by Jacob Rayne
Two stars
The second short story in the Terror Unlimited series
By Jacob Rayne
A Rayne of Terror publication
Also available from Rayne of Terror
The Lazarus Contagion
Becoming…
Sunshine
Flesh Harvest
Walk in the Park
Digital Children
Perpetual Darkness
Season’s Bleedings
A Feast of Flesh: Flesh Harvest II
Terror Unlimited short story series:
1:15
Two Stars
Copyright © Saul Bainbridge (Writing as Jacob Rayne) 2016
All rights reserved
Cover art created by Michael Bray of MB Designs:
https://www.facebook.com/mbdcovers/?fref=ts
Dedication
I have been a proud metalhead (a super-passionate fan of heavy music) for all of my adult life. The love I feel for this music just grows and grows the older I get.
This music is not for everyone. I get that. And that’s probably a good thing. But those who are into it are usually diehard fans for life. Good metal songs resonate somewhere deep in my soul and make me totally, utterly happy to be alive. I’d dare say it makes me a better person too as it helps me to vent all the day-to-day bullshit that goes on in my day job these days.
So this story is dedicated to metalheads everywhere. Keep supporting heavy music. Keep going to live shows. Keep buying CDs or digital downloads. Keep screaming every word at the top of your lungs. Keep banging your goddamn head till its right about ready to fall off. I’ll see you in the fucking circle pit. m/ m/
Two Stars
Eddie Hernandez grinned as he put the third rock magazine back on the pile.
His thrash metal band, Messiah of Pain, were about to release their long-awaited second album to seemingly widespread acclaim.
The metal press were reacting well to it, with one magazine going as far as calling it: ‘A masterpiece of modern metal.’
His grin widened so much he thought his face was going to crack.
His bandmates, Zeke, Ricky and Travis, were all in similar states of rapture.
The champagne was on ice, the world at their feet.
Zeke slung back his beer in one and threw the forefinger and pinky metal horns with both tattooed hands. ‘Masterpiece, it says here, dude.’
‘I know,’ Eddie said, ‘I was just gonna tell you guys.’
‘What?’ Ricky said, craning his neck to read over Zeke’s shoulder.
Zeke pointed to the review.
Ricky read each word carefully then joined his bandmates in throwing the horns. ‘Fuck yeah. Fuck. Yeah.’
‘Let’s see what Metalheadz says,’ Eddie beamed. ‘They’ve been behind us from day one, so this should be a treat.’
He’d been reading the magazine for a decade plus change so he could have probably found the reviews section blindfolded. His brow furrowed slightly when the double page Album of the Month feature he’d been expecting was not there.
‘What?’ Travis said.
‘Nothing, just we ain’t the main review.’
‘No biggy,’ Ricky said. ‘There have been some big releases this month.’
Eddie nodded. He had to agree; Infected Blood and Ashes of Humanity (both heavy-hitters in the thrash metal scene) were releasing records on the same week.
Their press agent had asked if they wanted to put it off, but they were confident in their work and wanted to stick to their guns.
Sure enough, their rival bands were the two first reviews, with Ashes of Humanity taking the centrefold.
‘Ah, here we are,’ Eddie said. ‘Third one in.’
‘That’s fair enough, really,’ Zeke said. ‘Ashes are a fuckin institution, dude.’
Eddie nodded.
‘So what’s it say?’ Travis said.
There’d only been the one copy of Metalheadz sent to them by their manager, so they were all waiting to read it.
‘I don’t know, dickhead, I ain’t read it yet,’ Eddie smirked.
He bowed his head and began. Two lines into the review his smile vanished.
‘What’s up, man?’ Ricky said.
‘Is it a bad one?’ Zeke said, his hands beating a nervous rhythm on his torn jeans.
‘Quiet, let me read it,’ Eddie snapped.
He took a deep breath and started again.
‘Oh, the piece of shit,’ he scowled when he’d read it three times to make sure his disbelieving eyes had interpreted the review correctly. ‘Two stars?’ he bellowed, hurling the magazine across the room where it smashed into the pyramid of empty beer bottles they’d piled up the previous night.
‘Two stars?’ he raged. ‘We sweated blood into that motherfucker. And they give us two fucking stars?’
His bandmates sat in stunned silence. Zeke was the one who got up and retrieved the magazine, which was coated with stale beer and shards of broken glass.
He sat between Ricky and Travis, so they could all read it at the same time. At the end of the review, they all reacted as if they’d had a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over them.
‘What the actual fuck?’ Travis roared, slamming his palm into the sofa cushion and sending a cloud of dust motes flying out to dance in the beams of the sun streaming in through the windows.
‘I know,’ Eddie said. ‘They’ve stabbed us in the back here.’
‘Fucked us right over,’ Zeke agreed.
‘I don’t get it. Metal Morgan loves our shit. He’s got our logo tattooed on the back of his neck,’ Eddie said.
Zeke’s eyes scoured the magazine. ‘It wasn’t Morgan who wrote it. It says it was some guy called Paulo.’
‘Paulo?’ Eddie scowled, saying the two syllables as if they were coated in dog shit. ‘Paulo who?’
‘Paulo Maggiano.’
‘Prick,’ Ricky said, spitting on the floor.
‘He’s new,’ Eddie said. ‘Never seen his name in there before.’
‘So why are they giving our review to a new guy, who clearly doesn’t get our shit?’ Travis said.
‘He did the Infected Blood review too,’ Zeke said. ‘Gave ’em eight.’
‘This is bullshit,’ Eddie said, pacing the floor. ‘I’m calling Wentworth.’
Wentworth, the band’s long-suffering manager, had not read the reviews before he’d sent the magazines out as he liked the band to be the first to read their glowing press.
‘Hey, Eddie,’ he beamed. ‘How’s the best frontman in metal doing this fine morning? Bang many chicks last night? Trash any hotel rooms? Drink your own bodyweight in beer?’
The moment of silence that greeted this standard greeting informed him that all was not well at Casa Messiah. Eddie, no matter how drunk, high or hanging off, always replied the same way: ‘Does your mamma still fuck sailors?’
‘What’s up, Ed?’
‘You seen this Metalheadz review yet?’
‘Glowing is it? Ten stars outta ten?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘At least an eight though, am I right?’
‘It’s two fucking stars.’
‘You’re taking the piss.’
‘I wish I was.’
‘Wait a moment.’ There were sounds of Wentworth fumbling around. ‘I’ve got a copy here, next to the champagne we were gonna have later. I’ll read it. Two seconds.’
The silence was so thick it could be cut with a knife.
Thirty seconds later, Wentworth was as pissed as his young clients. ‘The cocksuckers,’ he said. ‘How can they even print this bullshit?’
‘The worst thing to happen to metal since Metal
lica’s Load,’ Eddie spat. ‘That’s uncalled for.’
‘It’s a hell of an album,’ Wentworth said. ‘I don’t know where they get off printing this shit. Juvenile. Tedious. Pretentious? Are they fucking deaf? It’s thrash metal at its finest.’
Wentworth continued to rage: ‘Right, Ed, I’m sorry about this. We’ve still got a week before this bog roll with ideas above its station hits the news-stands. I’m gonna call Metal Morgan and say my piece. I’m sure he’ll take it down and sort us out with the review this masterpiece deserves. I’ll let ya know what he says. Chill out, get some beer down your neck.’
‘Thanks, Wentworth. Speak to ya soon. Give ’em hell.’
‘Oh I fucking will, believe you me.’
Fifteen minutes later, Eddie’s phone blared into life with the opening strains of Slayer’s South of Heaven.
‘Hey, Eddie,’ his increasingly pissed-off manager said. ‘Bad news, my friend. Metal Morgan has gone to a new magazine so there’s nothing he can do for us. He left on bad terms so he can’t even call in a favour. The new editor is sour on Morgan and a lot of the stuff he used to back. He refused to take the review down, saying that he agreed with everything in it.’
