How Early Ol' Days, Spinach, Cupids and Geometrical Tolerance Can Shape a Baby Into a Person

When I was being born I promised to myself to spend the first few years of my life as a baby. My thought process amounted to more or less the following: "Fuck it, been stuck for months up in here stewing like a beheaded chicken carcass thrown into a boiling cauldron somewhere in a witch's hut in the far corner of the world. Might as well treat myself to some free service twenty-four seven. Year in, year out. Baby."

I was a good, sweet child o' my parents. Sweet like a bag of sweets and good like a person who jumps in front of another person to take a bullet for them and save their life even though this scenario's portrayal in movies and television has shifted our perception of it to be entirely believable where in truth it is impossible to intercept a fired round unless someone is an absolute Wizard of Anticipation and knows exactly when to undertake appropriate muscle motions. Even then, depending on numerous factors such as distance, velocity and shot placing among others, it is possible for the bullet to pierce through the first body and hit the second one as well. One would have to be really unlucky. Well, two people would have to be really unlucky but the person behind would have to be more unlucky. On second thought, the first person gets killed in almost every scenario so... Nevermind.

Point is, well, maybe I wasn't THAT good but I always slept during nights except when I didn't in which case I was awake. Was never one for crying either except rare instances when I had tears in my eyes. If that ever occurred then I usually had a damn good reason for it. For example, I was uncomfortable a lot of the time. Uncomfortable like a tired old sofa that even the blind family dog refuses to lie on anymore because it's creaky (noisy) and it smells. Creaky and smells. If I was a nut, these would be the contents of my shell. Creaky and Smells. Sounds like a children's cartoon jingle about cupid detectives.

Creaky and Smells solving some crii-ii-imes
Always alert, bit goofy at tii-ii-imes
Friends for life, doing good, having fun!
Using the power of love instead of a gun!
[bridge]
Creaky and Smells oh Creaky and Sme-e-ells
Cupid detectives on their way to he-e-elp
We need them because they're so nice and good!
Chasing down baddies like real lawmen should!

Which is great because there's plenty of bad men SATANS EVEN! in the world who WANT TO HURT YOU AND YOUR FAMILY. YES YOU IN PARTICULAR. AND YOUR FAMILY. They hacked into the NSA satellites and are targeting you as we speak. One of their HQs just dispatched a black van headed for your address. You can't do shit now and IMAGINARY CUPID DETECTIVES WON'T HELP. TOO LATE NOW. REST IN PEACE FUCKERSSS! HATE cupids and bastards and cupid bastards and this stupid motherfuckin' job.

"Oh for shit's bells, who's been fucking around with the recorder?! Jim, you again?! That was your last chance. Your ass is fired!" an authoritative voice would yell.

Creaky and smells. Basically, I was an old person.

Except I was technically young. But I will be creaky and I will smell once again, I guess. If I live long enough. If I die before I reach that state it won't make any difference anyway. Right before my death, in the final moments of my life, I'll be old. As old as I can ever be. Then I'll know. I'll understand. I think. Something.

People say we as humans always go full circle. I find this casual geometrical racism quite upsetting. What's wrong with a square? Does every square look the same to you, you round, boring, geometrically insensitive people? Fuck. When I was eighteen months old I first started to notice the ever-present discrimination in all areas of life and death. I would sit at the table on my special chair and muse about the state of the society and sometimes... Sometimes I'd break down. I would cry out, I would weep and I would spit out that awful spinach mash that was being forced down my throat by people who had "PARENT" written on their life uniforms, just like mechanics have "MECHANIC" written on their job uniforms. Everyone has to have a title in this world. Everything needs a branding, like a cattle, a hot iron induced burn mark that renders people more easily identifiable and cataloguable.

I do like spinach now, though.

Spinach has changed me, actually. It's my buddy now. When I was a baby I didn't see myself ever changing. Always thought I'll grow old just the way I was. Old. And when I become old, I'll be young again. But when I reached my fifth year on this sorry-ass planet it all began to unravel in my head. Realizations came flooding in like previously suppressed large amounts of water that now consumed and devoured defenseless, hopeless villages and villagers, villagers in villages built at the base of the mental dam. Change. There blew a wind. It was of change. I suddenly found myself understanding spinach, hell, liking it. I would sit for hours chewing baby spinach leaves which was ironic because I just stopped being a baby and I was basically eating babies and the thought of me being eaten by a grown up spinach just a year earlier when I still qualified for it... Ugh.

But it wasn't all bad though. Those were good times. There were good times. Fuck yeah, I swear. I could do things and get away with them. I could fiddle with toys and objects and human emotions and everyone would just laugh it off because I was a baby. I didn't have to worry about a great deal of things except for the world and the direction it's heading in and the overall deterioration of humanity and the beckoning downfall of civilization. I think I saw it first. At the age of three I became Harbinger of Doom so it was a lot to take in in my first few years but, well, I managed. It made me stronger. Looking back, I can't really complain. After all, I was being fed food for free, put to bed with love and care, had my ass wiped for me without a flinch of an eye.

Can't wait to grow old/young.

Creaky and Smells oh Creaky and Sme-e-ells

Full circle. Square. Triangle. Trapeze. Et cetera. Full et cetera.

We have to remember. Geometrical tolerance will shape our new, better tomorrow. It's the only way we can still save this planet. Should we fail, we will be back to square one. Circle. Triangle. Trapeze. Rhombus. Motherfuckin' rhombus.

Weariness

A scruffy and jaded looking man asked for another shot of whiskey.

"You sure you want more of those, Jim?" asked the barman with an intonation of a man who has grown accustomed to repeating this phrase over and over again.

Jim just motioned with his hand towards the empty glass in front of him with an equally trained gesture. It was more of a reflex, really.

If you woke him up in the middle of the night he could still order a shot of whiskey flawlessly.

"You haven't told me why you came back," said the barman. It was a late Thursday afternoon and the crowd was sparse. Lack of better options convinced the barman to pick up the conversation again.

"What?" asked Jim. He almost looked up from his glass. He was in his fourties and he was tired. His neck was muscular from looking up from his glass and asking for another shot of whiskey.

"You've told me you left this place 20 years ago. You said you traveled a lot. But you came back here. Why?"

"I don't know. Who the fuck cares?" Jim asked as he played with his glass of whiskey. If he was a glass he'd be filled with bitterness.

Jim wasn't a wordsmith. He wasn't even a wordsmith's apprentice. Not anymore, anyway.

He emptied the glass and asked for another. The barman complied.

"Besides," Jim continued, "Like I said, I don't know. I guess maybe I wanted to see what changed here over the years."

"And what do you think? 20 years is a lot of time."

"No shit," Jim replied as he was adjusting himself on the bar stool. "Barely recognize this old shithole. Coffee shops and whatnot everywhere. Who the fuck drinks so much coffee?"

"Young people and hipsters. And young hipsters," said the barman as he was drying up glasses with a towel.

"What the fuck is a hipster? There's more coffee shops than bars or food stores."

Jim had no time for the youth. He knew exactly how much of a twat he was in his day.

"Those young pricks never change. They stay the same, just go different ways about their twatishness," he said, "World around them changes. Circumstances change. But at their core they're always tedious little prats until they grow up and see shit in different light. Get some perspective, you know. That doesn't happen till they walk out of that coffee shops and stop wearing stupid clothes and sitting with their faces stuck in a fucking phone and whatever that fucking silver plank is. It's got an apple logo on it."

Jim now hated coffee, stupid clothes, technology and apples. He had a great capacity for hating things. You couldn't beat him at a game of hate. Disdain and contempt were his forté.

"Pour me another round," he said to the barman. "Probably my last one for tonight. Life's tiring when you have to deal with so much shit around you. I think I came back here 'cause I remembered it to be a quiet place. You could fucking think here. And now? Strange noises and commotion and those," he clenched his fist slightly, "fucking coffee shops on every damn corner. This town has got like everywhere else. Looks like them, is like them. Fuck originality, huh?"

He received his whiskey and downed it instantly. He put down his final empty glass for tonight with an expertise of a seasoned drinker. He threw a bill on the counter and left without saying a word.

He'll probably be back tomorrow. If not in this bar, then another one. If not in this town, then somewhere else. It's all the same now, anyway.

The Morning After (1)

'Owww...'

I opened my eyes and waited for the blurriness to wear off. Flickering lights were dancing on my face as if someone with an impish grin on his face was playing with ON/OFF switch. Ouch. "Easy," I gasped. "I'm gonna get ya." When I regained clear vision I realized those were actually sunbeams that managed to get past tree branches. Wind was blowing hard, causing trees to lean back and forth like a drunk on a rocking chair which allowed sunbeams to peek through once in a while contributing greatly to much of my initial annoyance.

