I
Though the close-packed crowd cheered passionately, howling, growing ragged and hoarse in the dark abandoned barn, their screams were all drowned out by the atonal arhythmic thunder of the music. The concert was so deafening that the congregated youths seemed more to be gasping silently underwater than cheering for the musicians. They were all far from town: outside that isolated barn there was only the chilly wilderness of Mount Rundemanen for miles echoing with frantic percussion, regurgitations from a wall of Marshall stacks, and unintelligible shrieks that disguised lyrics. The verdant Norwegian night was frozen, but the dim air within the barn was hot with the stink of sin. And there at the front of the stage, before the flailing arms of the hysterical throng was their idol: the wild guitarist who ripped apart the fretboard of his off-brand stratocaster with high notes, injuring those in attendance careless enough to listen with naked ears. As Jackie Kaesar played he thrashed his long black hair through the haze, furiously selecting only discordant notes to grind into his audience. He noticed a melody developing in his solo and he crushed it into jagged feedback, he tortured his strings and led the group to the final verse of the cyclonic song. Mikael bellowed his woes into the microphone and both pedals of Bjorn’s bass drum gallopingly accelerated to their ruination. Jackie’s guitar and Kristian’s bass clashed, head-butting their opposing riffs vigorously into one another until finally with a disconcerting cymbal crash the sonic presence was slain. There was a moment of impossible silence. Only then did the souls in attendance erupt back at the band, frenzied, cheering to replace the extinguished sound. At first only a few sparse fans began the chant, but in admission of the guitarist’s supernatural virtuosity soon the entire structure — lamp shadows playing in the rafters — over and over shouted Jackie Kaesar’s name.
The concert ended itself quickly after that, the band dismantled their equipment and melded with the audience as everyone in the barn swallowed down their cheap drinks and conversed into the Scandinavian night. Still sweaty from his drumset, the veritable viking with close-cropped blonde hair and heavy beardgrowth caught the can of beer tossed his way.
“Thanks Erik,” he said to his younger classmate. Though he was large as an aurochs, the viking was a senior in highschool.
“You fucking earned it,” said the kid. “You’re something else, Bjorn! Using two bass drum pedals? Genius. Makes your sound so frantic, so demonic. This is some cutting edge shit and I just know tomorrow night’s show is gonna be kick-ass too! What great fucking weekend! You better keep on rocking, man!”
Bjorn shrugged appreciatively to the grinning boy and turned to disappear into the faceless crowd, when he felt a stern grip on his shoulder. The viking wheeled around bristling, expecting Erik to ask some immature question, but instead found himself face to face with clever-eyed Kristian. Thin and bony, the oldest of the bandmembers by a year, he was shaved bald and had a branch of brown goatee. Kristian already attended university, in nearby Oslo, but he spent most of his time skipping classes and hanging out with the band.
Mischevious eyes widening, the goateed bassist said, “Come on Bjorn, you can’t just brush off a compliment like that.” The shadows of the dim barn played over his jagged snake-like features. “We played an awesome set tonight. You were totally on your game.”
“Uh, thanks,” Bjorn muttered both to Kristian and to departed unhearing Erik.
“Without us, this new sound wouldn’t even exist. It’s like we invented a new genre.” Adjusting the strap of his bass-guitar case slung over his shoulder, Kristen looked deep into Bjorn’s eyes. “And you were fucking amazing tonight.”
As the glowing faces of bystanders nodded in fervent agreement Bjorn silently smoothed his headstrong mustache into his beard, the watery blue crystals of his irises scanning his clever bandmate with wary curiosity.
“When you asked me last year to join the band you were forming,” the drummer replied, “it was the only time I’ve heard you pay anyone a compliment. What are you up to?”
“I’m not the type to flatter someone undeserving,” said Kristian, shrugging. His smile was as innocuous as a taunting crocodile. “The four of us are, really, impossibly good. It’s a fact. And this thought just hit me the other day: we’re in mostly uncharted territory, man. I mean musically speaking. Sure there have been a few guys who make that Black Metal stuff now, uh, Mayhem, and Burzum. Enslaved. Hell, I took our name from a fucking Venom song. But no one’s done anything like this before. Complete discord. Each one of us is going down in fucking history, bet on it.”
“Jackie definitely is.”
Two boys in the crowd heard the mention of Jackie’s name and shouted it loud, triumphant above the churning mirth.
But over their joyous chaos Kristian spat, “Don’t listen to those guys, Bjorn. Why should Jackie, one of four ingredients to our music, be more important than any other of us? Nothing he plays would sound any good without your support. It’s only because he stands in front that they yell ‘Jackie’ instead of ‘Bjorn!’ You can’t let it weigh you down, man.”
“…You think so? But Jackie’s insane. I can’t get enough of that fucked up noise he plays. I’ve never jammed with anyone like him. I mean yeah, he needs us as backup, but his sound guides the rest of us. Mikael puts his own spin on the vocals too, kind of like Entombed or some other Death Metal group, but he doesn’t grunt like a stupid monster, he just yells his fucking heart out. And of course we need you to fill out the sound and make that wicked stomach-clenching tone… really, I just keep time.” The viking finished his beer, letting the can drop to the dirt floor. His family owned this property, and a few other scattered cabins in this part of Mount Rundemanen.
Kristian pulled another frosty can from somewhere and handed it to the bigger man, they both toasted amicably and drank. The pair had met, both sporting considerably less facial hair, roughly two years ago when they were both still in high school and Bjorn was still something of a bully. They were enemies briefly until it dawned on Bjorn that Kristian had far more wits than anyone else, so he began to consult with the older boy, and hang around. It was Kristian’s idea to begin with for Bjorn to direct his rage at drumsets instead of people.
The bassist swallowed some alcohol and gasped, “You do more than just keep time,” before gulping down the remainder. From the other side of the barn, cheering rose like startled crows taking wing. Both musicians glanced over. “These children know how to party,” Kristian smirked, though he was only now a year out of high school.
The drummer smoothed calloused fingers over his blonde scalp, sighing through flared nostrils. “I don’t know,” he said. Even though it was his final year at school, few skills attracted him the way percussion did, and none of the career paths before him appealed. “I need this band, Kristian. Our band. I wish I had more to contribute.”
An impish gleam was born in Kristian’s crafty eyes, and he motioned for the big man to join him in the outside air.
