Courtney Love-- the scrappy, damned-if-anyone-can-hold-me-back attitude. Rock star, actress, outspoken feminist icon. A riot ggggrrrrrl. Too bad that the riot seemed to be in her own personal affairs, a veritable letting loose of the Pampalona bulls!
There was an entire army of lawyers, publicists, bodyguards, personal assistants, salon employees, and bouncers to keep everything running smoothly.
But what happens when one's reputation goes from
"WYLD" to an utter lampoon of itself, and more importantly-- the money runs out?
Well, it somehow happened. . . . . some very unscrupulous individuals had
managed to swindle Courtney and Francis Bean out of $40 million and left them on
the yawning edge of bankruptcy. The media relished in the meltdown, and Ms.
Love's reaction could be described as such:
Where else would they seek shelter, but with "Aunt Winona" and her house guest that would never leave? A pile of human skulls waited outside the gate, as a warning to trespassers. Lately I had been standing up on the roof, firing at them with a crossbow. Winona opened the door and let them in, carrying what remained of their possessions. Winking Christmas lights blinked in our abode, though this was definitely not the season. And there I was, sitting on the couch and cleaning my guns. This banner hung behind me:
Boxes of ammunition were piled from floor to ceiling, along with rocket launchers and other paramilitary gear.
"You stay away from my guns, you little shit!" I pointed at Francis Bean.
"MOMMY!", she cried-- clinging to Courtney's hip. Winona sat down next to me, wide-eyed, her hands in her lap.
"This place will not be turned into a heroin den, understand?", I spat.
"Winona? Get me a Vanilla Coke. That's a girl. . . . ." as I patted her behind.
"He's the Nietzschean superman!", my Winona remarked as she, Courtney, and Francis Bean went into the kitchen.
"Before I met him, my life had no purpose! I have nicknamed him 'Adolphous, Lion of the North'!"
Winona came back in with my soda, and I nodded my regal "thank-you".
"So you're dead broke, Courtney. Do have a plan? I fuckin' thought not. Lean her real close. There is this band called 'Lithium', a tribute to Nirvana with a singer that looks like you-know-who. Looks like 'em, sounds like' em, and maybe if you could get them under your aegis you cauld make a bundle for yourself and Francis Bean. Verily the Generation-X
"1964". You know, the Beatles tribute! If you want me to contact them for you back in St. Louis, I can definitely do that. It sure beats you stayin' around here with that wild kid of yours!".
Courtney stared on attentively.
"How the fuck are we supposed to get Winona's ghost-written autobiography done with you around here anyway? Don't touch my computer, and don't invite any of your junkie friends over, and we'll do just fine".
I tapped my pipe against the coffee table.
"Oh, and another thing-- don't tell anybody that you're here. We don't want the
politically-incorrect attention! Where I come from, you're ANATHMA!".
"Now go clean the toilet!"
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
© 2008 by Insufferable Industries
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