Panther Man

  

A renegade from the world of Beetlejuice, you could only know him as “The Panther Man”.

Up from the swamps of the southern outback like gutter-fried insanity, he mutters on. Not quite a military combat veteran, but “a wannabee” as it’s Tarzan USA pitted-up against a safari of feral jungle cats. . . . . all but in a loin-cloth, cammo-jacket, and spiked razor-back hair like some kind of wild hog, on two legs.

There have been pictures of “ground zero” down at an outdoors “Poison” concert, a mud-hole of stump-frump, dazed-eyed slope-heads looking like they crawled out of a Babylon latrine with bloody animal-bones and pin-prick eyes, your relative of the Florida boardwalk barnacle in an Hawaiian shirt and a pager, making drug deals.

But this is the St. Louis zoo, up north. “Big Cat Country”, in fact or the area closer to the sunset and golden roar of the highway as true as when the concrete was poured for this outdoor exhibit back in 1977. You have the roarin’ tiger, a circus poster of a ferocious maned lion like leopard-skin seat-covers and zebra Memphis-Mafia hats like pimps.

This, as the families walk by pushing strollers. Their mindset is more a relic of the stuffed-animal you would find in the gift-shop.

Out here, though– it’s about testing yourself “against that primal scream, out there” as a muscular-shouldered snow leopard trains past with its muzzle snorting through its whiskers by the wire-mesh cage, when it’s not lurking beneath a piss-soaked tree trunk like captured malevolence.

Part “Deliverance”. . . . . maybe “Prince of Tides”. . . . . THE PANTHER MAN slurs through an inner-monologue like Jerry Lee Lewis high on Hadycol and mountains of coke atop a piano, or maybe just the chipper, low-slung brightness of a mechanic in a Jiffy Lube cap and coveralls. The subject always turns to the killing-power of firearms, or bodybuilding, or fast cars down at the Tri-City Speedway.

Crack-brained incoherence, like “white-line fever” after an amphetamine binge. He grips a pocket knife in his teeth and hooks his fingers into the cage as he climbs up like “G.I. Joe” with the stealth of a panther.

It’s to prove his manhood, after-all. Like youthful exuberance and “BLACK CAT FIRECRACKERS” with a head muddy with alcohol and mischief.

He lives to tell the tale! Don’t mix vodka, orange juice, and a whole spleen full of “panther piss”. You could have your face end up on “COPS”.

Panther Man

Creepy Crawl Punk Venu

 

If it’s anything St. Louis has no shortage of—it’s the various small-dive punk clubs. Some open, some close—R.I.P. as rents go up with the gentrifying neighborhoods. Your best bet is something in the shuttered industrial-district on the grimy edge of city limits, a rose-carving in a wrought iron-gate for the dank atmosphere of auto-exhaust and the sewers.

Cheap shows– $10 for a night of mayhem, if the bands on the bill aren’t terribly well-known.

You have a thrasher, maybe a left-wing skinhead from the old Eastern bloc countries who weaves through the audience in a green bomber jacket, his boots laced-up with red anti-fa shoelaces. Punk is maybe an open-minded series of observations, individually subjective for all the strange flavors of variety. He looks like “that guy from Anthrax”, as you could only be referring to Scott Ian, like earnest gung-ho driftwood and goofy-foot guitar hopping like cargo shorts and raked guitar strings.

You also have “wise-guys” with the sly, perceptive art of observation. Maybe he’d be a cartoonist or just a clerk at 7-Eleven. View-askew, a cap turned sideways and a clever t-shirt of some scribbled vintage. His state is constant bemusement through a pair of pop-eyed glasses.

Don’t forget the crew of goth chicks, skin as pale as cottage-cheese in the artsy, performance-based world of witchcraft and “large, in-charge” antics. She definitely knows what she wants, the raven-haired streak of appetite and life-force like a fish tank of gleaming glass beads and murkier smells of paint and incense. Pick one or the other, like sisters differentiated slightly by personality but still wonderfully mysterious.

