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Erik Swinesen VS Montana Militia Men



On the streets of Paris…

It's been a wild five days in France and a crazier six in Amsterdam. I'd been living like a transient hobo, not knowing a word of French, living off beer and mushrooms, sleeping in the streets. Sure I have money and credit, but what fun and adventure can come of that? This is a pure survival test, a once in a lifetime experience that can not be passed up. I'd be harassed by the random French street-beat cops but once they realized that I'm an American under heavy-sedation they tend to leave me alone. Perhaps it's the look I give them; the same look a lion gives a gazelle prior to tearing it to pieces, sinking fangs into the jugular, delivering the death blow. Humans understand this all too well and it's been like this since man first crawled out of the sea. Julius Cesar knew this look coming from people he had trusted but couldn't understand this. Look at where he is now.
The French seem to do their own thing, figuring me for another one of their degenerates. I dare not talk with these swine. Now and then people would leave Euros at me feet, but my own stench keeps them from harms way, for I hadn't showered since I left the states. I use this money to buy more beer and a little bread. Every now and then I'd sneak into the French sewers sharing bread with the rats, enjoying conversations in English, Vietnamese, and Mandarin while getting numb on cheap wine. The vermin had been my favorite company in all of Europe.
The man next to me on the plane is vomiting again. I'd given him three psilocybe capsules about three hours ago and told them it would help with the air sickness. He ate them and stopped complaining about how much I smell, fixated with what is outside the window, attached to the wing. I informed him that with any luck the "thing" will tear the wing apart and we will plunge into the depths of the Atlantic. More airline martyrs; just another headline.
"ERIK SWINESEN DIES IN AIRPLANE CRASH, NEWS AT ELEVIN"
I anxiously await my return to base one, strippers, Americans, and my beloved wolverines. Many "events" to be planned and I feel I've left a huge part of myself in France and Amsterdam. The part that I don't want, cut out the fat, leave it for the hounds to feast. They can have it, what ever the fuck it might be, and it only has made me a better person.

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Why you should put Erik Swinesen in the Governor's Mansion

Yes, yes, yes…
As you all know it looks like Gray Davis is going to get the shaft. An official evection of the Governors Mansion. About time for that bitch to bounce; Mr. Davis, your days are numbered. Boo-fucking-hoo…
Here are a couple reasons you should conceder Erik Swinesen in the Governors seat…
First off I'd like to add emphasis on the states budget deficit. As Governor of Cali I will hire an army of thugs and mercenaries to go rob a butt-load of banks OUTSIDE CALIFORNIA and kick that cash into OUR banks, filling our ill, pinner, pockets. These desperados will be armed to the teeth looting every bank from Parker AZ to Bangor ME. Our superior state will have so much cash that Californians North and South will be able to wipe our asses on a consistent basses with twenties. Problem fixed! I am smart!
Next, I'd like to address the issue of capitol punishment. As Governor, not only will we far surpass Texas regarding how many dirt-bags we 86, but we'll also make it public! Shit, we'll make a reality TV show all about killing scumbags that you're tired of supporting with your hard-earned tax paying dollars. To you really want to contribute to the feeding and housing of rapist and murderers? Neither do I, god damn it! I PROMISE to bring back public execution and stoning! This will kill our crime rate and make everyone happy, or you'll be executed on LIVE TV! Just try it, swine!
Now on more important issues, it would appear that Californians are stressed out and over-worked. Yes, yes, I know, you have to pay the bills n' shit, but what ever happened to spending quality time with loved ones or sickened enemies? I will declare a CALIFORNIAN BUCK DAY, a day of which Californians don't go to work, instead, they fall under heavy sedation and buck till the well runs dry! Hell, I'll even make this a paid holiday that happens twice a month! Why the hell not??? We have money and mercenaries! If your not hip to it then I'll have my secret police kidnap you and flog you in a torture camp, god damn it!
Thank you for your support! This will be a grueling battle, of which the true freaks will prevail!
(PAID FOR BY THE CONTRIBUTORS OF A HATEFUL SOCIETY)

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Erik Swinesen VS The 350 lb Buffalo Woman

