Don’t let the name fool you, Postwar loves to kill. Boom. Snipe. And it’s another shorty head shot. But these days, it’s not shortys he’s stalking, it’s dawgs — and he’s got a whole crew full of ’em. And by crew, I — and Postwar — mean hit list. For Postwar is, on Whole Crew Fulla Dawgs, a hit man. And sometimes a hit man has a list of his own.
It all started when Postwar was driving around Winnipeg in his whip (a Kia Rio), running errands. He’d needed more supplies — rope, a bone saw, garden sheers; the usual — from the Canadian Tire on Leila, and, as he was parking, there was — let’s say — an accident. (However, if I am to speak straight facts, then it could well have been because of the juice that Postwar keeps in the glove box.) In Postwar’s version of events, a man named Rajesh damaged the front right fender. Rajesh, Postwar knew, would need to be on the top of the list.
But there were others, too. He’d lent a leather jacket to a friend and this friend returned it full of so many cigarette butt burn holes it was more hole than jacket. Tit for tat, thought Postwar, and he put the friend on the list.
Starting any project is usually the hardest part. And hit lists are no different. And once you start one, it’s hard to stop. You begin to look for anything — any slight, any snide comment, any affront — as justification, and then that person’s on the list. In this way, name after name, friend after friend, dawg after dawg was added. Until the list became very long and very unwieldy.
Postwar knew that the only person who could help him in this respect was Frances, who liked to be known as the “angel of death.” Postwar was good, but Frances, played by Xvnny, was on a whole ‘nother level. And Postwar gave Frances licence to do them in as he saw fit. Put their head in a blender, for all I care, he said. Frances was such a good killer that when his mother started to dilate upon his birth, he punched through the cervex causing her to instantly bleed out. Frances, quite literally, was born to kill. Frances likes to wear cleats when he curb stomps ’em. He’ll burn down houses. He’ll use poison. He’ll kill someone in rush hour traffic — in broad daylight — and get away with ease. His disposal policy is a strict six-foot deep hole — no more, no less. Hell, he’ll even shoot himself in the face if that means the bullet enters the brain of his ex-girlfriend.
• • •
To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
• • •
Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
