Tony and Justin cross space and time beating epic song lyrics out of; Alien Seed Planet Architects, Pre-Zen Monks, Proto “Dark Ages” Knights / Merlin, Sand Wrangling Zoroastrians, Demon Worshipping Persian Dervish, Pre-Human Sub-Antarctic Labor-Bread Jellies, Demi-Gods (all varieties), Hardcore Vegan Saurials, Scheming Illuminati Think Tanks, Swamp People, Toltec Nagual Pairs, Vladislav of Walachia, The Guy Who Designed Irvine, Severian, Ungoliant, Bad Ass Old Testament Prophets, Lemmy, Gogol Bordello, Lincoln, Sony Chiba and Whitman.

CHAPTER 1 - MUMON

“Dude, I need a fucking PEN, and paper. This is neither, this is still wet, what the fuck is this, is this skin?”

“Just remember it.” Gully says and mumbles something about beggars and never being satisfied.

“Remember it.” I accuse. Mumon is missing a nice square patch of the biggest organ off the middle of his back. All that Zen shit, all that one hand clapping bullshit, he fought like a beaner in gradeschool.
“Remember what?” I say, “停止!”

When his students got there they didn’t say their king fu was stronger than ours, they stood and screamed from a distance, the older ones prayed. Others who didn’t care watched, were shocked, held each other, none of them looked away.

Once his skin hit the dirt, that macabre pie dough covering, that tarp of flesh, that unreparable correction to his health, once I dropped it butter-side-down in the ancient dirty earth, once it got “dirty”, well, we just walked away from it.

“This isn’t really happening.” Gully tells me. Does it matter? Can I kill in a dream and not feel the tarnish on my soul, see it in the light moving elsewhere, to a better home. We give him to them in that we leave him. Man, killing for lyrics, there has got to be a better way. And we continued thinking that until all the hardworking types who had jobs back then and could not afford to stand around and cry for the dying and the dead or people watch all day in the market, basically the twenty or thirty men who the entire city was built upon, built by, their sweat and determination; a baker, cooks, farmers, guys who’s occupation could not be guessed by the uniqueness’s of the dirt patterns, variations of clothing, scars, men who’s appearance would make sense were we to have seen them at their good work. Men who seemed almost outrageous as they were now, covered in flour, brine, etc, all armed with tools they were capable with, tools you will never find in a picture book of ancient or modern warfare, all of them here to kill us for what we did to the old man who stood up for them when the gawkers and the flamboyant, the weak and the undeserving would ridicule them, call them menial, call them laymen, stupid, poor, say to others who were as flamboyant and meaningless as themselves how no one should be like them. His army assembled now, it had its way.