Beyond the barn door there was no moon to see by, so thickly did the swirling clouds obfuscate the face of heaven. Tall pines whistled in the winter breeze. Kristian thought of the mother he knew he had but did not know, and pulled his dark jacket tighter around him. Bjorn thought about future paths, and in his plain t-shirt seemed impervious to the cold. Ghostly puffs of breath were visible at every of their exhalations. Ignoring the dull commotion from the barn behind them, the pair stood almost hidden in the shadows of mossy branches.
Finally, measuring the drummer, Kristian spoke. “Things could be different, man. We could be better than we are, better than anyone ever was, and what have we got to lose? It’s not like any of us matter at all, our lives don’t matter in the long run. All that matters is the music: that we touch someone and that they notice us. That’s all that’s left of us when we’re gone. I think we have the chance to be huge, to maybe change this fucked-up world. How can we let Jackie stand in the way of that?”
“What?” Bjorn said, smirking in confusion, his hand pausing from stroking his large blonde beard. “You’re messed up, man, how many beers have you had? Jackie’s, like, the only one of us who’s competent.”
“Fuck you! No!” Kristian stamped in the frozen moss, his eyes flashing, his proclamation reverberating through the expressionless trees. “For all he cares, the band could be called Jackie-Fucking-Kaesar and Friends! Our music is about more than only him, more than any of our own shitty lives!” From Kristian’s fingertips briefly flashed a flame to ignite the tiny orange eye of a cigarette before, with half-pursed lips, he vehemently proceeded, “We need to be able to give anything to the music; give anything for this band.” Savoring a long drag he glanced at the viking through his periphery.
“Well. I agree,” admitted Bjorn. “The music is more important. But come on man, we’ve been playing for, what, a year? We just need more time to adjust to each other. We need to stick with it. You are so right that Witching Hour is bigger than any of us separately. I’m invested in it all the way, and I know you are too.” He resumed stroking his beard, choosing his words with care. “…And Jackie loves this as much as both of us. That’s obvious even to me. That little punk puts his fucking soul on the table every time he takes a solo: you can see it in his face. It’s weird, man, even when I met him for the very first time I could’ve sworn I’d known him before.” The giant poured beer down his throat, lost in drunken recollection. Then he chuckled, “And Mikael is just a crazy motherfucker. Have you read the stuff he’s screaming up there? One depressed, crazy motherfucker.” He finished his drink and tossed the empty can in through the ajar door.
Kristian was silent for a long time, slowly smoking, exhaling toxic clouds that were caught up in the blustery night. “No. No way man, you missed it all. How could you be so thick?”
At this the drummer frowned.
Kristian, seeing, continued. “Listen. The kid is a great guitarist but he’s only focused on himself. He’s too busy showing off to create something meaningful. That’s not art. It’s just masturbation. I say fuck Jackie Kaesar.”
Bjorn was almost speechless. “You must’ve had a bad night, man. Sometimes I think you drink too much. Come sleep it off at my place: the cabin is a hike but you can’t drive back to town like this.”
“I’m serious!” the bassist hissed. “I didn’t come up with this shit drunk, Bjorn, I’m drinking because I came up with it! We can’t let Jackie be a part of Witching Hour. We need to change the world — we have to! Or else we’re worthless. And we won’t make it if he’s going to have everything be all about himself.” Kristian spat the cigarette butt spiraling down to the cold dirt and heeled it out with his combat boot. There was a shriek from inside the barn, a wild desperate howl, and then the unseen crowd fell into giddy laughter and giggles. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that was him showing off again. Some people just need to be the center of attention all the time. It’s fucking disgusting.”
Quietly, the big man said, “I never picked up on any of this from you. Or from Jackie. I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“I didn’t always,” gaunt Kristian sighed, running a bony hand across his shaven skull. “But we’ve… really stumbled onto something big. For me, this is a total rebellion of sound. I’m not up there playing a fucking song, I’m shredding apart anyone that’s ever given me shit! My fucking parents, that dickhead Mr. Oystein at Uni, Muslims — my band is one big fuck you to the world! That’s the genius in what we’re doing. And then comes Jackie playing all about how great he is!”
“You invited him, didn’t you? But I guess I see what you mean. Fuck, man — we can’t kick out Jackie Kaesar! You know what would happen. He would join some other band and they’d get huge while the three of us are left to rot! He’s our trump card, the real drive behind what we’re doing! And we’d probably sound like shit without him anyway.”
“Maybe. But you agree that we have to do something.” A few timid raindrops fell from the roiling night.
Bjorn said “Shit, man, I don’t know. What would I know? You have something in mind?”
Kristian grinned through thin distorted lips, leaning forward into the dim light from the barn so that his face was illuminated, all except his wild dark eyesockets. “Go to the cabin, like you said. I’ll meet you there in an hour or so. Let me just grab some stuff first.”
“Hurry up man, this weather is about to take a turn for the shitty.”
“I’ll be right behind you. We need to finish this conversation so you can hear what I’ve got planned for tomorrow night.”
The goateed guitarist was seen as he slid alone back through the barn-door and through the festivities inside the barn. His smug swagger ignited a twinkle of curiosity in Jackie Kaesar who stood against the makeshift stage. He leaned across a circle of fawners to where Mikael was chatting animatedly, and he drew his friend’s attention to Kristian making his way through the crowd alone.
“He looks pleased with something,” laughed Jackie, brushing a lock of midnight hair from his face.
“Yeah, but it looks like something sour.”
“Check out his grimace! You think we should be worried about him?”
“Nah. Kristian always acts like he’s pissed off, but he’s a good guy. He’s got your back Jackie. We all do. He’s probably just giddy from rocking out just now! You shouldn’t stress yourself about nothing, you’re the star!”
“Whatever man, I do just as much as you guys, even if I’ve only been with the band for a few months. I’m not really worried about Kristian, only… he’s smart, and sneaky. I always think I can see his mind, but it’s just out of reach behind his eyes. Something’s bugging me.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.” The laughter of the encircling crowd engulfed them then as snake-like Kristian gathered his supplies and, with a handful of his closest friends, exited into the drizzling black beyond the swarming barn.
II
The little copper key in Bjorn’s calloused fingers let him in to the darkness of his cabin and out of the quickening rain. He had been living here on his father’s property since August, a long hike from town but more peaceful than any home surrounded by streets and neighbors. Without flipping on any of the lights he peeled his soaked t-shirt off and let it fall to the mat. The torrent began to beat against the front door.
