An arm is pinned under the hood of a pink Cadillac—it comes free, flops into the desert dirt and kicks a dust cloud into the air. He drops the gun and walks back to the vehicle. There are pink fluorescent lights taped inside the trunk, shining on a book of gnostic gospels with seaweed rot, a riot shield with the initials “H.L.” written into a strip of duct tape, a fire-axe with a broken neck and a grocery bag filled with Black Flag LPs and Chinese fireworks. A grappling hook has been thrown through the back window, and there’s a chain running from the backseat to a blue Yucca patch. Frank’s still holding onto a photo of an older woman with black wires running from her mouth, a wing-tipped shoe and lab coat hem just barely visible, and as the blood pumps out of his head, he thinks of an oil tanker sinking in the Gulf. He gets in the car, grabs the cigarette lighter and holds it against the tip of an unfiltered Pall Mall. Past the bullet holes and shattered glass, the stars resemble inverted gaslamps hung over a city of flames. He flips on the radio; Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping” is playing on four different stations; he flips off the radio.
Herb is sitting in the backseat with a bowl of eyeballs in his lap, each painted with light blue Sam Raimi irises. He grabs a handful and shoves them in his mouth; they taste like sour grapes doused in vinegar. The black eyes in his wrists, legs and forehead haven’t stopped blinking. “God damn it, Larry,” he grumbles. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry,” Larry says. “Should I do it again?”
“Yes, do it again.”
Every Time I Die have released a new album, based on the idea of being thirty-something years-old, perpetually miserable and suffering for the sins of past lives. There are crunchy riffs, lots of screams, sarcastic bible references and maybe a banjo at one point too. It’s pretty cool. Here’s a video: