2009-03-11, 11:52 PM
Note:
[SPOILERRichard Weaton, Black Metal Legend""]"Richard Wheaton, Black Metal Legend"
A bell sounded and rang out through the tired maze of cubicles located in the offices of Mayard & Packett, LLP. It was the sound which signified the end of shifts, but to the firm’s humbled employees, it served a much greater purpose: it was the signal which brought them their daily bouts of freedom; to live apart from the corporate mechanisms of which their rapidly-advancing society so craved. To Richard Wheaton, the firm’s collator: this was no different.
Richard strolled about the office, making conversation with coworkers he knew as friends. Though not at all the outgoing type, he was arguably the easiest person in the firm to speak with; someone who would respect your thoughts as he did his own. He was also known to recite the dumb joke which could dispel the most awkward of silences. Richard proceeded towards the entrance, mindful in the quickness in his steps.
The traffic had been mercifully scarce as he rode the highway back to Cranston. It took no more than a quarter of an hour to reach the simple burgundy one-story house he so gratefully referred to as his own. He was greeted by the raspy purr of his cat and his wife’s snug embrace. Stroking his cheek, she reminded him to pick up a bag of cat food before he left for the gig. Richard gathered his equipment and again made his leave.
His heart fluttered against his seatbelt as he thought of what might unfold that night. For as long back as he’d been a singer, he had always adored performing; unlike many so-called “artists” of his day: ego-driven and/or money-hungry opportunists with no real love of their craft. Richard arrived at the venue 30-minutes early; plenty of time for him to get ready.
In the restroom, he began his preparations. From a leather pouch, he withdrew two containers. He dipped his hands in the first and applied the white, pasty substance to his face, covering it in the stuff. He then reached into the second container and once more applied the substance inside; this time: a smooth cream of obsidian. With his fingertips he created intricate designs amongst the matte white skin. Satisfied, he removed a suit of dark leather armor from a larger sack and donned it. Richard looked in the mirror with a grin, though not in the manner which many of his acquaintances might expect of him. No, this was sinister; this was impure. It was time for the show. The massive hall of the venue seemed impossibly black as he joined his bandmates on stage.
The scene of the hall flashed ablaze. From the speaker burst brooding melodies comparable only to orchestras of the deepest pits in Hell itself, then met with roars of both obsessed reverie and mindless frenzy. Richard clutched the microphone to his lips and met the audience’s screams with ones much deeper, and to the fiendish rhythms, grunted stories of all things macabre; of all things obscene; of the feasts of cannibals; of civilian slaughter; of decomposition in human corpses…no subject was sacred.
An audience member was carried off by paramedics, who had been beaten to the point of near-death in a mosh pit. To this, Richard only laughed. To him, the two most obvious signs of the band’s success were men in stretchers and women revealing their breasts; the latter of which occurred several times throughout the night.
During the instrumental inspired by Cannibal Holocaust, he felt it the appropriate opportunity to attempt a stage-dive. With a run and a jump, he submitted his mercy to the sea of hands holding him below, cackling all the way.
“Man, I really don’t want to go to work tomorrow”, he thought to himself.