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Dann Says: No Title!

Hi Beijing. How was your halloween? It was retarded, wasn’t it? Ithough so. Congratulations. So last week I shared a little tale about my old boss when I lived in another country when I had a underpaid desk job with way too much work and a pretty confusing structure of command. Yet we learn from even negative experiences so I thought this week I’d share some insight into myformer employer. The stories in this week’s edition of Dann Says are true but the names have been removed to protect the innoncent.

Wednesday, today, the Beijing Beatles at DDC from 8p.m. Yeah, itwas talking about The Beatles and mind blowing music collections last week that got me on this whole trip. So Mr. Sillypants knew Iskated, mainly because I carried a skateboard with me. I mean you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out. He’d constantly regale me with stories of skating and surfing with his “bros” back in So Cal, to the extent that he claimed to skated/ surfed/ snorted with just about every notable figure in the Californian underground from the 1980s. Yet whenever I had my board with me he always invented excuses as to why he couldn’t skate. However one day the invitation to go snowboarding with him was offered, which was something else he was apparently an “O.G” of. I remember dropping in and carving down the slope and looking over my shoulder to see The Jesus Of Suburbia follow suit, except he instantly caught an edge and what headover heels, eating a face full of snow. I skidded to a stop.“Er, that’s OK. Ineeded to stretch out. You go on ahead,” he said. I did and got to the bottom of the slope quite a while before he did. In fact I spent fifteen painful minutes watching him tumble the whole way down to the bottom. Like I said, O.G.

Thursday, a nice pre-weekend rager with Black VA Group, Baxian Chophouse, The Power Powder, and Unforbidden Horseat Modern Sky Lab from 8pm. Somehow the remit of my work also involved following The Monumental Sack of Fail into the most mind numbingly banal corners of the city’s nightlife. As if it wasn’t enough that I had to be bored witless at a desk all day, clock in extra hours on other unpaid projects, I them had to go spectate at the orgies of retardation that constituted the loungue club scene. A sea of Barbie Dolls and pretentious weasels in pastel shirts, fake laughing and marveling at each other’s business cards, while I wastold how important these people were. Repeatedly. I remember at some point concluding that I really hate Tiesto.

Friday, like a lot of music and stuff going on. The Eat, SNSOS, Solaris, Dan Taylor, Jajatao at DDC from 9p.m; JDK-X and Deadly Cradle Death at Meridian Space from 8pm; and the 10 year reunion of expat Johnny Cash covers band BuHaoChi with support from Bedstars, Free Sex Shop, and Shang HuanHuan at School from 9p.m. Hopefully they’ll do a bunch of Cash’s gospel material and praise Jesus at every possible opportunity. Ol’ Captain Ahab was really fond of a book called The Culture Code: An Ingenious Way to Understand why People Around the World Live and Buy as They Do by Clotaire Rapaille. Rapaille is sometimes referred to as an anthropologist but I think his other title of marketing guru is more apt, as he is rather adept at selling absolute rubbish to morons. A fun fact: Rapaille was hired to revamp Quebec City’s image but was dismissed shortly afterwards when it became apparent he’d made up a load of stuff on his resume. I have a sneaking suspicion a lot of the “sources” used for the book that Mr.Wonderful wouldn’t shut up about were also fictional, which would explain claims such as “The American Culture Code for loveis FALSE EXPECTATION”,exact kind of horse shit that a marketing executives love to hear as it simplifies mass groups of people down to discreet categories which can then be exploited for maximum profit. Yep, Anthropology fail. I remember telling God’s Gift To Mankind that The Culture Codemight not actually be the best book ever written. The Souless One’s response was “this guy advises Fortune 500 companies.” Yep. Today I learnt about another book which Rapaille had co-authored called Moving UP, which basically takes an evolution aryperspective on economic development. Areview of the book in The Sunday Times UK describedit as “a pure marketing project, aimed at the most conventionally minded people on the planet, those who are possessed of the most unchallenging, unthinking, unreal, self-congratulatory conception of human progress.” I’m sure His Highness has a copy.