You have the blonde, dreadlocked stoner and “outside-the-box” thinker with a tragic overbite and clenched, silent intent hanging his arms out of his Rastafarian shirt colors for a hop and kick of the hackey-sack. . . . . a game of ultimate-frisbee. Attention Deficit Disorder as the mild, silent-type who fits the bill of all stoner-lore and comic-relief.

And there’s a sour, chirpy lark who’s small but as overflowing with punch as an atomic warhead for chewing gum and eyes lighting up with mischief. Contrarian and street-wise like a pill of cyanide, swallowing a straw of pixie-stix and flailing around until she collapses from a blown-out sugar-high and gets back on the stage to do it again, diving back in the pit.

These would be Lydia’s friends. . .. . . a gang of indie-media slackers living off their parents’ largess and in the artistic lifestyle of alt-rudderless experience. Where Lydia goes, they go—fleshing out this Beetlejuice 2 movie as the plot coalesces in a strange world and becomes a film.

You will here more about them. . . . . the St. Louis experience. Stay tuned!

 

Creepy Crawl Punk Venu

Serfdom at “Wally-World”

 

Wal-mart. . . . . box-store of enchantment. And number 1 employer of what you and I know as “THE RED-STATE EXPERIENCE”. Never has someone had to show such gung-ho, merry customer service for serfdom as you otherwise have employees in blue-vests singing “Zippity Do-Dah” out of their assholes, “Mousketeer” style– with a kazoo.

Maybe “working for someone else” is merely getting yourself forced along “by someone’s obsession”, be that customer service or the retail mission statement like giddy “Jim Jones” cults for customer savings. Indeed, irony has little place here and even Beetlejuice has to “get with the program”.

Cribbing a bit from the fellow Warner Bros. property, “National Lampoon’s Vacation” you had “Wally-World” standing in for Disneyland with a cartoon moose as company spokesman. The happiest place on earth– open 365 days a year. Only in the movie, the family straggled in to find the park closed for a couple of weeks for maintenance and repair. . . . .

But make no mistake, Wal-Mart is open 365 days a year.

Why not call it “Small-Mart”? Yeah right, the largest box-store of its kind that stretches several football fields in length. You’d better keep Beetlejuice supervised amid all that “moral hazard” and easy thievery.

Smile, you’re on surveillance camera! Believe me, if someone thought of it– store security has set-up countermeasures to stop “shrinkage”. Think of a poster in the break-room of a troll-toothed bulldog brandishing a hockey stick and batting away “free scores” to keep the larger “goal” of staying competitive. Rolllff!

Of course, that doesn’t stop some mischievous cretin to hacking into the intercom system and playing the sound-FX from pornographic-movies while the manager scurries-around, trying to shut-down the public address system.

All sorts of stunts back there in the stock-room. Nailing a wallet to the floor and tricking some sucker into bending-over and straining his back.

Or kicking-around empty boxes like a deranged soccer match as the electronic board side-sweeps “Work is Fun!” across the sign. Tape up a piece of cardboard with work is (F)ucked squiggled in with a marker to give it an entirely-different meaning.

They don’t even have the easy jobs anymore where a retiree sits in a wheelchair and greets customers at the wide front-doors. Instead you have receipt-checkers halting customers to prevent “more shrinkage”. Such, such are the ways of the corporate retail world.

Lower prices, happier savings. . . . . ALWAYS.

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Buy American. We send prices down to hell

Serfdom at “Wally-World”

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

 

Hobgoblins of telecommunication have knocked-out my internet here in St. Louis– as seen on the national news where flooding is a story. You’ll see lots of rolling, bumpy green hills from the sky-chopper, incidentally “a notion of where Beetlejuice 2” might be filmed.

