I’m at the mall and can’t hear shit. My dollar store earbuds are blaring tinny death metal. It’s all just a perpetual eeee without them. I swear I blew out my eardrums years ago. Dozens of concerts right up against the PAs will do that for you. I just pop a couple of B9 pills every day. I have a special-order LP to pick up at the record store. Fuck it, I’m here for a short time, both literally and metaphorically.
An overweight dude in a Pantera shirt is coming my way. Cargo pants, stained crew socks, and dirty black Vans complemented with a denim vest adorned with numerous patches. I think he sees me. Well, probably my Death shirt. It’s always giving me undue attention. The red, jagged logo and the old pastor “blessing” the invalid in the wheelchair. It’s hilarious, but the riffs go hard as fuck. But the shirt is more than an emblem of my passions.
It’s a hand-me-down from my dead brother, Roy. He got me into this music early in life, like 8 years old. I’m only 16 so it’s been half my life. It’s been worn so much, that the white is browning in spots. Mainly the bear claw-looking shred on the right shoulder. My first circle pit. A badge of honor. Maybe I could get a sick skull tattoo there when I’m of age.
Oh, man, I miss my brother. He was always a magnet for pain and adrenaline. I can smell his sweat near the armpits still. You’d think someone as buff and energetic as he was wouldn’t have died shooting up drugs. His band broke up right after the funeral. He was Chuck Schuldiner in my eyes. I hope one day I can shred like him. I know he spends his days drinking beer, watching motorcycle stunts, and pit tickets for Dio shows up there in Metal Valhalla.
Oh, shit. Forgot about this dude in the Pantera shirt. Wouldn’t be surprised if he comes up to me and…
Yo, cool shirt. Name 3 songs.
Oh, no…there it is.
He smells like Taco Bell and car oil. The guy in a mosh pit that’s slow, waiting for smaller dudes like me to get close, just to shove you like a human bowling ball with corn-fed strength. I try to sidestep, but he bounds over with surprising agility. He’s huffing out of his mouth with the simplest of movements. Jeez, maybe lay off the Cheesy Gordita Crunches, my guy?
Ew, we make eye contact. He’s got a few missing teeth in his yellowed sneer, a ratty mullet, and asymmetrical brown eyes. I can’t stop staring at his forearm with a “hot” pinup model tattoo that looks more like a blow-up doll. We’re by the fountain, which has a skylight overhead. A golden sunbeam splays onto the floor. It is an omen, a battlefield issued by the Metal Gods.
I say I’m listening to Mayhem if that counts. The dude snorts and crosses his hairy arms. Oh, now you gotta tell me 3 songs by BOTH!
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, here we go. Two metalheads dusting up in a suburban mall. I am suddenly shoved by the dude and my earbuds pop out from the push. The world returns to eeee. This pisses me off and I start seething. People are noticing. Grimaced parents in their pastel khakis and polos shoo their kids away. It feels like a galactic vacuum is pulling me inside myself. I think of Roy, what he would do.
I plug my ears again from the scary world. Turning up the volume, the song I love by Lamb of God plays next. Perfect timing. The world becomes mine to manipulate. I lift my arms and conjure fire around me. I flex my arms and watch my muscles pump and bulge to inhuman proportions. My forehead cracks as volcanic horns sprout forth. It’s the power of Thor and Satan. And I’d like to think Roy is part of it, too.
Now this motherfucker has something to die for!
I flick an ethereal butterfly knife and scratch him up a bit. He staggers back after hearing 3 songs by Death. The knife morphs into an obsidian broadsword so I hack away. 3 songs again by Mayhem. I lop off his arm and the artery spits blood in plumes. I am in a blind rage, deaf to his pleas for mercy. The ground quakes before me and I lift a diamond war hammer. It looks like one from a GWAR show. Each swing is a beat with the chorus. In seconds, the dude is a bloody pulp. His teeth fly out and clatter on the ground. An eyeball, too! Fuck yeah!
A bulge in my crotch forms, but it’s a devilish revolver. Rare studio recordings are in the chamber. I produce it and aim for the cavity that is his blubbering stomach. The impacts would make any human puke. Finally, a giant bazooka descends from the heavens, crafted by CDs and cassettes. The missile is a purple, flying-V guitar, Roy’s guitar. As the breakdown shudders my crippled eardrums, I launch it. The dude explodes into ground beef. Pieces of him plop into the fountain, staining the water red.
The fire quells and my body returns to stasis. I watch my earbuds and iPod fall and dissolve into the ether. There is no longer an eeee, just the calming silence of my breath. A shadow now covers the fray. I look up to the skylight and there’s Roy! Wearing a black beater and torn jeans, he has white, angel wings protruding from his back. He smiles and nods before flying into the clouds. I reach out to him on the verge of tears, but he’s a speck in no time.
I plop onto my ass and survey the slaughter. There is no way any janitor on earth would clean this shit up. But then there is a gurgling from beneath the surprisingly intact vest. It takes my breath away, despite it all. A pair of conjoined eyes rise from the marinara sauce that is his remains. A hand, too, locked in postmortem devil horns. As the gore bubbles, a sentence is formed with pops. 3 distinct, comprehensible words.
Hell yeah, brother!
Josh Dale is a native Pennsylvanian and the author of the novella, The Light to Never Be Snuffed, and the poetry collection, Duality Lies Beneath. He hopes you read this outside, far away from society, and maybe with a cat. Say hi at joshdale.co
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