The Birth of Guy ManCock.
Guy Mancock was not born a rock God. He was forced into the profession after a series of tragedies which, more or less, forced the microphone into his hand. Guy was born in Brisbane. The tenth generation of penal colonists, Guy’s father was a chartered public accountant and his mother owned a Laundromat. Guy was raised in the modern manner of the upwardly mobile plebes. He was encouraged to get a four year degree right out of school, and most important, to get the hell out of Brisbane. He graduated in the upper 10th percentile for Queensland. Armed with a suitcase full of books and fistfuls of Australian dollars, Guy moved to NYC with his eye on America and all the fantastic stardom it could offer.
NYC was everything Guy had imagined it. Millions of people from every nation and creed living together in relative peace, if not harmony. Grand spires of concrete and glass defying the heavens with their towering heights. Everywhere lights and windows and the smell of exotic foods and still a tree or two. Guy was attending Columbia University for a degree in business. He maintained an apartment in the heights with his friends. Guy walked 200 blocks a day. Guy was taking Aikido and testing for the Black Belt. Guy was hitting the library and ignoring the bars and still writing a letter a day to his grandma. Guy was making the grade and bending the ear of the dean and constructing a Business Plan to Save the World. Things were looking up for Guy… and then she came along.
Guy was tickling the belly of 20 when she came along. And she ruined everything. Guy will forget her name, through much effort, decades later. What can be pieced together from second hand accounts and some very pointed first hand interviews, paints a picture of madness. She was a beautiful lunatic that leapt from the concrete jungle, sunk her fangs into Guy, and declared him her meal. Guy lost his friends first. She made him leave them. Then Guy lost his money, buying her ridiculous but pretty things including, but not limited to, an engagement ring “Just In Case”. The cost of the ring made finishing the last year of college impossible. Then Guy lost his will to live. He got a job as an intern downtown. Assisting an assistants assitant by doing all of the shitty and stupid things people need done by someone willing to get paid as a slave to do it.
Then she left him for “Dude”. That was all she would refer to him as. “Some Dude”. “Just Some Dude I Met”. “This DUDE! What?!”. And then Guy lost his shit. Other men, in his position, would do any number of violent and unpleasant things to maintain some sense of control. Destroy something just to see that they still have the power to manifest the deadly intangible into something obtainable. Smashing the dinette set you spent $2,000 with a $20 sledge, for instance. Still other men would have killed her with a handgun. Guy was not a man to do either at this point in his life. Instead, he simply misplaced his shit in a big way. Broke down. Cried all night and day for a week, rolled into a ball. Crying fat, hot tears while listening to the movers take away all the things he had bought for her thinking things would change.
He began to develop several unpleasant habits at this point, chief among them being the ingesting of vast quantities of drugs. Guy would troll the internet, and then the streets, searching for chemicals that would erase his memory. Of course there are many. Alcohol is it’s king. Guy drank. He drank until he had nothing. He could not afford the plane ticket home. He stopped writing his grandma. He started selling his blood and semen. All the while searching for the thing that would make him forget her, and how he had loved her, and how she was now living with “Just Some Dude I’m ‘Seeing’”. Getting into the drug scene in NYC is surprisingly easy. You simply walk around asking for them until you’re either arrested or hooked up. Nothing seemed to work though.
He would suck on a pistol at night. He was so very tired of crying. He would lay on the couch of whoever was being kind enough to let him crash and he would begin crying. But he could not wake the host! He would hate himself for his tears, but they would assault him. The utter sadness and horror of it all. She got everything in the non-vorce but the pistol. Guy looked, at this point, something between homeless and fantastic. A broken, half-maintained, hollow wreck of a human, but still good looking. Guy wore broken like a queen wears silk. But nothing about the way he walked, or the way he talked would lead you to believe he was packing. But he was. And he did. And late at night, when nothing else would make him stop crying, he would pull out his pistol and put it in his mouth. He would feel the familiar weight and smell the gun oil and the chattering of teeth on nickel would slow. And the gentle sound of sobbing would subside. And there would be the sweet suckling of Guy on his pistol. Then there would be the click of safety reengaging, and Guy would sleep.
