by Nik Cohn
‘Once, I was worshipped by a girl named Astrid, who sat with me in the soda fountain, and we drew Love Hearts on the steamed-up window sipping Coca Cola, one bottle, two straws. Very soon, she wore my highschool ring and I kissed her lips by moonlight, I wished upon a star.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Her folks did not agree. A child of the ghettoes, I came from the wrong side of town and I rode a motorbike, I wore black leathers. When her father saw me, he locked Astrid up in her bedroom and threw away the key.’
‘Are you embittered?’
‘I am saddened.’
‘Do you hate?’
‘I am weary of bullshit, for not a day goes by without some fresh plots being laid against me, some flagrant fabrication, which tries to sabotage my records, my concerts, my private life and will not quit until I am dead.’
‘Why don’t you fight back?’
‘I am a pacifist.’
‘Who are your friends?’
‘My oldest companion is Catsmeat, who acts as my MC, my jester and general factotum. Even though he’s a retard, his loyalty is boundless and I cherish him, I do indeed.’
‘What is your sign?’
‘I am an Aquarius.’
‘Do you prefer blondes or brunettes?’
‘Just so long as they’re female, I’m satisfied.’
‘Are you frightened of death?’
‘I am frightened of nothing: death tracks everyone, after all, it is insatiable but I believe I am prepared. When it shows its face at my window, I will not hide beneath the bedclothes.’
‘Do you believe in magic?’
‘Ask me another.’
‘Do you have any heroes?’
‘I recall with affection my twin brother, Jason, who became a missionary and disappeared in the African jungles. Roaming through the swamps, he was caught by headhunters and his brains were sucked out through his ears.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I am.’
‘What will you do next?’
‘I may become a leader of men. Riding on my golden cadillac, I would bless the crowds and bring them wealth, good luck and happiness, just like my fans, they would love me very much and, in return, I would treat them as my children.’
‘Do you like oysters?’
‘I enjoy the sensation when they slip down my throat, soft and slimy as the sperm of a worm, but they also make me sick to my stomach.’
‘What is your most especial quality?’
‘I am a magnet. Every time I walk in a room, the people turn and stare, they can’t help themselves, and I draw them on behind me, a Pied Piper of Hamelin.’
‘Do you have many servants?’
‘My circus numbers 53.’
‘Will you live for ever?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘What do you think of fun?’
‘This is my philosophy: live for today, tomorrow may not come and, therefore, I party every single day, feasting and carousing, travelling the highways, causing riots everywhere I go.’
‘Tell us a story.’
‘It was in Waterloo Place that I entered an amusement arcade, put a nickel in the slot and placed my eye up close against the Scopitone, where Little Richard was pounding the piano, performing Tutti Frutti, and his trouser-cuffs billowed out like sails. Right then, I discovered the truth.’
‘What was the truth?’
‘Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom.’
‘Awopbopaloobop?’
‘Alopbamboom.’
‘What are your beliefs?’
‘I believe in God, I believe in my fans, I believe in Johnny Angelo. I also believe that a time will come when we will overwhelm all obstacles and no more squalor will survive, only style.’
‘What are you like?’
‘I am terrible, I am tender.’
‘Do you run from adversity?’
‘I spit on it.’
‘What is your favourite sport?’
‘I am fond of chess and karate, archery and wrestling but, most of all, I am thrilled by motorbike jumps.’
‘What is a motorbike jump?’
‘The method is as follows: riding on my black machine, I roar up a long ramp and fly straight off the end, hurtling over a line of 10 cars, placed end to end, and landing safely on the other side, a jump of more than 40 yards.’
‘Isn’t this dangerous?’
‘I have broken my leg in 3 places, fractured my wrist, dislocated my shoulder and, next time, it may well be my neck.’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘Coming in to land, just for one moment, it’s true that I touch infinity.’
‘Are you frightened of the dark?’
‘I am.’
‘Why do you cause riots?’
‘I’m fond of fun.’
