The recent fracas over Pantera grave desecration reminds us all of two things: many people who criticize Pantera do so out of hurt feelings about social justice issues, and many Pantera fans respond like raging apes locked in coin operated toilets. This creates a potent mix of rage and butthurt that appeals to the sadist in each of us.
To fan the flames, because simply being logical (RIP Spock) and level-headed about issues never gets anyone famous, DeathMetal.org announces a Pantera erotic short story contest. The rules are as follows:
- Your story must be between 500-5,000 words and involve the members of Pantera including Dimebag Darrell, and optionally the hipster crust/punk/black band that originally claimed to desecrate his grave, in intensely sexual or erotic situations involving homosexuality and other non-traditional sexual inclinations.
- You must paste the story into a comment on this site by midnight (EST) on March 6, 2015.
- Your story must be your work alone, except for Pantera lyrics quoted as characters reach climax.
- Winner will receive a box of random stuff I can reach easily without leaving this chair.
The point of this is to offend both those who criticize Pantera for being un-PC, and those who defend Pantera with blockheaded and thoughtless remarks. Hopefully both groups will be appalled and call for the death of anyone connected to this, pointing out yet again how both PC indie-metal fans and Pantera fans have more in common with ISIS than metal.
Writers are encouraged to seek inspiration in early Pantera glam metal works like Metal Magic, Power Metal and I am the Night. Bonus points for anyone who works in a Chuck Schuldiner/AIDS subplot, or even a thread about Opeth and a tour bus painted bright pastel colors.
Ok, but to make it more interesting Brett Stephens, let the Pantera fans post on this comment section without any censorship. Let someone know the fans of your article so they can storm this comment section. Sounds fair?
Have you guys read Henry and Glenn forever? Even Rollins had a good sense of humor about it.
“Here’s my latest album. Please be gentle. It took me a whole afternoon to write and record.
Yours,
Varg Vikernes
P.s. Please accept this dining plate I adorned with real runic messages. They tell tales about the European non-Jewish Gods of Old which we must worship.”
Brett Stevens sweetly admired the plate and then pulled the album from its brown paper envelope. He thumbed open the jewel case and slipped the CD into the same dusty desktop computer he’d been using since 2002. Naturally, Brett was excited. It had been some time since he had the opportunity to review a new Burzum album. Almost two weeks in fact.
He laid back and closed his eyes on the tattered, pock-marked foam mattress that was his bed. This was where he did most of his love-making. This evening, it would be just him and his favourite black metal band together again.
The music washed over him. To his infinite dismay, he could already hear the critics denouncing this work of majesty in unison. “There’s no progression!” they would say. “This sounds like a bad advert for a children’s magazine!” others would add. But he knew they were wrong. They didn’t understand the genius of Varg Vikernes. No-one had done for a long time. No-one but Brett.
Brett got halfway through the album and then posted a glowing review to his personal metal blogsite. He awarded it 9.5 out of 10 bleeding skulls. Varg read the review and grew glad. Varg knew that Brett was almost alone in realising his genius. Varg could trust Brett.
Varg kept thinking about Brett for the whole of the next day. Suddenly, he picked up his Nokia phone and scrolled straight to Brett’s number. His thumb rested there nervously for some time. They had to talk, he thought.
“Brett?”
As Varg’s chest went hollow, Brett’s heart lept.
“Yes, Varg?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
The two would meet up outside a protestant church in Norway. The plan was to burn it at the ground. In doing so, the powers of the Jews would weaken and the race of ancient whites would realise that their way of life was being threatened by Jews, Muslims, and blackamoores, and they would rise up against their politically correct governments. They would crown Varg and Brett as their Kings and a new golden age of Atlantis would be ushered in.
They used the back entrance to work their way into the holy place. After fumbling around in the dark, Brett and Varg found themselves at the front of the inside of the church. They walked down the aisle together, planning to light the spark that would change their lives forever. They stepped onto the pulpit and decided this is where the desecration would take place.
In the pitch black of the church, Varg lit a match. He caught the reflection of Brett’s bright blue eyes in the flickering light.
“You really do have true European blood” said Varg.
“Like most Americans I am a mongrel mixture of European and African ancestry. Your words please me” replied Brett.
“You know, the ancient European elders would often engage in homoerotic acts as a way of building trust between different families” said Varg.
“You mean, we can bang and still be straight?” said Brett.
“That’s exactly what I mean” said Varg, and the two lovebirds were found by the vicar the next morning, covered in crispy semen, sleeping in each others’ arms.
9/11 bleeding anuses
I fapped.
Do you really have blue eyes? How dreamy!
Only one way to find out ;)
Too much build-up, not enough crispy semen.
More Semen Please
There is more creativity in this post than the entirety of modern art.
fucking brilliant mayne
Sven Oh Taph
It was a long time ago when Starfox was released soda was still called pop. The night was full of trash and J. Priest posters. Skateboaring was still cool and jocks ruled the moral desert.
I was having a hard time listening to music. Me and Vijay were listening to Cowbois From Hell. He became very agitated that no one had argued with his music choice and became hysterical with boner. He screamed “Endless Blockade for the Pissyfooters” amd thrusted forth with the hip swivel of a meth head hairdresser in Brussels. He cried as he rocked back and forth like a manatee on PCP and his dick got stuck in “what other people think”‘s ass. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. He fantasized about Phil cupping his breasts and telling the little heaher that one day a documentary would be written about him and gabriel (from the club) would blow his trumpet.
Days of sweat and mountain dew went by. Vijay became unabsolved by metal’s unforgiving stench of lust.
One day Vijay was throttling his small guy like Malmsteen. Phil’s husky voice moshed its way into his little head. He jizzed and was obsessed by cruelty until one day he took it to the streets via facebook.
Thus anus.com was born out of cemetarial populist ass lust. His puny body withered under the weight of his audience. He started to care. He recruited others whose cocks were engorged by the wolf-shook. Neither Dimebag nor Chuck Schuldiner’s ghost took notice.
Did you, my sleek readers, ejaculate spurts of love for Vijay yet?
Phil Anselmo woke to a chill December morning in the abbey. He put on his monk’s habit and walked to the garden just as he had done every year on this date, throughout all the many years he had lived within these walls. Each year in the garden one rose would remain full and beautiful after all the others had wilted. And how perfect and sweetly scented the rose was this year! But Phil knew that tonight it would drop its petals and wilt in the space of a few moments. For tonight was the anniversary of that night. The night Phil’s heart had been broken forever. Phil gazed at the rose, round and red, and his thoughts drifted far into the past…
“Rise and shine, fuckerrrr!”
Phil jerked awake from a dream of his native bayou to a muggy Texas night. Phil’s eyes focused, and he saw a stranger’s asshole hanging within two inches of his face. Round, red, and perfect. The stranger whirled around and amongst a mask of makeup, huge hair, and a savage grin, Phil saw the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.
“I‘m Dime” said a voice that went with the eyes. “You live around here?”
“I live right here” said Phil, and banged the dumpster against which he’d been slumped.
“This is Rex and Vinnie” said Dime, motioning to two men behind him who were leering at Phil. Like Dime, they were dressed as mentally ill prostitutes might be. Phil liked their style.
“Are you in a band or something?” he asked. They all laughed.
“Yes, we’re Pantera, and we’re going to a party. You should come.”
So Phil went. The party was loud and raucous, with booze and women and weed. None of this was Phil’s thing, but he liked to stay quiet and observe. Dime pointed out a sullen young man in the corner as Terry, their lead singer. Terry fixed his eyes on Phil and his gaze was not kind. Girls draped themselves over Rex and Vinnie, but Phil saw them sneaking furtive looks at each other from time to time. Phil mostly watched Dime’s lithe, youthful body as he paced around the room and fingered the frets on an unplugged guitar. Women would approach Dime, their sultry voices dripping with lust and whispering lewd promises, and he would politely turn them away. Sometimes he would catch Phil staring and Dime would smile and his beautiful eyes would twinkle. They talked, and Phil hoped the night would go on forever.
Phil came out of his reverie and back to the abbey garden. Smiling gently, he walked away from rose bushes and looked up at carven statue of the Virgin. Her arms gently outstretched, her face a mixture of pity, love, and pain. As he had so many times before, Phil marveled at how many emotions could be contained in one expression…
The door of the dressing room opened violently as Phil approached. Terry stormed out and briefly looked Phil in the eye as he rushed past. Terry’s makeup was streaked with tears, and his expression was full of loathing, despair, and betrayal. Phil cautiously entered the room, where Dime was seated. Dime looked up and smiled with his perfect eyes, and for the first time Phil noticed the hint of sadness in them.
“Phil, you’ve been with us for some time now” said Dime. “You’re a loyal follower, but I must know if you’re willing to go all the way with us.” He looked out the door, his eyes following the path Terry had taken down the hall. “Some people cannot understand what it is that I must do. I want you to be Pantera‘s new singer.” He looked at Phil, and a thousand supernovas exploded in his perfect eyes, leaving the fading afterglow in the shape of the stars and bars.
“Yes” said Phil.
Phil continued his stations through the abbey garden and stood in front of the statue of Christ staggering under the weight of the cross. Phil knew the worst memories must also come. They could not be denied.
He had followed Dime’s every word. He helped pick out torn jeans and camo shorts and pot-leaf shirts to replace the band’s old uniforms. He had stood on the stage and screamed obscenities to hordes of dirty, chanting orcs. The back of the tour bus had become a den of debauchery; harder drugs came. There were always women. And often men. But Phil had never partaken. Neither had Dime. They had always sat in the front quietly, sometimes talking, sometimes not.
Dime was becoming more and more withdrawn. Phil knew that he was grieved by his brother Vinnie’s risk taking, and Phil wondered why he never attempted to stop it. When Dime asked Phil to pretend to have a drug problem, Phil only half understood why. But still he said yes. He would do anything for Dime. But things were changing. What had once been a pure love was increasingly becoming a physical obsession in Phil’s mind. He would toss and turn in his bunk, never allowing himself any sort of release. When talking with Dime his gaze grew longer, more furtive, more painful. And Dime noticed.
Phil wasn’t really surprised when it all fell apart. But the last time he saw Dime he could not have imagined it would be the final farewell. Until he watched the news that one December morning. And then his world fell away. Dime was dead.
Vinnie called him one night. Drunk, always drunk. Phil wondered as Vinnie spoke what shape his facial hair had taken that month.
“There’s something you have to know about Dime” Vinnie said. Phil opened his mouth to speak, but it was dry and he could only listen. “All that getting shot on stage shit was his idea. Everything the whole time was his idea. It was a cover-up. We hired some asshole and gave him a gun.” Vinnie’s throat was choked with tears as he continued. “He did it all for us, man. Remember that time our tour met up with Death’s tour?” Phil’s stomach dropped. He remembered that time well. Chuck Shuldiner could mesmerize any metalhead with the power of his guitar wankery, but off stage he was completely uncontrollable.
“One night while you were pretending to be out scoring H…Chuck came on the bus. He was drunk and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Me and Rex and the bus driver all tried to let him take it out on us, but Dime wouldn’t have it. He insisted that he be the one to go. We all saw him get walk onto Chuck’s tour bus like a dead man, but with his head held high.”
It all made sense to Phil now; he was overwhelmed with anger, pain, betrayal, and love. Vinnie continued. “Dime knew the whole time what would happen to him. Our whole damn career was leading up to that moment. He saved us and took that burden upon himself, and him getting shot was the cover up. I don’t know how, but he knew all along that he would get Chuck’s AIDS.”
That was the last time Phil had spoken to any of them. He entered the monastery the following week, and had never left. Some of the new monks throughout the years had been Pantera fans, and through them Phil had heard of Rex‘s suicide and Vinnie‘s sex change operation. But none of it mattered now.
Phil watched the first petals fall from the last rose, picked one up and clutched it in his hand, then turned away, more weary now than any anniversary ever before. In his bedroom he opened his fist and looked at the petal, a thousand memories burning in his mind. Dime’s lithe body. His nimble fingers. His sacrifice.
