The Zombie Marxist Cookbook

How now, grey cows! It is not an embodiment of beauty we ask you to pay attention to this time, like a dead terrorist, or a Swedish statesman, but I’m repeating myself. The reason we have gathered around this ancient and insane pastime is not a dead pornographer or a healthy rat. Why are we here, then, you might ask. Why indeed? All we’re about to see is a common man, most common, alone in his room, dreaming of future conquests. See for yourselves, and then, judge.

TANNER  There is no future in Finland's dreaming, but for me, the sky is the limit. There are so many options, I'm damn near paralyzed. Since I left those poison pills, I feel like a superman. Not a man, a stick of dynamite! Calm down, easy does it. What do you wanna do? Search your soul, sonny, for the answer to that once-so-dreaded question. What? Are you afraid? Imagine yourself in a supermarket.

A poet, a philosopher, a king? All three in one, please. Is that possible? Of course it is, all you need is an iron will.

Still, I couldn't call myself a Christian, if I didn't claim some responsibility for my fellow man.

Brothers and Sisters! This country's going to Hell on an express bus, and the Left Alliance alone is to blame for that. There's something rotten in the state all right, the state of Norway. Why Norway? I'll have to return to that. Meanwhile, the turncoats of Lost Alliance are assembling at Tampere as we speak, stuffing shrimp sandwiches and coffee down their throat, and no doubt, later on, as the informal sessions begin, who knows what else. Up their nose, up their sleeve. Degenerates, that's what they are. Never seen a day of honest work, they haven't.

You can't satirize them, they are a satire in their own right. How did the best minds of LA choose Tampere, of all places, as the location for their party conference? The last stronghold of Just Finland to fall in 1918? They are sending a message, that's how. It is happening again, the poor are sent to the camps, and we're okay with it, that's the price of joining the major league, the government. Nowadays the camps are called suburbs. It sounds more civilized, somehow.

Let me tell you, though. Watch out! There will be another war, soon, a Revolution, and this time we won't rest until we're done. Capitalism will be crushed, at long, long last!

He picks up a thick book, opens it. He is looking for a marker or a pen.

The suburbs of Paris are leading the way. Freedom or Death! We are going to win.

The only thing he finds is a bottle of ketchup. He starts writing on the wall with ketchup, glancing at the book every now and then.

Or was it the suburbs of Madrid? Anyway. Patria o muerte: Fatherland or Death. Venceremos: We Shall Overcome. One day, the day after tomorrow. You have my word on it.

He stops to look at his artwork. He has written, Patria o mujer, but doesn't seem to mind.

Patria sounds fine, Fatherland doesn't; honors are due to Elizabeth Nietzsche and the German death squads who terrorized this country in 1918. Helsinki went berserk, as the rumor spread that the storm troopers were closing in. That was their intention, I guess. Propaganda bred hysteria. They got what they wanted, and then some. Now we are taking orders from the Krauts once again. It has to stop. Stop!

He bangs on the wall he has written on.

Shut the fuck up! SHUT UP! They've been blasting that poisonous black metal for two days now. All I hear is the bass, but I'm listening to it all the time: even in my sleep. An activity I haven't practiced in a while, incidentally.

Stop it. Something rotten. Every time a politician opens his mouth, out comes excuses for inaction. And it's always us. The blame is collective, the merit theirs alone.

Their expressions will change for sure, the second my book comes out. Although not dealing with politics directly, my oeuvre will work like a bomb brought to the parliament, which I would deliver personally, right now, if it weren't the middle of the night between Saturday and Sunday, if I'm not mistaken. I might switch on the laptop. Might get drift of the time and the place. Then again, CIA would pour their propaganda all over me, falsified bits and pieces. There's that possibility—can't believe anything that comes through there. The duality of hearsay is strained indeed. “Do not leave the town.” Fuck you, Pig!

He bangs his head on the floor.

Die.

He does it again.

This is how the Russians pray. They pray for the herd of pigs inside of them, pray for them to run off a cliff. Since the safety net has been torn, there's no catcher in the rye.