Saturday: the return of Maybe Mars’experimental melting pot/two day festival Sally Can’t Dance festival at School Bar. The Saturday time jammer from 4-7pm features Liu Wei-Chih, MAI MAI and Jun-Y Ciao while the late and sweaty “disco”session from 9p.m until “murrgh” o’clock features Zhang Shouwang, Torturing Nurse, and Yan Yulong. Old What? is the venue for the send-off for my dear friends Mike and XiWinkler with Fake Weed, SNSOS, Lonely Leary, Filthy Bill &Pussy Catastrophe.And MAO is going to be a mess of sex and rock and roll with Bian Yuan, Blue Moon, Icy Whiskey, Hot Line, Leeshi,Xiao Pu. So, The All-round Renaissance Man coincidentally had a habit of saying very strange if not down right disturbing things about women. I’m unsure if it was in an effort to impress me. It didn’t. I remember one time standing in the hallway outside his apartment by a window looking down on the sprawl of cheap housing far below. He was smoking a cigarette and watching a woman walking down the steps of her house to the street.“Every morning I watch her say goodbye to her husband. After he leaves I could go right down there and have her right there.” I remembering wishing the window would break and he would fall out.

Sunday, more of the Sally Can’t Dance festival at School Bar, the afternoon shindig will feature Xu Cheng, Yin Yi and master of disaster Yan Jun from 4-7p.m. Later on from 9p.m it’s going to be noise melt down with Martijn Tellinga ,Wang Xu & Josh Feola, Zhang Shouwang & Yan Yulong. Deep. Over at MAO Noise Gate are going to be blasting some noise out of the gate from like 9p.m. And indie rockers Frande are over from Taiwan to get funky at Yugong Yishan. When surrounded by more than one male The Artist Formerly Known As Bumhole would usually step up the effort to impress. This would more often than not manifest in stories about fornicating with prostitutes, which was odd because there’s not really anything impressive about that. There is no challenge. It’s as challenging as buying a can of Coke from a 7-11. But still Commander Vomit thought tales about paying for it in Thailand was a way to win the respect of acrowd. Unless there was a woman present. Then he would claim paying for sex was disgusting and a human rights violation.

Monday and Tuesday, watching paint dry. Next Wednesday at DDC get your jazz on with, Japanese flavoured jazz, with the Satoshi Kataoka Jazz Trio from 8p.m. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when one day he asked me what I ate for lunch and I replied a salad, to which he replied, “A salad, what are you? A faggot or summin?” I decided right then and there to renounce meat after two years of happily smashing it in my face and go back to being a vegetarian. I decided right there that I wanted to be the polar opposite of everything this man was, and that included his diet choices. The next week Taco Bell opened for the first time in that particular city and Major Assface was right in line to stock up on his favourite fast food garbage to inflict on our entire office. He swaggered around from desk to desk, handing over the dietary equivalent to the bubonic plague wrapped in grease proof paper like he was dispensing fruit from the Garden of Eden. Except when he came to my desk I stuck out my hand before he had the chance to plant his perverse gift on my desk. “No thank you, I’m avegetarian,” I said. The look on his face was like somebody had told him that the world wasn’t flat or there was more to life than money or that he hadn’t been born a man. Oh it was sweet. I still enjoy being a vegetarian to this day. See you Beijing.

The tower of the Necropolosis reached up to the troubled sky like a needle poking straight at an eyeball. On the tower’s roof a stand-off was taking place. On one side was the trio of the cat, the pig, and the harecowering behind them. On the other side were the hordes of the Necro King, pouring out of the hatchway that led down into the tower. More of the Necro's minions scaled the outside walls with their brutish clawed hanfs whilst winged henchmen swooped and circled overhead. The deformed army growled and shrieked, swords and spears in their brutish paws, dark fluid dribbling from the hoods of their filthy robes.Yet they stayed their distance, the flames licking out from the cat’s writing brush and the lighting forking from the pig’s rake being deterrent enough to keep one side of the rooftop to themselves.

In an instant the horde fell silent and quickly parted, like the opening of a set of stage curtains. They bowed their heads in unison. In the parting stood the Necro King. While he had appeared hundreds of feet tall inthrone room now he was only a few paws taller than the pig. He wore a long, formless cloak that hid any suggestion of body shape. The waxen opera mask stared at them with empty eye sockets. All were silent. The cat and the pig didn’t dare to blink. Behind them the hare let out a low moaning sound. When the Necro King spoke no sound came from his lips. Rather his words appeared directly inside the cat and pig’s minds. A voice like a frozen chisel being driven into the top of their skulls, down into their cerebrums, in an effort to pry their heads apart.


The cat let out a snarl and bared her teeth, cutting the writing brush back and forth though the air. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the pig tighten his grip on his rake. She was reasonably sure that he would stand and fight. They had come this far after all. Yet then she knew there was nowhere to run. She knew they realised this too.

