Burner Magazine: The MUSIC Issue

The Iguana undoes the buttons of his jeans and shoves his microphone out through his fly.

The other musicians continue pounding and strumming as the singer thrusts his pelvis forward and swivels it around. The guitarist’s steady minor riff carries with it a premonition of evil. A half formed image of pale ghosts who rode down from the North and left nothing but ashes and pillars of smoke.

My idea of fun is killing everyone, the Iguana sings. He jumps from the stage into the aisle behind the palisade. He pulls the microphone back out of his fly. Somehow the Kid is still standing. Jerking his head and singing along. The Iguana leans over the fence and puts his arm around the boy’s shoulders. He holds the microphone out in front of them and for a moment the Iguana’s growling voice is joined by the Kid’s reedy tenor. My idea of fun. Is killing everyone.

When the Iguana was as young as most of the members of the crowd are now he used to cut himself with a razor and smear peanut butter all over his chest during performances. But now he’s an old man. There’s something neutered or even redacted about him. About the way he dangles a black rod out of his pants instead of his own legendarily equine member. But still raw power inheres in his aged frame. And the Kid can’t ignore the ball lightning that scorched through his nervous system when The Iguana touched his shoulders.