And what’s this business of creepy clowns? You hear these stories about perverts in the woods messing with kids’ minds as this sounds more like “tall tales” and mass panic.

Though in Eureka we do have our share of weird happenings.

Just think of this place as a township a few miles outside of the city, beyond the county, and deeper in-state. If Lodi, New Jersey produced Glenn Danzig and Aberdeen, Washington calls Kurt Cobain a home-town son, this place would draw a comparison.

Through the haunted woods– you might here stories about hidden meth-labs. . . . . or was it just a hotdog cook-out? Or twisted imbeciles left abandoned in the woods “by their handlers” to pull on car door-handles and garble unintelligibly. . . . .

It is a world of camp-fire lawn chairs and beer coolers where you see the rugged nature of the outback mixed with zany artistic-impulse, like rusty nails dipped in buckets of diet cherry 7-Up and a whole lot of mind-altering drugs for skaters and BBS internet-pirates “back in the day”. Drifters, drift-wood, and homebrew wailing guitar. 1920’s hunting lodges and whorish Bettie Page spanking-gear with bee-stung lips and 1950 Atomic X-mas as told by serial killers like Ed Gein– and rockabilly mutton-chops.

The coldest touch. . . . . like crib death or a toddler with a Frankenstein haircut as it’s “The Munsters” or “Garfield’s Halloween Special” or even “Return to Oz” for green, foaming dark fantasy death with claw-footed bathtubs and the gray, leaden sky out the window.

Beetlejuice would be under the bridge, fishing. His friend, a black, scruffy poodle with giant, swinging, tumorous balls and blind to the world.

Someone call the health department– or maybe the dog-catcher. We don’t know, for who.

As the story goes, “living in a van– down by the river”.

The cops will hose him off in the drunk tank “because of the unbearable smell” and tell him to raft away to the next town. He’s the Missourian vagrant. . . . . or maybe it was Florida.

Moving south for the winter as an itinerant carnival worker if not a kids’ show host on television. Don’t dress up as Chuck’ee-Cheeze and keep a clean police record. . . . .

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

Haunted Halloween Cornfield & Pumpkin Shoot

The video, above—is a promotion for St. Louis’ own “Silo-X” haunted house company.

There’s nothing like the ritual of the changing seasons, the fall carnival of the macabre—and a young man’s prurient interest in blood, guts, and zombies. A night of fantasy complete, if for a wide-eyed little filly holding your hand as the two of you bolt through a chamber of choreographed mayhem.

And they say if you want a goodnight kiss you take her to see a movie like Dracula, perhaps a world of Old World romance as mystical and deep as fertility and blood like a full, ripe pregnant belly beneath a haunted moon—the cycles of change rising in your heart of certainties like full-bodied communion with ancient nature, sun & soil and recusal from the underworld of organic subconscious.

(Or its just an excuse to be chased around by zombies)

Make that REDNECK zombies, a mirror image of this American life all in shrieking skulls and flannel shirts like something wispy-haired and awful from “Tales from the Crypt”. For shock value and garish, grody thrills you might even throw in the “big tent” ministrations of “Larry the Cableguy” telling you to have a safe ride home back to the city.

Death is ooky and cathartic with a cheery ending­. . . . . more so than the plain, old awful business of living. But suffice it to say, the supernatural—existence of anything, AFER THIS—is a positive take on life & death. Perhaps being alive is a journey to the abyss of revelation, a widening swath of awareness as the cornfield rustles with a tuneless empty wind, the void of night-chill still as a graveyard.

Then again is the flurry of unsophisticated entertainment, evident of man’s folly like a safe-space of guided disorder and paid-for chaos.

Beetlejuice knows all about it, our favorite out-state resident and small businessman who decides to get his own attraction going. It’s a redneck zombie hayride and paintball shoot as you plink away at ghoulish actors lurching after the wagon, and swiftly pelted by fast-moving projectiles and groaning with a pained stagger before collapsing.