He shakes his head.

Amazingly enough, it works.

 He collapses in a heap on the floor. Blackout.

Who the hell are you?

FLOWER  Flower Shore.

TANNER  What?

FLOWER  Flower Shore, that’s my name. Parents were a couple of hippies.

TANNER  And so are you. Not a couple, a single, I presume. How did you get in?

FLOWER  Through the door. It was open, in case you didn’t notice.

TANNER  It is closed now.

FLOWER  Yes.

TANNER  Thank Jesus.

FLOWER  Thank me instead. It was I who closed the door. Jesus had nothing to do with it.

TANNER  What do you want?

FLOWER  I came to the rescue.

TANNER  Pardon?

FLOWER  You've hurt yourself.

TANNER  I have? Have I?

FLOWER  There's blood everywhere.

TANNER  Oh, that. It's not blood, it's ketchup.

FLOWER  Really? You've been eating? Anyway, there's a terrible vibe in here. May I open up a window?

TANNER  You may not.

FLOWER  Suit yourself. Rot away in your fumes.

Tanner starts rolling a cigarette.

Read your stuff.

TANNER  And?

FLOWER  You're one angry man. We could use a guy you.

TANNER  Who is we?

FLOWER  The friends of East Timor. 

TANNER  The friends of what?


[TO BE CONTINUED... HERE.]

Me and the Devil Blues

Listen to the Arch Appeaser #2 

Good evening. My name is Elisabeth Rehn. I bear no family ties to Olli. How I wish people stopped asking me that. How I wish that some day we were remembered for what we were, not for our namesakes in the European Underworld. 

Breathe. Smile. Okay. 

My job, dare I say my calling, is to bring peace into your lives, into the lives of people everywhere, regardless of their race, their sexuality, the sexuality of race. The smoothness of their skin, or the the lack of thereof.

However, there are other forces at work in the world. More and more so, I'm afraid, with every passing day. There are those who think that a display of force is a solution to every problem. They worship strength, violence, brutality. They worship the Devil, whether they admit it or not. Say... ton. Get behind me! Stay! I didn't call for you. I'm just trying to educate these good people.

Tonight is a special night, a live episode of my TV talk show, The High Hat, generously sponsored by Rotenberg & Son. And we're going to dedicate tonight's episode entirely to the Old Nick and his followers. They come in many guises, you'll be surprised. So. It's time we welcomed our first guest: a long-haired boy with an unhealthy-looking gunshot wound to his head. Good evening. Who are you?

I'm Dead.

I can see that. What's your name?

Dead.

That's not very nice. What's your real name, the Christian name you were given by your parents? He won't answer. Wipe that smirk off of your face and speak! This is a talk show, you know. Why did you agree to appear, if you aren't going to say anything?

I wanted to take a peek.

A peek. At what, exactly?

This... whole... thing.

Well, now you've seen it. Be gone then, back to your Master!

Music, please. "Satan is Real" by The Louvin Brothers, if you you have it nearby. 

What a waste... that smoke, it gets to you... and mirrors, where are they? Tucked away, hidden, of course. Let's move on, shall we? Our next guest is a respectable, educated gentleman, another fellow with his head blown off. Who shot you, sir?

I did.

May I ask why?

I did it in a holy place, in Notre Dame de Paris, in front of hundreds of people... Why? To wake you up.

Me? I'm fully awake, thank you.

That's what you think.

 I do. And what is your connection to the Black Metal scene?

What? There is none.

No scene, you mean.

I wish. I want nothing to do with those people. I’m a traditionalist.

That’s nice. What does it mean?

Varg Vikernes is a traditionalist.

He is?

A tad over the top, perhaps, but basically, I respect his views. Then again, if you're going to discuss these other Norwegians, those pussies, I'm out of here. Them fuckers wouldn't recognize the Devil if he kicked them in the balls. Which they don't possess, apparently.

