THE ROAD TO MENSONVILLE

Dedicated to Brian Hugh Warner - the man who made me hold a paintbrush and a microphone instead of a gun...

Editors:

Alexey Rukosukhov / Alexey Pakhomov

2012

Ukraine, Odessa

Preface

Hey people. I don't know about everyone else, but I'm that weird person who grew up on Hollywood art, and really loves creative America/Europe, their creative people and their unconventional approach to art, and the opinions of corrupt communist racist bigots with a twisted idea of patriotism don't bother me much.

Artists like Manson, Eminem, Ozzy, Korn, Slipknot, Alice Cooper, Michael Jackson have shown me the way to a personal musical world, a fantastic hell of freedom. Thanks to the names listed above, I created a personal Christ, and a personal Lucifer, in which I encapsulated myself. I took the Christ and the Devil, composed of the gold of fantasy, and hid them in a box where lay the notes of life, once shown to me by a guest crowned with the animated body of black justice. The story, is about a friend and teacher - Brian Hugh Warner. He is known as Marilyn Manson in the world.

One day, the storyteller Brian came to a nonexistent crystal house that stood far enough away from our street, from the gray building, from the apartment of the animated humanoid robots. Manson, unfortunately, didn't come into my life to kill my family. The number of the communal apartment is written in my mother's red lipstick on the gray, dirty, shabby door. The crystal facade is beautiful and in those moments when the crystal was filled with someone's blood, we flew away with music into a fairy tale where you can see absolute nothing, where you can explore the endless sky rolled up in a cigarette. It is sure to meet Charlie the monkey selling gingerbread in a decaying bazaar in the sky. One can feel and create an anti-Christian hell, completely devoid of cretins, but expressing the essence of the meaning of art. The Crystal House of Blood is a flying organism from Wonderland. Once upon a time a dead Alice lived there and we played pirates.

Sitting within the walls of a square city with a dirty sea, I looked around the world and saw that everyone, swarming like insects, was looking for something in it. After listening to the record "Portrait of an American Family" by many thousands, a madman gave the dinosaurs a party. Afterwards, there is declared to the lower human society the acceptance of the higher statuses of diversity. The young demon told the supernaturals that he would not open the gas stove faucet. There was no more point in blowing up the communal apartment. After Portrait of an American Family, I miraculously clearly realized for myself that it's not worth wasting my search for universe-level truth on the pursuit of someone else's corruptions. Even if endangered mechanical mutants raped your own mother in front of you, you shouldn't waste the rest of your opportunity-laden life on them. After all, the faces of Revenge are limitless. Each such face has multimillion-dollar and original ways of creating weapons of irrevocable humiliation. Ammo and worms are plentiful.

Enough for everyone.

I preferred the scariest mask of the rape truth monster - it's rock music. A star gives birth to a star.

After traveling with the epatage leader in the confusing issues of the glass city, I decided to kill the Christian god in me and become a creator myself. As long as I breathe and knock with my heart, my mission is to create what destroys, for in the ruins of the past, the most beautiful flowers raise their heads to the sky. They are sad, for they wait for the inevitable fall of the bombs.

The message of the "Portrait of an American Family" album was not lesson #1, as it was not the album that introduced me to Brian's work. The first record that started my "second" long and arduous journey from hell was called "Mechanical Animals".

12 years old. A child in tattered rags was dragging himself along the window of the "Discs and Cassettes" store and accidentally caught the CD packaging. The package fell to the wool floor, shattered into two halves. An audio record rolled out. On the back was an alien woman with hair of poisonous colors. The salesmen and the rubber-like security guard slapped me on the back and made me buy it. I was going to pick up the second installment of the movie Jurassic Park then. I love dinosaurs and dragons, various monsters, various maniacs and exquisite varieties of monsters to this day. I had to listen to new music instead of watching the adored scenes where lizards tear hated people to pieces.

I'll throw facts into the paragraph: at the age of 12 a child started masturbating after listening to the album, the hermit learned the essence of his own penis and how differently and usefully such a marvelous organ can be used. Thanks to an alien named Omega, who combined two names, Marilyn and Manson, I learned about two significant figures in Hollywood. These individuals, long before the era of Steven Spielberg and his great "Jurassic Park," had a huge impact on the pop culture of their time. When I first learned who Marilyn was, it was like discovering something incredible, like finding a bright new world. She's not just an actress, she's the epitome of black and white magic. She has such an amazing appearance - golden hair, a dazzling smile and eyes that seem to be able to look right into your soul. But it's not just about looks. There's something more to her movies - she seems to play ordinary characters, but she does it in such a way that you can't look away.

Now Marilyn was like a bright star that shines even in the darkest moment. Her charisma is simply mesmerizing, and it seems that she is able to make the world a little better, just by appearing on the screen of our old black and white TV. When you look at her, you want to know more, to understand what lies behind the colorless smile. She was not only beautiful, but also mysterious, and that's probably why so many people loved her.

Charles Manson seemed to me like the Jesus my mother now so fervently believed in. I envisioned him as Jesus, followed by children. Children who smoke something forbidden. Kids who swear with words that should not be used in the presence of adults. Charlie didn't seem like a killer. He rather seemed like the wise opposite. He was something without which this world wouldn't make sense, couldn't exist.

Marilyn is like a first crush, the one you always remember. It was Marilyn who was the first woman on whom I had a debut erection. It was Marilyn who was the first lady on whom I successfully cum thirty minutes later and drops of my mentally retarded offspring's semen spilled onto the mangled bed. The CD was playing in the turntable of the times, and the speakers were successfully keeping the neighbors from knowing what I was doing in my room.

I don't know why, but to me, a twelve-year-old explorer of the civilization of modern courtesans, "New Model N°15" seemed unrestrictedly sexual. Even the male individuals seemed like wildly sexual animals with the imaginary weight of feces on their cut and mutilated faces. I am heterosexual, but the sight of a strong, invincible enemy in the most humiliated forms made me hard-cocked.

The story of my acquaintance with Marilyn Manson's work is as shameful as an old pervert from my mother's rags-strewn basement. At that moment, when I, unsuspecting, was lying on my mother's bed, with the record "Mechanical Animals" playing in the DVD player, it was as if time stood still. The black and white photos of Marilyn Monroe and old shots of my own mother in a swimsuit, where she was so beautiful and full of life, mesmerized me. I allowed myself to savor the moment and began to masturbate, immersed in fantasies of Marilyn and my own mother, young and sexy. My mother as a young woman and the young Marilyn were somehow similar in their bodies. Suddenly the silence was broken by the metallic clinking of keys, and the subsequent appearance of my mother returning from a service at the Baptist church. She then jumped on me and beat me severely with terror and rage in her eyes.

I tried to hide from her anger in the empty, inoperable refrigerator. There, in the cold and silence, I moaned quietly in pain, cursing my mother. My blood mixed with the tears streaming down my face, and I felt shame and humiliation. I was like a child caught with a candy bar in my hand. Only instead of candy, to our collective regret, the child held a penis in his hand. My too early adulthood was not appreciated by my mom. She had a bible in her hand and red contempt in her eyes.

Three months later, I realized that Manson was not a woman at all, but a creature not even of the middle, but of the male sex. Years later at university, the best student of the faculty and world champion in tap dancing, Sergei Ostapenko, told me that Manson was not a pseudonym of a person at all, but the name of a project.

Brian Hugh Warner became my only friend at boarding school. It was a riot and a riot on a scale of 100500 on the infinity scale. My classmates laughed at me. They planted our girls' cell phones in my briefcase. Unaware of my peers' wicked sense of humor, I would leave the school grounds. They would catch me, accuse me of stealing, and then proceed to punish me by kicking me and force-feeding me earth. No food was ever put in my mouth. I endured the blows with fortitude. Their humiliation was thrown back in their faces. Having kicked me several times with shoes on my lips, my colleagues on desks went away.

The bloody, dirty child would return home, and through his mother, who was asleep in the arms of a bottle of vodka, would pass to his half of the room, where he could sometimes surround himself with circles of seconds and dream.

You become to them the spawn of the thirteenth circle of hell, when you are different, You feel the school's eyes on you like piranhas on the squirming carcass of a wounded animal that has fallen into the river. You hear the beginnings of the most disgusting gossip, and it happens too close and too far away from you. You cannot disappear, you can only scream, though in the cruel universe of humans and their offspring, no one can hear even a microscopic sound from your wounded throat. You become a monster in a tank of electric eels. You become a demented clown with thousands of layers of masks on your face crumpled like sauerkraut. You are an invalid, whose everything is broken, even your heart is fed with rot and pierced with dozens of rusty nails. You are what was once an innocent baby, whom everyone may have loved and admired for your pristine innocence, but that was so long ago that no one will ever remember it. Music offered to make an escape from the cities of everyday life to keep me a child at least somewhere and in something, and I could not refuse her.

