The Death Marshal watched over the Black Widow Amphitheater
with an omniscient presence, smiling a razor-toothed smile from the hells
below. This afternoon Marilyn Manson concert ran as smoothly as venom through a
cobra’s victim. The band was onstage bouncing around to the tune of
“Irresponsible Hate Anthem”.
The concertgoers below the stage shoved and slammed into
each other in a circle pit that could knock over the heaviest of hitters. The
scent of alcohol was seductive to Death Marshal’s nostrils. One lady in the pit
removed her Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and threw it to the ground in a
heavy metal rage. The energy in this outdoor arena lit the Death Marshal’s soul
on fire. The god was pleased.
But of course, nothing could be perfect forever. One bad
apple always had to ruin the entire bunch. Outside the cemetery-like gates of
the spider-shaped arena stood a red-dressed, purple-haired woman with a
crucifix around her neck and a sign in her hand that read, “You Must Be Born
Again!” She shouted at Manson fans passing through the gates in a shrieking
voice that could sell her own metal albums if she so chose. They either ignored
her or flipped her the bird on their way in.
“It’s not too late to save your souls!” the woman belted,
pointing an elongated fingernail at passersby. “Leave this place and come to
church with me! We can go to heaven together! We can experience Jesus’s love
for all eternity! You don’t have to burn in hell! Let us pray together! Let’s
fight the devil and push his wicked energy out of our souls! We can be pure
again! You must be reborn!”
The Death Marshal couldn’t possibly understand why this
woman hated everything about this arena so much. Was it the tarantula-shaped
structure with the eight legs acting as tunnels to the bleachers and pit? The
event staff wearing black hooded robes and steel horns? The red and orange
fogged lighting that illuminated the rows and stage? The white makeup and black
clothing the concertgoers were proudly wearing? The LGBT flag that someone was
waving at the back of the bleachers? The gargoyle statues? The blood-soaked
walls? The skulls dangling from the ceiling? The bronze statue of Death Marshal
taking up the middle of the seating area?
The screaming continued despite the many middle fingers the
zealot received. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you turn your backs on
Jesus Christ! He has sent me to punish you all for your sins! This is devil
music and it must be stopped! And I am the only one who has the power to stop
it! Remember the name of JoJo Tornado, your new savior and hero!”
The passersby suddenly erupted in a fit of laughter. Death
Marshal couldn’t help but crack a smile and hee-haw like a demon either. All of
this fanatical rhetoric, all of these mystical threats were coming from a woman
named…JoJo Tornado. Many fans asked her if that was actually the name her
mother gave her. Were the Tornados an extended family? Did it actually say JoJo
Tornado on her driver’s license? Could she even drive without getting a DUI
charge after drinking the blood of Christ? Concertgoers slapped their knees and
buckled over as these thoughts circulated among them. For once, JoJo managed to
be more entertaining than the concert itself, no offense to Marilyn Manson.
And then the bright sunny day turned gray and cold as soon
as JoJo’s face scrunched up in anger and she threw her sign to the ground.
Concertgoers who wore jorts and T-shirts to the show found themselves shivering
and hugging themselves for warmth. Icy winds picked up all around the arena, so
much so that the band stopped playing and looked confused. JoJo’s eyes rolled
back in her head while she waved her arms around in some kind of magical dance,
guiding the wind wherever she wanted it.
Hooded bouncers circled around her to try and stop this
display, but the wind grew strong enough to shove them all back against the
spider-legged arena tunnels. The screams of heavy metal energy turned to
screams of childish terror when one of the bouncers was impaled on a stony
spike, his spilling innards and shattered ribcage making this dark fantasy
paradise look even more frightening.
Fans bolted for any exit they could find, resembling an
animalistic stampede where concertgoers were either crushed underneath boots or
picked up and slammed by the wind. Marilyn Manson and his group were long gone
by then. Anybody who wanted to follow suit in their cars were shit out of luck
as the wind picked up vehicles and smashed them into concertgoers and bouncers
alike. The concessions stand, which looked like a stony apothecary’s hut,
shattered into pebbles at the drop of an SUV, spraying a fountain of beer in
the air.
Somewhere during this mad dash towards higher ground,
somewhere in this sea of blood, guts, and bones, a stage prop was blown off its
hinges and launched like a javelin through the heart of the Death Marshal
statue, knocking it over and desecrating the one true guardian of this sacred
arena.
Suddenly, the dashing stopped. Horrified looks turned to
pity and rage. Concertgoers and bouncers stood still in awe of the act of
blasphemy committed against the Death Marshal statue. Marilyn Manson and his
band returned to the stage and glared daggers at JoJo Tornado, who in turn
looked muddled by this lack of chaos she worked so hard to create. “Does this
mean…you all are ready to repent? Will you come with me to the gates of
heaven?” She held out her hand in a loving gesture, but nobody would take it.
They were too busy staring at the green smoke that erupted
from the hole where Death Marshal’s statue used to be. The statue was supposed
to be a seal for the guardian beast. It was supposed to be his sleeping
grounds. The god of the arena was supposed to be a mere spectator. But he was
wide awake now. A slimy brown hand gripped the ledge of the hole and then
another hand followed suit. With one growling jerk, Death Marshal pulled
himself out of the pit for all of his followers to see.
