Author's Commentary
Revised first part of my new story about love for hate. Enjoy, and understand.
Posters everywhere.
Cannibal Corpse, Death, Soundgarden, Pantera.
Posters on the walls.
System of a Down, The Dillinger Escape Plan.
Posters on the ceiling.
SLAYER.
Posters on the ground.
Kerry King’s demonic axe graced John’s ceiling like the monkey head in Indiana Jones.
“Don’t you dare touch that, I swear to Jesus fuck.”
John kept very good care of his posters.
“Get your hands off my signed ‘Tallica, dickweed.”
Very, very good care.
A short time after his thirteenth birthday, John had a quiet revelation in front of his computer; after hearing the first thirty seconds of For Whom the Bell Tolls, he fell over in his chair.
“Holy crap.”
Metallica was his first step toward getting the posters. He ordered a Cliff Burton, a Ride the Lightning, and a Black album one. They adorned his left-most wall, with soft-spoken rebellion from his parents’ collections of Cat Stevens pictures and a towering action figure statuette of Gene Simmons. He rejected Kiss:
“Yeah, they released a disco single. No thanks.”
He rejected Iron Butterfly:
“Twenty what minutes? Way too stoner for me.”
He especially hated the Beatles:
“It’s like Jesus had a hangover after the 50’s, and he took a really long regurgitation session in the 60’s, and the Beatles crawled out of the spew.”
And above all, the most off limits music for John, the untouchable, unmistakable rejection stuff, was Coldplay:
“Screw Chris Martin. Coldplay can suck a large, hairy one.”
He began to make his own record collection, and for profit, began to sell a few burns to other aspiring fans of Slipknot.
“I’m giving Vol.3 for at least $6, man. That’s almost their best album; nah, probably their first is the best. But it’s still $6, and no refunds for glitches.”
He constantly created and simultaneously changed top ten lists; guitarists, albums, song, drummers, even the occasional top ten band list.
“One would have to be Metallica; two, Sabbath; three, Maiden or Priest; I don’t know who four would be…”
Now he stared up at Kerry snarling with the guitar menacing in his hands.
“I should’ve put Slayer at two.”
On the wall opposite of his bed, Randy Rhoads nodded knowingly.
“You’ll understand it all soon enough, kid.”
Of course, the love for such artists like this came not from parental derision of such bands, but from him being enrolled (without a say from himself) at a Catholic school.
Sure, his dad hated System of a Down, and his mom just laughed at Behold…The Arctopus.
John didn’t care. The guys in those bands put their lives to a real purpose, not a fake objective; they did what they wanted to do, and they played what they wanted to play. They were their own people, a reality that John couldn’t escape to with his surroundings.
But what really ticked him off was one remark, one sentence that pissed him off more than anything anybody ever said.
Ever.
One day, during a routine music and arts class, he was sitting around, minding his own business, scribbling in his notebook; drawings of the ZoSo adorned the edges of the spiral paper, and of the front cover, as well.
The assignment for that day was to draw out an iPod with the names of the assorted musicians that were in your own.
John didn’t feel like drawing anything but life size replicas of Jimmy Page.
The teacher looked from over John’s shoulder;
“Mr. Spade, have you finished your iPod yet?”
The words fell on deaf ears.
“Ehem… I said; Mr. Spade, did you finish your iPod yet?”
He was startled out of his temporary disability of hearing.
“Oh, what…? Oh, no, not yet, dude.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, oh, no, I did not, Mr. Karlen.”
“John, are listening to your iPod in class again?”
“Umm, I can’t hear you.”
The conversation sparked high interest from the rest of the class.
“I said are you listening to your iPod in class, John? Again?”
“No, I don’t think I am.”
Sniggers trickled from mouths quickly.
“Yes, you are, John.”
Mr. Karlen swept his hand down, and the mp3 swiftly arrived at the front of the classroom, dangling by a headphone from cold hands.
“Yes, you are. And what is on this iPod, Mr. Spade? What could make up the drawing of this iPod that you’ve been listening to since the beginning of this school year? Hmm?”
The whole class giggled.
“Let’s see; oh, some AC/DC. Some Buckethead…? Aha, Disturbed, very enlightening, I’m sure.”
“John turned off his hearing for a few minutes while Mr. Karlen derided his musical tastes. I can like whatever I want, and Mr. Karlen talking crap about Iron Maiden being white trash metal won’t change how much I love my music.”, he thought.
“Oh, what fun, Rage Against the Machine. Does this mean you’re part of some terrorist regime, Johnny Boy?”
John ignored the derision as best he could.
“Ha, I’ve never heard of anybody called Slipknot before. Oh, Scorpions, they had that one famous song, right? The one hit wonder, what’s it called…”
John stared at the wall.
The bell rang.
“Everyone, you are dismissed; everyone except for John.”
The class laughed, and fled to sixth period with the speed of valkyires.
John continued staring.
Mr. Karlen strolled up to his desk, opened a small compartment, and tossed the iPod into it with a tight hand pirouette.
“So, Mr. Spade.”
John looked up.
“You think it’s cool?”
“What’s cool?”
“To listen to that crap. Do you think our Lord listens to Slayer, or Judas Priest??”
Mr. Karlen put emphasis on the ‘Priest’.
“That stuff dispels belief in the Trinity; it buries religion in its shit. It’s not right; how would your mother feel if she heard you listened to Iron Maiden? Hmm??”
“She knows I listen to Maiden. I have three Maiden posters in my bedroom…”
“Well, you know what, John?”
“What, Mr. Karlen?”
There was a pause.
Mr. Karlen cleared his throat.
“I’m sending you to detention. I’m going to make sure those posters come down from your walls. I’m going to make sure that you never refer to any person involved in that joke of music; especially Ozzy Osbourne, that freak show junky.”
John tried to conceal a wince. He retorted to his basic human rights;
“You can’t make me do anything, Mr. Karlen. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And don’t you try sending me to detention because I like Sabbath.”
“Oh, you’re going to get more than detention for listening to Black Sabbath…”
And the zeitgeist.
“I’m going to get you an exorcism for that heretic spew of satanic rubbish.”
And with that, John stuck to the music like Gorilla Glue.
“Honestly, Mr. Karlen, the guys in Sabbath got more BJ’s in a year than you’d get from saying Hail Mary three times everyday for a lifetime.”
Mr. Karlen’s cranium turned deep purple.
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