:: Article

Morrissey Attack

By Steven Wells.

The television was the colour of a television tuned to really mental TV show about giant men in rubber suits ripping Japanese Defence Force F16s out of the sky while stomping on screaming salarymen like they were man shaped and flesh and suit and shoe coloured paper bags full of over-ripe loganberries.

“What you doing?” asked incredibly fit 23-year-old Afro-Saxon bodyguard Karen X.

“Blogging,” replied 48-year-old publishing sensation Steven Wells.

“What about?”

“This TV show,” said Wells, pointing at the 85 inch Sony Fuckoffatron suspended from the ceiling of his luxurious Tokyo penthouse suite by the wire guts of an Apache attack helicopter.

“That’s not a fucking TV show, you stupid old cunt!” snarled six-year-old Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones through a gob full of steroids as she swayed ever so slightly atop the exercise beam where she was practicing to win 18 golds for Team GB in the 2012 London Olympics.

“Nah, that’s real,” confirmed black super-tight cat-suit clad Karen X.

“Fuck me, really?” gasped Wells. “Giant fucking monsters stomping down-town Tokyo? That’s so fucking clichéd. That’s exactly the sort of lazy, half-arsed shit you’d expect some burnt-out hack to hammer out if he’d been asked to contribute a short story about Tokyo or something to a quasi-literary website and he’d forgotten about it and was now desperately churning something out just like the medical cocaine-crazed Robert Louis Stevenson on the day after his mad wife used the manuscript for Dr. Jekyl and Mister Hyde to light the kitchen fire.”

“You’re all doomed! Doomed I tell you!” screamed Neville Himmler, chairman of the International Fascist Brotherhood of Hyper-uncritical White Supremacist Morrissey Fans as he swung—gaffa-taped up like some obscene flesh piñata—by a titanium chain from the ceiling.

“Shut up!” barked Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones, spanking him in the head with a nail studded cricket stump. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

“Fuck it,” growled Wells.

“We’re on the 859th floor of the Tokyo Attack Towers—the hardest fucking building every built. A thousand fucking mad Muslim piloted jumbos packed with Anthrax, napalm and AIDS needles couldn’t dent this cunt!”

Just then a thousand mad Morrissey fan piloted jumbos packed with Anthrax, napalm and AIDS needles and BNP election leaflets crashed into all nine sides of Attack Towers Tokyo, bouncing off harmlessly but showering thousands of innocent geishas and sexy schoolgirls and salarymen and manga artists in the street below with disease and fascist propaganda.

“We’re under attack! Cool! This needs a soundtrack!” roared Wells, hitting a button on his remote that caused Guitar Wolf to pop out of the floor and perform a particularly splenetic version of ‘Jet Generation’.

Everybody pogoed for a bit. And then moshed. And then did a bit more pogoing.

“According to the news,” murmured super-sexy ninja-assassin Karen X, “downtown Tokyo is being stomped not by Godzilla and chums but by…”

There was an incredibly tense pause.

“A giant Rudolf Hess! And a David Irving! And a giant Morrissey!”

“But how do they know?” asked Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones. “I mean, how could they possibly tell them apart?”

“That’s not going to matter – when they’re tearing YOU apart!” grunted Morrissey fan club Fuhrer Neville Himmler through a face that looked like the alien out of the film Alien had taken a semi-sentient dump after a human head and face feast.

“He knows something!” snarled Wells.

“Talk!” commanded Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones, as she beat the spinning Morrissey fan piñata with her cricket stump.

“Yes, talk!” roared Wells and Karen X gleefully as they too picked up cricket stumps and whupped the screaming Morrissey fan upside his cloth-eared head.

“Ughgoogleayahoosplatphooeyarugala!” said Neville Himmler’s torso lazily as it split and sent shit and intestines and kidneys and stuff flying in every direction.

Everybody fell to the floor laughing for a bit while state-of-the-art nanobots cleaned up, and the Morrissey fan who was still alive but in unbearable agony screamed to be put out of his misery but was ignored because no one likes a cunt, basically.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” said Wells. “Those three monobrowed giant cunts could headbutt this tower for hours and not make a dent.”

“That’s exactly what they’re doing,” purred Karen X, pointing one long and exquisitely manicured death-finger at the obscenely large TV screen.

The three naked hard-to-tell-apart monsters were nutting the superfuckingrockhard glass of the 119th floor of Tokyo Attack Towers with a gusto that bordered on the maniacal, crossed that border, became sexual and ….

“That’s so fucking clichéd,” gasped the Morrissey fan. “You’re a fucking self parody, Wells! A joke!”

“Shut it, cunt!” snarled a visibly upset Wells, tears pouring down his superbly muscled face, as he whipped a giant gun out of the folds of his slowly flapping kimono and put a giant .50 caliber explosive dum-dum round into the Morrissey fan’s hideously swollen genitals.

Himmler screamed like a stuck pig that had been gaffa taped up and suspended from the ceiling like some sort of weird human flesh piñata and then beaten mercilessly and then disemboweled with cricket stumps and then shot in the hideously swollen genitals a giant .50 caliber explosive dum-dum round.

“You agreed to meet me in a Uwe Boll style boxing match,” screamed the Morrissey fan. “You cheated!”

“Oh yeah? So what do you call THAT!?” spat Wells, pointing at the TV that showed the top of the heads of the giant naked robots had flipped back on enormous hinges but instead of giant robot brains like you’d expect, the heads were full of …. UNTOLD MILLIONS OF TINY MORRISSEY FAN NINJAS! Who spewed out the heads like baby spiders in an urban myth and began to crawl up towards the penthouse using Batman style suction cups.

“You cheating cunt!” laughed six-year-old assassin, gymnast and world champion finger-painter Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones as she once again started smacking the fuck out what remained of the Morrissey Fan Club leader piñata.

“Yeah! You dirty, rotten little cheating cunt!” laughed Wells and Karen X as they joined in.


While nano-bots worked furiously to keep Neville Himmler alive, Guitar Wolf popped out of the floor again to perform an especially splenetic version of ‘UFO Romantics’.


“Uh-oh—they’re here!” said Karen X, hours later, jabbing one ferociously muscled thumb at windows that were black with Morrissey ninja fan scum who were beating on the glass with the hilts of their dead cool Japanese samurai swords.

“Fuck it, we’re already way past deadline. Let’s wrap this cunt the fuck up,” said Wells, hitting a button on the remote that wound the windows in and let the first wave of approximately 8 million Morrissey ninja fan scum come toppling into the penthouse.

“Leave this to me, dad!” roared Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones, running towards the screaming black-pajama’ed horde waving two really cool Japanese samurai swords and then —for the next 17 hours solid—she sliced, diced and eviscerated the scum just like what’s-her-face-the-blonde-one-no-not-the-one-that’s-shacked-up-with-Chris-Thing-out-of-Coldplay-the-other-one in Kill Bill.

“Some of us dream of living in a neo-Elizabethan Albion where the two most popular forms of entertainment are episodes of Deadwood recreated live by Shakespearian actors, and the edifying spectacle of twee musicians ripped apart and eaten by angry bears.” hyper-texted Wells to the still conscious Morrissey fan club leader as they watched Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones gymnastically slaughter hundreds of thousands of Morrissey fans with a grace that bordered on the balletic and an ease that was just taking this piss.

“But this is more my cup of tea!” chuckled the old cunt, proudly.

“Just because you oppose immigration and think it’s destroying a uniquely wonderful English culture, that doesn’t make you a racist,” gasped Neville Himmler has he watched every single last Morrissey fan in the world die horribly.

“Oh, absolutely!” agreed Wells, executing the fascist swine with a single explosive dum dum round right between the fucking racist eyes.

It just so happened that at that exact moment J-alt-pop sensations Kiiiiiii had parachuted in from their primary coloured floating copter-palace in the clouds to perform a particularly complete fucking opposite of everything the vile cad Morrissey represents version of ‘4 Little Joeys’.

“Hang on, aren’t they Korean?” said Himmler, his brain already rebuilt by nanobots.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Wells, puffing contentedly on his pipe.

Of course Tracey Trotsky Spinoza Jones didn’t kill all the Morrissey fans in the world with her swords. She also used flamethrowers, automated miniguns, fuel-air bombs and a twat-specific Ebola-derivative super retro-virus of her own devising. And a time machine and the sharpened entrenching tool that her great granddad Vladimir Putin Spinoza Joneski had used to personally sent over 400 fascist blood-beasts screaming into hell during the battle of Stalingrad in 1942.

And then she trained her gazillions of nano-bots to eradicate every last piece of Moz-paraphernalia on the planet—fucking Ozymandias style.

And then she turned her evil six-year-old attentions towards the horror that is Belle and Sebastian and their walking abortion offspring, Los Campesinos. But that’s another story.

Steven Wells (1960-2009, also Seething Wells and Susan Williams) was a legendary NME scribe and the author of Tits-Out Teenage Terror Totty (Attack! Books). This story is taken from the 2009 anthology Love Hotel City (Future Fiction).

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Thursday, June 25th, 2009.