Suggested Audio Candy:
Flight Goodbye Horses if you side with the Bandit
Aphex Twin Windowlicker if you side with the Keeper
When two men come together to wrestle mentally, it is critical that every last detail be considered in advance. Setting the tone is paramount; in order to wear this prose like liquified latex, one must be provided opaque passage and should there be two of you, then even more so. A local pub, this benign hill tumor is separated from the existence of the tangible, and antiquated in both tasteful and wretch-worthy parallels. Crimson curtains dance along the entire frontal fascia, inviting us in with meandering intent. This establishment is evidently daubed in cruor and, for two wearying pilgrims, hosts an inimitable cauldron for our twisted mental brew to percolate. Let clarity commence. The two I speak of both have quills with poised claws, carved from platinum ore. Dipped in delectable mind honey, excreting our souls akin to a pair of rowdy kestrels. Nonsense is commonplace; comfort discomforting, our cerebral guano spatters the cheap frosted glass currently flogging a papadum and pint curry night. Remnants of previous face beards, brushing perpetually past its nobbled surface. We’re the only beards here now. Keeper of the Crimson Quill has company sitting perched in his mental side car, cradling his glassful of blackened madness.
The Lecherous Bandit or El Lecheroso Bandito for any Togan witch doctors, criminally retarded, or bashful megalomaniacs amongst us sits squirreled in the same corner, knees touching my bony patella; ogling my succulent peepers with undisguised intent, readied to insert his neuron-guzzlers and suck my very brain from inside of me. However, we shall be slurping in unison.
During our trolley dash we shall be pillaging one another’s frontal lobes, burglarizing the musty mental muskets, performing a mental Charleston and trawling for rejoinders. Indeed, we shall be asking posers. Whether gobbledygook or advanced nitrous nuggets depends largely on the rods cast. As Keeper my rod flies first as I must delve into the mind-space of our roving Grue-comer to make sure he’s kosher as he may well be carrying some kind of tropical disease or, worse still, head lice. You won’t be familiarized until now with this provocative trespasser but, by the close of this particular tête-à-tête, you will know him only too well and perhaps wish you didn’t or me either come to think of it. And so it begins.
Keeper: What drives your mind forward when armed with your own feathered quill, how festering is your mind’s trough?
Bandit: It is unashamedly rotten to its pulpy core my good man. Filled with oodles of inquisitiveness, perversion and injustice if you really must know. It also contains a number of rather delightful fruit-based recipes. I love words and general silliness, but yet I am more visual than anything else. I am by trade, an artist. Women and hedonistic hijinks are subjects that dominate proceedings and, though my brain cells die by the day at an alarming rate and I seem to be only too keen to wave them on their way with an almighty ta-dah, I am permanently on the trail of artistic brilliance. A wandering, sordid pilgrimage that is less about the destination and all about the journey. Futile? Of course. Fulfilling? Fuck yes. But here’s a question for you now – How has Rivers of Grue changed you? Do you find it fulfilling?
Keeper: Beyond my wildest whiskers my dear brother. My previous skin has now shed, I keep it ironed and folded in my boudoir for fancy dress and bar mitzvahs. I am transmogrified, rebuilt from my own ball sweat and coated in delectable deep red grue, which pleases me infinitely. My filter’s off, nay, busted. I no longer hide behind my own shadow’s shadow. That delights me more than an incessant self-defillation machine on deluxe setting.
Bandit: I remember putting that in the McDonald’s suggestion box. The question being “What could we do to improve our service?” Answer: A machine that tosses you off while you eat. Remember that? I’m sure you were there.
Keeper: Indeed I was present. As I recall we weren’t fulfilled by the hollow choices available. A distinct lack of sexual clarification. What good is a box if filled with banal nothingness? Why not ask a poser that every man imagines to accompany his warm apple pie. Which reminds me brother, you bandit you, didn’t you have one erupt on a tepid summer’s day when entering your vehicle?
Bandit: It went off like Etna. Liberally smothering the insides of the car with burning grey fruity snot. Thankfully I survived. I’m sure many have had encounters with those fucking things and emerged from the scuffle resembling Rocky Dennis. Still, it tasted alright. Waste not want not. It spilled its internal sloppage and licked the windows clean on all fours like a wanton, desperate spider. We had many adventures Keeper and that leads me conveniently to my next question. Of all our escapades, do any stand out from the rest?
