brief supper theater  tour and  stay on the downlow until she’d gotten word The Definitive and The Big Truck had definitively returned to Gotham. 

     After that her plan was to come back and cross that bridge when she came to it.

     Exactly how long to stay away was a question that got thrown into confusion by hearing from The Definitive via postcard that his disappearance from the city might now extend itself from two weeks to six to three months.


     The depression and indecision which ensued from her desperation and anxiety over his unknown date of return had the desired effect of forcing her to resign from her own Broadway hit. 

     Now she had only to extract herself from the Relationship as easily as she took to her bed of malady, vapours, and depression in the face of career-suicide.   

    Once again however, the perpetual good fortune that came with being a show biz gypsy  gracefully intervened,  showing up at her door with news of a touring production of an earlier Marina work called ‘Killer Dykes of the Ki-Kongo’. 

     Marina had concocted this production nearly a decade ago. It was largely about an imaginary troupe of legendary African amazons who became, in the mythical story, hooked up with Harriet Tubman during the Civil War. 

      Alerting the production’s management of not only her approval but her availiblity for the cast, she set about relearning the piece.

     Joining the company automatically meant weeks of travel out of the limelight. The goal was to hit isolated, culture starved, lesbian dinner theater spots around the country. 

    What it would mean for Marina though was not sitting in New York fretting and sweating in a panic and waiting for The Definitive to show up again. All gun-toting 6’3 of him and his expectations for  her to run away from the circus, come home to poppa and wait on him, and only H.I.M.,  hand and, surely, bound, foot.

     On audition day, Marina sauntered into the theatre, idly  basked in the glowing awe the young idolator of a director shined at her, quickly plotted and executed  usurpation of said director’s authority, then took it upon herself  to run an abridged version of the whole show. Thereby masterfully showing producers, directors, cast and crew not only how she expected every role to be played, but how she expected the parts to be passionately surrendered to, mind, body, spirit and Kirlian aura.


     Her five fellow thespians, already cast, consisted of  one hardrock girl named Cookies who believed the term thespian meant ‘theatrical lesbians’, a transplanted South African aspiring hiphop singer named Ndebele who was toying with changing her MC handle to either MC In De Belly or MC  Gutt ;  two around the way girls from Gary, Indiana, Pam Mella and Marzipan, and an unusually Zen, unusually sanguine she-male named  Julia Roberston (‘of the Poughkeepsie Roberstons’ ) who refused to relent on the claim that Julia Robertson was her birth name for all the surgery she’d obviously had done to make her resemble the film star whose name she had, tackily and far from cleverly,  grafted a ‘son’ onto. 



         After a shaky week of rehearsals the troupe piled into a large passenger van, to be followed by an even larger props truck. They  then hit the road for parts previously unknown to Marina in the wild midwest. 

      In the show Ndebele played Harriet Tubman  while the others, led by Marina, paraded around  in faux spearchucking Zulu warrior gear, kidnapped Miss Julia Robertson from the plantation,  and, thanks to the magic of audiotape and slides, lynched various massas,  rubber-necklaced hordes of informers, set trained backwoods dogs on dogged slave catchers, and kept on keeping on in their march for The Great White Way on a North Star lit yellow brick road to freedom toward the other Emerald City, New York New York.  


      The ‘Killer Dyke’ threat of  the show’s title drew the target demographic in but when it turned out to be more killing than loving going on, and killing of white women at that, complaints began to pour in from patrons who felt ‘eaten alive by the show’s ‘incomprehensible anger at progressive women of  a fairer color’.


      Ndebele took up the braveheart task of representing the cast and producers in asking Marina to consider toning down the anti-white female violence of this early work, and perhaps consider inserting a sympathetic white woman into the character line-up. Under other circumstances Marina might have ranted and raved until the poor girl congealed into a jello like state, but as this was one show she needed to go on and on, she chagrinned everyone by  revising an early piece of juvenalia which she too in all honesty, actually found as insufferable as any of her critics did. 

      Marina even gave the good white woman not only a speaking part but a love affair with her own Amazon leader  character. It had originally been her stance that she did not want sexual escapades overwhelming  and obscuring the history lessons she hoped to impart  about African amazons and the precedent they set for Tubman. 


