"You can't see tits on the radio... take a shot now, this may be your last chance..." -Scissor Sisters
It's been a while loyal readers. Sean Magee has been dead for four years.
"I was dreamin' when I wrote this
Forgive me if it goes astray
But when I woke up this mornin'
Coulda sworn it was judgment day
The sky was all purple
There were people runnin' everywhere
Tryin' 2 run from the destruction
U know I didn't even care
'Cuz they say two thousand zero zero party over
Oops out of time
So tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999" - The Artist Currently Known as Prince
(THE FOLLOWING WAS FOUND IN A GREEN MOLESKIN WITHIN A BLACK METAL BOX IN A TRAILER IN VERO BEACH, FLORIDA)
January 18th, 1999:
I used to hate guns. Well, not HATE, but I definitely felt a certain ambivalence towards them. Joan and Paul Magee, my adopted parents had taught me that they were dangerous and bred a general anti-gun attitude into me. Gun control in America seemed like a sensible response to rampant violence. This was all before a shot a gun. After pulling the trigger for the first time, all of this went out the window.
After being initiated into the I.R. (Irrational Revolution), a procedure I am apparently forbidden to describe (but I will find a way, keep an eye out for cupcakes with coded Viennagrams in their frosting), I began my training under the watchful eye of my actual mother, Brandy Warhol (codename: Melissa Burn). The I.R. utilizes some very advanced PopArt technology which functions on improbable vectors (I am pretending I know what this means), such as a gun capable of turning anything into a shade. The item/person loses all mass and exists only as a particular color which can tint any other object, but takes up no measurable space. Mom has told me that this weapon is only experimental and will most likely not be used unless absolutely needed. I pity the son of a bitch that meets that fate.
However, despite the fact that Brandy hates to admit it, beyond the realm of Irrational Weaponry, the I.R. still utilizes real weapons. Think of it as the difference between rational numbers and irrational numbers. The Shadeout (working title for the irrational weapon described above), the Plot-Fission Generator, and the super-secret super-weapon (about which I still know nothing) T.A.D., are all like Pi or the square root of two, irrational numbers, but the I.R. (much to the chagrin of our number one enemy, L'Ellegony's Rational Solutions Inc.) still works mostly with rational numbers.
This is where Chach Von Chach comes in.
I "met" Craig Marshall in a public swimming pool in New Bedford, Massachusetts with his parents and my adopted parents at the age of three. We became best friends in the most genuine and gradual way possible: by gradually realizing we were little humans capable of communicating with eachother. We went to the same preschool, Creative College, and the same elementary school, Freeville Public. Around the fourth grade, Craig's family moved to New York. My adopted father, Paul Magee, known for tall-tales, always claimed that Bob Marshall, Craig's dad was in the C.I.A. (an orginization he dissaproved of, which, ironically Brandy and the I.R. have borrowed management and tactical models from) and would usually pair this with a criticism of his love of guns.
"They should just ban guns. Then there would be no more crime, and no more dead Bambis" ran Paul Magee's flawed logic.
So I figured I would never see my childhood buddy again.
I was wrong. When Brandy brought me down to the basement weapons room, to meet the equivalent of Q from Ian Fleming's James Bond series, I was startled by what, at first, I perceived as Deja Vu. There before me, in a new Serpico meets Deerhunter dress, was the face of my old friend, Craig Marshall. It couldn't be true.
It wasn't. At least not to Craig, who introduced himself as my rational weapons trainer, Chach Von Chach, and showed not even the slightest bit of recognition. Maybe I was confused, there's dopplegangers of everyone running around (I learned this in Cloning 101, part of the I.R.'s training regiment), and after all, with the dashiki, beard, and reflective cop glasses, he was a far cry from my old swimming pal.
So I put it aside and forgot it.
We went right to the firing range. It was mid-January in New York and snowing, a beautiful setting to pop my firearms cherry. He handed me a Walter PPK, Polizeipistole Kriminalmodell, first showing me the empty chamber, then demonstrating how to load the .22 caliber bullets into it. He was a slightly erratic, high-energy personality (continuing to remind me of my childhood friend, this wasn't entirely out of my mind), but turned deadly serious when it came to proper handling of the guns. I aimed through the little metal bumps that formed the sight and felt the very minimal kickback as the bullet left the chamber.
"On a hot summer night.
Would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
Will he offer me his mouth?
Will he offer me his teeth?
Wlll he offer me his jaws?
Will he offer me his hunger?
Again. Will he offer me his hunger?
And will he starve without me?
And does he love me?
On a hot summer night.
Would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
I bet you say that to all the boys." - Meatloaf
Even though the force was minimal, the sound and the power combined and the whole sensation was exhilarating. In one instant all the gun-control bullshit conditioning vanished. Guns were cool.
Seriously, have you ever fired a gun? If not, do it soon.
Anyways, the next weapon was a StG 44 which had a major kickback. The first time I shot it I almost fell over. Chachie taught me how to control the recoil by pushing into the gun as you pulled the trigger. After a few more rounds, I became quite addicted to shooting the rifle. The power was overwhelming. We shot about ten more weapons including a Colt .45 which I became particularly fond of, and later he explained the difference between various loading mechanisms, and regular or hollow-point rounds. I was fascinated by the hollow-point bullets, which expanded within the target, effectively disrupting more tissue and making it more difficult to remove.
We left the firing range in his pick-up truck, smoking Marlboro Reds and listening to the JMAB on the radio. Back at his appartment in Brooklyn, he locked each door behind us, in an almost hermetic-ritualistic fashion as we entered his "inner-sanctum", a room full of guns, grenades, and MREs.
"When the shit hits the fan, Doc, I'm ready, Only thing I learned from the Boy Scouts: Always be prepared."
Not immediately noting his deep paranoia, I couldn't help but recall Cub Scouts meetings with my childhood friend Craig Marshall. The next thing I know I'm getting a safety lesson on his Model 1887 Lever Action Repeating Shotgun as he rolls a joint of premium-grade California (Mendocino County) weed. Putting on Iggy Pop's Raw Power, I soon find myself staring down the barrel, my mouth around the end of it, as I literally shotgunned a blast of pot. It was an intimidating scene and the multiple locks on the doors made it even scarier.
"You can't trust no one, Doc... er, Sean. Remember that. You can't trust no one, not even your mom. In fact, I bet she's the last person you can trust. Just between you and me, Magee."
My training was complete. But the mystery of my childhood friend remains unsolved...