This is just a tribute (Closed to Wally, Thorgron, and Jacky the Blade)

Alrighty, To the ladies and to the fuckin gentlemen, it's time to mothafuckin begin the show. I want all you bitches to sit your ass down and take a number, because it's time for the mothafuckin ballad of The Heavy Metal Messiah to rape your souls with the sheer power of his holy gospel. Yeah, you think you're ready for it? I don't fuckin think so. No, you're not prepared because you've never had your soul fucked like a Thai hooker on crack. Alright, enough buildup kiddies, because it's time for the main event. So now the main character of this oh so beautiful ballad is Apollo, and this is the tale of how he and an unexpected apostle of metal rocked the fucking block of two punk ass haters. So here's how it starts, That most metal of messiahs was sitting there in the park one day, strumming some sicknasty beats on the bench, when all of a mothafuckin sudden, he saw the most heinous of things occurring within his vision most pure.
There was concert goin down, but was it metal? No. Rock? You fuckin wish it was. No, no, no.
This was some punk ass poser playing glam rock. Yeah, that shit where they dress up like the mothafuckin pretty princesses in your bitch ass My Little Pony fanfics and pretend they know metal. Now the messiah of metal knew he couldn't tolerate that kind of blasphemous shit going down in a world that needed a serious metalizing, so can you guess what he did my friends? You can? Fucking wonderful, but I'm telling the story so you best be silent and open up those ears for the sweet lovin I'm about to fill your empty sacks with.

Thus it was that our holiest of heavy metal men stood up from that mothafuckin bench, the wood exploding away from the sheer force of his colossal rise and he casually strolled over. Now you might be wonderin 'Hey, didn't you just say that he was going to put a stop to that heinous hair metal?' Why yes, yes I did. Now perhaps you don't understand, but let me lay down the law for you. You see, even though what was goin on on that stage was a sin beyond measure, Apollo respected his fellow musicians enough not to strike them down right there and then. No, he wouldn't slay their dumb asses for playing just blasphemous beats. He would convert them to the true way with his gospel of the Holy Trinity. So as I was saying you rude fuck, Apollo casually strode across the parkway, the stagelights of the gods slowly coming to focus on him and the crowd parting like the motherfucking red sea before everyone's favorite jew, Moses.
Now the crowd didn't do it on purpose, they just felt the pure radiating awesomeness of true metal emanating from behind them and through pure instinct, the kind that any real metalhead has deep down... they moved. What'd you expect? You think Apollo was gonna have to beat down on some true believers? No, not the style of the messiah. He knew that each and every one of them had the true metal in their soul, just waiting to be brought to the top like a geyser of pure unadulterated badassery with a fuse in need of lighting.

So our main man made his way to the front of the crowd -Echidna in hand- and looked up at the punks playing their song most shitty. Now, right here's where it gets good, it's the part where you all start to truly feel your hearts explode and reconstitute themselves as a whole new being within your chest. Apollo knew that no mere passage from the holy gospel of the Heavy Metal Gods would be able to convert these haters, or even get their mothafuckin attention away from the grip of those hair metal notes. So, doing what any reasonable Metal Messiah would do, he leaped several meters -yeah, we going METRIC up in this shit- and let loose a torrent of delicious, sexophonic beats from that bitch.

No amps necessary.

Now these beats weren't designed to harm, but sometimes the Metal Messiah gets a little too enthusiastic when converting the disciples. Now what happened was, as he played that solo, both the screaming lemmings and the hair metal heretics stopped their shouting and gazed up the true light in the sky, playing the sweet riffs of god for their unknowing asses. He was saving them from hair metal hell, one note at a time. So how did they get hurt you ask? Well, as our main main came down from the sky like a wishing meteor crashing straight into some poor sod's head, he strummed the final chord of that bitchin solo.

Now the average man can't take such tasty grooves without at the very least fainting, so needless to say, they were all blown on their asses in awe. Realizing that he had only accomplished step one of the two part patented Metal conversion process, he strummed that bitch most fine with the Pick of Destiny until those beautiful fuchsia lines turned black. Pure, mothafuckin Black. As you can plainly see, our mothafuckin main character is now wielding the Metal equivalent of Indiana Jones' mothafuckin Ark of the Covenant. With but a single word uttered from his lips, the most holy of healing verses began to play across the land. Like some kinda satanic mass ritual, all those affected by the juicy loving of Echidna rose from their metal slumber, ten thousand strong and twenty thousand fists up in the air. The hair metal heretics rose from their spots on the stage too mind you, but they were no longer the blaspheming mothafuckas from before.
No no no, they had seen the light, each tearing the wig from his head and flashing the horns of metal. They were reborn as the metal doublebrothas and sistas of the world.