I elevated my upper body, using elbows as support, and took a quick look around with my barely functioning eyes. It seemed as if I woke up in a dense forest composed mainly of high pines, with solitary birches growing here and there. There was nothing out of ordinary about the forest. There were trees, and um, forest cover littered with dried and broken branches and pine cones everywhere.

The ground felt a bit damp and my clothes were slightly wet like laundry hanging in the sun for ten minutes. The air was unusually fresh. It must have been raining here not so long ago. I stood up and removed some of the dirt from my clothes. It was just a tip of the iceberg. I looked up to see a jaybird looking at me with a pitiful expression on its cocky bird face. "I don't think I'm at my best look wise. That must have been a rough night," I thought. I haven't had much in terms of last night's events recollection. I decided to try and postpone this issue for the time being. The bird flew away but not before dropping a nice little gift right next to my feet. "Thanks." I said, rather insincerely.

As I was elevating myself to a position that was vaguely similar to the default homo sapiens stance, I felt a surge of pain go through my things and calves. "Whoa," I mumbled as I stumbled onto the nearest tree to stop myself from falling. I hugged the tree like I used to hug a teddy bear when I was a kid.

I didn't drink as much back then, though.

I collected myself after a dozen seconds and proceeded to switch my body to a more distinguish 'hooker-at-a-lamppost' pose. I tried to think how much I would charge for a cheeky handjob, especially with the financial crisis and the ever-weakening dollar, but I had to cast those thoughts away mainly because they were ridiculous. "Come on, man," I reasoned. "If you're not paying for this kinda stuff then you shouldn't charge either. Out of principle. You are a man of principle, aren't you?" There was an awkward silence in my head following that question.

It turned out that attempting to formulate thoughts, however half-witted they were, caused a headache to wake up from its stupor. "Dammit," left my mouth as I grimaced over and over again. "My face will have wrinkles like an old dog's ball sack before I even hit 30 if I keep this up," I thought. My head felt like a wooden plank being nailed to something by a particularly clumsy carpenter.

After a few moments of fighting a losing battle against the pain I went through my pockets to see if I had a phone or at least some painkillers. I had neither of those items which was extremely unfortunate because I had to both contact somebody and get rid of the headache. "Life won't even give me any lemons," I mused philosophically, in what was probably my best moment since waking up on that morning.

Rummaging through pockets didn't yield much in terms of results as I only had spare change in my pants and a piece of baguette in my hoody. My first thought was to buy some water because I was as thirsty as a dry tomato (my face must have looked similar) and also purchase painkillers. Unfortunately, after looking around, checking to be absolutely sure, I was one hundred percent certain there were no shops in my vicinity. It was a forest, after all. I decided to eat the baguette so as not to impair my movements with unnecessary burden. It was stale but it was something. And I was as hungry as a cannibal stranded on an island with no people.

Fueled by those superb nutrients I slowly began to make my way in an unspecified direction. It was there and then that I gathered my first experience in sailing as I was carried and pushed mainly by the wind. Wherever possible I supported myself with trees which I started to consider to be my friends because they were always there for me. "Thanks, trees. You're all invited to my birthday next month. You don't have to bring anything," I said. "There will be a cake and a barbecue and hopefully sun, 'cause that what you trees eat, eh?"

At one point, after wandering aimlessly for some odd twenty minutes, I finally heard something in the distance. I had no idea what it was except that it was a sound. I quickly gathered that there were no other reasonable options but to follow that noise so I began to walk in its general direction. It grew louder and louder and after a few minutes I saw what looked like a huge ball of poo rolled up and left there by a ridiculously large scarab.

The ball of poo started to move. I began approaching it carefully when suddenly I recognized it! That ball of poo was my friend Mark, and the noise he let out was one of his stomach's contents leaving his mouth.

"Mark! Hey, Mark!" I yelled and jogged to him. He somehow managed to pull up his head and looked at me. His face suggested he just left the filming set of a zombie movie after being given a role as an extra. He groaned and growled at me. It freaked me out at first, but as I did not have my sawed-off shotgun with me, I had to try to talk to him.

