The Amazon Adventure

Hey diary! 08/22/2004, 2:15pm

I'm soo glad that the motherfuckin' tour is over! Finally! I can't wait to come back home, back to my hot wife and back to all my crap I've got in my motherfucking mansion! That's a by-word for rest and peace. I need it so bad...
Those derps bother the shit out of me!... Although in this moment there's something you can call silence... wow. We're right now somewhere over Brasilia and I still can't believe that those creepy sick guys around me are actually quiet now!
S i l e n c e. Probably I let it tattoo on my forehead anytime...
But... nooo -.- when I look 'round now silence is scared away like a bunch of atheists flee from a damn pile of Jehova's Witnesses: Pogo's sitting on his seat, goggling autisticly at the ceiling and EVERYBODY on this fuckin' plane HAS TO listen to his damn fuckin' heavy-metal crap although he's wearing headphones! I'm sure that his brain's blown away soon (if it exists yet)... Mnah, anyway he's still able to play keyboard... think he'd be a case for science... Shit, whatever.
Ginger this damned fool runs up and down the corridor holding up high his mobile phone, still not believing in poor reception... manymany feet above motherfucking mother earth. I've ever known he'd never come down to it but his level is right buried... He's a fish, y'know... ha-ha!...
“Oh Manson, w-h-y doesn't it work?? I think we're closer to the satellites than usual!... Shitty!”
(I. think. I. have to. interrupt... and KILL HIM! - Wait, no. I should give the pissant scratch on his temple a chance to heal 'cause I need him... as a drummer.)
Now John is getting on my sick nerves, too... what's goin' on here!? - Of course it's John! (OK, Twiggy is also kinda annoying but... hmm, he went to the board toilet with Tim for seconds...) At least Five isn't noisy this moment but for all that he leans sleeping against me and drool's dipping on my shoulder, ugh! Fuck off now!! What if I take Gingers drumsticks (laying on the seat in front of me) and hitting the crap outta the country fag now?... Wait, no... maybe he's an important factor of my band.
Oowwww... I capitulate -.- I'm just the pooooor'n famous Anti-Christ who only wants one damnfuckingshit thing and I still don't know why I don't get it... I deserve it so badly: REST. AND. PEACE. On earth and in the air... everywhere. I deserve it, right diary?
It's Jesus, this son of a bitch... I know he's the one who get in the way of... all I wanna do.
You're the only one who understands me... thanks for that.

Marilyn

***
Manson packed away his black and inconsiderable book cheerlessly. He was in a really bad mood, so he crossed his tattooed arms and looked out of the window like a chained dog. There were no clouds, he could see the jungle in the blazing sun. The roaring noise of the band jet mixed up with Pogo's heavy-metal fuss and lewdly moans which came from the toilet – what nobody noticed in fact.
Much less Pogo. He seemed to be very bored and lost in his overdriven music he listened to. After he glared senselessly at the ceiling he stalked secretely the busy drummer.
“Fucking fucked... fuck!” The tall man jumped up and down in despair with the mobile phone in his raised hand and seconds later he stumbled foolishly in a seat. The keyboardist raised one of his shaved eyebrows. He really didn't understand the other man's absurd behaviour. Still bored he turned off the terrible noise and dropped of his poor headphones. An awkward silence filled the cramped room.
“Hey Franklin, whatcha doin', man? Are you mailing to God: 'Hey dude, my evil cell doesn't work here on plane! Greetz, Franklin'?” He giggled like a rude child.
Ginger turned towards Pogo, not without looking daggers at him. Many daggers.
“Don't call me like that, dumbass! Kenny, goddamned! KENNY! What's so difficult 'bout that...”
Pogo still sneered.
“You know you look like a nazi with your raised arm?...”
He giggled again as Ginger lowered his arm bemused. Grumpy he went to his seat where he sat down - knee to knee with Manson. While the man with the long, black and silky hair stared out of the window Ginger took his drumsticks and hit pouting and bored Johns blonde head.
Pogo in this moment suddenly payed attetion to the lustfully noises behind the cabin door, so he stepped up to the toilet like he's taking a walk in the park and opened the door abruptly. Two piercing shrieks broke up the... you'd say silence.
The odd man shrugged and closed the door unimpressed when Ginger tried to get rid of a funnily enough furious John. Manson glanced entreating at Pogo but he just lolled in his seat and picked up a blue and inconsiderable notebook.

***

Anywhere but surely not on asphalt or somethin' like thaat, 2:bla pm... August, what year?, 22nd

It's soooo bloody boring! Nobody wanna play with me... nobody cares about me... gna. Stupid hoes. The only ones who r... kinda active here r Twigz and the sweet'n'sassy Swede. But they don't wanna hang round with me! Pah!!
No bitches, no tits, no shit to smooooke or anything like that....... not even a keyboard! All the good stuff has to be in the trunk, what's that crazy shit?!
The pilot 's boring anyways. He doesn't wanna fly x-citing lOopings nor a little swoop! Faggot. I think I have to visit him once more in his fuckin cockpit (LOL! cockpit)... maybe I can coax the deadhead.
Did I metion yet that all motherfuckers on board r fucking deadheads?!