Only one song could be played now, a song of conversion and sweet metal love. Now you folks may be startin to wonder what the fuck is up. 'Oh mighty narrator from on high, where do the haters most heinous come in, and for that matter, why?' Well how about you shut the fuck up and let me finish the story. Now some sneaky little bitchfuck decided that they didn't like the power of true metal being spread to the ignorant masses and decided to come put a stop to this party, but I ain't gonna touch on that yet, nope. You see, this here ballad comes from many places at once, a true masterstroke by the mothafuckin creative forces of reality brought to you by their own merciful touch.

Short version: my voice fuckin hurts from delivering the first part of our ballad most sublime unto you eager listeners and now I'm passing this tale onto our next narrator, a man who needs no mothafuckin introduction but his own. Take it away you crazy mothafucka.

Scott was far from his home and feeling very much like a fish out of water. The craziness of LA was where he felt he was most needed, most belonged. Every street corner there overflowed with evil in all forms but it was different here. There was still crime yes, but there was a subtle feeling of peace in the city. It was very alien to Scott and made him feel very uncomfortable.It was like a great secret was hidden here, some unseen threat lurking beneath the surface. With every step Scott couldn't help to look over his shoulder. Something vile was here, he felt it deep in his gut. Some force was drawing people into carnal pleasures and rage, it was so primal, so fierce. It took Scott quite some time to realize that the feeling was not in his gut but in his head. The music first wafted in like a whisper, either it was playing very quietly or it was very loud and very far away. He had yet to make out what the sound was but he felt it was the source of his suspicions.

Moving closer in the direction of the sound, Scott's ears began to be assaulted with music. With every step he could feel the ground tremble and hear the booming chords. There was no mistaking it, this was a rock concert. Upon his realization, Scott was drawn back to his earlier years. Metal had never been his cup of tea but he had been introduced to it in prison. Some of his inmates worshiped the bands like gods, carrying out their deeds and inking their skin with their logos. It made him sick to think about it. The idol worship the vile things spoke of. Scott never knew if these bands were aware of just how much they inspired people like him for all the wrong reasons. Death, murder, rape and all manner of violence could be heard glorified with their every word and now Scott was approaching one of these sowers of wickedness. And under normal circumstances, that's all he would have done, approached them, maybe shut down an amp and give warn them to clean up their act. But this music was different. He could feel it eating at his very soul, trying to tear open the old wounds in his resolve.

Suddenly a flash and one of Scott's old crimes was called to mind. The innocent family, the savings in the mattress, the children screaming, an unstoppable need. One, two, three shots were fired. Blood soaked the room, Scott himself covered in a good amount of it. His hands moving of their own accord, the name, his alias, "Silverfish". And just like that Scott was back in reality and his heart was pounding. During his lapse he had worked his way into the crowd and was in the middle of a mosh. His breathing intensified, Silverfish was a painful memory, one filled with hatred and self loathing. And this music was the cause. Scott could see the people around him suffering from similar effects. Every last one of them was thrashing about wildly and as he reached to his mask to calm his breathing, one of the mindless hoard bull rushed into him, then another and another. Scott was caught in the middle of a mosh and the crowd was bouncing him like a renegade pinball. Every which way they threw him and him lack of oxygen was preventing him from thinking clearly. As one of the members of the crowd came at him again he lunged out, sinking an 8 inch titanium alloy blade straight through the man's skull. Blood spurted over his face as he reached with his left hand to the mask, delivering a dose of much needed medicine.

His breathing began to calm and Scott noticed some of the crowd were looking at him. After all he had just killed a man. But his attention was not on the crowd. Scott's cold eyes were fixed on the man on stage, his hands raging over the strings of purple guitar. This man was capable of far too much manipulation for Scott's taste and if he could attempt to corrupt him, then surely these people were no match for his music. Scot needed a plan and in order to enact one he began to make his way around the stage.

