Well I wrote the first part of this story I wrote a long long time ago, but the introduction is pretty knew. Just wanted to see if people are intrigued enough by this that they would want to keep reading the rest of it. Also, I hope this is the right section for this.
“Don’t Shit yourself. We’re just making noise.”
Excuse all the blood, Ded wrote. He killed himself in 1991. A shotgun blast to the head. When Aarseth found the body he called the police, ran to the convenience store, bought a disposable camera and began shooting. It was the next album cover, Dawn of the Black Hearts. Aarseth was found murdered in 1993 by the guitarist, Varg Vikernes. Burzum, the ‘one man band’, thought Aarseth meant to torture and kill him out of jealousy. Both had pieces of Ded’ brain on a necklace. Varg even bought the shotgun shells. When he heard, Diel could only shake his head. Errant children, he thought. But, what could he do? Hate didn’t simmer in the hearts of humans, it exploded. 40 churches burned, 5 young girls murdered, and most of the inner circle in jail or dead. God has won, and all is wrong with the world, he told the television cameras. He had to, people looked up to him. He was all images now.
Reverend Vern Reignin called him the anti-christ after Varg burned down the ancient Fantoft stave church. Oystein Aarseth, Euronymous to his fans, called him a leader, a visionary. The media called him crazy. The internet thought he was the first demon sent from hell. Diel Azael thought he was a philosopher…and that was the problem.
The boy sat at his desk, writing his last will and testament. All around the room, pictures of white panted faces filled in the natural white walls of the room. It still looked bare. These pictures he had collected by following Mayhem on tour. He reveled in the carnage, learned to love the noise, and ate up the talk. In the crowd, he felt powerful and meaningful. His thoughts took rich, beautiful words. He was a master drawn in by the peons. He would have been famous, in due time. The boy poured himself onto the page. He had only meant to write a zingy one liner. He wanted to, but didn’t feel like a one liner could sum up his life. He wasn’t like the musicians. They lived, they really lived. Ded, so confident in himself, was like a black metal ghandi. Excuse all the blood. He had nothing else to write, his life was self explanatory. But the boy was on his fifteenth hand scrawled page. His life hadn’t been as lived and such needed to be explained. He had to justify his death. He was stuck trying to describe why, what feelings caused this. He didn’t want a mystery, that wouldn’t do. He wanted to be clear, but instead, he had to be poetic. On the twentieth page and with his parents soon to come home, the boy stabbed his manifesto to the wall, right next to his favorite Mayhem poster, and shot himself. There was a lot of blood. No one forgave him.
The boy’s parents were upright Christians. They went to mass on Sunday. Attended church festival. Brought their son up to be a decent, God fearing, no-trouble member of society just like everyone else down the family tree. They blamed his eccentricities. He was always writing, mother sobbed to the television cameras. It’s all their fault, Father, standing up from the chair with bravado, yelled to the television reporter. No… we won’t have a funeral, mother said into her hands. The boy was a public figure now; he couldn’t be received into God’s kingdom. Outside the living room, a young man in a long white hooded sweatshirt watched the television spectacle. He was a kind boy and didn’t make judgments. He watched while the cameramen wound up their cords and began to pack up their trucks. In minutes, they were all gone and there as no trace. History left behind no scars on the lawn. It was like a parade had come and gone in minutes. It didn’t feel right; the young man said to himself, it just didn’t feel right.
Diel was howling into a microphone when the music suddenly cut from his head phones. The produced knocked on the window and pointed towards a young man dressed in white who waited shyly at the door. Diel looked annoyed, but nodded for him to come in. Without thinking, he reached for a pen. As Diel approached, the boy seemed to shrink into himself. He nervously rolled the hood strings between his fingers, but he held out no photo to sign. They both stood there for a few moments, saying nothing. Yeah, Diel finally asked. The young man jumped a little. It’s my friend, he said in a rush, the one on the television. They won’t let him into heaven…just for what he did. I know the rules…but it isn’t fair. They say you come from…well…they say you know God. Can you do the funeral? The producer gave an adult sigh with little tsks in between. He opened the door to show the young man out, but Diel had already sat the young man down on a couch. In time, Diel learned that the young man went to school with the boy. No, he wasn’t a friend. No, he had only seen him in the halls. No, he didn’t know the family. Diel was dumbfounded. Pure empathy was a rare thing. You’ll teach us all something, Diel said, escorting the young man back out onto the street. I’ll make sure he gets into heaven.
When the manager heard he spun the event. Like every other political machine, it held the power of interpretation. With the inner circle gone and the newspapers no longer running the story, black metal was on its last legs. Diel, the only living leader of the revolution, was pressed into ensuring its upkeep. The funeral became a gathering. A triumph over death. The young man’s story was not that of a biological depression and the failure of social safety nets. It was an act of courage! To stand up to God himself! A funeral became a concert. The last concert of Diel Azael before he passed the torch to Immortal, Dimmu Borgir, Darkthrone, Emperor, Satyricon, and of course the next reincarnation of Mayhem.