‘Fucking prick.’
‘I know. I had to stop myself going round there and putting my foot through his laptop.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll be so patient,’ Eddie said, grinning at the thought of past indiscretions.
‘Now you don’t do anything stupid, Ed. The last thing we need is one of you four nutters getting locked up. This review is bad press enough without you appearing in cuffs on the pissing news. Plus we’ve got this headlining tour coming up, then the tour with Ashes. Both of those are gonna be huge for us. So I need you to promise to be on your best behaviour.’
Eddie was silent for a few seconds, long enough to worry Wentworth. The frontman was notoriously volatile; had punched a couple of journalists in the past and throttled a rock radio host to within an inch of his life when he’d refused to play any of their songs. The words ‘petrol on a bonfire’ sprung to mind.
‘Eddie? Promise me you won’t do what I think you’re going to do.’
‘Ok. I won’t. But the prick wants putting in traction.’
‘I know. I know. But leave it. Listen, there’s some cracking reviews in the other mags, I had a flick through ’em while I was on hold. I say we focus on those, ignore the Metalheadz one. There’s still plenty of good stuff to use.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘I know this hurts, Ed. Metalheadz is the big one. And we go way back with them. Believe me, I’m as pissed as you are that they’ve shafted us. But we’ll sort this out, don’t worry. Get yourself another beer. Crack that champagne – cos you guys should be so bloody proud of yourselves – and chill the fuck out.’
‘Thanks, man. See ya.’
‘See ya.’
When his bandmates had heard the bad news, they all sought to drown their sorrows.
A good few beers and a bottle of champagne apiece later, the topic of the Metalheadz review once more reared its ugly head. In their drunken state, tempers ran high.
The first thing Eddie did was post a furious message on the band’s website and social media sites.
They sat back and watched their fan base’s outrage: ‘Fuck ’em, you don’t need ’em,’ was the universal opinion.
They found that this actually helped their frustrations.
One fan asked what the other mags had said and Eddie posted all of the reviews.
The buzz they all were getting from this reaction was wiped out in an instant when a disturbing message appeared on screen.
It simply said: ‘I’m gonna fucking mutilate him.’
‘What’s that say?’ Eddie said, squinting at the screen.
‘I’m gonna fucking mutilate him,’ Ricky read aloud.
‘Who posted that?’ Zeke said.
‘Berserker 84,’ Eddie said.
‘Ah, he’s a good lad,’ Travis grinned. ‘Would go to his grave for this band. You should see the backpiece he’s got. The cover for our first album with all of us as grinning reapers. It’s pure fucking badassery.’
‘Is he the one with the Slayer tattoos on his head?’ Eddie said.
‘Yeah, that’s him.’
‘Aye, he’s a proper fan. Bit of a nutjob though,’ Eddie said.
‘Pot and kettle, my friend,’ Ricky said, giving Eddie a playful poke in the ribs.
‘Fuck you,’ Eddie grinned.
‘Ah, he posts shit like that all the time,’ Travis said, laughing. ‘You should have seen when some poser was saying Avenged Sevenfold were better than Machine Head. He threatened to cut their balls off and stuff ’em into their mouth.’
They all laughed at this.
‘Aye he’s a bit tapped like,’ Travis said. ‘But give him his due, it’s the passion of people like that who got us to where we are today.’
Another message cropped up soon after: ‘No one fucks with Messiah,’ said the caption under the small photo posted to the band’s main page.
They clicked on the photo and it came up much larger on the screen.
It showed a huge pool of blood with two stars drawn in the middle of it.
‘What the hell is this shit?’ Eddie said, half-grinning, half-disturbed.
‘Gotta be fake,’ Zeke said.
A few enthusiastic comments appeared on the thread, overjoyed that the reviewer had been taken care of.
A second post from Berserker 84 appeared; ‘I watch the life fade from your eyes, as the light falls from the skies, as your body begins to twitch, I whisper, ‘Rest in pain, Bitch.’
‘That’s from Rest In Pain, off our first EP,’ Travis said.