Fuckin beautiful eh kids? See those fine additions to this mothafuckin ballad of metal? No, you didn't?! WELL GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKIN READ ON AND COME BACK! Do de dum dum dum, okay, we good? Mothafuckin wonderful, now lets see if I got all this shit right. So first we've got the mothafuckin Heavy Metal Messiah himself up there on the stage playing the tastiest and most holy of jams on the heavy metal ark of the mothafuckin covenant. Bringin up a close second is the suicidal swordsman jamming out to said grooves so as to free himself from that most melancholy of mortal coils in a way that doesn't involve painting the walls of his shitty Chicago apartment with his no-longer cancer riddled brain. Trailing just behind him in third is a psychotic mothafucka rockin the Sawtooth look who just took a chunk out of that poor schmuck who was just getting his metal mosh pit on. Finally, we got the soulless ginger bitch with her hating ass self trying to take away the messiah's guitar. Well now kiddies, sing along with me. One of these things is not like the other, one of these things doesn't belong. Wait, what, there are two? I say takin the fucking brain stem out of a dude is pretty metal but whatever, looks like we got a classic case of the double mothafuckas hatin on the sweet and holy gospel of our lord Apollo. Now you seem like smart kids, can you tell me what the motherfuckin hell our Mirthful Messiah will do about the multiple malcontents hating up his concert?

Kill them you say?

Maybe, but first let me educate you on the truth behind Black. You know, that mothafuckin Ark of the covenant I mentioned earlier...? Oh for fuck's sake. Alright, so that pitch black melody machine is a real historical piece of work, you see, Mr. Cobalt waltzed right into Heavy Metal Heaven amidst the angels of the universe playing their sweet chants to the holy trinity and there he saw it, sittin on the mothafuckin pedestal completely silent. Now some might say that swiping anything from Mount Rockmore is a fuckin sin beyond repentance, but I urge you to kindly shut the fuck up and let me finish. Now see, nothing's more sinful than letting such a perfect piece go unplayed and that's why when Apollo picked up Black -which was called Nitroexplosive karmatastic Blitzmaster deluxe at the time- he felt its pure desire to make music.
Now why would he cover such golden perfection in the inky blackness of the void. Well, aside from everything being fuckin sexier in black, mortal eyes cannot comprehend the true form of Black. Why, anyone who gazes upon its perfection has their face turned to stone and exploded off. That's why despite looking like Asmodeus' personal bass, it heals any true metal head who hears its notes. Now luckily for the aforementioned schmuck lacking a face or most of his head, he still had something resembling an ear left. Also he was true metal head, but his very fuckin presence in that mosh pit should have told you that. So as the beautiful notes of Black swerved about his recently dead self, he began to glow the true gold hidden beneath, rising up as the solo hit its perfect instant and miraculously exploding with light. From this light, a new face was forged for the man, just as fuckin metal as his old one with the advantage of you know, actually being there.

Now it was during this holy miracle of metal that the hater bitch I told you about earlier made her way up the stage, acting like she was some hot shot. Now the crowd had cleared somewhat, but as any true follower of the metal path will tell you, a death ain't enough to stop the party. Not even close, the smell of mothafuckin blood in the air just got the adrenaline flowin straight to their mothafuckin metal brains. They weren't running, no no no, they were forming a circle around Mr. Sawtooth and the crimson haired seductress. Finishing his solo, the mothafuckin messiah smiled at both his newest guest and that bitch. Turning his back to them, our sweet and holy lord walked away to the back of the stage, givin his mothafuckin guitar a single strum from the Pick of Destiny.
Can you guess what happened next? No? Good, because I was starting to think I was losing my mothafuckin storytelling edge. So Black become red, the lines of existence reshaping themselves as our Merciful Messiah spun around, revealing the pure holiness of Guren. Running forward, he kicked his legs out from under his flying form and began to play a beautiful piece of mothafuckin work. Now why would he kick his legs out you might be askin in that technicolor brain of yours, so let me tell you. He was going into the most metal of movements: The power slide. He did all this while strumming the mothafuckin sweet solo to call down the pillars of fire across that beautiful stage. Where'd the pillars come from? The mothafuckin ghosts of those Japanese monks summoned them with their pure furious pride in the Guren. Sliding straight off the stage, Apollo did a triple flip into the circle with those two mothafuckin haters and spun, like in mothafuckin slow motion and shit. Smiling, he began to deliver the most metal of verses down upon them.