From upstairs he heard her voice. “Who’s there?”
“Just me, baby,” he called back softly. She descended the stairs in only a grey nightshirt, one arm wrapped protectively around the swell of a child within her. When she reached the last stair she tripped and was suddenly in Bjorn’s arms, him bare-chested and smelling still of sweat and rain. “You didn’t have to come down,” he said quietly against the side of her face, but she only grinned.
“How was the concert?”
“Fine.”
“I bet you guys melted their faces off, and you’re gonna do it again tomorrow night.” When the viking remained silent she encompassed his face in a searching gaze. “Something’s wrong?”
He shrugged himself gently away from her, saying, “It’s nothing. Kristian is coming over in a bit, he’s… we’re trying to fix something I guess.”
“Oh. Well, I’m gonna go get dressed then.”
“Ok.”
She started to ascend, then stopped and said, “Bjorn baby, I know it’s more than that. What’s up?”
“I’m just tired, Pat. It was a crazy show.”
“If you say so. Maybe I’ll be down in a bit.”
“Ok.”
As her delicate footfalls pattered up the stairs Bjorn pulled himself into their tiny kitchen and exhaled into a chair. Hard drops drummed against the windows and he watched farther branches gesticulate in the wind. Getting crazy out there, he thought. It’s good to see something so turbulent and angry that matches my own weather. Maybe that’s where all this music comes from. Maybe we each have a storm inside fighting to escape our weaknesses, and it fuels the hate that comes out of our instruments. I beat those drums up every night, laying into them, and every night there they’re still tauntingly unharmed. I’d beat myself up if the drums didn’t leave me drained. What’s the drive of Jackie’s fury? What is Kristian’s? What’s this plan that’s unhinging him like this? He said he wanted to take action against Jackie… against the one who raised us from the ashes we were. It’s strange. But Kristian is the one who would know if something was wrong, he knows everything. I guess the signs were just out of reach for me. I can’t believe I couldn’t see it: I liked that little punk! I had let myself love him like a little brother — but that was before Kristian told me all this. I didn’t know. Low thunder moaned a sexual hymn offensively through the clouds, and accelerating winds began to whistle lewd replies. Bjorn stroked the blond tusks of his beard in the darkened room. But Kristian is also a brother to me, and he must have a point. He thinks Jackie is the focus of our band more than our music. Jackie may be a good person — but if he ruins our music, our lives, then that would be evil. What are we going to do? I need this band. What good is being a musician, being devoted to rhythm, if I can’t focus only on the music? This tempest is raging ugly all around our home. What would happen if I couldn’t vent my own heart’s storm? What the hell is going to happen? In an abrupt instant of lightning flash there came a knock on the front door and some muffled shouts too beyond the portal. The big man pulled on a rough grey undershirt from another room, then opened his door to the night. Unexpectedly, it was not only Kristian standing there drenched but three of his friends as well, groupies. Bjorn looked at them dumbly, uncertain what to make of their arrival.
“For God’s sake,” sputtered Kristian, “Just let us in! This chill is worse than the fucking flames of hell!” Bjorn stood aside and let the group shuffle in, disrobe their raincoats, hang them on the apparent hooks — but none of them relaxed until the front door had satisfyingly slammed against the lusty winds.
Bjorn recognized one of the groupies, and extended his hand emotionlessly. “What’s up, Erik.”
“Ahh, it’s fucking freezing out there,” shook the kid. “Worse than I’ve ever seen it!”
One of the other groupies with a cold chuckle added, “Sounds like Thor is having an orgy up there.”
The others snickered, but Bjorn said “Kristian, what’s going on?”
The mirth died on the guitarist’s goateed face. “Man, we need to have a serious talk. Is Patty here?”
“She’s upstairs. She’s not going to bother us.”
“Good. Come on.” He led the way down to Bjorn’s basement, the band’s usual practice space.
The guests helped themselves to beers and vodka from the mini fridge and situated themselves on couches. Chill humidity from the storm had sunk into Bjorn’s bones and he felt on-edge and foreign to himself, worst of all when he glanced into Kristian’s eyes and saw the intent burning inside.
The viking cleared his throat and said, “Why are they here?”
“Relax, man. We need their help.”
Bjorn raised a bushy blonde eyebrow. “What exactly are they going to help us with?”
“Come on Bjorn, sit down, have a shot. We don’t have to rush straight into it. This is gonna be some heavy shit.” The blonde behemoth looked at his couch but didn’t feel like sitting down. He felt more like running a marathon, or beating his drumset to a pulp. Instead he forced himself to swallow another can of cheap beer, gulping it down as if parched then crushing the aluminum remainder in his fist. Kristian raised his eyebrows. “Jesus, you’re really wound up. Sit down before I tell you what’s going down tomorrow night.”
At once Bjorn thundered, “Don’t tell me to sit down in my fucking own house! Just what is your plan?”
Looking deep into the drummer’s eyes, Kristian told him, “We’re going to kill Jackie Kaesar.”
Even down in the basement the boys could hear the storm raging above them: raindrops pattering loud as any artillery and thunder violent as trollkin. The groupies quickly ceased joking among themselves and heeded the band members raptly.
Bjorn choked, “You’re fucking stupid.”
“Oh I’m stupid?” mocked Kristian. “I’m telling you we have to kill Jackie. Or would you rather he dictate the direction of our band until we all waste away into nothing? You said it yourself: if we just kick him out he’ll form a new band, better than us.”
“Fuck you. You know that popularity doesn’t mean shit.”
“But god dammit Bjorn, if we don’t become the best we might as well be the worst! Are you really a musician, or is this just some hobby for you? I thought your heart was in the right place, man.”
“Seriously, fuck you. You know me, Kristian. You know what I want. Why are you trying to play me like this?”
“I’m just trying to help you do what’s right!”
“What you’re saying can’t be right. We are not murdering Jackie! What the hell did he ever do to you?”
