Here’s the second installment of Rock N B-Roll, this time we feature the ridiculous ‘Satan-Lite’ video ‘Looks That Kill’, not featuring the Los Angeles hard rock band Motley Crue. This video has it all! Girls in loin clothes, girls in cages, flying pentagrams and fire! The only thing it’s lacking is an actual appearance from Satan himself…now that would have been epic!

A few years ago I came up with the idea of taking bands out of their own videos, and leaving whatever remained intact. Well, I went and did it. This is the first installment of ROCK N B-ROLL! The first offering is from Def Leppard (minus the band), so sit back and enjoy this 49 second version of ‘Rock Of Ages’. It’s better this way, don’t you agree?

24 year-old Anthony Merino is a stud.

I can say that with unabashed admiration and an entirely unwavering sense of my own sexuality.

His MySpace page (now defunct) is testament to that statement. Competitor in Fear Factor, practitioner of the Martial Arts, owner of sports cars and collector of very foxy and well-endowed women.  He enjoys classical music when he is “studing.”

He may appear to be your average jock, but listen to that ladies, this man has style and class. After a long hard day of hitting the books and the weights,  Tony wants nothing more than to enjoy a cold one.

As he describes himself: “I work hard, so I party hard, that’s my motto.”

And party hard he does.

Or should that be “party stiff?”

You see, dear reader, in addition to “weight training, playing football, making mix dance/club mixes, and going out to the hottest clubs in NYC,” Anthony also enjoys bumping uglies with the recently deceased. That’s right ladies, Anthony is a necrophiliac.

The first chink in Tony’s armor is subtle, but there for the trained eye to notice. He lists in his books section Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. Obvious. Gaiman is a goth icon, and we all know that goth leads an interest in all things dead which in turn leads to eventual necrophiliac tendencies when coupled with individuals who contain an unyielding sense of passion, as exhibited by one Anthony’s choices of favorite movies: Too Fast, Too Furious; which is arguably the most romantic slice of homo-erotica ever filmed. He was able to see past the the facade of underground racing circuits and machismo to the heart of the movie; two men and their inability to properly express their white hot desire to engage in some hot, hot man-on-man ass-fucking. Hence the repetitive double entendre with automobile jargon and rooster-chesting. Anthony decided a course of repression was not for him.  He would stop fighting his deepest desires, fling open the floodgates and let love loose.

He says that “I never seem to have enough time to do all the things that I would like to do.” So modest, this man of immeasurable love. And although he makes this claim, events would lend evidence that he was genius enough to combine his love of histo-technology, his field of employment, with his undying love of loving the dead.

On Halloween evening of 2007, Anthony was caught red handed with his purple-veined member inside the body of a 92 year-old blue-haired stiff.

You call him dead granny fucker.

I call him true romantic.

How many of you are passionate and spirited enough to look beyond the confines of mortality for true love? Your feeble flesh may not be able to court the dead and romance rigor mortis, but that is your cross to bear, not Tony’s. He is enlightened. He can love a woman in all stages of life, even in the absence of. His fingertips work like magic on the zippers of body bags. His tongue can thaw cold and stiffened muscle.His white hot cock will put a little rouge into even the most frozen of cheeks.

Both sets, baby.

How many nights found our boy Tony slick with sweat? Not from burning calories down at the local gym rubbing his rock hard body up against other hard bodies, but from his own fevered desire. The local paper opened to the obituaries in one hand, and his other wrapped around his stiffened, purple-vein throbbing cock. Teeth clinched against each other as he madly stroked his inflamed member, picturing a tagged toe. Imagining running his hands up a pair of varicose laden thighs. Slowly tracing a cold and stiff labia, an ice cube clitoris with his burning tongue.

“Come here Gramma, let me melt away those blues.”

Anthony may beat off to the thought of necrophilia so much he gets a hard-on every time he opens the fridge, but he is no pervert.

You certainly may shout your socially programmed adjectives, but you cannot deny truth when it slaps you in the face like a cold dead fish. Anthony may choose to call himself a fighter, but he is first and foremost a lover. To take the steps he has is to exhibit intestinal fortitude most of us cannot even comprehend. All over this country of ours morgues and mortuaries are full, thousands of souls lay inside cold meat lockers, souls that only wanted to be loved.

To be touched.

To be caressed.

Not out of a sense of obligatory or familial sympathy, but true love and passion!

Come on, do you see that body?

Why waste it on the apathetic living?

Anthony chiseled his physique with years of discipline and sweat and blood and tears into one fine corpse-fucking gorgeous machine.

His paramour is 92 years young, and crying tears of joy as I write this.

As you accuse him of “desecration!,” she is sweetly whispering “consecration.”

In this installment of ‘Moments With Dave’ our good pal sits down at the piano to plink out a little blues melody to serenade his two cats. Nothing says the blues like sleepy, tired pussy!

We take communion, The Rabbit and I.

We share a fluffy yellow Peep and the Rabbit spreads its arms like a bat taking flight. The Rabbit shows me its stigmata, where the non-believers drove carrots into its paws.

I pause this reality and dive down the hole after it into the next.

Its matted bloody fur wiggles and hums. Buzzes. Hundreds of bees pour from its wounded appendages. In droves they circle my head. Into my ears they crawl. They tickle. They wriggle in there, in and out of my honeycombed brain. I feel a warm mess dripping down my neck.  I put my fingers into it, touch them to my lips and lick the sweet and sticky from them.

Did you see what God just did to us man!

The Rabbit claps its paws together and my skull flips back like an over-seized PEZ dispenser.

7 pink and green coffin-shaped candy pellets bounce off of my chest and skitter across the floor and skid to a stop in perfect alignment with the other. They open, a trumpet of creaking wood announcing their arrival. Thousands upon thousands of multi-colored baby spiders pour out of them, save for one. They cover the floor, up the bed and swarm over me. I feel compelled to lay flat on my back and let them crisscross my skin 8 legs at a time. I can feel each and every single depression. From the soles of my feet to the tip of my shoulders, they lock legs and slowly tip-toe, like a Sunday school procession. They blanket my body like a quilt, and I am comforted.

I hear the last candy coffin open and 3 dark shapes fly up and around the room, dancing like shadows in and out of the corners. I can’t quite make out their form, but their substance twinkles and sparkles and makes my eyes squint, like too much sunlight.

But I know these creatures are born of the moon.

They flutter and flap, black velvet wings that twist and turn to no pattern. Click. Click, click. They fly closer and closer, crashing into each other and spinning together madly.

A black licorice whip clatters to the floor like an empty picture frame.

The quilt of arachnids has melted like ice cream off of my skin and puddles around my body like an abandoned birthday party.

The Rabbit urges me to climb onto its back, and promises that we are safe as houses. I straddle it just above its snow white haunches and with a light tap of the licorice whip we zoom through a musty maze of tunnels, avoiding sharp-mouthed stones and the prying fingers of angry roots. This is Otik’s womb, I think, but The Rabbit tells me that we are late, that we have video tapes to return, that we have no time to waste with tree parties. We make 5 lefts in quick succession and then 4 slower rights and jump out into nightfall and straight into the ocean. I ask the Rabbit in crystal clear bubbles if it can swim and it replies that it’s not important. What is important, its bubbles breaking against my face, is if you can.

I grab the nape of the Rabbit’s neck in my teeth and pull it up, zigging and zagging towards that silver sliver, my lungs screaming for air, my heart screaming for salvation. I see the Rabbit’s eyes changing from green to brown to black.  I think of Sebastian, and his arrows. My skin looks like tinfoil in this light, I notice, and speaking I watch as the last bubble gurgles out of my mouth and floats just above me. I look one last time into the eyes of the Rabbit and grab hold of that bubble just before it is out of reach. And straining one last time, my mouth full of cotton candy, I break the surface of the water.

I’m in the middle of my living room sitting cross-legged, naked, sweating and praying. Presenting the floppy-eared Presence with a present. A trick in the palm of one hand and a treat in the other.

The Rabbit partakes of both.

The Rabbit shows me how we are all but Easter eggs of varying brilliance and design nested in fluorescent grass inside wicker baskets floating atop an ocean of melted nougat.

That we are all just cobweb hair and ghost tongues; bruised and battered orange pumpkin shells with our guts spilled all over the floor, ready and waiting for the candle.