Temple of Fiends (Les Goules d'Elysée)

The Soundtrack: For starters, people should be aware of just what, when, and where they're getting themselves into, right?

The Scrapist: To whom do you bequeath this magniloquent requiem for inanity?

The Soundtrack: What kind of question is that? How can I possibly respond to anything so utterly absurd?

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Anything would suffice, given that it wasn't an inquiry being asked of you.

The Soundtrack: Break out your dictionary, miss, and look up the meaning of interrogative or, for that matter, interrogative sentence before you enter into adult conversation.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Hm. Yes. I'm well aware of what you think he's saying, and what you contend is entirely rational, yet when all is said and done -syntactical horseshit and egregious solecisms included, of course- what we have here is anything but an inquisition. He's saying You'll soon be dead, and that for all intents and purposes, any message to impart upon your audience would be as meaningless as the recipients themselves, or something like that. Translation's not my bag.

The Scrapist: Spectral vomituration at its very finest, lads and lasses; of this hallowed order, the two of you are exemplary specimens indeed.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Ontological dry-heaving aside, the two of you -namely, stinky you and sticky me- aren't quite as different as some would imagine. Given that you're a mainstay of the Short Bus Brigade, however, I'll go ahead and simplify this unnerving propinquity: with regard to humanity, we're nothing if not apodictically remiss.

The Soundtrack: Sounds to me like your friend there is very much the deipotent asshole, which would make you, what, the dangling fecal matter?

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Something like that, but even so: I never said we were bosom buddies, not by a long shot. Second, don't shoot the messenger. Thirdly, and don't take this the wrong way; your taste in music is atrocious.

The Coyote's Grudge: Better yet, do shoot the messenger, preferably in the face.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Been there, defaced like that. Speaking of which, what have you been up to these days, fuckface?

The Coyote's Grudge: Oh, this and that. Coyote stuff.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Do tell, Wile E.

The Soundtrack: This whole operation is going to shit faster than an ill-conceived wedding ceremony, and that's saying a lot.

The Coyote's Grudge: Greg Kihn. Wow. That's a bit stale, don't you think?

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: What are you talking about? The Breakup Song is a phenomenal single to this very day. And don't change the subject.

The Scrapist: Though the fractured, morally liquescent Popsicle drips a juice neither veraciously abrasive nor abrasively veracious, she appreciates compositional wizardry nonetheless. The Breakup Song (They Don't Write 'Em) is one such melody as is, to a lesser extent, Jeopardy.

The Soundtrack: Verbosity!

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: On the contrary, my dimwitted scapegoat; the message conveyed is far more complex than your deficient comprehension allows. All things considered, it was quite laconic but I'm no interpreter, so fuck your cerebral inadequacy. Stick to what you know, which obviously isn't music, Jeopardy notwithstanding.

The Coyote's Grudge: What...What year is this, 1982? Enough with the Greg Kihn shit already.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Music endures! and all that. Anyway, back to you.

The Coyote's Grudge: I'm so glad you insist! I've been scouring the Internet, searching for images most representative of your illustrious character. To that end, I've unearthed two such photos:

The Scrapist: Recreant elegance personified.

The Soundtrack: Damn. Nice touch with the go-go boots.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Oh, please. I'd never wear, no, make that endure anything so garish as a strapless dress no matter how much cerulean appeals to me as a color. Other than that misstep, not too shabby. P.S. You're a dick and anyway, misdirection only serves to delay the inevitable, you know.

The Coyote's Grudge: So you say. So you say.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: So I do. Fuck. Anybody got a cigarette, per chance?

The Soundtrack: I have half a pack of week-old Marlboros but no lighter. Lost it on the ride in to, like, wherever it is we are now, I think. 

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: No worries, chump, as I just so happen to have a few road flares on hand. Oh yeah, that's the stuff.

The Scrapist: Truly, a fortuitous moment for all involved; especially those aforementioned, emboldened souls yet unaware of the alleged what, when, and where of which you deem so very worthy of explication. 

The Soundtrack: Hmm. Strange. You know...

The Coyote's Grudge: Yeah, I know.

The Soundtrack: In the light things don't quite look the same, lady. You included.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Is that so? Tell me more. 

The Scrapist: Indeed. Share with us, fair-skinned troubadour, your reaction to this irradiation woefully misidentified as theosophical illumination masked by some frothy, malodorous conglomeration of narrative shrapnel. Liken the anagnorisis to something tangible; a song if you would be so kind. 

The Soundtrack: What, shithead? Nobody in their right mind even knows what anagnorisis is supposed to mean! If you're looking for a description, it's like a place I've never wanted to be. Ever.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Hum. Well that's a shame, really, since you -or someone like you- simply had to be here; otherwise, the little doggy wouldn't have shown up. The mutt's unabashedly predictable in that sense, you see, yet his entirely unforeseen absence of late has proven to be, shall we say, somewhat disconcerting. Not so much for the patchwork messiah over there, of course, as he -I keep saying he but that's a crock of shit- is a goddamn celestial sieve if there's ever been one and don't ask me to explain, 'cause elucidating the rationale, objectives, and sentimentality of a walking, talking inverisimilitude is such a bitch; but yeah, for me it's a problem of sorts.

The Coyote's Grudge: Sorry, dude, but what can I say? Music intrigues me. 

The Soundtrack: You're an ass. Scratch that. Assholes, the lot of you!

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Oh, we're much more than that, bright boy. Much more. Even were it not the case, it's like the Scrape said; we're not so different, you and I. 

The Soundtrack: How's that?

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: I can't tell you, but I fully intend to demonstrate the principal similarity for all in attendance. After this cigarette's finished, of course. Take this opportunity to choose one last song - a swan song, if you will.

The Soundtrack: Screw you. I'll do no such thing, and you ca- wait, what's... What's wrong with your face? Jesus Christ.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Tick-tock, tick-tock man. Make it count, assuming you can.

The Soundtrack: F-Fine! You want a song? Here it is. I hope you choke on it, bitch.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: If only I could, but you know...

The Scrapist: Where you are with.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Right you are, Mr. Tuna Casserole, but oh, look; the poor sap's gone and wet himself. Hysterical and useless as Yorke would say.

The Coyote's Grudge: I'll be over there. I don't want any part of this.

The (Pipe) Bomb Pop: Keep saying that and sooner or later someone's bound to believe you. Nevertheless: un, deux, trois, cinq.

The Scrapist: Alas, alas; crushed like a bug in the ground.





P.S. Yeah, the count goes 'one, two, three, five' but that's just in reference to a song on the sidebar.