(Rock) The Flare-Up! - Whip 'em Hard, Whip 'em Good (2009), MP3 (tracks), 320 kbps

Three o’clock in the morning, the master bedroom was still. Iggy lay in his black leather pajamas, dreaming. A bubble of saliva at the corner of his lips, and, breathing heavily, he turned. It was the same old dream. The telephone at his bedside was ringing. It was one of the boys downstairs, calling to tell the boss there was trouble.
The mansion security guard had watched nervously as the ‘76 Lincoln Continental sped up the gravel driveway and struck the gate.
«I wanna see Iggy,» the driver shouted, with a voice as harsh as the clangor of chrome wrought iron that preceded it. «You just tell him Fryk is here.»
The guard recognized him and told him that Iggy didn’t want to be disturbed. This displeased Fryk. He pulled out a .38 Derringer, hastily tapping his Gucci on the accelerator. His eyes already partly closed, now tightened with wrath.
«Git on that damn housephone and call him! Who the hell does that sonofabitch think he is? Doesn’t wanna be disturbed! He ain’t no damn better'n anybody else.»
Iggy motherfucking Pop, perching up there in that goddamn mansion pretending he’s God, when he’s just a stringy old dope addict, fucking centuries past his prime.
As Job put it: «They spend their days in wealth, and in a moment go down to the grave.»
«Iggy says to call the cops,» the towering security guard informed him. «They’re gonna put you in the hole.»
Fryk checked his pockets. No matches. No lighter. But a flame thrower.
«Got news for you, slimesucker. The Flare-Up! is-a-comin’ n’ you’re in the fuckin’ middle.»
Fryk saw the mansion burning from the seat of his automobile. Sky smouldering, soil scorching, ground crumbling in a reddish brown. He kept the engine running, howling madly, waving his pistol toward the manor. And there they came, the wild creatures of the earth. Bare-chested Wikman, riding the ‘59 Impala, suave as the breeze. Catching the glimpses of those beverly lashes strolling down the Sunset crashing cards and digging gold. Never mind the maggots; he’s whipping his sticks against the chrome—smooth as they come, courting as ever.
And melting out of the cave, there he was, the blue-blooded beast. Chugging the led, so steady on the strings. von Essen cracking the rocks on his way to the mansion; flapping like a bat, sucking like a leech.
Like a thorny twig up your ass—death from above, doing the cock rock sweep down your chimney (and it’s not even Christmas). Hagen. Grinding organs with the mere stink of his breath. Banging the blacks. Banging the whites. Serenely emerging, lone rider in the dead of night. The fifth horseman, Svensson, messenger of strife, ruckus, famine and gunk. Pushing the borders, pulling the strings. Mothers’ daughters ever so tight on a leash, watching from a safe distance at the shore of the dark lagoon. There. Bathing in black diamonds, feeding on flesh…
And once you were inside, the stench wasn’t there. Once you were in, you were immortal, bending the circle—you just had it all.
Twiggy Iggy staggering out of the flaming blaze of fire. Leather shreds ‘round his ankles, going down like a pine.
Yellow drops gently falling.
There's a bad moon rising. There’s a flare-up on the rise.

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