Phil’s skin began to heat up. Every nerve in his body seemed to crackle. He watched in amazement as the petal burst into flames. And then the first wave hit him. A pure wave of transcendent love. And then another, more violent. The familiar surroundings of his bedroom gave way to a far more intimate vision of his beloved, his beautiful eyes flashing like the creation of the universe itself. The burden of decades was released and poured out of Phil’s body in spurts. He could feel his very life force flowing out of him. He knew the monks would find him the next day, his spent body lying limp in a puddle of pearl on the floor. They would see and know, and they would not deny the majesty of his final throes. The immaculate ejaculation.
“Through all those complex years, I thought I was alone, until I found my Diamond [Darrell] in the rough,” recounts Phil Man-slamo.
I don’t really have a story cause I got a nursing exam tomorrow that’s gonna kill me, but I thought that was a good line, so maybe someone can run with it.
I should’ve included this, it’s a good line.
He was hollow as I was alone. Forty days on the road in a bus full of sweaty drunk men can take a toll on a desolate heart and I have no shame in what I did on that cold stretch of Texas tarmac. The show was over and I gave every ounce of power on stage that night and as I sparked a joint and surveyed the rows of sleeping bodies illuminated by the blue glow of the overhead bus lights the only souls stirring were me..and Daryl. our eyes locked briefly. We chuckled and he went back to practicing scales. Jack Daniels in hand, I swayed to the bathroom at the back of the bus. There was a load welling up in my balls that had to come out and I was far beyond driven by this gym body crusty boy who was just begging for my attention. I stepped over mike and pushed the bathroom door open and took a look at myself in the mirror. I needed a shave. I pun led my shorts down and began to work my member. Slow at first then the images came. Nuclear hellfrost. They were young they had plenty of spunk. So did I. Beckon the call. I was rigid. It was a new level. Unbreakable. I almost came too quickly. I wanted to enjoy this. It was then that I realised I had forgot to latch the bathroom door when a low whisper caressed my ear: “Phil.” I looked back into the mirror and there was Daryl, he had stripped to his underwear and had his hands on my hips. I turned around and succumbed. There were no words. He closed the door behind him dropped to his knees and brushing his hair aside took my cock into his mouth. I swear I saw fireworks. I could have exploded then and there. But it was not over. He looked up; “do you want to be inside of me?” A low animal growl eminated from deep in my chest. “Daryl;” I moaned. “I must have you even if it means burglary!” As I pulled him up by the hair, bending him over the sink and pulling his boxers to his knees our cheats were heaving. It was more exhilarating than playing in front of thousands of screaming fans. I felt alive. My cock was like an antenna with all of the electricity in the world swirling around it. Dime grabbed my hip and snarled: “fuck me Phil. What the.hell are you waiting for? Everyone is still asleep. Do it. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?” I hit the hand sanitizer and greased my cock. I slid a soapy exploratory finger into his ass and he sighed tightening up around me. I pressed the crown of my throbbing cock against dime bags asshole and he almost screamed in anticipation. In a vulgar display of power I thrust my full length directly into him as he bit a roll of toilet paper. I could hold on no longer and in three strokes the universe seemed to explode in a haze of ecstasy whiskey and feedback. He had came, too. Sprayed against the sink in a sticky mass of cream. We were sweating and collapsed onto the toilet, my slowly softening penis still inside of him. This was going to be my favorite tour yet.
Win
The fuck has Pantera done to you? If it wasn’t for Dimebag and Pantera most of the crappy bands you probably listen to wouldn’t even exist.
I’d like to see you actually say all that stuff you wrote to Anselmo’s face by the way.
I don’t know about you, but if Pantera hadn’t existed, most of the bands I actively avoid listening to probably wouldn’t exist. I can deal with that.
Also:
“I’d like to see you actually say all that stuff you wrote to Anselmo’s face by the way.”
Classic dudebro Pantera fan response, right there.
Ok keyboard warrior, you’re cool behind the screen…
This excerpt from an old DMU piece might explain the hate:
Honestly I think that Phil “Hardcore” Anuselmo would be amused rather than angry if we read hot erotic Pantera fiction to him.
By reputation, yes. He’s confident in what he does and would shrug it off along with every other negative thing people say.
The real question is what direction metal will choose. The sodomy question is already answered.
Why should any metalhead waste their time even mentioning Pantera if he/she doesn’t like them, why bother trolling the sjws and Pantera fans let’s talk about better bands.
Because it’s funny.
Yeah, but it’s better not to give mallcore bands attention.
This sounds like fun–Challenge accepted.
In the upcumming days, I’m gonna put myself into a homo-erotic trance and write the most semen soaked, ass-clenching, rim-jobbing romp of a sweaty man sex story ever.
Now I think I’ll put on some Opeth and seek out inspiration.
Dimebag Darrell was ramming Reece Eber with force like a hundred cowboys stampeding. It felt so painful yet he was still hard, dripping with precum like you’d never seen. Everytime he slammed the progressively torn asshole with his swollen cock, Reece felt the growing urge to jerk himself off to unleash an ocean of semen, but it was impossible; if he lets go of the bed posts Dimebag will lose balance and would have to stop fucking that bleeding anal cavity. No self-respecting Pantera fan would deny Dimebag Darrell the pleasure of fucking their asshole for the sake of that quick final climax.
And out of nowhere, Dimebag grunted like a sexual beast and slowly exhumed his throbbing member from Reece Eber’s destroyed anus. He said in his charming southern accent “Turn ’round n open wide Reece cuz ‘ere comes muh cum!!!”. Reece eagerly followed his command; he knelt down in front of him (and felt a bit of blood pour out then, but the singer of Nuclear Hellfrost gave no fuck), looked into Dimebag’s eyes and opened his mouth as wide as he possibly could. Dimebag was staring back straight into his soul as he began jerking his tool, aiming straight for that gaping throat. The speed of his wrist and breathing increased tenfold before he wailed in excitement as copious amounts of semen were pouring and jetting into Reece’s face, his dreads, his tongue and straight down his throat! It was like heaven! A dream of his finally came true! He took a massive cumshot into his face and mouth, from world’s greatest guitarist himself! He then told Reece “Now dont yew swallow that Reece, y’hear?! I got you ‘nuther surprise so close yer eyes, keep yer mouth open, and if yew really dew love meh then yew best never open ’em!” As always, Reece obeyed his order. He then closed his eyes, excited and anticipating for what’s to come. “What will Dime give me?!” he thought. Very soon he began to smell an abhorrent stench. It was like a mix of shit, tabasco sauce and stale whiskey. That’s when Reece started to feel a hot gush of stinking lumpy putrescence fall effortlessly straight into his mouth. It was shit. Steaming fecal matter with a smell that would make any same human gag and vomit was immediately mixing with the cum he patiently stored in his mouth while his eyes were tearing up profusely. And he fucking loved it. As it fell into his mouth he was just gargling the mixture of semen and shit, savouring the amazing taste while slapping Dimebag’s soft peanut-shaped turds and undigested matter slightly with his tongue. And just when he thought it stopped piling up into his cum-encrusted mouth, Dimebag grunted violently and he felt another torrent of boiling hot anal bile. Goddamn it, Reece just couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to cum, it was just too much. Right when he started stroking his appendage hard while swishing Dimebag’s cum and shit in his mouth, the legendary guitarist intervened and growled “Now slow down thur, bro! Getcha pull n lemme finish that off fer yew!” Dimebag snatched Reece’s hand off his red spasming cock, grabbed it with his guitar shredding hand tightly and jammed it straight into his mouth, sucking the shaft and slurping on Reece’s tip non-stop like a fucking pro! What veteran Pantera fan ever said said that they got a blowjob from none other than Dimebag Darrell?! And admit it was the greatest fucking blowjob of all time?! It wasn’t long before he was tickling Reece’s nut sack; that’s when he began to pant heavily and was really losing control! It took only a few more seconds of genuine Dimebag cocksucking before Reece screamed in pleasure, released some of the liquid concoction of shit and cum he still didn’t swallow down his chest and blew his load on Dimebag’s rugged face! Into his mouth as he dribbled fresh hot semen down his signature pink-dyed goatee while gazing into Reece’s eyes.
Afterwards, Dimebag lifted himself up with his powerful limbs and, in the heat of the moment, he initiated kissing Reece slowly but passionately, despite that his mouth is dribbling with brown saliva, cum and shit. Clashing tongues submerged in a sea of Dimebag’s fluids and waste while rubbing eachother’s sweaty and hairy backs.
A hobo named Phil heard about glam band Anusteara looking for a new singer. He knew it would be a great way of getting rich quickly, so he agreed to audition. The next day he went to the agreed meeting place, which was an abandoned warehouse in the bad area of town.
“So, you’re the guy who wants to replace Terry, huh?”
“Yes”, answered Phil Anuselmo, “I understand you, your brother Cumrag Darrell and your friend Rex Brown-Cock-Only need a replacement for Terry Gayz and I’m sure I will deliver, I don’t even need extremely tight leather pants to tighten my crotch area to be able to sing those high notes.”
“Oh, and how do you do that? You realize that even though Terry was the only one handling vocal duties that all of us wear excessive amount of make-up and balls-tight leather pants. This isn’t just a matter of being practical, it’s a matter of image as well.”
Phil leaned forward in his chair, his eyes full of determination.
“Look, this cock rock image you’re going with just isn’t gonna cut it, people have a propensity for just abandoning trends when they get sick of it and this glam bullshit is already well out of style!”
“You son of a…!” exclaimed Vinnie Prostataul Abbot-fucker.
“Calm down Vinnie”, interjected Rex, “I’ll talk to him.”
Rex took a sip from his shot glass filled with Chuck Schuldiner’s precious AIDS-infested lovejuice before continuing.
“Look, this tough guy won’t cut it, we need you to prove yourself to us before we agree to anything. Tell me one thing Phil, who’s been your latest lover? Who’s been in your bed? Who’s been your latest lover? Who’s been in your head?”
“I am a virgin, saving myself for the right girl.”
“Look pal”, said Darrel, “this goody-two-shoes act you conjured out of thin air won’t fly with us either, you have to prove to us that you’re a bad boy, that you’ll do ANYTHING to get what you want… and also… your chances won’t improve if you keep the bosses waiting.” Darrel’s arm moved inside his pants and one could clearly see that he started to fondle his footlong, veiny, hard-as-steel, skin-ripping, swollen erection.
“W-what do you mean?”, asked Phil with feelings of insecurity clearly being heard in his voice.
“Welcome to our world”, said Vinnie as he got up and dropped his pants, revealing his 12 inch python.
“Show us how you can hit those high notes while the brothers here… ahem… “service” your asshole. I already have the lyrics for our next album written down right here”, said Rex as he pulled down his skinny jeans to reveal how he was also very well hung, though his 9.5 inch pecker was miniscule compared to the Abbot-fucker brothers’ one foot lovemakers.
“Argh, I knew this was cumming…”, said Phil, somehow still confused about what was going on even though he knew exactly what he was getting himself into. He had read the stories on the tabloids about how the band members can’t get enough dick and how they don’t care who it’s attached to, as long as those cock-craving fruits get what they want from their fans and other musicians. Cannibal Cocks, Necrofagist, In Faggy Flames and Cradle of Homoerotic Filth are some bands they helped create, as is Nuclear Spermfrost who are notorious for getting prolapsed anuses after just an one-hour-manluvin’-session with Anusteara. The Gay Metal Patriarch, Chuck Schuldiner (also known as The Great Spermbeast Sex Sex Sex, the man who founded the religion of Gheylema) taught them all he knew about AIDS magick, which they used to enhance their love rods. He dismissed all of those stories as mere rumours, saying that they were too macabre to be believable, little did he know that his ass was next on the line. He thought “How could this be? I figured they were all virgins judging by their horrible stage costumes, so I pretended to be a virgin as well so they don’t feel threatened… I’ve had my way with women… some men too, if they were willing to bottom… but I never thought I’d have my tight virgin asshole deflowered by those two enormous horse dicks!”
He took a moment to gather enough strength for what was going to ensue…
“You’re the boss”, said Phil as he undressed his baggy camo shorts and bent over, prepared to have his rectum completely ravaged.
Darrell was the one to have the honours this time. Rex and Vinnie decided to watch from the sidelines and jerk each other off.
As soon as Darrel shoved his oversized weiner inside Phil, Phil’s boypussy ripped slightly to accommodate Darrell’s girth. Phil screamed in excruciating pain.
