I AM BASTARD [NO MORE]

DJ Redbone was the Mixmaster at a local rave bar. He was a light-brown man, physically Neanderthalic, having a beaknose, flared and angular nostrils, a body clogged in limp yet springy brown hairs, and a contemptious manner which seemed to suggest that he was genetically split into separate mannerisms: one imbued with a vivacious apetite for bloody meats, the other with a longing for buttered corns and walnuts. I could tell that he was a deeply rediculous lover of mammals' blood, and all it's metallic flavors, and yet he so despised an uncooked, unburnt, undone steak that to chomp upon it's near singing carcass was tenamount to cannibalistic vampirism. On that long sidewalk, so lonely and littered in trash as it was, he came at me abrupt as he exited the glittering bar entrance, from whence was momentarily issued on to the pavements a peculiar array of sub-rythmic whistles and tones that indeed matched those downward blinking strobes and storefront signs abroad. As he neared, his semi-thick hip-hop chain glinted in the streetlight, illuminating the shadowed region beneath his brow; it revealed a deparate set of greedy yellow eyes, half hungry, half full -- they glared me down at once, but still I stood, tall as my spine would allow till those things went out of view. With a sigh I pondered his simplistic gait, his grungeford countenance, which seemed troubled deep, hacked to pieces as if sliced by sword, and frankensteinlike sewn together along with foreign parts. I walked on, but was suddenly struck with an urge. I slowed my pace and backford craned my neck. I looked behind me and there they sat, some feet away shuffling at the swoop door of a caramel Honda CRX -- yellow fiends; they paused for a minute, then jumped up sidelong, and watched me. I stood frozen in my stupor, frozen for fear of alerting further suspicions, stupefied for want of escape from this cruel predicament. Perched at their haughty stoop, those golden hawks seemed to soften, and glow so as to say, "alas". Several lamps flickered. A few went out. I, being perhaps just as or more than alarmed than the DJ, presently continued on, but not before I heard through soulful movements the woeful tidings of that conglomerate of a man's tattered life: I AM BASTARD! I distinctly remember hearing him cough as I turned the corner. When I was out of view, I suppose he drove to a roadside spot and shot himself in the face: such is what I have heard concerning the fate of DJ Redbone. If I could see his features now, I bet their story would have changed. A likely tagline: I AM BASTARD [NO MORE]. Suffice to say, the Bastard was never seen nor heard from again.