Snots, sluts, stoners, and sleazes gather around, because the Smut went to town. Joyriding with me consists of possible automobile collisions, so buckle up! Roadkill is on the grill tonight. We begin at Headliners, which is some pussy-ass venue that couldn't afford, let alone fit the whole Motorhead tour, so Morbid Angel and Today Is The Day were the only brave enough souls to take the bait! Hydro-metal. It is faster than the snot dripping down a coke whore's nostril, and sexier than the sloppy blowjob that fiend gave to get her fix. Both of these bands have to make Lemmy proud. Today Is The Day finally arrived in from St. Louis at the last moment, giving me the impression those Missouri women only do hydro as well. Baling out of that smelly heaving van, the boys hit the stage and before we could blink, we were swept up in their funnel of hazardous metal. I was situated in the back of the bar, but no distance is safe from all their flying debris. I was observing from a distance, all the metal darkies and the back of their t-shirts. Obituary, Deicide, and occasionally Morbid Angel's "Blessed Are The Sick", were as tattered as ever. All sorts of creeps venturing out from some real hidden territories. Those underground bunkers are where some of the most hardcore fans can be found. These boys eat, shit, and breath metal. They would kill their cousins and hijack their mother's Buicks for this metal. If there is anything that would distract them and their solemn purpose, it would be a metal chick. There were a few of these blackened goddesses there and most of them were taken, leaving Jessi and I to the endless offers of free booze and scowling death metal dudes. One in particular was throwing lemons at my ass the entire set of Today Is The Day. Forty five minutes later I confronted the redneck, "What the fuck are you doing? What is the purpose of sliming up my rear? Is it funny?!" I launched the lemon into the air. As I strutted away from him and his snickering friends something caught my eye. It was Pete Scandoval, the drummer for Morbid Angel. His kinky fro was spiraling in his face as he sat back by the door. A couple others had spotted him by now, but Pete knew who saw him first. He looked puzzled as to why I wasn't approaching him to sign my ticket stub, but that the dork of doorman never returned it to me. I didn't realize he didn't before, because I was caught off-guard by security guards searching my purse when I had first walked in the door. I had an half quarter of herb in my makeup bag that I know he saw, but thank god I'm a girl. By the time I had decided to ambush Pete, he was gone, and if one more lemon splattered my ass, I would have gone off. It was time to take to the pit and release some of this steam off. Metal. My only legal source of violence!

Pushing my way up front, they were sound checking Pete's mountain of drum set, toms and snares stacked on top of each other. I yanked Jessi up beside me. Nobody was throwing lemons at her ass, and hers is tighter than mine, which would have stuck better. Finally, the trampling Tampa boys made their way upstage, to perform their latest album, "Gateways To Annihilation", and throwing in a couple oldies, but goodies. Once again I was standing beneath their vociferous ferocity, as if I was the target for their intense spear of lethal lungs, vulgar guitars and drums. As the fury arose even further, the crowd was hypnotized into an infuriated essence, better known as wrath. Banging heads and surfing bodies randomly exerting an energy no barrier could maintain, while reaching hands and flying flingers resinified in a mixture of sweat and booze, only smuts like us could sustain. There was a time all of us hoodlums were whiny babies with rattles clinching in our fists, and in the instance the toy was driven out of our hands the epitome of wrath began! I awoke from the trance for my beer had ran thin. "Jessi", I called, but she couldn't hear a single word I shouted. She was high-fiving Steve Tucker, and reaching for a pick he had dropped. Once it was in her hand she fluttered it in my face. "Thatta girl! I'm going to the bar", I waved my empty bottle in her face! 

