“Where….where am I….what is this place?”
As the Prophet of Dependence came to and his vision cleared, he found himself dangling upside down.
He was spinning around on what appeared to be a dimly lit stage…The Prophet was rocking back and forth suspended from the ceiling by a thick, aged dreadlock. Two wooks of the most putrid stench stood by his side…they appeared to be guards of some sort dressed in similar uniform. Seated across the room from the dangling profit sat a shadowy figure. He was behind some sort of sound board. Four lights suddenly illuminated above him.”
“Greg Allman?”, the prophet muttered.
“Indeed. We’ve been preparing for you,” the apparition of Allman proclaimed. You should prove an interesting challenge. Quite possibly the most interesting to dangle from that dreadlock. Do you know where you are, Prophet?”
The dangling Prophet scanned his surroundings. It was a stage. He peered toward the sunlight. It appeared to be an outdoor shed. At the edge of the pavilion stood three large pillars that would surely block the view of any spectators who would rage the lawn.
“Dear lord…no….NO….not Riverbend….AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”, the prophet screamed in terror.
It was true. The Special Forces Unit from Austin had taken him to the slave prison camp and tear harvesting facility for Custies, otherwise known as Riverbend Amphitheater.
“Why have you done this? We…we are all w0Oks, equally created?
“I’m a southern rock mercenary. The Confederacy of Southern Wooks has hired me to assist in their secession from the Grand Republic of Wooks.”
The Prophet tried to reason with Allman. “But we are a peaceful people. Our Southern brethren have supported you for decades. You’re aware of how our philosophy of Dependence and Entitlement balances all Wooks. Disrupting that balance, only brings harm to us all.
The ghost of Allman sat staring at the terrified prophet. He was sweating profusely. He was drunk as fuck. The stench was lethal.
“It was an order from the other side. I had to take the deal br3h.” Aint no more peakin’ at the Beacon for me…just a freelance spirit hired by the Confederacy. I do happen to sympathize with the cause.”
The Southern Wooks are a superior race. We will dominate the Wook Universe. All wooks, coast to coast will be our slaves. Their so called “heady jams” will be forced into Southern Wook Rock. Warren Haynes, our Master will serve as inspiration to all jam bands far and wide.”
“Haynes?? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO….” The prophet was shaking violently…tears spouted from his eyes. The end of the Vibration Of Life flashed before his eyes. Visions of shattering planets flooded his mind.
It was at that point he realized that so much more was at stake. This wasn’t just about wooks…this was an attempt to destroy music as we know it. If the Confederacy had there way, the Pentatonic scale would be all the Lot would ever know. Wooks aside, the consequences to the human race would be fatal. The consequences to the Universe, destructive. Planets would explode, stars would collapse; that’s what happens when you fuck with nature’s vibration.
“Ha ha ha. Your fear amuses me, Prophet”, Allman chuckled. “Yes. Haynes, the greatest musician on earth…the greatest voice in the history of music. Mark my words, Panic Wooks will rule The Lot! Morrison will be leveled and Athens, GA will be the new Wook Epicenter Of The World. We hereby deem all wooks existing outside of the South to be valued at 3/5 of a wook.”
The Prophet’s face tightened. “You’ll never succeed. The Wook Collective is too powerful. Resistance is futile.”
“We are succeeding. We have already disrupted your sacred balance of Entitlement and Dependency on Lot. Wooks are slinging bunk L to their own crews. They are charging prices that will actually turn them a prophet. We’ve done the worst thing that could possibly be done to wooks: We’ve injected a sense of individuality and self-supporting capitalist philosophy into the wook hive mind. As we had theorized, it is spreading throughout the Collective.”
A small amount of vomit spouted from the Prophet’s mouth as he dug for his next words.
“It will never work. You know the only foods that keeps us alive are kick downs and Custie tears.”
“It’s already working”, chuckled Allman. “Falafel and a Pickle guy started to charge extra for the pickle.”
“I don’t believe you. I WON’T believe you.” The prophet’s mind was bulletproof.
“We are keeping you here with us. You will do as we say or you will die. I am, however, offering you the opportunity for this experience to be…civilized.”
“And the price for that opportunity”
“Cooperation”, Allman said in a matter of fact way.
“Your stay here with us at Riverbend can be torturous. We will make you suffer in ways you’ve never imagined. You will listen to southern rock all day long. Recent Allman brothers shows, our SBD Panic archive, your ears will never be the same.”
“NO. No. I am classically trained. Please…”, the Prophet began to tremble.
“There is an alternative. You can choose your life in captivity to be peaceful. You will have your choice of heady jamz. You can engage with the scholars we have captured from Berkely College of Music. My you have keen ear. I would enjoy debating theory with you. We’ve captured Ernie Stires. He will be your cell mate. You will eat the finest of Lot food. You’ll live like a wealthy US Citizen.”
“What must I do?”
“It’s simple, really. Admit Warren Haynes is good musician.”
“NEVER. He is terrible. Quite possibly the worst musician on earth. I won’t do it.”
The commander picked up what appeared to be an iPhone 3G ground-score. He tapped the screen and the most brutal wave of pain flooded every sinew of the prophet’s body. It only lasted for a few seconds, but the prophet lay on the floor barely conscious.
Surprising, isn’t it? Most people feel at first that they can steel themselves against it… but they are completely unprepared for the intensity of the pain…That was the lowest possible setting.”
“Hayes. Fuckin’. Blows”.
Very well. We shall continue. Allman raised the 3G again, intensified the setting and the Prophet convulsed in the most excruciating pain.
Allman, tapped the screen again. The dredlock suspending the Prophet from the ceiling tightened and raised his body to a perfectly agonizing suspension point.
“Sleep well, Prophet. We will continue in the morning.” Allman staggered off the stage.
As the guards followed, one them quickly glanced at the Prophet. The Prophet noticed what appeared to be a heady Gorge pin on the inside sleeve of the guards’ uniform….