The parent’s council of St. Patrick’s Elementary School had gathered in the basement of the local parish to stroke their egos in yet another inconsequential meeting they deemed necessary to upload their Moral code. The folding chairs were lined into eight rows, divided into an alley in the middle, resembling a chapel. Flies, both human and insect sipped on the coffee used as a petty financial sacrifice by the council to attract a few otherwise socially reclusive organisms to their cause. The cups were paper with foldable handles on the sides. From a distance they resembled porcelain coffee mugs. The speaker was mounted upon a wooden platform in the forefront of the room. He was a stout, balding man wearing an expensive polo shirt and a timid, monotone address. They sipped on their coffee and listened half-heatedly to his announcements: a dead cat, a lost bicycle, nine bake-sales, and a divorce.
“Who is going to contribute to the bake-sale for Father Stevens’ birthday next week?”
Raoul thought that it was not his place to contribute to another fucking church bake-sale. He had nothing personal against Father Stevens; indeed, the sermons he had given when the Patriots weren’t playing on FOX had been rather enjoyable. It was just that his wife Mary was going through menopause and vehemently reiterated that if those cunts at the church wanted any more baked goods from her they could retrieve them from her septic tank. He was in no place but to comply from her. Mary snatched at Raoul’s sleeve.
“Don’t raise your hand Raoul or I swear I will cut your penis off and bake that for them!”
Raoul shook himself free. “I wasn’t going to! You shouldn’t use profanity in the house of god.” he whined.
The council lowered their hands as they had otherwise not heard Mary’s exclamation. There were four volunteers. The monotone bald man gathered his papers and stepped to the side as a figure in a dark suit walked over from the left of the room.
“Thank you parents for coming once again to our weekly council meeting. I would like now to turn our speaker over to Mr. Woodward.”
Mr. Woodward stepped onto the stand. His audience applauded nonchalantly. Mary looked away from the hypnotic swirl of her coffee. She thought that his name sounded familiar. Mr. Woodward had never spoken before any of the parent council meetings she had previously attended, but she swore that she had heard his name before.
“Thank you Jim for your address. I have come before the Parent Council of St. Patrick’s Elementary School today with news of a horrible trend that has ensnared our precious youth.”
There was a feedback of whispers among the audience. Raoul shoved Mary to get her attention.
“A horrible trend? Listen Mary, something has ensnared our Kelly!”
She wished he would shut up.
“There is a musical genre that few of you may know about that is teaching our children to worship Satan and kill one another in bizarre, autophagous rituals. Although it is contained in an obscure subculture, I contend that no children are safe from the dark influences of this dangerous music.”
The man had a cold stoic face that looked worn with age, like boot leather. His hair was slicked back, coloured dark, though it was evident to most that he had dyed it from its natural grey. He leaned on the pulpit with the desperation of a man exhausted beyond composure. His suit was dark. It likely hid various stains. Mary took another sip of her coffee.
“This musical genre that I speak of is called black metal.”
Woodward hinted for the lights to be turned down and projected a menacing photograph of Count Grishnackh onto the screen behind him.
“This music is crafted from the pits of hell itself, it is the...”
Johnny Interrupted.
“Excuse me, but what evidence do you have to prove that this black rock music is as bad as you say it is. Are you a doctor or something?”
Johnny was the father of a boy named Bruce, who was known to be the closest child to resemble the archetype of a school bully. He had been suspended countless times for his trivial acts of delinquency; exposing himself to the classmates, asking distasteful questions about the human anatomy, etc. Nobody at school liked Bruce. Nobody liked Johnny either.
“I used to be a black metal musician myself, so I believe I have full authority to make you aware of its dangers. It has destroyed my hearing, my ethics, and my soul.”
Mary was perplexed by the old prune of an orator the council had allowed to waste everyone’s time with his nonsense, there was a certain familiar quality about him that Mary couldn’t quite discern. Woodward changed the slide on the projector to a photograph of a church immolation.
“As you can see, the music has a history of violence towards religious affiliations. The members of these black metal groups are murderers and psychopaths.”
He changed the slide to a picture of Per Ohlin. Johnny interrupted.
“I’m sorry but this is a load of shit! Music is clearly nothing we need to be afraid of anymore. I grew up listening to rock n’ roll bands and there is nothing wrong with me!”
Johnny made a face by pressing his lower lip outwards and glaring that neither looked like a frown nor a snarl. He shook his fist at Woodward and motioned for him to leave.
“Rock music has not changed since I was a kid!”
“That used to be my philosophy sir, but rest assured, black metal is a genre that defies all the artistic elements and conventions of typical rock music. There are dangerous chords being played here that children should not be exposed to.”
“Then let’s hear some of this devil music then, shall we?”
There was no response from the crowd to the exchange between Johnny and Woodward, as apathy is not usually considered a response. Mary watched Woodward attentively as he grabbed a CD player from below the wooden stand. He reached into his waist pocket and held up a compact disk.
“I will now play for you the orchestrations of the black metal band Mayhem.”
He pressed play. As the music commenced, the most devote churchgoers among the lot of parents burst into flames upon the first dissonant strings of Cacophony erupting through the speakers. Johnny screamed in agony as the flesh melted in a cascade off his skull and into a pool on the floor. The flames died down with the music and only Woodward and Mary were left unscathed. She stood up from her folding chair and kicked the ashen remains of her husband into a cloud.
“I remember who you are now.”
Mary had said it almost as a statement of fact, as if Woodward had already known.
“March 20th, 1992, Oslo. You were the guitar player of that band.”
“Black Jesus.”
“Yes, and you...”
“I fucked your brains out. You were the hottest groupie I ever slept with.”
“Is that why you came back, to save me from this hell?”
Woodward placed the CD player down and pressed the pause button. It had already started playing the next track.
“Yes. It is. Now how about we go back to Norway together and burn down some more churches. I think the Catholics just built a new one in Hammerfest.”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