Roughly 76 degrees and another picture perfect Southern Californian mid-falls day. What could possibly go wrong? I was lapping up the sun splashing cascades of bliss upon my face. Muffin Cakes (my pet wolverine, need I remind you) was on the leash, panting slightly, feeling the effects of the ketimine, and smiling like a happily loaded wolverine does. We were surrounded by trees, natural history, and very little humanity somewhere in the middle of the Huntington Beach Central Park. It all became so clear, looking down at Muffin Cakes, a true happiness in its most uncontaminated form. I couldn't help but to give her a little kiss on the snout.
I walked on a trail leading to an enclosure of shrubs and trees, feeling the energy of the vegetation, animals, and Earth. I pulled the flask from the inside of my jacket pocket and took a long pull of rum. The liquid warmed my body. I followed this with a hit of dank and shotgunned the toke into Muffin Cakes mouth. Muffin Cake let out a choke and walked onward with a slight swerve.
"Well Muffin, old girl, this is the life. I could die right now and be totally cool with it." I explained to Muffin Cakes, who stared back at me with vacant bloodshot eyes.
The wolverine and I sat in the clearing as I fiddled with my portable MP3 player. Then there was a rumbling in some bushes about ten yards to my left. Muffin Cakes raised her upper lip and this alarmed me.
"What is it, girl?" I asked Muffin Cakes, who was focused on the ruckus. I peered deeper then it jumped out!
"YAP! YAP! YAP!"
Sweet Jesus! It's a toy poodle! And it's pissed!
Muffin Cakes seemed not to give two-shits about this rat dog went to lie down at my feet. However the dumb poodle was persistent, hopping around like an idiot, running circles around Muffin Cakes and myself.
Everything was cool until the poodle came up and stuck its snout in Muffin Cakes ass. This infuriated the wolverine who was now up on all fours, bouncing, hair raised, fangs snarling and gleaming in the sun. A humongous fat lady with messy hair, perhaps in her late twenties jumped out after the poodle.
"Toby! Toby get back here…" She screamed but her commands were not only too late but ill fated.
In an instant Muffin Cakes secured the head of the poodle with her mouth, thrashing it around like a rag doll. Flesh and blood were thrown all about the zenful scenery. There wasn't even time for the dog to cry. The wolverine then arose, standing on both hind legs, like a circus trained bear, growling deep, and laid her razor sharp claws into the flesh dogs limp body and tore it into three pieces. Muffin Cakes then spit out the head of the poodle and grinned up at me for approval completely lathered in gore.
"OH MY GOD! YOU FUCKING BASTARD! YOUR DOG KILLED MY TOBY!!!!" The pig-woman shrieked, turning pale, hands at her mouth.
"Well actually, it's a wolveri-" I answered.
The woman was now in a three-point stance resembling a Raiders defensive lineman. She exploded from the ground and flew at my with uncanny fat girl speed. Laughing like a fool, I was knocked to the ground and pinned while she threw chubby knuckles into my face.
"I'm gonna kill you!" She screamed the weight of her ass began to crush my sternum. My eyes were bulging out of my head and I could no longer breathe. I'm being crushed!
I reached frantically around for something to aid my escape. My left hand came across a rock about the size of a softball. I gripped it tight and slammed it against the pig-woman's temple. She let out an uggg sound and rolled off my like a jello-mold falling off a Thanksgiving dinner table.
Her and I both rose to our feet as I wiped spewing blood from my nostrils. Fire now in my eyes, I reached inside my jacket for Desert Eagle but it wasn't there. Fuck, I'd left it in my nightstand.
She made another charge and this time I was prepared. I kicked out her right knee and as her body buckled I delivered a right cross to her mouth, knocking teeth and blood out of her head, splitting my knuckles. I went to follow this with a left jab and she caught my fist, and laid her experienced chompers into my forearm, devouring a chunk of my flesh. The bite winded me and she caught on to this and threw a right, left combination into my ribs and followed this up with a kick to the balls. I took a knee and vomited up the rum that was making my belly so happy.
"Muffin Cakes, KILL!" I commanded the wolverine. My voice was only a whisper.
Muffin Cakes was smarter then this and she tucked her tail and made off for a safe hiding place. God damned animal, I thought. Of coarse it's not going to take on something over forty times its weight.
"Now I'm gonna kill your dog, then I'm gonna kill you", the tub of lard hissed through a bloody mouth. She made off for Muffin Cakes, homicide on her mind, vengeance for the fallen Toby.
For a final time I arose to my feet.
"It's a fucking wolverine you fat bitch!" I roared and made a lightning charge, landing a knee right into the fat-bodies ribs, feeling them rupture. From here I grabbed a hand full of nappy hair and landed an elbow into her left eye socket. The slob groaned in wretchedness attempting to grapple me, but her newly broken ribs were giving me the advantage.
I maneuvered in close range working the body with a flurry of kick and punch combinations and topped it off with a knee to the bladder, which caused the buffalo woman to piss her pants. She then took a knee and I grabbed her by both her ears and fired several knees into her bloodied face until her body went limp. I dropped her head and her body flopped on the dirt with a lifeless thud.
I was victorious, but at a ghastly price. It'd appear that my nose was broken and there were poodle pieces everywhere. I found Muffin Cakes about thirty feet away , fucking a random Husky, and yelled at her for not backing me up. Her and I sat back down, fatigued; sharing the little bit of rum and chronic I had left while trying to what was left of such a gorgeous day.

