By: Krista G.,
Somewhere in Indiana…..
As she got into her Honda Civic, all she even focus on was how bone weary she was. Even buckling her seat belt, or turning the ignition key was a terrible drain on her dwindling emotional reserves. She started the car, and the song playing on the local radio station was “All my friends Crush You” by Neurotica. Morgana nodded slightly with approval, even smirking a bit thinking how true that was. However, the nod and the smile were just to much effort. She rearranged her rear view mirror, catching a glimpse of herself. “I’ve got to fix my face” she thought, noting she needed another light coating of white powder to her face. The black eyes, and dark lips had held up nicely through the hours she had just spent at the homeless shelter. Her community service for public urination at the last Cradle of Filth concert were almost over. She thought: “Only two more Saturdays” as she put the car in reverse to pull out of the parking lot. She couldn’t bear anymore of these 4 hour shifts for lunch hour at the shelter, it was all she had to just show up. They were just too draining on her.
She weaved in and out of traffic to head home as quickly as possible, but even moving the steering wheel was almost to much effort for her. Morgana briefly thought about calling one of her friends to help her get home. They were all recovering from the previous nights ecstasy party, finally asleep after dancing all night long to Moonsorrow, Bauhaus, and Type O Negative. No one would be awake, and she realized how alone she was. It depressed her, even more than the community service at the homeless shelter. At least those people had someone to count on, she thought. Alone, weak, and tired, that was how Morgana felt. She was depressed just thinking about it all.
After her 16 minute commute home, Morgana drug herself into the apartment she shared with her two room mates, Mikael and his girlfriend Olivia. Mikael’s name was really Mike, but he preferred to be called “Muh-Kale”, as he thought it suited him better. Olivia’s real name was Jane, but she thought that Olivia was a more refined, and classical name, suiting her better. Sometimes, they all three were lovers. Morgana remembered one of those times as she drug herself through the apartment, watching Mikael and Olivia snuggling together in a sleeping bag on the floor. Sometimes Mikael called Morgana “princess”, and she especially enjoyed that, since she was a princess, at least in her own eyes. She carefully bent down, and covered Olivia’s bare breasts, the back of her hand brushing her nipples. Morgana felt the deep weary, to her bone, and that was all the effort she could expend as she sat on the black couch. She carefully brushed the pleats in her maroon velvet dress, and laid her head down on a silky pillow. Before she succumbed to the cool hand of sleep, she surveyed the room. The Gibson guitar, one of her most prized possessions, resting against Olivia’s drum set. Mikael’s bass was laying on the drum stool. She guessed they’d had fun jamming last night, along with all the dancing. Looking into one of the bedrooms, she saw some of their other friends, sprawled out all over the bed, and two on the floor. Morgana looked back to Mikael and Olivia, thinking how handsome he was, and how beautiful Olivia was. Mikael call Olivia his "Queen", something that occasionally irked Morgana. Her thoughts turned again to Mikael and his regal looks.... In reality, he looked a Count Dracula Pez Dispenser, but she didn’t see any of that. His gold fingernail covers, his darkened eyes, lips…it was all Morgana could do to stop herself from touching him. Finally, Morgana fell asleep, to the thoughts of the two lovers on the floor. And how she wished she was Mikael’s “Queen”, and not just his princess.
Meanwhile….across town, in a small American History store….
“Goddamnit!” Spouted Jon. “Fuck Brave Worlds and fucking dragging Knuckles!” He fumed as he read his most recent, and last, interview with Brave Worlds and Bloody Knuckles again. “How slanted, what shoddy journalism! Man, how could I have even finished talking to that buffoon! That little fucker could fall into a barrel full of tittie’s and come out sucking his thumb!” Oh was he still pissed about that interview. Periodically Jon would pick it up, thumb right to pages 32-35 and fume. He was still pissed, even to this day. Sitting in a rocking chair, and polishing one of his favorite revolvers from the revolutionary war, Jon thought about many things. Why no one came to his store, and purchased anything, and why his back was so fucked up. He could sure use a Percocet. But, that was weak, and he was strong. He would just tough it out. He thought about Richard Christy leaving Iced Earth. He thought about James Macdonough leaving Iced Earth, his last touring guitarist. He thought
about everyone who’d left Iced Earth, Matt his brother-in-law, and
all the faces he couldn’t even remember, since there’d been just to
fucking many. At least he had Ripper, he knew he could count on
him. Ripper would never leave him, not like everyone else had.