“Yeah, take it man!” yelled Rex while watching from the sidelines and carefully caressing Vinnie’s man meat the same way he saw Ghaay from Blowgoroth caressed his wineglass in Gaytal: An Anusbanger’s Journey. Darrell kept pounding away like no tomorrow, while Phil would switch from consciousness and unconsciousness every few seconds since he could barely take the pain. His anus wasn’t accustomed to anal sex at all, he knew that he could’ve ran away if he wanted to, but he didn’t.
“Oh, fuck it’s big!” he yelped.
Thankfully, after a few minutes Darrell unleashed his semen all over Phil’s poop chute.
“POWER ANAL
FUCK FOREVER
POWER ANAL
ON FOREVER!!!”
He came so forcefully, his cum started coming out of Phil’s every orifice. He then took his dick out of Phil’s shitter. His dick was covered in a mixture of his semen and Phil’s blood and feces. Cum started dripping out like a waterfall. In the back of the room Vinnie and Rex also reached climax and they shot their lifeseed into each other’s mouths, like covert snipers taking out their target after tracking them among the artificial hills and valleys of an abandoned city.
“Hm, congratulations, you’re officially part of the band”, said Cumrag Darrell.
“Welcome to the club buddy” continued Rex, after which he slapped Phil’s bum. Phil quickly grabbed his arm and pushed it aside, turned around to face Rex almost instantly and looked at him with eyes full of ferocity.
Phil started speaking.
“Let’s get something straaaaaaight”, after Vinnie, Rex and Darrell heard that word, which was like their kryptonite, they couldn’t help but recoil and cringe in horror. Phil continued.
“This was the first and the last time either one of you will ever touch my ass again, are you clear? See you at rehearsal.”
Phil then left, taking his shame with him.
Little did they know, a Swedish mustachioed kid with an open-mind in deep, dark fantasies watched every moment of what was happening. Little did Anusteara know that they inspired hundreds of new, dank, homoerotic metal. The most well-known and loved would be Blowjobeth, led by Mikokel Akerfeldt. Metal became accepting, everyone from Christians, radical feminists and otherkin knew they had a save space where they could enjoy the new, homoerotic breed of metal for all eternity.
FIN
I don’t know how it happened. I don’t even know that it DID happen. All I know is that I remember it…vividly…longingly…and that it certainly didn’t FEEL like a dream.
I had just gone to the local DIY joint to catch an underground band; Nuclear…Holocaust? Helicopter? Eh, I don’t even remember. They weren’t so bad, enjoyable enough to catch live, but I guess you can tell I didn’t find much to be particularly memorable about them. What was memorable was the evening to come.
Come to think of it, I don’t even know if it was during the evening; there was no light anywhere but the neon alcohol brand logos…I think I’m getting ahead of myself. After leaving the venue, I was about ready to go get home. However, the Taxidermy Palace isn’t exactly in the best neighborhood, and unfortunately, all of the parking spots along the main street were already taken. Frankly, I was pretty much expecting it when I was whacked over the head on my way down the shady sidestreet to my car.
I woke up in a van, but not for long. Every time I regained consciousness, before I could really focus and come to my senses, a figure would come back and knock me out again. It hurt, but I felt it strangely…ugh, I hate to say “arousing,” but I can’t come up with a better term…Regardless, this happened so many times that I could only conclude that they were taking me cross country or something.
Finally, I woke up in the backseat again, but they didn’t hit me. Instead, they just tossed a blanket over my head and dragged me indoors. “Where am I?” I asked. “Texas,” one figure responded. “…Pantera Country.” I was still struggling to fully come to my senses, but I heard the man talking to someone else off in the corner of the room about videotaping. He had some weird-ass name and I can’t quite remember it though…Xanax or something? Fuck, I can’t remember. I finally gained enough control of myself that I could take off the blanket. Everything was still blurry, but things were coming into focus. I looked at the large, hairy man in front of me. I nearly thought it was Hurley or some shit until I saw the tint of red in his beard. Wait a minute…it couldn’t be!
“D-Dimebag?? But you’re…” “No time for explanations,” he snapped. “Other than this: I’ve heard you were laughing at stories online about men having sex with me. My informant also tells me that, despite how you tried to appear, you weren’t just reading them to laugh at them. You really-I mean REALLY-enjoyed them, didn’t you?” he said with a knowing smirk, as he approached me and reached for his belt. “N-no, honest…” I stammered. I feigned discomfort as he grew closer and less clothed, but the telltale lump that had formed in my pants betrayed my true desires.
I nonetheless quivered as he pulled all of the tight black clothing off of my lean, effeminate body with his strong Texan hands. “Time to…getcha pull…” he cooed, and he guided my hand to his throbbing girth and started me tugging it back and forth. “Oh, you’re the best there ever was,” I moan back to him. ‘Are you talking to HIM!? NO WAY PUNK!’ I hear from behind; I didn’t look, but I knew what I was hearing. I tried to hide it, but my cute feminine penis was now fully erect and leaking. ‘Time to bring little Anselmo on home…boy.’ My prostate was twitching even before he started forcefully and confidently dominating my tender butthole with his mighty meat hammer. He made a sound similar to his scream at the end of Cemetery Gates as he filled me with his seed. ‘Well I guess I took your youth, and gave it all away,’ he whispered into my ear as I struggled to retain consciousness after the earth shaking prostate orgasm I just experienced. I tried to speak up, but Dime put a finger on my sweet, luscious lip and whispered ‘Hold your mouth for the war, use it for what it’s for’ before he and Anselmo both crammed their glorious logs of justice inside. I wanted nothing more than to please my idols, and sucked like a good little sissy. Dime then grabbed his signature Dean Razorback and started playing a groove to which he timed each thrust. I was in heaven. After they both finally burst into my eager mouth and all over my petite, completely shaven body. I slumped over in ecstasy, grinning an involuntary grin. Dime then grabbed me and said that it’s not over, he has to Razorback me still. I roll over, perk up, and present. ‘We’re taking over this town,’ they say as they approach my spread anus, eagerly awaiting one more session of Great Southern Trendkill…
Hahahaha Hahahaha yes
Tasteless. Grow the fuck up, degenerate.
Sounds like someone is sad because they’ll never get to let Dimebag pound them like they’ve always wanted to.
In the darkness of night on fresh fallen snow, three men approached the grave of Dimebag Darrel. Three members of Nuclear Hellfrost, all with a deep burning love for Pantera. So deep was their love that on this day they has decided to finally express all of their hot pent up love for Dimebag. Slowly they exhumed the corpse of their beloved Dimebag and gazed upon his rotting corpse oozing embalming fluid and decorated with maggots. Eager to fulfill their lust for Dimebag, they thrust their eagerness into the tender rotting skin of Dimebag’s torso which parted easily as they entered. Clumps of maggots fell onto the freezing ground forming an ever growing pool of squirming mass with each thrust. The pleasure from the squirming maggots and the embalming fluid swirling around their hot hell sticks was too much for Nuclear Hellfrost. All at once, they filled Dimebag’s torso with their warm metal sludge. Exhausted, they released their grip on Dimebag and he slid off them into the newly formed swarm of maggots that littered the ground.
Nuclear Hellfrost having finally expressed their love, cleaned up Dimebag’s grave of their transgressions, and started on their journey home but were stopped by their former vocalist at the cemetery entrance. Smugly they smiled at him as they passed by without a word. Confused at first, the former vocalist was horrified as he smelled the unmistakable stench of semen, formaldehyde, and death on them. He had no doubts about what they had just done. They had desecrated the grave of his beloved Dimebag. Tears streamed from his eyes as he ran to his beloved’s grave. Dimebag was his and his alone. He would not accept that he had been defiled by his former bandmates. In the jealous fit of rage, he scrawled the first insult he could think of on Dimebag’s grave and posted it on the internet for the world to see. His post spread like wildfire by those who had no knowledge of what really happened. Eventually this event reached Pantera
Vinnie Paul, always the most productive of the group was the one to call his former bandmates and inform them of what happened. Unfortunately for Phil Anselmo, this call interrupted his private time but he would not be deterred. Before the call, Phil had just finished setting up his sex machine. Phil built it himself, a simple steel contraption with a piston, a blackened crusty dildo on the end, and straps to hold its user in place on their back. Phil like the tough guy that he is, liked it rough so he preferred a crusty dildo to a smooth clean one for that extra pleasure. When Vinnie’s call came through, Phil had just finished strapping himself in and turned on the machine. As soon as Phil picked up the phone, Vinnie began spewing what happened. Blind sighted, Phil told him to calm down and slowly tell him what had happened as the machine started entering his anticipating hole. Vinnie explained the situation as Phil struggled to suppress his moans from the machine pumping in and out of him. The more details Vinnie gave, the angrier and harder Phil became. When Vinnie finished talking, Phil remained silent until Vinnie asked “Phil, you still there? There’s no way you can be this calm about this.” Phil replied with a simple no. Then filled with rage and pleasure, as Phil climaxed he roared back at Vinnie ”I’M FUCKING HOSTILE!” while unleashing his glistening anger all over himself.
Before he even had a chance to recover, Phil screamed at Vinnie “Call Rex and meet me at the Respect Wok! We’ll show those little shits a vulgar display of power” before hanging up. Vinnie did as he was told but Rex though angered by what happened told Vinnie that he would not be able to help them due to personal reasons. Vinnie left it, not wanting to pry into his personal life and left to go meet Phil. Rex was keeping a secret from his former bandmates. He led a double life as Chuck Schuldiner’s wife. Pantera’s glam days had given him all the experience he needed make himself look like a beautiful woman. So effective were his techniques that even Chuck didn’t know who his wife really was but any suspicions he had were likely quickly forgotten due to his quickly deteriorating health. Chuck had the misfortune to contract both AIDS and cancer. His diagnosis looked bleak. The treatments were not helping and the doctors estimated he only had a very short time to live. For these reasons, Rex preferred to stay home as much as possible. Rex worried about his husband’s health, was making plans for his death which was quickly approaching but tonight was a happy day.
Chuck felt better than he had in months and was strong enough to take his beautiful wife out to what would likely be their last dinner. That evening they took their time, talking until closing time like they had done when they were dating and then walking around town enjoying the sights. It was an amazing evening with a hint of sadness due to the circumstances. As Rex and Chuck were on their way back home, they spotted Opeth’s tour bus. Chuck stopped to take a look and relive memories of his time with Death. He regaled his wife of tales of his days on a tour bus unaware that his wife was no stranger to touring. Staring into the windows of the bus, a thought came to his mind. He tried the door and it was unlocked. Chuck decided to steal Opeth’s tour bus and go on one last joyride before his death. Rex, like all concerned wives was against it but couldn’t do much to stop a dying man set on one last bit of fun. Chuck drove fast and recklessly with Rex nagging him about returning it at every turn but a dying person should not be driving a bus. Chuck’s illnesses started acting up again. Chuck losing the strength he had earlier drove into a home improvement store. Tearing through the lumber and through the paint section covering the bus in pastel blue, green, and pink paint, Chuck managed to break through the other side of the store without hitting anyone but an inconveniently placed launched the bus into the air and into a small crowd killing them all.
The crash tore through the gas tank lighting it and surrounding the bus in an inferno. Badly injured, Rex and Chuck managed to survive but trapped in the pastel colored bus knew this was the end for both of them. Chuck apologized to Rex for causing this and admitted that he should have listened to him. Rex forgave him because now he was able to be with him in the afterlife and not wanting any secrets between the two told Chuck who he really was. Chuck was surprised but told Rex that he always had his suspicions but he still loved him. Since this was it for them, Chuck softly kissed Rex as they started making sweet passionate love while bleeding out among the flames and corpses. In seconds their clothes were off and Chuck was ready to enter Rex. Chuck whispered into Rex’s ear “Oh, tell me if you want it. To which Rex replied “Let me ride your rocket. Wear me out. Make me twist and shout. Give me all of your love, I just can’t get enough.” Hearing this, Chuck entered Rex lubricated by their blood. The flames from the gasoline entered Rex along with Chuck but their heat was nothing compared to the heat of Chuck’s burning lust. Without hesitating, Chuck began thrusting passionately into Rex. With each thrust both of their lives left their bodies and spilled on the floor until their passion exploded and in unison they shouted with their last breath “Metal Magic!” Chuck filled Rex with his liquid death metal as Rex spilled his groove metal all over the floor and they lifelessly collapsed as the burning flames finally reached them.
