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3rd Bass Wordz of Wisdom
Is it just me or is there something vaguely hot about a chick holding a gun? I’m not speaking of old Mrs Cavendish, the senile geriatric from just down the way with an unhealthy fixation on Charlton Heston movies, standing there with her nightgown gaping and withered chest prunes tucked into her girdle, whilst flailing her eighteenth-century musket willy nilly. No, I mean the voluptuous vixen, clad only in army issue boots and lopsided bullet belt, brandishing a semi-automatic. Did I mention she is pouting? Perhaps that’s just me. Anyhoots, it turns out there’s a legitimate fetish for young ladies with supple curves, holding weapons of moderate destruction and I’m fairly sure I’ve contracted said bug. Right now, I’ve got one in the chamber for chicks with guns and I suggest you spin the cylinder as it’s time to see what clicks and what goes boom.
I feel just like Christopher Walken, and have already attached my red headband in case things get messy as they invariably will. Thankfully, it appears as though I’ve inherited his mild psychosis as this is a ridiculous game and whoever invented it deserves shooting ironically. I sometimes wonder why the Vietnamese never considered Trivial Pursuit or even Backgammon instead of such an ill-fated pastime to while away the hours on those long summer evenings. If somebody held a gun to my head then I guess I’d give it a whirl but, other than that, you wouldn’t catch me partaking. Okay, you got me. I’m stalling for time.
Right then, here goes…CLICK!..Phew, it’s official. I’ve dodged my very first bullet. 36,000 more and I’ll have a vague idea how John Rambo felt after taking on the entire Afghan army for Rambo III. Actually, that’s a lot of spent shells. I’d be happy to reach Charles Bronson’s total of 47 from Death Wish III. He still managed to dodge every last one and he was already starting to perish by the time Michael Winner commenced filming. Truth is, I’d be more than content just to have his mustache. I wonder if you surrender any facial furnishings like a police badge once you retire to the big shooting range in the sky. Regardless, I wear a similar ‘tache to Bronson, with some pride I might add, only mine’s on the inside of my face. It just hasn’t worked out a way to manifest yet. I’m the only forty year-old man in the Western Hemisphere who can remove three weeks stubble growth using sellotape.
That’s right, chicks with guns leave me shell-shocked in the very best way. We’re talking doolally here; lips flapping like Big Bird on a speeding carnival float and with just the same odds of losing my balance, hitting the asphalt, and smashing every last tooth in my face. Before you state the obvious, I’m quite aware that birds don’t possess teeth, but they also don’t have pink hoops on their legs and that never stopped Big Bird. I’m digressing; what I’m saying is that they made me go weak at the knees. Should I survive the round and make that bell, then I will return to my corner, take my mouth rinse, and spit it straight back into the pail of despair before asking a skilled dental nurse to replace any missing molars with shrapnel crowns. I think her name would be Trixie. And Trixie would have two exclusive unique selling points making her the best paid orthodontist in state. Firstly, she would perform any dental work entirely bereft of clothes, other than army issue boots and trusty bullet belt of course. Secondly, tucked into her left beetle-crusher would be a Beretta 9 caliber pistol. You see where this is headed right?
CLICK…two down and I’m still standing, albeit with the equilibrium of a newborn fawn. This is like one big messed up round of Catchphrase, only each next square revealed is potentially lethal. I don’t know what I’m getting all het up about. Guns don’t kill people, rappers do; isn’t that the word on the street? You heard it first here; those body popping, limb locking, alloy crunching, shadow punching, cap reversing, rhyme traversing, bar spitting, gold bullion shitting, gangsta mack daddies know precisely how to bust a cap or two. It’s time to get hard; I’m off to the liquor store this very second to purchase my bottle of 8-Ball, then off to sporting goods to pick up some brand new L.A. Gear and I’m ready to bust some caps.