Dream Date with Chevi

What a night!
Chevi had me meet her at the bar she works. Damn, was she looking tight! Anyways, she was closing that night and all alone and there was this old wino that was passed out on the bar. Chevi and I tried very politely to ask the elderly gentleman to wake up and leave but nothing seemed to work. So I asked her for a shot of Everclear and proceeded to remove the fat old geezers left shoe and sock. The fumes of this passed out man's dirty-ass foot wretch was making me dizzy and lightheaded, as if I had huffed the computer cleaner. As soon as the formerly white, brownish sock came off the pungent foot stench blasted me twenty feet across the room, thrusting me against a neon Corona sign, splitting my head open. I'd become completely unglued by the laceration on my head even though Chevi thought the blood running down my face was hot. I asked ever-so-sexy Chevi to pour me a double Bombay Sapphire just to realign my sense of smell. She complied, Chevi's so down like that.
After I choked the double, I poured the thick shot of Everclear all over the drunkard's naked foot and lit the fucker on fire. This will get his punk-ass up. The booze on his foot pleasantly burned off, singeing the bottom of his pants.
Nope, this didn't work either. By this time Chevi was done with her closing responsibilities; I'd threatened the mans life by holding Desert Eagle to his head, burned his fat belly with cigarettes, also lit the fool's foot on fire, and shook him violently. Chevi wanted to call the police but I wasn't down with the swine so we went with my idea instead.
We stuffed the man inside the trunk of my car and blasted Industrial Strength hardcore while Chevi and I passionately made out like horny teenagers. Chevi and I were sure the bass from the dual Audioban 12 inch woofers would wake him from his booze-induced coma but this had little or no effect. So we tore out of the parking lot of the bar and made off for my place for some designer fun and implausible buck action. After all, that was the premise of the night, just as any other night, and no chunky-lushed out bastard was going to get in the way of that.
On the way back to my place the old fart in my trunk started to scream and thrash around like a rabid marlin. Chevi and I laughed at this and cranked the music up. Luckily we made it to the driveway of my place when the tub of blubber started to get really shrill.
I pulled into the garage and closed it after the car keeping the hardcore techno blaring. Chevi and I exited and popped the trunk. The man shut up instantly as he stared blankly down the barrel of Desert Eagle. He understood this perfectly and it was obvious that he was still under heavy sedation.
"Don't worry, sir, we're friends." Chevi said while I holstered my firearm and turned off the car. "We're here to help you." I offered my hand and helped him out of the trunk. It was evident that he was shaken up by the whole kidnapping thing, he whined about his blackened left foot, the bass making his whole body hurt, and the cigarette burns on his fat-ass tummy.
I was thinking threes a crowd and needed to keep this individual occupied while Chevi and I got down to brass taxes. I fed this man fresh coffee with "special sugar-cubes", also MDMA capsules devilishly disguised as Tylenol for his hangover, and some dank brownies I'd been saving for just the right occasion. From here I sat the smelly fat-body on my leather couch in front of my 36-inch plasma television and handed him the clicker while Chevi and I went upstairs to tinker with our pretty pink parts over Grey Goose and tonics.
About an hour later Chevi and I became alarmed by a large crashing noise coming from the living room, downstairs. We rushed down there to see what our alkie friend was up to. As it appeared, the geezer had completely stripped down to his crusty, tighty-whities, and was running around the house babbling about the moon god and needing to be outside to make the connection. Chevi and I found this most interesting and before I released him into the 2.5 acres behind the house I hung an enormous neon cardboard target over his chest and back. I assured the now completely twisted man this was so that this moon goddess could pick him out more easily.
I opened the French doors leading to the yard and flipped a switch, completely illuminating the backyard. The man made a mad-dash into the vast openness, slurring profanity, hands reaching for the full moon. Chevi and I waited anxiously for the man to turn into a werewolf, no such luck. Instead I released another switch, which opened the hutch door that housed my pet wolverine. Muffin Cakes (my wolverine's name), made a fierce dart at the horrendously twisted drunkard, snarling, flashing fangs and claws.
The chase went on for about an hour while Chevi and I watched from the master bedroom balcony like rich Romans at a gladiator contest, continuing to mack down and glow from the Gray Goose. Muffin Cakes finally became bored with this and went back to sleep as the sun came up. The mysterious lush disappeared into the hills and was reported to be later found by the police, shredded from the waist down, still wearing the cardboard target draped over his naked body. He was completely incoherent, yabbering on and on about connections with angels, demons, and moon goddesses. Luckily Chevi took his wallet while we stuffed him in the trunk. Chevi's so smart.
To end a perfect evening with a perfect woman, Chevi and I slept comfortably, our bodies intertwined like an orgy of snakes, dreaming common dreams, and cradled by the heat of our bodies…

Biography