No foul language at my show! Go to Hell! Now, after a message from our sponsor, we'll be back with a clip from the upcoming blockbuster movie, which was produced by the video chain store, I believe. The movie is called Lords of Chaos, after the book. The names of the characters have been changed in order protect the guilty. Enjoy.

INT. RECORD STORE TAMBURLAINE - DAY.

ANEURYSM is on the phone, talking to ANVIL.

ANVIL

So. What’s up?

ANEURYSM

Same old shit. How’s your Mom?

ANVIL

The same. B and B. I was just leaving.

ANEURYSM

Where?

ANVIL

Whaddaya think?

ANEURYSM

No.

ANVIL

What?

ANEURYSM

You can’t go there.

ANVIL

I ask your permission now? Can I go home?

ANEURYSM

Cops all over the place.

ANVIL

How…?

ANEURYSM

Ghost has gone home.

ANVIL

He’s what? To Sweden?

ANEURYSM

No. He blew his brains out.

ANVIL

Oh.

ANEURYSM

With my shotgun.

ANVIL

Shit.

ANEURYSM

Man, you should have been there. There was blood everywhere, his brains all over the room.

ANVIL

You were there?

ANEURYSM

I went in, through his window. He couldn’t answer the door in that condition.

ANVIL

Yeah. Would have been hard, I imagine.

ANEURYSM

I took pictures.

ANVIL

You did? Cool. When can I see them?

ANEURYSM

Listen, we shouldn’t talk about this now. Like this, I mean. You understand?

ANVIL

Yeah. Little birds and shit.

ANEURYSM

See you at the store, when you get back.

ANVIL

All right.

ANEURYSM

V is coming to town. He was so excited, said he’d steal a car if he couldn’t borrow one, and drive down right away.

ANVIL

Awesome.

ANEURYSM

I've never heard the bastard so delighted over anything before.  Sick fuck!

They laugh for a second.

ANEURYSM [contin’d]

This is big, you know. We can use this. But first, let’s celebrate.

ANVIL

I hear you.

ANEURYSM

Toast the ghost who’s a ghost for real now.

ANVIL

Okay. See you in a bit.

ANEURYSM

See you.

ANVIL  Bye. 

ANEURYSM and ANVIL hang up. ANVIL disappears in a puff of smoke. Enter GHOST, carrying a shotgun. He’s wearing jogging pants, a denim jacket over a white T-shirt with the text NY on it. ANEURYSM starts painting his face white. 

GHOST  Did you hear that? He couldn’t say, “Bye,” because that would have been a symptom of weakness from him. He had his image to worry about, even now, Aneurysm did. Dude’s the guitar player in Hemorrhoid, the band where I sing, used to sing. His day job is posing as the self-appointed second-hand Führer of our little tribe. Cum metal, he calls it. Don’t ask why. He’ll tell you more than you’d care to know anyway. He’ll put on his corpse paint and tell everything. That I died for clothes, for a fad, for instance.

Done with the white paint, ANEURYSM puts the finishing touches on his mask with strokes of black around the eyes. This is his “corpse paint.” Exit GHOST, disgusted. Music: Paul Westerberg, “World Class Fad.”Enter V.D. and GUTTER, dressed as Moses and Darth Vader, respectively.

ANEURYSM  What the fuck? Who the hell?

GUTTER  How now...

V.D.  Brown cow, or Aneurysm, as I've heard you prefer to be addressed as. A real badass you are, or so everybody keeps telling me. And I let them, though I don't know why.

ANEURYSM  V.D., you sick duck! You were fast. What's with the outfit?

V.D.  Gutter here drove. May I present: Skywalker, Anakin—Aneurysm. He plays guitar. That goes for both of you. Handy.

ANEURYSM  And who are you, my friend? Moses?

V.D.  Fuck you.

GUTTER  I told him it wouldn't fly. He's trying to be Sauron from The Lord, but there weren't any evil wizards available.

ANEURYSM  Isn't Moses the most evil of them all?

V.D.  He most certainly is. Man, it's nice to see  you.

ANEURYSM  Nice to see you. Oh, now I get it! You're in for the Conference.

V.D.  We were on our way when you called. Should have seen your face, "You were fast!"

ANEURYSM  Oh, cut it out. Role playing, dead or alive, is for punks and little girls. You should have picked up a princess costume.

V.D. hits ANEURYSM in the face.

ANEURYSM falls on his behind.

V.D.  How’s that for a little girl? Got knocked out by a little girl!

ANEURYSM  Knocked…

GUTTER  Easy.

ANEURYSM  … out?

V.D.  Yes, knocked out! Goddamn queen, that's what you are. Look at you, painted like a whore. I should fuck you like a whore, that’s what I ought to do. Aneurysm? More like Brain Damage, if you ask me.  

Enter ANVIL.

ANVIL  What’s going on?

V.D.  And just for your information, I don’t larp any more. I’m bringing it into real life, into the streets!

ANVIL  What?

V.D.  I’m so outa here. [To Gutter]  You coming?

Exit V.D. and GUTTER.

ANVIL  What was that?

 ANEURYSM  [Getting up.]  Nothing. Artistic disagreements. Let me show you the photos.

ANVIL  Okay.

ANEURYSM  Mark my words. That Jew is so dead.

ANVIL  Jew? Who?

ANEURYSM  Moses.

↹

Well, I don't know about you, but that didn't look too diabolical to me. More like little boys playing with dolls. The boy with his forehead leaking. What do you want? Learned to speak yet? Brought me a piece of paper. Is this your way of communicating now? Is it a poem?

No movie studio except Sony could use Jeff's music; if another one did, it couldn't use more than two of his songs. More important - and equally standard both for Sony and the music business in general - Jeff had to pay for nearly everything: his producer, half of the independent radio promotion, and half of the cover art (another victory on Stein's part, since most acts had to pay for all promotion and art). All of these costs - as well as his $100,000 advance and any money Sony would spend on making videos and tour expenses, such as paying for a band, equipment and buses - would be added to a fund called recoupable. Only after his record sales matched the recoupable amount would Jeff begin making royalties of his own work.

It says that was from a book called Dream Brother: The Lives and Music of Jeff and Tim Buckley, written by a David Browne. Never heard of any of them. Did they play the Devil's Music? Jazz, I mean. I like jazz. When we were in New York for the General Assembly, we went to a club to see Woody Allen himself play the fiddle. I don't think that was from the Devil. That is just nonsense.

I'm getting rather desperate here. How hard is it to find someone who worships the Devil, let alone believes in him?

I do.

The refined gentlemen has reappeared! Have you washed your mouth with soap?

I'll behave.

Good. Your wound has healed nicely. A bush of professor-like silver hair has grown on top of it. I'm glad. Please have a seat.

I can't.

Why not?

The Devil Travels.

He does, doesn't he?

It's an agency.

Like NSA?

No. "Will travel, destroy the world." That kind of an agency.

You mean, you mean... a travel agency?

Yes, indeed.

Oh, goodness. I never thought about that.

You should have. Let's watch another clip. 

If you need a soundtrack for your Satanist hobbies, I suggest you forget those Norwegian pussies. Try this instead: http://open.spotify.com/album/1TjncssmpzxUYTZic79o7T

Putin and Zawahiri: A Love Story

A Very Short Movie... Dare I Say a QUICKIE?

INT. OFFICE BUILDING - NIGHT.

PUTIN and ZAWAHIRI are standing in front of a panorama window giving to the business hub of the city. As the skyscrapers outside start exploding and collapsing, PUTIN takes ZAWAHIRI's hand, gently.

PUTIN

You met me at a very strange phase in my life.

They look at each other, and smile, while buildings tumble down outside. ZAWAHIRI turns, and takes PUTIN by both of his hands. They kiss, passionately. 

Roll CREDITS.

What's the difference between Vladimir Putin and Andrei Chikatilo? Don't know yet, barely started reading the book. #Child_44

— Matti Paasio (@mspaaz) October 2, 2013