Fiendishly, by trick of refurbished reincarnation “second chances” you might get down at the ole’ “Payday Loan” these lost souls are distinctly unhappy. Living death—and unpaid mortgages. It’s much the same as pumpkins grin by glow of candle-light.

Have a cold soda from an onboard cooler as Beetlejuice steers the power-mower and pulls the wagon behind him, narrating the tale with a slurred, snaggle-toothed laugh. Needless to say, he’s pulling these paying suckers straight down to hell, or your local life lending office & death exchange where he’ll lick the bills and pronounce himself an American success story.

His eyes shift hot, his mouth all-gibbity as he takes a swig from a hip flask. You’re not using this life for much, are you? He’ll take it and even throw in the chains for free down on the rag & bone junk heap of “all sales, final” and NO REFUNDS.

Couldn’t you read the fine print? No worse than the average storefront car title-loan company, he means to grind by on the defeated karma of others like the bottom-feeder of the netherworld he truly is. Don’t look “a gift corpse in the mouth”, but you’ll pay him back one way or another as a recycled spirit.

Maybe Beetlejuice should get a mouth full of broken teeth like a bloody jangle of candy-corn. One of these millennia he’s going to get his ass kicked behind a barn. Then where will he be? Probably selling meat from door-to-door. Don’t ask, “but you get the idea”.

So don’t go to that one haunted cornfield attraction even deeper in the dark midnight boonies. Stick with Silo-X instead as word-of-mouth decrees this place a legitimate enterprise for the big kid in both you and me.

Don’t accept rides or candy from strangers as “it’s a living”.

Or just “a death house”.

You want the mold on that corn-dog?

 

Haunted Halloween Cornfield & Pumpkin Shoot

Look what the Cat Dragged in. . . . .

Ole’ Beetlejuice was absent this Valentine’s Day, off tom-cattin’.

Fightin’, fuckin’, gettin’ into trouble.

It was much like that vintage scene in the movie—Beetlejuice off waltzin’ up to the whorehouse. For even a dead guy can get “a bit stiff” and need to air-out his rotted libido at the adult side of town.

Whores, strippers—“Jerry Springer” land.

Or even the adult shop ON THE FAR EDGE of town.

Unsubtle, crude—that’s the way it works.

“We’re swingers”.

Or just adventurous, open-minded?

“We like to meet people. . . . .”

Such as it is on the cratered moon-scape of Brandy Station apartments.

People coming and going, the sound of cicadas out in the inert, sleepy parking lot. Nightlife is sitting scrunched in a bar until a stranger picks you up, you get “knocked-up”, and then you marry and divorce him—taking his money, his truck, and his life savings with alimony.

Sounds like trouble. . . . .

And there, a woman stands by the parking exit in a long strap-dress, her legs spread and her hair beating in the soft, muggy breeze.

A handful of pills—half a pint of booze. . . . . hundred million reasons why you were born to lose. . . . . .

“Someone could drive a drain up that pussy”, a bystander nods.

Commotion by the railing. . . . . . a sheepish boyfriend sneaking out of the house as his girlfriend yells at him.

“And take those filthy toys with you!”, as she flings a box in the street and dildos go rolling everywhere.

You see the high class of people, here.

Beetlejuice falls for a ransomware clickbait—“1001 nudes” in 10 minutes. Now his computer is locked up.

Unfortunate, because that’s where he does his new-fangled futures trading on the electronic stockmarket. Too late to cancel a trade—which he doesn’t really understand—and soon a delivery truck will pour a big pile of corn in front of his seedy residence.

And hog futures? Shortly into the future. . . . . a bunch of pigs squeal in the front yard and eat up the corn.

Seedy, bargain-basement dysfunction has he flips on the CB radio.

Among other things, truckers and whores speak in “code-talk” and a pair of women on a channel say they want “some Pepsi”, fading in and out of the whipsaw static.

