Original article posted by bluesman:

Crash was a punker of the first magnitude. He was one of those latchkey kids that came out of the British depression. One of those dirt poor, roving Manchester castaways that had no use for school or work, ’cause neither one was going to give him what he wanted: the Power. This is what Crash thought about, all through the smoggy, dismal days, wandering through the backalleys, kicking at cans, arguing with the constables, stealing food from the depressingly bare food shoppes, getting in fist fights in Eardley’s House of Records. He thought about the Power–he thought about holding, cradling, wielding the Power, until the neon pink spikes on his shaved head burned with the intensity of 30 million punk-lit candles. He brooded on the Power until his creaking leather jacket smoked and the spiked collar around his neck sparked with outrage. He lusted after the Power, his face pulling in tighter and tighter, his visage a bitter mask of contempt stretched over a skull filled with hate. It was in these moments of blinding lucidity that Crash fancied he could, if he had had the Power, stretch forth his hand, blast the entire bloody mess into the ocean, where he would later walk through the leveled landscape in terrible majesty, bringing up a heaven or a hell on earth as he saw fit. As he sat in the dismal gloom of his dirty flat, the pitiful sobs of his drunken mother echoing off the grimy walls, mixing with the blasting, tinny wail of his record player, human misery and detuned guitars meshing in a cacophany of naked despair, Crash decided he would reach out and seize the Power. Crash had a gun, the old Webley revolver that was kept up in a sagging shoe box, put there by his mother, the ghost, after her husband had used the weapon to blow his head off, a man finally overcome, a man visited nightly by bloody war companions who urged him to keep up the good fight, lad, standing around him in their ghastly pallor, with eyes like hard, black glass. Crash took the gun, stuffing it into the front of his trousers, oblivious of the rust on the barrel, storming out of the apartment past the spreading misery of his mother, out the flimsy door and into the cramped, gargoyle streets. The pistol, a burning heat in his crotch, a fire in his belly, nuclear dragons tearing at the inside of his skull as he stalks, shoulders cramped and teeth grinding, towards Lord Chancey de Vonney’s manor, which sits across that invisible membrane which separates Crash’s world, the world of Churchill, the world of smoking factories, blackened coal miners, prostitutes, and His Lordship’s; afternoon tea in Grandmama’s best China, obsequious butlers, high laughter and pounds, pounds evergrowing, fattening the Realm’s great money houses. Crash walked right up to the gates, sensing the Power just inside the stately house, leisurely, fat, magnanimous in victory. Crash waited, in the drizzle of a Manchester morning, the rusty revolver, with its now useless ammunition, like yellow teeth in the head of a vagrant, rubbing achiingly against Crash’s palm. Crash waited, the Power emerged, the explosion and noise of a backfire devour him, destroying his purpose along with his face.

And somewhere, another punker starts to feel a hum in his guts, starts to think about Power.

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