gene simmons'
death controversy

a work of fiction by: winston fleishbinder
punk rock magazine - winter 1978

the startling truth behind gene simmons death controversy.
all the facts revealed!

with great satisfaction, the smiling, cigar-chomping men watched the infant playing innocently on the floor of the heavily carpeted recording studio.

"it worked," gloated bill, taking a swig of orange juice.

"good," replied gene. "you say it will be as big as an adult in a few weeks?"

"you bet," said bill. "this thing has its chromosomes, or genes, or whatever the fidget you say is inside it altered, so's it'll be as big as you are in about a month."

"looks just like me," said gene. he stopped to tenderly fondle the fragile infant, so calm and quiet on the floor.

"wrong," said a voice from out in the hallway. a moment passed, and a kindly looking professor stepped into the studio. "it is you. right down to the fingernails. for you see, mr. simmons, this clone is an exact duplicate of yourself. when you--er--leave us in a few weeks, it--er--will step right into your shoes and take over the act."

"heh, heh," grunted bill. "lucky for us this clone business was all perfected. now the fans'll never know we played the old switcheroo on them. they want kiss, they'll get kiss."

"and no one is any the wiser," finished gene. "that certainly is an excellent idea you had, bill, this cloning, i mean."

"righto," bill turned to the professor. "and you, palsy, would do well to assure us that no one past this room finds out about this one clone."

"you have my assurances," said the professor.

"good," said bill. with that, the rather portly manager produced a leather briefcase stuffed to the brim with one hundred dollar bills and handed them to the professor.

"if i were you, i'd have these greenbacks converted to swiss francs on the double. they'll be worth ten percent less tomorrow."

"thanks, bill," said the professor. they shook hands on the deal, and the professor made ready to leave.

unbeknownst to all concern, these rather dubious transactions were being recorded by the rock magazine tape recorder which was cleverly concealed under the floor. out in the hall, ace reporters arthur fledgenheimer and feather o'toole were listening on their short wave wrist bugging devices.

"gee willickers!" blurted arthur, "ya mean to tell me that gene simmons is terminally ill, and they've made a clone out of him!?"

"uh-huh," gasped feather, "this is almost beyond belief! we better call the home office right away. this seems to be bigger than the both of us!"

feather jerked up, but her large breasts got caught in the wires and she fell to the floor with a resounding crash. grabbing hold of her, arthur managed to get her to her feet. he reached around her with both hands to steady her.

"clumsy of me," said feather.

"that's alright. lets just hope we get to the rock mansion before anything new happens!"

moments later, the excited pair were aboard a speeding cab to rock magazine's plush offices. "ah, come on, just one kiss," begged arthur. the memory of the twin mounds of voluptuous flesh was still fresh in his memory. he inserted his sticky fingers underneath feather's protuberant rump and gave a healthy squeeze.

"hey! what's the big idea?" demanded feather, although she squirmed into a more accessible position.

"sorry, toots," said arthur, "i'll save it for later."

meanwhile back at the recording studio, the infant was receiving the beating of its life. everytime the fat governess delivered a blow to the infants rump, gene simmons winced in pain.

"ouch!" he blurted. "go easy on that clone, will ya?"

"nein, mein herr," said the governess. "dis babee here must needs a good beatink iffin he is to learn to play mit guitar, ja?"

"i guess so," said the confused rock star, "only how's it supposed to learn to play guitar? it's--er--i'm only a baby."

"not so!" came a strident voice from the foyer, and in walked the professor, with a riding crop in hand. "you will be approximately fifteen years old tomorrow and you better know how to play guitar by then, or we might have to reclone you for one that's smarter."

gene rubbed his sore bottom, where they had removed several cell samples a few weeks ago. "uh-uh, professor, no more clones out of this rear."

"then we take cells from brain, maybe?"

the professor immediately began to thrash the recalcitrant infant severely with the flexible crop, as the terrified clone squalled in terror."

"pick op der guitar! play mit it!" demanded the governess.


within minutes, the strains of cold gin began to waft through the rather fetid air of the studio. the terrified clone was stamping and playing the guitar for it's life.

"ah! so!" said the professor with great satisfaction. "the memory transfer process has taken effect. see how this little baby now knows everything the first gene simmons knows. it worked."

"i want a cigar," said the infant.

"give him a cigar," demanded gene simmons. "if i want a cigar, i'll get one. give him a cigar or i'll take off my makeup and show the cleaning lady what i look like!"

"anything but that!" shrieked bill. the terrified manager produced a big, fat, havana from his breast pocket, bit off the tip, lit it with a cartier lighter and handed it to the infant, who was now playing every song on the destroyer album with great proficiency. the clone took the cigar and puffed it until he turned blue in the face.

"nice little clone, isn't he?" said gene, beaming with something akin to fatherly pride.

"i ain't no clone," said the infant, "i'm you, and i know everything you know, and what's more, there's one too many of us." with that, the infant delivered a crippleing kick to gene simmons' serpent-covered foot.

"yowwww!" shrieked simmons.

"nasty babee!" said the governess, who immediately began to beat the screaming clone over the head with a stick, while simultaneously grabbing for it's head.

"not the head! don't hit it on the head!" screamed the professor.

"miserable little cretin," said gene, and with that he stalked out of the room.

"wonderful!" beamed bill. "too bad i had to give it a five dollar cigar..."

at the offices of rock, arthur fledenheimer and feather o'toole anxiously waited outside the editor's office with their astounding tale.

"what the hell's keeping those editors?" demanded artur.

"this is no time for waiting, it's time for action!" said feather. she pushed open the door of the heavily guarded editorial office and beheld all three editors attempting to balance a vibrating rubber dildo on the record turntable.

"what the -"

"what is going on here?!" demanded the editor in chief. "can't you imbeciles see we're busy?!?

"sorry, chief," began arthur.

"don't call me chief!" screamed the boss. "how many times have i told you never--"

"wait!" said feather. "you'll thank me for telling me this. gene simmons from kiss is almost dead, and they're replacing him with a clone! and they have to beat the clone with a stick to make him play! and the man who cloned him is none other than--"

"professor dark!" finished the chief, who was now all ears. "i might have known! so that explains why they won't let those guys take off their makeup. they don't want anybody to notice the switch when they replace the real gibbons."

"that's simmons," interrupted feather.

"right, as i said, simians with that clone."

"professor dark," said murray, who had gotten up off the floor and shut off the dildo. "wasn't he the one who called with a ufo sighting yesterday? he said that men with fish-tails kidnapped his father and were cursing at him in bad french."

"no, that was professor cruel," said the chief, "but it's an honest mistake. professor dark is the one that performed the hair transplant on bud abbot..."

"and turned him into a functional imbecile by mistake!" finished heather. "i see all fits."

"fits?" shrieked murray. "fits? not more fits? don't ever say fits!" with that, the neurotic editor began to writhe and gyrate on the floor, in extremely forceful spasms."

"wait, get the camera," said arthur.

the chief put on the soundtrack to saturday night fever and began shooting frame after frame with his motor drive.

"i'm afraid the situation is out of control," said feather gravely.

"get me rewrite...on the double," and so the tale began to take form in print.

"we've got to save gene simmons from professor dark. he's a butcher."

"he's beyond saving, buckaroos," came a voice over the loud speaker system concealed in the wall. it was the publisher.

well, there you have it. the sinister dr. dark had manipulated gene simmons until he ended up on the cloning room floor. now there is a false simmons in kiss, and he is playing strange music to your young ears.

study him, and know the truth.

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