The Necro King stood, waiting, empty eye sockets sucking at theirsouls. Without a word of warning something violently rocked the tower. A deafening boom rung out, flames licking up over the side. Shouts and screams, all eyes turned to the direction of the explosion, to the West. On the distancean armanda of airships could be seen diving out of the dark clouds above. The huge sails and flags flutteringthe propellers were the bright purple of the Flavour King. Swarms of smaller sky boats surrounded the larger galleons, more of them pouring from their decks, as cannon muzzles twinkled. The tower shook again and again as flaming cannon balls came raining down upon them.

Without warning streams of blinding white tore into the horde of Necro minions, reducing a dozen of them to a pile of ash. All eyes turned to the East: from between the rocky out crops of the wastes down below an army of pandas riding giant metal flying insects were fast approaching. They hoisted long metal tubes up to their shoulders and sent beams of blinding white light at the tower, blasting deep holes in the ancient bricks. The minions howled, clawed, cowered, and panicked as the cannon balls and plasma beams tore away at them. King Necro stood as still and silent as he had before. In a flash he raised his right hand to the East, impossibly long white fingers stretching out from the long sleeve of his cloak. Explosions tore through the armada, instantly sending three of the galleons down in flames. He raised his left hand to the East and a gust of hurricane like wind swept many of the pandas against the rocks, smashing them and their metal steeds to pieces. He raised both hands over head and a thunder rolled like a war drum as hundreds more winged mutants poured out of the tower and up into the sky.

Before the cat could fully grasp what was happening the air ships were rumbling overhead, Flavour Rangers and storm troopers in dark purple armor assailing down from their motherships towards the tower, dueling winged monstriites with their sabres as they descended. Sky boats zipped back and forth, dog fighting with the pandas on their android insects as they circled above, the tow factions blocking out the sky, sniping at one another or at the writhing mass of limbs and snarling maws that the top of the tower had become.

The cat saw Flavour Rangers point at her and shout to their fellows. Pandas leveled their metal tubes and attempted to get a clear shot through the storm of boats and insects. She saw the Necro King, rushing towards her, his cloaks rippling and twisting, monstrous shapes revealing underneath, the waxenmask melting and recasting into a primal snarl, long black talons reaching for her throat. Instinctively she parried by tracing an arc of burning flame across the Necro’snarling maw. He reeled backwards, shrieking in surprise, blackfluid flowing all so freely onto the filthy flagstoned underfoot. He let out a roar and another set of arms tipped with cruel claws erupted from his back, reaching high overhead. He leaped headlong at the cat and she brought the writing brush back the other way, this time the flame snaking from the tip likea whip, wrapping around one of his unholy limbs. He shrieked in pain as he crashed against the flagstones, thick smoke bellowing off of the smoldering flesh. He staggering to his feet and lurched in the process knocking the cat backwards, just before a plasma beam blasted the spot she’d been standing in, kicking dust and debris up into the air.

The writing brush came into focus, lying on the ground besides the cat yet precariously close to the edge. It trembled with each explosion. She saw that the hare was curled up next to her, long ears drooping on the ground, his head in his paws. She saw the pig a short distance way aboard a sky boat wrestling with a storm trooper as cannon balls and plasma blasts zoomed past, winged mutants and pandas on the metal insects zipping back and forth. Time seemed to slow as the pig’s head swung forward, his temple connecting with his adversaries face, sending the hapless solider backwards over the edge of the skyboat. Without even pausing to catch her breath the cat leapt up, grasping the writing brush in one paw and the scruff of the hare’s neck in the other. She lept head long off the side of tower, out into the sky, over the ramparts of the Necropolis beckoning her hundreds of feet below. She saw the pandas, the Rangers, and the henchmen swarming like flies around a rotting corpse. She fell heavily against the deck of the boat. In a panic she rolled over, seeing the writing brush in her hand and the hare cowering by behind a tangle of rope. She looked to the pig and without a word he stumbled towards the helm, scrambling up the stairs and throwing a huge metal lever forward. The propellers on either side of the deck spluttered into life and the boat began to speed away.

The cat stood up and looked back at the tower and all the chaossurrounding it as the scene shrunk away. She saw the Necro King, now in the form a flying horror, ragged black wings beating frantically as he roared and exhibited row after row of razor blade teeth. He cut through the air, empty eye sockets never leaving the cat, nearer and nearer. Panic shot down the cat’sspine and she readied the writing brush for one last stand. A cannon ball tore through the air and ripped straight through one of his wings. As he fell to the ground below he let out a blood curdling howl as a another cannon ball smashed right through the tower, finally sending it crashing down in a torrent of bricks and bodies. The three armies continued to scratch, blast, and scream away at each in the skyas the solitary airboat zipped away into the rumbling storm clouds.