So I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror, and said "Damn Adam, you are one cool-ass sexy mother fuckin' piano player!". "Damn!" I said. Real loud like. You know, let the world know kind of thing. And then I had a flash. I thought I dropped my electric razor in the sink for a second. Big time zap, you know. Like, wait a second, ouch, that really fuckin' hurt.  You know, one of those, ouch my penis just fell off kind of things. But this flash didin't involve the docil modernization of facial hair removal. No this was a flash of a Bouillon Mafia show. And suddenly I was standing in the back row, watching the band play. You know, totally Patrick Swayze kind of thing. That's when it hit me; Bam! We are a good lookin' band! Like not in the handsome, pretty boy kind of way, but in that feng shui complete harmony with the universe divine structure of the holy flower of life in cubistic fourth dimensional pull kind of way. Oh, you know. So that's when it hit me, wait a second, I Adam King, am a damn fine lookin man. real model of the greek god kind of thing. But somehow, the harmonious structure of the entanglement of my musical compatriots has created a living, breathing, life force, that somehow, in some ungodly way, is actually more physically atrractive than me. So the question arises: Is it worth sacrificing the overwhelming joy and eternal life I get out of playing in the Mafia, for knowing that I will have eliminated one more brick in my path on the road to being the most attractive living thing on palnet Earth? And I will tell you friends, as of this moment, I don't know, I just don't know. I always knew my greatest enemy would be myself, but how do you outcharm your inner being? All I can do, is hold my fists tight, walk into the belly of the beast, and pray for mercy on the souls of all the ugly that crumble at my feet.

Cauldrons of sweat and despair boil over the tops and brim out. Questions circulate... where, when, why, please god why?!? No one questions what that cauldron spillage will do to the linoleum, isn't that shit invincible? But it's not, and soon the crowd begins to sink into an ever growing depression in the middle of the floor. Flesh upon flesh, bone upon bone, the bodies pile ever higher. No one speaks, no one screams. This is what is supposed to happen they believe. "My destiny is to ascend from this god-forsaken rock show tonight." Man, people will believe anything. But, as the souls arise, someone quickly hits the ceiling fan....  Later, as amnesia sinks ever deeper, emotions run wild with no preformed memories to hold onto. So you understand, it is in these high ceilings - in these withered, shaken rafters. It is high up here, where the souls of rock and roll dance with the lost memories of one's greatest youth...this is where we dwell. Please only be afraid if absolutely neccessary. ABK of TBM