"You okay, buddy?" I asked as I looked into his red eyes and pale face. I glanced underneath him to see a pool of what was his last night's meal remix that looked like an old, moldy pizza. I hoped he wouldn't fall into it, in case I had to carry him back.

"Wh... huh? R... Rod?" he muttered as his eyes started to register something other than a ground full of vomit. He scratched his head carelessly and with all his strength he flexed his rather wimpy brain muscles and put together a question that pierced right through my mind, placing in doubt my take on philosophy of humanity and existence. "Whe... where is my hat?"


To be continued...

The Duel

With a sudden movement of his right fist he struck it with a fierce blow. A splatter of glowing, purple blood crossed the air in slow motion and landed on a nearby, demolished wall. Without questioning the gift, weary and thirsty concrete soaked up the substance with all enthusiasm it could muster. Steel rods growing out of the grey mass were flowers planted in a crashed clay pot. The liquid wasn't enough to bring them back to life. It was too late for that.

Soon after blood, a full body followed. It came in flying, having lost its balance and stopped at the concrete wall, tearing a portion of it in the process. The hit to the jaw was so clean it sent a few of the creature's many fangs plummeting down onto the floor like heavy raindrops before a storm.

Standing high at seven feet the creature's body was covered in dark grey husk with two insect-like arms arched downward growing out of its chest and another two connected to what humans refer to as shoulder blades, arched upward, creating a look similar to pincers. Such set of limbs had a considerable reach but limited maneuverability. The creature's head was darker than its arms and torso, looking almost black and similarly to its back it was covered with numerous small horns growing out of the skin. The head boasted a terrifying, elliptical jaw filled with fangs all around it, soaked in a mixture of saliva and purple blood. Above it, a set of three obsidian eyes formed a menacing triangle. The eyes were capable of looking in different directions giving the creature a certain advantage during combat. Possibly the only flaw in the creature's physique was its ability to maintain balance, which was connected to its unimpressive lower body. The torso was prolonged almost all the way down to the floor where a dozen feet was responsible for balancing out the stature and moving in a fluent manner. It caused the creature to possess a somewhat restricted pliability.

He knew about it and decided to take advantage of that fact. Throughout the duel he tried to outmaneuver the creature using dodging techniques and his innate celerity. He had to depend on his wits and use the knowledge of his surroundings well if he was to have any success in battle.

As the creature recovered its senses it let out sounds of modulated panting filled with anger and hate. It began to spew saliva all over the floor. Using its upper strength it stood up ready to charge at its opponent again. It focused its eyes at the man who was feeling signs of fatigue and suffered from fractured bones in his body. His ragged clothes were torn to shreds and fabrics were glued to his skin like leeches wherever there was an open wound.

The man reared back a bit awaiting the charge and preparing another swift and decisive strike. The creature's mad rage was unstoppable if it wasn't met with quick thinking and great agility. Fortunately for the man, he possessed both and as soon as the charge commenced, he jumped onto a pile of rubble and launched himself above creature's arms and drove his foot straight between its eyes. The creature lost its balance again and the man tumbled over broken furniture. Such maneuvers were starting to take its toll and he knew if he was to be victorious he had to end the fight sooner than later.

The creature sensed the man's vulnerable position and rolled over dealing a strike with its left arms piercing through his thigh. The man let out a terrifying scream, followed it by a stream of curse words. He managed to wrangle himself from underneath the creature's pin. He rolled over a few times gaining some distance and quickly torn his sleeve away in desperate attempt to close the wound. He tied a lousy knot and hid behind what was left of a wall. The creature shook its head and stood up leaving a pool of dense, purple blood on the ground right next to the dark red pool of the man's blood.

The man looked around and found one of the steel rods to be lying around separately from the concrete wall. At that moment in time, it looked like a blessed ancient sword forged to fight evil powers. He took it in his hands and sprinted, although heavily limited by his limp, toward ruined staircase. To his fortune, it was possible to jump over the gaps and climb onto another floor. The creature noticed his escape and looked up through the massive hole in the ceiling. It saw the man gasping for air and trying to recover what was left of his strength. The creature seemed to taunt the man angrily, inviting his attack. It clawed at the ceiling's edge trying to reach up. The man was preparing his next attack.

He could feel burning pain in all his muscles. He felt like he was going to boil and explode in millions of pieces, painting the ruined building like a mad impressionist. He examined his wounds and patched up some of them to stop as much blood loss as he was able to.