He began to knife people unmercifully. Before she made him quit the program, Guy had gotten the Black Belt in Aikido. Getting into the drug scene in NYC is surprisingly easy. Surviving is not. Guy looked like the kind of person who probably just looked poor because he was too rich. Wandering East Harlem at 3 AM is not high on the list of good ideas. Not when the river is so close and screams so ignored. Bullets are expensive, knives cheap. Guy would steal knives. It was a vice that had cost him many couches. But Guy found them to be simply delightful. Otherwise deadly situations could quite easily be resolved by the right knife. Placed into the right part of the body. With the right gusto. Guy always gave the knife to his victim. As both a sign of respect and warning.
Guy was 26. Broke. Strung out. Diseased. Famished. His teeth had begun falling out. His normal appearance, often seen as fashionable, revealed itself to be mere malnutrition. His modus operandi was very simple and unfortunately vexing. He only wanted to forget her. He only wanted to erase THOSE memories. And nothing seemed to be working. Guy sensed the end of the road. He considered starting to walk home. Australia. That would be a hike. Just start walking west. Meet the sea. Dive in. Guy was fairly convinced he could live with the dolphins. But for a walk like that, he would need drugs.
Guy went on a binge of work. He collected cans from garbage. He sold all the blood he had to spare. He gave all the semen his poverty wrecked reproductive system could produce. He stole car stereos and sold them on the street. When all was said and done he had made enough money that he felt confident he could please the Candy Man General, an assertive/militant pusher who seemed to like Guy, but had never asked for sex drug exchange for himself personally. For as cool a name as the Candy Man General is, the Batman mentality of fantastic villainy doesn’t cut it in the real world. Where one would imagine pillars of candy canes and men in clever outfits, there is only a pusher and his home. Guy went straight in, past the sentries. Most drug homes in the neighborhood knew to keep their hands off Guy.
Guy entered the living room only to see Keith Richards training a pistol at Mary-Kate Olson and what appeared to be a dozen or so naked women being hoarded over by a 500 lb white male with a machine gun. Keith Richards own account of the event suggests that it was the craziest thing he’d ever seen thus far in his life. Where most men would have lost their cool in a situation like this, Guy took a deep breath, considered his options, and spoke.
“Look. I just want to buy some cheap drugs!” Said Guy, and reserved his place in history.
Everyone laughed so hard, they put their ill tempered arms to the ground and all set about hugging. After everyone had explained their sides of the story it turned out everyone was just way too high to be handling guns. There began a grand communion of spirits at the Candy Man General’s brownstone, and spurred on by the general feelings of comradery and sharing, Guy explained his situation, not wanting to be “that guy that complained about his X for five hours.”.
After eight hours Guy was done ranting/crying. It was an exorcism of grand proportions. He had shown, as an example, how sucking his pistol helped him sleep. He had explained, in gritty detail, the hours he spent debating the difference between eggshell and beige. He had explained how there was a scheduled foot rub time, while she ate iced cream and watched American Idol. He said what he had done afterwards. The drugs and the crime and the sex and the not writing his grandma. He realized, only then, that he hadn’t written his grandma, and that sent him into a downward spiral of self loathing so crippling and absurd that those unwillingly exposed to this dreadful catharsis had to stop doing their drugs and start evaluating their lives. With scrutiny and self abandon Guy explained his life thus far, and Keith Richards was impressed. He spoke then.
“Guy, that is an amazing story. I know you’re worried about a lot of those things, and I understand that. I really do. Now. I have to tell you, I have seen you before in my dreams. It sounds crazy, I know, but I have seen you in them. And you are a Rock God. I don’t know how, or why, but you have to sleep with a woman in every nation, erase your memory, and then lead Rock into the Second Golden Age. I can help you, for I know the drugs you seek.”
This began a lasting and sacred mentorship established between Keith and Guy that is bonded in blood for a thousand years. But Keith still did not know something;
“Hey, what’s your name kid?” asked Keith.
“Guy Swallowcock Manlove.” Said Guy, and everyone laughed.
“Swallowcock?” asked Keith.
“Yes. It’s a bird native to Queensland.” Said Guy, and everyone laughed.
“That’ll never fly. What did your ancestors do?” asked Keith.
“They were penal colonists” said Guy, and everyone laughed.
And then Keith thought long and hard.
“You are Guy ManCock.” Said Keith, “Through time and dreaming I have remembered it. And soon, so shall the world. Come Guy, let us get you the memory erasing drugs you seek.”
NYC was everything Guy had imagined it. Millions of people from every nation and creed living together in relative peace, if not harmony. Grand spires of concrete and glass defying the heavens with their towering heights. Everywhere lights and windows and the smell of exotic foods and still a tree or two. Guy was attending Columbia University for a degree in business. He maintained an apartment in the heights with his friends. Guy walked 200 blocks a day. Guy was taking Aikido and testing for the Black Belt. Guy was hitting the library and ignoring the bars and still writing a letter a day to his grandma. Guy was making the grade and bending the ear of the dean and constructing a Business Plan to Save the World. Things were looking up for Guy… and then she came along.
Guy was tickling the belly of 20 when she came along. And she ruined everything. Guy will forget her name, through much effort, decades later. What can be pieced together from second hand accounts and some very pointed first hand interviews, paints a picture of madness. She was a beautiful lunatic that leapt from the concrete jungle, sunk her fangs into Guy, and declared him her meal. Guy lost his friends first. She made him leave them. Then Guy lost his money, buying her ridiculous but pretty things including, but not limited to, an engagement ring “Just In Case”. The cost of the ring made finishing the last year of college impossible. Then Guy lost his will to live. He got a job as an intern downtown. Assisting an assistants assitant by doing all of the shitty and stupid things people need done by someone willing to get paid as a slave to do it.
Then she left him for “Dude”. That was all she would refer to him as. “Some Dude”. “Just Some Dude I Met”. “This DUDE! What?!”. And then Guy lost his shit. Other men, in his position, would do any number of violent and unpleasant things to maintain some sense of control. Destroy something just to see that they still have the power to manifest the deadly intangible into something obtainable. Smashing the dinette set you spent $2,000 with a $20 sledge, for instance. Still other men would have killed her with a handgun. Guy was not a man to do either at this point in his life. Instead, he simply misplaced his shit in a big way. Broke down. Cried all night and day for a week, rolled into a ball. Crying fat, hot tears while listening to the movers take away all the things he had bought for her thinking things would change.
He began to develop several unpleasant habits at this point, chief among them being the ingesting of vast quantities of drugs. Guy would troll the internet, and then the streets, searching for chemicals that would erase his memory. Of course there are many. Alcohol is it’s king. Guy drank. He drank until he had nothing. He could not afford the plane ticket home. He stopped writing his grandma. He started selling his blood and semen. All the while searching for the thing that would make him forget her, and how he had loved her, and how she was now living with “Just Some Dude I’m ‘Seeing’”. Getting into the drug scene in NYC is surprisingly easy. You simply walk around asking for them until you’re either arrested or hooked up. Nothing seemed to work though.
He would suck on a pistol at night. He was so very tired of crying. He would lay on the couch of whoever was being kind enough to let him crash and he would begin crying. But he could not wake the host! He would hate himself for his tears, but they would assault him. The utter sadness and horror of it all. She got everything in the non-vorce but the pistol. Guy looked, at this point, something between homeless and fantastic. A broken, half-maintained, hollow wreck of a human, but still good looking. Guy wore broken like a queen wears silk. But nothing about the way he walked, or the way he talked would lead you to believe he was packing. But he was. And he did. And late at night, when nothing else would make him stop crying, he would pull out his pistol and put it in his mouth. He would feel the familiar weight and smell the gun oil and the chattering of teeth on nickel would slow. And the gentle sound of sobbing would subside. And there would be the sweet suckling of Guy on his pistol. Then there would be the click of safety reengaging, and Guy would sleep.
He began to knife people unmercifully. Before she made him quit the program, Guy had gotten the Black Belt in Aikido. Getting into the drug scene in NYC is surprisingly easy. Surviving is not. Guy looked like the kind of person who probably just looked poor because he was too rich. Wandering East Harlem at 3 AM is not high on the list of good ideas. Not when the river is so close and screams so ignored. Bullets are expensive, knives cheap. Guy would steal knives. It was a vice that had cost him many couches. But Guy found them to be simply delightful. Otherwise deadly situations could quite easily be resolved by the right knife. Placed into the right part of the body. With the right gusto. Guy always gave the knife to his victim. As both a sign of respect and warning.
