METAMORPHOSIS

Gregor Samson awoke from troubled dreams to discover he had been transformed into a hard-core punk rocker. Naturally, such a radical metamorphosis brought on confusion, he tugged at the many piercings that now adorned his face, they held, even the bull ring through his nose seemed secure. Great, he thought, I'll put an ad. in SOUNDS … wanted, punk girl to drag pet through town centre, must have fishnets. He had grown a crust of scabs so itchy there was no choice but to rip and tear at them in a determined display of frenzy, exposing, underneath, a colourful mural of aggressive, f**k off tattoos. Perfect, he thought, when I walk into the office I'll just peel off my shirt, this skin says it all. Brushing his hand over his head he felt the bristling splendour of a spiky mohican. My, my, he thought, people will notice me now.
He felt the need for music but what was this, no Soft Machine, no Gong ...The Damned, fitting, maybe he was but when he spun the record, got hit by the beat, Hell held no fear. Up he got and started bouncing up and down like a f*****g idiot.
Hell it was then, second track and the door burst open and there stood a raging red demon roaring, `what's the game, did y'no here me on the ceiling, what's this racket?'
F**K YOU DAD, yelled Gregor, THIS IS PUNK AND I'M DOING THE POGO
Which he was and he carried on doing the pogo until the demon, broomstick in hand, in one sweep, quashed the bounce and soon he was writhing on his back, arms and legs drawing zig zags in the air, like a dying fly.

Gregor was no more and in his place was Vomit, who liked to be tugged by Christine, the strawberry girl. 'Pull me chain harder' he often said, along with, 'fahkin'ell you've got a luverly arse.' Which she had, if you like them big. 'Cahmon, Vomit, yoo cahnt,' she said, 'we've gotta meet Screwyoo, he's gonna ask ya somefink, ee's dahn at GETOUTMYFUCKINSHOP.' Which he was.
'Hey, Vomit' said Screwyoo, 'wanna play in our band, Skullsplitter's sick, we're called Kafka's Kunts.'
'I only know four chords.'
'Fahkin brill, that's one more than ya need, welcome aboard,' and he stuck his finger into Vomit's mouth.
'Wot's that?' he asked.
'Six trips, don't worry I'm havvin six as well,' Screwyoo said, tossing a ball of blotters through the air and into his gaping gob like the Salt'N'Shake guy. 'We're giggin tonight man.'

Vomit felt like vomiting. The piss-flooded urinal was perfume compared to the stench wafting out the shite-house. An ugly cockroach on the pulsating wall laughed at him in that insect, screech-like way they have �" 'aceeeeeed,' it shrieked and scurried up onto the ceiling so it could s**t on his head.
'Cahmon, Vomit, hurry up an piss whydontcha,' said the strawberry girl, 'I'm not holdin this awl night, and, anyway, if ya cant pull yer own c**k out 'ow ya gonna play?'
Good question and one he asked himself as he struck one of his guitar strings and it vibrated and expanded and hummed like a bridge cable. The drummer drummed and the bassist kicked in with a deadly line, all Vomit could do was stare but what he saw was no crowd; a many headed giant slug had visited and it proceeded to spew out alien slime. The stuff was flying through the air in green and white globules that rained in on him in splatters. This is not good , he thought, soon I wont be able to breathe. Before the mucus cocooned him completely he managed to wipe his mouth clear and say, 'what's happening to me, why are you doing this, is this what I get for being a Kunt?'