Listening to the recording of the third album, I didn't know English yet. There was no access to the Internet. 8th grade. I feel strange when I realize that I understand the meaning of some songs that are close to me in phonetic sound. The songs provided anesthesia for physical and spiritual wounds. The alien from the cover said that school love for Elizaveta and Anastasia was a stinking, dead, overly dangerous something that should be amputated before it was too late. Lisa and Nastya were associated with the song "Great Big White World." They are not attached to me, and I am Earth, who in a past life may have once been loved. I, a little one have cried many times to this lullaby, for it is like the tears of a thousand planets. Also this song I often listened to right after my second stepfather - sadist killed in front of my eyes another animal that I brought into the house to love, friendship and learn other hypocritical to date, almost nonexistent in human nature feelings. He cut off the heads of turtles, drowned kittens in an iron basin, crushed puppies with army shoes. While my second stepfather was dismembering small animals alive, I ran away to the nearest music shop and there, dazed as a statue, listened to the most beautiful in the world - "Great Big White World". I did not take off my headphones until they threw me half undressed back out into the cold. The only thing I could do against the violence surrounding me at that time was a banal escape inside myself.

Once upon a time, because of a disagreement, the normal first stepfather left his mother. A couple months after the separation, my mother got together with that Russian officer who decided to try his luck in Ukraine. I counted on a neutral attitude to personal spaces. But something went wrong. I soon learned what the concept of "Russian stepfather" really represents. It is the right to be beaten with a stool for the peaceful need to create. It's the right not to have an opinion. It is the right to forget that there are natural rights and freedoms of a child at all. From this starting point, perhaps, let us begin the story of a Ukrainian informal from the city of Odessa - a false man in whose soul a bundle of hungry vengeful demons is ripening. Demon of revenge - that's what I call myself for most of my spiraling life since my conscious years. Passersby are always confused as to how old I am. Some of the female gender gave me seventeen or even fifteen. Leonid is the last variant of the name, which fortunately entered the action. Mad mother wanted to christen me Dionysus in honor of the ancient Greek god of wine-making. She also had some inadequate thoughts of naming me Zeus, Poseidon, Hermes, Hades and other pathos names of the gods/heroes of Hellas. Maybe that would be fine, but just not for our modern bull - society. Her choice, fortunately, found a "stop" on "Leonid". As a child, the name was terribly disliked. Now, honestly, I am proud to bear such a royal name - the first sign of the need to step in the footsteps of kings.

The text contains a somewhat dissenting morphology. It's not just an article, as I have no intention of associating my life with the filth of journalism. It's not even a short story, though it quietly bears its main attribute. In its own way it is an essay crossed with a mixed literary genre of autobiographical character, which has the purpose to show the true concept of creativity of a brave musician, who was not afraid to criticize deadly institutions, but became a victim of slander of religious radicals and small-minded philistines. What is infuriating is the dull, absurd, stupid and meaningless lies that, in the style of human underdevelopment, always and everywhere surround not only Manson, but also other talented artists who are starting out and want to speak freely. This story is for you spoiled children who love and appreciate the truth. A story that is relevant, in my opinion, not only to rock music, but to all modern art.

Angel of Darkness in Christian Hell

Manson is one of the most successful and conceptual "projects" in rock history. It is an authentic reflection of the essence of humanity's existence, which can be interpreted as absurd theater in an innovative form. Good and Evil, Earth and Heaven - such concepts summarize the musical story of the American master of shock-rock, which lives in three layers of the atmosphere of world show business. The first layer is music and lyrics. The second layer - epatage. Third layer - rumors in the form of myths and legends about the illusory nature of which in 1996 few people had the slightest idea. The third layer is my favorite, because it keeps the mystery of the Antichrist-Superstar narrative alive, because this album is a time bomb in the hands of an ignorant Christian, an interesting idyllic form of revenge for human hypocrisy, commensurate only with the gas chambers of foreign dictatorships. The Antichrist is a fraternal punitive operation for human souls, opening a black time machine where a sinister secret lurks in a predatory leap. And in this mystery there is another mystery, and there is another and another mystery, capable of blinding and misleading the zombified personality, in order to find in the darkness the final ominously smiling matryoshka doll and in the last stage to release the real self. No one and nothing will stand in the way of our freedom to own the truth about the order of the universe - a truth that man has found on his own, not those who sometimes do not hesitate to sexually abuse little boys.

If we are all very lucky, rock and roll will rule the world. Eventually, devil willing, civilization will be led by the arts. Creative lifestyle of every citizen of the Earth - that's what will be in the distant future, if we are all very lucky. May the Antichrist - the liberator come.

I became acquainted with such a phenomenon as the virus of religion when I was a student of a sanatorium boarding school, where children of average material wealth studied, and me and crazy Max, an orphan with retarded development, were the poorest in the class, just like Kenny from the nice American town of South Park. As mentioned in the introduction above, we were considered lame throughout our schooling. Most were guided by the prevailing attitude that children like me should be consigned from birth to the feeding ground of death.

My mother is a former circus performer who worked as an aerial gymnast in the arenas of the USSR for over 30 years. She ended up with a spinal injury. She fell from under the circus dome and miraculously survived. Even then, when the son was in the eighth grade, the mother became obsessed with religion and went crazy. At first she fell into Orthodoxy, then into the Protestant stream of Seventh-day Adventists, joined the Jehovah's Witnesses, then into astrology, then into white and black magic. The impurities were mixed in a little understanding head, and the result was not long in coming. The painted dungeon dwellers lived in the labyrinths of children's psyche, fought there, performed feats against the cruel, destroying nature of mankind. I remember I had a small table. At ten to eleven years of age I kept amusing myself on it. My mother, while she herself and her life had not yet gone off the rails, took me to creative circles. There I generated the first sketches of respected representatives of the unclean force. With plasticine happiness I was at ease fooling around, playing out primitive performances for myself and for my mother. Valentina had the honor of observing performances of the following contents: "Murder of Classmates," "The Dead President and Lisa," "My Best Friend is Freddy Krueger." In the tabletop performances, the little puppeteer cruelly mocked unwanted concepts.

Once playing theater, I showed my mother a scene in which Jesus - a transvestite, playing the role of a teacher, molested a five-year-old boy. According to the plot - all in public and in front of the children. I repent of the performance. I suspect that it was this naive child's play that gave the mother a good fright and encouraged her to take her first step into religion.

I didn't just like to draw. I was manic to the visual arts. I drew lizards wherever I could. Hiding from my drunken mother who wanted to beat me up, I would lock myself in public toilets, take out a notebook and a pen from my underwear, and then go on creating. A similar action took place within the walls of the school. My classmates would play basketball with my briefcase in the gym, and I would get kicked out. I would run to the restroom, lock myself in a stall, and squatting on my hands and knees, I would take a piece of paper and draw a gang rape of the school queen by a pack of Tyrannosaurus cubs.

The child was actively building a personal world, his own little hell, where he felt good, where he was not afraid of anyone, where no one could offend him. At the age of four, I drew dinosaurs all over the wallpaper; at six, that wallpaper was covered with the first layers of junk. The mother was impoverished. So when her son turned seven, she actively dragged home everything she could lift with feminine strength. A month devoured a week, and life turned into a stomach. Mom would fill our room with junk, and I would sit at whatever a defenseless boy was allowed to sit at, drawing unthinkable creatures.

For my fourteenth birthday, the room was divided into four parts - lengthwise and across. Huge wooden barricades cut through the space, causing everything in our possession an astonishing discomfort. One ridiculous plate ran the entire length of the room horizontally a meter from the ceiling. My mother's plan was to create a third bedroom there for her nonexistent brother. Her stomach formed. Mother thought she was pregnant, but in fact it was a tumor that proclaimed itself queen of her abdomen. Before my eyes, she was constantly fucking a young twenty-year-old lover, cheating on her second common-law husband. The mother hoped to have another child. In a separate story from the future, it turned out that in her uterus was still ripening embryo, which at some month died, rotted, and, unaware of the presence of harsh reality, the mother carried it for a very long time. Mom carried the cancer, not my brother. And I still don't know if that story was true.

14 years. In a half-drunken state Valentina Nikolaevna would come to the children's camp "Nut Grove". To read ravings about the mysterious Anastasia, she would take me to a dilapidated gazebo. Desolation reigned. In an uninhabited place and in an uninhabited state, she would offer me to drink non-existent milk from her ugly little under-sexed breasts. She would remove the top part of her clothes, exposing her disgusting white-fish body, and I would run away from her in terror and hide in the dark depths of the camp, so that the Christian god himself would find it difficult to find me. The black part of the autobiography, mixed with fresh semen, was smelted on the corpse of a dead old woman - a sarcastic interpretation of life in the genre of the absurd.

