Deicide
The Stench Of Redemption

Between Doom moments and other Power Epic ones, even going through Phil Anselmo's Post Thrash and "Fuck shit asshole motherfucker," I had reached a dead end of the Brutal self: disgusting.

In Naples, a guy wanted to clean up the city by starting to recycle banknote paper, especially the dirty ones that have that unpleasant odor from being passed hand to hand. I, thirsty for brutal blood, watched the footage of Mario Merola's death, his last moments of life as he bulged his eyes in a very purulent/anal manner.

Unfortunately, there are few people who appreciate eyeball bulging goregrind, and the video was only the 567th clicked on goooooooooooogle. In fact, everyone was moved in front of the godfather of all Neapolitans, including Bassolino who, to commemorate the late Mario, had a car bomb placed under his house. Meanwhile, in the literary salons of Turin, Honorable Borghezio and a squad of green shirts attempted to desecrate the tomb of Mario Merla and the Neapolitans, but the corpse had already fallen into the hands of the KGB to analyze its brain and understand the psychological effect secrets of the Neapolitan sceneggiata. "The government has failed," silently shouted the magnate from Arcore while the faithful Casini echoed, "I agree, but I am more moderate." The Pope then gave speeches lasting from four hours and a quarter to seven hours and fifty-three minutes; rumors say he practiced being the target before his trip to the Blue Mosque of the green phalanges. A message of peace, in short.

But I was tired of these indulgences because this stuff is Happy metal like Bon Jovi's, and I hate happy metal while I love Brutal Genital Azzanning Belvish metal. For this reason, about a week ago I ordered, this time cash on delivery, the masterpiece of Brutal Death metal in 1989 and 2006, "The Stench of Redemption" by Deicide. Yes, the band of Master Brutaller Glenn Benton had returned with their best CD of all time, including the smoky days of the past era of evil malignant and malevolent and malefic, the era of the Father of Satan and the uncle of the mother of Satan Himself. At least, so said the writing on the site of the evil black satanists, the guardians of Evil on earth and eternal Darkness commanded by diabolical will.

Exactly six days, six hours, six minutes, and... two seconds have passed since I clicked the "Buy" button on www.satanistimalvaginerimoltoassetati/dimoltosangue.soprattuttocattolico@glennbenton.hell
and now I am holding a stopwatch to measure how committed the evil black satanists are to the cause: but my mom, who is watching "uno mattina" (where Luca Giurato, who is an almost Gothic host, is), throws a fork in my eye and tells me it's actually only been six days, six hours, and two minutes. So I have time to do something to brutalize the wait, like setting the mattress on fire and singing a pirate song accompanied by the blast beat. The song, which was Pirate Grind, lasts twelve seconds because it is Pirate Grind and not Pirate Death, so I intonate another one... but suddenly the doorbell rings... I look at the stopwatch and see that exactly six days, six hours, six minutes, and six seconds have passed after which the evil was so strong, radioactive, and magnetic that it jammed the quartz of the watch and got stuck in the liquid crystals, stopping the clock (which instead of chirping like those of the Mulino Bianco, makes a long scream in True Black style). I quickly extinguish the mattress but leave the curtains burning, giving a very Infernal Brutal Death Metal air, then I grab an ember with my bare hands, either because I want to prove my faith to the black satanist mafia gang and anti San Gennaro and San Vitagliano or because, if it were the postman, I could make him perish in the name of the numen of suffering pain Luciferian Satan (then having the assurance that one of the gang members would recycle him instead of Naples' waste). Unfortunately, it's not the postman but the very punctual express courier guy who gives me "The Stench of Redemption": his van is all black (even the windows and mirrors), and there are UPS letters on it, which stand for Union Pilgrims Satanists... no jokes with Deicide!

I get home and open the precious package. The cover is brutal in itself, and there's a crucifix a bit inverted and a bit not, with skulls a bit alive and a bit dead; but the true brutality is inside, where there are the group's members' cards, even though the album, produced by Panini Extreme Records, you have to buy at newsstands that display a black cloak at 6:06 PM every day. I immediately attach the Glenn Benton card upside down on an upside-down crucifix I keep jealously in a case full of cockroaches (you know who you are...) and sincerely hope that the card, which is not sticky but should be, torments the Good Christ Who Must Perish in Pain at the hands of the mephistophelic tremendous stench of the demonic and infernal wings of the lord of malevolence Satan. And as I immerse him back into the cockroaches here appears Mario Merola, resurrected by diabolical forces and all intent on crying while telling a very sad story of a true Satanic Neapolitan who was impotent when he had to perform the ritual sodomy with the clam goat... but something doesn't add up, Mario didn't sing in Growl, and I don't remember any song that recited "tear the Christian apart, cut off their head and feed it to the evil beasts"... I get closer and carefully observe the gold crucifix hanging from his neck... IT'S UPSIDE DOWN! And then he has a wooden leg, I see it from his limp: it's not Mario Merola, it's Glenn Benton, with that femoral prosthesis he got when Ratzinger caught him and wanted to make him confess he had never participated in that diabolic sabbath with very malevolent naked women.

He tells me that their great return has arrived in the darkness of an era even more satanic than before, that he will never die because he has the strength of the Malefic Breath of Lucifer and Beelzebub, and that sooner or later he will learn to play the bass, swearing on Satan and God by crossing his fingers, toes, and even nostrils. He also tells me he wants to run for governor of Florida so he can organize persecutions against believers, make them pay more taxes, and order police officers to wear a satanic black robe purchasable on the site www.tonacanerasatanica/negozioonlinedimercerigorosamentemaligna.malefic.satana for only two hundred dollars. Then he shouts "Death to Jesus, homage to Satan," but I explain to him that Jesus is dead and up to this point he laughs heartily, but when I tell him that he has also ascended, he bulges his eyes in a very goat ritual brutal death way and disappears.

I care deeply for Glenn Benton because he's the only one who always stays brutal, and because even when others remove their corpse paint, he keeps his upside-down cross on his forehead.

We will meet tomorrow night, we of the consultative and administrative brotherhood of the evil black satanists with serrated teeth, to decide what to do with a woman who hosted the Live Report of Deicide concerts on Rai while badmouthing its members and those of the political mafia black gang, and saying that actually in Naples no one does anything except put on a bulletproof vest and rely on Jesus. That's why she's now in our hands, so we can execute a righteous person for Satan. Whatever happens, I'm sure it will be a truly malevolent night and almost Political Imbavagling Anti Redemption Brutal Death.