In the desert of Arcadia there are birds, these birds they circle overhead when they see a creature near death, and before they swoop in to feast on their prey, they let out a fatal screech, and the last song the dying being will ever hear.
This creature that feasts upon the dead and dying, announcing its presence with a one note, out of key screeching that is a melody the equivalent to nails on a chalkboard, it enjoys the mess it makes, and the disease it spreads. This bird is called a buzzard.
Now don’t ask me how and damn sure don’t ask me why because I’m not really sure how I found myself in a situation to witness it.
As I watched a man clinging to life at the edge of the desert, beset by a buzzard as it swooped, and delivered its killing blow. Only to have rattlesnake lying in wait bite the buzzard driving its venom deep into the its body.
The buzzard soon fell dead, silenced by the rattlesnake who’d bitten the man, and laid the trap for the bird of prey. The buzzard a victim of its own song.
As I’ve walked the halls of every week I hear it, a sound odiously familiar, and I believe it has the same purpose of the screeching song of a buzzard.
A buzzard circling its prey while Singing Death, announcing its victim will soon be no more.
Its song accompanied by a galling guitar that sounds like it’s only got five strings and three of them very well may G-Strings.
A vile buzzard prepared spread prepared to wallow in the mess it makes and spread the disease that is each and every song it sings.
Cantando la Muerte…
El Mariachi Muerte, I’ve watched you every week singing one note songs to your foes, announcing their demise at your hands, and you believe that Damien Wolfe will be no different.
However, what you don’t comprehend with your smooth buzzard brain, is that I’ve heard those songs week after week, and I’ve been waiting for you.
Because I my friend am the snake that’s bitten the victim, you’re singing your putrid song of death for, I am lying in wait because what you believe is your meal is in fact you’re undoing.
But you’re not going to realize it until the venom is coursing through your veins.
So, sing that song of yours announce that death is coming but only one of us knows the truth.
That is, the only demise you’re singing about this week is in fact your own.
Honestly, I’d like to say it’s nothing personal however… I can’t, your songs, that guitar, calling it the music of death is very appropriate.
Because every time I hear your music I think someone is painfully torturing a small innocent animal to death.
So, I will be more than happy to put the whole of Arcadia out the misery that is the buzzard’s wailing you call music.