Metallus blinked into existence.

“I’m back,” he said. At least, that’s what he tried to say, but his mouth was full of primordial ooze, which was less of a surprise to him this time.

He took a step forward and stuck out his claw to break the gelatinous seal on his birthing pod. As it tore, the ooze rushed out and splatted wetly onto the floor.

He stepped out through the slit and immediately fell to his knees and vomited up the remaining goo.

After he remembered how to breathe again, Metallus stood shakily on his skinny new red legs. He saw that he was in a standard-issue birthing chamber with a vertical womb built into the wall, a drain in the rough stone floor, and a black curtain on the wall opposite the womb. Beside the curtain, in a small alcove in the wall, was the usual welcome package that accompanied all new births. He ignored it as he knew from last time that it was useless.

He was not surprised to notice that he could see the floor quite clearly through his feet. In fact, he could see through himself no matter what part of his body he looked at. That was normal at this stage.

Metallus took a deep breath and pulled aside the curtain. On the other side was a nondescript stone corridor, its floor well worn over many millennia of ongoing use. Demons of all shapes and sized walked, crawled, squirmed, oozed, rolled, hopped, extended pseudopods, slithered, and used any other available means of locomotion to move from place to place across it. One dragged itself along on its own huge, sticky tongue. Another, a large, roughly-hewn, rectangular chunk of living rock, sat on top of a bed of rolling logs, whipping his minions while they pushed him along, repeatedly moving the rear log back up to the front as quickly as they could.

Of these, Metallus was easily the smallest demon. And the most translucent. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’d better report in.”

After a rather harrowing walk through corridors and elevators full of demons much larger and more solid than him, Metallus finally arrived at check-in. The trip was easier this time, as he already knew his way around from his last visit. Also, he didn’t have to rely on the map included in the aforementioned welcome package, which had the fifth and twentieth levels printed in reverse for the express purpose of fucking up the newbies.

The check-in area was comprised of a long, black counter with a series of disconcerting-looking devices along the front.

Each was essentially a small alcove in the stone with organic, fleshy, veiny walls on three sides. Inside the alcoves, hanging from the ceiling, were three spindly, boney arms, which looked like they had actually grown there. This is because they had. The arms also looked to be very good at probing parts that many beings prefer to have left unprobed. This is because they were.

Metallus approached the nearest available alcove. A horizontal slit opened up in the back of it, revealing horrible, pointy teeth and a tongue.

“Welcome to Hell,” said the mouth. “Please step into the scanner for identification.”

“I am Metallus!” said Metallus. “Scourge of the Deepest Jungles of the Land Beyond the Great Plains! Feared and Revered Death God of the Oong’akluk Tribe!”

“That’s nice. Step into the scanner.”

Metallus sighed, slouched, and did as he was told. Two of the arms grabbed him tightly while the third did its horrible, horrible business.

Metallus could have sworn that he saw the mouth grin. It definitely licked what would have been its lips, if it had any.

After a not-brief-enough prodding, the mouth once again spoke. “You are indeed Metallus,” it said. “But a Death God you are not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Oong’akluk Tribe died out over seven thousand years ago. You have come back due to the miracle of archaeology.”

“The what of whataeology?” asked Metallus.

“Archaeology,” the mouth repeated. “Your long-dead believers left a small legacy which modern archaeologists have just discovered.”

“Excellent,” said Metallus. “This Archa-whoever Tribe will soon worship me like their predecessors. And I will once again become strong and fearsome!”

The scanner decided that it really wasn’t in the mood to break the revived demon’s palpable enthusiasm right then, so it just got on with its job. It opened up a soft, goo-coated cavity in its side and spit out some papers. “Please report to Archdemon Horax on the thirty-fifth level.”

“Thirty-fifth,” said Metallus, mortified. “But that means I’ll be in—”

“Technical support,” said the mouth.

“Goddammit,” said Metallus, taking the papers. “I really am in Hell.”

After another journey through corridors and elevators, Metallus arrived in Hell’s Technical Support department. He walked to the front desk and looked up at the blue, blobby thing sitting behind it.

“I am Metallus!” said Metallus. “Scourge of Technical Support!”

