


*=--                                                                      --=*
{        The file you are about to read is ficticious.  Any resemblance      }
     to actual people and/or events must mean that you shouldn't have taken
{                     that last dose of low-grade acid.                      }
*=--                                                                      --=*



                      *=--                           --=*
                      {               the               }
                             -=*/> Buzzz Bros. <\*=-

                                    present
                                    -------      
                            When Venus Crosses Mars

                      {         Fiction by Havoc        }
                      *=--                           --=*



   ...after he swallowed his last bite of his Double Cheeseburger (from White
Castle, because he liked the concept of the holes in the meat), I finally
mustered up enough nerve to ask him....

        "If a chicken and a half could lay an egg and a half in 
         a day and a half, how long would it take a grasshopper
         with a wooden leg to kick all the seeds out of a dill
         pickle?"

    He looked at me, and I could tell his eyes could see right through
me...right into my soul, right inside my guts; like he was searching for the
meaning of life (or at least for any undigested food...I could tell he was
still hungry).  He sighed.  He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and just
sighed.  What was he thinking?  Did he even care?   I needed to know!  More
than anything I just need to know that.  It had been annoying me like an
infected sore that wouldn't heal.  Finally, after what seemed like the same
amount of time it takes for a cum shot in a lame porno, he broke down and spoke
to me.

        "It doesn't matter....I'm an atheist."  He said.

    I smiled...and it felt good.  It had been almost two (2) years since I had
felt good, and that was the time I saw Wayne fall of the garage roof with the
pipe wrench.  I told him that leverage was the key, but he still wouldn't hold
on to the satellite dish.  

        "Are you going to watch Geraldo tomorrow?"  I asked.

        "If he asks me too," He replied. "I'm more into Sally
         Jesse Raphael...see speaks from the heart."

        "I need a Diet Barq's...are you lonely still?"  I needed to know this.

        "Lions are growing in the desert like yellow roses 
         blowing in the cool summer breeze."          

    His last reply made me quiver.  I knew he was a great person, but never
could I have imagined he liked Barq's root beer too.  His poetic imagery was
not to be equaled by the way he wore his Big Yank jeans.  

    I envisioned him driving in a Jeep down an open mountian road.  His
speedometer reading ninety-six (96) kph, and his 8-track blasting out Meat
Loaf's Bat Out of Hell.  As the fringe from his vinyl "CHiPS Offical Junior
Police" jacket blew in the wind, a beautiful red-head drives up next to him in
a seventy-seven ('77) Ford Pinto.

    As cool and as deft as any woman should be, she leaned over and rolled down
her window with both hands...because it gets stuck half-way down.  Tiffany's "I
Think We're Alone Now" can be heard ever so faintly in the background.

        "Excuse me..." The words rolled off her tongue.
        "Are those Big Yank jeans you are wearing?"

    She ends her question with a simple look.  Although simple...it was
subliminally drenched with sex.  Sex and Vienna Beef hot dogs...she was hungry
too.  The back seat of her car revealed numerous Mello Yello cans, and a mint
copy of X-MEN number one seventy-two (#172), the one where Storm gets a
mohawk...I think.  

        "Why yes.....yes they are"  He answered.

    He knew she was as cool as he.  He knew that she was impressed.  He knew
that he was damn lucky for going to Sears to buy pencil top erasers shaped like
the General Lee from the Duke's of Hazzard....and running across those jeans.
He knew that if he didn't get the Jeep home before seven o'clock (7:00), his
sister ws going to take back her "Young Miss" magazines with the complete
Susanna Hoffs autobiograpy.   

        "I thought so."  Was all she said....nothing more.      

    Simple and precise.  Elegant and beautiful.  She understood him.  She
understood the bond they had.  She understood that if she didn't see a doctor
soon, her yeast infection would be running rampant like the mobs in Detroit on
Halloween.  She drives away.  The first and last time they would meet.  The end
and the beginning in one quick instant, like the way a juice box has the straw
right on the back of the package.  With her Pinto reaching speeds only topped
by a Renault Le Car, she is gone.  

        "What do those white marks on the side of the label
         of a Budweiser bottle mean?"    He interrupted my vision.
        
        "It's a conspiracy.  They collaborated with Dorito's."
               I replied.
         
    That was another of my theories.  The makers of Dorito's knew that Bud
drinkers always wondered about that.  Knowing that the thought process also
triggers the hunger of beer drinkers, the white marks on the side of the label
of Bud bottles are subliminally encoded to read: " Jay Leno is God, worship no
others."  Because the unconscious mind is truly brilliant, it realizes the
connection between tortilla chips, and The Tonight Show guest host.

        "The Beastie Boys second album flopped.  I feel this
         is the sole reason the Russians shot down Korean Air
         Lines flight 107 (KA-107)."   He knew that I knew that.

