Damaged Read online

  Damaged

  Timothy W. Long

  Tim Marquitz

  Contents

  Introduction

  Demon of the Fall

  1. Blackened Dawn

  2. Heaven and Hell

  3. In League with Satan

  4. God of Emptiness

  5. Demon of the Fall

  6. Ten Seconds To Love

  7. Visions in Black

  8. Wake Up Dead

  9. The Number of the Beast - 84

  10. Scream Bloody Gore

  11. The Mirror and the Ripper

  12. Shroud of False

  13. Cum on Feel the Noize - 84

  14. Fabulous Disaster

  15. Serpent Tongue

  16. Given to the Rising

  17. Bloodied yet Unbowed

  18. Finger Paintings of the Insane

  19. South of Heaven

  20. Walk with me in Hell

  21. Possessed - 92

  22. Master of Puppets

  23. I Hate Therefore I Am

  24. Still Remains

  25. Angry Neurotic Catholics

  26. Songs from the North

  27. Scavenger of Human Sorrow

  28. Victim of the Night

  29. Terrible Certainty

  30. For Your Life

  31. Iscariot

  32. Chemical Noose

  33. Born to Booze

  34. Caress into Oblivion

  35. Sanity’s End

  Crown of Sympathy

  Afterword

  About the Authors

  “DAMAGED”

  By Timothy W. Long and Tim Marquitz

  Copyright 2016. Timothy W. Long and Tim Marquitz

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Introduction

  This book is dedicated to all the metal bands that have inspired us from early on and continue to do so today. Damaged is a tribute (sick and twisted as it may be) to all of them. We’ve used some of our favorite song titles for the chapters and have liberally peppered our story with re-imaginations of bands whose music and spirit have moved us. In this way we give back, but we also want to spread the gospel, so to speak, to those who have yet to bow before the altar of metal.

  As horrible as our inspirations might seem, heavy metal, in all its incarnations, might as well be a religion. And, believe it or not, it’s one of peace and brotherhood. We spend our rage and violence on the pages and under the influence of our beloved music, carrying a deep respect for those of our ilk. And it’s this love we want to advance.

  After you’ve read this book (and showered) take a few minutes to look into the bands we mention and immerse yourself in the world of metal. There’s a world of awesome waiting for you to cross that line.

  Demon of the Fall

  Prologue

  It was an ass-hair after midnight and Oswald Riker could only make out the hammering of his heartbeat.

  Two hours of punishing sonic sound, double bass beat, shrieking vocals, and all while hidden in a box the size of a mini-fridge laid on it’s side. He needed to piss so bad he was gritting his teeth. He should have invested in an adult diaper like his friend Jon wore, but wearing a diaper wasn’t fucking metal. It wasn’t even progressive metal.

  Jon Moony had been his best friend since freshman year of high school. Where Oswald was short and stocky, Jon was long and lithe. Jon was more of a Robert Plant, while Oswald was an Udo Dirkschneider.

  They had been fans of the same bands, liked going to concerts, and absolutely worshiped their heroes, Damaged. The pair grew their hair out to shoulder length, Jon’s black and Oswald’s blonde. They both played guitar and had made half-hearted attempts at starting a band but it wasn’t that easy. Holding onto a bass player and drummer turned out to be problematic because neither Oswald or Jon could play music worth a damn, so no one stuck around for more than two practice sessions. When Oswald sang, it was off key, and his growls were so forced it sounded like he was constipated more than angry.

  Oswald’s mother thought the music of the devil had no place in their home. She hounded him about his black clothing and concert T-shirts. She encouraged him to go to church but he managed to weasel his way out of visiting a holy house more often than not.

  Jon’s parents lived in a two-bedroom apartment out near Oceanside because they couldn’t afford anything else. They were cool, had grown up in the 80s, and even listened to Damaged. They actually encouraged Jon to play and even found him a guitar teacher. So he played lead because he could noodle through a few solos.

  Oswald was happy to play rhythm guitar. They spent most of their time learning Damaged’s songs, in particular, anything from Tools for the Devil, the album that had cemented their heroes in metal history, and had one of the most played singles of all time.

  It was Jon who had come up with the idea to hide out in the arena while the band played. Once the show was over, the pair would exit their self-imposed coffins and be backstage.

  “We don’t have passes. They’ll kick our asses out,” Oswald had said when Jon broached the idea.

  They were hanging out at a Pizza Hut, piles of cheese, pepperoni, and tomato sauce, on slabs of cardboard dough.

  “See, that’s the beauty of my plan. I’ve downloaded a bunch of pictures of backstage passes from the shows on this tour. I’ll make us a pair,” Jon said.

  “It’s not just the pass. They have barcodes or QR codes that have to be scanned.”

  “Yeah. To get in. We’ll already be in.” Jon had smiled.

  “That’s fucking genius, man.”

  The hard part had been getting into the arena before the band. They had finally found a non-English speaking groundskeeper to look away for a few seconds, for a hundred bucks. The guy had pocketed the cash, and let them in. As the door had closed, he had wandered away without looking back.