The thing leaned over the top of the desk and looked down at the tiny, reddish, see-through, horned deity.

“Papers?”

Metallus handed them over.

“I’ll notify Horax that you’ve arrived,” said the thing. “In the meantime, go through that door and find G’BroagFran The Mighty. He’ll be your new supervisor.”

“G’BroagFran the Mighty?” asked Metallus. “Not the G’BroagFran the Mighty!”

The blobby blue thing moved a contractile vacuole in the same sort of way that you might raise a single eyebrow.

“The G’BroagFran the Mighty who invented that worm that swims up your penis, attaches itself, and sucks your blood?”

“I guess,” said the thing.

“We used to hang out,” Metallus said. “One time, he had so many followers it was crazy. For a laugh, I snuck into this baby right at the moment of conception, ate its soul and took over. Then, when the body got older, I made up this other demon. I called him, like, ‘The Great Gajoobi’ or something idiotic like that, and I started my own church and got a bunch of G’BroagFran’s followers to believe in Gajoobi instead. So, of course, Gajoobi comes into existence and is just a total dick since I had all those suckers perceive him that way. So G’BroagFran gets all pissed off and goes on this rampage, disemboweling all of Gajoobi’s followers, AND THEN, at the last minute, I jump out and I’m all like ‘Surprise! It’s me!’ and then we fed on the wailing souls of the disemboweled. Serves them right, I say, turning their backs on G’BroagFran like that. Oh, man—we laughed our asses off about that one.”

The thing sat there, waiting patiently for Metallus to wrap it up. Once he did, it said, “Well, now he’s your boss. In there.” It extended a pseudopod toward the Technical Support area.

Metallus sighed and walked through the door. He found G’BroagFran and they had a pleasant greeting, but G’BroagFran was too busy running a department to really have a proper reunion.

“Here’s your cubicle,” said G’BroagFran. “You’re not a newbie, so no point in wasting time training. Here’s your headset; there’s your phone. Enjoy.”

Metallus sighed again, climbed onto his chair, strapped on his headset, and took his first call.

“Thank you for calling Hell Technical Support, this is Metallus. How can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah…” came a low, hoarse voice. “My thing isn’t working.”

“Pardon?”

“My…thing. The red thing.”

“Can you be more specific?” Metallus asked.

“You know, the thing I poke with.”

“What level are you calling from?”

Metallus heard a rustling, then heard the voice again, muffled this time. “Dude, what level are we on?”

Another, quieter voice said, “Twenty Eight.”

“Twenty Eight,” said the rasper.

“OK. Twenty eight,” said Metallus, trying to remember what happened on the twenty-eighth plane of Hell. “So, you’re talking about your trident.”

“I guess.”

“The thing you use to jab the souls of the damned?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” said Metallus. “What seems to be wrong with it?”

“Well…I poke them, but they just stand there and look at me.” The rasper said. “The other guys poke them and they scream like stuck pigs!”

“Are you using the right end?”

“Whaddya mean?”

Metallus rubbed his temples. This was going to be a long shift. “There’s two ends, right? One has three points on it. The other is just, like, a stick, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You have to poke them with the end that has the three points.”

There was a pause, followed by a raspy “Are you sure?”

“Seriously. Try it.”

“OK, but I don’t think that’s it.”

“Humor me,” said Metallus, barely containing his annoyance.

“One sec,” said the rasper.

Another pause followed, during which Metallus heard a blood-curdling scream.

“Hey, that was it!” the rasper said. “Thanks!”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Metallus said. “And thank you for calling Technical Support!”

And so it went for the rest of his shift, which lasted over twenty-four years, since demons don’t sleep, eat, shit, or drink coffee.

One day, though, Metallus suddenly began to experience a sensation of weightlessness, and his headset fell right through him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said.

He wafted above the floor to G’BroagFran’s office and passed effortlessly through the door. “Uh, G’BroagFran?” he said.

G’BroagFran was sitting, frowning at his computer monitor. “Yeah?” he asked, looking up.

“I’m fading,” said Metallus faintly.

“Huh. So you are. Gimme a second.”

G’BroagFran poked at his touch screen and pulled up all the latest information on Metallus. “Hmmm,” he said. “It appears that the archaeologist who wrote about you has died.”