Diel could hear the sounds of a chanting crowd echoing in the stark dressing room. No church would have the funeral, so it was held in a mid capacity stadium. The insurance was high, the owners expected damage. The coffin was placed center stage and surrounding it were lights, speakers, microphones, pyrotechnics, barricades, giant fans, wall hangings, and of course, the concession stands which sold high priced, beer, water, and commemorative t-shirt to suburban rebels in black. On the t-shirt, the coffin was placed center stage with a contingent of white painted faces sorrowfully gazing down on it. Among the faces were the jailed Vikernes and the dead Aarseth and Ded. Diel refused to be on the t-shirt. Their sorrow-filled faces were juxtaposed on a giant red devil claw throwing devil horns to a black sun. These can still be found on ebay if you look hard enough. Diel smeared white paint over his face with traditional black surrounding his eyes and adorning his lips. He felt like an ancient queen, plastering her face in an ever fearful panic of appearing common to the public
Diel ascended to the stage to the sound of blaring horns. He was the general, valiantly rallying the masses. He stood still for a moment, holding the microphone and peering into the crowd. Every face was anxious, like a lion before the pounce. Every face except one. In the back of the auditorium, a young man dressed in white walked out. The metal doors slammed closed with a resounding thud. Diel winced.
The faces encouraged, goaded, prodded. A chant began for the immortal Diel. The auditorium began to shake from the crowd. A sea of black rebels, their waves crashing against the stage. Diel could feel the wooden stage creek beneath him. Behind him, the coffin bounced up and down on its platform. Diel looked back and, afraid it might fall, leapt at the microphone. Alright alright! he bellowed in his thick Viking accent. You have all come here for one thing, yes? And that is to have one wonderful fucking time! He looked back at the drummer, who was poised like the crowd. Diel had no chance. He turned back to the microphone, throwing his fists in the air, a 1 2 a 1 2 fuck you!!! and the place exploded.
As the music rose in its brutality, rings began to form in the crowd. Black shirts became splattered red as rebels kicked, punched, and thrashed to the beat. One kid had to scramble to his feet after getting knocked down. Otherwise he might have been trampled. In one ring, a burly kid by the assumed name of Hammer took great pride in dominating the ring closest to left center stage. Having played many years of high school football before finding himself confronted by a life that demanded more of him than violence, Hammer was the juggernaut of the ring. Even when three of rout similarly black-clad boys formed an alliance to take him down, Hammer easily threw them off. One, he kicked hard in the stomach, sending him crawling back to the safe edge of the ring. The second, in the mean time, had leapt at him only to receive an elbow to the face, and a subsequent broken jaw. The third, a scrappy freshman who had yet to learn his limits, dove at Hammer’s knees, attempting to take him down. That boy found he had hit a wall, and for his trouble, was pinned to the ground and pummeled until Diel made an offhanded comment about unity and watching out for each other. Hammer picked the boy up and tried to stand him on his feat. As soon as Hammer let go, the boy collapsed. On the stick ground below, a tiny stream of blood trickled from the freshman’s mouth.
During the concert, the stage manager kept the spotlight on Diel. The crowd cheered, urging fro that special glint, the sing of a knife. During a particularly long solo, Diel crouched at the end of the stage, the microphone clutched in his right had. With his other hand, he gently twirled a knife that he held point down onto the wooden platform. Diel’s hair dangled in front of his face, masking it completely from the revealing spotlight. All the crowd could see was a set of gleaming fangs protruding from the darkness. Every muscle in his body was tense. Diel grinned and stood up, facing the crowd. They began to chant immortal! Immortal! Immortal! He cackled as the knife gleamed in the spotlight. You’re damn right! The solo ended and Diel walked towards the very front of the stage. He was only a foot from the fans in the front row. He put the knife to his right shoulder. You know what they say…across for blood. He drew the knife across his upper chest. The crowd responded in unison, and down like you mean it! Diel smirked. Fuck yeah. He sliced right down the center of his chest, creating the sign of the cross. He held the bloody knife up fro all to see, sparking another round of chanting. Diel never showed a scar from this traditional stage act. Most thought he was an immortal demon and therefore couldn’t die, the rest thought it was all just an act. Never-the-less his reputation always preceded him.
After the concert, what was left was trash, a coffin, and the young man in white. His shoes clung to the beer soaked ground. In the darkness of a spent auditorium, he knelt beside the coffin and prayed. After a few moments, a voice from the darkness joined him. Red gleaming eyes shown in the darkness and a robbed man stood beside the boy in white. When the young man looked over, all he could see was dark feathered wings and a white face piercing the darkness. The young man nodded solemnly to the figure, approving of his presence. He knelt down and pressed a gentle hand to the coffin. It’s not tradition, a strong Viking voice said, but it will work. God owes me one. The young man smiled and bent his head for prayer.
This small story, of course, was found in the darkened chambers of the internet, so I don’t know how much you should trust. But, considering that Diel has no official birth certificate, numerous death certificates, and eyewitness accounts placing him all over time and history, I wouldn’t be too skeptical. There is a story I personally like, found in biblical writings no one reads anymore. It is about the angel of fear, Azael, who gets into an argument with God. He tells God that he doesn’t believe humans need to fear to be good. They don’t need to fear God, they don’t need to fear the devil, the don’t need to fear themselves. God knew that Azael wouldn’t learn on his own, so he cast him to earth as a mortal. With each life you will know more, he proclaimed, and each time rise anew. This shall continue until you know the answers for yourself. The last of the pages were torn out well before archaeologists dug up these texts in the sands. We still don’t know how the story ended.
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