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Lord Sral sat behind his oak desk in his office overlooking the river Styx. In the background he could hear the tortured screams of thousands of musicians who had sold their soul for fame. It was music to his ears. Lord Sral’s official job title was Bastion Of Hades Infernal Corrupter, Audio. BOHICA for short. His job was to corrupt the hearts and souls of musicians, urging them to sell-out and compromise for the lowest possible amount. Sral’s secretary paged him over the intercom.
“Beelzebub on line two, Lord.”
“Thank you, Durst.”
A short click and the Lord of Flies’ voice boomed across the line. “Sral! How are you, you old goat?” It sounded to Sral as if the Dark Lord had another three martini lunch again.
“Not bad, Bill. What can I do you for?” Sral replied. “Madonna wanting another shot at sainthood again?”
“Nothing that easy this time, Sral.” The demon chuffed. “Got another Metal band from the Netherlands that has my office in a tizzy.”
“That’s nothing. I’ll wave a large advance in their face, talk them into a few Gothenburg cliches and before you can say ‘Bob’s yer Uncle’ we’ve got another At The Gates clone.” Sral replied, checking his manicure.
Satan growled, belched and farted twice. “Not gonna be that easy. This ain’t no wanna-be Korn clone that’ll sell out for a free tattoo and a dozen cases of Yoo-Hoo. How is Durst, anyway?”
“He’s fine. Looks good in a dress, just not as tight as he once was. I think he gave me the clap, though.” Sral shifted uncomfortably. “Seriously, Bill. If I can corrupt Metallica I think a bunch of Tulip sniffin’ cheese monkeys will be no challenge at all.”
“You’d better be right, Sral. If you fail… Let’s just say that you’ll be wearing the dress when you next come to my office.”
“Not a problem, Oh Dark One. Whose dreams am I crushing?”
“Legion Of The Damned.They are re-releasing some old songs from Elegy For The Weak, released during their previous incarnation as Occult. I do not want this released! If metalheads find out about this album it could be bad. I especially don’t want those insufferable assholes at the Treehouse Of Death to know. ”
Sral placed Feel The Blade into his player and turned the volume up. Nuclear Torment blasted from the speakers and threw Sral across the room. Maurice Swinkels howling vocals screeched into Sral’s ears, popping his left eardrum. Rising to his feet Sral could feel the concussive force of Erik Fleuren’s drums batter his skull. Songs began to meld themselves into a hellride of epic proportions. Harold Gielen’s bass rumbled across the room while Richard Ebisch thrashed his guitar within an inch of Sral’s life. Feel The Blade cut into Sral’s spine with scalpel like efficiency while guitar hooks tore into his flesh like a rabid wolverine with a meth habit. By the time Chronic Infection pounded it’s way through the speakers Sral had been turned into a limp rag-doll, his blood splashed across the walls of his office. As the CD spun to a halt Sral sat dazed and exhausted.
Durst chimed in over the intercom. “Beelzebub on line two again, Lord.”
A chunk of ice formed in Sral’s stomach. “Tell him that I’m out to lunch.”
Durst’s voice rang out again. “He’s not buying it, Lord. He says that you’d better answer or he’ll have you turned into a wart on the nether-regions of Tommy Lee.”
Straightening his tie and wiping as much of the blood off of his face as possible Sral composed himself and picked up the phone. “Well?” The Lord of Flies barked.
“Uh, we have a problem Oh Dark One. This music is…is…brutal. It borders on being almost out of control and, dare I say, vicious. We must declare this album krieg and prepare for the fallout.”
Beelzebub sat quietly for a minute taking this in. “I agree.” He answered, a hint of desperation in his voice. “I’ll do what I can to stop the damage, planting seeds of discontent that this album is rehashed thrash and all that. Let’s just hope that I can be convincing. By the way Sral, I expect you in my office in the next hour. Wear that slinky red number.”
Hanging up, Sral began to weep.
Originally posted at the Treehouse Of Death