“But I’m still here. Sort of.”

“That’s because there are still people who have read his book, which is terrible, by the way.” G’BroagFran paused, then peered over his glasses. “Not a lot of them, and they don’t actually believe in you, but the idea is still there. They likely don’t even remember your name.”

“So what do I do? I’m too incorporeal to take calls.”

The computer display changed.

“Ah, there are new orders coming in now,” G’BroagFran said, reading. “You’re to report to a huge, creepy old house in Scotland. You’re supposed to stay in the attic, and then float down the big spiral staircase at precisely 3:26 am every day, at which point you’re to float directly into the picture of the old guy at the bottom of the stairs and disappear. Then you float up through the wall back to your waiting area in the attic.”

Metallus hung there, astonished. “I’m a ghost?”

“Ghost, apparition, phantom, whatever,” said G’BroagFran. “Seems like a standard haunting.”

“But…I want to be a demon!” Metallus protested. “I used to be bigger than the trees! Mortals worshiped and feared me and I devoured their souls! You remember!”

“Yeah, yeah. Good times. But at least you’re here, right? I mean, you were gone for, what? Six thousand years? Things are different now, is all.”

“But…a fucking ghost? Nobody worships ghosts. They’re just pale, floaty things.”

G’BroagFran raised an eyebrow at the pale, floaty thing in front of him. “Yeah, well, that’s what the customers want this millennia. Demons are out. Ghosts are in. Actually, little grey space men with a penchant for mechanized anal rape are in, but you gotta take what you can get, I guess.”

“I guess,” said Metallus, crestfallen. “Well…Scotland it is, then. Catch you later.”

And Scotland it was.

Metallus, however, didn’t get to wander the moors, eat haggis, or toss cabers (through things) as he had hoped. He didn’t even get to stop by and talk to an old reptilian buddy who was on assignment in a small lake there, freaking out the local drunks. He simply found himself floating around a disused attic waiting for 3:26 am to arrive. When it did, he followed his instructions precisely to the letter.

Every night for six months he wafted gently down the staircase, into the painting and back up to the attic to wait. Luckily for him, supernatural beings don’t get bored. They do, however, get slowly less real as they languish in a lack of human attention.

One night, though, during his regular waft, he spotted something unusual. A person. A mortal person. Apparently someone had a bit too much to drink earlier that night and had to leave the comfort of his bed to let the ale out.

The person spotted Metallus, who was shimmering vaguely in the air. He stopped, squinted, and blinked. Metallus floated toward and then directly through the pitiful mortal who stood there, eyes wide with fear, his trip to the bathroom no longer necessary.

Metallus immediately felt a bit more corporeal. He would have smiled had there been enough of him to do so.

For the next six years, Metallus found an increase in the frequency of humans on the stairway during his nightly waft. Some came with devices that measured sound waves or air pressure. Most came with devices which did nothing except blink cool-looking lights whenever the user secretly pressed a button in the handle.

All of them, eventually, ran away screaming.

Metallus began to feel much better. He was gradually becoming more solid and changing to look like the old man in the picture. Obviously, mortals believed him to be the ghost of the man. He was even getting used to the idea of being a ghost instead of a demon. Maybe if enough people began to believe, he’d get upgraded to Ghastly Apparition. Or even Wraith.

He could end up holding his own head under his arm, with gore spouting from his neck-hole! Hell yeah, he thought. That’d be the life.

And that’s when things got weird.

Floating in the attic late one night, Metallus began to feel strange. Like he wasn’t himself. He sensed another presence in the room—a not unfamiliar presence.

3:26 rolled around and off he went down the stairway. Three people waited for him at the bottom this time. As he rounded the corner, they gasped and took on the usual humanly astonished look when they saw him.

Then Metallus stopped floating, while somehow simultaneously continuing to float. He fell to the stairs and stood there on solid feet. Yet, he looked up and saw himself, pale and billowy and hovering. Also, he continued to float and looked back to see himself standing there, looking less like the old man in the painting and more like his old solid self, red and horned.

