It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, the weather was rather calm. It was definitely dark
though. And night. It was a dark and calm night. That doesn’t work at all. It just sounds
terrible. Let’s try this again.
It was a bleak winter night with the painted black sky ominously looming over the desolate
landscape. The troll was once again drinking in his solitude, silently lamenting over his
pointless existence. Here he was, a grown troll, still nothing more than a social parasite.
Everyone else in his band contributed to society in some way, and as untr00 as having a real
job may be, the troll envied them. Even John had recently decided to pretend he’s an adult
and got a job, and he’s the laziest form of non-feline life on the planet. The troll was truly der
untermensch. Every moment he was alive brought him great agony, and all he could do was
count down the remaining minutes until he finally died. Death was the one great thing the troll
had to hope for, and it couldn’t come soon enough as trolls are known for longevity. The troll
tried to speed up the process by downing copious amounts of diazepam chased with Bicardi
151. The troll dozed off to sleep that night, hoping never to awake to see the accursed sun
again.
God damn it. The troll forgot that being a troll he has freakish regeneration powers and a
natural resistance to the poison effects of alcohol. Sadly, the troll just couldn’t die, much as
he and everyone else wanted him to. So he did the thing that a lot of people do when they feel
at the bottom, out of options and concerned about their future. He joined the military. He
signed up for training (most of the actual training didn’t ever happen) and became a Knight of
the Jamba Republic. This… was almost as bad as being in his old parasitic ways of
existence. In many ways it actually was quite worse. The Jamba Order is one of the least
prestigious fraternities in existence, and it brought the troll a great deal of shame being part of
it (even though he stupidly signed up for it himself). So the only way to make it seem less
shameful is to drag someone down with him. Luckily for Trolly, Tyrone was kind of down
on his luck and seeking money. The current method Tyrone was prostituting himself out just
wasn’t cutting it anymore, so Trolly told him about the ways of Jamba. So Tyrone drank his
shot of meat grass, and was inducted into the order.
Lazy Frosty John was being given daily floggings from the parental frost units, and wandered
from his cave to find a job. For whatever a reason, a sporting goods store hired him. I guess
the employers had a sense of humor, as John is easily the least athletic person in the band. I
also doubt he knows anything about sports. Coy could work at a sporting goods store. That
would shock no one. But John working there makes about as much sense as the suicidal
drunken troll being a counselor at a residential drug rehab center. It just doesn’t make any
sense, and the idea of it is tr00ly inconceivable. Speaking of Coy, he managed to be the
tr00est of anyone in the band. He got a man’s job at a factory. Ok, it’s a candy factory, but
at least he’s doing manual labor and not making smoothies. Plus he works the graveyard
shift, which adds to his tr00ness. Coy shames the rest of his diurnal working band mates.
So now that it has been explained where everyone in the band is working (I assume you all
know why Brian got totally skipped over) the whole band (Trolly, Coy, Tyrone, John) went
on a two-hour ride in the Scat Van for the charity event from heaven. You see, in the metal
community, hell is awesome. Something from hell is a good thing, since all the good bands
claim to have either came from there or are heading in that direction. Therefore, the charity
event from heaven is a tr00ly horrific thing that the band members all swore never to speak of
again after it happened by still silently cry themselves to sleep every night over the horrid
sequence of events.
Much like the Ghostbusters, CID hasn’t been having much luck in finding work.
Subsequently, they had to resort to doing birthday parties, which would now be the new
benchmark for how low this band can sink. On the way to the event Coy had to use the
bathroom very badly. To his misfortune, the Scat Van actually does not have any brakes (it
does, but you’d never know from Tyrone’s driving, which includes things like jumping speed
bumps in reverse) so poor Coy had to use his empty smoothie cup, which had mysteriously
been branded by the order of Jamba. Pissing in a Styrofoam (how bout that, Styrofoam is a
proper noun) cup is not normally a noteworthy feat, but considering he had to do this with the
psychotic Tyronian driving at 90 mph it was impressive he didn’t miss the cup and spray the
back of the troll’s head. This was only the beginning of the nightmare.
At the party there was a strange old man who lived in a room of fire. The band should have
taken that as a warning sign, but sadly they did not. They were immediately shackled in an
interrogation, unable to leave the inhuman torture until the wee hours of the morning when
their captors dropped their guard, at which time they ran to the Scat Van with Tyrone ignoring
all traffic laws and obstacles (more so than usual), almost driving off some exit ramps a
couple of times with chains suspended from the ceiling swinging around the back of the van
aiming for Trolly and John’s heads. The band eventually made it back home, denying the
whole incident ever happened.
Never being satisfied with the status quo, Clad in Darkness continued to strive for self-
improvement. And their hard work paid off, as they have topped themselves yet again. The
band had reached yet another low point in their existence. Band members were arriving earlier
for practice, but actual “practice” time had been cut in half since they spend ridiculous
amounts of time flapping their gums in the kitchen as they drink tea. It seemed that CID was
gradually metamorphosing into chicks. But things had gotten especially bad since Tyrone and
John were wearing their mother’s bathrobes while doing so. The troll, always insisting on
being different, was not wearing his mother’s bathrobe. He was wearing the fair maiden of
no importance whatsoever’s mother’s bathrobe, which happened to almost match the powder
blue robe John was wearing. At the rate things were going, it was only a matter of time
before bubble baths and aromatherapy candles to accompany quilt knitting and needlepoint.
Soon the band would have to start arriving at noon in order to get all this out of the way
before practice and still leave at the time the frost giant’s masters demand it. Coy was so
disgusted by the whole bathrobe display that he turned his back on his band mates for the
duration of teatime, and called them all trendy posers. It is only a matter of time before Hot
Topic starts carrying bathrobes and all the trendy metal core kids add them to their wardrobes.