“Now however”, she wrote to Duck,  “there’s a silly fertility dance scene where all us big buck women  bare our breaststesses together, bay at the moon,  shaketh our derrieres, basically just shake that azz,  and generally,  show these cloistered huddled lesbonic masses what we’re working with.’ 

     This scene had the powerful effect of driving all the ladies in the house wild and getting some of their crowds hopeful for some even more bawdy, integrated afterplay during the afterparty. 

     After their fourth Pennsylvania-Ohio rust belt town bacchanal Marina came to conclude that the Midwest, and by default middle America, was actually more decadent than she had been led to believe. New Yorkers might have been more overt and stylish while in public pursuit of getting their freak on but they were certainly no more aggressive than their party-hardy Midwestern counterparts.


     What she also realized, after sighting the frequent odd groups of thugs in every house, was how much criminals, and especially the pretty ones like her type of man, loved to hang out in man-friendly girlbars.  

    The disastrous law of averages and rude coincidences being what they were, she knew it was only matter of time before somewhere out there, in some under-the-exit ramp roadhouse establishment, way out in no-man’s land , she was going to look up and find The Definitive and possibly even the whole The Big Truck clique “fittin’ to drag me off stage, toss me into the trunk of their vehicle and haul my ass back to be wall-chained and chastity-belted in  the efficiency sized wardrobe closet of The Definitive’s Gotham budoir.”


     Week four found the troupe just outside of Toronto in a supersmall suburb that had once served as the setting for an X Files episode. This claim to fame was extolled in the local diner’s star-worshiping menu where ”David Duchovny Spinach Salad’’ held forth with  “The Smoking Man Smoked Trout Sandwich”. 

     The script for the episode in question had required building a large scale model of an alien spaceship that came with surgical tables and an array of operating instruments of extraterrestial design. 

     Many of the townsfolk who’d been recruited as extras had idly taken to returning to the abandoned site after the show aired. This soon turned into the longest wrap party in show biz history before finally becoming a regularly scheduled local ‘X-files themed rave/cult. 

    The event and the tribal gathering it jumpstarted both went on to survive the cancellation of the program. 

     First time initiates at the rave  found themselves made to stand alone in a shaft of light before being hoisted by a crane into the bay of  the fake mothership which was itself suspended by yet another crane. 

        Once inside newcomers allowed themselves to be alien-probed, plucked and messaged to the musical  accompaniment of the ‘burbs resident gothic-triphop genius, DJ E =mc Spock, all while conveniently  tripping on Spock’s other homegrown invention—an ecstasy derivative which one only needed mightily sniff to get sent into groovy elation by. 

    As Marina’s lifepath would have it, this Spock fellow also happened to be the region’s number one inspired-amateur manufacturer of hallucinogens. As she and Spock’s commingled pot of luck further insured, The Definitive and his brothers The Big Truck had been hired to make the young funk doctor Spock an offer he couldn’t afford to refuse.

     Their employers, it seems, were a shadowy, quasi-revolutionary, and some thought, pseudoscientific group known as the  Quantum Black  Movement. 

    This group was bent on taking over the Midwest’s lucrative white trash drug trade and using the illicitly gained loot in support of their own probing, prodding and scraping Mengeles-like genetic experiments on a political opposition they freely and liberally dubbed ‘the whitebodypolitic’. 

      Marina and young Spock’s  parallel trails would come to a crossroads the day of the troupe’s closing party. 


   That small, intimate affair had been organized by Dame Robertson who, upon deciding she’d missed the company of good friends for too long, went on line, to and invited half the she-male population of the East Coast to the affair.  

    It further occurred that when Dame Roberston went down to the local Greyhound station to pick up the meagre party of seven who answered her E-vite, Marina came along to drive the second car. 

       Thus our heroine came to see that when Roberston’s colorful, caustic, estrogen injected crew (somewhat stiff necked from traveling 18 hours) de-bussed so did The Definitive and The Big Truck. 

     She also noted that the team of assassins had that world-weary look, which we all know so well from the movies, of slick killers who come to an absurdly hick town and find that their already high quotient of meanness has risen several notches due to the general shithole quality of the place their work has taken them to. 


     Since The Big Truck didn’t see her she figured she was off the hook, not knowing that The Definitive had made friends with the she-males on the bus and had promised to demonstrate his expertise in shiatsu message after the long trip from New York.