“What the fuck?” his two selves asked each other. Then he remembered that he had a job to do, and continued down the stairs. This worked out much better for the ghost part than the demon part, which leaned forward and promptly went tumbling down the stairs and into the terrified onlookers.

Metallus jumped to his feet and looked to his other self in time to see it disappear into the painting. He spun around, hissed at the puny mortals, and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

He found himself back in G’BroagFran’s office. “What the fuck?” he said again, this time to his chuckling boss.

“Ah, there you are,” said G’BroagFran. “I just got word to expect you. It looks like you’ve got followers again.”

“I—what?”

“Followers,” G’BroagFran repeated. “You’ve got ‘em. So you separated into two autonomous selves. The phantom part and the demon part. I’m told the cutover can be quite disorienting.”

“You could say that,” said Metallus.

“Anyway, you’re back. Again.”

“And I’m a ghost, too?”

“Nope. The ghost is its own entity now.”

“Huh.”

“So it looks like you’re back on the phones. For now.”

“Goddammit.”

A few months into his shift, Metallus found himself growing considerably stronger, larger, and more solid. A mailroom demon rolled up to his cubicle, its rickety bone wheels squeaking. “Are you…Metallus?” it asked, scanning the front of a package.

“I am.”

“I got a delivery for you,” said the mailroom demon, lifting the shoebox-sized parcel off the flat middle part of itself and depositing it on Metallus’s desk.

“What is it?”

“Hell if I know. I just deliver ‘em,” said the flatback, passing a clipboard and pen to Metallus. “Sign please.”

Metallus scrawled his name and stared quizzically at the box as the flatback rolled away. Eventually, he extended a claw and peeled away the plain brown wrapping to reveal the reason why the package was shoebox-shaped.

It was because it was a shoebox.

He daydreamed momentarily about his impending sponsorship deal, and then lifted the lid. Instead of a sweet pair of King Metallus kicks, though, was a bloody, burned, and mutilated pile of flesh, fur, and bones. Metallus used a pen to lift up the gory, blackened mess, which spilled tiny internal organs all over his desk.

“Huh,” said Metallus, inspecting the pulpy mass. “This looks pretty good.”

G’BroagFran was passing by just then saw the disgusting pile of goo. He stopped. “Is that what I think it is?”

Metallus, not looking away from the contents of the package, said, “Think so. Ritual sacrifice.”

“To you?“

“Looks like it,” said Metallus. “It’s got my emblem carved right into the forehead and everything.” There was a long silence.

“Nice,” G’BroagFran said, smiling at his friend.

“Well, shit yeah! I’m pleased.”

“Cool, man—good for you!” said G’BroagFran, slapping Metallus on the shoulder. “Looks like someone remembers you after all. So will you be granting some wishes soon?”

Metallus sat back in his chair and considered that. “Of course. I mean, whatever gets me more power, right?” G’BroagFran nodded.

“Any idea who it is?”

“None. I’m hoping it’s some really powerful warlock who wants me to smite the fuck out of some townspeople or something,” Metallus said.

“Ooh. Maybe it’ll be some emperor wanting you to guard his harem.”

Metallus smiled. “Oh, I’ll guard it, all right. I’ll guard the shit out of it.”

They laughed and high-fived at that one. Or, in total between them, it was a high-seven, but who’s counting?

Then Metallus abruptly stopped laughing. “What? Hello?” he asked, glancing quickly around. He was beginning to feel odd.

G’BroagFran also looked around, unaware. “What?”

“Did someone call me?” asked Metallus.

“I didn’t hear-” G’BroagFran began, before being interrupted by a convulsion from Metallus, who at last realized what was happening.

“I’m being summoned!” said Metallus. “Whoa. That’s been a while.”

“It’s the middle of your shift,” said G’BroagFran, suddenly unamused.

“It’s always the middle of my shift.”

“Good point.”

“Gotta go,” said the already-going Metallus.

“Don’t forget to mark this on your time sheet!” called G’BroagFran after him. It was too late. His charge faded away with a quiet “schlurp” followed by a miniscule popping sound. For Metallus, however, it was the office that did the schlurping. In its place came darkness. Then the light of candles surrounded him in the shape of a five-pointed star.

