Love and a .45!

"Wax my anus!" screams Courtney Love, before hurling herself out of the window of the cab, naked. I look back, my eyes all white at the edges like a dog's when it's scared. She's rolling and rolling down the motorway, arms tightly by her sides.

"Gods, man. Drive" I mutter to the driver, my mouth dry, pressing a crisp fiver against the plexiglass booth seperation pane, so his swarthy eyes can absorb its information.

His eyes narrow to swarthy slits, but he drives, accelerating and smoothly transitioning to a higher gear, 'G'.

There is a wet thump on the window. I turn, already beginning to scream before I start turning, so that the sound I make is like this: [head at 0?]"aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH"[head at 45?]

Courtney's rubbery face is pressed against the window, eyeballs pushed straight up against the glass, bulbous, like wet eggs. She is keeping pace with the car. I pull out my Glock and let off a double salvo. The glass snicks into a fine web of lines; I cannot see whether Courtney has been hit or not.

"Just drive!" I scream to the driver. We thrust off into the night.

Many years later I moved to Toronto to escape Courtney.

Peldren Meatowl, NME, May 2001

Peldren Meatowl (l) with Courtney Love