After a few minutes he was ready to strike again. Without taking much of a run he jumped onto the creature's shoulders, somehow avoiding claws and arms and in an instant stabbed the creature three times in the head, piercing through its armor. The creature let out a terrifying screech, a high-pitched sonic explosion that shattered remaining glass pieces and completely deafened the man. While the man struggled to remove the rod from the creature's head in order to plunge it again, he found himself fighting for balance. The creature began to whirlwind desperately and furiously filled with pain and blood craze, flailing its arms, cutting the man's flesh. Both of them were screaming in their own voices creating a dreadful song. The man was torn between clinging onto the steel rod, risking further injuries or letting go and facing unexpected outcome. The steel rod was glowing purple from the creature's blood and it finally slid out causing the man to be sent flying on the wall. The breaking of bones was audible and the man fell onto the floor, face in the ground. He coughed up blood and shook his head in attempt to remove mist and dizziness from his sight. He was covered in a mixture of dust and blood, both purple and red.

Meanwhile, the creature was still screeching, clawing at its own eyes, ineffectually covering the holes where the rod pierced its husk like a sailor trying to stop the leaking in his ship. It was rocking back and forth, side to side, being close to falling and then regaining balance. It wasn't fully aware of its surroundings as it neared the edge of the building ever closer and closer.

The man looked up and noticed the creature facing him and having a long distance down due to the lack of a wall behind it. It was now or never for both of them. The creature almost overcame the pain but still looked confused and was blinded by severe blood flow like a purple curtain over a window. The man held onto the remnants of his strength and managed to recover himself. He was barely standing up, leaning on over his knees with tremendous effort he took a deep breath and filled with adrenaline rushed forward without feeling any pain. The creature noticed him and tried to defend itself but just before facing the creature's outstretched arms the man slid onto the floor and with all his power and momentum he pierced the creature's torso, pushing it over the edge. He was unable to stop himself from following the creature's trajectory and was now descending toward their demise. He wasn't losing hope yet as he clung onto the steel rod, thinking he could still be saved by falling onto the creature's body.

A hollow sound of a heavy drop hitting the surface filled the air for a prolonged second. A cloud of dust rose up atop of a pile of rubble like wild animals flushed out into the open. After a long while it slowly began to thin its ranks, calming down and lying down politely, revealing two bodies stacked on top of each other. A pool of red and purple joined like yin and yang served as a grim floor bed. There were no signs of life, no movement, no hope, until something, someone let out a quiet groan…

Mikkelson's Band

"I've no idea. What should we do? Sir?" All eyes were turned to a towering man with a scar running across his face. His scar wasn't actually running across his face as it was mostly stationary. It only moved when the towering man produced facial expressions, like he did just now. And now again.

"Split up. Posen, you go north. Leez, you head south. Oph, check east. Mikkelson, head west. I'll stay here and finish my roasted chicken before those pesky rats claim it," the towering man said and threw a towel over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir! What should we do when we find him?" asked a male man named Mikkelson who was a blond Swede with yellow hair and loved folk music, sweets and expressionism.

"Bring him back, Mikkelson. And be careful. Browser can be dangerous. As dangerous as a volcano or a gun or an angry velociraptor," the towering man who had a towel thrown over his shoulder as he prepared to eat roasted chicken warned everyone who wasn't Mikkelson and he warned Mikkelson as well.

Mikkelson was a Swede. He was of considerable size as his diet was composed mainly of sugar. That's why they called him a Swede and because he was born in Sweden as well. He wasn't a good composer neither of music nor of diet. He was prone to mass food consumption and he was a highway in a sense that he had no limits. His daily calories intake was someone else's weekly calories intake and his outtake was even larger, without needlessly getting into specifics. Needless to say he was prone to clogging up the toilet and causing people to experience the experience of exasperation. He explained that he couldn't control his excrement production standards because the remote to his bowels had fallen behind a sofa. Remote was a great location to be in after Mikkelson had visited the toilet. Toilets absolutely hated Mikkelson. They were crying their porcelain tears and flooded their surroundings making all the tiles around them wet and angry and sad like a worn out umbrella.