‘Are you evil?’
‘Among the cripples of Waterside, horrified by their suffering, I touched my silver crucifix and I caused the lame to walk, I caused the blind to see.’
‘Do you eat sweets?’
‘I love chocolate bonbons.’
‘What is your stance on drugs?’
‘I abhor them and hold them in contempt, since they befuddle the brain, rot the bones and poison the bodily fluids, until the user becomes a travesty of life.’
‘Are you left-handed?’
‘I am.’
‘Will your enemies be triumphant?’
‘Any person who attacks me, he only does me a favour, for persecution stings me and, when I am angry, my energies are infinite. Once the greatest, always the greatest, that is proven fact.’
‘Why are you hated?’
‘Because I’m Johnny Angelo!’
‘Do you believe in an afterlife?’
‘This is my afterlife.’
‘What are your politics?’
‘I hate human garbage.’
‘Are you fond of animals?’
‘In downtown Pharisee, I was seated in an all-night Laundromat, when a young girl saw me and came to sit down beside me, cradling a puppy in her arms. A very sweet 16, she had eyes of baby blue but I could tell that she was sad and her tears fell down like silver stars. Then I held her hand, I asked her why she was troubled and she told me the truth, that her dog was sick and close to death.’
‘What did you do?’
‘At 3 o’clock in the morning, weeping, I held the animal tight in my arms, where its eyes turned up and it died.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I seek the magic honeypot.’
Guns at La Collina
Riding on his golden cadillac, Johnny Angelo travelled all over the nation and, everywhere that he went, he was received as a hero. ‘I am the greatest,’ he said.
He lived in a mansion with 50 rooms, which was named La Collina, and it was surrounded by electric fences and electric gates. It was covered by neon lights, glowing red and blue and gold in the dark, lighting up the countryside for miles around, and its grounds were patrolled by guard dogs, Irish wolfhounds and Alsatians that would tear out a man’s throat, and its doorways were barred, by uniformed guards.
Apart from Johnny’s own entourage, no one entered this mansion for any reason. Agents and producers and accountants, journalists and songwriters alike, they were kept waiting outside the gates and Johnny Angelo sent them their instructions by messenger. However, if they were in favour, they were also given a bowl of nourishing broth, a chocolate chip cookie and an autographed picture of the artist.
Inside a darkened room, meanwhile, Johnny sat all day without moving. Reclining on his chaise longue, he sipped beer through a straw and he played with a Siamese cat, holding it up by its tail and swinging it in circles. The curtains were drawn tight and he hid behind dark glasses. He wat
ched TV and he read comic books. He chewed on fat black grapes.
When he’d first bought this mansion, he had spent one million dollars on embellishments and he was surrounded by jade and silk and tortoiseshell, jewelled caskets and sable, spurious old masters, heart-shaped candelabras and grand pianos.
Scattered throughout the house, continuous movies of Johnny Angelo were projected on the walls and, on the ceiling of his bedroom, there was an outsize portrait in oils, which showed him in his blue velvet suit and buckled blue suede shoes, walking on clouds.
In every room, there were hidden microphones and close-circuit televisions and two-way mirrors, so that Johnny could keep in touch at all times and nothing remained a secret, no plots could be laid against him.
There were bars across the windows.
At the same time, he was slovenly in his habits and the floors were littered with old socks and discarded beer cans, torn newspapers, cigarette butts, and stains, of brown and green and yellow and, everywhere, there were smells of staleness, smells of decay.
Sitting in the dark, Johnny dangled his Siamese cat, swung it slowly like a pendulum, while the cat turned and twisted in the air, trying to scratch his eyes out.
At night, he dined in his banqueting hall, where the walls were hung with trophies, with shields and spears and scimitars, and the windows were covered in cobwebs, and the ceiling was too high and too dark to be seen, so that the hall was like a huge black pit.