Sadly for Rex, he was not granted the sweet release of death and was separated from Chuck. The metal magic had revived only him but not Chuck. Rex briefly considered taking his own life to be with his love but knew Chuck would want him to live on so he escaped the inferno by jumping through the flames. This was the end for Rex’s double life. From this day forward he would only be Rex of Pantera and no longer the wife of Chuck Schuldiner. As he looked back at the end of that life and the burning body of his angel of death returning back to where he came, Rex whispered his last words to Chuck, “Walk on home, boy.”
Holy shit, I like pissing off people, but I really can’t do this, not because I’m a faggot or what, but because I’m just too fucking busy to make this.
I vote for SIEG! No shortage of semen and other bodily fluids and seems like the climax just goes on and on. More stuff like this.
Cuckolds From Hell
“What a terrible night to have a curse”, the boy thought, as he once again plunged his shovel into hardened soil. Like always, the pink of his hair emitted a dim glow into the night sky as it reflected on his studded leather jacket, providing his dark figure with a faint halo, shimmering like a small spark of hope; hope that this would be the last time he gave in to his primal urges. From afar the scene would have almost seemed endearing; this pink, fairy-like radiance piercing through the darkness, like a queer will-o-the-wisp wading through a sea of despair. But the boy knew this night would be like all the others; the process had already been set in motion, and the morbid ritual would have to run its malign course. There was no stopping it. Or so it seemed.
“Woe is me”, shouted the boy as he opened the casket, emitting this final cry of despair before fully indulging himself in the depravity of his impending deed. Most of the flesh had rotted away, but the beard and hair confirmed that the lustfully heaving boy was indeed drooling over the victim he had chosen beforehand, the dead rocker’s manes appearing more elegant than ever in their greasy postmortem glory. The silence on the cemetery was broken by that primal, instantly recognisable sound of a pair of faded jeans sliding down hairy legs.
“Stop right there, punk!”
The boy froze, his fear working overtime. Who could have followed him all the way here, in the dead of the night?
“You don’t wanna do that.”
It was Phil Anselmo, punching his own hand as if to hint towards a vulgar display of power that would turn the boy’s plans against him.
“Who are you?”
– “W-well, I’m also in a metal band, uh… Sir. Or well, used to be anyway, heh”, stumbled the boy.
“What kind of metal band? The closest thing to moshing a punk like you’d ever come would be by rimming dudes in a public toilet.”
– “We mix metal and punk, hence my hair, heh…”
The boy put one hand in his side as he scratched the back of his head with the other, wondering if this innocent posture would perhaps help charm this unexpected visitor.
“Yeah, I was going to ask you about that. You look like a light house during a faggot parade.”
– “I was wondering how you found me all the way here.”
“I’m here every night, genius.”
– “Yeah, I guess it was kind of silly of me to…”
“Shush, kid”, the intoxicated vocalist interrupted, “let’s just say it won’t be the silliest thing you will be doing tonight.”
– “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
– “Well, my pants are already down so, uhm…”
The noise that ensued was heard far beyond the cemetery, cherishing the night sky, filling it with hope that true passion yet existed in this world. “OH YEAH, RIDE THE PANTHER BABY”, it echoed over the fields, “LET’S SEE SOME OF THAT PINK FAIRY DUST”.
It was a happy end, in all senses of the term.
Came buckets, and have been purged of all normative sexual impulses!
Off to join ISIS!
Not the the militant group but the post-rock group.
Vinnie, Rex, and Phil stared somenly at the vandalized grave of their former friend and comrade. It was a mildly cold February evening, and the overcast sky and weak breeze echoed the sentiments of the three companions, as if itself too was empathic to the situation. Sighing, Phil finally worked up enough inspiration to slowly walk over to the grave and place down a single pink rose.
“How ’bout a roun’ for Dimebag?” mumbled Rex. “Like is on old times sake?”
The other two looked at each other and nodded in agreement, and the three unscrewed the Malibu coolies in their hands. “Cheers, old buddy! Some day we will be back together, and we’ll have fun, just like old times!” Vinnie said in a heartfelt toast, and the three raised their plastic bottles towards the grave before chugging.
Shortly after finishing his sweet drink, Rex began sobbing uncontrollably. The years of drinking Malibu and Boone’s Farm had an impact on his liver, and he was already drunk and emotional. “WHY, WHY DID DEY TAKE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL, STRONG, POWERFUL STALLION AWAY FROM US.” He was on his knees at this point, fists wildly flailing in the air as if condeming God. Phil, knowing his role as leader and needing to keep his shameful secret well hidden under his masculine guise, solemnly strolled towards Rex and put his arm around him, giving him warmth of the heart and comfort of the soul to his friend in need.
“We’ll see our buddy again, don’t you worry pal.” Phil whispered into Rex’s ear as he hugged his friend just a little too tightly, that an otherwise lucid Rex would’ve found suspect.
Vinnie was staring at the sky.
“Holy shit! A UFO!”
Phil and Rex’s heads shot straight up. “Is them Aliens?” Rex stated with tears still streaming down his cheeks, his blurred vision seeing something in the sky that he couldn’t make it out cleanly.
“I think it’s getting bigger. What the hell is that thing?” Vinnie said. “It’s coming towards us, definitely. It’s huge. Giganormous.”
Phil narrowed his eyes at the approaching object. He’d thought about intelligent life on other planets, especially when high on poppers, but something was off about this. The object was spherical, gray, and impossibly large. As the silent minutes passed with all of them in a mixture of confusion, fear, and wonderment, the nature of the object began to become clear.
“It’s a fucking asteroid! It’s going to collide with the earth!”
“Oh god oh god oh god oh god”
“Dem asteroid big or small?”
The three pals could see the sky darken as the Earth lay in the meteor’s shadow, the once-gentle exhale of a breeze now turned into a storm from the workings of gravity. They only had two minutes at most until the collision rendered the earth a molten ball of magma.
Rex immediately jumped out of Phil’s arms and began passionately – and sloppily – kissing Vinnie as the two embraced. Their lips leaving, and eyes locking, they whispered in unision. “I can’t fucking wait to see Dimebag!”
Phil was stunned. He never knew his best friends were gay lovers, despite his own homosexuality being a long-kept secret only known to him. After the release of Power Metal, personas were adopted and truths were hidden in a bid to sell albums. The charade grew so great, so overbearing, that Phil himself began to believe he was a tough, dominant, heterosexual male.
Vinnie and Paul, as the final seconds approached before impact, turned to Phil and said, “we know.”
And with that, the Earth vaporized and all its inhabitants met their ends.
…
Phil awoke with a startle. “I can’t be alive. I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t on poppers or drunk,” he wondered aloud as he took in his surroundings. It was a beautiful place with pastel blue and pink clouds above and around, with green grass surronding the rainbow-bricked path he was on. Flowers of all colors dotted the landscape. It led to a short distance to what seemed like a city, with flashing, colorful lights to be seen.
He walked along this path slowly, as peaceful as how he felt, his destination approaching with each step. Coming closer, he found his dearest friends walking towards this mysterious city with flashing rainbow lights.
“Vinnie! Rex!” he shouted as they came into view. They turned to him, looking happy yet somewhat puzzled.
“I done think we in heaven. We done died and gone to heaven.” Rex grunted. The three agreed and talked amongst themselves, walking towards their calling destination while wondering what St. Peter looked like. Phil completely forget the homosexual revelation before the cosmic finality, as did Vinnie and Rex, as the bewonderment of the situation took precedence. They soon approached the frilly gates and what they expected to be Saint Peter was none other than an unexpected friend from long ago!
“Holy shit on a dick! That ain’t Saint Peter! That’s Chuck Shuldiner!”
Chuck was stationed at the frilly gates, wearing only a tight white-leather vest with a lace ivory garter belt. His smile and aura suggested an expected welcoming,
“Oh, thop that! I’m not Thaint Peter for fuckth thake!” Chuck’s high-pitched voice squeled with a humorous vibe as his limp wrist made a cutting motion. “Thith ithn’t heaven-heaven you thilly gooth. Thith ith Metal Heaven! All the proper darlingth end up here when their time comth. All you little thiththies, bears, and fagth of all thorts within metal come here.” His face, clearly affected with some sort of estrogenal influence, smiled once again in an odd way, and his slyly cupped his left hand onto Vinnie’s groin.
Phil instintively took offense. He took a simian, hostile step into Chuck’s personal space bubble and pointed a finger straight at Chuck’s face. Nobody is questioning his manhood or his image. “You talkin’ to me?” he growled. “You walk on home bo-”
Chuck wasn’t having any of this foolishness. He frantically swatted away Phil’s hand away and put his hands on Phil’s shoulders, and his face even closer.
“Thop it, Phil, you fucking faggot. Thith ith metal heaven. We all know that of all the queenth here, and I’m not going to lie, I’m a complete thucking cock thucking faggot queen, everyone in metal heaven knowth everything about everyone elth. Everyone knows deep down inthide you’re the biggeth queen in metal.” he campily lisped as he weakly and effeminately slapped Phil across the face. “… and you yourthelf know it too, you hot fucking phony. You’re with your people now, Phil. There are no perthonas to hide behind or albumth to thell. Here, you can be who you were meant to be. Here, you can be who you are.”
Phil was stunned. In all the years of pretending to be a macho man, he knew deep down inside he was queer as hell and wanted nothing more than to suck a cock and have sperm drip out of his asshole.
He looked to Vinnie and Rex, who smiled cherubically at him. Those fuckers knew it the entire time, and kept quiet simply to protect himself from nervous breakdown in identity disturbance. He finally realized: no more games. No more pretenses. He’d have gay sex now. And a lot of it.
Chuck smiled as his words came through to Phil. He’d introduced a lot into Metal Heaven, and his craft was well practiced. “Oh, I thee you’re coming to your thenses. There are a lot of hot thtudth here, Phil. All of whom want to thow you what a faggot you really are.” Chuck paused, clearly overexcited.
“Oooh. I am tho giddy,” he gasped, his hands clapping quickly, “…at all thith. Jeff ‘Ath Candy’ Tandy juth fucked me good and proper a few hours ago, and the entire Opeth crew got prothethed a few minutes before you! Mikael is having the time of his life now! I feel gloooo-reeeee-uuuusssss”
Over the gates of metal heaven the crew heard a volumed and passionately groaned “Oh Jah! Oh Jah! Oh Jah!”
“But enough talking. Leth get to the fuuuuu-kiiiiing” he said in falsetto, and made an exagerrated presentation with his arms towards the frilly gates while prancing out of the way for them to enter, as the three members of Pantera began to be swallowed up the into paradise.
Inside was a mass eternal homosexual orgy the mind could not comprehend in its eternal delight. The smell of sweat, cum, feces, leather, and blood brought unpreventable erections to the three members of Pantera.
The trio gazed at the swarm of humping bodies reaching far past the visible horizon, until a figure clad only in leather somewhat distantly began waving his arms wildly in excitement towards the three. It was Dimebag Darrel!
The three ran up to him and began to hug and fondle his naked body, lovingly kissing him on the lips and chest, all three’s hands fighting honorably to playfully tug on his dick. “Oh we have missed you so so so much. Phil has so much to learn, brother,” Vinnie said tearfully, “his yearning for cum and cock must be unsatiable, for he accepts the truth now and required proper guidance.” He gave a sharp slap on his brother’s ass and they both smiled.
“Well, Phil, how about I fuck your ass right now? It’s my turn, considering I had six guys just banging me in all my holes.”
Phil blushed and began to turn around. “Aww, darling, make me gape, big bo-”
Disruptively, a figure came running through the masses of humping bodies to greet the four and immediately turned to Dimebag.
“Yo! You Dimebag?” asked a thin-muscled ectomorphic stranger, naked and penis erect.
“Hey sexy, I am, “ Dimebag said with a wink and smile. He looked down. “Is that what you got for me?”
“I just wanted to apologize for defacing your grave. It was truly a shitty thing to do, and I truly regret my behavior. Your asshole is mine to ravage, kind sir. Think of it an olive branch, one extending itself into my asshole and then to my prostate, a true peace gesture.”
Dimebag, bare-chested and hairy, laughed heartily. He put one hand on the stranger’s shoulder and the other on his buttox, slapped it, then used it to turn the stranger’s face to gaze directly into his own in a vulgar display of power.
“I respect a man who can look another in his eyes and tell me he fucked up. That takes balls, big balls, and I LOVE big balls. We settle this glans-to-tonsil. Right here, right now.” He smiled and winked. “You talking to me?”
The two laid down and proceeded to sixty-nine, each mutually throating the other’s penis, their tongues flicking and exploring new territory. As they came to know each other and better understand one another, as grown adult men should, they exploded into each others mouths, so forcibly that two globulous strands of cum shot out of Dimebag’s notrils and rested peacefully on his goatee. Vinnie lept down and licked it off, chewing the strands off Dimebag’s goatsee, with Dimebag’s tongue doing its best to recapture a lost morsel.
Phil was masturbating at this point, but he, only having secretely masturbated to pictures of men on his cell phone at truck stop restrooms, was wanting more. Something real. Something intense. Something inside him.
This was sensed by his friends.
Rex grabbed Phil and forcibly began kissing him. This introduction to the true path required a man of tender skill, but one with suitable force as is expected in masculinity. No longer burdened with a weakened body from alcoholism in paradise, he succeeded in ripping off Phil’s now-unnecessary clothing and bending him over, Phil eagerly spreading his cheeks for induction.
“Well durn, I think he got durn a pink one.” Rex muttered breathily, fascinated at the virginal hole he was about to enter.
Rex had two bodies pull him away.
“He’s mine!”
“No, he’s miiiine!”
Vinnie, Rex, and Dimebag sweatily began to horseplay each other for the right to take Phil’s sacred rectal virginity. A man’s first time is an important one, and none of them would concede on not being the first to introduce their beloved to the true way. Clothing began to be ripped off as the three suitors vied for Phil’s asshole.
“Please, you’re all my buds, and we do things together. You all enter my asshole at the same time.” Phil reasoned. “If I’m going to be a fag sodomized for all eternity, I want my best buds to rip me open at once for my firstie!”
The three calmed down and looked at Phil. They knew what he said made the most sense possible, and began to spit on their cocks in anticipation. This would be rough for Phil, but three cocks in one asshole would be doable. Best yet, it’d put Phil on a fast-track to being a proper gaper. Phil, bent over and spreading his ass cheeks, awaited patiently but eagerly.
The three penetrators contorted into position, finding space to be able to insert their dicks into Phil’s asshole. After a careful balancing act, they proceeded to enter Phil’s rectum. The tightness was painful but oh-so pleasureable for the three. The pounded slowly, unable to get into position to fuck him faster.
“Ooooooooooh, “ Phil whimpered in ecstacy. “It’s so much – ooh – better than what I – OOOOH – imagined!”
“That faggot is talking too much. Someone stick a dick in his mouth,” decided Vinnie, who left the triple penetration to shove the entirety of his man meat down Phil’s hungry throat. Phil tongued it like a professional, accepting its dominion over his tonsils.
They proceeded to wreck both ends of his digestive tract until it was too much to bare.
“Gotta cum in ‘dere,” Rex said softly. “Let’s do it at the same time, then. Make that priss so full of cum that our sperm cells will high-five Vinnie’s in Phil’s stomach!” declared Diamond Darrel, pleased with the idea, knowing full well the volume of spurt that occurs within sex in Metal Heaven.
All four grunted loudly as the act of ejaculation took place, though Phil’s was muffled by the presence of a thick Vinnie Paul penis.
“IT’S A MESSAGE IN CUM,” roared Vinnie as thick semen rushed down Phil’s throat with every pump of the loins.
“He’s as full as I cum h’yeah” gasped Rex, unable to fully remember the lyrics his own band wrote, depositing a gallon’s worth of seed into Phil Anselmo’s digestive tract.
“NO WAY PUNK,” stammered Dimebag as he played Robin to Rex’s batman, helping unload massive amounts of jizz that rushed inside Phil’s small intestines and into his stomach.
Though the group of jolly friends were unaware, the sperm cells in Phil’s stomach began to have an orgy of their own, with Rex’s, Dimebag’s, and Vinnie’s reproductive cells engaged in a massive sperm orgy.
Rex and Dimebag removed their cocks from Phil’s asshole, revealing the conquest they sought: Phil’s asshole with stretched open to about the diameter of a tennis ball. Then, by suprise, it closed and Phil let escape a massive cum fart, with yellow-brown semen splattering the bystandards with specks of red here and there.
Phil laid there, dazed. After a brief moment, he opened his eyes and proclaimed, “That was FABULOUS. I haven’t felt so, so, so—- full…. of life, cum, and love.” He beckoned the three to cuddle him and they sat there fondling one another and kissing. Phil smiled. Eternity would be wonderful. And eternity would be needed to cover the amount of gay sex that Phil craved.
—
“Gay sex. That’s literally all they’re doing there. Just a bunch of sweaty, gay sex.”
“I mean, they’re terrible, but you have to be joking.”
“No, no. Take the binoculars. Go look. Literally. Gay. Sex. That’s what they’re doing over there.”
The band entered the dim moonlight on the outskirts of Metal Heaven, in the land between afterlifes. Wearing armor, and swords in their sheaths at their sides, they would be fearsome warriors to behold.
“Quorthon, if you keep staring at them having gay sex, as you keep saying, I’m going to start asking questions.” Nocturno Culto began laughing.
“Fine, fine,” Quorthon said, handing Nocturno Culto the binoculars. “Your turn to view this shit. But you start covering Opeth back home in Metal Hell, and we’re just gonna drop you off here so you can throat the boys from Stryper for the rest of existence.”
Varg walked up to the two, and stared at both for ten seconds. They stared back, unsure of exactly what Varg was wanting, though they had a pretty good idea of what was about to come next.
“WHITE POWER!” Varg shouted loudly, then gave an akward Roman salute to nobody or anything in particular. He then walked slowly back to the outskirts of the group, admiring the murky haze of the space between afterlifes in an introverted manner. Terrance Hobbs, on patrol duty around the group, paused his pacing and watchful glance, and stared at Varg for a second, only to shake his head, take a deep breath, and roll his eyes.
Unfettered, Nocturno Culto head the binoculars up and looked. He whistled, made a “tsk-tsk,” and said, “You’re not joking. Dani Filth is about to enter metal heaven and Chuck is doing some sort of gay dance, and Dani is desperately trying to fondle him, but Chuck is being a tease. I can’t look at this shit.”
“GIVE IT TO ME, THEN!”
Satan angrily swiped the binoculars from Nocturno Culto, pissed as hell to think his opposition would be so unworthy. The Master brought it up to his eyes and watched. Ten minutes passed in silence.
“This is embarassing. Let us not speak of this.” The Lord Of Evil muttered under his breath, clearly peeved, the fire in his eyes more intense than usual.
“Man, let’s just take over the fucking place. Crucify the dumb fuckers, make an example out of them. See if they have any good sound equipment.” Jeff Hanneman said, finishing his cigarette and throwing the butt to the ground. “We haven’t had a good conquest in two weeks, and Mormon Heaven was very disappointing.”
Satan glared at Jeff with rage, but the hatred subsided into a reasoned calmness. “No. This is too embarassing to even get involved in. They’d probably get off to us murdering them. Besides, how would we remember this conquest? Slicing down a legion of men running up to us backwards, bent over exposing their assholes? Let’s just figure out where the Muslims went to. THAT will be entertainment, my eternally blasphemous children.”
You spent too much time on this. Well done (?).
Satan would never end a sentence with a preposition. Who the fuck are you trying to kid? 0/10, disbelief impossible to suspend.
Walk on home, boy.
Phil stood weeping. Before him lay the grave of his one great friend open and desecrated. The soft light played
coyly on the surface of the tombstone, subtly dancing over the inscription “D. Bag Dyrel”. Over the inscription was spray-painted “fag”. The irony was not lost on Phill. As he bit his lip yet again, Vinnie came up behind him and laid a comforting hand on his buttocks. “I can’t believe they did it!” cried Phil, blood dripping from his lip. He had unwittingly bit through it but due to the heroin was unaware of the pain. In fact, he was surprised he felt anything at all. “We’ll find a way to move on” said Vinnie licking Phil’s tears from his cheek.
“You’re damn right we will!” exclaimed Phil.
He grabbed Vinnie by his greasy hair, kissed him fucking hostel on the lips and shoved his bandanna down his throat. Next he reached for the open coffin. He pulled Dimebag’s crusty corpse out of the ground while Rex masturbated in excitement and Vinnie began to lapse from consciousness. He rubbed the blood from his mouth onto his hand and jammed it down the corpse’s wormeaten blue jeans. He was in luck, for the boner Dimebag had at the moment before his brains showered across the stage from seeing a man point a long hard rod in his face was still there. The memory of the brains illumined in the stage lights made Phil extremely aroused. Suddenly he felt a cold hand on his cock. It was Mikeal Akerfeldt of Opeth.
“Miki, you came…” said Phil, astonished and overjoyed.
“Indeed I did” said Mikeal.
He then wiped his semen on Phil’s mouth and up his nose. Like madmen they went at the corpse while the rest of Opeth played Orchid softly in the background. Phil sucked passionately on D. Bag’s bag and Mikeal’s wet shaft relishing the dead testicles pungent stench. “With frozen hands I rode with the stars
With anger the wind blew
Giving wings to my stallion
Clouds gathered across the moon” sang Mikeal as he blew a silvery load all over the corpse.
“WALK ON HOME BOY!” shouted Phil and he jabbed a hole through Miki’s chest with his cock. “We don’t like no queers ’round here! White power! White power! Sieg heil!” Then Mikeal got shit on, pissed on, spit on, stepped on and fucked with all at the same time. Then they went back to Dimebag’s corpse. Sticking the rigor mortis cock in his anus, Phil bounced up and down with glee. He then would dismount to lick at the slimy trail of shit left on the shaft. Soon Phil was ready to climax. He stuck his raw dick in Dime’s worm eaten anus and poured in his love. “I’m gonna love you black and blue!” Shouted Phil his face turning red. He pulled out and jizzed on Dimebag’s face. “I’m cummin’ down on you!” He cried. This was something he had always wanted to do. After this climax he rolled in the dirt a while and slid back on home leaving Rex as the newest member of Opeth. Meanwhile Vinnie had died.
“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” the thin, nubile 21 yr old moaned into the microphone. Vinnie Paul’s one-inch mushroom cap thrust into his poop-chute, inducing a wave of ecstasy matched only by his estranged father. The drummer’s grunts of pleasure, for this was a love canal tighter even than his brother’s, fell silent on the young vocalist, who heard only the instrumental tracks for “Cemetery Gates” through his studio headphones. Suddenly, Vinnie felt the familiar tingle ignite at the base of his penis, and between contractions discharged a thick load of molasses in Phil’s rectum. The track ended, he removed his headphones, and Terry Date, watching from the producer’s seat with dick in hand, yelled “And….that’s a wrap! I’ll sync this new vocal track with Dime’s guitar squeals and we have ourselves a song!” The two musicians exited the sound booth, and entered the control room, walking in right in time to kneel before their producer and swallow the load their performance had induced. It was such a beautiful performance it was only unfortunate the song’s lyrics had been inspired by Chuck’s recent diagnosis.
I am eagerly awaiting the end of this post. Maybe an update regarding Obsequaie or letting people know about the new Sammath may come out this year?
Dammit, one day too late :(
Imagine Dimebag or Phil and Eber in 50 shades of grey though. Would’ve been perfect.
And I give all the erotic short stories above 8/8.
One day, somewhere in Texas, probably Houston or Austin, a young blogger named Spinoza Ray Prozak was assaulted by the bro-core sounds of Pantera blasting from a frat house he passed on his evening stroll. Incensed that such drivel existed and dared to call itself — to be celebrated as — a “heavy metal” band, Spinoza Ray resorted to his secret weapon: his anus blog!
“If someone like Reece Eber can get away with grave desecration, surely a beyond-good-and-evil blogger like myself can mock him with impunity via my anus!” Spinoza thought to himself.
Unfortunately for Spinoza, Christ Jesus, ever the dedicated fan of Rock Music, including and especially Pantera, decided to put a stop to the Dime and Pantera-bashing. And so, He decided to resurrect Dimebag for 3 days that he might put an end to the slander and ignominy.
On the first day Dimebag visited Spinoza and they spoke at length about their grievances, heavy metal, Spinoza’s anus, and they shared several bong hits of Heaven-grade marijuana. Spinoza was relieved to find out that Dimebag no longer considered himself a metal musician, instead finding “Christian Rock Guitarist” a more suitable description. They parted on friendly terms and Spinoza, still blitzed from the heavenly indica, removed the offensive posts from his anus.
On the next day, Dimebag appeared before Reece Eber on the shitter in the ladies room at an Opeth concert.
“Dimebag!” shrieked Reece.
Thus spake Dimebag: “Do not be afraid, Reece. I come offering a peace pipe”
“You could have just offered it through the glory hole, you know…” replied Eber.
Thus spake Dimebag: “What? I think, as your words and actions have clearly shown, you misunderstand me. Please, come walk with me.”
After a long walk and talk, with Opeth providing the muzak background, Eber and Dimebag overcame their differences and were able to part as friends.
On the last day before returning to Heaven, Dimebag visited his old flame, confidant, and bandmate Phil Anselmo. It was a Tuesday, so Phil was righteously smashed on opiates and alcohol, when Dimebag appeared and startled him into near-sobriety. No words were spoken beyond Phil’s initial slurred grunts of shock and disbelief. Dimebag’s slow, seductive approach made both men’s members more erect as the distance between them diminished. Phil unbuttoned his shirt revealing his massive breasts, swollen from years of binge drinking and steroid abuse. They embraced and the semen flowed, as Dimebag hadn’t blown a load in several years, nor had Phil been as turned on in as many years. The final and best climax was simultaneous for the both of them, at which point the two sang an a capella version of “This Love” and Dimebag was risen up to heaven.
Some good stuff so far but I’m calling for some softer, more sensual stories; less hard assfucking action and more profound embracing and caressing. Sometimes a finger is enough.
It was 1045 pm when he stepped off the bus in Arlington Texas. It had been a long, long ride, and the walk to his destination, his final destination, would be not insignificant either. But that was alright with him. After all, what better time for somber contemplation than the last few hours of ones life? The last few hours before he would commit his final act of ultimate penance would be a time to reflect upon the twists and turns that had brought him here, the literal path before him as metaphor for the tumultuous path that had brought him here. As he walked, the deconstructionist strains of “Good Friends and a Bottle of Pills” blared through his headphones, the latest in a marathon playlist he had put together for this trip, exclusively consisting of the band that he had once called his all-time favorite, but had since taken such extreme measures to denounce. The title of this song was apropos, one of these items, he had in his pocket, ready. The other he was utterly devoid of now.
It hadn’t always been like this, he had once been a carefree teenager, with an earnest appreciation for heavy distorted guitars and growled vocals dripping with machismo. Memories of summers spent in the woods with his fellow privileged suburban teens, wasted on whiskey and low grade weed, screaming along to a boombox blaring “Slaughtered” and “Primal Concrete Sledge”, were burned in his mind as the halcyon days of his existence. But before he knew it, it was off to college, and time to put away childish things. He saw in his new ivy festooned surroundings, a chance to reinvent himself as a serious intellectual, and parading around wearing t-shirts that said things like “Bad Company did it, So can We(ed)” would surely get him laughed straight out of his radical gender theory study group. That was not to say he gave up his debaucherous ways, rather he just gave them a more intellectual gloss, his long hair was twisted into dreadlocks, and heavy metal posters that adorned his high school bedroom were abandoned for more collegiate images of Phish and Bob Marley.
Fast forward two years, he had failed in his academic quest, dropping out of college and much to his parents chagrin, moved back home. Reuniting with his hometown friends, he found that they too had abandoned the bands they had once bonded over, only they had gone in a different direction, plumbing the underground depths of crust punk and subsequently, the new (to them) fad of black metal. Having latched onto genres ostensibly easy enough to ape, they had also formed a band while he was away, and it just so happened that “Nuclear Hellfrost” as it was lazily dubbed, was in need of a frontman. As the prodigal son of their group so to speak, he was eager to prove that his aborted attempt at higher education had not made him into a poser. Consequently he quickly became known as the wildest one of the bunch, engaging in antics emblematic of one with much to prove and little to lose.
And that of course, is how he came to, quite literally, spit upon the grave of his childhood hero. Whether it was simple one-upmanship or a desire to prove his underground street cred, It was a move he instantly regretted. He regretted it more when the internet shitstorm that ensued destroyed his band and alienated him from his friends. But more than that, it had symbolically transformed him into a person he no longer recognized. He had tried and failed before to become something other than what he was. But now, with this symbolic annihilation of his youth, he had succeeded. And he hated it. He hated himself.
By now he had reached the cemetery gates, once inside he began to pop the sleeping pills he had in his pocket, swallowing them down with swigs of Jack Daniels, hoping to prostrate himself on Dimebags grave just before the lethal combination closed his eyes forever. As he came within view of the gravesite he began sobbing uncontrollably, moaning “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…”
“Its okay.” said a voice. Though his eyes were still wet with tears, and the drugs were beginning to take hold, he could swear he saw a flash of pink in the darkness. “I know your pain, friend. I know what it is like to be, a chameleon of sorts, changing yourself to blend in with your surroundings, if only for your own survival. And above all I know the toll this can take on ones psyche.” “D-D-D-Dimebag?” he stammered. “Please, call me Diamond.” the voice replied. “But, but, you’re dead…” A familiar figure began to emerge from the darkness and soon was recognizable even to his drug addled mind. “Dimebag Darrell is indeed dead.” said the figure who was now quite obviously Dimebag Darrell, with a hearty chuckle. “But thats not me, that was never the REAL me.” “Wh-who are you then?” “I am the night.” proclaimed Darrell, and then after a moment of dumbfounded silence, continued; “Haha, thats a joke son! You see, all I ever wanted was to be the white trash Yngwie Malmsteen, and after years of practice and winning a series of guitar competitions, why, I really thought my dream was within reach. But alas, it was not to be. Perhaps it was over saturation of the market at the time, perhaps it was just my fatass drummer brother looking ridiculous in spandex, whatever it was, it was only when we got desperate enough to let that stupid cajun guido singer we had just hired convince us to start playing watered down EXHORDER riffs that we saw any commercial success. I’m not proud of this, son, but once I had tasted that small morsel of “success” I forgot all about my pride, my integrity, my dream. Before long I had embraced the entire “redneck metal” brand the record company was trying to market us as, even changing my name from that of a precious jewel, to a bag of drugs you can buy for $10! Hell, I don’t even LIKE smoking marijuana, and as a student of history, mind you, I thought southern secession was a terrible idea, for purely economic, if not humanitarian reasons. By the time “Reinventing the Steel” came around, I was thoroughly disgusted with what I had become, and sweet fancy moses, the less said about DAMAGEPLAN, the better. So you can see why I had to fake my own death, to escape that ridiculous persona that I had grown to despise so…”
“You’re so… articulate, and even more handsome in person.”
“Son,” said Darrell, moving closer with a devilish look in his eye “You don’t know the half of what these lips can do…”
He did not know if what he was experiencing was the effects of the pharmacological cocktail he had previously imbibed, or the purest and truest love any man had ever known. Nor did he care, he began to stroke that pink shock of hair, teasing at first, and before long holding onto it for dear life as their embrace grew stronger.
“Close your eyes, little one.” Darrell cooed, in turn brushing his dreadlocks “All is forgiven, everything is alright now.”
Just before he slipped into blind and breathless ecstasy, he viewed, out of the corner of his eye, the cemetery gates. He took one look around, and made this world his own.
hell if this doesnt win, i might just use it as my next pice of short fiction in CODEX OBSCURUM hahahaha
orrrrr maybe its too late, eh fuck it i had fun writing the damn thing
Put it in the zine bro, it was very disturbing and fucked up.
Some of you should seriously consider a career in writing homoerotic novels
Phil Anselmo answered the phone on its second ring. “Dimebag’s been shot,” said a voice, and Phil found himself lost in memory…
He grew up in a lonely suburb. Identical houses with a margin of green grass. His school was filled with mass-produced kids, like mass-produced toys at the local Wal-mart. All of them wanted to be the same, do the same things, and win at the game of popularity. But not Phillip Anselmo.
“I’m going to get beyond all this,” he told himself. “I’m going to have my name in lights.” And glitter, he reminded himself.
One day in the locker room at his high school everything changed. They had two teams, shirts and skins, playing basketball in the big gym with no airconditioning. Sweat ran down their lean muscled bodies as the boys played.
“What’s the matter, Anselmo, trip over your dress? Get in there and get the ball!”
His ears red with the humiliation of the insult, Phillip dove back into the game with a vengeance. No one could match his speed or style as he stole the ball and tore down the court, nimbly dodging the heavy-footed players and dunking the rubber globe into the net. As he swiped the ball for another pass, something hit him hard and he felt the floor colliding with his face.
“Dance for me, faggot,” whispered a voice in his ear. He looked up to see Andrew McHugh, the senior who delighted in tormenting freshman misfits like himself, sauntering away to high-fives from his buddies.
His teammates pulled him to his feet but he was off running at that instant, pure masculine aggression pumping through his veins as he ducked below an arm and seized the ball. Ripping down the court, he dodged all of the hits and trips, jumping over one player who pulled a tactical fall right in front of him. Only McHugh remained between him and the basket. As he lunged forward for the layup, McHugh launched himself at his groin. Phillip anticipated this and swung his knees forward, connecting with a satisfying crunch. McHugh fell to the shiny wood of the gym floor, blood soaking his gym tshirt.
“Walk on by, faggot,” said Phillip.
The rest of the game was nothing but net for Phillip, who flew from one end of the court to the other, slinging balls into the the basket as if he were born to do it.
“Ugh, you guys smell like a Greek bathhouse,” said the coach. “Hit the showers.”
Phil took the shower farthest from the other boys. He stood under the hot water as it flowed over his skin, washing away both memories of the games and thoughts he had about himself. Doubts of his place as a man. Doubts of his heterosexuality.
“Well look who’s here,” said McHugh, entering the showers with a towel over his shoulder. His nose was wrapped in gauze through which a single spot of blood seeped. “It’s penis breath Phillip — like Phil MacCrevice, get it? — going all homo in the showers.”
Phillip turned around, his anger rising. The audacity of this boy to attack him where he was weak… he raised his fists.
“Are you talking to me, boy? Show some respect… or you’re going to get what’s coming to you.”
With an animal growl McHugh leaped at Anselmo, who grappled with him immediately, the two boys falling to the floor. Their muscles strained in the steam as hot water cascaded over them and everyone else fled the shower. Alone they would decide their fate. McHugh pushed his arm under Phillip’s neck and began slowly choking him out, but the other caught his leg and threw it over his shoulders then pinned McHugh to the floor, grasping his prone form from behind. McHugh squirmed free in disgust as he felt Phillip’s raging hard-on beneath his thin polyester gym shorts.
“That got you excited,” he said. “You’re a fucking queer!”
Phil shrugged. “Call it what you want, bro, but women are weak. A man needs men to be with, bro. To feel the strength, the power, the magic of the night… you like heavy metal?”
Soon they were grappling again on the floor, muscles straining against each other with aggression yet a yearning for the sweet release of surrender, Phillip ending up on top again. Soon his love wand plunged into a grasping anus, the first time he had experienced such a delight and the loss of his own virginity.
“Fuck me harder!” screamed McHugh.
“Are you talking to me?” Phillip said. “OK then.”
He thrust until his pelvis ached and his muscles were sore. The two collapsed in a sweaty, spermy mess leaking feces on the gym floor. They cuddled in a heap of naked limbs, Phillip nuzzling McHugh before kissing him deeply and then, as his meaty wand restored itself, plunged himself again into the other boy.
As they walked out of the gym later, Phillip fist-bumped his new partner. “Now, listen… you can never tell anyone about this, y’hear, bro? Respect.”
Twenty years later, Phil Anselmo looked out over the raging crowd. They were here for him, and his band of course. Pantera was at the top of the charts for a metal act that was not light and feathery like the first few Pantera releases, which were now out of print.
Phil remembered their band meeting from before Cowboys From Hell. It happened in a bathhouse, which Phil had a membership at, because it was an inexpensive place to meet with people after doing manly stuff, like pumping iron and racing four-wheelers, fistfights and oil wrestling, he said.