And so Beetlejuice literally went driving to pick up some bottles of Pepsi soda and meet them on the side of the road. . . . . . but it all drifted out of range like a bad fart in the wind.

Sin town. . . . . sex-shops. The second-best option.

A disreputable palour of sin. Up front, a “no refunds” policy as he grumpy man in his fifties’ tries to return a “Chicks with Dicks” video. Why did he buy it? He thought they would encounter one, or something. He rages to the ceiling and throws the video box down before storming off to his car.

“Easy come, easy go” Beetlejuice figures.

The “group-rate”, back rooms for couples below the main floor of porno memorabilia.

Threadbare rooms, towel-dispensers, and a trash can. Happy hour!

Feelin’ frisky, dicks out of pockets as swingers and misfits sit around in a big circle-jerk.

Thumping boots, drawn guns. You never count on the Jefferson County’s Sherriff Department making a raid, just then.

Beetlejuice is handcuffed and laying face-down on the grungy floor. A public health hazard, as it is laying there. A threat to health, wealth, and morals. . . . . their faces will be run across the evening news, up on highway billboards to set a moral example to local commuters.

“You get what you pay for”.

And a link to a local story from a couple of years back. Stranger than fiction, sad but true!

http://www.riverfronttimes.com/stlouis/sucker-punched/Content?oid=2468026

god_listens_to_slayer   beavis_and_butthead_vultures

valentine_day_package   weird_fantasy

Look what the Cat Dragged in. . . . .

Monster Trucks for Jesus

In paranormal news the author of the original “Exorcist” novel has passed on.

(We need not mention again some of those peculiar St. Louis origins)

And another item laments the passing of “The Greatest Show on Earth”—Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey service is packing up its tent for good.

(St. Louis was another railyard on the circuit)

Spirituality! Showmanship!

Combine the two, and what you almost have is the common variety mega-church. . . . . and they’re not going out of business anytime soon.

You sell spirituality with showmanship—and next you have “Monster Trucks for Jesus” Night down at the ole’ arena. And throw in some death-defying motorcycle riders leaping through the air as they spin in circles, the squealing tires spitting up mud, and you have a show!

The audience holds up those giant foam-rubber fingers, pointing to heaven in the cacophony of blaring speakers—and next they’re throwing down popcorn at Beetlejuice—just another “rodeo clown”.

If he wasn’t aping-it-up on the crowd, it would be back at his other job operating amusement park rides at a traveling carnival.

A rough life, it is—always on the road with just a few dollars allotted a day to buy beer and snacks at roadside convenient stores, if not sleeping out under the stars and traveling hundreds of miles a day.

So how did he get this job? Call him “a spiritual wrangler” or all-around “straw-headed dummy” as he otherwise works up the crowd when he’s not busy doing odd jobs for the company.

(– Or working the merchandise booths out in the curving cinder-block hallways outside the main floor)

If he’s not put-out by fire extinguishers, it’s practically getting mowed down by “Grave-Digger” the monster truck. Let assured, he’ll get carried-out on a stretcher before the night is over.

If it’s not a “special effect” using lights, spiritual wraiths fly all over the arena dome like tissue-paper and gusts from fans as an evil voice cackles. Dark forces apparently.

Forsooth, a moment where all is lost. But wait!

Next, a giant wooden crucifix is lowered from the rafters as the crowd comes down and lays hands on each other’s shoulders, “Old Glory” playing on the mega sound-system.

A light show and holy crescendos as Beetlejuice holds his hand to his heart, his hair in a tangle there in an old filthy coat before he wanders off to take a piss.

Demons and devils are at hand. . . . . later shoveling out all the trash that piled on the arena floor.

There’s always next season. He could work for the traveling rodeo.

(If he doesn’t set-up shop next season with a booth at the flea market)

My America, ‘tis of thee—free land of liberty—and the grand open road.

It’s “a Missouri thing!”

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Monster Trucks for Jesus