Fuck u,
Pogo

***
Meanwhile John calmed down and sat back. Ginger had to save his drumsticks and himself from the raging guitarist, now he was in a snit with crossed arms. Manson quite stucked between both men and could hardly keep calm. With closed eyes he leaned against the wall beside the small window, still hoping this stressing flight might be over soon - or better: right now. The singer was actually surprised by his huge patience. He felt like Buddha.
A terrible squeaking noise caused by Gingers index finger disturbed the bad atmosphere on board. He wrote 'John is a dumbass' on the fogged glass pane. Marilyn crunched his teeth while John stared into Gingers eyes and making a I'm-gonna-break-your-holy-drumsticks-motherfucker!-gesture.
After all Tim and Twiggy tiptoed through the corridor towards their seats. Twiggy's dreads were completely in a mess that you'd think he was in a cage among doped monkeys (maybe he is still... in a specific way) and marks of Tim's red lipstick could be restored well in both faces.
“You think... they noticed anything?...” Twiggy whispered hestitantly.
The man with the slicked blond hair straighten his black muscle top and looked around deadpanned.
“Dunno.”
The same time Pogo went over the poor and stressed pilot, avering to do the damn loopings or some other shit – the main thing is bringing action to the crappy band jet right now. The operator did his very best to ignore this insane man but it was harder than it seems. Sweat dropped down his strained face.
“...I worked for NASA, y'know!... Good ol' days... Now listen, man! If I'd still working there we'd start a battle! Who flies faster, higher, MORE THRILLING! Y'know I'm gonna win, ha. You pussy!”
Twiggy leaned back in his comfortable seat, Tim on his left side. The bassist in the orange dress nuzzled in his very feminine clutch until he pulled out a pink (not really inconsiderable) book and also a gegaw biro. Then he began to write neatly:

Dear diary! 08-22-2004, 3:17pm

After having a gorgeous fuck with Thim I come back to tell you aaall these things that going on.
Oh myy, first I have to tell you that Pogo (this derp!) disturbed our lovely hanky-panky on the john (ha, not our guitar god... but...hmmm...a threesome? I'll think about that). He's respectless! Dunno what went wrong with his breeding. All you can imagine I think, haha!
But muuuch mooore important is that I'm sooooo in love with my Thimey-boy! Aww... I wanna fuck withim again! He is the ultimative and incarnate sex symbol on this motherfucking earth, I swe

ar!_. Fuck, these devious turbulences are making me sick... gawd!...
See you hopefully.

Love, Twiggy

***
The jet began to stutter and resound in an odd way what made John grabbing Gingers knee by mistake (of course!...). Long-forgotten was their childish conflict. Manson only winced his eyebrow while he was about to fall asleep. He murmured something and cuddled up to the wall what seemed to be rather uncomfortable. Twiggy clinched Tim's arm like a cat its scratching post.
“Oh my gawd, what's up here?” He whined quietly yet. Tim just used his favorite face: he deadpanned.
Meanwhile Pogo was about to scold the over strained pilot.
“You're pilot, don't cha know?! Meh... that's so simply to fly a jet!... How did you get your fuckin' flying license, hu? Tell me, maaan! Could be a fascinating story. Whatever, listen: I can tell you that's your fault not working at NASA...”
The keyboardist was roughly interrupted by the operator who checked his instruments and blinking lights with panic in his wide opened eyes. He breathed very fast.
“Could you please shut up, only this moment please?!! You have to know I need to concentr- Oh Lord, I – I think the machine is damaged!...”
The man seemed to be close to an anxiety attack when he glanced through the front shield. Pogo was obviously in an opposite mood. Sighing he raised an eyebrow and followed the pilot's glance outside.
“You think? You actually THINK the plane is damaged? Y'have to fucking know this in fact! Gosh...” He face-palmed and ran with his hand through his already messed mowhawk subsequently.
A few seconds later the jet lost height by what it was shaking horribly. In point of fact the instruments showed alarming outcome. Another jerk caused the five men at the passengers area to yell at the same time during Pogo's head banged pretty hard against the low ceiling in the cockpit.
The Swede sat there donnishly and he couldn't help himself to get rid of his panic-stricken lover doll. Besides there were no chance to get rid of Twiggy, not in this complicated situation which became already life-threatening. Funnily enough Marilyn awoke caused by this terror. Now his worst dream were alive: He would die together with his annoying jackasses in an also fretful situation. But he was suddenly cut off by the strange sight of John sitting sheepish on Gingers lap.
Then there was another violent jerk, the operator was cursing badly. Afterward he yelled:
“Take your life preservers now!!! YOU TOO, YOU BATSHIT INSANE IDIOT!! GET OUT OF MY COCKPIT AND TAKE YOUR FUCKING LIFE PRESERVER!!”