by Josh Dale
There’s a man who earns a living by stocking kegs overnight and earns his social credibility by being a snarky asshole on the internet. Let’s call him Warbrand. His iPod was stolen today and he is pissed off. Kegs go flying and clank into the metal shelves. All’s tame, until around midnight, there is an echo from the office speakers: the local radio ident.
This is 96.9 WNBR! *sirens* Where we play…NOTHING BUT ROCK! Up next, is the *awooga* Overnight Blood Pack! Featuring…the hardest *bleep* rock ever…Trapt, Buckcherry, Theory of a Deadman, and one *roar* lucky listener’s choice!
Warbrand groans and kicks a pallet down. The stiff boot forces the deadening thump. Warbrand has left concertgoers—particularly teenaged posers—bloodied and bruised in mosh pits across the nation. Even security must wait until Warbrand exits on his own accord. Bands fear his reprisal online if they choose to call him out. Bartenders hate his anti-tipping credo. Warbrand is burly, tattooed, tall, dark, and astonishingly ugly.
The nerve of the boss—let’s call him Cupcake—to play such garbage in his presence. This is different, this is defiling his mental state. It goes against his very soul, his honor as a “Trve Metalhead” commentator in nationwide rags and subreddits.
All he wants is a moment of Zen. These ‘moments’ are of brazened, psychopathic violence. He, stomping over to Cupcake’s office. He, wielding a hammer from the tool shelf. He, tackling the door. He, staring at the recoiling boss in the desk chair. He, Warbrand the Mighty, bludgeoning Cupcake until lifeless and unrecognizable.
Thankfully, Warbrand’s prescription drugs assuage this tendency. His blood pressure is through the roof. His bipolar is still in mania. Warm air blows from his nose, then squeezes from his pursed lips. He aspirates like a dog and sits on a dented keg. He swallows this insanity back into his body’s volcano. Warbrand’s brain does something different. He develops an easier idea, one that conjures his power in another form: trolling live DJs.
He waits for the catchy injury attorney to wrap, then hears the callback number. With a cell phone in hand, he dials the digits. He doesn’t get in the first time but tries again. His competition is scant, being a self-proclaimed vampire worker. The line connects and is parked. Warbrand grins. A chunk of chicken wing meat is lodged between the upper incisors. His yellowed, cavity-stricken teeth clench together. He craves the first bite.
“I’m gonna start a war,” Warbrand grumbles. He stomps his boots, with the ferocity of a drummer cranking out double bass rolls. The roar finally erupts from Warbrand’s guts. “A war on butt rock!”
The radio DJ—let’s call him Geddy Pepperdine—removes his headphones and exits the studio to take a shit. GP’s been the staple overnight DJ for WNBR, and he runs his operation with efficiency. As a wet one splatters into the bowl, he recounts his 20th-anniversary concert last week at the stadium downtown. In one night, GP was treated like a king, roasted by colleagues, praised by bands mid-set, and was able to meet privately with and introduce Shinedown. He sighs, wipes, and cleans up before returning.
In his mind’s eye, GP wants to retire and travel the world. His hairline is solid, and the blond frosted tips of his youth are starting to silver into a majestic ponytail. A facelift is needed, though, for his sun-ravaged skin and excess partying has taken a toll. Yet he still smiles every night to only himself with surgically enhanced teeth. He is a cherished figure in his industry. To adoring fans, he’s not a bad guy. That is, until the phone line is answered.
“Yo, yo, rocker bro, wazzup,” GP shouts falsetto into the studio mic. “You’re live on WNBR! Tell us your name and your lucky fourth song!”
Huffing and puffing are heard on the other side of the phone. One would say it sounds more like excitement than rage. Rustling and metallic tapping shriek through the phone call. GP, now curious about a potential butt dial, repeats a truncated greeting. Afterward, the barrage.
“I don’t care about your dorky songs, bro,” Warbrand orates slowly. One would think he is gargling, or drunk. “My name is Warbrand. Look me up, poser. I’ll be the first to say that playlist fucking sucked.” Warbrand gasps after the elongated speech pattern. He only has so much time to speak his mind. “Put on some heavy shit!”
