Birds chirped peacefully as the sun rose up over the San Francisco bay. When the clock struck seven, sin filled the room as Jello Biafra’s punk rock themed alarm clock began to chime. Jello stretched his arms then silenced his clock radio. He stood up and thought about how happy he was to finally have the race car themed bed of his dreams. However, he didn’t make his bed, because Jello isn’t another cog in the machine.
He walked over to his mirror, and said, “I’m so excited to be singing another charity event at the insane asylum today.” But he didn’t comb his hair, because Jello isn’t a part of the system.
Jello put on his favorite shirt, one that had “rebel” written on it in a bold font. It was his favorite because he got it for just fifty cents at Goodwill. He stepped out into the San Francisco morning fog. Thanks to San Francisco’s thriving public transportation system, Jello had arrived at the insane asylum within the hour.
The stage in the insane asylum was surrounded by a several feet thick stone wall. It was comforting to Jello, since it meant that he didn’t have to see the terrible outside world. The crowd was smaller than expected, since most of the inmates were sensitive to loud noises, and couldn’t attend, but that didn’t phase Jello. He was dedicated to using punk rock for the forces of good.
Jello started playing one of his favorite songs, Soup is Good Food. All went smoothly, until he got to the part that goes, “So say uncle; And we’ll take you to the mental health zoo; Force feed you mind-melting chemicals; Til even the outside world looks great,” when suddenly, the asylum wall exploded, and from the miserable outside world emerged Tipper Gore, riding upon a military grade tank, labeled PMRC.
“The Parents Music Resource Center has finally found you Jello,” Tipper shouted, “You have spread punk rock for the last time!”
Jello got on his hands and knees and shouted, “Nooooooo! I just wanted to help out the retards!” A PMRC agent walked over and roundhouse kicked Jello in the jaw, knocking him out instantly.
When Jello awoke he was sitting in a cramped prison cell with no view of the outside. He stood up in a daze and stumbled toward the bars where he could see a prison guard engaging in the consumption of illicit materials while on the job. How shocking! “Where am I?” Jello mumbled.
The prison guard stood up and slapped Jello across his already aching jaw. “You’re in Alcatraz biiiiiiiitch.”
“Noooooo!” Jello shouted.
The guard laughed maniacally. He picked Jello up by his collar, spun him around several times until his linear velocity neared, but did not exceed, the speed of sound, then released him, sending him flying several hundred feet into the mess hall, where he only stopped because he crashed into and utterly destroyed a set of foldable tables alongside the wall.
Jello was dazed but not unconscious, and when he regained his senses, he saw none other than Al Capone towering menacingly above him. “Eyy!,” Al shouted, “I’m walking here!”
Jello simply moved out of Al’s way, but little did he know, this was Al Capone’s secret signal to his cronies to beat the shit out of someone. Before Jello knew it, he was surrounded on all sides by Capone’s nefarious henchman, on the receiving end of all the punches and kicks in the world. Just as Jello felt his vision fading and he felt satan’s warm comforting grasp, Prince swung in from the ceiling on a grappling hook, taking out all of Al Capone’s henchmen in one foul swoop. Prince landed heroically with his arms folded. Standing behind him were fourteen other musicians.
“Jello,” Prince asked, “Are you okay?”
Even though Jello had just been on the brink of death, he stood up, unscathed. “Prince! What are you doing here?”
“I’m glad you ask,” Prince replied, “I think we’re both in quite the pickle.”
“You’ve been targeted by the PMRC?”
“Precisely. Now I and the other members of the filthy fifteen are going to try to escape, and we want your help!”
“How are we going to escape?”
“We’ve recruited the help of two experienced inmates who say they’ll help us.”
“Who?” Jello inquired.
“They’re brothers, named John and Clarence Anglin.”
Suddenly Al Capone showed up again, but this time he was really angry. His face was red, and he was breathing heavily. Some even say you could see steam pouring forth from his ears. “I’m walkin’ here!”
The filthy fifteen immediately sprung into action. AC/DC played a super radical guitar riff, sending Al Capone flying. He crashed through a window, collided with several seagulls, and eventually found a place in the icy cold waters of the San Francisco bay. Jello and Axl Rose high-fived, sending shockwaves of hope throughout the San Francisco bay area.
“Now let’s get down to business,” said Prince. He called out the Anglins. “John and Clarence here are good swimmers, so when we escape from here we’ll all swim on their backs.”
“I see nothing wrong with that,” Jello replied.
“Good, then let’s get to it.”
The eighteen walked out Alcatraz’s front door. John and Clarence got into the freezing water, and each allowed for eight people to ride on their backs. They swam at lightning speed, and in less than five seconds had arrived at San Francisco’s shore.
“How can we ever thank you for your help?” Prince asked the Anglins.
“It’s no skin off our backs,” said Clarence.
“Yes,” explained John, “We have a friend named Tupac in Cuba who’s going to give us a nice place to stay.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Prince said.
They all hugged each other, and probably cried too, I don’t know. Overall it was an emotional moment, and then the Anglins left, and they immediately went back to feeling absolutely nothing.
“Now what do we do?” Jello asked.
“Good question,” said Prince. He looked down at the ground, where there happened to be a sewer grate, even though they were on a sandy beach. Prince knelt down, ripped the sewer cover off with his bare hands, then tossed it several miles away like a frisbee. “Down here.” He and the other members of the filthy fifteen leapt into the sewer, and Jello followed along. He slid through several miles of pipes, until he emerged inside a super secret base, with all the blinking lights and everything.
“What is this place,” Jello asked curiously.
“This,” explained Prince, “Is the main base of the No More Censorship Defense Fund, also known as the NMCDF. We have branch bases, but this is our main headquarters. Here we spend every waking moment of our lives fighting the PMRC. You may know them as the Parents Music Resource Center, but the only name they’re known by here is People Making Retarded Choices.”
Meanwhile in the PMRC headquarters, Tipper Gore feels the shockwave of hope and enlightenment that was released by Jello and Axl’s super rad high-five. She is infuriated, because she knows that with their escape, she and the PMRC have already lost.
Now, with their greatest enemy angered, what awaits the NMCDF? Will they succeed against the corrupt PMRC? Find out in the next chapter of Jello Biafra VS the Forces of Corruption!