Brian and the troll were freezing on the coldest night of their lives. They had been on the
concrete tundra for many hours, and the wait had just begun. But this was essential. They
had to do this in order to restore meaning to their lives. Not long ago, Creidhne had unleashed
his unforgiving judgment on Norway killing many innocent people along with several Clad in
Darkness members. What Creidhne forgot about was that trolls have great regeneration
powers, and the troll’s fatal wounds would be healed in no time. The troll’s carcass was not
only incapacitating Brian, but also hiding him from view, so Creidhne neglected to kill him.
Long after the burning had stopped and their bodies had become cold enough to make a
necrophiliac hot, the troll was healed enough to regain consciousness. After Brian got over
the trauma of being stuck under the troll’s dead body for a couple days, the two examined
their surroundings and thought about the events. Everyone in their band was dead except
them. They flirted with the idea of the making CID a drum and bass project, but that seemed
like a bad idea. The two realized what they had to do, which was to obtain a legendary box.
The sacred box contained the tormented souls of 360 generations of disgraced warriors. The
box’s existence was unconfirmed, and was reportedly very difficult to get a hold of even it did
exist. But the two traveled to where on some map Brian found was marked “X,” and the long
cold night was ahead of them, but it was their only hope.
Meanwhile, in Hell…
Coy, Casey, and John were chained to the wall enjoying Satan’s cigarette break. Lucifer was
giving them all a brutal thrashing as punishment for Clad in Darkness not paying him enough
homage in their music. The three damned souls were enjoying the brief reprieve in their
suffering as the Dark Lord tarred his lungs. They had briefly wondered where the troll was,
as they had all seen him die first, but they remembered trolls have no souls, so he wouldn’t be
in Hell anyway. Footsteps were heard coming to the door, but these were quieter than the
Devil’s. The door opened, and Brian was standing before them. But something looked
different about him. He had white robes and wings and a Halo disc hovering over his head.
He was also wearing sunglasses to cover the glare from his angelic light. Apparently, Brian
died and went to heaven, but what the hell was he doing here? He was also carrying a soccer
ball.
He addressed his former band mates starting with John.
“Hey dude. Hey bro. Hey buddy,” he said “Your new name is Snuggles.”
A divine joke was played on the band, as it became clear that their hell was the same as Brian’
s personal heaven.
Back on the concrete tundra, the long wait through the endless night was nearing completion.
Unfortunately for Brian and the troll, they were not the only ones after this legendary box.
They were close to the entrance of the manor of Frizzle McWizzle, and most of the other box
hunters were behind them. But much to their dismay, there had been people camped out in
front of the manor before them. The two surviving Cladlings were surrounded, and they
knew things would get ugly.
As the ice-cold sun broke the darkness, the doors opened and some guards walked out to
greet the crowd. They informed the treasure hunters that Lord McWizzle was a busy man,
and that he could see very few people that day. Normally he would meet people on a first
come, first served basis, but today wanted his presence to be earned. He demanded sacrifice
and blood, and the last party standing would get to enter. By virtue of being in the middle,
Brian and the troll knew they would be at a disadvantage. They would have to fight to the
doors while fighting off attackers behind them. They drew their axes, and in seconds they
were in battle.
***
That was most unpleasant. The horrible dance music and the water polo and weight training
were the least of the three souls’ worries. Their angelic drummer had violated them in ways
they could not have previously imagined. The abominable crimes against humanity that Brian
inflicted on his band members would even make Putrid Pile sick. If Slayer knew this was the
torturing of hell extended this far they would all convert and become Amish. The unspeakable
acts that Brian had inflicted on them made them wish that it were possible to commit suicide
in hell. Truly, hell is a place of unimaginable horrors and torments. The band should have led
a pious life of virtue, and this wouldn’t have happened. Or been all out black metal, so Satan
would have thought they were cool and they could have been the ones giving out the
punishment and not taking it.
Oh, how they were taking it. And how Brian was giving it to them. Brian eventually wore
himself out and needed a whole pack of cigarettes to calm down from this activity. They
heard his steps returning to the door, but this time it sounded like he was not alone. The three
shed silent tears as they imagined what sort of horrendous group activity they were about to
partake in.