Back at the bar the guys from the previous band were over talking to Omer, my righteous metal bro who plays guitar in My Own Victim. "Spring, where are you two going after the show", he didn't hesitate to say. I shrugged my shoulders and pursued the bartender. The drummer from Today Is The Day was seated beside me, so I started chatting with him, "Wow, you guys tore the place down, ey?" He mumbled back, but I could barely hear what he had to say. Morbid Angel were still playing, so I got back with him after the show. "Where you from, bro?" I was anxious to know. "Canada", he announced. "Where to next?', I added. "Baltimore," he continued. "Como de lama?" "Marshall", he concluded. We rambled on until Jessi came staggering out from the cloudy arena. By now Steve Austin, the original lead singer, had joined us, but we were being asked to exit the building. Once we were outside there were cops and ambulances were loitering in the parking lot. A body laid on the ground unconscious and immobile from the feet up with blood gushing out of his nose, eyes, and mouth.. We asked what happened of the bloody mangle, but no one knew. "Is this dude dead or what?", but we continued discussing their latest album "Sadness Will Prevail," pertaining to the mood rather well. While they were digging in the van for a copy, these rednecks came out of nowhere, literally. "Man, there aint any girls that look like you two were we come from.", his buck teeth rambled. "Where might that be?", I interviewed him. "Bowling Green, KY," his sluggish accent rang. Out the blue, collar that is, marched a johnny 5.0 shining his flashlight. "Where's a tattoo parlor around here?", he inspected. Then puzzled why a cop was asking us for directions to a shop, the hick blurted, "Acme Ink, It's right up the street! Why?" The pompous police officer did not respond and headed back over to the scene of the crime, but unlike them, this hick knows the meaning of interrogation. "That guy over there, dumbass, you just gave away some suspects!", I educated them. Marshall returned, but this time with no CD. "Sorry, I thought we had a spare. Here's my contact. You can reach one there. Are you two up for a beer?" "Absolutely!" I assured them, and four of them went with Jessi, and I grabbed Marshall by the hand. As we were walking to the car, I spotted Pete Scandoval once again. From the looks of things, he was squabbling over a cell phone. Most likely it was one of those calls back home. I really wasn't going to go hounding him now. We jumped in the car, and I began rolling one up. "It'll be a sec", I patted him on the knee, "Goddamn, your cords are soaking wet!" I put him on the spot, so he jumped out and announced, "I forgot something!" It was his reefer I assumed, because mine was some real dirt weed, and I know that drummer only smokes the green. "I got to change!" he insisted. "Awww! Don't worry about it", I pulled him back in. I glanced over and Pete was still mouthing off in mid air. Once he slammed down on the end button, I signaled him over. "Tough cookie!", I said with sincerity, "Wanna burn one?" "No, you guys go ahead have fun", his Brazilian tongue twisted." "Look where a night of fun can get you in this town", I pointed to ambulance making for the exit. "Yes, I know what happened to that guy?" "Your guess is as good as mine. Hey, you don't call it death metal for nothing, huh? How long have you been at it", I quizzed him. "We have been at it since 1989. We have seen it all. There are so many different techniques of this kind of music, tho. "You were the first right?", I declared. "We were one the first with worldwide distribution, but there was also others, such as, Death and Massacre. We were one of the first to be picked up on a label, but there is no way you can go comparing us with what Obituary, Deicide, or Cannibal Corpse do. We are a little bit different. We are more extreme. That is what I want to make us- more extreme without losing the meaning of the music, but it is hard in this race, ya know, it's like, you're in a Nascar, and every second counts!" "Every second counts", I repeated. "Yes, every second counts!" "How's Lemmy doing?" "Lemmy is good. I have seen him a couple times, and he couldn't be better", he insisted. "You're from Peru correct?" "Peru?!" he jumped, "Who the fuck told that?" "I dunno", I nudged at the passenger. "I am from the jungles of Brazil", he exclaimed, "I was raised by some primitive men, and then I got the hell out of there, ya know, because if not I was going to die. I went to El Salvador, and then on into California. This was in 1988", he relayed. "How did you get to Tampa from California?" I asked. "What do mean how? I jogged", he smarted off. "For real, I took a greyhound, and it was the most horrific experience I ever had!" "More horrific than the primitive Brazilian rain forests?", I compared. " Yes, it took three days and three nights. I was just a young kid in America then." "Yeah, I have some pretty horrific stories myself about buses and trains in America," I sympathized. "What happened?", I was eager to hear. " I just kind of suffered. I was miserable, ya know, ask me another question", he avoided answering. "Have you heard Andrew WK?", I pulled up from out of nowhere in particular. "No, what does he do?" "I think he is from Tampa, and some kind of positive metal dude", I struggled again. "Whoever he is I wish him good luck, and it was very nice to meet you!" 

Apparently Pete has just the same attitude as that cat there, just without wearing all white. As we started to leave an old friend approached, "Spring, can you give me a ride?" "Sure, hop in. I'll be glad to." He began explaining how he couldn't find his friend, so blocks later he asked me to drop him off, because he wanted to go back and look for him. I let him out, and didn't see him till three days later when he told me his co-worker was in ICU and was the guy victimized buy a hit and run. (editorial note - Just for the pigs' records it wasn't Acme Ink, schmucks! Take it from Lt. Smut) After burning the pinner and raiding the local pub, I showed the boys how to get back on the road, but I-75 North won't take you anywhere near Baltimore. That's for sure! Maybe to an early grave, according to South 75. - Smutstrutter