Publicly Jon would wish everyone well, say that they all had to do
what was best for themselves, and that he, as Iced Earth, would
carry on. Soldier on, so to speak. He was the trooper, and well,
fuck posers. Those other musicians weren’t good enough to be in
the Mighty Iced Earth, and that’s where Jon had come up with the phrase: Fuck Posers. He’d never admit that to anyone. No one. But, it was true. He was Iced Earth, fuck posers!! Yet, Jon Schaffer sat there, rocking back and forth in his small store, wondering….where the hell were all the customers. “Posers” he muttered. “Profess to be all about America, and the fucking posers can’t even bother to listen to me. Teaching them American History! I am a teacher! I’m an expert, those fucking posers.” His thoughts wavered, back and forth, between Iced Earth and his personal mission, teaching metal heads the glorious history of United States. He put one pistol down, and picked another up to clean, and then polish. He even had a stash of Luger’s from WWII, taken from Nazi soldiers. But those he didn’t have for sale, the Nazi fucking poser bastards. Jon sometimes heard himself mumble, and would make an effort not to talk out loud, in case a customer did happen into his shop. Jon was heard, though, by the Mail Man, as Jon pondered his recent turnover in workers for Iced Earth. “It’s hard to find good help these days. It’s hard to find good help these days!” Over and over. The Postal worker didn’t want to step into that one, and left the shops mail on the counter. As the Mail Man left, the words rang in his ears until the door closed behind him: “It’s hard to find good help these days!”
Indeed for Jon Schaffer, good help was hard to find. He made fun of his former guitarist, “What? Larry? He did one solo. Poor baby! One fucking solo!” As far as Matt Barlow, Jon was overheard saying: “You should’ve heard his vocals for The Glorious Burden! Utter tripe. Horrendous. He can’t write lyrics, he can’t sing! I doubt he’d be any good with homeland security, either!” As far as the recent bassist leaving, Jon couldn’t remember his last name, let alone spell it. His name was James, that Jon knew for sure. “James, well, fuckit, I can’t remember him anyway. He was the bassist, so what! He never wrote a note! He did everything I told him to do! Hired gun, just like everyone else has been. I, Jon Schaffer, am singlehandedly Iced Earth, and no else!”
The small bell above the heavy glass door jingled as Jon was scratching his beard, mumbling about “posers” and “help”. It was a young Iced Earth Fan, proudly wearing his Dark Saga T-Shirt. He was accompanied by his best friend, who was a die-hard Death Metal fan. He was proudly sporting his Deicide T-Shirt, and none to happy to visiting that shit stain Jon Schaffer at his personal American History store. The Iced Earth Fan, who’s name was Richard, had a handful of CDS, and a box set in one hand, and with the other he extended it to Jon, who was still sitting in his rocking chair, “Hey man, I’m a big fan! Do you think I could get your signature on my stuff?” With a deafening roar Jon leapt out of his rocking chair, despite his crippling back injury. “What the FUCK!? This is a place of business, not an autograph booth!” Jon quickly grabbed the Brave Worlds and Bloody Knuckles magazine that he constantly had beside him, rolled it up, and with a mighty swat, slapped it across his young fans face. Richard’s jaw dropped, his heart sank, and his face fell. Now, Richards buddy wasn’t taking any of this shit. He immediately shoved Schaffer back into his rocking chair. “Fuck off, old man! You fag power metal pole smoker!” All Schaffer could muster, after the shocking shove was “Death Metal’s DEAD you little fag punk! Don’t you know who I am, you fucking POSER?!” With that, many fuck you’s were exchanged, and a more than pissed, but dejected Richard left the struggling store.
This particular scenario had happened far more times than Jon would’ve admitted. He even had to put a posting at the official Iced Earth website to not visit the store looking for signatures. Only visit the store if you were a serious American History buff, just like Jon. Or pay the consequences, poser. After this minor scene in Jon’s day had become a distant memory, Jon continued to think about Iced Earth. Eventually, they’d have to tour again, despite Jon’s crippling back troubles. Jon had a drummer, he was sure of that. At least he thought he did, maybe he was out a drummer for the time being. Of no consequence, because Jon had Ripper! At least he had Tim Ripper Owens. Jon vaguely remembered the many parting salvo’s of some of his former help. “I’ve got to much self respect to stay in a band that’s a total dictatorship.” “I respect myself to much to allow you to treat me like shit, Jon.” “I respect myself to much to stay in this band.” This “self respect” theme was one that Jon didn’t like in his employee’s. Slowly, surely, it dawned on Jon. If he didn’t have band members with self respect, they wouldn’t leave! They’d surely stay with the mighty Iced Earth, and collectively Fuck Posers worldwide. YES! Eureka! “Ah ha, if they don’t have self respect, they don’t leave! They don’t know any better. But, still, it’s hard to find good help these days.”