      Imagine Marina’s surprise when The Definitive came ambling over to her vehicle. 

    Her first thought was to jump the curb and run him down, but she wisely thought the better of it. 

    When the group began piling in she made a point of looking out her window as long as she could, hoping he’d somehow wind up in the back seat. “With those long legs of his Duck, ha, fat chance.” 

     And so they soon found themselves staring into each other’s eyes again for the first time in weeks.          

       “Girl, I come back home to no note, no call, no news at all. I go down to that theatre, you’ve blown the coop, nobody knows where you are. Some people had heard you had a nervous breakdown, and had wound up drugged-back in some clinic somewhere. And here you are here still gallivanting. Damn,  I thought we were soul mates.”

    In response to this earnest outpouring of love Marina, gave it her all and responded in kind.

        “I love you baby, I really do, and we are soul mates. But I can’t stop being a hoofer in the name of love. That would just be a slow death. And I’d want to kill you. And everything just wouldnt really be that much fun anymore.”


 But you understand my position don’t you Marina?  I mean I can’t have my woman flashing her pussy for porkchops for the world at large. People would talk. I might have to hurt a civilian or even a smart-mouthed relative or colleague or two. Or three.” 

       “But baby this performing thing is what I love to do. I’d never ask you to stop popping strangers if that’s what makes you happy.”

         “Woman, how you gonna go there? I mean, that’s so different. You’re mixing apples and kumquats now. ‘Cause I don’t like what I do. Its just something I’m really, really good at, and the pay is nice, and I don’t have to deal with a lot of bullshit interference and whatnot. But I don’t make people pay for the privilege of watching me do it and I wouldn’t get off on it if I did.” 

        “So is it the money or the exposure that bothers you?

        Baby, no. “It’s you telling me it was my pussy and then selling it to the world. And don’t tell me that was just pillow talk.”

        “No dear, I meant it in more than just a romantic sense, but what I do onstage is just a show. Its not my love for you I’m giving away. Baby, you’re my last gunman. I only wish you had been my first.

    The various sexually ambiguous parties from New York in the back seat oohed an ahhed at every sick twist and turn of this unbashedly icky conversation. 

     Given other circumstances, Marina and The Definitive might have soon found themselves in her motel room getting it on with lots of guns around. The winds of change however had other ideas as Marina, caught up in The Definitive’s web of ill logic, found herself sideswiping  an oncoming Chevy van which piled into a parking meter backwards and quickly spilled out of its busted innards DJ Spock, two Vestax turntables, four Bose monitors and a few thousand chemically dipped sheets of his choice synthetic drug product. 

       In the ensuing bedlam the he-girls from New York snatched up every sheet of the stuff they could manage. DJ E = mc Spock, showing little concern for the fruits of his labwork, locked  his fingers tight around the handles of the two  aluminum roadcases which contained his rarest vintage vinyl (virgin pressings of Earth Wind and Fire’s score for Sweet Sweetback’s Baaadass Song, producer director and writer Melvin Van Peebles own score for his stage musical Aint Supposed To Die A Natural  Death, several original, warped pressings of  Sun Ra white label singles from the 60s and 70s, Kool and The Gang’s Live At The Sex Machine, and the Lyman Woodard Organization’s Saturday Night Special ) 

    Upon retrieving this case Spock then shot like a bat out of hell into a nearby stripmall that had seen better days, while The Definitive, immediately recognizing his prey took off after him like a silver bullet.

      Meanwhile Marina, having rethought the prospect of spending a lifetime with a man who shot other men down in the street like dogs, just kept driving until she found herself in Satketchawan, where she took one look around at the tundra and rightfully believed herself in desperate need of a well stocked fur trapper and a respectable black box theatre.

Author: Enter My Cipher

Author/musician/cultural provocateur who thrives in Harlem, Howard U Bison Nation rep-at-large, co-founder of the Black Rock Coalition, leader of the Conducted Improv big band Burnt Sugar The Arkestra Chamber since 1999, Rivers On Mars collaborator, That Dude whose books include Flyboy In The Buttermilk, Flyboy 2 The Greg Tate Reader, Midnight Lightning:Jimi Hendrix and The Black Experience, Everything But The Burden--What White People Are Taking From Black Culture and the forthcoming Beast Mode:Iconic Gods and Monsters of the Black Atlantic (FS&G,2020)

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