The vocals were spewed with all the tactful flair of a fly dancing, dining and decorously reclining on a steaming pile of dog excrement.  Guttural grunts: indecipherable gurgling scoured from the bowels to better express the gloomy intonations (deep, dense, and deliberate) of Death.  I had hoped for an alteration to the inevitable.  Of course, the inevitable always comes to pass: it is unavoidable.  I shook my head and moaned in disgust, as if anyone could hear my protest over the hyper-speed assault; a din generated by volume and velocity: Death Metal.  That’s what it is called.  Not Black Metal or Nu Metal or Power Metal or whatever hideous variation of amplified atrocity that has followed, but Death Metal.  It is eternal and unbearably ferocious in its mind-numbing simplicity. 

It never changes: an endless roll-call of seemingly interchangeable bands, the only variation distinguished by names.  The present purveyors of monotonous drivel went by the cleverly offensive moniker, Flaminjuuz.  Most of us could see the grim humor it intended to convey; except Adolf, who sat glumly in the corner, his back pressed rigid against a black wall (actually, all of the walls were black, enclosing us all in a cacophonous abyss), staring with steely disapproval, constantly wringing his hands, as if the nervous cleansing action would rid him of the mocking impingement on his psyche.  Poor anal retentive bastard.

But he was not nearly as bad off as the fools who passed their time caught in the whirlpool of flesh and aural aggression commonly referred to as The Pit: a dance of violence on par with the music, so taut as to restrict any change.  It was always the same, bumper car bodies flailing with reckless abandon, no apparent purpose, a useless expenditure of time and energy.  No adherent care or creativity, no nothing but the pure visceral drive.  Worst of all, though, was the insidious conformity promoted by the behavior, because the participants always always always rotated counterclockwise.  A heart driven by frenzied undertones, laughingly held together by the unspoken rules of Pitdom:  thrash about, arms askew, counterclockwise.  Counterclockwise!

Everything about this charcoal lined auditorium revolts me.  It all seems so regulated, repetitious, vapid.  A seething congregation of the living, with no life.  I wander along the outer rim of insanity, casual observer to the hideous display.  I know one thing at this moment.  I know that I must get out.  I must escape.

I scan the auditorium, looking for an exit from this murky hellhole.  I know the doors are locked; they are always locked.  (And knowledge of this seems prescient—how do I know?  Is it by rote, or something more?  I pause, perplexed…)  My sense of oppression escalates.  The bodies swarm ever closer, the walls loom larger—flat black and brooding.  A glimmer invades my peripheral scope: glass.  A window!  A lone pane gleams behind haphazardly arranged planks of wood nailed to the wall.  Without hesitation, I sprint.  As I approach, I notice that the wood looks worn, termite riddled. And glass—what are a few cuts endured during the attainment of one’s freedom?  In my head, circumventing the corrosive white noise, I hear myself scream, “No, Jim.  Not again!”  But it is too late.  The force of my body splints the wood and shatters the window.  Shards of glass shred my flesh.  There is no blood, no pain…I tumble into blackness--a vacuum of silence…I suck in stale air, harsh and dry, singeing my lungs.  My ears pop…

and

…I tumble from the clutches of a withered and disillusioned Hope, and into the frothing Pit.

Again (again? again!), I have failed.  Everything rushes back to me.  The knowledge blossoms and immediately my brain burns with the acidic flush of remembrance.  The weight of my existence, here, in this hub of despair, is made clear:  the burden of existing without the restrictions of time.  Doing time—forever!

My freshly rendered wounds accentuate the scars of previous attempts.  Deep gashes, pink and gray; scarred (and hideously visible) bones, yellow and filthy.  Like all the rest of my companions, we bear the same tattoos.  A hand that is little more than bone helps me to my feet.  Bodies corrupted by time and the travesty this deathstyle promotes swirl around me, roughly crashing into me.  Flesh is torn from infrastructures once human, now vaguely reminiscent of their original form.  Intestines dangle freely from serrated abdomens.  Crushed craniums reveal brains once thriving with ingenuity and power, now raw and useless.  And yet the bodies continue (still!) with this parody of existence, as exemplified by the ultimate bow to conformity, the always always always (ad infinitum--to the nth!) counterclockwise flow within The Pit.  I pray it will stop, but, of course, God does not govern over this apathetic annex of Hell.

But, amazingly, the music stops.

The moment of truth:  the sinister reminder.  Our estimable host (conjured in the flesh for my accord—sunburned complexion, pointed tip of the tail lashing about like a downed power line, chewing on a bloated cigar) saunters toward the microphone.  Feedback like a knife punctures my eardrums.  The musicians stand silent as stone behind Him, black robes concealing the confirmation of being.  They may just be shadows, illusions, fabrications formed for the folly of…of…

“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Jones,” He snarls.  “Your attempts to escape are futile.  You must learn:  you are mine—throughout eternity!  You must face the inevitable.  You must live the intolerable.”  His smile is a dread jaundiced glare.  Fog belches across the stage, snuggling into the chasms and caverns of the dead, seeping between and into their bodies.

“And now, I present for your listening pleasure, Mr. Jones, our next performers.”  He opened his palms to the mindless masses.  “Won’t you please welcome, straight from Guyana,” he snickered, he teased, needling me with mischievous malice:  “Kool Aid Suicide.”

But it was not a new band.  It was always the same band.  Only the names changed to taunt the guilty.  I stumble from The Pit, away from the sordid circle spinning maddeningly in front of me.

I have reached the breaking point:  no more denial, the cruelest fate is mine.  I am destined to spend forever in this lair of condemnation, with the percolating insanity, the caustic noise, the repetitious drivel wearing away my free will and my brain, until all that remains is the scoured interior of my empty skull.  Sonic attrition.  Is there a fate worse than death?  Yes, there is:  Death Metal.

I put my hands over my ears, pressing with all my might, trying to block out the onslaught—to no avail.  The sound slithers in through my pores.  It is relentless!  I fend with my will, with all my—

Adolf leaps into the fray, his face slack, eyes vacant.  There is nothing left.  His struggle is over.  He is now and forevermore a member of The Pit.  The sound is their engine, their god; they are the bobbing pistons of the machine.  A dreary destiny awaits me.  I have yet to relinquish the hold on my free will, which is, of course, a double-edged sword:  fight with no chance of success, of victory, or succumb to the music’s grinding lure and become a zombie like the rest.  I cringe at the lack of options, fully aware that as a man, my words could sway the masses, their options dictated by me.  What irony, here amongst this melee of foul incarnations barely human.  And isn’t that the ultimate irony, for we all would go down in history for deeds deemed horrific and infamous, as barely human.  Monsters!

I scurry from the tumult to a still warm seat in a corner, against the wall, resignation heavy on my sagging shoulders.  Surrender now or surrender later—my free will—and join the ranks of the undead in that damned Pit, that counterclockwise shuffle south of Heaven and a little left of Hell.  I have no tears to shed.  All that remains is my suffering.  Not only is this inevitable (ah, yes, the horrific finality of the word is branded in the soft gray matter melting to mush in my throbbing head), in order to keep a sort of balance in the universe, it is necessary.  It is justice.

But because I am strong of will, justice will have to wait.  It does not mind, though.  It has all eternity.  And waiting is the greatest torment.

I wring my hands and watch Adolf bob by in The Pit…