Another two-meter high wooden structure divided the room lengthwise, separating the window part from the entrance. A terrified mother slept on a similar bed near the door, an unhappy son slept on a similar bed near the window. The son's bed was two broken refrigerators with dead rats connected by wormy plywood. The mother's "bed" area had considerably less territory than the son's "bed" area. The mother's area included the dining room and a storage area for food filth. The mother rarely made purchases at the quay, because she did not go to the quay to buy, but to beg. Sometimes Valentina Nikolaevna resorted to stealing. Merchants often caught her in the act. Fat women would pounce on her like chickens on a fox and beat her with their feet. Her son stood aside, his mouth as if sewn shut, his aortic heart crying out for help. No one hears. The adults are wandering past. They have their own things to do. There is no place for kindness on the streets of Odessa. The days ended at the police station. The mother's face bled, and the armless child's soul cursed God.

With each passing year, Valentina was comically degraded in mind and body. She dressed shamefully and strangely: long ugly skirts from the gypsy closet, black jeans tight around her thin legs and bulging belly, T-shirts of foreign manufacture, and other luscious clothes from the trash. Each year she brought more and more discards to the commune, and to our room. Eighteen square meters disappeared from the face of space. A pathetic horizontal slit half a meter wide what was survived. The height degenerated in sync with the width. Fourteen and a half. The height of the room was less than two meters of the existing five. The room is difficult to describe in literary words toward the end of her life.

Stuff! Tons of stuff! Rotten things everywhere, rotten things along and along, rotten things rotting, stinking. The room is squeezing, killing. The degree of bronchial asthma in her and me grows from the underworld lows of hell to the holy heights of corrupt heaven. Bastard Jesus himself is spinning like a yula in a fresh heavenly grave from the illicit volume of the choking attacks. An ambulance arrives every twenty-four hours. It arrives during the day during the hot sun, and at night during the dance of the stars. The crew nurse gives vein injections in the kitchen since they can't go into the room. The baby's veins and the mother's veins are blue from bruises and scratches due to the many times the needles have flown past their target. The ambulance, leaves, swearing. We go to bed amid tons of over-ripe rags in a kennel, where a man can hardly pass and then only sideways, only in a low bow of shrinking hopelessness. A full-fledged man could not squeeze through. The attack through the larynx easily climbs into the lungs, and the effect of the medicine obediently recedes.

I tried to stop her, tried to make her stop this destructive way of life, but every attempt ended in beating her with heavy objects on her kneecaps. I tried to stop her, tried to make her stop this destructive way of life, but every attempt ended with beating her on the kneecaps with heavy objects. Then my mother would lock me in my room and she would disappear for a couple weeks. After I ran out of sour rice soup and wormy fish, I had to chew on soap and eat the gnawing taste of toothpaste. Throughout the grieving period, my son cried only twice. The duration of the crying was less than ten minutes. I cried not because of the grief of loss, but because I was alone, I was unrealistically scared for the future life that did not belong to me yet. I did not want to die lying under the fence hungry, cold and raped by someone. Violent homosexuality among the homeless thrives in the spirit of American democracy in Odessa. My mother, as the Christians said, went to hell - she died in the apartment of acquaintances we had been staying with for months because she felt like we were going to be killed. We were less likely to be killed because of the apartment.

More so because of the unsanitary conditions. We wandered from one person to another until the last people threw us down the stairs. We wandered around Odessa at night for weeks, went to deep unsafe neighborhoods, slept under the benches of lonely bus stops. When I was hungry, I put ice in my mouth, swallowed the dirty water that melted under my palate through the toothache. Mother made me devour the black snow. After midnight she would go to work. Serving drivers out of town, and she made me hide behind tree trunks. Leaning my back against a dead plant, I flipped through soggy notebooks of drawings. The dinosaur drawings came to life, talking to me, calling me. There was no pain on the other side of the white checkered sheet. I was saved by the hospitals that took the lost creature in a semi-conscious state. Once one of my mother's clients beat me up and tried to rape me. Mother jumped on him, and while she was sinking her remaining teeth into his arm, I was able to get away. With the proceeds from sex, my mother used the money to buy alcohol, cigarettes and cheap food. Increased prostitution is the last extreme before the old woman with the scythe arrives, and her dystrophic spawn is regenerating paper shredded with knives. My mother set me free only by death. A place in the cemetery recruited, buried according to Orthodoxy. A couple years ago on send-off day, I visited her several times. I had to pay the cemetery workers to clean up the hill. After that, I didn't visit my mom for three years.

I have to come to the memorial again somehow, pay the diggers, and calloused hands will put the tombstone in order. In past visits I stayed for five to two minutes to sit, drink cool water, rest from the heat, and admire the cross. Perched on a multi-colored wicker bag, the son scolded her with great regret for her ridiculous, mercury-like childhood. He also thanked his mother for the precious creativity she had once instilled in him.

The university accepted me for who I was. Leonid, who had grown up, sat comfortably in one of the broken carriages of the roller coaster of knowledge, buckled his belts tighter, and the train moved off. The bitchy time of growing up didn't stand still. It, like an old worried traveler, was climbing higher and higher up the alien rock, like in some very bad fairy tale for very bad children.

In my learning days, in my dying days, I listened to Manson's music relentlessly, but only if it was somewhere in stores, somewhere on the Internet, sitting at the computer of some godforsaken café.

Friday. Evening. I got beat up again. The visiting sports guys didn't like my Manson T-shirt. The knife blades nicked some veins. When I got home, the blood was oozing enough to fill a small glass. Which I did. Brushes stared at the ceiling with their wooden tails in front of me, and I took one of them, dipped the tip in the blood, and held it up to a white paperboard mounted on plywood. One day in the future this drawing would be finished. A true artist will paint his first portrait with blood. For a year I lived on too little money, almost on iron. In the initial stages, I fed on the leftovers. Unlike her, I didn't hang around in the garbage, collecting crap in favor of pride.

There is a story in the Lenten post with good faithful Protestant Pentecostals praying in unknown tongues. Their prayers are ridiculous and dangerous to the unhardened psyche. I felt as if my mother were talking to me. She came in dreams, naked and burned, her flesh bubbling, her mouth crying out for help with the screams of thousands of women, letting me know that now, she was in hell. I urgently sought out a witch, a fortune-teller, to interpret the madness resulting from the automatic self-infliction of something obscure. Sects take advantage of their victims' unhappiness. In times of unhappiness, the mind was clouded by festering emotions that awaken a poisonous homunculus of trust.

When my mother's body was lowered from the fifth floor and taken to the morgue, for some reason I drew for myself a protective god. I distinctly remember the shots in which I desperately begged him for a favorable outcome of the problem. God, it turns out, had a good ear and a sense of humor. He quickly heard the prayers and took my mother away. I was left alone to the mercy of relatives, neighbors and one more rich fat pseudo-man, who in the nooks and crannies of his mind was nurturing the idea of taking away my home

I met the guys at the train station. A tall guy in a white sweater, with a haggard face, was handing out invitation flyers for a movie, the title of which I didn't remember. Behind him, in a scattered mess, running here and there, other broken people were pushing the same ads. I shunned them, and desperation mixed with wise cunning pushed me to action. I had to talk to a man with long legs. The funny giant from the Soviet cartoon smiled.

I was also followed by that hated mom's lover.

Victor was just a simple, extremely stupid guy. The woman loved Victor, and what was left for me? Punishment packaged in religion from a nuclear reactor? My mother used to reproach me regularly, saying she'd write off all the inheritance to Victor. And she'd throw me into the jaws of the streets to learn life. One day in the hallway, Vitya and I had a stabbing. It could have ended differently if the neighbors hadn't intervened.

For a week, my mom's lover and I tried to shake up the spaciousness of the room in some way. Nothing to do. We went to a movie. After the movie, terrified of the impending reality, I went to the altar and prayed an insincere prayer of repentance, repeating every word after the pastor. The bewildered orphan told his uncle about the problem with his belongings. He presented the situation in the form of an offer to help us carry out just one closet. The brother in Christ agreed. The next day the giants visited the abode of evil. They saw the passage, saw the cavity of the dwelling filled with tons of junk, and much more truth was added to their understanding of hell.

The Prince of Hypocrisy went to church and pretended to believe, though at secret times, unnoticed by his brothers, as in his former school days, he would go to the store, as was his custom, to listen with rapt attention to Uncle Manson's songs. Then on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday, he would go to church again, raise his right hand, which he often liked to masturbate with, and sing those same trimmed songs. It went on like that for five weeks straight. By the obedient sheep the shit was gradually taken out. The room with the exposed gray wallpaper peeling off the walls, all that was left was a black, broken piano.

I dreamed of love. I need a girlfriend, I need sex. Dialogues with religious conformists on the topic of second halves turned into aggressive arguments. An argument on the grounds of injustice turned into a conflict. The Pentecostals would say the following, and this "following" would drive the riot into an indomitable rage, which Manson alone would calm down. Wait a minute, boy, you've got reason in you, and reason is the power to be less mechanized. By your own example you have to prove to the world of philistines that love really exists for everyone - even for freaks. Following the Pentecostal view, the love of the ugliest girl must also be earned. The words cut nerves, caused heartache that made me want to jump on the walls of the church and scratch wallpaper and leather in a fit of anger. A naive madman was demanding free love from their god. Mutual love. A love that loves me for what I am. The teenager drew her. This ideal, will love me more than myself and my mom, and I too will love her more than myself, and certainly more than my deranged parent. The chosen one is ready at any moment to take the demon's hands and leap with me to a spontaneous demise - to fly into a rock, for the sake of not living. The facial features of the mate from dreamland are flawless. Her body is endlessly sexy.

