The Thousands

The man wakes up. He normally wears a black suit that carries with it a faint odour of burnt match-heads, but not today. He gets up, brushes his teeth, and adjusts his bathroom mirror as he shaves. The man, who has bloodshot red eyes, is careful to mind the bristles of his carefully maintained goatee. He makes a start for his fridge, looking for some breakfast. He looks in, and remembers there’s nothing save fish and chickens, whole and writhing.

There’s a record playing all the while. It’s sinister, stimulating, compelling, and addictive. It soundtracks your nightmares, your bad trips, your low points. But you go back to it because it’s human nature. Beck’s in this place as well, garbling something or other, ninety seconds at a time. The man with the goatee and red eyes nods his head – this is the good shit. He’s always preferred Tobacco’s solo work to Black Moth Super Rainbow, because he’s let off the leash. He can indulge his dark, schizophrenic fantasies one demented vocoder riff at a time.