Well, elf shitsâ€¦ here is an interview that is coming out in the Chicago zine scene, in This Fucking Life. . . sorry to say that I didnâ€™t know about the existence of such a thing as This Fucking Life (dog, I love writing that) until I was contacted by Serena Six for an interview. She reads my blog and said yea to all thatâ€¦ So, here is a reprint of an Interview with Johnny Pain from the Zine This Fucking Life. And yes, I have permission!!!! You better get it too when you publish other peoples stuff, or I will have to kick your ass, or put you on a listâ€¦ depending on how big and tough you are. I mean, should I one day have to wipe out all humanity to keep prescientifica-head-in-the-assica from infecting the next animals that learn to talk, the young and the weak and elderly will have to die first, I am afraidâ€¦ plain and simply because they are easier and I am lazy. Any how, here is Selena Sixâ€™s interview with the asshole, as I call myselfâ€¦â€¦
Since first reading about the bloody hell of the hamster wars, I knew I would sooner or later interview this other Chicagoan, Mr. Johnny Pain. Now, I was finally meeting him, going up three flights of stairs to the Elves Attic. I see him first standing at the top, framed by a dark wooden doorway wearing a torn black shirt with red, blood-dripping letters saying, KILL EVERYONE. His jeans are black, too, and his boots are once black, though now faded gray. He is slim, average height, cuteâ€¦ Long brown curls fall out from beneath a South Park hat with Stan barfing green over the maroon brim. As I reach the top of the stairs, he steps back to let me in and offers his hand with a scowl on his face, like he is being forced to shake hands with someone he feels is repugnant
â€œNice shirt.â€� I step into the attic and notice the cats that Johnny Pain writes about in his blog, first accusing them of killing his first mighty hamster army, and then deriding the no torture policy that his girlfriend M. has instigate as the reason he canâ€™t verify that the cats ate the hamsters. The gray tabby, Charlie Brown Bukowski, is lying at the top of the keyboards and looking up at me curiously. Mr.Yeats is curled up into a puffy ball, an orange, lionish looking cat sleeping on the back of a black leather love seat,
Johnny waves me toward a red wing chair, â€œ You agree with the sentiment of the shirt, I take it, or you wouldnâ€™t be here. Itâ€™s easy to agree with a shirt like this. . â€œ He speaks in a surprisingly soft voice, sets me up to be startled when he suddenly yells, â€œare you willing to back that up with a few rounds?â€�
I jump, he chuckles and strokes his chin.
I laughed then and had an odd feeling that I had just entered a funny and disturbing Johnny Pain story. â€œ No, but your feelings on the matter are exactly why I wanted to interview you for my zine.â€�
â€œYou have a zine, too? â€œ Johnny asked.
â€œYes, This Fucking Lifeâ€¦ I told M. all this on the phone.â€�
â€œYes, well, sheâ€™s always telling me something she wants me to remember when I am too stoned to remember, but donâ€™t try to tell her thatâ€™s a valid excuse for forgetting thingsâ€¦ she canâ€™t face a lot of realities, because she is just like everyone else.â€� He points at my handheld recorder and asks, â€œ You already have that thing recording, right?â€�
â€œYes, from the stairs.â€�
â€œYou want to do some bongs?â€� He asks as he pulls a knee high red bong out from behind his desk.
â€œIâ€™ll pack one, or however many ya need, got weed, got weedâ€¦ yea, I donâ€™t get interviewed nearly enough, and I think about how cool it would be all the time, know all the right questions to ask meâ€¦ sometimes this is all I do for months at a time.â€� He looks puzzled, stokes his thin Vincent Price beard, a slim line of dark hair running down his jaw lines and ending in a graying goatee like beard. â€œ :Fucking eh, this is probably something I should just talk about with a professionalâ€¦ â€œ He laughs like he has been joking all along, hands me the bong and points at a lighter on a coffee table-- which he has painted with skyscrapers rising into a black city night filled with stars. The room is filled with his paintings, bright, colorful canvases that range from cubist to Van Gogh -ish landscapes.
â€œI love your paintings.â€�
â€œPeople buy this shit. I donâ€™t notice them until someone points them out, actually. Painting them is the only part I like â€“ selling them kind of sucks, makes me feel lostâ€¦ like parting with a good friend foreverâ€¦ We are here to talk hamsters, though. That orange cat, his nickname is butboy, because he spends every night curled up on one of our Asses. He comes right in when you go to bed. Soft, warmâ€¦ who knows why he does it? You ever kill anyone?â€�
â€œNo, I would never kill anyone.â€� I tell him with a laugh.