Meanwhile, back in apartment 333.…..
The phone rings. And it rings and rings. There’s no one recovered, or awake enough to answer it. A message is left for Morgana, by her friend Richard. “That fucking fucker, Jon Schaffer, he screamed at me, refused to sign anything of mine…he even hit in the face with a rolled up magazine…” ON and on Richard went, telling Morgana how his visit to Jon’s store went. It must’ve been a ten minute message. Many hours later Morgana got up, fixing her face, and after she’d written some dark poetry in her online journal, she finally checked the answering machine. She was still so tired from the community service, that she could barely concentrate on the message Richard left. As the message played on, it finally hit her. The indignities that her friend had suffered, the horrible things said to him! No one, and she meant no one, would talk to one of her friends like that. She was the princess after all, and that meant she took on as many of the worlds battles that she came across. Morgana decided then and there, that she’d pay a visit to a one Mr. Jon Schaffer on the following Monday after school. And give him the verbal lashing that he so richly deserved.
Eventually Morgana had made enough noise to rouse her two best
friends that were sleeping on the floor. Olivia awoke, stretching
sinuously, careful to leave her breasts exposed. She was stunning
and she knew it. Her skirt was all she had on, bare from the waist up,
milky white breasts unashamedly left uncovered. Mikael was only
wearing his silk pants, and he finally woke from deep slumber to stretch
like a cat with Olivia. Every flick of the hand, every article of clothing,
it was all of the utmost importance to continue the ways of manner and
presentation that Mikael and his friends had to perpetuate. Finally,
the other friends filtered out of the bedroom, and went home. Morgana
felt it was her duty to look after everyone, and got Mikael and Olivia
something to eat. Blood red cranberry juice, and sandwiches. Later the
three were awake enough to practice their instruments, for the band
that they were working on, Bloody Dreamlike State. It was a dark art band, lush vocally with male and female vocals, heavy atmosphere, longer than normal songs. They felt they were awesome, and deserved to eventually get a record contract. But, till then, they had to finish
their six songs they had for their demo. They had to practice, and often they were laughed out of the local practice halls, even though they paid 75 $ an hour to practice, just like the other bands. Mikael, Olivia, and Morgana decided the other bands were jealous of them, because they were smarter, and were better musicians than the other bands. It was just easier to practice out of their apartment, even though it meant their neighbors would yell at them. The neighbors were jealous too, well, at least some of them. A neighbor on the first floor, Angela, was a keyboardist, and sometimes would come to play with them. She added that certain something to the songs. When Bloody Dreamlike State recorded their demo, they were have Angela come and do the keyboards on one of their songs…
So, Bloody Dreamlike State practiced Saturday night, and most of Sunday. The band frequently talked about what Jon Schaffer did to Richard, and how they were going to go confront Jon. They were going to basically kick Jon’s ass for mistreating one of his fans. Their dear friend Richard would be avenged. On Monday, it was back to the daily grind of work, school, and the jealous ones that laughed at them. All because they were smarter, better looking, pastier, and dressed to kill, all the time. However, at around 2 O’clock, all three of them were able to get together, and go to pay a visit to Mr. Jon Schaffer. The bell rang over their heads as they entered the American History Store. They surveyed the store, with all its weapons and artwork, and were only remotely amused, if at all. Sitting in a chair rocking, was a long haired man with full sleeve tattoo’s. They weren’t in the least intimidated by the tattooed long hair. Morgana promptly walked right up to him and say‘s: “You bastard! You mistreated one of our friends! You hit him with a magazine, refused to sign his CDS, and yelled at him. You made Richard cry, and to think, he’s one of your biggest fans. Shame on you.” Jon looked carefully at the small girl in front of him. Her pasty skin, dark eyes and lips, flowing dress. It was all he could do not to laugh at her immediately. “You afraid of the Sun, or something, little girl?!” Jon said evenly. Morgana replied: “That has nothing to do with what you did to my friend! The mind only sees what it’s capable of comprehending, loser.” This was all that Jon would take. “Get out of my store. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jon honestly couldn’t remember what he’d said. “You’re a nobody, I don’t know who you are, you’re nothing to me, so please leave. And take the stench of your burning leaves perfume, and get the fuck out of my store!” This hit hard with Morgana. She was not a nobody! She was a somebody, and besides, her perfume was delicious. “Guess what, MR. Schaffer? I’m not a nobody, I’m going to be a very important musician someday soon. And you’ll eat your words since I’m an accomplished guitarist. You’re just jealous!” Tears were welling in Morgana’s eyes as she looked to Mikael and Olivia for back up. How could those two allow Jon to talk to her like that?!
