Hollywood Streetwalker

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Well, if I recall correctly, the Great Grindcore Drought of 1932 was in its third year, which I suppose would make it the Drought of 1929, or 1935, depending on which way you count. Turns out there were three hobos riding the rails from San Francisco to a destination yet to be determined. There was Matthew, the cantankerous six-stringer who would strum and strum until his fingers gave out, what with the polio and all. Andrew had several pots and pans which he arranged around him, thwacking upon them in a rhythmic fashion. Suffice it to say he had trouble holding down a steady job. And then there was Michelle, the most lady-like of the trio, whose velveteen voice could erode marble if you wedged a jackhammer between her teeth. By the time they were caught by the conductor, they had written several songs and were in the midsts of choreographing an elaborate stage show, far more advanced and risqué than anything vaudeville had to offer. And then nothing happened, until one day in their travels, they stumbled across a embittered young man who went by the name Cory and could knock the teeth out of prissy women at fifty paces. Impressed, they asked him to join their band of ill-wishers and murderous cads. And then nothing happened again. But then something happened again in 2006, so there you go. User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License; additional terms may apply.

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