GP is a lightning rod that has been bolted by hundreds of thousands of volts. A flabbergasted chuckle spews out of his mouth. For years, GP has received cordial camaraderie. The occasional drunk, yes, but mostly an emphatic ‘hell yeah, brother!’ and cheering, not bullying and curse words. It is a weeknight, but he is a professional disc jockey and must circumnavigate this awkward scenario. By the time GP recuperates from dead air, Warbrand is adlibbing samples of lyrics.
“Fired. Up. I love it. What’s your name again, man?” GP says.
More huffs. “Warbrand.”
“Horn’s up for Warbrand, ladies and gentlemen,” GP shouts in his typical radio voice. “What’s been grinding your axe tonight?”
Warbrand is not used to this sincerity. Lashing out in textual comments, he can simply use ALL CAPS to hammer in his emotions. The way GP uses his radio wizardry stuns him. All he can do now is to go along with the charade.
“Uh, well,” Warbrand stutters. His register increases as if he’s reverting to his prepubescent life when all that mattered was mozzarella sticks, under-boobs, and hot rods. “Someone stole my iPod on the bus and I’m at work now. I was tired and dozed off, and—”
“Ahhh,” GP says so soothingly. “Bummer, Warbrand. People suck, huh?”
Warbrand feels a jolt of camaraderie. He rises from the keg and hobbles around to get the blood flowing again. “Uh, yeah they suck so much!”
GP, on the other hand, reclines in his chair. Hands behind his head, as if this can be another marquee moment. The taming of the notorious beast that is Warbrand. “How about this? You pick the song, and I’ll set you up with an Apple gift card. Help you get back to your tunes, man.”
GP announces ‘heavier’ mainstream bands like a hymn. A celestial offering of his most aggressive menu: Agile Avenged Sevenfold. Mighty Metallica. Punishing Pantera. Orbs of sonic lightning building in the ether. It takes milliseconds to reach the synapses of Warbrand.
“That one!” Warbrand shouts.
“Which one?” GP coos.
GP has slid a mystical dagger beneath the ribs of the foolish warrior. Warbrand spits out the title of the song, and blood and viscera spew out. “Bat Country. A7X. That’s the song I want to hear.”
GP claps his hand and spits out a hackneyed laugh. “Stay on the line, Warbrand and thanks for getting lucky with GP…WNBR rocks bay-bay!”
GP queues the track. M. Shadow’s piercing scream opens the award-winning, RIAA-certified gold banger of the 2000s. This recorded track will drift into the annals of WNBR history, a story to recount over beers at the forthcoming pub crawl, ski resort takeover, and opening season of the outdoor stadium shows.
Warbrand drops his cell phone and hangs his head. He did not win or lose the war against butt rock, but a truce. Unacceptable. The chorus of the song shreds the warehouse halls. A voiceover crackles onto the intercom system. An intelligible response is preceded by boisterous, tinny laughter.
“Willy, was that you?” Cupcake shouts. “Warbrand. What a fucking legend!”
Warbrand grins with the joy he experienced when seeing Slayer as a 14-year-old. He kicks a broken pallet, sending splinters asunder. Sweeping is not in his job description. He stomps over to Cupcake’s office door, puts a hand on the doorknob, and nearly knocks the hollow-core door off its hinges. “Damn right I am, Chris. Maybe I won’t kill you tonight!”
Willy, the artist known as Warbrand. He wins the spoils in the end. The laurels are laid. Once he gets his new iPod, he will repopulate it, plug in his ears, and be transported by Valkyries into metal Valhalla, a realm where the gain is high, and the Metal Zone effect pedal never shorts. Cupcake doesn’t exist, neither does GP, or any of the metal rags and subreddits. Just the washing of white noise. Warbrand just floats in deaf revelry for as long as he wants.
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Josh Dale lives in Pennsylvania and in the company of cats and nature. Author of Duality Lies Beneath, RAGE: Stories, and The Light to Never Be Snuffed. Say hi at www.joshdale.co.
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