Last night my band played a gig at a casino in Atlantic City. In fact, thanks to some vicious motherfucking mucous germ raging in my sinus cavity and a few technical difficulties with our sound system and general set-up, I’m surprised my text isn’t coming out all raw and scratchy looking. But the supremely excellent folks that turned out were all very kind and complimentary, even if I did fuck up every other note above a middle “C”. Cheers and much thanks to any of you who may have found this page. What a pity that there can only be one first born for each of us, otherwise I would certainly bestow such a gift to all of you. Pity about the lack of a womb as well, but it’s the thought that counts, eh?

Anyhow, from the makeshift “stage” from which the onslaught of hoarse but high-energy modern rock poured forth, I could see rows of slot machines flashing and dinging and whistling and propping up any number of septuagenarian punters at any one time. In fact, outside of our melodious maelstrom it seemed to be a slow night at the old saloon, which gave the otherwise buzzing atmosphere an apocalyptically creepy vibe. The escalator transported invisible souls up and down to new levels of solemnity, and the small coveys of hunched-over high-stakers quietly dripped out their social security checks one coin at a time as if attempting to buy a few more years of youth. I even joked that if any one of these slightly sad-looking figures were a mere smidge away from a stroke, surely a sudden cymbal crash could cause their poor hand to bust.

So naturally, as I searched for areas of my throat that could be used to produce an acceptable note, it got me to thinking all story-like and shit…

…suppose one of those slot machines was haunted? Suppose it laid in wait for one rather poorly wired Winnie or Walter Witherington to kick their quarter bucket just as they pulled the arm? I guess it wouldn’t have to be a blue hair, but that seems the most likely. And what if, as they went gently if somewhat tastelessly into that good night, they hit the jackpot? All of these remote possibilities could combine to beat a very different set of odds – odds with a horrifying payout. Perhaps grandma unslumps in her chair and rises, her listless gate and cataract eyes alarming no one. In fact, nothing at all would seem out of place save the pile of tokens accumulating noisily at her stockinged feet. That is until she opened her mouth and took a chunk out of the floor boss’ shoulder.

And just like that, it’s on. In the time it takes to lose three hands of blackjack, the place is crawling with undead. Immediately the place is put on lock down, as casinos have been known to do. And a few drunken young’ns having the time of their life in a nearby bar suddenly have a new agenda. Especially the plucky co-ed dropout who just sold her grandmother’s expensive heirloom and quadrupled her cash at the roulette table which meant she would be able to go back to school just like she promised her nan she would. No way is she going to let a ravenous virus ruin her G-fucking-P-A. And then there’s the bartender who just put in a double and wants to get home to watch the finale of “Californication” before he passes the fuck out. And the band (shall we call them “The Embalmed”?) aren’t ready to stop, so they figure if they keep spewing forth the hits maybe a few more of them will drop. Their last set provides the soundtrack for the others’ shot-fueled descent into hell. From that point, there’s no end to the ways they can get into trouble, and for a select few, back out of it.

It was right at this point that I forgot the words to “Land of Confusion”. Hmm…