The Fable of Axl Rose and the Sloth

It was a warm and moist 1991; people walked the streets draped in tablecloths in attempt to soak up the moisture, but yet their hair still erupted in mass cataclysm. Some took to holding street vigils where primordial couplets of shaman would echo ancient rites to the great sky god of pre-Cambrian times, most often these ended with two or three rowdy ruffians throwing excerpts of Genesis chapter 5 and De Sade’s Justine at the shaman in paper airplane form. If anyone ever contented that paper airplanes could not possibly kill a man, well, they were certainly proved wrong on these nights. As reported deaths from paper airplanes (papier-planacide) escalated, the Los Angeles landscape became a breeding ground for spontaneous riots, unsuspecting shaman would be in the 7/11 buying their Lucky Charms when suddenly a small group of miscreants would come in and holy hell would break out. Individual riots often lasted all night and police would be powerless to stop the yob army battling against the entrenched shamans.

One such riot was occurring in the street below when Axl Rose woke up in the bathroom of his hotel suite. The previous few hours had welded a wild type of debauched frenzy exclusive only to mid-tour rock bands. The madness included the acquisition on the part of Axl of a massive Ludo set from the cold hands of a gypsy, and Axl biting the temple of a female partier after she had unintentionally taken the piece of paper that Rose has scribed a new song on (a love dedication to GG Allin) and used it to clean between her toes.

The room was a mess; the bed lay on the balcony angularly slanted against the railing, the floor was a colourful mix of broken glass and barnyard hay, each strand of wallpaper had been replaced with nude pictures of Noriega, and pathology reports of various serial killers were scattered on the tables. But Axl could see none of this, for he was residing in the bathroom’s bidet lighting a cigarette.

A dazed Axl Rose was slowly coming to, cigarette in his mouth he shook his head and looked at his watch. Except where used to be his watch was now a crude drawing of a watch (which incidentally stated the time as twenty minutes past seven).

He sat up, and put the cigarette out in the sink, carefully avoiding the shards of what looked like a stained-glass Jesus. Standing up he looked around the room. Suddenly he peered a sloth sitting on a shelf anchored above the bath. The sloth gave him a beckoning look, and Axl moved towards it. As he got closer, Axl noticed that this was no ordinary sloth (luckily Axl had taken six years of PHD study into the mating habits of sloths, including two years living with the animals in their natural habitat). No, this sloth had a purple insignia on its nose, an insignia which seemed to resemble the t in Star Wars.

When Axl was no further than two feet from it, the sloth spoke. It bellowed at him in a deep voice, “I am no ordinary sloth, for I have special powers, and were I permitted unconditional use of your bidet, I would grant thee three wishes.”

“Well it’s not really my bidet, but alright,” replied Axl.

Axl exited the room to the exalted cries of a relieved sloth cleansing it’s extremities.

After a short while the sloth emerged from the bathroom.

“Thanks for that, one can get mightily gunked up in the rainforest.”

“I’d imagine there’s not many bidets round those parts.”

“Motherfucking none, the lack is incredible, inconsiderate cunts the lot of them. Now, wishes, you’ve got three and I’m on a tight schedule.”

“What the hell have sloths got to do?”

“Here son, shut the fuck up, I may not have anything to do right in the vicinity of now, but I’m a fucking sloth, whatever it is it’ll take me ages to get there, sloth by definition motherfucker. So, hurry up.”

“OK OK”

Axl stood and pondered for a moment using the international sign for the ponderance (chin cupped in thumb and forefinger).

“I wish for a billion dollars.”

“Done.”

And so it was done, Axl’s bank account suddenly bulged with funds.

“I wish for every new Guns N Roses record to go platinum in the first week.”

“Done.”

And so it was done, all new GNR records would indeed go platinum by the end of its first week of release.

“I wish for you and me to have a night of uninhibited, ferocious sex.”

“Don...huh?”

“You heard me.”

And so it was done, the sloth could do no more than issue light protest, he knew he was required to satisfy Axl Roses’ desire no matter what the request.

It turns out that, during those long nights in the noisy depths of the rainforest, Axl got very lonely, very lonely indeed, and would often indulge himself in a sloth or two. And this was the first opportunity for Axl to pamper his little idiosyncrasy since GNR’s tour of Brazil two years before. And so, like any self-respecting person, he took the chance when it happened upon him.

Guns N Roses went onto to make $2 million in ticket receipts during the remainder of the tour.