James ate his tofu angrily.
"Fuck this."
Dan looked up from his bacon. "What?"
"What we need to do is get together a team of super-baddasses. Just guys who do not give a fuck onstage. Guys who would fellate an orangutan if the scene called for it."
"Armstrong would blow a 'tan," suggested McNeill.
"Damn right he would. In." James nibbled his coffee cake. "I saw Gimple kill a marmoset once with the crook of his knee."
"In," Dan spat. "What about Gaul? That guy can air-drum the entire solo of Led Zeppelin's 'Moby Dick.'"
"I guess. Britain Spellings can do a great gay German," added James, massaging his left nipple.
"Well, that means we gotta get Gareth, 'cause he'll feel left out if he can't do HIS gay Nazi."
The air was silent and moist. Dan felt cold.
"That means we just need our psycho-Telly Savalas-type," James breathed. He was half-aroused by now.
A possum scampered across the sidewalk. Time froze with possibility. Something wicked this way came.
"Berg," they both said at once, and History's water broke, giving birth to Devastation.
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