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...presents... Excerpts from BLADE BARRIER Book #3
by Dean Tetreault
>>> a cDc publication.......1991 <<<
-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
______________________________________________________________________________
...Transposed by WHITE KNIGHT...
======================================================================
===================== A CUT ABOVE THE REST =====================
by DEAN TETREAULT BOOK 3 MAY 1986
"I came, I saw, I conquered."
======================================================================
LET'S GET THE SHIT OUT OF THE WAY FIRST BEFORE WE MOVE ON DEPT.
APOLOGIES:
To Heidi and Markie for spelling your names wrong.
To anyone who was upset over "This Kid's Mutt" - the story was ficticious.
To Heidi for referring to her as a dumb chick - Heidi says she's a dumb
wench, bitch, or cunt, but never a chick.
THANKS:
To Larry for the comics for cut'n'paste.
To Markie for the free beers.
To Prett "he never calls, he never writes" Woodburn for being such a faggot
at times.
A.D.L. - True, there's more to life than just playing one note, but that's
all I know how to play right now. Bear with it, maybe I'll change.
This book is not dedicated to anyone, especially not that Prett "tooling for
anus" Woodburn!!
Cover art by Dean T., as well as all writings and cut'n'paste within
(Drawings not available in text version (no shit!))
The story "Corpse" in this book does not take into account certain scientific
facts, rigor mortis as a good example.
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"My Old Friend"
It feels so good. Watching the pigs die. Look at them. Look at their
faces as the bullets rip through their flesh. This UZI feels so good in my
hands. My old friend.
Shit man, I am totally unstoppable. The cops shoot me, again and again,
but their bullets just pass through the emptiness of my soul. I am the
Terminator. I squeeze the trigger and put the last of the pigs to the ground
in one mass puddle of carcass, blood, and piss.
I walk into the convenience store. There's two people hiding behind the
counter, no, wait,....four, including two little kids. The UZI hums once again
and blasts right through them. I hate killing kids, but then again, I hate
kids. Each drop of blood seems to float through the air in slow motion. I
paint the wall behind them crimson, each droplet adding to the masterpiece.
It's so beautiful. I look out the window and see the destruction I've created,
and I feel so proud, so tough, so free. I hear a voice from above.
"Hey, what the fuck ya doin' down there, givin' yourself a blowjob, ya
faggot?"
I look up. It's Nerf. That's not his real name, but everyone calls him
that.
"Shit, this is the best party I've had in ages, an' your sittin' in the
corner with your head between your knees! An' you're drinkin' wine coolers!
What a faggot!! Shit, ya really oughta start takin' drugs. Drop acid, ya
pussy!!!"
I get up, grab my coat, and walk out. Nerf's such an asshole. He's my
best friend. He's my only friend. And he knows it.
On the way to my car, I notice three kids sitting on the front lawn. I
recognize one of them as someone who likes to beat the shit out of me. I'm not
good at fighting or running, but I'm great when it comes to getting beat up.
"Hey faggot, where ya going?", he says in a drunken voice. Whenever he's
said anything to me, he's been drunk. I don't think he ever stops drinking.
Normally I just keep walking with my eyes to the ground. But this time I'm
real pissed.
"You got something to say to me, motherfucker?", I say, walking towards
him. Before he can reply, I go into a spinning back-kick that connects with
his face. His jaw snaps clean off and slides back into his head like a desk
drawer. He's dead before he hits the ground. Everyone starts clapping their
hands and they're cheering just for me.
"Hey fagboy, I'm talking to you!"
I just keep walking, with my eyes to the ground. He's just mouthing off
tonight. I get in my car and drive away.
I drive around for a while. I don't feel like going home. Not yet. I
drive back and forth through town, music blaring. I eventually pull over and
just sit around and check out what's happening. Then I see her. This Week's
Infatuation. She's walking down the road, right towards me. I can't help
staring, but she's perfect. She stops right in front of my car. I get out and
go over to her.
"Oh, I need you so much!", she moans. "Please let me be your fuck-slave
for life!!"
Someone grabs my hair and nearly yanks me out through the window of my
car.
"What the fuck are you staring at, faggot?"
Oh shit, it's the chick's boyfriend -- a football player. He puts me in a
headlock. I'm hanging out my car window, I can't move. His girlfriend comes
over to us and laughs in my face. After a good minute, he lets go and shoves
me back in my car. He stands in front of my car for awhile, taunting me to run
him over. I just sit there and do nothing. He's beaten me, physically and
psychologically. And he knows it.
I drive home. I've had a terrible night. I go straight to my room and
lock the door. I reach under the pillow and pull out my old friend. My only
true friend. He doesn't do anything. He just waits patiently for that second
of truth.
"Well, old friend, it's time". He already knows it. I put the barrel in
my mouth and pull the trigger. I wish I could wake up from this one.
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"Smiling Faces"
I just read something that really bugs me. Here's an excerpt. It's
called "5-11-85" by Henry Rollins, from POLIO FLESH, page 34.
"I have learned to question smiling faces. I don't trust
smiling faces anymore. When someone smiles and reaches out
to shake my hand, I try to guess what they want from me and
when they will try to sink the knife in.... When someone
gives away something, they want something in return, somehow,
someway. This is a game that gets played on many levels.
Don't take candy from strangers unless you're willing to
take a ride in the car."
I give my writing to lots of people. Do I expect something in return?