She can easily reproduce any kind of depraved dance - the dance of life and death.

I once slipped my pastor a rough version of the beginning of an old work of fiction that colorfully describes an escape. The hero escapes from an orphanage deep in a fictional forest. In one of the chapters of the story, I outlined point by point the requirements for the bride's qualities. The pastor struck out in anger. His face went flat and newspaper-like, as if he'd been hit with a thick Devil book the size of a window frame. He wanted to excommunicate me, but he wouldn't do it, for he knew I was already working in security, where I was getting much more money than from my job as a courier. They were still naively hoping to make a profit off me on a regular basis. I see. Helped me get rid of my stuff after all.

I was left with functioning video equipment: a video player and a new small black-and-white TV set. I plugged everything in and left it on a shelf so that I could occasionally take it out and watch movies forbidden by Christianity. The first steps to freedom were slowly excommunicated. Working in security, watching sleeping subjects, I spent nights studying for entrance exams. A broken piano sniffed in the room. Six tedious weeks passed.

I didn't show up for one sermon because I was lazy. The church was dreary, crowded, violent. In the banal, meager backstage areas, the walls of closed propaganda made my soul vomit. It's like the elephants have thrown everything out, and the bitten piano is in my way, embarrassing me and the rampage of my ideas. Nauseating. The past, like a lazy fat lizard, seems to want to leave, but the piano is standing on its tail, and it growls, emits gases from its cloaca, but cannot move. I was suffocating. The ambulances were coming again at night. Puzzled, I turned to my brothers for help. An unfamiliar ugly man answered. Took my hand so affectionately and so gayly, placed my palm on his paw, and beeped reproachfully:

- Dear, you missed our sermon... We almost cleared your room of the Devil's trash. You were missing and we prayed for you, but you willfully didn't come, and one missed lecture is counting years. You want to use us, so you came to church, not looking for God and his holy will, but only for self-interest. We don't want you to come to God only for self-interest. We want you to come to our savior Jesus Christ with gratitude and a desire to serve. Establish your faith. We are not your slaves, we are doing this according to the will of Jesus. Go to sermons, pay your tithe, don't miss a service, and then, when we are convinced that you have renewed your faith, we will help you carry your piano....

He wanted to consort with my mind. There's one more thing that goes along with that. One day, they accidentally dug out a CD, a little horror book. It had Alien and Hellraiser on it. I was seriously scolded and told that such movies would drag me away from God to hell, where I would be tormented, crying, screaming forever and ever until the end of time. The piano was taken out two weeks after the scolding conversation. Room cleared. In the finale, the Jesus fans hired a truck with an impressive body, and there they unloaded the rest. A huge mound of junk grew out of the back of the truck and stretched with its top toward the sky. This junk is Mom's soul. Mom's soul curses me for having decided to get rid of her stuff. When the strong guys were breaking the boards with their feet, it felt as if they were breaking not the boards of furniture, but her bones, - my mother's bones, and she was screaming, literally bursting with screams, pulling her broken bloody hands to me and crying for help.

The truck drove away from the house in an unknown direction. An angry rain poured down. I remembered my mother's funeral, and how the sad priest in black with a censer in his hand spread smoke, in which I could see the demonic images floating under the vault. I saw her body and face in the smoke, her mouth open in a scream. Her body, lying in the beggar's coffin, had turned blue or brown, her face frozen in a grimace of suffering. Looking at the stiffened corpse, at the hands and feet bound with iron wire, my subconscious stormed with the image of my mother floating down the fiery river in her last laps in an attempt to free herself. I hated her because a mocking accident had once placed me precisely in her womb.

Suicidal thoughts surfaced. The sad song from Mechanical Animals played in my subconscious, the only thread keeping me alive in the world above the all-consuming abyss. The desire to know what's out there next hidden for me in the depths of space postponed the fateful step off the roof. What is out there in that ocean, beyond its waves, beyond its depths, beyond the ocean itself? The hidden answers motivated me to keep going.

After five weeks, I backed off.

I used to go to the market. To this day, a guy - my former Christian mentor - sells edged weapons there. It is customary for the older brothers in their church to make disciples, the younger ones, and mentor them. When Hariton met me, he kept talking about the terrible judgment and how I would have to answer for every idle word dropped from my careless lips. Is Jesus waiting for me? Is God patient for the long haul? Am I going to hell if I don't go to church, but before I die I will surely be disabled for denying it? I have had enough of these sick reproaches.

Life ran onward, and imagine, I did not become disabled, and imagine, I did not even die. The Christian god is sadistic and stereotypical. He is demanding and there is no love in a church that believes that love must be earned. What kind of love is this love that has to be earned? What kind of love is this for which one must become some kind of universal human being? What kind of love is this for which one must follow someone else's will? What kind of love is this, for the sake of which one should follow not love itself, but the whims of officials and vain men? Better a single onanist is to wander all his life from harlot to harlot than to follow such a god's will. And their Christian justice, in which murderers, pedophiles and rapists will be forgiven just for saying a prayer of repentance before they die and acknowledging Jesus as their god and savior, what is that worth? Decent people who have never done anything wrong to anyone, but chose to favor agnosticism and science, will fall, as the sectarians say, into eternal agony just because they didn't want to kneel and renounce spiritual slavery? Where is the justice? Why should the innocent be punished by fire for choosing not to take to heart a dead impostor from a sun-rotting antiquity? After tasting opium, the bottom line is this: justice is an imaginary kind of flower that doesn't grow here. Kindness is a myth, and physical and mental self-interest is an everyday occurrence.

The first pages of the prose were typed on my mom's old typewriter. In permanence the demon depicted a boarding school with a rebellion of teenagers embittered by a hard childhood. I hid in a dark forest near a lake with giant leeches from them. Brushes tired, the writer, after acts of secret masturbation, looked up at the ceiling, and from there a god poked at him with his index finger. The god's words from my or someone else's subconsciousness were buzzing in the organism of our hearing by thousands of fans. The dual feelings I wrote down on a blank piece of paper - "love is worthy of weak bodies, and the strong must surrender to death" - the first concept, or rather the title line of the foundation to the idea of a new character - a dead classmate doomed to be initiated into a rock star, and afterward into a Demon of Vengeance. The weak freaks are worthy of love, and the strong must die!

Conclusion. The Christian god is an invisible giant zombie grown in the great laboratory of mankind. Man created god, man created religion from the rib of god, god fucked religion, religion gave birth to Jesus, Jesus fucked everyone's brain, died, maybe, then resurrected, but this is far from the fact, and then, flew away on a flying saucer to other worlds. As long as the consciousness is intact, it is necessary to get out of this church - a miserable semblance of a madhouse, a secret club of mental faggots, fucking themselves and others twenty-four by seven.

In order to provoke the sect to expulsion, I wanted to show the pastor another opus, namely to draw an inverted cross on my penis, take a picture of this modern art, and then send it to all the parishioners on the Internet. I didn't do it yet, as I was busy with repairs, a new job and preparing for exams. Nostalgia, white shirt, tidy appearance and Manson - in this strict image and in old sneakers, I rose one more step in life.

My conscience rarely burned. Unless it was about church, when I had my dick in my right hand in front of the monitor and the receiver of a Soviet telephone in my left. On the other end of the wire, the pastor was broadcasting, instructing the superconscientious entity on the righteous path. During such conversations, I masturbated to the photos of my own mother giving blowjobs to Victor.

I was not satisfied with their dull, coffin-like absurdity, and the information from the preacher's mouth was all those mommy things that had somehow magically moved into my head from the room by themselves with the help of someone's magic wand.

Their songs are ridiculous and silly just like the simplest single-celled cells - they have a protein, a couple of movements, but no meaning. It's the same thing. The same songs kept drilling into my ears. I hate Christian songs! It's like having sex with a stuffed dog, and they manage to sew your lips shut in the process.

There was no one to talk to and no one to take my hand and truly understand the heaviness of my soul. Manson's music seemed to reach out to me when I was at the peak of despair. Behind his lyrics, I saw a dream. The dream helped me cross the line and be beyond the pain.