    It was always my opinion that if Adrock, MCA and Mike D. would have been 
more cautious with their sophomoric release, flight KA-107 would never have
been shot down that day.  The flight recorder on board was played back,
revealing miscellanious ramblings.  They include:

          _                                                     _
         | |     "Hey Ladies sucks!"                           | |
         |A|     "They could never top Paul Revere.."          |A| 
         |C|     "Why did they leave Def Jam??"                |C|
         |T|     "...watch the Russian air space dude.."       |T|
         |U|     "And what about MCA's beard...looks shitty."  |U|
         |A|     "....<< KA-107 this is control, please        |A|
         |L|      monitor altitude and be aware that you       |L|
         | |      are straying into unfriendly                 | |
         |R|      air space >>....."                           |R|
         |E|     "...BRASS MONKEY...THAT FUNKY MONKEY!!!"      |E|
         |C|     "...dude...Dude...<DUDE!!!!!>"                |C|
         |O|     "What the......ahhh shit Bill...I told        |O|
         |R|      you to be careful with my CD's bro!"         |R|
         |D|     "...<< KA-107 BANK LEFT!!  BANK LEFT!! >>"    |D|
         |I|     "Ahh, Bill?"                                  |I|
         |N|     "What up dude?"                               |N|
         |G|     "You see that.....?"                          |G|
         |_|     "Shit..........."                             |_|

    Proof positive that the Beastie Boys are soley responsible for the two
hundred fifty-six (256) people that died that day.  It is my opinion that MCA
and Mike D. be brought to trial for these atrocities.  Adrock's OK, becuse he
made up for it in a cool movie about a troubled teen, called "Lost Angels".

        "If hotels don't have a thirteenth (13th) floor, why
         is there a room six six six (666)?"
             Another imponderable leaps from his lips.

        "Six plus six plus six equals eighteen (6+6+6=18).  If you add the
         number of feet between the bed and TV, which is five (5),
         and subtract that from eighteen (18), it equals 
         thirteen (13)."

    Another theory of mine is that hotels try to scam the general public with
the abolishment of the thirteenth (13th) floor.  In reality, room six six six
(666) >IS< the thirteenth (13th) floor.  Seeing that the people who would not
want a thirteenth (13th) floor, would also not want a room six six six (666). 
Archetects, in conjunction with hotel general managers, have secretly built an
entire floor in one room.....kind of like the Tardis effect if you have ever
watched Dr. Who.  When a guest is checked in, the instant a key is placed in
his hand he is subliminally quizzed on his knowledge of important facts.  These
facts include:  Meat Sauce contains no meat.  Pop Tarts are used most often by
the government to increase the dancing ability of M.C. Hammer; which increases
race relations.  Post-It notes were not meant to be removeable - in actuality
they were a prototype for the heat resistant tiles on the space shuttle.  The
Nike "Swoosh" design actually has a biblical relationship...because Jesus
himself was known to have this same mark on the outside of his left foot.

    If the guest then proceeds to answer these questions correctly, he/she is
given access to the room/floor.  Miscellanious activities abound here, most of
which reflect the same things your mother told you not to do.  Such as: running
with scissors, chewing gum in bed, making funny faces until they permanently
stick to your face, wearing plaid pants with striped shirts, and leaving the
toilet seat up after you go.

        "I am a leper messiah.  I have befriended creeping 
         death, but yet the weak are ripped and torn away. 
         I have lived my entire life trapped under ice.
         I am nothing but a harvester of sorrow, and there
         is never justice for all.  We are controlled
         by nothing more than a master of puppets, who believes
         only in battery and the thing that should not be. 
         I was born for dying."
       
                His poetic lust shining even more.
    
        "The alter of sacrifice has been nothing but a large
         war ensemble.  A dead skin mask confronts us, but still
         we are haunting the chapel.  Chemical warfare abounds...
         and will soon reign in blood.  Soon you shall meet the
         undead - and be blissful with the Angel of Death.  It is
         an epidemic, a permanent desease.  We are forced to fight
         behind the crooked cross - moving on and on south of Heaven"

                My frail attempt at a reply cannot equal his.        

    It had been hours, neigh, days since our initial contact.  Although now I
could see right through his initial intent of demoralizing me, I still had a
thirst that only he could quench.  I needed to know the true story behind Tucan
Sam and the Fruit Loops.  I had to be told why the Kennedy's had Marilyn Monroe
murdered.  It was imperative to know why Gorbechov (sp) had that mark tattooed
on his head.  He was a mirror image of me.  A complete reflection of what I
was.  There was nothing that he didn't know about me, he knows more about me
than I know about myself.  

        But yet he hates me for being myself.  He hates me for questioning the
makers of A One (A-1) Steak Sauce for putting raisins in the recipe.  He hates
me for wanting to know why movies and the press call people who like punk as
being "punk rockers", and not just "punks".  Am I the victim or the crime?
_______________________

-=*/> Buzzz Bros. <\*=-
      (c) MCMXCI  
_______________________

