Pussy Riot

Pussy Riot

Laugh it off, I dare you

Just as Putinsanity wreaks demolition in Ukraine, I listen to “Laugh it off” by Pussy Riot: high energy electro-punk performance feminist shit stirrers – “You cannot play nice with Putin. He is insane. He might open fire on his own people,” and I got to thinking about how popular music exposes political evils. It brought into my mind images of an orgy I went to in Panama.

It was a place like no other I had been to.

The doorman, holding my business card in his mauling fist, was a bruiser. He had shoulders like a mountain range, tree-trunk arms scrawled with crude Cyrillic messages inked, no doubt, using a tooth wrestled from the jaws of a killer shark.

“Alfred Prufrock Legend, what kind of name dat?” He growled.

“Umm,” was my reply, too feeble to claim it as my own.

“Don’t matter, nobody care”.

I joined the steady stream of revellers and stepped blithely into a cavernous marble hall: black and white chequered floor, imperial staircase with a deep red carpet and glittering chandeliers. Climbing the high curved walls were massive portraits in the Renaissance style of the same small man in identical poses – dark suit, an earnest face, smirking lips and cold hooded eyes – I immediately recognised the artist’s strenuous effort to conceal the true extent of evil behind them.

In the centre above us hung a cadaverous ghoul astride a gleaming Harley Davidson suspended by thick rusty chains. Every now and then its bony fingers reached beneath its robe and threw down bricks of white powder into the outstretched hands of the baying crowd below.

I have been to many orgies in my time but never one as mind-bending as that was.

Instinctively I patted my breast and felt the reassuring hardness of my popgun. I flexed my neck and tried to look mean, as if I was meant to be there. In with the “In-Crowd”. Of course, I was content to merely observe but suddenly I was immersed in the firm tits of a young girl.

“My mother has TV for a brain,” she whispered through rattling teeth.

After a while, I noticed she smelled of bad apples so I smacked her, hard, right in the eye. As she fell, I stole a fistful of dollars some skinny-runt losers had fingered into her panties. That punch should’ve really hurt, but she just reeled a little then peeled off one of her faces, grabbed a bottle of champagne from a naked cub scout and skulked away seeking her next victim.

I didn’t need the money. I just figured most of the other guys at the party had their snouts in the trough, maybe it was time to “re-distribute” some of it.

Dashing upstairs I noticed a heavy machine gun installed on the landing manned by a dwarf in a sequinned one-piece performing a complex “tableau vivant” in front of a heaving mass of photographers. I was disappointed he wasn’t smiling even though his hair was divine. I later discovered the pictures of him were post-mortem.

I ran from room to room. There were a lot of dead ends in that mansion. A lot of characters lurking behind stone pillars; Burberry macs too long, collars turned up, fat vodka flushed faces sporting three-day bristles. Blue smudges.

Comic characters in a deadly game.

All the windows were open. In front of each stood a gaggle of powder wigged women, gowns like the embroidered sails of a Spanish galleon, sighing and smoking and pointing at the miserable souls crowded below who were climbing over themselves to join the party inside. One by one the women raised a rifle and took pot-shots at them. Some bullets missed their mark and slapped into the manicured mud of the lawn. Most hit as intended and severed the limbs of children, exploded the heads of mothers, fathers, sons and uncles. Some blood sprayed the windows, but not too much, as I recall.

When one of the ladies was lucky enough to make a kill, a gentleman spectator, usually wearing a tall top hat (in the European style) to emphasise his value, ran to the fore and groped the gallant woman’s arse. A dishevelled young man sporting a beer bloated belly, scribbling manically in a notebook, bent close to my ear and explained that the honourable gentlemen were merely gratifying their innate sexual passions. The important thing to note, he told me, was that they were seen to be supportive of their women. That way, they would be encouraged to kill more, and faster. It also gave the gentlemen a well-earned rest from all that massacring.

“Quite normal,” he said.

The air was thick with the sound of small voices whining, while the man in all the portraits blinked but once.


Comment below or write to me: music@rivenrod.com

© Rod McRiven 2021

Pictures: From loadsa places . . .
Read more: Rolling Stone
On YouTube: “Laugh it off” by Pussy Riot feat. VÉRITÉ

%d bloggers like this: