This story's a bit long for a blog post, so I'll split it up into several manageable chunks.
“TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT,” said Solomon Chew breathlessly, “ya’ll ready?” He exhaled a long plume of gray marijuana smoke. His friends nodded assent as various long-haired guitar-slinging bands frowned menacingly down at them from the many tattered, tar-stained posters and magazine clippings that covered nearly every square inch of Sol’s room in his mama’s singlewide. The red plastic water-pipe he’d gotten at Myrtle Beach (they’d insisted he call it a “water” or “tobacco” pipe at the store), cleverly nicknamed “James Bong, 007,” bubbled in the background.
It was Halloween, and Solomon was hanging out with the Massey twins, Shane and Hal, his first cousins and two best friends. Together the three teenagers had formed a band. Not just any band either. Not some sissy hair band like what was on MTV. And not a stupid cover band like what Sol’s ex-stepdad used to play in. They were a going to be a real metal band just like their heroes. Sol and Hal played guitar. Shane played bass. All they needed was a singer. And a drummer. Then there was the name issue.
In spite of these obstacles Solomon Chew had plans. Big plans. He knew that their band was destined to be huge, as in Complete World Domination. He knew they would be rock gods on par with Judas Priest and Iron Maiden, with all the drugs and groupies they could handle. He knew how they were going to achieve that success. And Friday, October 31, 1986 was the night when it would all begin. It was a night for a ritual. It was a night for revenge. It was a night to commune with the Devil.
To be continued tomorrow!