There he was. A giant among men. A slime-and-dirt-covered
creature wrapped in mummy bandages. A foul-smelling demon whose odor would be
enough of a reason to seal him away in the first place. No lips have touched
his face. No eyes wanted these permanent stains. No hands wanted his corrosive
feel. He looked like the devil himself and it was a label he embraced to the
fullest.
“So…this is what Satan looks like,” said JoJo, determined as
ever to keep the chaos going. “This is what dark seduction feels like. You all
worship this false idol? You dare use the lord’s name in vain for this prophet?
Then I know how what I must do. I must exorcise this beast once and for all!”
Death Marshal’s murky boots slapped against the stone ground
as he rushed towards JoJo with his arms outstretched, like he wanted to wrap
his mile-long digits around her pencil neck. But the wind held him in place.
The dark clouds opened up and unleashed another gust of holy energy. Death
Marshal threw punches and braced himself against the aeromancy, but it was no
use. Even a creature with his godly strength succumbed to getting bounced off
the edge of the stage and nearly knocked unconscious. His omnipresent vision
faded in and out of blackness. He really was about to meet God, albeit in a
puddle of his own necromantic sludge.
“Is that all you’ve got?” asked JoJo. “Is this finally proof
that God’s will conquers all? Ha! Too easy!”
Pain shot through Death Marshal’s nearly cracked spine as he
crawled across the ground, dragging pieces of sloppy flesh and chipped bones
across the stony surface. He reached out for something. What was it? A fan’s
ankle? An angel’s hand? The devil’s weapons? No. It was the Stone Cold Steve
Austin T-shirt the female fan threw on the ground earlier. That fan now had an
SUV crushing her bones, but her spirit lived on…as did the spirit of the Texas
Rattlesnake himself. A demonic mouth opened up in Death Marshal’s palm and it
consumed the woman’s T-shirt, both making JoJo shiver in disgust and the
concertgoers and bouncers watch in awe and wonder.
With bones creaking and mummy wrapping tearing, Death
Marshal staggered to his feet and gazed at his surroundings with blurry vision.
And then he remembered why his vision was so blurry. Not because of the force
of the wind slamming him against the stage. But because…he was drunk. The
Budweiser flowing through his veins ignited his soul. The fans in attendance
suddenly believed in their hero again with chants of “Austin! Austin!
Austin! Austin!”
And then, with a stomp of his foot and a thrash of his arms,
Death Marshal shouted in a familiar southern accent, “Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass!”
The fans cheered their heads off and the band couldn’t help but smile a little
bit.
JoJo Tornado scowled at her opponent and said, “Such fowl
language will not be tolerated in the house of the lord! Take THAT!” She blew a
gust of wind at Death Marshal and sent him flying over to the shattered beer
stand. But instead of cracking his skull against the ground, he grabbed onto
the beer hose and started drinking out of it like he was dying of thirst in a
desert country.
After releasing a toxic burp that contributed to global warming,
Death Marshal aimed the hose at JoJo and splashed her with a stream of beer. She
was knocked over on her ass and scrambled to get back up, but couldn’t. The
beer spray was too powerful for her, not unlike her wind magic. She even rolled
backwards several feet and got some of it in her mouth. The beer stream
couldn’t last forever, but it didn’t matter anymore. JoJo was soaked head to
toe in alcohol. Her dress nearly fell off several times. And everyone cheered
all around her.
Death Marshal stomped over to his drunken opponent, the fans
parting like the Red Sea. JoJo struggled to
stay on her feet despite nothing spraying her anymore. She burped, slurred her
words, and actually made more sense than when she was picketing outside the
gates. In that familiar southern accent, the mummy guardian said, “Don’t take
this ass-whopping personally, son!” Two middle fingers later, he kicked her in
the stomach and smashed her jaw over his shoulders as he dropped on his ass, or
as the WWE would call it, a Stone Cold Stunner.
As fans cheered and roared all around him, Death Marshal
held two middle fingers to the sky and rattled his head like the badass he was.
Some of the crowd threw him cans of beer and he chugged them down within
seconds, swimming in a sea of drunkenness. After another burp that rocked the
arena, he said, “If you want to see me set this bitch on fire and send her
straight to hell, give me a hell yeah!”
“HELL YEAH!” echoed the fans.
Death Marshal grabbed hold of JoJo’s ankle and dragged the
dizzy and confused zealot back to the hole in the ground where he came from.
The statue was busted. The magic was exposed. This venue probably wouldn’t make
money again given the reckless nature of what happened today. But at least he
could get all the sleep he wanted. As a final gesture of goodwill to their dark
fantasy guardian, one of the fans slowly raised his hands in the air like
another familiar WWE wrestler and threw them down on cue with flames bursting
from the hole in the ground. In response, Death Marshal burped and threw the
slime-covered T-shirt back up to the surface.
The magic was gone and soon everyone realized just how
fucked up all of this was. Many fans and bouncers were still dead, vehicles
were smashed every which way, stage and arena props were strewn all about. Not
even the all mighty Death Marshal could bring them all back together. This
sucked. This sucked badly. A heavy metal concert had turned into a day of
trauma and death for those who just wanted a good time. Religious wars never did
anybody any good. Two deities waged war and it was the public who paid the
price. Marilyn Manson’s lyrics knew all about this phenomenon, oddly enough.
