Jake Brennan

You claimed she wanted it.

You wanted that kind of inhumanity now.

It was the only way to kill Brian and to possess the power necessary to create what you knew you had in you.

A culture-changing album.

The type of record that separated you not only from the conformists, but from your peers as well.

Head and shoulders above Al Jorgensen and anyone else from the industrial scene.

A whole other thing.

Too big for the underground.

A modern-day David Bowie fronting lead fucking zeppelin powered by a fresh new record deal with the devil.

And as far as Trent fucking Reznor was concerned, he could hammer a nine-inch nail into his two-inch cock and fuck off back to Courtney Love's bed.

You weren't his protege like they said you were.

He was a creative wench, a bitchy egomaniacal mile marker on the lost highway to superstardom.

But right now, hardly any music was being made.

So once again, you turned to sex.

Sex with rank, vile drug addicts in filthy public bathrooms.

You degraded them so violently in one instance that I'm not even going to repeat it here, but let's just say it involved a clitoral ring and you projected the degradation.

But really, you were the target.

Well, Brian was the target.

and yet nothing worked.

Brian lived, and your art suffered.