Marxism
By Sarah Hutchings.
Without opening his eyes Richard felt the pillow beside him. Bon, or 'naughty pants' as Richard had taken to calling him, was not there. Then he remembered. The shouting, the tears. Jon had threatened to smash Richard's authentic bottle of Elvis's sweat, but the last straw was when Richie had made good with his threat to sew up all the holes in Jovi's jeans. And now he was gone.
"Love is a battlefield-" Richie started to croon before breaking down. When his tears had dried up and he had had a fit of hiccuping, rage siezed him.
He began to tear down his posters off the wall, and sweep his music awards off the shelves. He yelled for assistance from the butler to overturn his bed. Under the bed there was a book.
"Das Kapital" read Richard. "Where's that?" he wondered. He was siezed with intellectual curiosity and began to read. Our hero couldn't make out a lot of the words, even with the use of his bumper dictionary but luckily he possessed a photographic memory so understanding wasn't necessary.
Feeling very literary, he got on the horn.
"Dweezil? Get the gang to my place. I'm gonna blow your minds." He said mysteriuosly, and, as was his wont, hung up without another word. Dweezil was suitably intrigued and spread the word among the rock community.
That night Marxie stood on the coffee table, yelling "The rock 'n' roller is alienated from his essential self!"
"Yeah!" called a few voices in reply from the ruff 'n' tuff gathering slumped around his living room."
"Once the rock 'n' roller is confronted with his false consciuosness, he will become the class of social change!"
"You know, Richie's right." said Fergal Sharkey, standing up, "We really should throw more parties, pep up our social lives."
"I don't think you're quite grasping my argument," Richie said, disheartened, "I'm talking about revolution!
"But Rich, man, if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow!" quoth David Lee Roth smugly.
"Mmmmm." Marxie frowned intellectually and stroked his thigh in lieu of a beard, "I see your point."
In the morning, amongst the congealed spew and empty bottles, Richard rose. He stood up and looked around him.
"I am the wind beneath their wings, and I will lead them to the Funky Town!" he vowed.
A breeze blew through the window and lifted his hair off his neck. At the same time, a ray of sunlight turned it into a golden cloud.
The rocksters awakening from their drunken stupor and dreams of winning 'Hot Metal's sexiest trousers' awards squinted at Richie and took him for the messiah. Pat Benatar struggled to her feet and fell at Richard's, kissing the craggy, curry encrusted toenails. Richard looked down at her and placed his other foot upon her head.
"Pat, come with me to the den of Enlightenment and I will light up your sacred space with my wand of courage."
"Right on!"
After this pivotal meeting began a flurry of interest in Richard's new wave of Marxism. With all the attention he almost forgot the bruise upon his heart. However, the memories of him and Jovi running naked through fields of daffodils and sharing milkshakes at the Copacabana were not totally erased by his newfound high-brow fame. Between interviews and mass rallys, he found solace in songwriting. "Alienated from Love", "The Accumulation of Capital Won't Bring You Back To Me" and "C'mon, Exploit Me" became anthems for his followers and, as we all know, anthems for a generation.
And what of that absent hunk who holds such a dear place in our idol's heart? After leaving Richard so hastily, he spent days on end sitting on his couch with a box of tissues, a box of chocolates and a Dolly magazine. But even articles like "How To Get Over Him" didn't ease his pain. Scared to turn on the television for fear of seeing the new messiah that he knew only as 'Spanky', he lived a life of almost complete seclusion, only venturing out to make the occasional movie to support his burgeoning film career.
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