“Whoa,” said a voice. Another followed with “Shh!” and then, a loudish “Um… Oh, great Metallus, we have—”

Metallus, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, cut off the voice, shouting, “WHO DARES SUMMON THE GREAT METALLUS?”

“It is I, your faithful servant Azrael, Lurker of Darkness,” said the voice, which Metallus could now see was coming from the second of three black-clad figures kneeling outside the pentagram which contained him.

“WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT ME HERE?” Metallus demanded.

“Oh. Um…”

“’Cause you’re awesome,” said the larger figure to Azrael’s right. This earned him a smack across the back of the head from Azrael.

“Dude,” Azrael whispered loudly to his underling, “I said I do the talking.”

The larger figure shoved Azrael and told him to fuck off.

“AND YOU!” Metallus bellowed at the fuckoff-suggestor, “WHAT IS YOUR DESIGNATION?”

“I am—” he began, before being cut off by Azrael.

“He is The Mighty Rez-Nore, Keeper of the Sacred Scrolls!”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Rez-Nore, Keeper of the Sacred Scrolls. “I am The Black Mamba.”

“Oh, you are not. I thought we settled this,” said Azrael.

“I don’t want to be Rez-Nore. I’m The Black Mamba.”

Azrael sighed and rolled his eyes. “That’s a dildo.”

“It’s a giant-ass snake.”

“It’s also a dildo. And you’re totally a dildo.”

“Your mom calls me The Dildo every night,” said He Whose Name Was In Question.

Throughout this exchange, the third, much smaller, black-clad figure kneeled unmoving, mouth agape, and gave Metallus a wide-eyed stare.

Metallus surveyed his captors. They were young men, each wearing on his chest symbols and words that Metallus found to his liking, such as “Carcass“, “In Flames“, and “Nuclear Assault”. Similar symbols and words lined the walls of the low-ceilinged room, which were made of a type of flat, glossy wood unknown to Metallus. The grass under their feet appeared to be manufactured rather than grown. There was a door to the left and two small windows set high in the wall to the right. Behind the three mini-men were devices unfamiliar to Metallus—low, short, metal boxes with portholes in the front.

“I GROW WEARY OF YOUR BICKERING!” she shouted. “FOR WHAT PURPOSE HAST THOU SUMMONED ME TO THE MORTAL PLANE?”

“To…to let you know that we totally worship you,” said Azrael. “But, can you keep the booming down a bit? My mom’s upstairs sleeping.”

“CAN YOU NOT WORSHIP ME FROM AFAR?” boomed Metallus.
“Uh… I guess. But we wanted you to know that Cockstrangler is totally awesome.”

“YOU WANT TO STRANGLE CHICKENS?”

“What?” asked Azrael, his eyes looking up for an answer. “No, wait. Cockstrangler. Your band. They fucking rule, man.”

“EXPLAIN!” Metallus demanded.

Azreal turned to Black Mamba and said “Dude, the Sacred Scrolls.”

Black Mamba/Rez-Nore grabbed a black backpack and rooted through it for a moment before pulling out a small, stiff, rectangular object. He handed it to Metallus across the line of the pentagram.

Metallus took it and examined it. On one side was a picture of five humans wearing the flesh of slaughtered bovine. Their faces were covered in a white substance with black designs around the eyes. At the top it said “Cockstrangler”. And at the bottom, in heavy block letters: “GLORY BE TO METALLUS”.

Metallus turned the object over. On the back was a list of ten short phrases, each numbered sequentially. Some stood out to him. “Metallus, My Lover”, “Praise The Metal Demon”, and “Metal Hellion”. “Glory Be To Metallus” appeared there, also.

“WHAT IS THIS…THING?”

“It’s a CD.” said Black Mamba/Rez-Nore. “It’s got music on it. It’s all about you.”

“SONGS OF DEVOTION?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“I WISH TO HEAR THESE SONGS IMMEDIATELY!”

“OK,” said Black Mamba/Rez-Nore. “Give it here, I’ll put it on.”

As Rez-Nore/Black Mamba got up and walked over to the CD player, Metallus gestured at the third young man, who was still staring in horror.

“What’s up with him?” asked Metallus.

