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Last night I was out shopping, looking for the perfect present for my adorable girlfriend, of whose name I’ve forgotten at this stage. I wanted something cute, something cuddly and something as trendy as a lipstick tube that contains over one thousand and one shades of pink. Then I saw it. I locked eyes on it, going into stealth mode as I crept down the aisle, making sure that others were oblivious to my movements. My hands grasped the jewel case of the large ringed object, a gem on anyone’s mantelpiece. It was Judas Priest’s “Painkiller.” The album that stole my girlfriend and saw me land out of her door into the mud-filled gutter with a spine-crushing thud as she wrapped the wrapping paper on my head like a broken party hat. The CD came last, striking me between the eyes, knocking me out with the force of an origami spoon, a soggy origami spoon. Not that I cared, I was in hell.
Drill sergeant Robert Halford gave me my mission as we stood on the edge of the world. I was dressed in an over-worn faded black t-shirt, jeans with ripped knees and a broomstick strung around my neck with an ingenious strap made out of a mix of an old kite string and a colourful collection of rubber bands. I was not wearing a backpack. The edge of the world doubled as my garden shed, made out of corrugated iron that had reached boiling point in the sweltering sun, causing my bare feet to tingle as my the warm northerly wind blew through my hair. I did not feel any pain, as a painkiller was present in my blood stream, or should I say, THE PAINKILLER. My mission was simple to destroy all that opposed, with strength, honour and bravery. I set off zealously, but not before falling eight-feet to the ground, back first, careering into the concrete below. Again no pain was felt.
Adrenaline was rushing to my head as the thunderous drums spurred on my one-man army, as we attacked the enemy with frenetic riffing, in mixture with intricate soloing. They did not know what hit them as the Metal reigned supreme, unleashing its fury like a dragon scorching a prince into crispy smithereen. No sex for you, you lascivious wench-like princess. Comrades rejoiced everywhere as Speed Metal influenced by traditionally flavoured Metal, incorporated with palm-muting, melodic tremolo and the epic embrace of tonic power chordal structures. This was brutal. Even more brutal than those modern gore bands that blast at 391.62 beats per minute over visceral guitars played using a bone from a small child as a plectrum. They could not match our purposeful mindset as we stormed at them, “All Guns Blazing.” The voices in my head were relentless, even higher in pitch than the queen of banshees, and yet as melodic as a tenor, as they guided me to the final glory.
I ventured to hell and back, seeing vast landscapes of fire, as Satan bid me “Good luck.” Down picturesque streams I flowed, harmonious choruses rolled by in clockwork motion, as cleansing as the grandeur enforced by the Painkiller. As soulful and as elegant as the night sky, yet as mysterious and ominous as the stars that fill it like a back-lit canopy. The end was nigh, but not before one final stop through the LSD trip of 70s influenced disco era. In my bright pink suit I stood. Of course, slaying the “teenyboppers” I found with my handcrafted plastic pirate sword, then I ventured back to my garden fernery and held a seance with a friendly brigade of garden gnomes, feeling “A Touch Of Evil.” The battle was won, as we stood under the banner of heavy fucking metal, pride in our people, the saviour was found. We crushed the machines as they attempted to invoke a “Metal Meltdown”, destroyed the enemy and in the process saved ourselves from facing the wrath of an enraged Mother Nature.
The British lads obviously sat first row of the class all year in economics, as this is the perfect example of capitalist efficiency, six beautiful solos in the first song! (Hell, the chalky haired, glasses toting nerd that is their economics lecturer would have been proud of this practical application! An A+ for you chums, even a complimentary chocolate chip cookie because you did so damn well.) Not once does it let down from that point on. That was until tears formed in my eyes as I realised that the last track was fading out… “One Shot At Glory”, indeed. What else, you say, chaps? Nothing, just a sullen silence after the CD stops spinning. I sat there for an hour, not moving, not knowing what to do next. My whole left arm still trembling a week later. This sure is better than getting a haircut from your next door neighbour’s lawn mower, getting chased by the dog that still has a huge chunk of the postman’s leg between its jaws or drowning in a pool of liquidised Siamese cat shit. It may rank up with some of the great inventions, such as convicts, snooze alarms and Vegemite. In fact, I’ll be audacious enough to recommend it to you, faithful student of Metal. Skip along now, children, I need to rest my weary body. For some reason I felt a dull ache in my back, and my feet were red as a lobster, warm enough to cook a piece of toast on…