  Jon had done amazing research on the internet. He knew that there were rooms where supplies were brought in for the shows. They’d determined that food storage was risky because they might end up in a refrigerated space. He had found schematics and learned where they brought in stuff like paper plates and big red SOLO cups.

  The boxes had been their goal. They worked as quickly as they could, emptying out two large ones. They stashed the contents in half emptied supply cases, and the rest they just moved behind other crap. What they hadn’t counted on was how close they were to the concert stage. With the boxes up against the wall it had been almost deafening. Oswald had hummed every line and tried to air guitar each song while lying on his back.

  Jon tapped on Oswald’s box once the noise died down and he could hear again. He pushed the top open and peered out at his friend.

  “Let’s go,” Oswald said.

  “Hell yeah,” Jon had grinned, then checked his cell phone. Damn. He was at three percent battery because he’d played games on it while they were in their coffins. So much for selfies unless he turned it off until needed. Hopefully Jon had some juice.

  They made it into a main hallway before they ran into the first bit of trouble. An overeager security guard had spotted them leaving the room and asked them to stop. Oswald fumbled in his pocket for his fake backstage pass. Jon had freaked and ran. Oswald, after looking between the rapidly approaching man in the dark blue jacket, and his friend’s fleeing feet, had set off in pursuit. Together, they had wound through hallways, past roadies moving speakers, stacks of equipment, cables, and lights of all sizes.

  There was a pocket of people ahead so they displayed their laminates as they came to a shuffled halt.


  “Just act cool,” Jon whispered to his friend.

  “I’m cool. Let’s lose the jackets. Harder to find us that way,” Oswald whispered back.

  They tossed their outer layer behind a box. Jon hoped no one would ask any questions. Thankfully, the others, fans allowed backstage he assumed, stank of booze and probably wouldn’t notice them anyway. The reek of marijuana drifted through the air. Voices rose around them. If they weren’t supposed to be in this area, no one said a word.

  They rounded a corner and came into sight of the stage. It was up a flight of stairs that the band would have ascended. A huge backdrop hung at the back, covered in pentagrams and demon horns. The word DAMAGED in billboard sized letters. Esoteric and occult symbols and shapes formed a pattern that had been the subject of fan speculation since it was unveiled in 1987.

  “Too bad we missed the show,” Jon said.

  “But we’re gonna meet the band. That’s going to make up for a hundred shows.” Oswald grinned.

  “You seen a couple of kids come through here?” A voice behind them said, startling the pair. Security had found them.

  “Let’s move.” Jon pushed his friend.

  The hustled down a corridor and came to a cross section. Oswald wished they would have printed out a map of the arena. But as luck had it, someone left a room right then, and shuffled down the hall away from them. Oswald pointed but he didn’t have to say anything, Jon thrilling at the sight. Not thirty feet away was Michael Blackstone, lead guitarist of Damaged, cruising down the hall right in front of them

  Oswald and Jon set out in pursuit.

  “Hey you!” The voice again and jangling keys.

  They hauled ass.

  Up a hallway. Past more roadies. Someone shouted for them to stop but they kept on moving. A guy ahead with a radio headset looked directly at them and stuck his hand out to either side. Like they were going to stop Oswald and Jon.

  They rushed past him and Oswald managed to get one hand up to high five the security guard.

  “Hey! Stop!”

  Oswald had no intention of following directions tonight.

  Then they were around another corner and Michael Blackstone’s shape rounded the bend ahead. Oswald couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud at the balls they’d grown. He’d been scared to death when they started this mad venture, but things had gone too far. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? They would just get tossed on their asses. Big deal.

  A door ahead. Closed. Oswald tried the doorknob but it was locked.

  “Quick,” Oswald grabbed his friend’s shoulder and dragged him along.

  They rounded a sharp corner and found themselves looking at a long hallway that split into a T. There was a map on the wall, but they didn’t have time to figure out where the hell they were. Didn’t matter anyway. They had seen Michael Blackstone and they were going to at meet him, no matter what they needed to do.

  Another right after a few hundred paces and there was a door on the right. Oswald came to a halt and reached for the door, expecting it to be locked.

  “Fuck, dude. This one,” Oswald said.

  They slid into the open doorway and pushed the door closed behind them. It was dark but Oswald slid his hand across the wood, finding a lock, and turned it until it clicked.

  “Not the band. Where the fuck did Blackstone go?” Jon asked.

  They both collapsed, put their backs to the wall, and slid to the floor in a fit of giggles. Oswald sucked in a few deep breaths before reaching into his pocket.

  Oswald pulled out a joint that had been broken in half thanks to their scurrying though corridors. In the dark room, he worked the paper over like a fucking surgeon. He broke it in half, and then rolled the ends.

  “Lost my lighter with my jacket,” Oswald said with a pang of regret.

  “I got it.” Jon produced his and sparked it.

  The tiny flickering light revealed they were in a small room with more stage equipment. Crates labeled for some band Oswald had never heard of: Honest Abe. What a fucking joke. Probably some hipsters with man buns who liked to wear bowlers.

  “Let me borrow that,” Oswald said. His bladder was about to burst.

  He took the lighter, and found a corner, unzipped his pants, and let out a stream of pee that never seemed to end.

  “Dude. You’re pissing in a room,” Jon giggled.

  “Think I should go back out there and ask about a bathroom?”

  “Yeah. Ask for some hot dogs while you’re at it,” Jon said.

  Oswald zipped up and handed the lighter back to Jon.

  Jon lit Oswald’s joint first, then his own. Oswald inhaled, paused, and sucked in another hit. He held it in, letting the acrid smoke work it’s magic, and then blew a plume at the ceiling.

  “Sativa?” Jon asked.

  “You know it. It’s a strain called Damaged. You believe that? My dealer told me it would fuck us up, just like the band,” Oswald said.

  “The hell are we?” Jon asked as he stood up, clearly already feeling the effects of the weed.

  “Don’t know, man. But we need to find the band before they get bored and go back to their hotel for beer and babes,” Oswald said.

  “I heard they once had an orgy in the lobby of a Marriott in Dallas.”

  “I heard they once screwed a couple of groupies during an intermission in full view of the crew,” Oswald countered.

  The little light moved around the room as Jon puffed on his joint. Oswald got back to his feet and felt around the wall. He finally located a light switch and flipped it up, revealing they were in a small room filled with boxes and crap.

  The doorknob jiggled and Oswald froze.

  The weed was kicking in strong, and so was his paranoia. What if they broke down the door? Dragged him and Jon out? What if they called the cops? Christ, his mom would never forgive him for pulling this. She’d put locks on his doors and windows. Bars on the outside. He’d be stuck in suburban prison. The whole thing would cascade out of control. They’d have records from now on. Breaking and entering could land them in jail. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. OH FUCK!

  “Shhh.” Jon whispered.

  Oswald met his friend’s eyes and they both fought back giggles.

  He put his ear against the door and listened, but whoever was out there must have moved on.

  “There’s another door back here. Let’s get the fuck out while we can,” Oswald said, wondering if his paranoia was bleeding through in his voice. A line of sweat broke on his forehead and ran down his face.

  “Yeah, yeah. Try the other door,” Jon said.

  Oswald stepped over an eight inch-tall pile of audio cables and maneuvered around a pair of crates stacked taller than him. He listened at the other door, and then grinned at Jon when the knob turned.

  “Kill the light,” Oswald said.

  Jon complied and they were once again cast in darkness. Oswald gripped the handle and opened the door. A sliver of light appeared, as did the sound of chanting. It rose and lowered, growing louder before becoming a hum. Some kind of incense, like cinnamon beating the hell out of Sulphur, flooded the room.

  Jon’s hand on Oswald’s shoulder nearly made him jump out his skin.

  They pushed the door open a few inches to get a look at what was going on.

  The room was murky but they could make out four shapes. No, five. The room was clearly a venue for smaller bands. A small pit lay in front of a four foot-tall stage. Around the perimeter were pull out bleachers. The room could probably hold a few hundred fans. Right then, it contained a scene from Hell.

  Candles laid out in a pentagram. The shape was red, like fresh blood. Melted wax covered the bloody symbol. There was something in the center. Something that moved. A small shape with four legs. Is that a…?

  Oswald wanted to leave. He wanted to leave right fucking then. He loved Damaged and talking about some of their more satanic lyrics, but this was too much. When he was a kid, he watched a movie on TV called Race with the Devi
l, in which Peter Fonda and three others witness a satanic ritual in the woods. They were pursued by a cult and ended up fighting for their lives. The most frightening scene, to his young mind, had been when the people in the movie returned to their camper to find their pet nailed to the door.

  Nowadays, the movie was tame compared to modern horror cinema, and nothing he had ever watched compared to what he saw beyond that door.

  The five figures wore black robes. They moved around the smoky room muttering, chanting. On the stage, four other figures watch. One of them rose and approached an elaborately engraved red box. The figure took out a six-inch blade. The pommel was ornate, but cruelly so with a jagged end attached to a ruby gem that caught the light in the room and swirled with malevolence.

  They stood a mere twenty feet away and Oswald couldn’t tear his eyes off the image.

  Jon clutched his shoulder.

  The door slid open another inch while they watched in rapt attention.

  The first figure, a man, descended the steps and walked into the pentagram. The five others dropped their robes, revealing three women and two men. They were not much older than Oswald himself. They were also naked. Their bodies bore strange shapes that looked almost like Egyptian hieroglyphs, from neck to feet, painted in bright reds and oranges. Black outlines representative of their bones, arched down limbs. Oswald would love nothing more than to imprint the image of the women, both quite beautiful, into his head for the spank bank. He should have been in awe.

  Instead, he was horrified.

  The thing in the center of the pentagram became easier to make out once some of the smoke had risen to the ceiling. It was feline, large, and horror of horrors, it had two heads.

  “Dude. This has to be a movie set. That shit is fucked up,” Jon whispered.

  “Yeah. A movie set. A movie without cameras,” Oswald observed, having though the same thought when they opened the door.

  The pot made his head woozy. The room swum, but still he knew what he was seeing. He’d tried hallucinogens before and this was nothing like the effect. Even if the weed had been laced, that was not how it felt. Not by a long-ass stretch.