“That’s my little brother, Andy,” said Azrael. He then smacked Andy upside the head. “Andy. Close your mouth. You’re not a codfish.”

Andy looked at his brother, turning away from Metallus for the first time since his entrance, and said, “I think I peed my pants.”

At once, the room filled with noises the likes of which Metallus had never heard. There was something that sounded like drums, but they were different from the drums of the ancient people who once worshipped him. These drums were brash and harsh and fast. And there was a grinding noise speeding its way along with them, playing dissonant intervals at a blistering pace. Then the vocals started. They didn’t sound human. They were more like a low-pitched, guttural growl. And they were saying nice things about Metallus, though he couldn’t make out a word until Black Mamba/Rez-Nore showed him the lyric sheet.

“He sings like I talk,” said Metallus. “This is a demon singing!”

“Nope. Human.” said Azrael.

“But that would be awesome,” said Black Mamba.

“Human?” Metallus asked, incredulously. “Impossible!”

Black Mamba turned the CD insert over and pointed to the picture of the band. “That’s the guy right there.”

“His face is painted.”

“Yeah.”

“And what is that he’s wearing?”

“A dead cow,” said Azrael.

Metallus studied the picture for a few moments and listened to the cacophonous black metal. “This is to my liking,” he said. “I approve!”

“Sweet,” Azrael said, and high-fived Black Mamba. He then attempted to do the same to his little brother, but Andy was again staring at Metallus and left him hanging.

“Do these Cockstrangling people actually sacrifice chickens on stage?”

“No, that’s just a name.” said Azrael.

“I thought not, as I have received no such gifts. A shame. They could gain much power and favor from me if they did.”

“Well, maybe you should tell them that,” said Azrael.

Metallus lifted the Sacred Scroll to his face and shouted “YOU THERE! STRANGLERS OF CHICKENS! YOU SHOULD—”

“Dude! They can’t hear you,” Azrael said. “We’ll have to go in person.”

“Then let us make haste!”

“We can’t right now. But they’re playing at the Bamboo Forest on Monday.”

“And what day is it now?”

“Friday.”

“Then we have three of your Earth days to wait,” Metallus said. What shall we do?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” said Black Mamba, pulling a textbook out of his backpack.

He opened the book and pulled a small plastic bag containing small bits of paper and a sort of green vegetation from the space between the spine and the binding.

“We will be eating health food?” asked Metallus.

“Sort of,” Black Mamba said. “Say, do you know who Tom Servo is?”

By Monday afternoon, Lord Demonicus, the vocalist for Cockstrangler was making a different sort of noise with his throat than usual. It went “HUUUUUUUAAAAAAAGGGGHHH!” and was followed by a moist, splattering sound against the water in the toilet bowl.

“Nnnnggh,” he said.

“Dwayne. Dude,” said his guitarist, Sodomus Necrogina, or Dave, from just outside of the washroom. “I guess you’re not feeling any better.”

“Nnnnnngghh,” said Dwayne/Lord Demonicus. He followed that with another violent expulsion of his lunch.

Dave, having never been very good with puke, scrunched up his face and pulled his shirt up over his nose. “We’ll cancel the show. I’ll go talk to the promoter.”

“No, no…” said Dwayne, “I’m fine.”

“You’re so not fine.”

“Just do sound check without me,” said Dwayne. “I’ll get some sleep and do the show.”

Just as Lord Demonicus was calling Ralph on the porcelain phone, the guys returned from school to find Metallus watching a DVD and taking up the entire couch, as he had all weekend.

He removed from his mouth the bong he had fashioned out of a twenty-gallon gasoline can and said, “I do not understand! Why does the Empire not simply use their death star to blow up the entire planet instead of waiting for the forest moon of Yavin to complete its orbit?”

“Uh…” said Azrael, who had never thought about that.

“This so-called ‘Grand Moff’ is inefficient. If I was Lord Vader, I would subject him to a sound force-choking. I’ve been trying to do it myself, but it does not appear to work through the screen.”

“It’s not real, dude,” said Black Mamba.

“What do you mean?”

“Nevermind that,” said Azrael. “Suit up. We’ve got to grab a bite and head out.”

“I have no suit. I need no suit. I have nigh-impenetrable scales. FOR I AM METALLUS!”

