Suggested Audio Candy
Eric B. & Rakim “Follow The Leader”
It had been a hard night’s grind at the recording studio and Bleeding Lotus couldn’t stop his weary eyes from flickering. That’s a tough fight you’ve got on your hands, battling against your body’s natural request for recuperation, and it was looking like he was about to succumb to his exhaustion and fall asleep where he sat. Fighting it seemed fruitless and this was an all too familiar feeling to him after being forced to attend endless training sessions during his day job and battling to remain awake.
I recall every pointless training exercise we suffered together and Lotus was usually the guy sat next to me with eyes glazed over, drifting in and out of consciousness. These drawn-out sermons were exercises in inhuman endurance, delivered with all the personality of a Mormon and, above all, deathly dull. Symptoms of terminal boredom included drastically reduced heart-beat, brain freeze, and throat drier than Gandhi’s right espadrille. A whole lot of mumbo jumbo with no enthusiasm behind them and zero meaning. I could be firing off wank bullets in the restroom with one soundly lubricated digit on my prostrate for Pete’s sake. Anything but stuck there with droll nonentities, listening to even more policy and procedures. Fuck your policies, stick your procedures in my ass-funnel and help my finger out!
At any rate, where was I? It had been a hard night in the studio and Lotus couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering. He was losing his fight and the Sandman was loitering with intent behind him, preparing to slyly administer his sedative. He had been forced to endure a three-hour training session earlier that day on health and safety protocol and his will to continue had pretty much dissipated by this point. The least troublesome option appeared to fall asleep and grab a quick forty winks just to refuel his engine. Either that or enter a chrysalis and exit a butterfly after a long and drawn out incubation process. Given that butterflies have such frightfully short lifespans, he stumped on a cat nap.
Most, myself inclusive, would’ve gobbled some Pro Plus, guzzled a few cans of toxic energy drinks and embarked upon a naked smoke in my back garden. That’s right boys and girls, there’s no finer feeling than revealing yourself in the comfort of your own back yard. I adore being at one with nature; it’s a liberating feeling and you’re never more alive than when feeling the nip in the air whistling past your Johnson. It’s my garden, my personal space, and therefore, if I desired wrapping myself in cellophane and performing the Macarena in the comfort of my own estate then why the bloody hell shouldn’t I?!
Lotus! Of course, focus Keeper. So anyway, he was feeling absolutely exhausted thus, powered down his equipment for the evening and span himself round on his stool to dismount. Bleeding Lotus is what I would refer to as a hardcore hombre. Reared on the street and down with the B-boys; if you unzipped this man’s face, it is likely that Isaac Hayes would be staring back at you, shades very much in tact. We worked together for a couple of years and he was undoubtedly the cool one. But no amount of street wise was helping him presently and that cat nap was becoming an ever more inevitable outcome.
Please allow me to clarify something before we continue. Should Bleeding Lotus be the reincarnation of Marvin Gaye, then my style is more akin to a Victorian poet with knee-high socks and buckled shoes, possibly busting out some lamb chops and a whisker thin ‘tache, perched atop a penny farthing, grasping a mug of Horlicks. Lotus is more Disco Inferno; whereas I’m more the Jive Bunny variety. Let’s not get it twisted folks; I was reared on Public Enemy, Eric B & Rakim, Big Daddy Kane, and the like, so I know how to bust a move or three. Word up! But, where Lotus can recite Rapper’s Delight in one long extended breath, I sound more like that nice Mrs. Bayliss, you know, the dotty old dear that lives three doors along from the McCluskys, Edith and Ernie. In my defense, I’m something of a social chameleon of sorts; drop me in front of a posse of badasses and I can hold my own for nearly ten minutes before ultimately revealing my inner dork. But on the whole, I make a stormtrooper appear less white.
Tell you what Grueheads; I’m fully aware we are present solely to discover the whereabouts of a certain Bleeding Lotus and, I promise you, we’ll get to him in turn. But there seems no harm in a little harmless display of my flow does there? You see, I may not be the coolest cat but I have been known to drop a few bars from time to time while waiting for my cupcakes to rise. I’ll fire off some rounds and you can decide for yourself whether I’m worthy of calling myself “street”. It may seem mighty inconsequential when you consider we have a missing person to locate but what’s life without a dash of whimsy? I shall grab my crotch like MJ, puff out my chest to capacity, and nod my head like a senior citizen bearing the first signs of dementia, then see where that leads us. So, without further ado, I bring you The Crimson Chemist!
I’m dressed to impress
Firearm strapped to my chest
Smith & Weston no less
Fully loaded and blessed
Got some phlegm on my chest
To hack off for the best
Backing off ain’t my style
Jacking off makes more sense
Please don’t think this a test
Or commence to obsess
We can still convalesce
And no less I attest
Ride with me atop crest
Of this wave nonetheless
Then you’ll truly possess
All the tools for success
In my dreams I have breasts
And a great pair of legs
It’s obscene by a stretch
That’s just me, more or less
Fret not as I have yet to give up my day job. You see, if you were to place me alongside a bus load of pensioners, then I would instantly become partial to Earl Grey tea in fine white china and possess a hankering for a game of Backgammon with Les, you know, with the gammy hip. Perhaps indulge in one of those delightful buttered scones that Mrs. Percival baked for the village fete last weekend. Lovely old dear Beryl; never been the same since her cat Alan passed away.
I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I’m so frightfully sorry for the constant distraction. I’m supposed to be telling a story here and keep getting sidetracked. Back in my day; there was no such thing as ADHD. Woefully short attention spans were considered the norm and there was no medical term to elucidate such ailments. I head out with the very best of intentions; really I do. You see, I have this parable all figured out and it will make sense, provided you choose to persevere a little longer. Let it be known that I do tend to run off at the mouth when given the chance. However, I’ve rattled on enough for the time being and it’s high time we get to the crux of our fable, I feel. Back to beeswax then.
Bleeding Lotus span himself round on his stool, straightened his baseball hat, kissed both of his biceps in turn, and…
Well that appears to be all we have time for folks. Sorry old beans, but we shall have to wait a tad longer to find out whatever happened to Bleeding Lotus. Like you even care.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013