The sound emanating from the speakers ceased to be definable as such. Instead, the slow, dense vibrations washed over me in warm streaks more akin to the gestural strokes employed by 17th century masters such as Pollock, Rubens, or Bosch; each melting into the next in the manner of that epic onslaught brought to bare against mother Earth’s delicate vaginal crust by those inexorable hot-rodding teenagers from Dimension X known only as “Neutrinos.” I knew that the upcoming mission would be one that would test all manner of my mettle to the ickiest of degrees. Its difficulty would be ten fold any such attempt on Cobain’s life before, or since. Making matters worse I would be embarking on my mission alone. Recent events in the latest test phase of the “Device” had left me without the luxury of friend, or rhythm section. The only recompense to their memory that I could fathom would be the completion of the final recordings we had made together. It was these tapes that I so languidly labored over at the present. Every push of the fader a testament to the truth and power of my will to power. Seemingly, out of nowhere, a shadow began to grow consuming the mixing board and psyche that I so tentatively gripped. Whirling my gaze back and to the left, the shape of my friend and co-conspirator Evan Bernard came into focus. In his usual sickeningly cheerful and maddening manner he said, “Dude, that’s a hit!” Smugly, I replied, “I know.”
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