But the gaunt man grimaced and spat. “He never did anything to me. He only ever hurt me one way. One way, Bjorn, but it was the most painful. Way worse than if he stabbed me in the back: he’s trying to take over our art. We used to play off one another, remember what that was like? Now we just play off of him! I trusted him for a long time, just like you do. I loved him, for fuck’s sake I still do, like my own blood! Believe me: none of this bullshit would even matter to me if… well, if that coward hadn’t been plotting against me too — me personally!” Kristian gestured to one of the groupies he had brought. “Anders here,” he said matter-of-factly, “heard Jackie saying he wanted to tie me up and torture me…” The boy Anders was nodding at this, corroborating, but then Kristian waved him away and changed his tone. “So Jackie’s sick, but whatever man, that’s not the point. It’s like this: we can’t keep him but we can’t let him leave. He’s a genius and I’m going to miss my friend like hell… but he’s also a show-off with the power to eclipse all our fucking dreams! That’s why we can’t let him live. Do you understand?”
Bjorn’s crystal eyes narrowed. “…Why isn’t Mikael here for this? If Jackie seriously threatened you, he should know too. You bring these worms here but not our band mate?”
“Oh come on. Jackie and Mikael are practically joined at the hip. He’d try to stop us if he could, but once it’s done he’ll realize it was in his own best interest.”
“But Patty depends on me,” said Bjorn squatting to the basement floor as the groupies looked awkwardly to one another. “What if we go to fucking jail? Did you plan that far?”
“What do you think? That’s the reason I brought Erik, George, and Anders. Listen. We’re still having that concert tomorrow night, but most of the kids are partied out from this last one. So tomorrow night will be only for the few serious fans. It’s restricted so only people that are close, true believers in the spirit of metal, can be there. We’re making sure. And this will be the best fucking show they’ll ever see.”
Bjorn gulped down another beer into his frown, and filled the hollow of a shotglass with vodka.
Erik cleared his throat and spoke up, almost giddy from Kristian’s morbid energy. The kid said, “I can’t decide if we should make it look like an accident or not. Like, we could use the fog machine, really crank it up, and drag him off the stage. Make it look like a magic trick. Something like that.”
Kristian began to grin thoughtfully but Bjorn sprang to his feet and approached Erik, intimidating him with the glower in his crystal eyes. The towering drummer said, “This is not going to be some cheap trick. We will be murdering our friend — I might as well be murdering myself! If we’re going to do this — if! — then we have to do it with honor. Openly. If these fans are as true as you say then we’ll explain it all to them. If they understand our art, then they will understand. I mean, Hendrix sacrificed his beloved guitar onstage and it led him to success. And the guys from Mayhem took a photo when their vocalist shot himself. Then they used that picture as an album cover, all shreds of face and brain-splatter.”
“That’s true,” said Kristian, “Our fans will see it the same way. If that’s the way you want it, Bjorn, we’ll show our faces to the crowd as we cut him down.”
“So,” said Anders, “we’ve got a bunch of guns at my place. Most are just for show I guess, but I’ve got a few that will work for this.”
“Perfect,” said Kristian, “this will be so simple. What’s the most metal piece you have?”
But Bjorn stomped his foot down so violently the lights flickered. He begged them, “There’s no passion in a shooting! We need to make it about the art, we need to be close to our brother as he dies. We… we have to stab him. Until he bleeds out.”
“It would definitely make a better show to have a stabbing,” admitted Kristian. “And more like a sacrifice. Then that’s the way we’ll do it.”
As Bjorn begrudgingly acted out the future in his mind’s eye, he felt an audience’s expectation of caught breath and knew that to stay out of jail and to exit the stage, an explanation would have to be delivered. He hated the part he was playing in this discussion. Dead inside, he grunted, “What are you going to tell the fans?”
“Me? Nothing. You’re more popular with the crowd, you should be the one who speaks to them.”
“What makes you think they prefer me?”
“Of course they do. Everyone knows how passionate you are, how devoted. You’re the real deal, Bjorn. I know it, and they know it. So what’s your answer? Everything else has been prepared, will you speak to them? Tell them about our art.”
The big man closed his eyelids, nearly seeing sleep but forcing himself from it. “I think,” he said, “that I know what to say. I don’t like it though. This all seems like a bad idea.”
“I don’t like it either. But we have to look after justice and art, and this is the only way to preserve them, I’m telling you.”
“I…”
“I know you’ve got a lot to think about. You don’t mind if we crash down here for the night? Morning, whatever? We’ll hang out some more before we start arranging the… the show.”
“Yeah,” said Bjorn, and he trudged heavily up the staircase without another word, vanishing into the clamor of the disastrous storm.
III
Grey dawn arrived while the musicians slumbered, the timid Norwegian sun rising after the long black hours of storm-wracked night. Dewy prisms accumulated and dropped softly from leaves, and earthworms ventured above the flooded soil. The harbor town of Bergen slowly bustled to life, merchants fishermen and tourists reviving to the scents precipitation brought. Certain locals however had no business with the sun that Sunday and so remained mutely unaware as the burning disc sailed slowly across an ocean of clouds. Noon briefly blessed the isolated harbor but soon waned into elderly afternoon, and only when the horizon began to bleed did Jackie Kaesar stir beneath his sheets. A square of sunlight cut from his half-open window had been traveling all day across the blue walls of the room he’d grown up in, finally resting in between an Iron Maiden poster and a bombastic German advertisement for amplifiers. He adjusted his long dark bangs and rolled over to face the woman illuminated in orange evening light. Without opening her eyes she sensed him and drew him into her arms and bosom. She wasn’t much older than Jackie, but as her hands played on the smooth curve of his back a glint of gold from her ring-finger flashed in the sanguine sunlight. Her husband knew she had become invested in some underground Norwegian band, though he was ignorant to the depth of her engagement.
In her bold American English she whispered, “I’ve got a hangover.” Jackie didn’t say anything as he untwined himself, looking at her, and fumbled with windowblinds to block the ruddy light. She blinked her eyelids open then, sticky with last night’s mascara, and got her first good look at the room. “You’re still such a teenager,” she teased.
“Forgive me for not redecorating every year,” he replied in her language. “Do you regret it?”
“No way, I hooked up with Jackie fucking Kaesar! I’m telling you dude, you’re going places. You have a special kind of talent.” She looked distracted for a moment before saying, quieter, “You had a really good concert last night. But are you sure you want to have another one tonight?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“I know this is gonna sound weird. But back home I’m the editor of a magazine for astrologers and, like, fortune tellers.”
He snorted a laugh and sat up in bed. “You’re a psychic?”
“Ugh. Come on, it’s more complicated than that. Even you must to pay attention to, like, omens and stuff sometimes. For instance, I… I bet you don’t usually get storms like that, even here.”
“So what? The weather’s clear now. Are you worried another storm is going to short out my guitar? Or you’re suggesting I take the weather personally?”
