“They Eat”
Dead The, incognito on the way to their gig, take their chow at a new canteen north of Jaya where the rigs are clean, the chippers are sharp and the corkage fee for roadkill is negotiable. After Four has dumped the contents of his haul basket on the scale, Two bargains with the manager for best price while One and Three scout open rigs and Five gets a set of new mouth knives burned in at a counter in the back. Rig choice is easy because only two are open and one has full freight of concert goers[concertgoers] only half-bolted in over house steaks and fairy prawns. Not that they’d be clocked and chaffed without their perf shells on but pre-show chow is serious chop and they mean to get their blast on. Two of course calls the rig they’ve selected shit (program vestige) but doesn’t mean it and Five, her mouth still near molten, flashes the new knives and says “God fuck you all” (program vestige). Someone has fresh because there’s shrieking from the kitchen as they’re getting bolted in. Fresh is a good sign. Fresh feels auspicious. “All right, all right, lads and lasses,” says Two.
When they’re well-bolted, the manager, who’s waived corkage entirely because Two strategically let slip during the negos that they are first-rate and main-stage bound, brings out “canapés for his VIPs,” which are basically just red devil vampire crabs and bromeliad spears in feed buckets that they nozzle up fast. A few of the crabs come free and quick claw it through the gaps in the grate and though they extend fingers, sticky prods and small hooks the crabs just crouch in the corners and eyeball them and wonder, Three supposes, about what’s to come. Ice comes next to cool the channels and of course they use their mouths for that. Five is special proud of her new knives but they all have good gear. Good gear came with the throat upgrades for beating the other top-ranked cover they got after last year’s Jaya bash but Five hadn’t yet joined them then. Then there was another Five. Five is as new to them as the knives are to her mouth. She had the throat upgrade done sometime last meg down in Sing. Five was Three for the Bloody Moods in Sing. Two knew her Two when they were both fresh out of Lacca Bolt Haven. There is more shrieking from the kitchen. Very auspicious. After ice comes their pile of road kill. “Righto boys!” (program vestige) says One, and they set to.
To start, scissors extend and they snip away hairy skin and veeery small chunks. These they smear on their ice-cold mouth knives and then grin at each other ready in earnest now for the pleasures of repast. One, Three, Four and Five tear off limbs, Two takes head and torso, it’s just a small one to start. Internal fans whir but not so loudly yet they can’t talk as they bite, chew, swallow, open their side traps and vent. “These are very good throats, aren’t they?” asks One. One always asks that. Three says, “Say something new.” Four says, “Something new.” Five says, “That’s actually very funny.” One says, “Righto boys!” (program vestige). “We’ll start tonight with ‘Touch of Grey’,” says Two. The next one is bigger and has a tail. They plucked the thing good and gamey two days ago off a Johor roundabout then hung it from their wheels. “Choice!” says Four. He gets the tail. Their fans start to turn, just the small ones at first, but there’s that promising whir, they can feel it. “Ice and slice, baby!” says Three. “That’s right,” says Four. Four is their muscle. And their drummer. He takes his time with the tail. Five appreciates Four. Four appreciates Five back. It was not this way with former Five. Former Five hated Four. Former Five wrote numerous songs about hating Four. Four wrote numerous songs back. One and Three co-wrote a song about Five and Four writing songs about each other. Two wrote a song about how shit (program vestige) his these several songs were.[vestige) these several songs were.] If Four and new Five were to write songs about each other it would be different.
They’re all getting warm. The medium fans kick on and they stop talking and start dripping from secondary vents. There’s still shrieking but now it’s coming from one of the other rigs. The vampire crabs click their red claws. One of them gets greedy, climbs up to lick straight from the grate, and gets hooked by One. It sits there stuck for a while between two of her knives as she gobbles. The manager comes in and claps after they get going on the third round. Third round is three big ones. No tails this time. They tear. They chomp. The big fans come on. They are full of spinning fans. Two starts to smoke, just a little, from his neck grooves. Clocking this, the manager sends for ice. It gets gooed in the gore. They can’t see it. Their eyes plates are down. Full heat. Their pore vents snick open. Their pore vents gush. When the final one, the biggest one, a head-bashed, trunk-sliced, bad daddy of a two-legger, is brought in, Five hooks one of the little servers in her excitement and almost eats him. Her mouth knives open and clank twice on one of his aluminum legs before she lets him go. “God fuck you all,” (program vestige) she thinks but doesn’t say. She can’t say. None of them can say. The tank below the grate is full of their hot ready, the sluice is open, their seat bolts rattle, they shake and drip and smoke, the vampire crabs are swept away…