One Friday night I dropped in on a couple of meetings out of courtesy. The trick-or-treaters in attendance laughed off my decision to pursue higher education. I got angry and ran off to walk down a particular street where various crooked poles were lined with lecherous and shifty whores - skyscrapers. At the sight of night butterflies I born a strange leisure. I quietly approached the prostitutes and tricked them into showing their tongues at full length. Stupid as jellyfish putanas seeing me as a potential client, opened their mouths and with surprised pleasure showed my favorite oral organ. Once I played around and pissed off a dozen pimps in a crimson wheelbarrow. I ran four kilometers away from them. Got rescued by a police patrol. Cops picked me up from the supermarket I was hiding in and brought me home. Didn't bother the whores no more. Wandering around the neighborhood, the demon listened to punk.

I broke with my foot the boundaries that bind freedom in anything. In the evenings, before going out at night, I made a habit of putting on makeup. I put white paint on my face, and outlined my eyes with black tones, thus completely imitating a dead man. Ex-brothers further prayed in unknown languages, suggesting to me that without them I was a helpless plasticine on the light green surface of a glowing light bulb, and Manson continued to give me faith in my own strength. How much creativity I discovered in myself as I gradually left the church! I realized that I was an artist, a writer, an actor, a poet, even a musician. The draft at my side absorbed numerous skeletons of poems that have no form, no meaning, no rhyme or rhythm. The first attempts were ugly, brutal and bold. What else do I need to be happy? Nothing but fame, worship at the feet of my demonic persona, tons of money, lots of time for sex and rock and roll. I'll be creating until my last breath, until my heart stops beating. When I die, my ghost will scar your senseless faces

On the way I came across an old restaurant where beggars were dining. The memory was shattered by a scream. The accusatory shrieks were coming from fat mothers. The son of one of them read my poem and, inspired by the content, tried to stab his father. The old man got off with a slight scar on his neck, and the offspring was thrown in the nuthouse. Unfortunately, young people confuse the concept of the artists' songs with their own misguided selves. They take words out of context or make up the wrong meaning for themselves. People hear what they want to hear and see what they want to see, and because of the wrong understanding through the prism of stupidity of the true message of this or that work, there are consequences. The artists are responsible for which for some reason...

Concerts 2009 and 2012.

A longtime demon working as a courier for a stodgy boss with a square body was my first diversion from the life of the church and a return to an attraction to cheap sex prostitutes. Recall that I lost my innocence at sixteen with a tan prostitute. I stole my mother's own pension she had on me and rented a whore. Back then, my body resembled a fresh human skeleton pulled from a bathtub overflowing with milk. In thirty to forty degree heat, I was running around office buildings, delivering heavy and important documents to the office plankton.

I refused to carry large sums of money, for I was afraid of losing them, being robbed by local hooligans, or, worse, being tempted to embezzle the entrusted sum to myself. I never carried money myself. My salary was 1500 hryvnias, and while working as a courier I got acquainted with Manson's album "Eat Me, Drink Me", to this album I, as well as to "Mechanical Animals", often poured my feelings in the form of tears into the bedclothes and into the keyboard of an ancient computer, which successfully replaced my old typewriter.

To the 2007 album, I imagined laughing and making love to a dead Lisa in a bathtub overflowing with her blood. She lies in a black and white cradle with me, so dead and so beautiful, so cold and so strangely alive, my hot penis nudging her pathos-clenched labia apart, my hips dancing a dying latinum, and then, finally, cum flying out of me with words and opinions. I slit my veins with my teeth, her blood mixes with my blood, I wake up in reality with the same constant question, "Where the fuck is the fucking matrix, is it there or is it still here?".

The act is over, the verse is written, and the last song "Eat Me, Drink Me" is playing in the DVD player, in one speaker of the black and white TV. I type nonsense, pounding on the keyboard and breaking its keys, and tomorrow I scratch again for a normal job with a square chief, to perform actions for the benefit of dull people. The director of the sixth boarding school offered to make repairs at my house, I will refuse, then the foreign language teacher will persuade me and eventually convince me. I give my consent. Next, life straightens out like a spine of pride.

I got a job as a guard at a construction site, was preparing to enter university, and learned about Manson's third visit to Russia. I saw Manson on television, and he brought with him an exhibition of his author's drawings, "Flowers of Evil". After that, I decided that I would never miss the maestro's next visit to the CIS regions.

In 2008, the demon entered the university, had the honor to study the multifaceted, like a platonic ocean, language and literature. Success in my studies, success in literature, and success in my own literature, all were born under the inspiration and the set of vitality from the source of music. Mr. Epatage taught me to keep myself different, to know how to live, and to walk through glass-obstacles. Freshman year, under the influence of Manson, I took the stage for the first time, where I ridiculously, but very provocatively, sang two songs from the musical "The Canterville Ghost": "The Reckoning Hour" and "Where Have They Gone." I performed them the way I wanted, subsequently becoming the famous Joker on the stream.

The computer was dominated by the lyrics of a future rock band. The shock rockers of America were playing all day and night at home and I went crazy with them. Sometimes I'd come home and the window that overlooked the courtyard was open, as if it didn't exist at all. I come home, throw off my clothes, take off my sweatpants, and jump around the room in my mother's clothes, parodying Mickey Mouse and shaking the essence of the room with my oversized genitals. The neighbors in the yard, who live both upstairs and downstairs, see all this infernal outrage. They are taken by shock, and my grandmother, overlooking the balcony, which is located opposite my window, not covered with a curtain, not once had a myocardial infarction. I passed the first session perfectly.

When I was a sophomore, I came home one day, turned on my computer and saw an announcement on the Internet for 2009 that Manson was back in CIS lands. My breathing stopped like a braking subway train, my heart started to pound excitedly, and my hair rose up like a dead man's.

I remember the difficulties we had to go through in Odessa, but it was all unforgettable. I remember how we transferred the money for the ticket through a foreign bank branch. I remember finding out from all the representatives of our species I met how to buy this ticket through a Ukrainian bank.

Being living on a disability pension and a presidential scholarship, in a tattered T-shirt, was running around all the Odessa offices. Spitting saliva, looking at everyone with the look of a crazy result of a failed abortion, I tried to find out by what way it is possible to transfer payment to a neighboring country to buy that, then personally for me more valuable than life, ticket. For me, all these simple manipulations were like the most complicated mission of a secret agent in the service of her majesty.

The paths of mentally unhealthy people are inexplicable. The search for an answer led me to Sberbank, within whose walls my first stepfather and I, and more specifically the only normal person my mother knew, performed a massive operation. I was given a strange document by which I would be authorized to get a pass to a concert in St. Petersburg. During the period of action to pay the money, while buying tickets for the right bus, I forgot about everything: about myself, about the university. It's funny that in the winter of 2009 we had a flu quarantine, which, as the box broadcast, was faked by politicians. There were rumors that all kinds of international travel would be banned. Hearing this, I almost smashed the zombie TV. However, my nervous system calmed down when, despite the inadequate promises of the creatures in power, I bought round-trip bus tickets.

The document thanks to which I would be given a ticket in St. Petersburg was in my hands; it was placed in a sturdy folder and safely hidden. The bus tickets lay there too. I pulled up my studies. Time was running out. It ran like a through subway from death. In the last days before I left for St. Petersburg, even seconds took forever. There was a withdrawal of expectation. The song "Running to the Edge of the World" helped a lot. You know, there's an omen to sit for two minutes before starting the journey. When I packed up, I decided to drop down to the track, put "The High End of Low" CD in the player, PLAY, and track seven.

Running to the Edge of the World" blared from the speakers, and I sat for as long as the song lasted. The song ended, I carefully removed the disk, unplugged the box, checked the household for safety, the electrical equipment remained off. The bus was waiting. An hour on the bus came I was accompanied by Serezha Ostapenko, he was not an ardent Manson fan like me. But he was into "The Golden Age of Grotesque" and Manson from the first year I cleared his mind. Maybe that's the only reason he decided to put me on the bus. Before the trip, I met up with the mother of a theater acquaintance of mine. She was playing the lead in the rock opera Romeo and Juliet. Julia helped me with an inexpensive hotel. And I, in turn, gave her a package from her mother. It was scary at customs when my briefcase and this gray package on a black ribbon passed through the scanner. No drugs were found. I slept sitting up. I dreamt of Manson. I was bringing him a gift - poems and lyrics of author's songs, translated by Google - translator into English. When I arrived, I found the right hostel, Julia's sister took the parcel, and on the day of the concert, with the help of a document, I finally got a ticket. The document was examined for an hour, a very painful affair. My soul felt during those minutes was comparable only to the amputation of a vital limb so painful that the pain. An hour passed like a knife through the solar plexus, cutting through the skin and letting the insides out. Ticket was in my hand. It was instantly hidden, in the deepest place possible.

The concert was to take place today, and as soon as I got my hands on the ticket, my body carried me towards the Ice Palace. The Ice Palace, a sports and concert complex in St. Petersburg with a capacity of 12500 spectators, suitable for musical concerts, sports competitions and other events, appeared to my eye as a glass dome of tastelessness. It made an indelible impression on me as a first-time spectator. The giant is a god and an ant. I am the ant, and it seemed to me then, for some reason, that the god himself was unable to embrace this arrogant arena.

