Daryl now made his way back towards the forests, places which used to be called National Parks. Of course nothing was left of them except for ashes and dead, splintered tree stumps. The sun was golden, and gave a hazel tint to the landscape, due to the time of day, and the post-nuclear clouds. A fallen SJW lay bleeding beside one such tree stump, with his leg chopped off.
“Who did this to you? Do you think they might be interested in listening to my death metal demo, Heinous Wench Excoriation?” Daryl inquired.
“It was the Brootals who did this to me. I don’t know. I was really into social justice and top 40 type of tropical house music,” replied the victim.
“Tell me where I can find them,” Daryl demanded, squinting his blue eyes in disgust as he drew his crossbow, “I need to get this demo out. Now tell me or I will kill you.”
They replied, “Look! Don’t hurt me! I’m already dismembered. The Brootals are just are over that monumental hilly mound of human flesh and bone, which is just beyond the horizon to the southwest. But you will have to pass through the bloodbog first.”
Daryl put him out of his misery and took his organs to barter with. He had to kill him anyways, since he was wearing a Dave Mathews Band shirt. Noticing something moving in the brush behind him (in his blindspot), Daryl took a second enemy as captive for possible ransom, and chained him at the ankles and wrists, dragging him behind his three wheel bike.
Daryl headed onwards in his journey. The monument of flesh was very impressive. It was over a hundred feet tall, composed entirely of corpses, and was encased in clay bricks made from mud. Also, it was pentagonal in shape. Which was encouraging, since Govcorp. always shaped things as an octagon, even back to the days of the old USA. So these guys were presumably not corporate. He wished he had band-mates to take pictures in front of it, to use for inside of an album. But he didn’t have a camera anyhow. Though once in a while he sketched things with a stick in the dirt.
Just past the monument of flesh, lay the bloodbog. The bloodbog basically stank like necrosis, blood, and shit. The problem was that there was no way around the bloodbog. There were really steep rocks, with spikes and nails implanted all over them to prevent circumvention. In front of the blood bog was a sign which read:
Welcome to the land of the brootals. We have but one Warlock guitar and amp in our society, which our religion is built upon. An early ADT with sovtek tube preamp, a Mesa tube power amp, and a Boogie 4×2. All powered by one solar panel connected to a generator, and powering one minute of play per day. This serves the same function a church bell did, in antiquity. Grab the guitar, and if your riffage is good enough, the bog will drain, and you can pass. If your riff sucks, you die though.
“You go first,” Daryl said, drawing his bow.
The dude grabbed t he guitar and started playing some really light bullshit and singing about how “You’re perfect just the way you are”, and progressing towards some dull, clichéd, predictable, and thoroughly exhausted tropical house chord pattern. As he began to do millennial whooping, giant ravens of the undead began to descent down upon him. At which time they pecked his eyes out and thoroughly dismembered him, as he screamed like a girl. Finally they dropped him into the steaming blood-bog.
Daryl noticed that the bloodbog corralled down towards a ravine and that it appeared that they might be fermenting the bog and canning it for consumption.
“Give me that fucking guitar,” Daryl commanded the undead ravens. “It is time to be mortous now.” And the birds brought him the Warlock, as he commanded.
There were only 30 seconds left of power now from the solar supply. Certainly he didn’t want to get bogged down. So he planned. Three riffs. Ten seconds each. Quickly he detuned, and turned the gain to 10. Wanting to play something familiar to the brootals, Onward to Golgotha came first. Next followed some Suffocation (something from Breeding the Spawn). Finally, as he began to play (Mortician) from Mortal Massacre the ravens suddenly carried him over the bloodbog, and dropped him at the feet of the throne.
Daryl looked around. He couldn’t help but noticing that the Brootals all dressed exactly as he did, with jeans and a death metal tshirt. There were lots of Boltthrower and Obituary shirts too. The main difference was these guys had decapitated heads worn around their waist-bands, whereas daryl would have sold or traded the heads off for profit. The brootals had been headbanging and playing air guitar to his riffs. Daryl was really stoked! Finally, he had some hope of distributing his demo, and finding some bandmates.
“Welcome to the land of the brootals. Drink from this chalice of fermented blood, and become one of us dude,” offered their leader, who was kind of an ogre.
“Cool.” And he did. He also gave them his demos and sd cards. Some of the Brootals had their own Walkman cassette players with batteries (which were worth what gold is now). So they began to go into a violent frenzy, which was normal there.
Daryl was a bit concerned that he might lose tone and be unable to play chords, if in the future he went with such a brutal detuned guitar tone. Luckily, he found two band members, Pulverizer (another guitarist) plus a drummer named Megaclaw. These dudes were ready to journey and conquer too. They enjoyed collecting decapitated heads of non-brootals as a sort of hobby. It gave them great joy. So now he just needed a bassist.
by Steve Cefala