Down the middle of this chasm, there ran a long oak table, big enough for 40 people and, at the farthest end of this table, all alone, Johnny Angelo sat and feasted, dining by candlelight, a single patch of light in a great swamp of black.
He drank wine from a flagon and he ate a chicken carcass with his fingers, chewing through flesh and bone and gristle, giblets and all and, when he was done, he cast the remnants over his shoulder, where they were devoured by three Great Danes.
A falcon sat on his shoulder and Johnny wore a foxfur jerkin, a crucifix, a pair of rancid jockey-shorts. Grease dripped from his fingertips, wine dribbled down his chin. Candlelight flickered on his face and, medieval warlord, he belched, he farted, he clapped his hands just once.
Straightaway, the hall was filled with light, the falcon flew up into the rafters, and Johnny’s followers ran amok, tumblers and jugglers and clowns, female impressionists, ventriloquists, the whole resident circus, and liveried servants brought in sumptuous bowls of fruit, overflowing with lychees and pomegranates and Chinese figs, and the musak machine played madrigals.
What else? Yolande danced naked on the table, Catsmeat played with a yo-yo and 4 giant Negroes stood guard in the doorway, juggling with lighted flares, while trick cyclists rode backwards into the fireplace, hunchbacks bared their humps and, finally, a pyramid of dwarves climbed on to Johnny’s shoulders, whispering prayers in his ears, and their tongues quivered like aspen leaves.
The wind squawled in the rafters, causing the lanterns to squirm and sway, and Johnny Angelo was carried to his couch, where he stretched out like the Emperor Nero, and many beautiful starlets soothed his brow, and licked the grease from his fingers, and stuffed his mouth with delicious tidbits.
All his life was a Hollywood movie, nothing else was relevant and, in his banqueting hall, the entertainments lasted halfway through the night, in every corner, bodies were coupled at random, midgets with behemoths, starlets with spastics, and glasses were smashed against the walls, wine spread in a lake across the floor, the mansion rang with obscenities.
Johnny Angelo took no part.
At the bottom of the pit, everything was frenzy but he didn’t speak, didn’t smile. Surrounded by profanity, it’s true that he was bored.
He sat all day without moving. He watched old movies on TV. He blew smoke rings. He lay face-down on a mattress in his swimming pool, gazing at his own reflection.
He was afraid of being killed.
Every morning, among his fan mail, there were also demands for blackmail, claims for breach-of-promise and promises of instant assassination. Obscenities were scrawled in his driveway. Beards and moustaches were added to his posters. On stage, when the small girls rushed forward, he was caught unawares and his blue velvet suit was splattered with rotten eggs.
One time, he was ambushed in his dressing room and kidnapped by students, who held him up for ransom. Or again, in the middle of the motorcade, a conspirator burst from the crowd and threw a home-made bomb, which landed at Johnny’s feet and fizzled but failed to explode.
Then Johnny Angelo hired gunslingers, silent men in dark glasses, who followed him everywhere, and he ordered bullet-proof windows for his golden cadillac, and he set up a searchlight, which swept the grounds throughout the night. Even so, he didn’t feel safe: ‘My death stalks me,’ he said. ‘One day, it won’t be long, Catsmeat will come to wake me and my throat will be slit, my heart will be riddled with bullets.’
He trusted no one. He had no friends. He used no lovers. When he slept, he stayed by himself and there were guards outside his door, bars across his windows, wolfhounds howling in his estates. For a very long time, he lay awake and he gazed at the ceiling, where Johnny Angelo walked on the clouds.
He passed through the 50 rooms of his mansion. He wallowed in a sunken bath. He consulted his astrologer.
‘I’m sick of this,’ he said. ‘It’s time to change.’
Then he went back on the road and he visited 30 cities, in 30 days and, in each of them, he rode on his golden cadillac, he wore his suit of blue velvet, he pouted and squirmed and grovelled on his knees.
Inside the auditorium, flames leaped up, freaks rampaged in the aisles, wild animals ran amok. Later on, escaping through his dressing-room window, it was then that Johnny Angelo felt alive.
