The Neckbones

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Of course, when faced with hearing a new band the first thing that generally draws one's attention is the cover art. Cover art really has nothing to do with music, but first impressions mean a lot. The cover of Souls On Fire is a picture of this almost-attractive backwoods chick with Valentine candy stuck to her boobs. At first, I was turned off by the cover, but as I listened to the music, I began to understand.

I began to fantasize that my car broke down somewhere between Houston and New Orleans. I stopped at a farm, hoping to get a ride into town. No one was home except the farmer's semi-sexy daughter (the chick on the album cover). She told me her pa was out on the tractor right now, but he would be out in the fields for about three hours, and I could wait for him if I wanted a ride. This sounded good to me, so I sat down on the sofa in the front room. The farmer's daughter sat down next to me after putting on the Neckbone's CD. She explains that they don't have cable yet out in the boonies, but "There are other things we can do for fun," as she puts her hand on my leg. At first, I feel uncomfortable since she is not up to my usual standards, but then I figure I have nothing to loose, so I guide her hand to my crotch, which she begins to massage. We start to make out, and I get her shirt off, but I soon tire of her small breasts. I pull out my throbbing, uncircumcised cock, and she starts to suck it, nibbling on the fleshy foreskin as the song, "Crack Whore Blues" starts. She's good at suckin' dick, and I tell her so. She tries to say, "Thank you," but I groan, "Shut the fuck up cunty-cunt" and grab her by the hair, forcing it further down her throat. This makes her hot, and she pulls down her shorts, no panties, and begs for it in the ass. As I begin pounding her bottom, the room starts to stink of girly poo, but I don't care; I just have to unload. I decide to leave my deposit in her puss (hey, I'm never coming back here anyway), and I grab her by the hips as I inject my goop deep inside. "Shouldn't Call Your Man a Fool" is now blasting through the stereo, and we share a cigarette, not hearing the screen door slam as her father returns. "What the hell is going on here?!" he screams and reaches for his shotgun.

Fortunately for me, I'm much faster, so I grab it from him, "I just put a load in your daughter," I say with the smug demeanor of James Bond, "And now I'm gonna put one in you!" As I unload on him, I feel a tinge of remorse left over from the days when I was once human. After three rounds of double-ought buck, I leave with the keys to the pick-up truck while the hick-chick grieves over her fallen daddy. I am the only one who knows that she now has the demon spawn in her womb.

This means the record is good. Sounds like the Blues Explosion and the Grifters playing with each other. I bet they rock live. Buy their record. Next time, they can afford a chick with bigger BOOBS.

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