Guy was 26. Broke. Strung out. Diseased. Famished. His teeth had begun falling out. His normal appearance, often seen as fashionable, revealed itself to be mere malnutrition. His modus operandi was very simple and unfortunately vexing. He only wanted to forget her. He only wanted to erase THOSE memories. And nothing seemed to be working. Guy sensed the end of the road. He considered starting to walk home. Australia. That would be a hike. Just start walking west. Meet the sea. Dive in. Guy was fairly convinced he could live with the dolphins. But for a walk like that, he would need drugs.
Guy went on a binge of work. He collected cans from garbage. He sold all the blood he had to spare. He gave all the semen his poverty wrecked reproductive system could produce. He stole car stereos and sold them on the street. When all was said and done he had made enough money that he felt confident he could please the Candy Man General, an assertive/militant pusher who seemed to like Guy, but had never asked for sex drug exchange for himself personally. For as cool a name as the Candy Man General is, the Batman mentality of fantastic villainy doesn’t cut it in the real world. Where one would imagine pillars of candy canes and men in clever outfits, there is only a pusher and his home. Guy went straight in, past the sentries. Most drug homes in the neighborhood knew to keep their hands off Guy.
Guy entered the living room only to see Keith Richards training a pistol at Mary-Kate Olson and what appeared to be a dozen or so naked women being hoarded over by a 500 lb white male with a machine gun. Keith Richards own account of the event suggests that it was the craziest thing he’d ever seen thus far in his life. Where most men would have lost their cool in a situation like this, Guy took a deep breath, considered his options, and spoke.
“Look. I just want to buy some cheap drugs!” Said Guy, and reserved his place in history.
Everyone laughed so hard, they put their ill tempered arms to the ground and all set about hugging. After everyone had explained their sides of the story it turned out everyone was just way too high to be handling guns. There began a grand communion of spirits at the Candy Man General’s brownstone, and spurred on by the general feelings of comradery and sharing, Guy explained his situation, not wanting to be “that guy that complained about his X for five hours.”.
After eight hours Guy was done ranting/crying. It was an exorcism of grand proportions. He had shown, as an example, how sucking his pistol helped him sleep. He had explained, in gritty detail, the hours he spent debating the difference between eggshell and beige. He had explained how there was a scheduled foot rub time, while she ate iced cream and watched American Idol. He said what he had done afterwards. The drugs and the crime and the sex and the not writing his grandma. He realized, only then, that he hadn’t written his grandma, and that sent him into a downward spiral of self loathing so crippling and absurd that those unwillingly exposed to this dreadful catharsis had to stop doing their drugs and start evaluating their lives. With scrutiny and self abandon Guy explained his life thus far, and Keith Richards was impressed. He spoke then.
“Guy, that is an amazing story. I know you’re worried about a lot of those things, and I understand that. I really do. Now. I have to tell you, I have seen you before in my dreams. It sounds crazy, I know, but I have seen you in them. And you are a Rock God. I don’t know how, or why, but you have to sleep with a woman in every nation, erase your memory, and then lead Rock into the Second Golden Age. I can help you, for I know the drugs you seek.”
This began a lasting and sacred mentorship established between Keith and Guy that is bonded in blood for a thousand years. But Keith still did not know something;
“Hey, what’s your name kid?” asked Keith.
“Guy Swallowcock Manlove.” Said Guy, and everyone laughed.
“Swallowcock?” asked Keith.
“Yes. It’s a bird native to Queensland.” Said Guy, and everyone laughed.
“That’ll never fly. What did your ancestors do?” asked Keith.
“They were penal colonists” said Guy, and everyone laughed.
And then Keith thought long and hard.
“You are Guy ManCock.” Said Keith, “Through time and dreaming I have remembered it. And soon, so shall the world. Come Guy, let us get you the memory erasing drugs you seek.”
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