“You’ll be Metall-Missed-The-Concert-Us if you don’t move it.”

Two bus, one train, and one subway ride later, the trio and their new demonic friend made their way from the suburbs to the city and, finally, the club. Metallus aroused some suspicion in the suburbs, but that was because he had all his teeth and no mullet rather than his normal appearance. The closer they got to the city, though, the more he was just ignored by people who, quite frankly, had seen stranger things.

The Bamboo Forest was like all great rock clubs: dark, dank and, much like your mom, looked a lot better with the lights off. It also had that special old club smell—years of spilled beer, stale cigarettes, and underage vomit.

Outside was the usual lineup of black t-shirts and expensive boots waiting to get in. This displeased Metallus.

“Why are we lined up?” he asked. “These songs of devotion are about me! I will not stand in a line!”

With that, he stomped up the sidewalk to the still-locked door and knocked it down with one punch, much to the delight of the waiting audience.

He strode into the club, the lineup following him, to find four of the five band members lounging on grotty old torn-up sofas, eating cheap take-out hamburgers.

“I AM METALLUS!” bellowed Metallus.

“Dude, that is one sick costume,” said the bass player.

“THIS IS NO COSTUME! I AM METALLUS! YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY BEGIN TO PLAY YOUR SONGS OF DEVOTION!”

“You’ll have to wait until the show, man,” said Dave.

“METALLUS DOES NOT WAIT! WORSHIP ME NOW!”

“Doors are at nine, dude,” said Dave. “There’s two openers, then us. Sorry, but you’ll have to wait.”

“I DEMAND TO KNOW THE MEANING OF OPENER!”

Azrael began to explain the finer points of rockshowdom to Metallus, but the demon rapidly grew impatient.

“WILL THESE SO-CALLED ‘OPENING ACTS’ BE SINGING SONGS OF PRAISE TO ME AS WELL?”

“Uh, well, no…” Azrael began.

“THEN THEY ARE IRRELEVANT! SING YOUR SONGS OF WORSHIP NOW!”

“I’d love to, man, but Dwayne—er, Lord Demonicus is sick.”

“Sick meaning good, like the way the kids say?” asked Metallus. “Or the more traditional meaning?”

“Traditional. He’s been puking his guts out all day.”

One of the many black-shirted youths in the crowd turned to Metallus and said, “Why don’t you sing, instead?”

“What’s that?” Metallus asked.

“You should sing,” said the kid. “You’ve got the voice for it. And if you want to be worshipped, being in a band is the way to do it.”

“You raise a valid point, puny mortal,” said Metallus. “Your death shall be swift and painless.”

“Sweet,” said Puny Mortal.

Metallus turned to the band and said, “Take up your noisemaking machines! I shall now be your bellower, and I shall sing songs of praise to myself and incite amongst my followers the destruction of all those who do not worship me!”

The band shrugged, climbed on stage, and began to rock out.

The audience ate it up. They raised their metal fingers, shouted a lot, and slammed repeatedly into their friends in order to show their appreciation, as is the custom in such situations.

The band performed a few of their songs, but Metallus changed the lyrics on the fly, thus creating new masterpieces such as “Glory Be To Me”, “All You Mortals Can Suck It”, and “Sacrificing Bunnies is Fine, but What I Really Like is Burritos”.

Metallus then heard one smartass in the crowd call out to him, requesting that they play some Lynyrd Skynyrd.

“There’s always one,” said Dave.

“I WILL NOT!” Metallus bellowed, then he stomped off the stage and grabbed the offender by the neck. He tore off his head, cracked it open with his bare hands, and proceeded to eat the brain, getting more of it on his chest than in his mouth.

The crowd loved it. Even the friends of the Skynyrd-yelling douchebag thought it was pretty cool because really, deep down, they knew he deserved it.

Metallus returned to the stage as the band started into another of their songs, now appropriately re-titled “Screw You, You Freebird-Yelling Douchebag.”

After a few more songs, including “I Shall Scorch The Earth and Leave No Survivors”, “I Will Eat Your Soul and Fuck Your Entrails”, and “The Grand Moff is Incompetent”, Metallus decided that the crowd had enough of his greatness so he smashed a hole in the wall and literally threw them all out of the club.

