10 a.m. Woken up today to Nepzoid clawing my face. The cat, from Japan, is now without a doubt my arch-nemesis. It took me two weeks to find a Japanese cat with a “screwed-down hairdo”; the pet-store owners over there are wholly unhelpful. Ziggy seems pleased with him—last night, he scrawled “NEPZOID IS VOODOO” on the bathroom mirror after staring at himself and crying for over an hour.
12 p.m. Sitting in the parking lot, waiting for Ziggy’s dry cleaning. Mostly gloves and a feather boa or two, as usual. Last night, I asked him why he has so many left-handed leather mittens—huge mistake. He screamed something about his “sweet hands,” ran into the studio, and banged his penis heavily against an electric guitar.
1 p.m. Almost done with errands. Drugstore clerk laughed when I asked him for the “nazziest” sunblock they had in stock. I had to laugh, too—almost as badly as I had to knock him unconscious with Nepzoid’s cage. Stole his acid-washed jeans and Zippo.
4 p.m. Came home with everything on today’s list. Almost. Ziggy screamed at me. Beer light, light beer—how the hell was I supposed to know the difference? “So where are the spiders? Where are the spiders?” I told him what the pet-store owner said. Why am I dealing with so many pet stores? He seemed confused. I told him his ass looked “heaven-sent.” He smiled, blew a line off a copy of The Art of War, and passed out. I went into the other room and called my mother. I don’t know how much more I can take.
7 p.m. Sitting in the basement, on my cot. The neighborhood kids sound rowdier than usual today. Must be a street-hockey dispute. Ziggy’s upstairs with two Japanese prostitutes. From what I can tell from here, they’re listening to Raffi, painting their bodies with DayGlo, and eating Space Cake. What. Am. I. Doing. Here.
12 a.m. Went upstairs to check things out, heard breaking glass. Turns out the street-hockey quibbling was in fact Ziggy’s rioting Christian fans. They obviously weren’t pleased with his new album, Leper Messiah. They broke down the purple door and killed Ziggy and his companions with lasers. Twiggy was still alive, barely. I barely stepped on his exposed neck. Thought about the circle of life, watched The Lion King, then decided to make the calls. Weird and Gilly were both on mescaline, but I was able to fill them in on the major details. I should pack up my things—got a call last night about helping the family of an astronaut during his upcoming mission. Pretty glad to be out of here. Can’t say I’m sorry to see the crass bastard dead.