“Jackie I’m just telling you bad stuff goes down all the time, but a storm that bad is an signal! Plus, Mars is in retrograde, and it’s opposing Saturn! It’s a bad time to go out. Please stay in tonight? We can get a movie or something together!”
“Chelsea,” he laughed, “what are you talking about?” then slid from under the covers and pulled on a pair of aimless boxers from the floor. “Why should I let some distant stars plan my actions?”
She sat against the headboard, not bothering to cover her breasts, watching the young musician pull on jeans and a tight shirt. She stretched her arms upwards and sighed, “The stars don’t plan anything themselves. They can’t command you any more than you could rearrange them. But they matter because everything is in everything else. The stars reflect our actions because we’re part of the same universe.”
When Jackie was dressed, he shot her a chiding glance and lay again on the bed: him above the covers and her below. “I’m glad,” he said, “that you waited until after we fucked to tell me this about yourself.”
But Chelsea only teased, “You’ve got some work to do before you call it fucking, kid. Come on. I’ll buy us breakfast, we’ll go to a cool movie. Or whatever, you don’t even have to hang out with me if you don’t want, but please don’t go to your show. Just for tonight. Please?” She rolled his body against hers and pulled their lips together. When they eventually drew apart he conceded, suggesting they visit the cinema. As she disrobed him, they continued to embrace and agree with one another as purple twilight slipped in to spy on them. Afterwards, as Jackie was helping Chelsea to dress they both heard the knock on his bedroom door. His wasn’t his parents, they were in a different part of his house and knew well enough that their son often had visitors at inconvenient hours. They lived seperate lives. The knock, then, could have been any one of the guitarist’s friends.
“Just a minute,” called Jackie.
“Hey man,” said the disembodied voice in Norwegian. “It’s me, Kristian. You almost ready to head out?” Jackie looked back and forth between the door and the beautiful American woman pulling on her jeans. “Can I come in?” said Kristian.
As Chelsea finished dressing and adjusted her hair, Jackie left her side to unlock the unadorned portal. “But Kris,” he said as it creaked gently open, “I’m thinking that we shouldn’t have a show tonight.”
“…What?” Kristian’s clever face looked hurt when it came into view, gaunt eyes glazed with apprehension. “Why not? What’s up?” He waved amicably to the woman seated on the bed as the conversation continued in a language with which she was unfamiliar.
“Nothing’s really up, I guess I just don’t feel like it tonight. Didn’t that storm seem like a bad omen to you? Way worse than I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh come on, they get storms twice as bad as that in the mountains up north.”
“The wind maybe, and the rain, but not the thunder and hail. I’m just not feeling the whole thing. Besides, tonight is a particularly bad night for playing.”
“Why’s that?”
Jackie switched back into English and said “Chelsea, tell him the thing about… Pluto and Saturn.”
She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Hi, I’m Chelsea. But um, what I was saying was that Mars — the planet of, you know, war and aggression and stuff — is going backwards: it’s in retrograde. That’s bad. I think in the norse pantheon Tyr is very similar to Mars. And about Saturn — whose energy is all about hardships and conclusions: endings, right? — well there’s a lot of negative energy in the heavens for tonight. I uh, don’t know which norse god Saturn is though.” She wearily steeled herself against skepticism, a skill well practiced in her profession. “It’s really just not a good night for anybody to be out and about,” she finished. “You should probably stay in too.”
The goateed guitarist’s laughter sunk into a smirk and he said, “No, no, I understand you! But it’s funny because you have interpreted it backwards! It’s going to be an evil night with war and hatred and… hardships, was it? Man, we are the cause of that evil influence! Our band is so fucking metal that we are offending the stars and making Mars orbit backwards! Come on Jackie, you can’t turn away from your destiny: now more than ever we’ve got to play tonight!”
When the young guitarist heard this, his eyes lit up and he broke into a grin. “You know what? You are so right, Kristian: we are going to raise hell!”
She said, “Listen Jackie, I really don’t think that’s what it means. It’s not as simple as you’re making it and… I have a really bad feeling about it. You guys should have your show maybe tomorrow night instead!”
“Chelsea,” he said, “I’m sorry we can’t see a movie tonight, but I’ll definitely see you after the show! I really do have to do this. What’s the point of being able to play well if I keep it to myself? No matter how long I live I’ll only be alive for a little while, and if I don’t share my passions then I’m dead already. I’m sorry, but fuck school, fuck jobs, this is my duty to humanity.” The raven-haired guitarist grabbed a black Ibanez from his instrument rack and shut it into its case… but when he turned again to go, Chelsea averted her gaze. “I’ll see you soon enough,” he reiterated gently. “My parents won’t bother you either way, so you can stay here or go out.” Then he switched back into Norwegian. “Come on Kris, I’m right behind you.” As the two guitarists departed, Jackie gently closed the door behind them before slumping off down the narrow stairs and into the cobblestone harbor’s salty evening breeze.
IV
It was an irregularly long sound-check. A strange hiss oozed from the rig and echoed in the barn, but they soon replaced the offensive cable and the show could begin. There was a small crowd, but the few generated just as much ecstatic energy as last night’s heaving masses had. Tearing into the introductory percussion, Bjorn replaced his inner turmoil with unthinking blastbeats. As Jackie conjured mournful wailing from his guitar, his heart-felt nails on the audience’s chalkboard, Bjorn and Kristian shared a conspiratory glance to better time their adjacent cacophonies. Soon the hell of noise was in full swing and the small audience thrashed their heads in time to the monolithic rhythm, bludgeoning away the griefs of life’s monotony. The following piece was sludgier and haunting; Mikael shrieked hoarsely about an terrifying acid trip as Jackie mutilated all notion of melody. As they concluded that song, three dark figures approached inconspicuously from backstage, just watching. Those gathered cheered at the gloomy introduction to the third lullaby of the night — affectionately referred to as ‘Chainsaw Gutfuck’ by the musicians — it was less of a song and more a sonic pantomime. Kristian worked his strings into the low frantic roar meant to represent a chainsaw, and Jackie’s guitar played the part of the victim who screamed and wailed. He lay dramatically into his whammy bar, guitar sobbing through the dim barn of transfixed faces. Kristian watched him too, through smears of sweat, watched Jackie’s frenzied fingers attack the fretboard with increased zeal and anguish against the imagined mutilation. His black hair soared like a midnight whip as he headbanged, spiraling his solo into greater depths of profundity. He was as rapt in his art as the hypnotized onlookers. Kristian grimaced, heart almost breaking against the notion of Jackie’s unreachable ability, his unpioneered rawness. The older musician threw his heart into his own playing, revving the maniacal chainsaw a few times for the crowd, but he felt no satisfaction in that. His gaunt eyes searched Jackie’s enthused features for some sign to direct him, some hint of a path to arrive where he needed to be, but as always he found only himself floundering. Jackie strutted to the center of the stage. He was trilling a long high note. All eyes were on him. He felt complete, exposing his heart to his fans. The note radiated into a waterfall of piteously howling off-notes. The bassist only watched, letting his chainsaw fade away into feedback, but his awe and envy were undiminished. He allowed Jackie to play for some more seconds, twisting the knife in his own heart a little longer, before he was overcome by instant passion.