The more I think about it, the more I realize I do. I expect complements,
friendship, and constructive criticism. I expect people to tell me I'm a great
writer and that I'm real cool. I expect people to print my stuff and help me
achieve fame and fortune. I expect it. And shit, when I got the chance to
talk to Henry for a few minutes at the Providence gig, I was one of those
smiling faces, shaking his hand a couple of times, telling him about all the
free goodies I just mailed him.
I don't know if this is what he had in mind when he wrote it, and I don't
know if there is anything wrong in wanting recognition and attention - it's
only human. But still, I feel kinda funny right now, I feel low.
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"Chance Meeting"
We collide
By accident (Fate is cruel).
I ....
.... Never thought I'd see you again.
We both say "Hi"
And talk but don't say anything.
Each aware of the other's uneasiness.
I feel ....
.... Out of place.
I feel soft.
My teeth feel like styrofoam -
My eyes are marshmallows.
I want to melt away ....
We eventually part, each
Relieved we've survived
Another chance meeting.
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"Things I Wanted to Smash"
I saw a car that had a stuffed cat with glass eyes in the rear window.
Every time the right directional was used, the cat's right eye blinked in
unison with the tailight, same with the left side. I wanted to smash it.
I saw this little boy eating an ice cream cone with his dad. Sorta
reminded me of when I was a kid. I wanted to smash that ice cream cone right
in his face.
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"Corpse"
When I walked through the door, I wasn't surprised, or shocked even. I
don't know why, I just wasn't. You were standing there, in the doorway to the
kitchen. Just standing there, head in the clouds, walking on air. Just
sta...... hanging there, eyes rolled towards Heaven. I noticed you didn't use
a rope. You used the extension cord from your computer. What a fucking
computer whiz geek you were. You were always flapping about how computers were
going to kill off all of mankind someday. Well, they got you. What irony.
What a shame.
I let you hang around for a while. I don't know why, I just don't feel
like cutting you down right now. What an asshole you are. We were supposed to
go to ZZ Top. I've got front row seats and you were supposed to drive. How am
I gonna go now? Fuck man, we're still going. I don't care what you say, we're
going to see ZZ Top and you're driving.
I eventually cut you down. I don't know what to do with you, so I just
slide you underneath my bed.
I had trouble sleeping that night. Remember how, when we were kids, we
used to be scared of monsters under our beds? Well it's like being a kid again
with you under there. I had to keep hanging over the edge of my bed and
peeking under to make sure you hadn't moved.
The next morning I slid you out from underneath. "Want some breakfast?",
I asked, then laughed out loud. I kept poking you, and waiting for you to
move, but you didn't. Any second now, you'll get up and we'll start wrestling
or bashing each other over the head with empty 2-liter plastic soda bottles,
like we always used to. You never did move, though.
As the days passed, I started to have lots of fun playing with you. I
don't mean anything queer, I just mean playing with you. I use you as a
foot-stool. I prop you up in a chair with a lit cigarette and a book. I write
all over you with a thick magic marker. I draw a beard and mustache on you,
put a Manson "X" on your forehead, and draw anarchy symbols all over your body.
Shit, I've never had this much fun in my life! Every kid should have a real
live corpse to play with!
The fun lasted for about a week. That's when your stupid bitch girlfriend
showed up. She wanted to know where you were. She was crying. I said I
didn't know, trying my hardest to keep a straight face. I started laughing.
That pissed her off and she slapped me and started screaming something at me, I
can't remember what it was. I don't blame her for freaking out, I'd be pissed
if I were in her shoes. I wanted to scream back at her so bad. "You'll never
take him away from me again!" I kept my mouth shut, though. Relax, man. I've
got the last laugh. I hold all the trump cards. Your girlfriend was always
splitting us up. We were best friends for life, we did everything together.
Until she came along. Well, this time she stays home all alone. It's you and
me both, and she's out in the cold. Your girlfriend left on a flood of tears,
and was back in an hour with the police.
My lawyer says I've got nothing to worry about. The autopsy will prove
that I had absolutely nothing to do with your death. They're just going to
lock me away for about a week for some counseling and whatever. They said that
I couldn't cope with your death and I went temporarily insane. Whatever. I
just hope they let me out soon, I can't wait to go dig up your grave and play
with you some more .....
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"Tattoos"
Hey Rollins, you think your tattoos are cool? Check out this kid I used
to work with. He's got both his arms covered, back and front, with Superman
and the Flash. And he's got the Super Friends on his chest. No shit. I swear
on my 3 inch cock that I ain't shitting you!!! I bet you can't say that you've
got the Super Friends on your chest, can ya, Henry? .... No, I didn't think so.
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"My Car"
My car is an extension of my penis.
I love my cock very much. It's a 1978 Chevette. Yeah, true, my cock is
small, but it gets great mileage. I beat on my cock very hard, and frequently
too, but I also take good care of it and replace any worn out parts. I get
very angry when people sit on my cock, or lean against it, because you might
scratch it. I bet if I showed you my cock, you'd like it very much, too.
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Check out Dean's story "Shitbum" in the comic "Ashes" #2 from Caliber
Press. For a copy of his book BLADE BARRIER, send $3.95 to:
Primal Publishing
107 Brighton Avenue
Allston, MA. 02134
_ _ ____________________________________________________________________
/((___))\|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Grassroots..............new # soon|
[ x x ] |NIHILISM.............513/767-7892|The People Farm.......916/673-8412|
\ / |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194|The Works.............617/861-8976|
(' ') |Lunatic Labs.........213/655-0691|Ripco.................312/528-5020|
(U) |====================================================================|
.ooM |1991 cDc communications by Dean Tetreault. 01/03/91-#153|
\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away. |