Neither the audience nor the band could get enough of this spectacle. Dwayne was unceremoniously kicked out of the band, then very ceremoniously eaten by Metallus.

Word of Cockstrangler’s unique new vocalist spread quickly, and soon the band found themselves playing bigger and bigger clubs to larger and larger audiences. Some of their early-adopting fans, upset by the fact that they could no longer consider Cockstrangler to be their own personal band, turned to the internet to register their disgust and levy scathing accusations against the band of “selling out”. Soon they found bits of themselves splattered on the walls while their souls were doomed to a painful thousand years of horror in Metallus’s digestive tract before eventually being shat into a black hole to suffer eternally.

Metallus didn’t respond well to criticism.

The egos of the band members swelled, but not as much as Metallus did. With more followers, he gained more strength and grew larger and louder and generally more badass. They started selling special, extra-expensive tickets to pre-designated areas of each venue, which were referred to as “The Fire Pit”. At the end of each show, fans lucky enough to score tickets to the Fire Pit were gloriously immolated by Metallus’s own fire breath. Each incinerated fan considered themselves to be a sacrifice to their Rock God, thus increasing his power even more. The band, of course, took to the usual excesses that one is expected to when one is a rock star.

But none more so than Metallus. He began demanding the sacrifice of at least five virgins before every show. This had a detrimental effect on the attendance at renaissance fairs and Star Trek conventions everywhere.

Soon, Metallus was snorting the lava of up to five volcanoes a day. He began sacrificing mud sharks to himself, and even had two ribs removed in order to skewer the Fire Pit fans before roasting them.

Everything was going great for Metallus. Until one day, that is, when he seemed a little bit smaller.

“A phase,” Metallus said. “I’ll be fine.”

But he wasn’t.

As rapid as his ascent had been, his fall was even faster. Within weeks, he and his band found themselves playing in smaller and smaller theaters, and then clubs. Fire Pit sales dropped off. It seemed nobody wanted to be sacrificed to his glory any more.

Sitting in their van after a particularly crappy show, Metallus turned to the band and said, “What has happened? Have I eaten too many fans?”

“Nah,” said Dave. “It’s Lord Baggshott that’s the problem.”
“What are you on about?”

“Lord Baggshott and The Haggis Quartet,” said Dave. “They’re the new thing.”

“But they suck,” said The Bass Player.

“Oh, for sure, but they’re huge.”

“They’ve got a fucking ghost singing for them,” The Bass Player said, “What the hell is that about? You can hardly hear him.”

“Ghost?” Metallus asked. “Haggis? Jesus Christ…”

“Yeah. He looks like some old rich fuck,” said Dave. “But he’s all transparent and floaty-looking. They’re all ‘Ooooh, look how scary we are! Let’s all look at our shoes and mope while Ghosty Ghosterson wails and screams about his immortal soul’s eternal suffering,’ or some such shit.”

“Let me guess,” Metallus said, “He claims to be the ghost of a Scottish Lord who has to float down the same stairway every night?”

Dave nodded. “You’ve heard of him?”

“We’ve met. Sort of.”

So it was that Metallus soon found himself once again translucent, tiny, and sitting in a cubicle. He reached for his headset as G’BroagFran the Mighty stuck his head over the cubicle wall.

“You’re back!” said G’BroagFran.

“For now.”

“Maybe forever. That’d suck.”

“Nope,” said Metallus, shaking his tiny head. “Fifteen years, max. I can do that standing on my head. In fact, I think I will, just to make it interesting.”

“Fifteen years?” asked G’BroagFran. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, there are two interesting words that I learned while topside,” Metallus said, flipping upside down and dangling his legs over the back of his chair. “Two very interesting and lucrative words.”

“What two words are those?”

Metallus put on his headset, pressed the “ready” button, and grinned at his old friend.

“Reunion tour,” he said.

From Toronto, Ontario, Mike Bryant has released two novellas, Shaolin Rock Star and Operation Dickhead and a spoken word CD entitled “Chicken Noodle Pants”. He enjoys science fiction and heavy metal, which pretty much makes him a hit with the ladies.