I did not do this with the ultraistic aim of killing radio personalities, but rather for the promised financial restitution of one hundred dollars. It is such a paltry sum, in truth, but keeping a sunken den, and an army of killer midgets within the top draw of my desk is a drain on my not very considerable fiances. But enough of that. That is not why you are here. Instead, you hover and crawl to hear about the chanting of virgins, and the cries of old men who have long lost their hair, but still insist that 'stairway to heaven' should receive radio play every twenty three minutes.
The RSL is a festy, cockroach ridden crawl of a building filled with the bright neon lights of pokies. By their light, one can watch the many limbed cigarette stained brown cockroaches punch the buttons on four or five machines, in the vain hope that they might take away a winning of baby skulls. They chitter and chatter in their private language, and penguins in top hats (a craze among penguins, I have noticed) deliver them sugary beverages.
At the door of the RSL, I was frisked, and told that I might live too close to enter (RSL's being a strange beast in which you cannot go to any but the one that is close to you, or those that are very, very far from you, such as in Iceland) but I told them that I was here to single handedly stop radio stations from playing AC/DC and rose petals fell from the ceiling, to lead me to the research hall. That these petals were brittle and black with decay did not escape my notice.
I walked down what appeared eight or nine levels, but could not be sure, due to the rising odour of sulfur, and, taking off my jacket due to the heat, stepped into a cramped room that held sixty alpha males from such male like endeavours as football, accounting, and penguin hunting. Having never considered myself an alpha male, I felt a little uneasy, but quickly pushed this to the side upon noticing that fried baby eyeballs were being offered.
But, dear reader, I was unprepared.
There was something in those eyeballs, that, when mixed with the repeated vocals of Jimmy Barnes and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, forced me to become sluggish. To turn my dial to suggest that yes, I liked the awful repetitive nature of the last Foo Fighters album. I tried to stop. I pulled out a knife and stabbed myself. The blood that rose was black, and filled with smiling faces that began to sing Creed songs to me, while beneath it, hummed that the music was all about God. That this was Christian rock I was voting for.
The sludge who was hosting the night asked me if anything was wrong.
I tried to tell him. Yes, he had no bone structure, and made misogynistic remarks throughout the evening, but he could stop it. He could give me something new. He could try some of the Flaming Lips. He could stop cutting out the swear words of Rage Against the Machine's 'Killing in the Name' which reduced the song to a scream with no purpose. He had the power. But when I tried to tell him this, all that rose was a strangled gurgle that may have been any number of Metallica songs. And if the sludge had had bones and facial features, he might have smiled. Instead, he told me that I was a winner.
A winner, I mumbled, while joining my fellow alpha males in a moment of air guitar. But I don't want to be a winner.
But I was.
Crowd surfed by the alpha males, I was dropped in front of two CDs. The new Blur and the new Liam Lynch. I didn't want either. Blur was a bland and useless pop band that I loathed, while Liam Lynch rose from that strand of brain damaged musicians who had seen This is Spinal Tap at exactly the wrong age. But I had to take one. One. God. I tried to stab myself, but the sludge would have nothing of it.
And so I took the Liam Lynch CD, and then my hundred bucks. Nodding, gripping both tightly, I was ushered up, into the clear air of the 'roach infested RSL, where I realised that, brain washed into compliance, I had failed. I had changed nothing. I had not even be given the chance.