“God, it stinks in here,” said Vinnie. “Why do they insist on pumping in this scent?”
“Dude. It’s spring cedar and cucumber. It’s like high-class and stuff.”
“But it smells… kind of… gay, or something.”
Phil punched Vinnie in the arm. “Quit whining. Here’s the plan. We made some killer glam records, bros, but that didn’t work. Audiences want tough, like Biohazard, all streetwise and edgy like white rappers. And they want heavy like Metallica. But they also just want to chill out, you know, like with the blues. We can make the perfect heavy metal product, like a Big Mac but on a CD. We can do like an emo band with easy verses and heavy choruses, then do a reprise at the end after Diamond plays his solo. And that shit, man, you gotta turn on the fireworks but make it simple-like, so all the bros from the gym and would dig it. You know, stuff people can appreciate, like The Village People or Madonna.”
“What the fuck?” said Vinnie.
“He’s right, broskis,” said Darrell. “The market has changed, and we gotta keep up with it. The 80s was either soft or hard. The 90s is going to be soft then hard, like when you wrestle a guy and he rubs against you through the gym shorts –”
“Ugh, that’s fucking queer,” said Rex. “Why do you always have to take it to a gay place? We were glam, but we weren’t faggots, we just wanted to rock the market. Be at the top. Free cocaine and bitches all night long, yo.”
Phil and Darrell exchanged a look. Then Darrell said, “No, man, it’s not gay, we’re just making fun of gays. Haha, faggots are fuckin’ gay bro!”
Years of hard work had gotten them to the top of the heavy metal pile. They practiced for weeks developing their new sound, then wrote an album inspired by the heavy rock on MTV which quickly started selling rapidly in their home state of Texas, and later the world. Then they made it even angrier and more like rap, with Phil adding the tough broski vocals of a New York hardcore band.
There had been bumps along the way. Vinnie remembered one incident shortly before they wrote their all-time most iconic song, “Walk.” They had been hanging with some fans out back after a show in Deep Ellum. Some guy they had never seen before had referred to them as “faggy” and Phil had, with his characteristic machismo, beaten the guy to a pulp as the crowd scattered.
“Chris, what do we do with him now?” Vinnie asked.
“He’s dead,” Rex reported.
“It’s not like he cares anymore,” said Darrel “Diamond” (not yet “Dimebag”) Abbott.
The only response from Phil was the sound of a zipper descending.
“Slayer wrote about it in ‘Necrophiliac,’ so I guess it’s OK,” Vinnie offered.
“They didn’t mean homosexual rape of the dead,” said Rex and the grunting sounds of corpse sodomy reached a crescendo.
“What?” said Phil. “We aren’t gay. We’re manly. We’re just having the only kind of sex a really manly man can have, which is with another manly man. Gay is for glam rockers and faggots, wimps and college-educated people. We’re just straight guys having a little fun with a dead man’s anus.”
Rex looked away. “Uh, yeah, Phil. I gotta load the gear in the van so, uh, see you in a few.”
The roar of the crowd yanked Phil from his memories. Now the show was in full swing. The carefully rehearsed stage moves and banter that Phil had painstakingly cribbed from videotapes of better bands were working, as was Darrell’s new wanky guitar style. When he was up there singing, he felt like Eminem but harder, with that sexual energy seeking release through violent struggle between men that he had always admired in glam metal. This was the peak of their career, when they ripped off both the sound of thrash metal and the extremity of death metal and made them into a Southern blues rock genre with rap rhythms to the vocals.
Backstage the band packed up their gear. Their roadies knew the routine and made themselves disappear from the dressing room, locking the door behind. Only in this private space could Pantera be who they really were, underneath the ‘core and the attitude. Now they could reveal the people inside of the tough personas.
“Pump harder or I’ll tear your head off,” Darrell said to his brother, Vinnie, who was railing him from behind. “Fuck my ass like it’s a punching bag! Punch that prostate like Muhammad Ali! God damn I need a good manrape! After this, it’s leg day in the gym.”
“Pick up your game, bro,” said Phil to Darrell who was in turn plunging into his anus with violent motions. “Nab that prostate, nail that man G-spot, crush that colon! Pound until you drop!”
When it was over, ropy arcs of jism hung across the walls and furniture, and the instruments were stained with feces, blood and saliva. Outside Rex hovered over his cigarette as he always did, waiting for the aggressive homosexual assault to end so he could load in their gear. A bunch of guys with long hair were approached.
“Sorry, gents,” said Rex. “Band only. There will be autographs up front–”
“Do you know who these guys are?” said the one in front, who looked familiar. Rex struggled to place the face.
“Chuck… Chuck Schuldiner? Sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. Wow, great to see you here. I really like ‘Human.'”
“Thanks man,” said Chuck. “I brought some friends.” At his gesture, the other cloaked figures threw off their black hoodies and stood revealed before him.
“Holy crap… it’s Lars Ulrich, from Metallica. And Frederik Thordendahl, from Meshuggah. And Patrick O’Brien, from Cannibal Corpse. But I don’t know the other guys.”
“My name is Dani, and I’m from Cradle of Filth. And this is Garm from Ulver. We heard there was a party for manly sensitive men of heavy metal.”
Rex recognized the look, and opened the door and stood aside. The group rushed in. Rex dug his ear plugs out of his pocket, stuffed them in his ears, and wrapped his hoodie around himself like a lost child. He knew what was coming.
“Chuck, bro, great to see you, man,” said Phil, his monstrous purple-headed phallus swinging on a long rope of congealed semen. “Glad you could make it. Join the boys and get naked!”
The night started with Dani and Lars inhaling amyl nitrite on the couch while fondling each other, accelerating to full frottage. Soon they were completely naked, gyrating against each other as the A-ha’s Greatest Hits ramped up on the stereo. “Takle me on!” sang Lars in falsetto, guiding Dani into his rectum. A pinata on the ceiling burst and scattered tubes of K-Y jelly across the room.
In the meantime, Pat and Vinnie found romance of their own. Vinnie gasped, unable to speak, as Pat gently massaged his anus and hemorrhoids from behind with his powerful muscular tongue. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said. “And, I’m going to crap.” He launched the fecal matter and Pat wolfed it down, savoring the rich taste.
“Shit on my face, Pat,” said Vinnie lovingly. O’Brien gleefully discharged a mucosal string of turds — forged from pizza, chicken wings, Budweiser and donuts — across the hairy face, and Vinnie licked each one into his mouth before swallowing. He picked up a spare turd, considered it, and then smeared it on his bare chest, using the sticky waste as a glue as he seized O’Brien from behind and rammed him with a grunting, undulating sound in an accelerating rhythm.
In the meantime, Phil was on his knees, wearing a French Maid costume as he fellated Chuck Schuldiner, who was reading a favorite passage in The People’s History of the United States. “Phil, be my nigger,” he said.
“What? I’m down with man love dude but racism is no good. I know lots of good bros from every background, yo.”
“As a card-carrying Communist and latent homosexual who always votes Democrat unless there is a more Socialist option, I agree. But this is just fun, men having fun with men. Let’s roleplay. I’ll be the slavemaster, you be my slave. I’ll whip you when you disobey.”
Phil considered this. He realized that sometimes even the manliest of men love being told what to do, to relinquish control and be able to simply be a bithc for a few hours. A punk. His testicles contracted as he thought of the profound rapes to come.
“I’s just yo’ nigger, Mastah,” said Phil in his best “comic Negro” voice. “I dasn’t do nothing but what yous tells me. I beez yo’ giggin’ nigger.”
Sammy Davis, Jr., passing by outside on his way to score some cocaine and bang Irish women, burst out laughing at the sheer incompetence of Phil’s Stepin Fetchit impersonation. “White folks,” he said, and laughed. “That’s why I rail Irish bitches… they’re niggas like us.”
Chuck hauled out a sjambok from his large intestine and began whipping Phil. “Pick the cotton, nigger,” he said, tucking a wad of cotton under his testicles. “Then suck the cream out of these half-Jewish Christian Buddhist balls.” Phil, his face blackened with feces and coffee grounds, shucked and jived and gave Chuck the best blowjob of his life, and he’d had quite a few, although most were from 15-year-old boys he met on tour.
No one had noticed Frederik and Garm for some time, but they had been conspiring in the corner and now stood together wearing mankinis. “For our next act,” Thordendahl said in thick accented English, “We present the immaculate conception!”
A young blonde boy, nervous and asking for his mother, was led across the room. Thordendahl upturned a table and draped it in a black cloth, then chanted a ritual cribbed in equal parts from The Book of Lies and The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. Then with one smooth motion, he sliced open the neck of the child. Gasping and spattering blood as he tried to breathe, the child faltered, and Garm stepped in with an erect which he rammed into the esophageal hole. His rhythmic thrusts coincided with the spasms of the child’s body as its brain ran out of oxygen and the throat tensed in a desperate attempt to bring in air.
“It is the best feeling in the world,” said Garm, even as Phil mounted him from behind. Slapping a thick wad of lard onto the winking pink hole, Phil pistoned his penis like a war machine into the willing rectum, spattering the walls with feces in addition to the blood from the dying child. With a grunt that turned into a falsetto squeal of delight, Phil disgorged a stream of his DNA straight into the lower end of Garm’s digestive tract while the latter massaged his testicles to extract every drop of the luscious pearlescent fluid. Dani stepped forth with a straw which he inserted into the pulsing sphincter, then drank the mixture of feces and semen mixed with the blood of the blonde child.
“Hey look everyone,” said Chuck. He had ripped open the young boy and taken out his intestines, which he now twisted into a shape like a baby. “A child within a child!”
Vinnie in the meantime had removed the boy’s rectum and was using it as a fleshlight, cascading his semen over Lars Ulrich who kneeled naked and sweaty, trying to catch as much as possible with his tongue and face.
Thordendahl pushed Lars forward and steered his priapic truncheon straight up the tight pink passage. Lars gasped and sang an old Samson tune as the churning pulsation of repeated penile entry brought ecstasy to his sensitive ring and bashful prostate. Phil waved on Garm, who needed no encouragement to in turn insert his cocktail stirrer directly into Thordendahl’s anus, causing the latter to make guttural groans and reach-around on Lars. O’Brien hopped on next, poking himself into Garm, followed by Vinnie who stabbed his wedge-shaped cock straight into O’Brien’s rectum. Chuck hopped on next, attacking Vinnie’s hindquarters like a semen-thirsting vampire, and then Diamond Darrell leaped up to slam his own fat chode straight into Chuck, who moaned with a swooning sound as the girthy dong re-arranged his internal organs. Phil leapt onto the back of the train, and then while making angry pitbull noises as he penetrated Darrell, inched his own pulsating pink doughnut closer to Lars, closing the chain so that a giant circle of sodomites each pleasured each other and were in turn penetrated, ejaculating together in a literal geiser of semen which they then licked from each other’s anuses and smeared it on the faces of every other person with deep French kisses, nuzzles and other gestures of affection.
“Look what I found,” said Dani. “It’s a bitch!” Esmerelda the Guatemalan maid had wandered in to clean the room, then promptly fainted at the sight of it festooned in ropes of semen like spider webs in a haunted house.
“Not only that, but a fucking spic,” said Darrell. He put out his hands. “Don’t get me wrong, boys, I’m not racist. I love a black cock like any other. But spics are just nasty, greasy, beany, dirty things.”
Phil wiped his asshole with Chuck’s underpants, then wadded them up and stuffed them in Esmerelda’s mouth. She gagged and vomited, with the emesis flowing through her nose because her mouth was blocked, at the taste of combined rancid sweat, unwiped anus, layers of semen old and new, spit of two hundred men and the blood of the recent sacrifice. Tears sprung into her eyes.
“Bitches are stupid,” said Phil. “They talk too much, can’t drive, are weak, emotional, narcissistic beings. Like my mother. Bitch, do you want to be raped?” he screamed.
Tears starting again, Esmerelda shook her head vigorously.
“Well, you’re safe from that here,” he said to laughter in the room. “But you’re still gonna pay for being from the inferior sex. Take off your clothes.”
