Tag: LaPorte

#8 Hiltengarde

| November 8, 2010 | 1 Comment

Imagine, mes amis, a mere man for whom the rapier’s edge is no risk!  An immortal so dismissive of the sword, he invites it into his gullet as an hors d’oeuvre!  Observe as the iron-throated Hiltengarde ingests an arsenal extraordinaire and emits not an ounce of crimson extract!  HOW does he live?  WHY does he not bleed?  WHERE do the points delve safely within?  Questions inconsequential!  Pertinent only is your perusal of his performance!  The swordsman supreme will display the danger of his devices!  A dagger for a dying damsel!  A machete through man-meat!  A stiletto for a still-beating heart!  And each blood-blessed implement passed perfectly from person to palette!  Nary a wasted, precious drop!  And, now, partakers of the purulent, prepare to participate!  Hiltengarde is here!  Time for volunteers!

#7 BeBe Lyles

| November 7, 2010 | 0 Comments

Entertainment reporter Betsy Tremaine was freed from her network contract yesterday, following a disastrous bid to get an interview from Mourningstar guitarist Bebe Lyles.  Well-known for their pact of non-contact with the media, Martin d’Etoile’s bandmates carry security details that are simply legendary and follow intricate pre- and post-concert travel protocols to evade the paparazzi.  Obviously, any successful exchange with just ONE of them would make a music journalist’s career!  And this was apparently the rationale behind Ms. Tremaine’s failed undercover effort!  She hounded the band as a groupie for weeks, targeting the rumored tastes of the solemn axeman, Lyles, until – just three days ago, after Mourningstar sonically detonated Madison Square Garden – she finally got the backstage invite she’d …sacrificed…so much for.

Tremaine emerged from the tour bus of the self-dubbed “Satan’s Choir” completely bald, psychologically vacant and covered in ritualistic brands burned into her flesh!  She couldn’t speak to accomplishing an interview, but she DID recite a laundry list of journalistic ethics violations perpetrated in her quest FOR said interview.  Of course, we can’t repeat ANY of the acts constituting those violations, EVEN on cable – but they were all apparently at the hypnotic behest of Bebe, seen staring and – a FIRST – SMILING from the door of the bus as Tremaine stoically recounted the degenerate situations to which she subjected herself…all for NOTHING…

#6 Mad Daxta

| November 6, 2010 | 2 Comments

Quisling.  No other nomenclature suffices in reference to my former colleague of the sinister sobriquet, Mad Daxta!  Only the most base among us sour gifts for the general betterment by twisting them to tools for the satisfaction of desires best obscured in minds tranquilized in jailed cellars.  Surely you are familiar with the street lore accompanying this name, but, hear these words:  the reality of Daxta’s firmament in dark history is yet to be discovered except by we who faced him.  The power of rail transport we employ loosed the ego-wrought chains on this beast’s hunger for children.  Realization of abduction undetected empowered him to ACT!  And he did.  Granted free reign and sanctuary by the enemy, Mad Daxta rampaged, privileges all received in barter for intelligence on our methods, our roster and our base of operations.  The turncoat led point on the ambush of Grand Central, our extra-dimensional staging area, and he murdered his share of us and the Flagman as well.  With the enemy now returned, I sense that it was Daxta unleashed them again, and so I go now to seek him.  And to annihilate him.

#5 Mama Houdoo

| November 5, 2010 | 3 Comments


Some folks happy with a shack on a dry patch, but others want mo’ than what God see fit to give’em.  Take Mama Houdoo, f’instance.  She hitched up to be ole lady fo’ the head man of the Gatorbait Motorcycle Club – Crawdaddy they called him.  Now Crawdaddy, he was content with just his woman, their boys and his road dogs, but for Mama, that just didn’t get it.  She use the magicks of her ole’ pointy-nose granny and gave her left hand to spell Crawdaddy – hollowed out his soul and filled it up again full’a demon essence.  And that just ain’t right!  These days, she run Gatorbait through that devil shell – send’em on her b’ness, stealing and killing for whatever tickle her fancy.  That woman think she own the whole wide world, and she might…if she could ever get rid’a that rascal duJour.