It was cold everywhere, the asphalt was stirring itself with dirty snow. I didn't know how much time was left before the concert, but I already began to notice informals, in rare piles creeping up to the entrance. I easily found both the back and the service entrance, which guided rock stars through its gullet to the stage of the concert venue. There were trucks and buses parked there. Exactly, dammit, the very buses that had brought Manson from Moscow. There were four buses, and I wondered which one had the same Marilyn in it.....

From a briefcase near the service entrance I took out a folder with files, and in them cold smiles shone gifts to my idol. Under the dirty snow for two hours all the time left before the concert, I ran near the buses, pestered the Americans, trying to explain with gestures what I wanted. We didn't understand each other. I was told that Manson was asleep.

I couldn't catch Manson before the concert. I ran to get in line. It was dark outside, and there were plenty of informal St. Petersburg fans. I made my way through the crowd of young people dressed in all black and took a decent position. The spindle stood for about forty minutes. In the final tail of time before the concert, I was only concerned about my proximity to the stage. The riot police, who were acting as security guards, pushed back the partition, and the crowd ran to the real entrance to the concert hall.

There instantly formed a decent rope of queue, in which I by some miracle took the leading part. I clutched the ticket tightly in my right hand. My fingers were trembling. I was so afraid of losing it. The ticket is checked by security, checked by types from the ranks of the organization. I'm in. While I was leaving my briefcase and jacket in the checkroom, while I was taking off my sweater, exposing my Manson T-shirt, a large snake of fans gathered near the final entrance to the concert hall. At the cost of considerable effort managed to get a seat in front of a long guy, who resembled Manson in his young period of the album "Portrait of an American Family". Half an hour passed. The doors opened, and everyone was let in, searched and groped for dangerous objects. It was my turn. A big bastard pinched me like a virgin. I don't give a shit. The freak finished groping me, and here is freedom, here is the hall, here is the stage, where the one I've been longing to see live all my life will perform. Do I run? No, I flew free. I don't give a shit what the concert hall looks like, I don't give a shit about anything, what matters now is my location under the stage, near the iron curb that separates the stage from the crazy spiritually hungry teenagers. I ran so fast that I felt like I had gained the ability to destroy time, space, and wind. I made it. And piled onto the second line of fans, who were a little luckier than I was. Mission accomplished. First fan zone.

It's hard to convey the full range of emotions that were whipping my skull, brain and body in perpetual tornadoes. Could it be that in one damn hour I'd see the man whose music had helped me through this whole aborted life journey I'd been on?

It was pleasantly cool in the concert hall of the Ice Palace. A theatrically mysterious black curtain covered the stage. The minutes scratched the soul, and time hammered nails into the palms of my hands, leaving behind indelible stigmata. Before the concert started, the band's drummer, Fish, came out to us. He gave autographs to the first line of happy fans, then left. Time tortured everyone present. And then. Finally. The lights began to fade. Total darkness.

Marilyn Manson. His concert was my first dream. And it came true. The curtain fell, revealing a didactic inferno. Manson appeared in puffs of smoke, wearing a funny jacket that read "Hell etc". The show had no video screens or dressing changes. Except that on the song "Pretty as a Swastika" totalitarian flags with a dollar sign appeared behind the musician's back. The concert was very original. Thanks to the guys from the fan club, which I knew nothing about. They made flags with the words: "Fuck You" and "Twiggy's dick broke my heart." Manson noticed the lettering and immediately took those flags out on stage and showed them to Ramirez. They were both a bit taken aback and looked very touching.

Then Ramirez unfurled the flag in front of his monitor. After that the concert became very soulful. There was some kind of good dark romantic atmosphere in the hall. Manson talked a lot, confessed his love. He said that he likes Russia because it has the cheapest women. And he also expressed his love to the audience, he said that he really likes the Russian audience, and it's a pity that he can't touch us with his dick and jerk off on each of us. In short, Manson could feel too! As for the songs... Well, of course, there were some new ones, after all the tour was in support of the album "The High End of Low". There were some hits too. Special thanks to the band for "Coma White". I was really glad to hear it live! Manson also performed a cover of Patti Smith. The concert ended with the coolest performance of "The Beautiful People", during which I had the honor of stroking Manson's bicep on my left arm.

This was my first Marilyn Manson concert, I didn't leave the hall without scars on my memory. After INTRO came the intro of the song "Cruci-Fiction in Space". I saw the musician's face, soul inside out and to hell with self-control. I tossed my black cap back into the back of the hall and started tearing my hair out of my face with joy. The crowd pressed my body forward and I pulled both hands toward Manson. The first Manson concert I attended in the unforgettable dystopian city of St. Petersburg would remain in my memory forever and posthumously as the happiest event of my life. Praise Satan. I rode home on the same bus I came on. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see the teacher in 2009 the way I exactly wanted to. But what I had envisioned almost exactly came true. I asked to hand over a folder of poems to two chicks who were mistaken for whores by Manson's managers and invited to the musicians' house. I hated them along with everyone else because they were there and not me. Life is extremely unfair. The mission to give Manson a gift was accomplished. I returned to Ukraine.

To be honest, I did not expect Manson's second visit to the CIS. I thought that "The High End of Low" was the musician's final record, I thought that Mr. Manson was finishing his career and retiring. But to my luck, "The High End of Low" turned out to be a runway for the band, and in 2012, about two months after the New Year, I saw a stunning news on the net. Marilyn Manson was in Moscow again. On May 26th Marilyn Manson gave two concerts in the neighboring country in support of his eighth studio album "Born Villian". Again the same nostalgic joy that caught up me in 2009, when I found out that Manson was coming to Russia again and that I had a chance to go to his concert once again. This time I knew perfectly well how to act, where to get what, and how to talk to whom . The ticket for Manson 2012 was sent to me from Moscow to Odessa. I arranged with a man I knew well to take me in. He agreed.

In May I had the ticket in my hands. This time I decided to give my drawings made in the genre of "horror" as a gift to my idol. On May 23rd, having a train ticket and a ticket to the concert, I got into the car. I settled down in the train, made a bed on the lower sleeping shelf, put my briefcase under the pillow, put my body and soul to sleep. I fell asleep at once. Periodically during the day I woke up to go through the customs control twice, and to check if all of the important luggage was safe. The worries went to the back of my mind.

At 3 p.m. I arrived to Moscow. It was a bit scary to step on Moscow asphalt. My old uncles in Odessa had told me stories about the lawlessness of the Russian police.

I arrived to Moscow two days earlier before the concert. I wanted to make a second attempt to find the musician and present the gift. The matter needed its logical conclusion.

On the day of the concert at 1 p.m, i was outside the arena with a comfortable briefcase over my shoulder. The queue was slowly building up. I still had no idea where, in what hotel in Moscow the band was staying. I learned the shocking truth from a friend. The hotel where Manson's gang was staying was very close to the Moscow Arena.

I left my place in the queue and ran as fast as I could to the main entrance of the hotel - the Moscow glass skyscraper of 16 floors was only three hundred meters away. I was at the central entrance, and there I noticed a lot of fans. I saw some foes among them. But they didn't care about me, just like I didn't care about them. Everyone was waiting for the idol, which to my great regret and to my great joy never appeared. But everyone was lucky to talk to the band, for example, Twiggy Ramirez in 2009. Twiggy seemed to be too small to me - very much like a fairy-tale gnome from a cartoon about the evil Snow White. There were a lot of us in St. Petersburg at that time, Twiggy saw us and ridiculously ran away to the bus. And in 2012, when I saw Twiggy for the second time, Twiggy grew up, he became big, even a hell of a lot taller than me.

In 2012, Twiggy looked a little bit better. He came out to us, gave autographs to everyone, took pictures with everyone. Moreover, as for me personally, after the concert I stood outside the hotel for half of the Moscow night, but it was worth it, this silly, seemingly pointless standing. In the afternoon, I slipped white sheets of paper into Twiggy's hand as a present. They had English text printed on them in black lettering - a high-quality translation from Russian to "American" of the lyrics of my gang's songs. It turned out Twiggy didn't throw them in the trash or wipe his heel. He read...

And invited me into the lobby of the hotel where the band was staying, and where I had the honor of spending the second half of the Moscow night. It turned out that Twiggy was simply very interested in what hard drugs my alter ego was taking. I had four drugs: socks, rock and roll, art in any form, and, of course, women and sex with them.

I walked back to the arena, and again, by some miracle, took the starting spot in the mile-long line that had already gathered, slightly displacing one pompous dumb chicken with an inflated sense of self-importance.

As I stood in line among Marilyn Manson's swearing and just talking Russian fans, it never occurred to me that their country would one day in the near future attack us, starting a bloody war that would never end. Did I know that these military men of theirs, the huge pigs I met in this city when I was looking for a busload of artists to sign autographs, would one day in the near future be committing inhuman war crimes in my country? Did I know that these people, with whom I then sometimes casually chat about nothing, or even those whom I do not know, but who may have been fans like me, would years later leave disgusting comments on the Internet under posts about our tragedy, rejoicing at the tears of our women, children and the suffering of other Ukrainians?