Kristian exploded: hurled his screaming guitar aside, kicked over Jackie’s amp. For a moment, the two guitarists saw each other. They looked clearly into one another’s eyes. Then the moment was over, and Kristian and his three groupies unconcealed their knives and rushed at Jackie stabbing over and over. The crowd was uproarious, cheering and screaming in a mock of fear. Mikael was speechless with eyes wide as the whole world when he noticed, too late to save his friend. As Bjorn leapt red in the face and heaving from behind his drumset, Anders tossed Jackie’s bloodied body at the viking. He caught Jackie in his mammoth arms, held the younger boy. But the drummer told himself not to waver. He was certain he knew how to fulfill his duty to Music. Compressing frail Jackie in a bear-hug, choking confusing emotions, Bjorn brought the small of his knife between the boy’s moonlight ribs. His dying eyes said “you, too?” but Bjorn found that he could not meet their gaze longer than a flash. The cheers had all but ceased by the time Bjorn set his friend on the ground and with rough fingers pulled the eyelids gently closed.
Blood-smeared Kristian shot him a sharp glance, and motioned him to the vacant microphone. The growing silence was their enemy. The crowd murmured, trying to decide what they had seen. There was a frenzied heaving inside the big man that he wrestled as one would a crocodile, and dropping his knife to the floor he drowned his wide hands in uncomfortably warm blood. Then he held his ghoulish palms up to the hushed audience in the darkness, only a few still clapped confusedly. With a staunch frown the titan pulled himself up to the microphone and exhibited his full stature. He took a deep breath. This was the first time most fans had heard the grimacing drummer speak to them. “This wasn’t an act,” he thundered, “I’m sorry to see my dead friend Jackie go: he was an incredible musician and I loved him as much as we all do.” Bjorn extended his bloody hands to indicate everyone gathered. He had practiced this speech only two or three times but the notions were so near his heart that his words flowed in earnest. The hardest part was supressing the shouting that threatened to burst out of him. “We held these knives,” he growled, “but it was really Jackie’s motivation that murdered him! He wanted more than anyone can have, driving our music away from its purpose. Listen to me, my coven! I don’t love Jackie any less than all of you! But I love our music more. Our vision is more important — to me, and to the rest of the band.” The giant roared, “That’s why we did it! That’s why we sacrificed our most important member to the dark gods of metal. You believe in them, don’t you? That’s why you’re all here? You worship depression and hate as much as we do! But we don’t worship ourselves. Jackie was my friend, and I loved him. That’s the most someone can ask for in this bleak world. But I’m telling you, he placed himself above the ones who truly mattered — you, the fans. That’s why my hands are red tonight!” Acquaintances in the shadowed crowd who had known Bjorn turned their hearts over to him, some began to chant his name, but when Mikael scooped the limp body up in his arms there was a general gasp in the creaking structure. Over their insecurities Bjorn boomed, “Kristian and I knew it had to be done! For you! For the crowd! Music is nothing without people to hear it. Listen: he and I are leaving now: the show is over. Don’t try to find us, my coven, for we have vowed to create a new album and when it’s finished… well, you’ll forgive us when you hear it. I know you are shocked — and god fucking damn it so am I. I know you lost a great friend tonight, and so have I. But I swear it was for a good reason. Goodnight, until we have fixed everything that was ruined,” he said atop those in the crowd who chanted his name. “The show is over.” And those who were blood-spattered, with an acknowledging nod to the congregation, strode into the shadows backstage.
But the show was not over.
Mikael, who still clutched the dangling corpse to his chest, took up the microphone even as the multitude applauded Bjorn and his honorable speech. “My friends,” the stern vocalist began, but the rowdiness did not quiet for him. Mikael tried softly again, his grief saying “Listen, brothers!” But when this failed to catch the general attention, his frustration burst into an angry shout. “If everyone here is so passionate about music,” he wailed, “then listen to me! I’m not going to sing this or scream it but I need to say these words — and you need to remember them!” Those that had been quick to chant for the drummer grew defensive, heedlessly shouting at the stage that Bjorn had told them all they needed. They started to grow angry. Some threw rocks or beer cans, but Mikael held up his white hands to quiet them. “I won’t say any more than needs to be said: Jackie is dead and so be it. I don’t want revenge. Bjorn is my honest friend, there’s no doubt of that!” Though his tone could have been mistaken for friendly, there was a manic fury just barely contained behind careful words. You could almost hear his singer’s vibrato. “Bjorn says that Jackie hogged the spotlight and undermined our efforts. What I remember is Jackie allowing me long verses for my poems, for me to share my personal visions with you. But if he was a show-off, then he deserved his fate — and there’s no doubt that Bjorn believes he was. Bjorn is perfectly honest. Do you guys know our song Ghost Wasteland, with Jackie just doing feedback noises while Kristian jams on his creepy riff for a thousand measures? Or the one with the extended drum solo? But Bjorn insists that Jackie was ambitious, and Bjorn is an honorable man — I wish that everyone in our group was as honest as he is. But it seems that, even though truth conquers all, a dishonest man easily preys on an honest one.” Previously roaring voices hushed to astonished murmurs among friends. Mikael knelt from the microphone briefly to set the limp body on the stage, peeling off Jackie’s dripping jacket and presenting it to the audience. “Look.” he gestured to the pockmark knifeholes; the evidence of stab wounds. “That’s where the honesty, the justice and the artistry of my bandmates pierced him to the heart. Bleeding out of these holes went all the songs he might ever write and all the solos he ever might have played.” Murmurs of a very different tone began to buzz in the mesonoxian barn.