Crying, Esmerelda removed her San Francisco Giants sweatshirt, jeans and Obama 2016 t-shirt, standing before them in her pink bra and black underpants. She could go no further, feeling that it was a form of consent. She shook with fear but felt underneath it a sense of excitement, that this was the adventure she wanted. Having been raised in a culture of helplessness in her native third world Guatemala, and then brought to America where rich fat white people obeyed a culture of victimhood, she felt like Jesus on the cross and Madonna on the stage at the same time. But then the pain began.
“She’s fat,” said Dani. “Maybe we should help her diet.” He ripped off her undergarments and plunged a can opener into her belly, tearing apart the flesh and ripping out heaps of greasy warm fat.
Esmerelda strained and wailed but the gag muffled her cries and the iron muscles of Darrell held her to the table as the boys burned off her clitoris, tore off her nipples with pliers, burned her with cigarettes, gouged out her eyes, shredded her nose away with a cheese grater, sliced her breasts off and threw them against the wall, waterboarded her with urine and feces, shocked her with a stripped electrical cord, and beat her until she could not breathe.
“The bitch is done,” said Garm. “Shows her the price to pay for belonging to an inferior group.” Swinging his meaty cock, he slammed it into her esophagus, crushing the fragile tube and her face swelled in purple and blue tones. Esmerelda at this point had said her prayers and realized that she was going to her God. All of her sins — every employer she stole from, each time she pried off hubcaps from cars at the mall, and every time she had accepted cash for sex from someone who otherwise paid her to clean toilets — flashed before her eyes as her oxygen ran out. And then nothingness.
As she convulsed the boys took turns raping her wounds, filling the swelling wells of blood with creamy stains of semen, and then defecating into her torn-open chest cavity as she went into agonal breathing and died.
On his way to a sale at the local J.C. Penney, Gaahl from Gorgoroth peeked into the room through his favorite peephole. When he saw what was happening, he crossed himself, then left quickly to join the church and get into conversion therapy to remove his homosexual urges.
Lars re-appeared through a haze of blood and semen leading a donkey by a rope.
“Where did you get a fucking donkey around here?” Pat gasped.
“I know a guy,” said Lars. “I always know a guy. You know?” He reached under the donkey and began to stroke its long, heavy penis. That member leapt to attention as the donkey uttered roaring nervous sounds. Garm got down on his knees and sprayed Pam on his anus, then guided in the gigantic dong, which thrust into him until his eyes bugged. Pat dove to his knees and began to pleasure the large hanging fruit of the donkey’s testicles with his tongue and lips, causing the animal to sputter as it rutted deep into the willing large intestine. Vinnie stood behind the beast, shrugged, and then whipped his cock into its black puckered anus. Man and beast strove together and soon the donkey began to emit more shrill and urgent noises. Chuck plonked his four inches straight into the nostrils of the animal. Garm coughed as his entire thoracic cavity re-adjusted itself to make room for the hammering dong. Then his eyes crossed as it pumped him full of its seed, feeling pressure even in his tonsils as his body took on the load. Exhausted, he fell aside, and the others took turns buggering the beast.
A knock came at the door. Rex stood off to one side, guarding his eyes with his hand. Vinnie and Darrell, who were brothers in real life, looked shocked. “Mary! And Donald!”
“Who are these people?” growled Thordendahl, his beard frosted with semen and feces.
“My younger brother and sister,” said Vinnie.
“Well, they’ve seen our secret,” said Phil. “Let’s violate them and dump the bodies in the lake.”
The libertines fell onto their new conquest, starting with Donald, a dark-haired boy of eleven. His sister, a pretty girl in her early teens, begged for them to leave him alone. “Vinnie, Darrell, stop, please! For Mom’s sake!”
“It’s all for the sake of the party,” growled Darrell, “and nothing else!” He backhanded her across the face, knocking her unconscious into a heap in the corner.
Seeing his sister go down, Donald opened his mouth to scream but soon found he had three cocks surging into that orifice. Gagging, he staggered backward as his pants were ripped off, with Thordendahl, O’Brien and Ulrich crouching on top of one another to simultaneously penetrate the hole. He passed out as the overstressed sphincter snapped, lubricating the relentless pounding with blood. Soon Lars crowed in ecstasy, spuming his seed deep into the ravaged rectum. Thordendahl and O’Brien followed as the unconscious boy slipped to the floor, gagging reflexively on semen flowing out of his mouth and lungs. Dani stepped forward and propped the boy onto a table. With pliers, he removed the teeth, then inserted his penis into the bloody hole. At his gesture, Vinnie slid his own member into the brutalized anus. Then Chuck took his position behind the boy, first moving him back and forth until both Dani and Vinnie bore expressions of pleasure on their faces, and then reaching down with a quick motion to snap the lithe neck. The boy-carcass quivered in involuntary motion, its sphincters pulsing and clenching as the nervous system reacted, causing Dani and Vinnie to ejaculate simultaneously into the dying child. They cast the corpse aside where it landed with a sodden sound.
Lars sidled up to the unconscious girl. “She old enough to bleed?”
“Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed,” said Darrell. “Her last period was a couple weeks ago too.” He yanked down her jeans and popped off her thin cotton panties, revealing the body of a child just beginning to develop the breasts and pubic hair of adulthood. He plunged into her soft vagina, giggling as the hymen ripped, and began the rhythmic motion of rape without guilt. “This is kind of weird,” he said. “No beard or penis, just not as much fun.”
He finished. Lars rooted around on one of the counters and found a funnel, which he handed to Darrell, who stuck it into the tender young vagina. All the men gathered around, each one grabbing the cock of another and smearing it with the mayonnaise left from catering, stroking his partner until thick squirts of lumpy jism landed into the funnel, flowing into the young girl.
“Now we wait a couple hours to make sure she’s conceived,” said Lars. “Then we kill her.”
They took a break at that point. Sweeping aside the pizza, beer bottles, cigarettes and buttplugs from the coffee table, Lars plunked down a huge mirror and dumped a mountain of cocaine on the table. Thordendahl brought out the golden-colored methamphetamine that was popular in the arctic circle, and Phil and Darrell each contributed a heap of nuggets of fine sinsemilla. Grinning, Garm tossed a bundle of DXM and PCP on the table, and Dani threw down huge handfulls of MDMA. The boys fell to, crushing and inhaling or smoking the mixtures, their expressions turning blank as the drugs erased their personalities. Only lust remained.
“Piss in my mouth, you faggots,” Phil announced. “Queers, turd burglars, ass bandits, ponces, fudge packers, benders, knob jockeys, bum-drillers, you fucking queens!”
They stood around him in a circle, pissing down his face and into his mouth, the rich liquid of hours of drinking and fast food diets coursing over his rugged features.
“Here comes the finale!” said Darrell, squatted over Phil’s face. Wincing, he clenched and discharged a lavage of diarrhea across Phil’s face. The laughter that broke out both sliced the tension and planted a seed of resentment in Phil, different than the usual kind of seed that was injected into him on a regular basis. His eyes narrowed.
“Let’s gas this Jew!” said Dani, dancing to an old hippie rhythm. He pulled a cardboard box from behind the couch and flung Chuck into it, then closed it up and taped it. Lifting a flap, he farted audibly — his intestines a ferment of fish and chips along with buckets of semen — into the gap. Chuck gagged and they all laughed, then took turns farting into the opening.
“Gas the sheeny! Auschwitz this kike! Holocaust the hymie!” the calls rang out as Chuck sobbed. Lars — who is a quarter Jewish — upped the ante by defecating in rivulets of chunky liquid into the box, causing Chuck to vomit. Laughing, the others dragged the vomit and feces streaked musician out of the box and gang-rushed him across the room where they threw him into the oven that was part of the kitchenette, turning it high and giggling maniacally at his screams.
Disturbed by the blatant anti-Semitism, but not the earlier racism, Lars went outside. A Buddhist monk in passing asked for directions. “I’ll show you,” said Lars, dragging him inside.
“I found a gook!” he said. The baffled Vietnamese monk tried to look up the phrase in his tourist guide, but his saffron robes were torn off as penises probed every orifice. The boys grunted and whistled in unison, enjoying this sweet piece of virgin ass, finally high-fived each other as they ejaculated together into the violated monk, who collapsed in a heap.
Phil danced into the room, a can of fire starter fluid in his hands. “Remember when these gooks used to protest our war in ‘Nam by burning themselves? Let’s help this faggot zipperhead into the afterlife!” he said, spraying the flammable liquid on the prone form and setting it ablaze with a flick of his Zippo. The flames leapt to the ceiling and a dense smell of high temperature death filled the room. The men stood back, and at that moment, the monk rose up and ablaze ran into the night, his burnt vocal chords unable to make a sound beyond a whisper as he dashed into traffic and was creamed by a passing 18-wheeler. The driver slipped a few hundred to the on scene cop and drove off. “I didn’t see anything,” said the officer. “Must have been a stray dog.”
A buzzing sound filled the room. Lars and Dani were giving each other anus tattoos of their respective band names. In blackface, Phil answered the door. A young woman stood there, aghast. “I was just here from the club, they’re shutting down, what are you — ooo,” she exclaimed as she was grabbed.
“Wait a second,” said Dani, eyes narrowed. “Wait just one glitching second. She’s got an Adam’s apple.”
“It’s a fucking tranny!” said Darrell. “Holy shit, that’s disgusting. Can’t at least get assfucked like a real man.”
“Traitor,” said Garm. “We all know the penalty for traitors.” They took turns punching the transsexual woman, ripping off her freshly-grown breasts and slicing off her vestigial penis, stuffing it in her mouth before gouging out her eyes and raping the holes, then choking her to death while Phil ploughed the experienced rectum (“too roomy” was his verdict) and enjoying the death-spasms coursing through the small body. They cast that corpse aside too and let a weeping Chuck out of the oven.
Darrell looked over the ruined room, its walls soaked in bodily fluids and corpses littering the floor. “We gotta get out of here,” he said. “And then burn this place down so we don’t get caught.” He opened the door and dispatched Rex to the van for the twenty-five gallons of gasoline the band always kept there. Then he returned.
“Party’s never over,” he said, “But we need a finale!” He pushed Lars to his knees. “Be my bitch!”
“I’m your bitch forever,” said Lars to Darrell.
“And I’ll always be your nigger,” said Phil to Chuck.
“I am your toilet eternally,” said Garm and Dani to Frederik.
“We’ll always be joint orgasm buddies,” said Vinnie and Pat. “But we’re not gay!”
The group gathered around Lars, fists pumping around engorged and now thoroughly bruised cocks, and each in turn spurted his load across the balding Danish tennis player’s face and gaping mouth. Strings of rancid jism shot into that orifice. Phil looked up to see Lars with a worshipful look in his eyes, stroking the cock of Darrell, who was returning the look. It did not take a genius — and no one in the room was a genius — to see that true love had blossomed amongst the anal plunder and penis piracy between Darrell and Ulrich.
“Betrayed!” thought Phil, alone in his anguish as Vinnie flooded the room with gasoline and handed over the sticky, stinky and bloody instruments to Rex who coughed and, keeping his eyes averted, carried the gear to the van. Lars stepped out last, flicked open his lighter, and tossed it in. The resulting explosion blew out the windows of the recently-closed club, enshrouding it in flames as the wood structure began to collapse. Soon all that remained would be ash and a few overcooked corpses to disguise the libertine atrocity of the all-night party.
Years later, drunk in his New Orleans hotel and feeling a surge of self-pity after his heroin addiction became public, Phil made a call. “McHugh,” said a voice.
“It’s Phil.” He paused to let that sink in. Then he said, “I know you knew a guy who could get things done. A little touched in the head.”
“Nathan, Nathan Gale,” said McHugh. “Yeah, he loves your band bro. He’d do anything. When are you going to come visit? I’m a brony now, I’ve got these adorable pink pajamas.”
But Phil was far away, the word “anything” echoing in his mind. He gave some instructions which McHugh reluctantly agreed to follow, and hung up. Then he went to his ranch outside town and drank, crying through his tears for a love long gone.
This brought him back to the phone call. “Phil? Are you OK? I knew you two were tight… I mean close. Some crazy guy shot him at a show. He’s dead.”
Tears streaming down his face, Phil hung up the phone. He opened a new bottle of Laphroaig and poured out two glasses. As prepared to drink himself unconscious, he raised a glass of the amber fluid. “For Dime,” he said, and then broke into uncontrollable weeping.