Salammbâ

It's a story 'bout war(t)(s), blood(s), guts, fur and furs, and disco songs. It takes place in a small pub in a small town in a small-towned world. It's as disgusting as Grandma's dinner. Plenty of gall, a full dose of venom poured over it but we are still legends. When other (castrated, oh-my-omega) wolves are howling in front of their glass of beer, we stand up, we stand out from that one-man crowd, careless and free like the wind in summertime. We hate bikes, we play dykes, we are. We love songs, we're a love song, éternelle ritournelle. But the bitter voice of those who misunderstand their own life, shouts. We outshout. Hell, and heaven, yeah!

If Zoo number forty-nine doesn't propel us straight to cloud nine, we'll be happy to lay on cloud eight. Angela Lindvall by Bryan Adams is enough to keep quiet our megalomaniac eyes on that red morning.