| My God, the ants! They're enormous! it's... Dani's Inferno Pact Eight - Coming Clean With The Filth The night is cold, dark and mercenary, the moon hangs in the clouded sky like a rotted wedge of cheese. The wind throws the gnarled, twisted branches of trees into a frenzy, their skeletal fingers claw against your windows like a necrophile buried alive, scratching at the lid of his rigid lover's coffin. You stoke the open fire from ember, sending a blaze of glowing sprites scurrying up the narrow chimney and into the dark beyond, their swiftly snuffed trails of indication to whatever horrors are abroad that tonight, on this Eve of Dead Souls, you're home alone. Soon, you fear, those unseen terrors that prowl the perimeters of your foulest dreams will know your flesh - from the inside out. Desperately trying to keep your imagination from straying off its leash, you attempt a whisper of interest in the current issue of Metal Hammer, thumbing throught its crinkled pages (the result of a date in the lav with dominatrix Val Ium) in the vain hope that another interview with Dave Mustaine might deliver you swiftly to the oblivion of sleep. But alas, even mister mundane seems to quicken your pulse tonight - so much so, you toss his semblance on the floor (please...this is meant to be dramatic), silently cursing the Elizabeth Taylor rehab centre as the cause of his once-great band's decline. Strange then, that whilst your eyes glance over the words of Dani's Inferno that read like hieroglyphs drawn by a spastic Pharaoh, the all too familiar stench of shit should assail the remainder of you senses, before...TOO LATE! you realise that, in your terror at Metal Hammer's favourite guest column (by default only; unfortunately I don't possess a pair of breasts), you have inadvertently crapped yourself. Now, as if in mocking response, the elements renew their fearful clangour, the sickly moon begins howling in her axis whilst arcane symbols scrawled in blood appear on walls and windows... and as the final candle winks out and plunges you into jet black darkness, your last trace of sanity screams out, over and over again like the thin red repeats of a butcher's knife, the guttural words, 'column fucking eight and it's still a bunch of old arrrrrsse...' I must apologise for the length of introduction but I do like a big entrance (and more often or not, the tradesman's), so now I'd better finish this as painlessly as possible if I'm to catch last orders. Right, here you go you merciless bastards... Since the event has long since troubled anything other than my damaged pride, my esteemed counsel (the Rev. Rudus Priest) has convinced me with his almost fanatical faith in the Lord to confess to the facts (and not the flimsy cover up) concerning last year's Venom launch party in London. Those of you without brains caved in by glue and ganja may recall the story surrounding the car crash suffered by Nicholas Bastard and myself, on our return by car down a dark country lane. It is true that the police escorted us to Colchester hospital, where Nick was treated for a cracked egg (sorry, I meant head), and I was prodded for concussion. However, the facts beg quite a different explanation concerning the cause of our injuries. Grimewatch now reports... That evening we arrived at the Venom club in Soho with the band's American drum tech and my girlfriend Toni. As any denizen of the countryside will tell you, if someone invites you to the Big Smoke for a night of free booze and metal - the action is go! And you invariably end up both rowdy and pissed, which of course (only five weeks prior we were tied like a gimp to album rehearsals) we undertook with near fatal expertise. Cue Nicholas Bastard, now on his 12the tequila slammer and slightly uncoordinated, bringing the glass down violently on his hand - whereupon it smashed and slits open three of his fingers, spilling blood everywhere (highlight of the party if you ask me). A bouncer then takes him next door to a convenience store with the intention of getting his hand bandaged before calling an ambulance. However, Americans being the lovable loudmouths they are (even more so after supping three pints of vodka), our drum tech lurches after them and accuses the six-foot something bouncer of throwing Nicholas out with a non-optional beating. Luckily, after salvaging our relationship from the brink of near divorce (having publicaly argued about how drunk one another were), my girlfriend and I stumble out and manage to salvage the situation before it goes red, promising to get Nick to a hospital just as soon as we escaped London. Drunk beyond measure and a tad disappointed at the lacklustre of what promised to be a good do, we teetered off through the throng of late night revellers until, five minutes up the road and less than two beggars from a tube, disaster struck Nicholas over the head with a Grolsch. Take one pissed-up twat with a gang of equally smashed mates, a derogatory comment, an exchange of words that culminates in blows and abracadabra: you have a one-sided fight that results in a brave but unfortunately, vicious and rather bloody defeat. We regroup further along Charing Cross Road with my girlfriend, who thankfully had walked on blissfully unaware and was now convincing Nick that somewhere midst the drama, a glass bottle had been smashed over his head. Hence the blood-streaming impression of a Cenobite from Hellraiser (guesses, please, on a postcard to...) So, to cut a long story short, it was a miracle of Rudus Priest's god how we managed to get from Central London to Colchester hospital without Nicholas bleeding to death, although at one point there was enough blood on the train carriage floor for me to slip on and it and black my other eye. It was then that Toni had the driver tear through several stops so we might reach our police escort to hospital before Nick ran dry. I hope people will forgive us our trespasses in respect of our little white lie, but the truth was concealed out of pride... dramatically, a high speed car smash lends itself to being far more metal than having your cunt kicked off. Until the next time I have my monthly emission... Dani |