The Great Chester Fire
Even so, he wasn’t satisfied.
It was true that he lived to cause havoc but it was also true that he couldn’t repeat the same riots over and over again, for that would be tiresome and self-defeating. Night after night, he was forced to come up with bigger and wilder sensations, a process that was most exhausting, and it wasn’t long before he was bored again, just the same. He did not quit.
At the Corinth Coliseum, he staged his entrance inside a monstrous egg, which was fired from a cannon and, when it hit the stage, it shattered in a hundred pieces and out stepped Johnny Angelo, newly hatched.
Or again, at the Philo Empire, he performed in a gilded cage, locked up with man-eating tigers; and at San Badino, he landed by parachute.
Still he was restless. And he knew that, in the end, such diversions were irrelevant, that his true quest was for final explosion. At the same time, he knew that nothing is final but death, except that he didn’t wish to die, not yet, and so he was caught in a stalemate, and all his pranks were wasted, which made him sad.
What remained? Trapped like this, he had no choice but to persevere and, at Polack, he swung down on stage by a silken rope, leaping over the balcony and, at Samson, he loosed wolfhounds on the audience and once, at the New Holt Regal, he wept.
Finally, in windswept Chester, he staged a striptease. His suit of baby blue velvet, his blue suede shoes, his white kneesocks, his monogrammed bracelets and golden rings, his silver crucifix and the scarlet ribbon that tied up his hair: all of these items were peeled away in turn, until only satin underwear was left, at which point the curtain was lowered without warning and policemen rushed out to make an arrest.
Seeing their leader in danger, the Mighty Avengers hurried to his assistance and the lawmen pulled him one way, his own supporters pulled him the other, until he was likely to be torn in half.
Despairing, Johnny threw a left hook and it landed on someone’s nose, breaking it. Without delay, the policemen then brought out truncheons and whistles, which the Avengers countered with brickbats, flick-knives and bicycle chains and, in seconds, the stage was turned into a p
itched battlefield.
Out in the dark, meanwhile, small girls were screaming and surging forward, and bottles were flying, and rival gangs were fighting hand-to-hand, and then the cages were unlocked, the wild animals broke loose.
Within 5 minutes, the auditorium had turned into one great whirlpool, which sucked in everyone, and the carnage was terrible to behold. Lawmen were stabbed in the back, young girls were stampeded, and commissionaires dropped dead of heart-attacks, and the lights were fused, and blood-crazed beasts roamed the aisles and, in conclusion, the whole of one balcony collapsed, spilling its occupants more than 40 foot in the stalls.
Who could describe the horrors that ensued?’ The floor was piled high with the injured and the dying, whose groans and shrieks and prayers were drowned out by the enveloping uproar, and still the battle raged without let-up.
Barbarians rushed wildly through the darkness, destroying at random, setting fire to anything that would burn, curtains and seats and clothing, and very soon, fires raged unchecked all over the Chester Palladium.
As for Johnny Angelo, he was surrounded by a tight circle of bodyguards, so that he could watch the action undisturbed, and he put his clothes back on, he placed cologne behind his ears, he combed his golden hair.
This was a true explosion, after all, this was just what he’d sought and the flames began to lick at his feet, the smoke began to choke him.
At the Chester Palladium, those who didn’t plunge to their deaths were trodden on, those who weren’t stabbed were garotted and those who weren’t savaged by leopards were burned up like kindling. Looking down, Johnny gazed upon a holocaust.
Then the Avengers lifted him up, bearing him high above the debris, and they carried him back to his dressing room, locking the door behind him. Once more, he slid through the window and slid down in the alley, where the limousine was waiting, and he rode home to his mansion, and flames lit the sky behind him, and faint screams reached him through the night.
He knew serenity then. Inside his banqueting hall, he sat by himself, while candlelight flickered on his face, and he waited calmly until the lawmen arrived and took him away to jail.