"Hello there my doublebrotha and sista, while those blades you're sporting are as metal as the songs in my heart, I gotta ask you to stow em deep in those silver sleeves of yours, yeah stow 'em deeper in the mothafuckin depths than the most punk ass of hair metal songs you could ever try to forget." He did announce onto the first one, his gaze shifting to rest on the fine chest of the red haired hater from beyond the grave.

"And as for you Angel Witch, There are two things no Heavy Metal Disciple will ever do. The first is that he will never interrupt another man's solo, because solos are from the heart, ribcage and mothafuckin soul. TO interrupt one is to cut off a man from his very lifeblood, and that is something that can NEVER be allowed in this world. As for the second thing, well I think it should be as obvious as the mothafuckin sun setting on the horizon of the old world and rising to greet the dawn of battle, Ya feel me? I'm never given up my mothafuckin bibles of the Holy Trinity. Not to you or anyone else. Now I'll tell you the same thing that I tell all the sweet doublesistas of this old world. You gotta have a backstage pass to meet the band" Aww shit, yeah, he fuckin told that bitch what the mothafuck was up!

Can you dig it?

Before Scott could could move around to the back of the stage, the crowds of drugged up metal heads began to circle him. Damn, this monster on stage must be controlling them, he thought. People tend to shirk from violence not encircle it and worship it. This was bad, the majority of these people seemed to be under the spell of the alluring sounds produced form that guitar. Scott hated to admit it but the tones were sweet and the rhythm enticing. Once again his mind began to slip, his surroundings becoming those of his first crime scene.

Drugged up and wild, the 17 year old Scott walked the streets. He was on a high but he was seeking more, the buzz just not strong enough to appease his high tolerance. In LA it wasn't to hard to find. A man, mid thirties stood outside the corner store. In between his teeth was a chewed down toothpick. This, was Scott's dealer, the man who had so often supplied him with the addictive lifeblood.

"C-c'mon man I need a little more, just a little!" Scott was tweaked out of his mind and not thinking clearly. His dealer looked down at the sad excuse for a human he had so often exploited. There was no doubt he would normally give him what he wanted, at higher cost of course, but not this time. Tonight had been a busy night and he was out of what Scott was looking for. "Look man I'm out, get outta here before a cop comes by." This answer was not one Scott could accept. he lashed out violently at the man. "I know you got some, hand it over and we aint gonna have trouble!" Quickly he drew a gun, his new piece given to him upon his entry into the Hellhounds. The dealer was seasoned though, and head dealt with Scott's type before. He stepped back calmly, convincing Scott he was harmless. "Look man here, here some extra just co-" The man had reached into his pocket for his own stash. Scott in his drugged up state had not realized it and shot the man before he could remove the hand.

His blood and brain matter stained the walls as he fell limp to the ground. Scott was keen to take advantage of the situation and proceeded to take the man's entire stash, running it back to the Hellhounds for their favor. On his way bak, he had shot two more people, random passers-by under the impression that they were cops. All that blood, that waste and the pure evil that had driven his life in those years, they smothered Scott's mind as he snapped back to reality. A similar scene lay before him, his right claw now had a streak of red and grey down its side, only now, the man whom he had killed was up and moving again. Something was very wrong. Whoever this man on stage was, he had the power to not only enter Scott's head, but he also wielded a wide array of magical prowess. A hunch confirmed by a very out of place woman who emerged form among the crowd. The guitar was certainly magical, and this woman wanted it for herself. That too was unacceptable, but if she could help him in stopping this metal demon from spreading his corruption, she would make for some valuable help.

With the both of them now surrounded, the dangerous man and sower of chaos on stage leaped into the air and landed in front of the two of them. He spoke in such a strange way, a mad man in all senses of the word. With little concern he asked Scott to stow away his claws. This was no comic, and Scott was not Wolverine.. The comment and its airy lack of care angered him. Taking in a deep breath, he began to speak, every few words being interrupted by a harsh raspy breath. "How about I stow them...somewhere else...your chest cavity should...make a good spot..." Scott wasted little time. He could not continue to be exposed to this man's tones. They brought his inner demons back into the light and brought out his absolute worst. So with great speed he darted at the man, sailing into the air in a flip so that his bladed feet were aimed directly at him and coming in fast.