Damn right I’ve got game and it’s time to drop science like an arthritic chemist. Any budding emcees out there; stroke my crimson mic as this one’s for y’all. Need myself a battle name. Got it! The Crimson Chemist. Oh shit, I also need a title for my minor dittie. Actually, I shouldn’t use the word “dittie” as I run the risk of being found out. You see…come close…I’m not cool. I’m not particularly street either. I know a little urban dialect, and can tell my Beastie Boys from my Fat Boys, but I also dig Enya at bedtime. Look, the way I see it, we’re in this together now. If one of us gets found out then the other will likely take a ricochet so I say we play this off as gangstas and pray our battle allies need their ears syringing. On a brighter note; I’ve thought of a title for my rhyme. Spin that wheel DJ. Shit, it is still acceptable to use “spin that wheel” isn’t it? Never mind; I’m over-thinking shit. Curse my inner monologue. Right then; deep breath.
Platinum Bars: 100 Mile Salute
In exile, a hundred miles, from the promised land
to escape, in good shape, is my strongest plan,
If I can outrun fate and avoid all this hate,
Then I’ll earn my title as the running man,
98 still to run and fatigue no concern,
Should I learn of the burn, then no gurn you’ll discern,
I’ve got one pre-loaded and it bears your name,
and to think you ever doubted that the Chemist has game,
As for fame, overrated, sparingly designated,
That’s why the richest cats are also the most hated,
When I flex my vocation it takes a nation to hold,
society’s stagnation makes my blood run cold,
66 miles to go and nobody can catch me,
It’s def con 5, these dogs wanna dispatch me,
I’ll take what they fire with no bulletproof visor,
If you think I’m going down, I can’t wait to surprise ya,
My field of vision is vast, your next decision’s your last,
And my precision with incision is a different class,
While you’re there bleeding out I’m 33 from the dome,
and I guess right now is time to let your crimes be known,
I see the sense in cussing, but ladies ain’t no bitches,
They’re angelic, cherry relics, and they flick my switches,
11 left to nirvana, I’m well on my way,
Now I’ll pick up the pace for the last 10K,
Finish line is in sight, and the wire is live,
It’s heavy artillery for the final five,
Delta force, of course, the last line of defense,
Searchlights twitching behind me as I head for the fence,
Got one more trick up my sleeve as I reach terra firma,
It may ring a bell and it should fuckin’ concern ya,
Those bitches ain’t bitches, that’s the shame in your game,
And these particular chicks are one hell of an aim.
Wispy stragglers and Turkish hagglers; I believe I just spat some bars. I trust that you enjoyed fishing for tiddlers in the Chemist’s rhyme swamp. After all that; I’m beat. There only seems to be one conceivable manner in which to wrap this session up. I feel as though I need to get the last few bars of verse out of my system, but must warn you, they haven’t yet graduated into anything making even the vaguest bit of sense. Here goes; call the men in white lab coats.
Ron Burgundy’s guns, Sexy ladder rungs, titties on tongues, petulant strums, shattered glass thumbs, bearded gay moms, ticklish tums, porcelain gums, six Heidi Klums, three Professor Plums, a hamper of lungs and, of course, my personal darling…chicks with guns. Now if you will excuse me, I have a few rounds to fire off but, if you stick around, I may just let you blow my barrel.
Always take off the safety,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)
Full Clip Shooting Range
Yee haw cowboys and cowgirls. You’ve only gone walked into the most rootin’ tootin’ pistol shootin’ bar in the west. I’ll request that Mrs Flannigan fires up the organ and we’ll get an old-fashioned hootenanny underway in your honor. How does that grab you? Okay then; house rules. Try not to become alarmed by any firearms; I’m assured that the chicks holding them are all trained professionals. Also, said vixens may or may not be devoid of clothing. Don’t shoot the messenger; I’m only on relay duties. Just giving you fair warning is all. However, should this still sound like the kind of tavern to drown your sorrows in, then pull up a stool and I’ll pour you a bourbon on the house. Actually, I’m all out of bourbon; poured the last drop into Big Jim Rafferty’s tumbler. Don’t look now; he doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Tell you what; here’s some tepid tap water to tide you over. What do you want from me? You’re already getting chicks with guns in various states of undress. There really is no pleasing you pardner. Oh! How delightful; here come the men in white lab coats, right on cue. Strap me in boys but I plead that you leave one hand free just to scroll the page with. Ouch! That’s too tight. I’m sporting a chub in my sweats. Go easy.