Attending the landmark 100th Pickaxe convention, I caught up with some of the most interesting (and dull) attendees.
Lance Luger is one of a gang of chain-smoking teenage goths – the ringleader of the group that’ve dubbed themselves the “A.O.G’s” – axe owning gothics.
Hi Lance. I notice you’re not smiling. Why is that?
Luger: What’s the point?
Urm, your endorphins, my endorphins. Dolphins, morphing?
Luger: Well that just doesn’t make any sense.
*Luger takes a few drags from his cigarette and stares at me menacingly*
Luger: Look, man. I’ve got graveyards to visit. Tombstones to lust for. With my axe at my side, of course… So unless you got anything utterly depressing to say, I’m out.
I just really want to know why you and all your gothic little cronies took up axe-wielding as a hobby.
Luger: It’s just a useful tool. Ever tried collecting firewood with a pair of scissors?
As it so happens I have, actually. And I’m not proud of it. Moving swiftly on…
Ernie Crick is the only person still alive to have attended the first ever Pickaxe convention. I asked the wheezing old goth a few questions about his years as an axe-wielder.
Mr. Crick, it’s an honour to meet you. Let’s cut to the chase, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever done with your pickaxe?
Right… What do you use it for day to day?
Crick: Well, mostly for felacio. But sometimes, it’s enough just to think about it whilst I pleasure myself.
Ok… How many pickaxes have you owned? And when did you get your first?
Crick: Oh, just the one. The saliva preserves it, see. Got it when I was a wee six years old. Sucked on it, right there and then.
Bless him. At 106, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed – and neither was his axe. But to be fair, the guy is so old he pisses and shits himself all the time – so it’s amazing that he still has a conception of what an axe is, really, let alone the cognitive ability to remember exactly how long he’s been sucking them off for.
From O.A.P to P-E-D-O, Vernon Goozeberry was another to make himself available for a chat. As the only living person in the entire world to be simultaneously registered nonce and axe-owner, I thought he’d be worth talking to.
But Mr.Goozeberry! You’re a known pedophile! What makes you think you have the right to show your horrible face in public?!
Goozeberry: Well… I have shown genuine remorse for my crimes – and served 38 years in prison, throughout which I was bullied, intimidated and assaulted by inmates due to the nature of my offences.
Fair enough… Well, before we get on to axes – what sort of pedoing was it? You know, was it like, a defenceless baby, or… like, one of those fifteen-year-olds who could be twenty, sort of thing?
Goozeberry: It was um.. Er… it was a.. A toddler.. My son actually. And then I killed him after. With my axe.
Blimey. That’s… that’s properly evil isn’t it. You’re like, an evil sicko… Eh – suppose you’ve done your time though. Let bygones be bygones and all that. Funny you should mention the axe, I was going to ask, what’s the most evil thing – apart from killing your son after you molested him – that you’ve ever done with it?
Goozeberry: Well, once I had this genetically modified onion and it was so big I couldn’t use a knife so I used my axe to do the initial cut and then diced the rest with a normal knife.
Ugh, what a pathetic thing to say. Where’s the depravity in cutting up an onion? Unless you’re one of those super-funny and clever middle aged men who jibes vegans with the “plants have feelings too” joke. At this point, I realised that once you get past all the exciting gossip about him raping and killing his own son, Vernon Goozeberry isn’t actually all that interesting. He’s just a weird ex-convict who thinks cutting up a big onion is something worth mentioning to a journalist. So I cut off the interview – much like he cut up his poor defenceless child.
Next up was Violet Von Bratwurst, a handy woodswoman with a penchant for German sausages.
Hi Violet. I’ll jump straight in – do you use your pickaxe to segment your bratwurst sausages?
Bratwurst: Of course I don’t. I swallow them whole. Have you not seen my infomercial?
I’d like to see the infomercial!
Bratwurst: Well… you can’t, it was removed by the authorities.
Bratwurst: All of them. It’s actually the only thing the United Nations has been able to unanimously agree on.
I’ll buy an illegal DVD off you. Hundred quid.
Bratwurst: One hundred pounds? That won’t be necess-
NO! I INSIST.
She obliged. I gave her one hundred pounds and watched the infomercial on blu-ray. It was magnificent. I’ve never seen such a majestic swallow of the sausage. Equally, I could see why the UN banned it. If the world knew about the delicacy with which a (to the uneducated eye) dusty old Bratwurst could be consumed, Germany would be inundated with demand. So much demand that even a producing country like Germany couldn’t keep up – let alone the pigs. The nation would soon lose it’s confidence; Volkswagens and BMW’s alike would be built cackhandedly, leading to an epidemic of car safety, all thanks to a hungry woman with a pickaxe.
The Pickhandle Barracuda
Everybody else at the Annual Pickaxe Convention was basically quite boring; mainly it was people who literally just used their pickaxes to chop wood. I did however find out something quite quirky and interesting. As tea time descended, I noticed that a bizarre quantity of barracuda was being consumed. Who the hell eats barracuda for dinner? I wondered. As it so happens, the species of fish being wolfed down – a Pickhandle Barracuda – was named after the pickaxe due to it’s similar appearance. This struck me as particularly beautiful; a natural specimen named after a man-made object; the lesser-known non-identical etymological twin of the Hammerhead Shark.
Happy 100th, Annual Pickaxe Convention!