#4 Jugular

| November 4, 2010 | 4 Comments

Bonsoir, Messieurs et Mesdames.  What you are about to see, what you paid in sanguine coin to experience, is at hand.  Behold the pallid purveyor of pantomime!  Quiet drinker of the crimson ichor!  Europe’s most renowned undead!  The Mime Jugular!  Once the most celebrated voice of humanity!  A singer unparalleled,  the young master forfeited his gift for the immortality of a jealous admirer.  The very folds of his vox pulled from their box on the fangs of a leeching count in wont of the melodic organs for himself!  So, hear now, admirers of the exquisite, the song of silence!  Observe the music of movement!  Feel the eloquence of impression!  Give freely of your lifeblood so that the eternal performance never ends!

#3 d’Etoile

| November 3, 2010 | 1 Comment

And in entertainment news, shock rocker Martin d’Etoile of goth metal outfit Mourningstar made it official today – he’s a member of the International Church of Satan!  Long rumored to be little more than a hate-spouting poseur with a penchant for pop demonology and barely legal groupies, d’Etoile took a step toward credibility with this bold pronouncement!  Riding a crest of critically and commercially successful musical endeavors, he outlined plans to put his celebrity weight behind the Satanic Church ’s recruitment campaigns and humanistic philanthropy.  And he’s apparently walking the walk!

We caught up with the controversial frontman after the impromptu street concert that followed his press conference, where he temporarily joined his bandmates in their media code of silence as they personally passed out food, clothes and, yes, even CASH to attendees, all of whom also walked away with armloads of Church literature!  D’Etoile offered only this as he passed the flashing bulbs of the paparazzi en route to the idling seat of his Bugatti:  “I make dreams come true! And nightmares for the rest of you!”  Is he finally making good on his claims of being an agent of the Antichrist?  Or is this just another publicity stunt designed to break more sales records?  Find out next week in our face-to-face interview with Martin d’Etoile, brought to you by the U.S. Army – BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE!

#2 The Gentleman Hobo

| November 2, 2010 | 6 Comments
Listen well, youngster, and pass over that can of sustenance.  Do not think me a trespassing vagrant.  And, I beseech you, consider me not a penniless loner, devoid of means and home.  Be assured, I have both in abundance.   My distinguished chapeau may hang in any rail car in all the world, for I move among them like chambers of the most palatial manse.  They are all connected, that’s how!  Before automobiles and aeroplanes, before even the Northern aggression, the fate of the very Earth relied upon trains.  Rails bonded the lands of all nations, and instant traverse between them allowed we protectors of this world the privilege of responding immediately to the enemy.  As chief of these scant intrepid souls manning the precipice of Armageddon, I devised the method of our transport, a secret I shall not divulge, even to you my new friend.  We repelled the invaders then, but they have returned from their sojourn in perdition to learn that only five of us remain, a mere quintet of enfeebled champions to cross the face of the planet in her defense.  I must rally more to the front, conjure rail-riders of this generation to further our ways and again stave off the great evils to come.  Perhaps you are the first.

#1 Du Jour

| November 1, 2010 | 6 Comments

Deep in the Mississippi River Delta, there be strife – rival clans warring for the favor of all the spirits of animal, vegetable and mineral.  Ole’ duJour, he the last of his clan – that Roadkill Motorcycle club, every one cut low by Mama Houdoo’s boys and the evils in her thrall.  Now duJour ride alone, just him and his curse.  Po’ bastard can’t eat nothing but carrion, and then the spirit of the dead thing fill him up and take over.  He put a buzzard in his belly, he grow wings.  He pick over a possum, he see in the dark and hang from a tree.  Seen it my own self.  But duJour don’t care none ‘bout curses.  He use’em to satisfy the vengeance that occupy his mind.  Vengeance for the boys of the Roadkill MC.  For the shade of his ole lady.  And for his very own lost soul.