No. I didn't. However, casually interacting with law enforcers who, after a conversation, insulted me and sent me to the mat for my informal appearance, I felt in them not just a threat, but a threat that accumulates and grows out of something that positions itself as light, sacrifice, and God's grace. In 2022, however, I will certainly recognized it all. In 2023, a Russian missile stroke near my house. Many people died, the streets of my native Odessa was flooded with glass, blood and corpses, and after I woke up from the large-sized furniture falling on my head, I had to walk to the hospital to sew up my forehead and see children weeping over the torn bodies of parents killed by the missile's strike. All that was great bright future with a tinge of dark red on my premonition that I refused to ever believe in. But I would leave in this text these complex notes and tweaks from the coming future, from the year 2024. Hatred would loom over us forever.

The start was at 6:00 p.m. Moscow time. The ticket was kept in a yellow glossy translucent folder. I clutched it tightly and firmly in my hands. Before launching with sleight of hand, I pulled the file with the ticket out of the yellow folder, sent the folder back into my bag, and kept the file safe from damage. The fear that the goats would try to take the ticket away thankfully didn't materialize. Security checked me and the ticket and I was allowed into the gut. I ran as fast as I could to the stage, where the first band of lucky people was already leaning on the iron edge. I found myself, as in 2009, in the second row of the growing number, but the stage was clearly visible.

The crowd swooped in. Pressing me into the bodies of the outraged chickens. I, so to say, was enveloped by these indignant chickens, who clearly did not want to give themselves an account of where and at whose concert they had appeared. The dance floor ended up consisting of male metal zombies. Metal zombies were crushing swearing bitches with great joy. Serves them right for their stupidity and their bad temper. If you were pathetic whore-like dumb lady, you should take a ticket and fiercely rushed under the stage, then please close your oral orifice for blowjobs and enjoy the concert so as not to disturb others. Well, if you are thin, like uncooked vermicelli, and you were well aware of your physiology and its fragility, then why did you ask, to climb into the excellent ranks? The places under the stage were not for vermicelli, macaroni and dumplings, possessing fragile ribs and capricious characters.

If you aspire to the first fanzone, if you find yourself there, then be kind, be patient, and stoicism will help you. Oh, no? Your physiology is not strong enough to endure the natural pressure of local flora and fauna? Then be dragged out of the hall by the guards to hell and realize for yourself next time finally that such supreme bliss as satanic rock concert is not for you. The above sentences I was trying to explain to one stupid fool, who was yelling in my ear with a funny mat and scratching my neck with her fingernails. And encouraged the human males surrounding her and me with no less loud shouting to "punch me in the head", which no one did. At the very beginning of the concert, this bitch, during the song "Hey, Cruel World", was dragged out by security guards. Luckily for me, this bitch who loves to scandalize got fucked up and I was finally rid of her presence. Afterwards I continued to enjoy the concert to the fullest. And I didn't give a shit about the pressure of bodies that were being exerted on me.

Manson appeared on the stage with a new look. When you look at Manson, you get the impression that you have just taken a lemon-flavored drug into your vein. Beauty and ugliness, the feeling of something too nasty, but unbearably pleasant, many tons bombarded the viewer, I bared my soul to the final drop of conscience in front of the music tearing up the speakers. Giving the Devil my will, I entered into the necessary atmosphere of ghastliness and detachment to the last drop.

Manson Satan was thrashing around the stage, showing us what real evil art was showing us what real evil in art was. I was getting the highest doses of narcotic pleasure. Oh, how beautiful evil in art was, oh, how necessary evil in art was for people. I was partying to all the songs sung by my favorite artist, evil in art was the salvation of the planet, it was the way out. Long live evil in art, and reality would l be given to an ecology devoid of Christianity.

The concert was grandiose. Not for nothing Manson's producer and sound engineer once said "Manson's music was brutal, it's like showing the world two middle fingers at once". The artist traveled around the stage with a huge knife, tore the Bible to pieces and wiped sweat with the torn out sheets, broke bouquets of flowers presented by fans on his head, and the hilarious people prayed for the salvation of his soul.

Manson's concert at Arena-Moscow was attended by a very different crowd: from young teenagers who were just about to rebel against the world, partly through this music, to fans of advanced age. People in their forties and fifties weren't shy about wearing the band's T-shirts either. Characteristically, this kind of music fosters not only an audience, but also a kind of cult of not being like others, not being afraid to be a creative monster, not being afraid to be special. To be able to be openly brazen, to get joy from music that was always native to you

The second was "Disposable Teens", a song I was so looking forward to. A miracle, not a song! Everyone was burning in a hellfire of musical sex from pleasure. Then, like a spindle: "Love song", "Mobscene", a song about the hard life of the "Dope Show" star, for which the artist changed into a tailcoat.

And in the crowd where everyone migrated oil paintings with Manson's portrait, and posters like "Bieber sucks Timberlake's dick" and similar content, even someone managed to sneak roses and throw them on stage. Well done, ideal people! More and more new portions of live body were brought out from the fan-zone, the heat of passions stunned and made me laugh: not only the temperature in the club rose to unacceptable heights. With every new chord of guitar and drum beat it became more unbearable. As for me, it's all in the high. "We've been to hell!" - was heard from everyone who got out of there alive. I don't know about "hell", but you should know, hamsters, that concert was a real paradise for me.

Under "Rock is Dead" the floor shook from the vibrations of pleasure, "Personal Jesus" by my favorite Depeches was the gift of the evening. At the end of the concert it seemed that even the space could hear us under "Sweet dreams". It sounded so powerful. Despite the fact that it is not a Manson song, it was the one that always got the biggest applause. For dessert, "Antichrist Superstar" in the best tradition: with microphones, a pedestal and the crowd cheering. And to finish everyone off: the anthemic "Beautiful People" to a full house. That's it! Hell, unfortunately, was over.

Then I walked out of the hall wet to the last threads. With an erection, I rushed to the subway to go to the storage place and change into something dry. The man who had sheltered me for three days was doing a circus tour. It so happened that our time didn't coincide. I had to pack my things and put them in the station luggage room. I changed clothes in the restroom and returned the briefcase of belongings to the custodian. Then walked back to the hotel where the hamsters kept guarding Manson. What followed an earlier story I told with Twiggy. Then a journey on foot to the first bench along a highway unknown to me. Sleep. Up from 11 am to 12 noon I was back at the same hotel, the gift - my drawings I did not give Twiggy, as they were prepared for Brian. But no one waited for the birthday boy himself. We didn't suspect anything. He was already at the airport to fly to St. Petersburg, where he was to have another concert in the bosom of the federation on the 28th. Disappointed I was in Odessa, again.

I didn't manage to meet my idol in person, but this disappointment was outweighed by the pride that I had carried out what I had planned correctly and according to plan. I had tea with Twiggy, he appreciated my poems. Came home tired. And then there was that session. Everything in this bloody world had to be paid for. I had to close five subjects in three days. After closing the session I slept for five days without leaving my room, I didn't even go to the store. Suicidal frustration mixed with the gray background of the walls.

Epilogue.

Unlike the musician, I am a truly evil, and my evil is bound up in the veins of vengeance. I can put a red clown nose on my face, run around with a knife or chainsaw, and kill unwanted clones of fallen humanity. I don't give a damn about followers of anything who cling to the principle of putting themselves above everyone else.

The problem for some one is misunderstanding. A teenager listens to idol music without thinking about what the musician really wants to convey to the audience. Most people don't even bother to read the translation or see a review of a track. You can't mix the work of Manson and similar artists with your own ego and fictional associations, otherwise a very unpleasant cocktail will spill out of the torn hole onto the dinner table.

The demon was drunk after the trips. The knife in his hand scratched the lacquered table with the blade. He was blue with hatred for other people who were luckier than he was. Tears flowed from his eyes from the fact that the logic of life circumstances never gave me the opportunity to see the man. Without knowing me, through so much spent my essence, explained through his work the essence of this or that thing that had the power in the past to give me death.

As I continued to listen to Warner's music, I was convinced again and again of the power of the mind. The demon closed the session and fell into a rest that made another record of dirt on my own body and a mess in the room. The life in my hands was a frustration because I hadn't hugged my spiritual father. I slept. Created. Threw the conceptual tail in the trash can. Wrote the same story again and again watching surrealism and abstraction melted out of my suffering. Taking breaks to rehearse in a gang that was born out of the prospect of creating a new mess, out of the prospect of making something in art that could catastrophically scare everyone in our countries and beyond.

Back in high school, I had a dream of having a band - to sing epic stories of hatred against the classmates who beat me up - to heavy rock. The drop of a stone. Changing my dream of becoming a biologist, a paleontologist, a physicist, changing my dream of shaking my intestines out of the scientific world, changing my dream of a career as a surgeon, I settled on the decision to become an art terminator. In ninth grade, I handed over the primacy of becoming a rock musician. The dream of the stage fueled sex, ripped my virginity, and became a stainless steel goal.