One shouting face screamed for his fallen idol.
But Mikael cried, “Maybe they did the right thing by slaying Jackie!” The clamor shut up abruptly. “…And maybe they did wrong. But who are we to judge them? What good would it do me to see them dead? Death is just a type of recycling, it’s a dark sleep that reshuffles the roles we take. If Bjorn and Kristen die, it will just be a brief rest from all this weariness. We’d all be lucky to come out of this dead. But while I wait for that sleep to come naturally, I now have to find ways to live again… without Jackie. We all will. It’s a good thing you’ll never know the times he confided how much he cared for his fans. Otherwise, you might be inspired to carry out some misguided vengeance against the ones who took him away.” That was all the crowd needed to hear to become violent, the stress of the night compounding with their daily insecurities. Sweat-smell permeated, and two owls noisily mated outside the barn. The frenzied spirit of the musical abomination they all worshipped possessed the mob, and they readied themselves to scour the mountainside in search of Bjorn’s obscure cabin. Mikael again had to make himself heard above the seething commotion. “Brothers!” he shouted. “Where are you going? To search the whole mountain in darkness? You’re going to kill them on sight? For the crime of murder, you’ll murder them? Come with me. We should hike back to town together. Our bloodlust is strong: I feel your same itch but if I let myself scratch, it will become enflamed! We have to douse the situation in sober justice, real justice, and come away spotless instead of bloodied. If we all go to the police now, we’ll all be witnesses, protected. And Kristian, Bjorn, and the other guilty ones will be given time on earth to atone, or to rage against atoning. What is right, my brothers? Yes? Or no?”
Some gathered there were solemn, and some were impassioned, but they unanimously swarmed around the grief-stricken Mikael, following him with flashlights into the woods, bearing the body back over the overgrown trail into town.
V
A day, and a night, and half another day passed in the forested valley where the cabin lay as harmless as a sleeping stone. The weather had been fair enough since the torrent earlier that week. Though she kept slothfully to herself upstairs watching movies or flipping through magazines, Patty had ventured a few times to bring meals for the driven musicians or to check discreetly on their feverish energy. Ever since the boys had returned the night before last, bloodied and more brusque than usual, they had kept entirely to themselves in the mildewy basement. Spawning ghastly music at all hours, they had been recording riffs and songs onto a steadily rising stack of audio cassettes.
In the basement’s darkness the work was progressing frantically but steadily. Once between tapes, the new guitarist of Witching Hour began to talk of the research he was doing into labels for the gestating album. Bjorn rebuked him tersely, yearning to drum away his endless nervous energies, but he went unheeded.
“We need to think about these things,” said Kristian itching his scraggly goatee, “so we can start making some money soon.” He pulled from his guitar case a few magazines he’d saved.
“You shouldn’t be so greedy,” said Bjorn. “Let’s just play.”
“Did you call me greedy? Fuck you!”
The giant rose from his drumset and growled at Erik, George and Anders that they needed to get out. He expelled them to the wilderness around the camouflaged cabin, but they still heard his angry roars. Patty heard him too, from her room upstairs. The boys had been loud the past few days, both in the heat of anger and the passions of music, but she had never known her boyfriend to shout so frequently. There was a television program on about lions escaping from the zoo, she turned up the volume and pretended to ignore Bjorn’s lecture on art being true to itself, beyond the reach of money and so on, loud enough to be heard to town and back. Though his idealism was admirable she worried at his apparent unraveling, but knew if she went down she’d only be in the way. There was some big secret between them.
Kristian below was shouting, “How can you think so little of me?”
“Do you even remember why we did what we did? It wasn’t for fucking money,” raged the blonde behemoth. “It was for art alone; to embrace the beauty in our ugliness. We paid a different kind of price and I won’t let you cheapen that.”
“Alright, man! I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would throw you off the deep end, I shouldn’t have mentioned anything.”
“Right,” frowned Bjorn, suddenly silent again.
“Look, this isn’t going to work if we argue! Don’t you want this album to be good? If you hate me then just fucking say so.”
“You’re far from perfect.”
“You have plenty of faults yourself, but I overlook them because we’re friends. You need me.”
“Don’t talk down to me.”
“Whatever! What are we doing, man? Are we going to make an album or are we going to argue? Maybe we’ll surrender ourselves to the fucking cops? I don’t know about you, but for me it’s either music or…” and from his guitar case he dragged a heavy black pistol. Approaching the larger man he pressed the handle into engulfing hands. “If we’re never going to get along,” he sputtered, “then shoot me now! Let’s end this fake life before the final curtain has time to fall! Have you got the guts?”
Bjorn pushed the gift back into the smaller man’s hands and shoved him away. “Jesus, fuck, that isn’t the goddamn answer,” he growled. “We need to work this aggression into the music. We’ve got to stop fucking around and get back to it.”
Kristian sighed and sank to a beige couch, placing the gun loudly on the table. “I guess you’re right,” he allowed.
“We’re both in deep shit. But music is the only way to get out of it. We have to do this together.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry I brought up record labels in the first place.”
“I know. It’s ok Kristian, I was just…” He took a deep breath and stroked the length of his beard. In a small voice, the big man said “Do you think we’ll go to jail?”
Kristian slung his guitar back on, scoffing, “No way man. Once word of this gets out we’ll already be too famous for jail. And besides, the guys who were there that night were all loyal metalheads, following the same cause as us. In a way, they killed Jackie with us. None of them would be dumb enough, or lame enough, to go to the fucking cops.”
“Yeah,” said Bjorn kicking a racing tempo on his pedals. “You must be right.” They recorded for another hour or so without hearing from Erik, George, or Anders.
It was around five o’clock, as they munched wordlessly on some open-faced sandwiches Patty earlier had made for them, that the dog began to bark.
It was the first time either had spoken since the argument when Kristian said, “Do you think the recording will pick up that mutt?” The bigger man grunted as he chewed, acknowledging, but not meeting Kristian’s eyes. “It’ll be gone soon anyway. Man, I haven’t slept in fucking forever.”
Bjorn swallowed the crunchy toast and fish. He mused, “I think I went under sometime last night.” Gruff from longstanding silence he cleared his throat. “Actually, I don’t remember sleeping at all. But I must have had a dream. It was about Jackie. It was like he was just here in the basement with me. I don’t remember where you were. He didn’t look mad, but he told me that I would… see him again. He said I would see him again before the day was done. I haven’t slept since.”
