a year in stories::forty nine

So this is for Michael and Kyle and for metal.

Long Arms and No Beard

The first time I heard the Sex Pistols I shaved my head and eyebrows. I thought it was important I stop looking like other people. I also threw my guitar away. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from hearing how awful those guys could make instruments sound. I was thirteen and music was ruined for me.

Metal. All I needed was metal. I stole a mixing board and tore out all the guitar of all the albums I ever listened to. Bass blasting beats into me, drums rattling my soul. No guitar.

There’s something about guitar I hate. I hate the way it whines. I hate strings. I hate strings and the way they weep. I need music to be brutal. To rattle and shake my soul. My heart. I want to hear my blood vessels disintegrate and hold on as my veins splinter and leak through my body. My lungs corrode and I explode.

When I grew a beard I shaved that too. I shaved every inch of my body. My brothers look like gorillas but I turned my skin to ink and shaved everything away, eradicating all the follicles. Fifteen and I was bald from toe to skull. No one would tattoo my skin so I stole lighters and pens and carved the words and images I wanted to live with forever into my own skin. It hurt like hell but now I have all my teenage heart etched seven layers deep.

After that I fled life. Picked up and ran away. My parents were cool about it, didn’t even file a report or look for me.

I went underground and took all the metal with me. I turned brutal and lean, fighting alligators for sport deep in the sewers and bowels of the city. I made an axe and cut the demons apart to a soundtrack of my own bloodbeats and it will forever on be known as metal. As the only metal that matters.

When I emerged, eighteen and brutal and hairless and inked so deep, I killed all the other bands claiming metal for their genre. I stole their souls and ate their necks. And then I murdered guitars. I murdered every last guitar on earth with my  brutal growl and then I ate the strings of every instrument still balls enough to have them. Gone were orchestras and anything made of wood. I needed metal and I surrounded myself with drums.

But it wasn’t enough to have five drums pentagrammed around me. I needed to look still stranger, brutaler, metaler. I grew my arms longer. They stretched on and on until they passed my knees. And then my fingers grazed the ground and I knew I was ready.

I set the world on fire with my metal. My arms too long and the world burnt to fire with my metal. Every word I spoke and growled and yelled and sang was brutal. Reverberating through the air, splintering the sky, and shattering souls. I tore music apart and left only a mountain of metal.

A metal tempered by rage and my unending love of all that is brutal and dangerous.

I spit out snakes and drink fires. I swallowed the sky and pissed out the oceans now acidic and horrifying. You can smell the rot ot marine life as the blastbeats of my heart of my five drums always double pedalling, always raging, breaks all that is and was. I am music.

I am all that will ever be remembered.

I murdered the music of the past and ensured a stillborn future of song.

No one can stop me and my too long arms ripping sonic landscapes from the sky and future and past and replacing them with my metal mountain, brutal and jagged.

One day I’ll grow a beard and live on that mountain whittling guitars back into existence. When I’m ready I’ll accept Death and give you music back.

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