Mikkelson had a voice as deep as a very deep well or a hole or Deep Purple. His voice used to echo wherever there was space and circumstances for such phenomenon to occur. Back in his day he was able to sing songs and let his calm voice spread over the room like jam on a slice of bread. He loved jam sandwiches and he loved singing. Back in his day he would perform at nights in bars and small local festivals with his band of equally blonde Swedes who had a penchant for exposing their naked chests and singing songs whilst playing on musical instruments. They were good folk and used to play decent Swedish folk and enjoyed their lives like a human baby would if its brain was developed enough to understand that it is being fed food for free and has its butt cleaned up for it.

Mikkelson's band was almost successful. They were once approached by a small corpulent man who was as tall as small women and turned out to be a record company executive. He was impressed with their performance at the Malmo Music Festival festival.

"I am very impressed with your performance, boys," he told them in Swedish because they were in Sweden, before telling them his name is Erik. "My name is Erik."

"Thanks, Erik," one of the band members, a drummer, replied whilst playing with drumsticks like a ninja with knives or a porn star with someone's anus.

"Seriously, boys, that was impressive. What was your band's name again?" he asked nonchalantly without chaloir.

"Jarl Jam."

"Hmm," Erik mused, "Swear I've heard it somewhere. Weren't you popular back in the day? Heh, heh," he attempted a joke but failed as nobody laughed. Not even his family, who admittedly weren't there at the time.

"We wanted to reflect our Scandinavian roots by incorporating such an important title to our culture as 'Jarl'. As for the second part, our lead singer Mikkelson really loves jam. He wouldn't have it any other way," the bass player explained while nodding his head towards Mikkelson who was making sandwiches with a jelly looking substance in the attic. "You have to reach compromise sometimes. Especially with Mikkelson."

"What was the name of the song that you played? Girls certainly loved it or maybe it was the naked chests. Still a good piece of music," Erik complimented while sitting down on a dark chair that had a long, tiresome life.

"It's called 'Wake Me Uppsala'. It's a song about loss and grief. Sven here," the drummer pointed at a napping blond Swede who fell asleep with a bowl of pudding on his lap and a flute next to his knee. "He realized he lost his wallet when he woke up after a very busy night in Uppsala and was overcome with sadness. When he told us what happened we immediately started writing a song and after we were done we went out looking for the wallet."

"Did you find it?"

Mikkelson's band was almost successful because they were about to sign a big contract with Erik's record company. They were about to make big money, huge piles of cash and hookers and a generous insurance package. They were already planning to spend their newly acquired wealth to help poor people like themselves – themselves. All was going well except for the bass player's diagnosis of leukemia but suddenly they split. They split in a split second as the conflict between the members escalated quicker than an escalator as the latter is rather slow. Mikkelson had a very violent argument with the drummer after which he saw no other option but to leave the group and travel with his parents to America.

"That's it. I've had enough. I'm leaving Jarl Jam and I'm going to travel with my parents to America," he said, as he was massaging his bruised knuckles still sore after the violent disagreement.

"Fine," said the drummer who was still limping a bit even though he wasn't walking right now. "I'm not going to miss you and your crap. We will find another lead singer and will send you postcards from Jarl Jam's world tour."

"You won't know my address," Mikkelson rightly observed.

"Write it here," the drummer pulled down his pants and displayed his bare backside to Mikkelson who was very hungry and had to hurry because he had a dentist appointment. He left without leaving an address on the drummer's naked butt.

Mikkelson hasn't pursued a career in show business ever since. Initially, he felt very upset about the band's collapse and even jam stopped tasting the same. He was sad and disappointed that he failed to fulfill his dream and bemoaned the amount of money he was never going to earn while doing something he loved. This state lasted over three weeks. After he arrived in Seattle he was well over it and began earning plenty of money in his father import-export company which he absolutely loved doing.

Mikkelson has always been an avid enthusiast of timber, hydropower, and iron ore and the fact that his father's company was importing precisely those goods from Sweden to United States made him very happy and reasonably wealthy and almost made him forget Jarl Jam. He can still be heard by his neighbors or burglars humming 'Wake Me Uppsala' in the shower.

As for the rest of the band, they were still looking for a new lead singer when the bass player died aged 20. Shortly after that the pudding loving band member was sent to jail for two years after beating a man half to death with a flute. The drummer put his pants back on and became a mechanic playing with wrenches like a ninja with knives but lost his right arm a year later. The dream of Jarl Jam died and was no longer alive.

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Browser's Childhood