â€œNever say never on that one, Bub . . . think a minute and youâ€™ll realize there are all kinds of reasons one might have to kill. This is not some psychosisâ€¦ Damn that fucking â€¦ oh, never mind thatâ€¦ No, you have to be ready to kill, like me, tough you know? I never meant to learn how to fight, it just happens when you live in a neighborhood full of bullies and hot heads. There was a fight at almost every gameâ€¦ Now, I know there are reasons to know how to fight, and justifiable reasons to kill, though dog knows, Iâ€™m probably not lucky enough to ever get a chance. Dammit!!!â€�
I smoke another bong and feel like my head has emptied out, look at my list of questions and then remember one Johnny Painâ€™s essays and come up with a new question.
â€œOn your web sit, you wrote that you have,â€™ fuck your mother, kill your father,â€™ tattooed on your forehead, but I donâ€™t see . . . â€�
He takes off his hat and pulls back his long light brown hair, showing me a thin line of tiny blue letters right at his hairline, reading, yes, â€˜FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.â€™
â€œHow drunk were you?â€� I ask him.
â€œHard to tellâ€¦ I canâ€™t remember. My theory is, someone drugged meâ€¦ besides me, I mean. I think it is obvious that the dog, Ruby-doo the husky, is behind this. She is ridiculously happy all the time, and I think that is because she finds this tattoo so damn amusingâ€¦ I could find out, but you know M. and this anti-torture policy?â€�.
â€œ Did you ever discover who ate the first mighty hamster army?â€�
â€œAgain, there is no shit-shrub not so president here to order M. to let me torture. The CIA gets to tortureâ€¦ bouncing crucified Christâ€™s, even those weekend soldiers get to torture!! I swear to god, Iâ€™d vote for a damned republican if that not-so-president would just call M. and tell her that this anti-terrorist effort requires hard, bloody decisions -- like tortureâ€¦ Iâ€™ve called the white house repeatedly and left messages, but noâ€¦.
That fucker Clinton always called me back. All I had to do with him was say I had some juicy â€˜pussy talk.â€™ Once he sent air force one to pick me up â€“ that time I had memorized some penthouse forums, which it turned out he had already read, and then I had to convince him that the adventures indeed were mine and that I had sent in the lettersâ€¦ Heâ€™d buy anything to keep a good pussy talk going.â€�
M. comes into the room, her long red hair and big brown eyes make for a very cute
Face, and her body, to quote Johnny Pain, â€˜could raise a woody on the dead.â€™ She looks at Johnny like she is a little annoyed with him, â€œDonâ€™t lie to this young lady. Youâ€™re damn lucky to have someone around who takes you seriously for a few minutes. You better enjoy it while it lasts.â€�
Johnny laughs, though I am not entirely sure she is being facetious. M. sets down a cup of coffee for Johnny and asks me if I want anything; when I donâ€™t, she bids us farewell..
â€œYou can see the hamster room, if you dareâ€¦ Just donâ€™t say anything anti-rodent, or pro-cat in there, or I canâ€™t be held responsible for your well being.â€�
The hamster â€˜roomâ€™ is actually a closet, with the walls lined with empty cages.
â€œCome on in.â€�
â€œThere isnâ€™t room.
â€œIâ€™ve had three people in here, maybe four?â€�
I suspect he is lying, though I go in any ways, enter a small space which smells of cedar chips and stand uncomfortably close to the interviewee. He doesnâ€™t seem to know I am there as he looks from cage to cage with a contemplative look on his face.
Johnny turns on the light bulb hanging down from the ceiling, closes the door and tells me in a whisper, â€œSecurity,â€�
â€œAre there any hamsters?â€� I ask?
