Imagine a road made out of the parts of armored bulldozers, whose rubber parts are burning, sending acrid fumes into the already sulfuric air. The black smoke rises like dark columns to the crimson sky, guiding the way to more infernal things.

Crackling machines, with poison green LEDs glowing eerily in the dark, add ambience to the sharp, dangerous bursts of sparks coming from heat-damaged components - they are the monster computers - now the e-mail servers of the dark forces.

The trees are made entirely out of titanium sporks. Tethered to their prongs are the Iron Balloons, floating lazily in the hot, still air. Spouts of minty fresh fire shoot out of the blackened, charred ground at random. If you look carefully, you can see the nozzles of my Listerine Flamethrowers all throughout the landscape.

In the brimstone cities, the moving sidewalks are extremely long spiked chains, from all those chainsaws I used until they exploded. The fractured glass in the buildings showcase all those soulless abominations I made (including the tuna, garlic, jalopeno, pickle, mustard, mayo, rye sandwich).

Somewhere, there are demons being run over by a chair. A SUPERCHAIR 3000, without a driver.

I know where I must head. It is the only thing that could wind up HERE, with me. Some of you might be thinking, "What, he's talking about Anya?"

No. My 99.

It sits there, on a mount of rotating bone and crushed shopping carts. A '99 Toyota Corolla, painted some weird shade of maroon, with a collection of bumper stickers subtly extolling murder, pain, and the possibility of me dating your daughter.

Slinky demon babes slither over the hood and trunk. All the while my 99's headlights seem to glare at everything, just begging for an excuse to roll its 2500 Lb mass over everything that moves. It knows, it knows that I have the keys. If it could, it would smack aside the red-skinned, horned seductress out of the way with its driver-side door and let me in.

Instead, I do it, and settle in to the microfiber seats. My keys are almost in the ignition when a feminine sigh and the smell of brimstone breathe down over my shoulders. "Do you know what I can do to your penis? I'll bet you'll never guess." Scarlet, taloned, red hands rubbed over my black shirt, teasing their way down to my pants.

"I'm quite imaginative. I'll bet you do something like this!" I reached down and retrieved the rocket launcher. In glowing paint, the words "Eat Me" wrapped around the pointed head of the rocket.

The black-lipped crimson demoness was quite surprised, "Where did you get that?"

"From the refrigerator."

"In your CAR?!"

I smile as the backblast catapulted me into the dashboard. A close-up explosion couldn't kill me - this IS Hell, after all. I grab one of the demonesses' dismembered breasts and squeeze it like a stress ball, as I answer her question, posthumously:

"Like cowboys do in TV Land!"



The Clash - The Singles - The Magnificent Seven

7

no! your munching is quite haphazard!