Two smoke bombs, synchronized with his feat, explode to either side, belching pillars of thick mushroom smoke.
Ric: The bag you’re in,
the fear you fear.
You’re a superhuman, subhuman
freebase queer.
Have a look into the morror,
see the faces in your face.
You’re a subdeb hero.
You’re a see-through zero.
You’re an ax-whacking,
dick-flashing
mongoloid in space.
You’re quadriplegic, baby.
You’ve got no right to exist.
Why don’t you pop your head into the oven?
Why don’t you go jump off a roof?
You light the fuse, and buckle your shoes,
and pretty soon you’re dusted and comatose.
Three months later, you ain’t come down.
You up for life, stop fucking around.
Ric treats the audience to a twenty second frontal lobotomy replete with excruciating Velvet Underground-decible feedback.
Ric: The tongues I’ve tied.
Peter & Vi O’Lens: Tied!
Ric: The lots I’ve cried.
Peter & Vi O’Lens: Eyed!
Ric: The rivers I’ve frozen.
Peter & Vi O’Lens: Internal combustion engine!
Music Sputters.