“You’re a guitarist, huh?” Jon sneakily asks.
“Yes I am.” Morgana replies. Her self confidence crumbling in the face of Jon Schaffer, and his digs at the color of her skin, plus the implications that she is, indeed, a nobody. Morgana Continues, “My friends Olivia and Mikael here” pointing at her friends, “are musician as well. Olivia is a drummer, and Mikael is a bassist!” She asserts as proudly as she can.
“I see. What kind of music do you play?” Jon asks in a friendly manner. This leads Morgana to believe that Jon has realized his errors in how he treated her friend, Richard. Thus, treating her with the respect that she demands. Well, maybe.
“We’re dark art, with atmosphere. Something you would know nothing about!” Morgana blusters.
“Where do you guys practice? Got a demo?” Jon questions. “Maybe I could hear what you guys sound like…..”
Morgana’s tears start to dry up, and Mikael and Olivia perk up. Maybe, just maybe, Jon would help them. They were damn good, they just knew it, and only needed a chance. Just a small chance, or break.
“Bloody Dreamlike State doesn’t have a demo yet.” Morgana says quietly. Through all her blustering and chest puffing, she is intimidated by the long haired tattooed guy. “As soon as we save enough money up, we’ll record our demo. Then…..” Morgana meekly trails off.
“Well, tell you what. Come to my studio, I’ll give you the address. Bring your rig and gear. Practice in my rehearsal room, show me what you got. Maybe I could help you guys….” Jon carefully lays his words out. He quickly realized these 3 had no guts, since they wouldn’t confront him over some shit deal he couldn’t even remember. Hell, the two others wouldn’t even back the youngest one.
“What?” Morgana says almost speechless.
“Just what I said, come to my studio, let me listen to you. We’ll see what you got. I might have a use for session musicians in the near future, you never know.”
Morgana’s face lights up. She sees the future possibilities. Her life long dream of being a famous musician dancing in front of her wondering eyes. She looks at Olivia and Mikael, and they nod quickly that yes, they’d like that. A chance to perform in front of the mighty Jon Schaffer.
“Yes! We’d like that!” Morgana enthuses. Jon gives her the address, and instructions to show up the following Friday night.
The week passes fitfully for the threesome of Goths. They can’t hardly wait to get to Jon Schaffer’s studio! Their friend Richard, well, he was quickly forgotten. He was of no importance, and the threesome took pains to avoid him from there on out.
So, late Friday Night Jon Schaffer sits in his control booth, listening to the three kids play their particular brand of “dark art” metal. He hears some talent, they seem proficient to him, although he hates their style.
“So, can you play diminished arpeggio’s?” Jon asks Morgana. “Can you play some power chords for me, too?” Morgana promptly starts showing off all her skills. She even puts the pick in her mouth, and does some tapping along with everything else that she knows.
“Okay, okay. Good enough Morgana. Olivia, show me what you’ve got on the drums….I want some style, some aggression.” So, Olivia starts bashing away, using the drums in a way she wasn’t accustomed to. She was used to a softer style. “No, no. Olivia, listen to me. Don’t just hit the drums. Can you play Iced Earth Style?” Olivia was hard pressed to know any Iced Earth song, but liked the song, “I Died for You”. She starts to mimic what she can remember. “Okay, that’s better. Much better. I think you’ve got talent. You just need to learn my style. My way of doing things.” And so Jon Schaffer slowly teaches these young kids how to play Iced Earth style, and Iced Earth songs. Mikael just stands there looking depressed and has to be taught to head bang. Both Morgana and Olivia had to learn not to cry every fucking time they do something wrong. Slowly, over many, many weeks, this motley crew is taught Power Metal Stylings. Jon certainly had his work cut out for him….
To this day Jon is still trying to teach those no self confidence having Goths how to play Iced Earth music. He’s brainwashing them nicely, too. They say FUCK POSERS! At the mere mention of other styles of metal. They've gotten some sun, they wear band t-shirts now, and their natural hair color is finally growing out. As Jon gets exasperated now and then, he mutters over and over….
It’s hard to find good help these days……
And sometimes, in the middle of the night, as Morgana dreams of being Olivia, and how fucking hot the never-to-be keyboardist Angela is....she moans out loud.....fuck posers!