He taps his forehead and says, â€œTheyâ€™re all in here, practicing on a purely mental dimension, for nowâ€¦so, yea, there are a hell of a lot of hamsters. I spend my time now, preparing to train the other hamsters, the ones onâ€¦ well, this dimension, you knowâ€¦ though in other dimensions, the ones I can only access up here." He taps himself on the forehead again, â€œthe hamster army is making them tremble and shakeâ€¦ and when I bring them out of here, into hereâ€¦â€� He points at his head and then the cages, â€œYou will see Paintopia rise up and become the world government, or you will be killed as a resister. That will be up to you and how you act, unless I am really moody, and then I might have you killed for just being around and being human. Who can tell whatâ€™s going to happen, right?â€�
â€œCan we leave this room?â€�
â€œSure. I know, coming in here reminds you that war is hell, and hamster war is even worseâ€¦ itâ€™s a. . . Hellish hell, I guessâ€¦ Yea, letâ€™s get out of here. And Donâ€™t say anything about this to anyone, or you will hear the hamsterâ€™s squeal of death!!â€�
â€œThis is an interview for a publication andâ€¦â€�
â€œI mean government people.â€�
â€œThey donâ€™t read my zine.â€�
â€œWell, I guess you get to live . . . for now.â€�
We go back into the living area of the attic-- half is filled with boxes, most of the rest is Johnnyâ€™s office. He sits in a red leather swivel chair in front of the computer and I lean back into the black leather loveseat, petting the orange Mr. Yeats as Johnny leans over the tray on the coffee table, takes out a bowl and begins stuffing in a bud. .
I ask him, â€œYou know, wait, if I heard the hamsterâ€™s squeal of death, wouldnâ€™t that mean that the rodents are dying? And why would that be frightening to me?â€�
He shakes his head no and looks up at the ceiling, â€œIn the battle to kill you, there would be fatalities on the hamster side. Practically a suicide mission, really, since a human can probably kill like twenty of them before succumbing â€“ well, that is assuming that the cloak of passive pet that the hamster now hide behind is lifted and they are known as the killers they are. Until that happens, subterfuge is bestâ€¦a slow, cute, cuddly little killer that can get into the jugular kill zone . . . you probably would be able to kill the little trooper that tears open your throat, so a hamsters death scream would be the last thing you ever heard. Now that is frighteningâ€¦ you better wake up from your little dream world girlâ€¦ Really and truly, now, you never killed anyone?â€�
â€œAh, youâ€™re just being cagey, probably . . . Yea, thatâ€™s the way you got to beâ€¦. Never confess. Seriously, between us, you know, who did you kill, or should I say, how many?â€�
â€œIâ€™ve never killed anyone, and I have no plans to.â€�
â€œM. said that you were a mercenary who was in charge of a special operations unit working clandestinely for the CIA, training and delivering killer gerbils to our enemies who enjoy rodents as pets?
â€œI thought you would find that a funny joke.â€�
â€œYou fucking humans!!!! Why the hell would you think I would take that as a joke? This is war, girl, and you had better understand that right now.â€� Then Johnny started jumping around like a pogo stick and squealing like an angry rodentâ€¦ this went on for perhaps a minute, then he began spinning around in circles while mumbling, â€œOh, the shits with ya!!! Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh theâ€¦.â€�
M. came in. â€œI heard the jumping and squealing. He told me that was how he was going to end the interviewâ€¦. Come onâ€¦. You know, he has some crack pot theory about finding nirvana by pretending he is a penguin spinning around saying, â€˜Oh, the shits with you.â€™ He can keep this up for hours. No, seriously, of course you know heâ€™s just doing this for your benefit? Like, he wanted the interview to be different. Though honestly, I donâ€™t think he could be normal if he wanted to be, and he doesnâ€™t. You know he was playing with you, right?â€�
â€œWell, yesâ€¦ sure, I didâ€¦â€�
â€œHe told me interviews are mostly boring, no matter how much you like the people â€¦ and something about how interviews donâ€™t have the power of journalism or fiction? You know, he gets so excited and talks so much that you have to kind of stop listening to him sometimesâ€¦.â€�
As she walks me out to the door, I can still hear him up there, spinning around and yelling his way into nirvanaâ€¦
â€œHe is one damn funny guy,â€� I tell her as we hug and part.
â€œYea, if only some of it were intentional, you know?â€�
Despite what M. said about Johnny Pain acting his way through the interview, I am still entertaining the question of whether he is doing an Andy Kaufman, or is simply mad? I also look at hamsters now as the cut-throat cold ass killerâ€™s they areâ€¦ yea cats!!! May you and Ruby eat them all!!! Just kidding, Johnny; and Johnny, while I am at it, let me also write that you better remember how nice I was when you are the supreme commander of Paintopia, because I really want to liveâ€¦. please let me liveâ€¦please?).