I started attending vocal lessons, prose copulated with poetry, poetry did not go beyond the traditions of white verse for a long time. The tradition of verlibre blew the maggot down the toilet - the idea of writing gut-wrenching versioning for chiseled action movies.

The RE-VENGEANCE conception began when I was invited to perform at a law school celebration. Singing the same song that made me look good as a clown and gave me a ticket into the world of local fame. While performing it, I threw my cap into the audience. It hit the dean's face. It was hilarious. Our future guitarist laughed at me at that performance. The grotesque clown on stage behaved ugly: he put his paw on the monitor, frantically thrashing around, shaking his hair, and lastly he wanted to do violence to the bench, which by pure chance was forgotten to take away. After the show, the respect flew non-stop.

The point of no return was the following: Alex came over to my house and I asked him to play. He played me one of the songs from the repertoire of the local underground scene. I suggested improvising on the acoustic. He set a slow melody. The first song about homosexual suicide, "New Day," was born. The engine of creativity started. I would come to Alexey's house, he would compose on electric guitar, and I would join the rhythm and perform pathos and vile slag. The creative process was easy, rehearsals at home were useful. From now on, after this experiment, we decided to work together and gather a team with a lot of combinations of musical styles, manners of performance and concepts in its arsenal. From the spiritual vessel through sublimation the negativity flowed smoothly into hits. Creativity synchronized itself with learning.

I keep seeing counselors. Manson and I are acquisitions to them. Crater spews out juvenile concepts. Often the appointment ends in scandal, and that's at best. At best, the psychologist urgently visits his psychologist after dialoging with me. At worst, the psychologist expires through his own vagina with all-destroying depression.

I'll never stop listening to Manson, I'll never stop hating the Christian world, I'll never be like everyone else, I'll never close the nightmarish bowels of creation. Another psychologist is shocked at my judgment, and I'm amused. Appreciating the stigma that nature put on me before I was born. I'm doing everything I can to bring the band to the level. I want to get the word out. I want to shock crowded stadiums with the most beautiful shows. In the theme of the songs' content, everything revolves around fairy tale, horror and fantasy. We bring ancient monsters to the streets of modern life. Creating a new mythology. Monsters still roam the corridors of the sixth form boarding school.

Before the concerts, my high school biology teacher came to my house one day. She had thrown science away, and instead of biology, a demon named Christ had taken up residence in her soul forever. I called her Mrs. Bible. At school, Mrs. Bible was peddling crazy Christian crap to everyone, and I used to bring her drawings of humanoid monsters with big genitalia. Mrs. Bible showed up at my door five days before I left for the concert and started teaching me. There was a lot of stuff going on. All the horror came when she tried to find the ticket and tear it up so that my consciousness would not be further influenced by the forces of Satan. To her great fortune she did not succeed in eliminating the ticket. By mentoring calls she tried to persuade me not to go to the concert. Then, to get rid of the unwanted pestering of religious acquaintances, I changed my number. Mrs. Bible went to the bathroom, and I stashed the ticket. She often regaled me with facts and stories of lost sons who, under the influence of satanic music, had committed murders in one school or another. I sat on the couch, consumed the green tea that serves as medicine to propel feces into the rectum and clapped her hands for her ridiculous cries about where these guys were now and what hell they were burning in. I don't know about you religious stinking daily decaying Christian pigs, but I personally think Manson is in a sense the most honest entertainer on the planet. For, in my opinion, no earthling has ever understood the Bible the way Warner understands it.

The whole tree of rock art and its promotion of individuality doesn't really say to listeners: "go and eliminate each other with words or weapons". We are one family of a huge and respected by many authorities current, the meaning of which is to unite people, to teach them in crisis situations to support each other and properly deal with difficulties. And the uncompromising meaning or bloody content in the songs, devoid of censorship chains, is not a call to extremism at all, but a true and sincere reflection of reality.

Violence in the songs of performers, in the novels of horror masters, in the films of cult directors is an attempt to approach horrifying realism, an attempt to show the reason for the birth of violence, to show the root of negative human nature. Our goal is to create new things. To sing, to play, to go wild, to satisfy the thirst for freedom and the thirst for the right to be individual, to push creative features to the max

Manson raised the Columbine issue long before the realization of this much-troubled event. The question of shooters was raised in the album "Portrait of an American Family" and in the album "Antichrist - Superstar". The point is that any state is a family - a big family, and the oppressive mother is the government. The child is the people, they are the fruits of the people, they are those spoiled teenagers who do not see love and hate hypocrisy, toothpaste squeezed out of square tubes of TVs and other media mouthpieces.

If a superpower wants to take primacy in the world, why doesn't its dwarf president withdraw his bullocks from certain countries and work on the development of prosperity of his own people? One should start with oneself - this is truth, not cranberries. If a superpower wants to take primacy in world positions, why not teach the world a lesson in a creative format, in an exemplary example of self-development, rather than discriminating against this or that nation? Create peace, first of all, in yourself, and not a miserable, dirty and extremely funny for us, civilized Europeans and Americans, parody of dictatorship. The leadership of such superpowers are extremely ridiculous and inept in their attempts to imitate Hitler. These imitations finally confirm the myth of stupidity of the leading politicians, and the public has a bleeding laugh.

The conservative fathers of Columbine and Kerch taught your and our children love and excellence by discriminating against overseas, neighboring and their own citizens. The offspring of such political fathers will never become patriots. These offspring are only capable of exterminating their own species, nothing more. The child always takes the example of his parents. The events of Columbine and the recent event in Kerch (Crimea occupied by the Russian Federation, or more precisely: "pederation") are vivid proof of this undeniable truth.

The mass murder in the Kerch Polytechnic College took place in the afternoon of October 17, 2018. The explosion and shooting killed 21 students and staff of the educational institution, including the alleged attacker; 67 people were injured. The largest mass murder in history by number of victims ever to occur at an educational institution. Vladislav Roslyakov, an 18-year-old college student, is suspected of committing the crime. Vladislav was a big fan of Eric and Dylan. According to the version of the investigation, he planted an explosive device in the building and opened fire on students and employees, after which he shot himself.

Again, this is all a simple axiom of life. Just know that at the time of the Columbine and Kerch shootings, it wasn't Manson's band, or even Mom and Dad, but a diverse set of authorities who acted as parents.

In the song "Reflection of God," Manson, as an artist and poet played the role of a witness but not an instigator of action. It would have been a very good thing if those spoiled teenagers had emulated the musician. Following Manson's example, they probably wouldn't have picked up a gun, and at worst would have formed their own rock gang. Literally and figuratively, people kill, parents kill, and after them truly killed by children who have suffered from the realities of life.

Don't listen to anyone, be above all this information diarrhea. Your God is creativity, your God is planet Earth, your God is the universe, your God is yourself. And your God from your brain, solar plexus and rib cages is telling you right here and right now: get out of the squares. Run from the pointing sadists. Leave the frames to the politicians who are long dead before the beginning of time.

This story I decided to write for you, my favorite rock and roll America, Europe, and Ukraine, to build at least some of the rungs of the ladder out of the quagmire of despair for all the teenagers on the planet.

With the above story I want to convey the main message of my essay: music, games and other art forms are in no way to be blamed for events like Columbine and Kerch. We all live in countries where children die every second because leaders send them out to kill for the benefit of the powerful. But when a poor teenager, driven to despair by his own environment, forgetting the value of his own and other people's lives, goes and unleashes his rage by shooting up a school, everyone starts pointing fingers at rock artists like Manson. They start blaming heavy metal, Stephen King and video games. Couch warriors start blaming anyone and anything but not themselves. The problem isn't in lyrics, it's in society itself.

Personally, Manson helped me not to resort to extremes. You have read details of my life above. They are usually withheld. But I opened up to you so that you could follow the action, see the cause and the effect, and reflect. What I would have become if it weren't for Brian's music. If it weren't for my talents, which thanks to Manson were revealed and through the pain like flowers of evil made their way into songs, novels and paintings. I think if it weren't for Manson, the world one day would be rocked by news of another school shooter from Ukrainian Odessa.

Perhaps this story will appear in the pages of a foreign magazine, perhaps my story will be read by the maestro and he will be happy for me. The man who understood everything correctly and did everything as it should be done. Despite the critical disability of the psyche from the experience paved with bloody nails.

Maybe someday I'll be lucky enough to shake his hand and give him gifts as a tribute to the fact. His music has replaced my father, mother, and all my relatives combined in hard times of reality, and prevented me from becoming an all-destroying piece of shit.

#darkliterature #autobiographicalhorror #splatterpunk #shockfiction

#MarilynManson #traumasurvivor #industrialgoth #gothicmemoir

#childhoodtrauma #artistagainstgod #outsiderart #antisocialart