Guantanamo’s torture playlist had become dated with the fall of Kazaa and Scars of the Crucifix by Decide and Craig David in general weren’t loosening lips like they used to. The Generals needed something more, something bigger, louder; Cannibal Corpse before the exodus, what Celine Dion was just after Rene Angelil started layin’ the diabetic pipe.
The U.S. needed a new mix. The Russians had the new super big bomb and the Chinese were comin’ to collect or whatever.
They needed a tape, a fabled tape, one allegedly 20,000 leagues down at 605 Lyons St. in Garner, Iowa on a hyperbaric Yak Bak.
A web-footed gilled-Blackwater mercenary known only as “The Mariner” was the only one who could reach it but it was too late.
The General had already consulted his Magic 8-Ball, the nuclear codes entered.
The apparatus had become operational.
The deed written-
The McDonald’s flag at half-mast by Executive Order
as the President tap-dances in front of the his teleprompter, reading the Revelations off his genital warts like braille.
The plasticine lawn ornaments and inflatable Mother Mary’s bobbing in the North Pacific Gyre watching a spectacle second only to Thunder Over Louisville, as the automated ammunitions rain down on deaf ears like Mr. Movie Phone during the Rapture.
Record comes with multiple inserts, large poster, and digital download. Pressed on baby blue vinyl. Limited to 300 copies.