Keeper: So many that it hurts a little. Where to possibly start? A liberal sprinkling perhaps. I have got down on all fours before you and placed an empty shoe-box on my back, mimicking a snail, in a crowded city centre. Precious few have seen the madness we’ve initiated. I fell through your older brother’s ceiling, leaving a chasmous hole which he covered with a Bruce Lee poster. Then we clogged up the household hoover in a hysterical attempt to tidy his quarters before the imminent gatekeepers’ return. In my recollection, his plan was foiled by one crucial factor – the poster eventually bowed, allowing access for all number of long-legged beasties. Your kin, as a severe arachnophobe, dissolved in fear that very same dusk. When by your side I felt somewhat like Alice, the looking-glass beckoned each time our minds meshed and some of the funniest instances from my transience have come from our contorted cavorts. Have you any nuggets to share?
Bandit: Well, being a lecherous soul, One thing springs to mind for some reason. I vividly recollect walking up your fine garden path (no innuendo intended), rapping upon your back door (still no innuendo intended) and waiting until a fine young lady approached, glimpses of her fine figure clothed in very little, tantalizingly ethereal through the frosted glass, and then she opened the door, and a lovely lithe young body revealed itself, tanned and hairless. Muscular, smooth, and clad in a floral two-piece bikini, she stood before me and beckoned me inside. It took me a good five seconds before I realized it was you. Wasn’t expecting that. To be fair, as men dressed as women go, you so pulled that off (definitely no pun intended, though far more tempted than I should have been).
Keeper: Perfection my dear man, indeed it was I. When one has three older siblings and spends their infancy being dressed up like a bemused mannequin, it’s hard not for some of that to rub off (pun generally always intended). My grandmother’s stockings just felt so darn good against my legs and it was her who commented many times on my beautifully shaped pins. Something just felt right and here’s one you may not be aware of. This happened again but this time your own mother was involved.
Bandit: Hang on…
Keeper: Fret not sugarplum as she was merely an oblivious bystander. I was at my home with my first wife and feeling friskier than a pole-cat cum party so decided to don one of her rather resplendent gowns. It fitted like a clingfilm catsuit, all bar the crotch which bulged like a mole mound and gave your poor mother a most undesirable mixed grill. I say undesirable but she still came in and I’m pretty sure she was licking her gums as she did.
Bandit: Did she compliment you on your attire? Did she have busy hands? And come to think of it, is this a regular occurrence? Are you a blood-spattered Eddie Izzard complete with eyeliner, fish-nets and a craving for the macabre?
Keeper: She played along, forever a good sport your mother, and there may have been a tug or stroke here or there. As for fish-nets, they interest me yes, and I rather like the way they feel against my skin. I’m undoubtedly blood-spattered, have more a yearning hunger for the macabre and, whilst not owning eyeliner specifically, I’d probably go for deep red if I bucked the trend. Basically, there aren’t many things I wouldn’t consider. What good is a life if not used to explore the infinite possibilities.
Bandit: I have this profound vision of you prancing in front of the mirror, cavorting to Goodbye Horses, akin to Buffalo Bill in Silence of The Lambs, frank ‘n’ beans tucked away well out of sight. It’s very you. My mother copped a feel? That must be where I have obtained my inquisitive wandering feelers. The guy at the cinema with the slowly lurking flesh-mittens creeping round the back of the chair, stroking a stray lock of hair before moving onto more wet, succulent and engorged flesh…whoa there! I’m digressing, kudos to you for dressing as a dame. Why the hell not? Sex does pop up a fair amount in your work. Describe what defines you as a sexual creature.
Keeper: I have been caged for much of my existence after being led blindly into darkness with my hands as the only tool for discernment. I remained undefined for long stretches but have recently augmented my thinking and am now open to acts which I never considered previously. I’d happily be bound, tormented, stalked, have a curiosity for pain and have entered into a second prime. For so long, my heydays appeared passed but I have found reassurance through Rivers of Grue that my sensual pilgrimage is still in its infancy.
With that, the witching hour beckons. For whom does the bell toll? It tolls for thee, the cold blank night beckons with urgency now, so we shall bid you adieu and continue our discussion another dusk. Until that time comes, these two reprobates will be back walking the streets, which is dreadful news for any Algerian milk maidens out after curfew. The next meeting plans to be even more explosive as the pair have locked antlers once now and unfortunately haven’t found a way of untangling them yet. Fret not as you can stop this anguish by simply clicking the link below. Go on, do it or I’ll dress up as Tootsie and molest your auntie.
If only sinning were winning,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Stealing your clothes since 1985,
The Lecherous Bandit
aka El Lecheroso Bandito