Helios Creed
Boxing The Clown

Yet it was a serene morning.

Coffee at the bar with friends, crumpled faces hanging on swaying bodies. "I have to meet Mario." After all, Mario is a good person. He always shares good music with me, a simple person with few but well-rooted principles. Assorted drugs, alcohol, other people's girls, and a rare talent for getting into trouble.

"Mario is at home, you come over." I leave the bar, a few small clouds appear in the previously clear sky.

Mario doesn’t know the word NO, for him it’s a sound without meaning. He cares for his little garden as if they were daughters, insults his sister but never doubts his green thumb.

I ring the bell, "Did you forget about me?" Here's the phrase I dreaded, "Come up, I have to wait for someone." I look at the sky, it's getting cloudier.

I tell him "Always on time," he mumbles an incomprehensible phrase and puts on a CD. "Boxing The Clown by Helios Creed." "Drink something," after all, he is a kind person and pours me a mug of Cannonau. "Drink, damn it!" It's 11 in the morning and it's starting to drizzle.

"Master Blaster" starts, a pounding space post-punk, quite canonical. The guitars are unleashed in "Sunspot," freely bouncing from channel to channel, indefinite trajectories, the voice is reduced to a swirling effect in the chaos at various speeds. But here comes "Bruce Lee," a boar with the head of a Neapolitan mastiff. He stares at me motionless. They say he's a good dog, just don’t make any sudden moves.

"Smoke," Mario tells me. "Mario, I haven't smoked in ages, it makes me sick," I reply. "Smoke," he insists, "so you can get rid of that crappy expression." I take a couple of courtesy puffs, it's a weapon of mass destruction. "And smoke it well, damn it's good stuff."

The end. Yet the day had started well.

The music keeps spinning, piercing my brain, swarms of guitars treated with titanic pedalboards, little bad men start piercing the brain. Damned little bad men, go back home.

Out of nowhere, Mario's mother appears, another mug of Cannonau. Electricity bills, sampled loops, supermarket receipts, demonic wah-wahs, thieving government, Chrome, pedophile church, dark abstract flow of effects, reverberations, free-form space rock that occasionally compacts into song. A blob that wears down my nervous system. I'm in short circuit.

Damned joint. I break out in a cold sweat, about to faint, blood pressure dropping. The voice of the mother and the music are just one big disturbance for my synapses. "Bruce Lee" has now officially engaged with my leg and wants to consummate. Damned Mario, you went out to run an errand leaving me in this hell.

I make up an excuse and manage to leave that house. I'm in full panic attack, chest pain, left arm pain, tachycardia, my ears are ringing. I arrive home as pale as a ghost, clutching onto the Bromazepan bottle, lying down in a fetal position, I'm a step away from collapse.

I wake up all groggy in the afternoon, open a can of Ichnusa, take a sip. I look at my feet, the tip of my sock is torn. WHAT A SHITTY LIFE.