The best-selling autobiography of America's most controversial celebrity icon, Marilyn Manson (with a bonus chapter not in the hardcover).In his twenty-nin. For Help with downloading a Wikipedia page as a PDF, see Help:Download as Marilyn Manson performing Antichrist Superstar, caite.info Antichrist Superstar: Marilyn Manson and the Planetary Archetypes Neil Strauss, The Long Hard Road out of Hell, (New York: Regan Books.
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The best-selling autobiography of America's most controversial celebrity icon, Marilyn Manson (with a bonus chapter not in the hardcover).In his twenty-nine. When this best-selling autobiography was originally released, readers were shocked: The Long Hard Road Out of Hell was the darkest, funniest, most. The best-selling autobiography of America's most controversial celebrity icon, Marilyn Manson (with a bonus chapter not in the hardcover). In his twenty-nine.
B5 xxx, D5 xxx, C5 xxx e B Bridge B: Bridge 2: My grandfather barked at her through his tracheostomy, annoyed. This time, we stuck close to the house and tried to knock birds out of trees. Behind the stairs was a shelf with about ten paint cans which, I later discovered, were each filled with twenty millimeter porno films. It Books Publication Date:
Nicholson Intro A: E5 G5 F5 E5 I wanna fly into your sun. Need faith to make me numb Live like a teen-age Christ. I'm a saint, got a date with suicide. Bridge A: B5 xxx, D5 xxx, C5 xxx e B Bridge B: To be this young is oh - so-scary.
To be this young, I'm oh - so-scared. I wanna live. But it's a long hard road out of hell. I wanna love. But it's a long hard road out of hell Chorus A: Bassline e E5 G5 F5 E5 B G G -- -- D D xx xx x2 A A -- - 8- -- E xx xx E -- E5 G5 F5 E5 E5 G5 F5 E5 You never said forev-er could ever hurt like this.
Doo do-do do do-do do do-do do doo. Intro A. Verse 2: Intro B bassline. Palm-muted ac. Typically, if she caught us stealing food, talking back or goofing off, we were forced to kneel on a broomstick in the kitchen for anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, which resulted in perpetually bruised and scabbed knees. Chad and I worked quickly and quietly. We knew what had to be done. Picking a rusted screwdriver off the floor, we pried the workbench drawer open wide enough so we could peek in.
The first thing we saw was cellophane: Chad pushed the screwdriver deeper into the drawer. There was hair and lace. He wedged the screwdriver further, and I pulled until the drawer gave way. We began unwrapping the cellophane, but as soon as we saw what it concealed, we dropped the package to the floor.
Neither of us wanted to touch it. It was a collection of dildoes that had suction cups on the bottom. Maybe it was because I was so young, but they seemed enormous. And they were covered with a hardened dark orange slime, like the gelatinous crust that builds up around a turkey when it is cooked.
We later deduced that it was aged Vaseline. I made Chad wrap the dildoes up and put them back in the drawer. Just as we were trying to force the drawer shut, the cellar doorknob turned.
Chad and I froze for a moment, then he grabbed my hand and dove under a plywood table that my grandfather had his toy trains set up on.
We were just in time to hear his footsteps near the bottom of the stairs. The floor was covered with train-set paraphernalia, mostly pine needles and fake snow, which made me think of powdered donuts trampled into dirt.
The pine needles were prickling our elbows, the smell was nauseating and we were breathing heavily. We heard him shuffling around the room, hacking through the hole in his throat.
There was a click, and his toy trains began clattering around the large track. His black patent leather shoes appeared on the floor just in front of us. Slowly his feet began scraping against the ground, as if he were being violently rocked in his seat, and his hacking grew louder than the trains. The best analogy I can offer is an old, neglected lawn mower trying to sputter back to life. But coming from a human being, it sounded monstrous.
After an uncomfortable ten minutes passed, a voice called from the top of the stairs. Judas Priest on a pony! The train stopped, the feet stopped. Jack, what are you doing down there? My grandfather barked back, even more annoyed.
Then he slowly rose. We were Safe, for the time being. After doing our best to conceal the damage we had done to the workbench drawer, Chad and I walked to the top of the stairs and into the breezeway, where we kept our toys.
Toys, in this case, being a pair of BB guns. Besides spying on my grandfather, the house had two other attractions: This time, we stuck close to the house and tried to knock birds out of trees. That afternoon I was out for blood and, unfortunately, a white rabbit crossed our path.
