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

The Mexico Series

THE BLACK SHEDOG . . . RED TAPE PINGPONG . . . OUT OF GAS AND IN THE DARK . . . CHARADES AT THE CUCARACHA HOTEL . . . GIVING THANKS FOR . . .

Shedog and I

While families all over the Midwest were scooting in their chairs for Thanksgiving Dinner, I was smiling nervously, handing out cigarettes to Mexican soldiers at a checkpoint just outside of Ojinaga. Cigarros make a gringo who doesn’t speak Spanish a hell of a lot  more tolerable.
The air was a sweet warmth washing over my face. Squeezing in the clutch I rolled towards a gaggle of camouflaged men with M16s and sweat and mean boredom in their eyes. They waved me over to the sandy shoulder next to their tent, I got off my bike and went for my smokes. I noticed the man who waved me over had the most stripes on his arm as he strutted towards me, the M16 held lazily at his waist.

He nodded towards me and said something or other. Where I was headed maybe?
“Camargo!” I smiled and raised my hands like an Evangelist.
He nodded again.

Half of the squad started walking towards us, some looking at the ground. Others grinning like jackals. But all the men were very relaxed on gun safety, barrels aiming wherever they swung. I offered the pack to Sarge and he took a smoke, the rest of them zoned in with outreached hands. One of them with the stench and smirk of a jackass grabbed two. But I just gave him a squinty eyed grin. 
I stretched out a map of Mexico and drew the route to Camargo with my finger.
“Gasolina?” I looked at all their faces anxiously. By the classic shake-the-tank method I guessed I had about six cups of the rojo left.
They smiled and shook their heads, nothing but desolation from here to Camargo. 260 kilometers of sun scorched Earth and narco terrorist.
I had spent the majority of my first day in Mexico ping ponging back and forth from Ojinaga to various checkpoints; looking for permits, applications, English speaking Mexicans, and paying fines, waving my hands around like an irate Italian.  By the time I got to the military outpost the sun was hanging eerily close to the horizon. The one rule in Mexico, or any Latin American country, is not to ride at night. When the sun goes down in that part of the desert the bandits and cutthroats awaken from their drug haze, ready to rape and slit necks.
A vagrant with a Walmart bag full of dried chiles got out of the back of a pickup truck while I was smoking with the soldiers. He told me the cafe down the road sold gas. I didn’t believe him but at the same time I thought why wouldn’t it? Its Mexico.
About an hour less of sunlight later I was filled up and had a milk jug of bootleg gas in my saddle bag. I waved goodbye to the full titted barista and headed South for Camargo.
Highway 67 is a two lane asphalt trail with trash filled ditches for shoulders. I was ripping down it at 85 miles an hour, cutting through the shadowy blue hue of the final rays of sun. Beneath me was a 1977 Kawasaki Kz 650. Hand painted flat black and covered in duct tape to ward off would be thieves. Highway 67 seemed to be primarily a supply route. Other than dusty Semi Trucks, the only other traffic was the occasional hay hauling pickup, usually a decade old Nissan driven by a sun dried old man with a well worn smile.
The official speed limit all the way to Camargo is 65 kilometers an hour, thats 40 stateside. At this snail’s pace I’d be flayed and dragged through the desert in three hours; So I kept the wobbly speedometer needle between 80 and 90 until the tank was empty, a roaring helldog to any Mexican traveling in that cold desert, leaving only a trail of black plumes from a leaky tachometer cable.
As I rounded a gentle curve onto a 50 kilometer straightaway, Shedog started sputtering and the RPM needle dropped. I was out of gas and in the dark, but I knew it had been about 180 kilometers since the checkpoint. That meant about 70 kilometers till the next gas station. Just far enough for a dirty milk jug that was seductively filled with stolen gasoline to get me to Camargo. I hopped off and pushed the bike as far to the right as possible, careful not to fall into the trash gutter, and took out my last 2 liters.
I caught the glint of a headlight in my sideview mirror and my chest contracted. I turned around to see the dull yellow beams of the three Semis I passed hours ago, chugging along at breakneck speed. Shrieking, I ripped the top off the jug. My hands were shaking with fear and I couldn’t get a grip on my keys.
I howled at the stars while my shadow elongated from the headlights. I finally got the tank open. Flipped the jug upside down over the gashole. Missed. Spilling gasoline on everything, seat, controls. Panting, neck at a twisted angle, eying the ever approaching Mack trucks. I tossed the jug into the trash ditch. The first Semi careened to the left as I spastically flashed my tiny red brake light. The driver yanked down on his blow horn and cleared me by less than an arms length. My shrieks were whispers over the horns and wind and rattling cargo. In a matter of 12 seconds the trucks had passed and I was still alive and screaming.
I straddled Shedog and caught my breath, hands on my hips. The shrinking tail lights of the last Semi urged me to get to Camargo and out of that fucking desert. I turned the ignition and the old Kawasaki made a screeching attempt to start but lost wind. So I curbstomped the kickstarter and ripped after the Semis.