Kristian chuckled nervously to himself and started to play once more, maniacally. Music had been their go-to release these countless hours, but as soon as distant baying again interrupted, he threw his instrument to the couch with as much nervous energy as when he had thrown it on. He paced a few times around the basement — saying nothing as the dog kept barking, but making sweeping gesticulations as Bjorn stoically finished his sandwich. Kristian finally snapped, “What the fuck are we going to do? Are we going to hide down here forever?”
“Until we have an album to atone for us. We have to make good on what we promised, Kristian. It’s the only way. A month at most maybe. If the barking’s preventing us from recording let’s start going through the stuff we’ve already done. We’ve gotta work on improving everything if it’s going to be good enough.”
“This isn’t what it was supposed to be like!” Kristian yelled in a flash of frustration, but then he quieted, speaking barely above the volume of the distant dog. “We made that damn sacrifice to free us, but it feels like my fingers are stiff as a corpse’s. I still can’t play any better than Jackie, even when he’s dead!”
“You sound fine. We’re both nervous.” Bjorn carried the little cassette recorder to the table and and pushed ‘play.’ Their creation flooded the basement, raw, ragged, thumping with the same frustration that compelled their veins. They listened to the whole first song, untamed guitar and untempered drums, as Bjorn slumped into the couch and Kristian continued to pace. It was good! It was decent, at least. The problem wasn’t with the composition, or with the recording: they were so focussed on judging their work that it took the musicians a long time to figure out why the song had become so difficult to hear.
Bjorn chuckled. “Is it, like, Hunting Day in the woods? Sounds like there’s at least five dogs out there now.”
“There’s no way we could record in this,” the guitarist agreed. Something seemed to strike them, but as the next song started their attentions shifted. They were very proud of this introduction, Kristian having exhibited a rare moment of percussive strumming dancing within the confines of the snare drum. But soon there was no ignoring it: the enthusiastic barking had multiplied, and it occurred to them jointly that they had seen neither face nor foot of their three companions.
Bjorn quickly flicked off the cassette, and only the noisy barking in the forest remained.
“What the hell…?” inhaled Kristian.
“Oh… oh fuck.”
“No way, man! It can’t be the cops! It can’t be the cops, who the fuck would have told? It was all so simple!”
“Damn it. God damn it. Kristian, I wish this had all worked out. I wish we could have finished the album. I wish we could have…” but there were so many things that the giant couldn’t say any of them.
“Fuck this, man!” The goateed guitarist rubbed his skull trying to encourage his brain encased therein. “There’s no way,” he spat. “What’s going to happen to us in jail?”
“It’s nothing worse than what we deserve.”
“Fuck that! For murder, we could get life! I’d rather be dead.”
Bjorn pleaded with his last friend. “If we go peacefully we might get out in a few years.” Already there was a pounding at the front door, more forceful than that of anyone without business. They knew who it was. Patty knew too.
“Years? You big oaf, they might let us out in decades,” grimaced Kristian. “There’s no fucking way. No. Better to skip all the suffering and get straight to the fucking point! Bjorn…” and he looked long into the viking’s crystal eyes, and then down to the gun. “Will you help me?”
Bjorn stood upright. “What? No Kristian. No way!”
“Bjorn, please! I’m asking you as my friend: be a true friend to the last. I don’t want to do it myself.”
“But—”
“It has to be you! You are… all I have. You did everything to be fair to Jackie… won’t you be fair to me?”
It was done reluctantly, but it happened. He had no more strength for wrestling. Bjorn lifted the heavy metal object, it spat fire, and Kristian became faceless and deceased. It was over much quicker than the stabbing had been, and it took a moment of smelling the vapor from the barrel for the fullness of Kristian’s silence to sink in. His body had fallen out of sight behind a couch but Bjorn could still sense it acutely. The gun itched. It’s too late now, I would be gone either way. I’m sorry Patty.
Out in the chilly twilight they waited with three boys in custody, eventually deciding that no one would be answering the door. When the gunshots went off, one of the police with a puff of breath in the air kicked in the door, barely on its hinges to begin with. He called a lusty “Hello?” to the entrance foyer, and heard a response — not from the basement to his surprise, but from upstairs. Patty carefully descended the steps gripping the bannister hard. When she saw the man who was with the police in her home she gave a small gasp of gratitude and fled the last few confounding steps. He took her cold shaking hands in his.
“Mikael, what’s going on?” she cried.
“You don’t know?”
She backed away, looking back and forth between all the stern faces. “The boys are downstairs. They’ve been making all kinds of noise, recording an album or something. What’s going on?”
The officer who had kicked in the front door said, “I’m going down there.”
“I’m going too,” said Patty, but Mikael stopped her.
“I’m going. When I come back up we’ll have a long talk about everything. Do you know what happened to Jackie?”
“What?” she asked.
“Stay here Patty, you’ll be safe. We’ll talk soon enough.”
“I’ll be safe? What the hell is going on, Mikael?” But he was already down the stairs with the police, and the other officers’ eyes watched not unkindly over her.
There were the drums toppled and several guitars laid out, there were the amplifiers and microphones plugged in a tangle of miscellaneous cables. There were splashes of fresh color in the ordinarily grey basement. “She was right about the album,” lamented Mikael to the older man. “Look at that stack of tapes.”
“Are these the guys?”
“Yeah. Kristian’s the bastard on the floor, and Bjorn is bleeding all over his drumset.”
“Looks like he killed the skinny one, and then himself.”
“I bet Kristian made him do it that way. He was a spineless little coward who couldn’t even speak his mind without lashing out. I think Bjorn was the only one who actually meant well. He alone had an honest reason for killing Jackie… even if that reason was supplied by a fucking weasel. Kristian and everyone else who took part in the murder did it because they were jealous, greedy sons-of-bitches! But I knew Bjorn… and he cared about the music over anything else. The art. God damn it, that man would work towards general good even if it opposed himself. I would have tried to get him a more lenient sentence, I would have begged the judge! But now I don’t know what I’m going to do. I miss him as much as I miss Jackie.”
But the officer just cleared his throat and spat onto the floor. “All I know is that these murderers got what they deserved. We can let forensics and the rest of them take care of the bodies. They’ll ship these guys off to the morgue. For now, let’s go back upstairs and tell everyone the good news.”