The thrill of hitting it was incommensurate, but then I went to examine the damage. It was still alive and blood was pouring out of its eye, soaking into its white fur. Its mouth kept meekly opening and closing, taking in air in a last, desperate attempt at life. For the first time, I felt bad for an animal I had shot. I took a large flat rock and ended its suffering with a loud, quick and messy blow.
I was very close to learning an even harsher lesson in killing animals. He never came into the house for me unless it was absolutely unavoidable, and rarely even talked to his parents. He usually just waited outside uneasily, as if he were afraid of reliving whatever it was he had experienced in that old house as a child.
Instead of leaving home after she married, my mom brought her mother and father home with her to Canton, Ohio.
So they, the Wyers my mother was born Barb Wyer , lived next door. Benign country folk my dad called them hillbillies from West Virginia, her father was a mechanic and her mother was an overweight, pill-popping housewife whose parents used to keep her locked in a closet.
To kill time while waiting to resume the investigation, I played in our backyard with Aleusha, who in some ways was my only real friend besides Chad. Aleusha was an Alaskan malamute the size of a wolf and distinguishable by her mismatched eyes: Playing at home, however, was accompanied by its own set of paranoias—ever since my neighbor, Mark, had returned home on Thanksgiving break from military school.
Mark was a roly-poly kid with a greasy blond bowl cut, but I used to look up to him because he was three years older than me and much more wild. We started hanging out when I was eight or nine, mostly because he had cable television and I liked watching Flipper. The television room was in his basement, where there was also a dumbwaiter for dirty laundry from upstairs. After watching Flipper , Mark would invent games like Prison, which consisted of squeezing into the dumbwaiter and pretending like we were in jail.
This was no ordinary jail: When we were naked in the dumbwaiter, Mark would run his hands all over my skin and try to squeeze and caress my dick. After this happened a few times, I broke down and told my mother. She went straight to his parents, who, though they branded me a liar, soon sent him to military school. From then on, our families were bitter enemies, and I always felt that Mark blamed me for tattling on him and causing him to be sent away.
This time we were determined to solve the mystery of my grandfather once and for all. We could hear the trains running from the top of the stairwell. He was down there. Holding our breath, we peered into the room. His back was to us and we could see the blue-and-gray flannel shirt that he always wore, with the neck stretched out, revealing a yellow and brown ring around the collar and a sweat-stained undershirt.
A slow, tense wave of fear shuddered through our bodies. This was it. We crept down the creaky stairs as quietly as we could, hoping the trains would cover up the noise.
At the bottom, we turned around and hid in the stale-smelling alcove behind the staircase, trying not to spit or scream as cobwebs clung to our faces. From our hiding place, we could see the train set: There were two tracks, and both had trains running on them, clanking along the haphazardly built rails and letting off a noxious electrical smell, as if the metal of the track were burning.
The back of his neck always reminded me of foreskin. The rest of his skin was gray-white, like the color of birdshit, except for his nose, which had reddened and deteriorated from years of drinking.
His hands were hardened and callused from a lifetime of work, his nails dark and brittle like beetle wings. His pants were down around his knees, a magazine was spread over his legs, and he was hacking and moving his right hand rapidly in his lap.
At the same time, with his left hand, he was wiping phlegm from around his tracheostomy with a yellow-crusted handkerchief. We knew what he was doing, and we wanted to leave right away. But we had trapped ourselves behind the stairs and were too scared to come out into the open. Suddenly, the hacking sputtered to a halt and grandfather twisted around in his chair, staring straight at the stairwell.
Our hearts froze. He stood up, pants sliding to his ankles, and we pressed against the mildewed wall. My heart stabbed at my chest like a broken bottle and I was too petrified even to scream.
A thousand perverted and violent things he was about to do to us flashed through my mind, though it would have taken nothing more than for him to touch me and I would have dropped dead with fright. The hacking, jacking and shuffling of feet began again, and we let our breath out. It was safe to peer around the staircase. But we had to. I turned my head away, too late to keep from imagining the white pus squeezing out of his yellow, wrinkled penis like the insides of a squashed cockroach.
We waited until he left and then clambered back up the stairs, vowing never to set foot in that cellar again. During the ride home, we told my parents what happened.
I had the feeling that my mother believed most if not all of it, and that my father already knew from having grown up there. It was a family scandal that no one was supposed to talk about, and we were sworn to secrecy. They were in utter denial of it—and still are to this day. When we pulled into our driveway, I walked around back to play with Aleusha. She was lying in the grass near the fence, vomiting and convulsing.
By the time the vet arrived, Aleusha was dead and I was in tears.