‘Yup,’ Eddie said.
‘Nice quote, Berserker,’ Zeke grinned, turning to high-five each of his bandmates, except for Ricky, whose hand was not there to slap.
His eyes were focussed on a third post from Berserker 84, which showed a mutilated body slumped in a vast pool of congealed gore.
‘Aw, nice!’ Eddie said, taking a deep swig of beer.
‘What if this is real?’ Ricky said, heart in mouth.
‘Ain’t real, you can see the stuffing poking out,’ Zeke said, pointing to a small section of the image.
‘I’m not sure I like this,’ Eddie said.
While they debated, there was a knock at the door.
They all jumped, so rapt in conversation were they. None of them seemed to want to answer the door.
Eddie reluctantly did, the band’s leader even in small matters like this.
It was Wentworth, holding a cardboard box.
‘I just found this outside my office,’ he said.
‘What’s in it?’ Eddie said.
‘Fuck knows.’
‘Any of you dickheads expecting a package like?’ Travis said.
They all shook their heads.
A horrid sinking feeling in his stomach, Eddie carefully eyed the box. Opening it was suddenly the last thing he wanted to do.
But he didn’t need to, as his bandmates were already halfway through tearing it open.
Zeke was first to inspect its contents and he went pale, his mouth filling with vomit when he saw what was inside.
‘What is it?’ Travis said, shoving his pallid friend out of the way to get to the box. ‘Oh, gross, man,’ he said, retching himself.
Eddie got the feeling that he didn’t want to know what was inside, but he looked regardless.
Inside the box, poking out from layers of blood-sodden tissue paper, was a human heart.
Thick dark blood still oozed from the liberated organ.
‘This has gotta be a joke,’ Ricky said.
‘I don’t know,’ Eddie said. ‘Looks plenty real to me.’
‘Berserker is the fucking right name for him,’ Travis laughed. ‘Hey, there’s a note in here.’
He rustled about in the box, trying his best not to touch the heart or the blood-soaked pap
er that surrounded it.
‘Careful, that’s evidence,’ Ricky said as his bandmate fought to pull the paper out of the box.
‘I don’t think we want the cops to know about this,’ Wentworth said. ‘More fucking bad press.’
They all nodded solemnly.
‘What’s it say then?’ Wentworth said.
Travis gulped as he read it. ‘It’s from Berserker 84. It says, “I’ve got your backs, lads. I love your band with all my heart.’” Then there’s a little smiley face drawn in blood.’
‘This guy has some serious fucking issues,’ Eddie said, kicking the box hard enough to tip it over and let some of the tissue paper fall out.
‘We were always gonna get ’em,’ Wentworth said. ‘Music fans do weird things. And your music is extreme, so it amplifies the psycho factor.’
‘You’re fucking telling me,’ Eddie said.
‘What the hell do we do about this?’ Zeke said, eyeing the heart with barely-concealed revulsion.
When reality sunk in, Wentworth was in as much of a flap as his four young clients.
His concern was mostly if the press caught wind of their predicament. ‘We’ll be over as quick as a footballer’s marriage,’ was his succinct way of putting it.
‘I think we should come clean,’ Ricky said. ‘If we try and cover it up and get rumbled it’ll really bite us on the arse later.’
‘I can’t believe the guy’s over-reacted this much,’ Wentworth spat. ‘It’s absolutely insane. What the hell was he thinking?’
‘I know. He’s a fucking psychopath,’ Eddie said.
‘Wants his bloody head looking at,’ Zeke chimed in from the background.
‘Yeah, reckon you’re right,’ Wentworth said. ‘Get on the blower to the cops. At least we’re being transparent about it if we tell ’em.’
The cops were stunned by the motive behind the crime.
‘Guess they ain’t proper music fans,’ Travis muttered to Eddie who scowled at him in reply.
‘We reckon it’s this guy we know online,’ Eddie said, showing the cops the posts that Berserker 84 had made.
They read the posts carefully, querying where the words had come from.
