Lambs to the Slaughter

I was deep in a bottle of whisky. Too deep to resurface, even for air. My only hope was to keep drinking. My twisted logic was the brainchild of Evan Williams.
“Come on, man!” My friend and fellow concert goer was pouring whisky into his flask.
“Were gonna miss Lamb!” I could see the excitement in his eyes, I could feel it in the air. And smell it on his breath.
“Alright just a couple more shots” I slurred, grabbing the green label bottle from Kimon.
I had to be beyond black out. I myself am not a huge fan of Lamb of God. In fact, heavy Metal is pretty far from any other music I enjoy. Kimon is a different beast entirely. His unsatisfiable thirst for the hellbroth that is angry metal is unquenchable. The man was forged from birth to stomp around rhythmically to double bass and screeching guitars.
But I do enjoy drinking, and pseudo-violence. Plus Kimon guaranteed it would be a shit circus.
I tossed back what would be my final shot of the night. I let it swim about in my mouth, flow between my teeth and soak into my gums. Not intentionally of course, Evan Williams tastes like the piss of an asparagus eating demon. I just couldn’t get it down my rotten esophagus.
I spit the foul whisky all over the table.
“Ahh! what a waste!” Kimon shrieked.
“lets hit the road, head straight for the pits” I said, ignoring his cries and taunting.
We could hear Lamb of God’s distinct mating call 50 yards away. For some twisted reason, God had granted us the ability to stagger all the way to the Boulder Theater without collapsing of alcohol poisoning.

There was no one in line and the doorman scoped us from across the street as we repositioned our various flasks into our pants. There was something about his untamed hair and track marks that gave the impression he didn’t mind we had been doing a little drinking.
“Enjoy, boys” The homeless looking doorman said in a raunchy tone.
I entered the Theater as my flask started to slide down my pants. I waddled over to the stairs and adjusted my liquor situation. I stood up to find Kimon was no where to be seen, I was alone.  Drunk and surrounded by these shaved headed half naked animals. They could be high on anything, crazy and desperate. They came to Lamb of God to vent.
“If Kimon is still alive he’ll be in the mosh pits” I slurred to myself and sighted out the terrain from atop the staircase. There were to two separate circles of drunken fighting going on towards the front of the stage. One bigger than the other. ‘Go big or go home’  I thought, as I stumbled towards the group of violent beasts.
I pushed through the screaming crowd and got closer to the pit. As soon as I saw an opening I sprinted in and found myself in the middle of the ring. Mohawk donning freaks skipped around the circle. Shirtless behemoths covered in cheap tattoos head butted each other to the ground.
“Woo!” I let out a demonic scream from the center of diaphragm.
I felt the energy of the mosh pit, I raised both my arms in a rockers salute and bellowed at the top of my lungs “LAMB OF GOD!”
Just as God had come out of my mouth, a shirtless skinhead lowered his shoulder into my once powerful diaphragm. Flattening me to the ground instantly. My head ricocheted off the wood floor, causing me to bite off a small fragment of my tongue. It remained swollen for three days, resembling some sort of slug you might find in the Amazon.

I had no choice but to get up immediately and start crackin’ skulls. I violently frolicked around the mosh pit, observing these crazies in their most comfortable environment.
Kimon was still nowhere to be seen. I gasped for air as I clawed my way out of the pit and towards the stage. Randy Blythe was screaming incoherently about something or other. I was far too drunk to decipher the throaty noise. I was leaning over the stage,  growling belligerently when I felt a heavy slap on my shoulder. I whipped around and showed the attacker my fangs. It was Kimon!
“Sup dude!” He was grinning like a hyena.
“This is insane!” Sweat rolled off my lips. Kimon noticed I was about to die of heat stroke and I followed him to where he ‘hid’ his jacket.
I followed him to the front where his jacket laid in the corner. We left our valuables in the nook and headed back for the pits.

A few snarling, ear ringing tunes later Morton let his last note ring off into the distance.
It was quite literally the calm before the storm. All was silent as everyone halted any movement and gazed up at Blythe. The hair in my ears erected, I frantically looked around, searching desperately for an escape. The ring of  mobbers I was just apart of had split, dividing the audience in half. Leaving only Kimon, myself and a few others that weren’t as savvy as the rest, standing aimlessly in the center. The heavy metal equivalents of Moses. Splitting the sea of enraged drunkards.
Blythe started screaming again just as suddenly as he had stopped. And the chaos followed suit; ten times over. It was the finale of what might be Lamb of Gods last tour. None of the drug addled loons wanted to miss the chance for one final blood spill.
The sea of drunkards we had just parted collapsed in on us. I lost Kimon and once again found myself alone and drunk in the boiling cauldron of anger. But this time I knew what to expect. My greatest fear was going down. I had seen others make this unfortunate mistake, the kind you can only make once. I saw them only as I stepped on their throats to ensure my own survival; clasping onto everyone in reach to keep from being dragged down by the fallen. This fight for my life continued for six minutes.
By the end of it we were all exhausted and bleeding. I don’t know what happen to those brave moshers that went down. Some, I’m sure, lived to scream and stomp in rage another day. But more than a few went straight to the mass graves they dig around concerts like these.

- Oliver Jones
May 24th, 2013