Tongue-tatoos are one of the most painful and impractical forms of regret known to animal kind. One must be thoroughly drunk and/or bat-shit insane to even consider the idea of inking their tongue. Or, one must be the lead singer to the very first and most influential Lead Metal bands of 22nd century, Jack-Shit Pretty of The Expletives. Otiose and with fine fractal detail,Jack-Shit’s tongue-tattoo of a Sierpinski Triangle is the official emblem of The Expletives. It was last seen five minuets ago tongue-fucking a female kangaroo during his lead guitarist’s solo of the bands first single, Rugt, during Show One of the band's five show Sleep Is For The Weak tour. His long neck and spectacularly tattooed purple tongue allow him to do this simple yet effective show trick. It’s the envy all other lead singers on the Lead Metal touring circuit, for it is a bona-fide crowd-pleaser. And imagine, that’s not the only 20 inch muscle attached to Jack-Shit’s body.
Sixteenth-note triplet gallops are let lose by the five piece on Bust in The Crypt's main stage and Jack-Shit's tongue slips out of one of the three vagina's it was just exploring, to the pleasure of the kangaroo and the crowd. He lifts his head up slowly like an upside-down tornado begot in reverse and begins to head bang his towering neck in rhythm with the gallop’s dizzyingly fast tempo. Big Cat and Polar Bear return from their smoke.
“I’ma go piss!” Shouts Polar Bear over the sound a music critic in attendance would later call “an approaching army.”
“WHAAAAT?” Answers Big Cat.
Polar Bear is drunk off of two dollar tequila shots, he leans in close, mouth moving but it’s words completely inaudible to Big Cat, who still has cigarette butts fit firmly into both ears. The band's low end rumble, allowed past by the cigarette butt ear-plugs, seem to be coming out of Polar Bear’s mouth. Polar Bear repeats himself.
“I’ma go take a piss!”
For a split second the visual of Polar Bear’s moving mouth and the rumble from the band, that mixed with the strobing lights and the Hæven he took earlier cause a flicker of a demon to replace his friend.
Big Cat moves closer and closer to The Fear.
“WHAAAAAAATTTT?” Big Cat shakes The Fear off, for the time being.
Polar Bear spots the make shift ear plugs and makes a gesture similar to, but not quite like, stretching a large rubber band that goes in one ear, through the skull, and out the other or playing an invisible accordion that occupies the space as his head. Big Cat catches on, removing the plugs and Polar Bear repeats his quest.
“I’ma go piss.”
Big Cat stares at Polar Bear with a look cousin to anger. It was one of those gistless statements Big Cat had come to hate over the years, never needed, yet always provided. It is even worse now, because he is just starting to come up on the Hæven and if Polar Bear does not avoid such statements Big Cat would spend the rest of the tour trying to figure out what the fuck he actually meant by "I'ma go piss." or "Do you think we can get drink tickets?" For how much effort and confusion it caused both of them Big Cat needed to answer with a statement of extreme brevity, in light of the class 9 hallucinogen currently hopping in small up and down's on the high-dive in the back of his head, readying to make a full frontal belly flop into his psyche.
“Do that,” says Big Cat.
Polar Bear takes out a twenty from his pocket and hands it to Big Cat.
“Put it it all on tequila.” He disappears into the crowd of soon to be deaf, CTP recording, youngsters.
Polar Bear is here to preserve the sanctity of his increasingly tenuous relationship with the band. Big Cat is here to fuck up that tongue-tattooed ego filled balloon, Jack-Shit Pretty.