HIM
Love Metal

The more time passed, the less Brutal the world became; Berlusconi no longer bothered anyone and had abandoned the idea of attacking Fidel in the Bay of Pigs because his submarines had fallen into the hands of a commando of warlike ecologists, determined to use them to sink whalers. The climate was not at all Norwegian Black and felt more like being in a Kebab shop rather than Oslo which, even if on paper it’s Black, is also Brutal because if everyone is cold and catches a cold, the Virus is like winning at Black Jack and they celebrate. Then the viruses sneak into your nose, descend into the lungs, and smash the alveoli like the guitars of a rock band, belch, and say fuck you. Sometimes the Mucolytic arrives, which is bad, and smashes them all, the bacteria and viruses, and then one neither coughs nor wheezes. Pharmaceutical companies are not friends of Brutal, only of money. On the streets, robbers were throwing stones at you in the face instead of cutting your throat with a broken bottle and then sticking it in your belly to tear out your guts and, with them, your wallet. In short, there was a Love Metal atmosphere. What’s cool about Love Metal, which isn’t Brutal, is that when I think about it I imagine this big stage with Motorhead surrounded by nymphomaniacs dancing while Lemmy talks about the Ace of Spades: and then there are some romantic guys underneath who kick Lemmy out and take all the nymphomaniacs for themselves. It was on that occasion that I went to Carrefour to buy the HIM CD, a band that is sometimes evil (always) and sometimes not (always) so in the end you don’t understand if they are evil (never) or romantic (never). I go to the "Breakfast" section, but the CD, which was a free gift with the croissants, is gone. I then wander over to "Personal Hygiene" because they were giving it to you for three euros if you bought two bottles of conditioner of 750 centiliters. I try the "Books" section where between "The Truth About Prodi's Past in the KGB" and "The only lies with long legs are Fassino’s" I see a book titled "How to Make Money in a Metal Band Without Being a Metalhead"; theoretically, they were giving it away as the ultimate example with that text, but some shoplifting bastard had stolen it. I am starting to hate these Brutal people who steal at Carrefour. I try going to the newsstand because if you buy three issues of "Scorching Sheets" they give you the CD as a gift (they say it’s aphrodisiac). But even here there's nothing to be done, the disc is a hot commodity because everyone wants to listen to a metal band that doesn't play metalheads and especially that appeals to girls and makes you seem like a real macho man. I have no other option but to order it online at www.sexymetallarisuperdotati.it. As a gift, a box of condoms with the devil on it, price twenty-five euros: a bit much, but after all, they explain that with that money each member of HIM will be able to take his Ferrari to the tire shop to put on slick tires. How can you say no? I would also like to take the Ferrari to put on Slick tires!

Two days later, as I’m already beginning to fantasize about how cool the devil condoms must be (they are very... Naughty), I see a winged creature making signals from the balcony with a package in hand: I've ended up in the magical world of HIM, made of passion and darkness! Instead, it’s the postman who has equipped himself with a hang glider since the last time he interrupted me while I was electrocuting a stuffed animal and then I tried to strangle him with a light bulb. He tosses the package to me but I don’t want to harm him so I blow him a kiss; unfortunately, cruel world, I produce the opposite effect, and in disgust, he unbuckles his harness and lets himself plummet three floors below. "He didn’t have enough affection," I think as I call 118. Then I look at the disc he brought me; on top there’s a straight five-pointed star with an upside-down heart inside or maybe it’s an upside-down star with an upright heart: the idea of mixing Evil with sentiment is brilliant, so I start calculating the area of a heart inscribed in a star. But something catches my attention; inside it is written that the name HIM is nothing more than the acronym of His Infernal Majesty which means His Infernal Majesty. How did I not think of it before! All this is pure True Raw Black Metal Norwegian Style but with that Avril Lavigne touch that always makes you feel more endowed than others. I also read that if you say the name of the band backward six times the Devil appears and gives you tips on foreplay to which no woman can resist. I could just use that so I immediately start saying "Infernal Majesty His, Infernal Majesty His, Infernal Majesty His, Infernal Majesty His, Infernal Majesty His, Infernal Majesty His." But apart from the fact that I get a bout of diarrhea and remain stuck on the toilet for an hour, nothing changes: only later will I connect the diarrhea to the fact that I had listened to the first song. So I try again "Mih, Mih, Mih, Mih, Mih, Mih" and out of nowhere a black whirlwind rises, the asphalt of the street melts and the sky turns blood red: strange, I was expecting a cotton candy pink whirlwind, black tar, and blue sky (so it seemed like Super Mario Bros which is more Love Metal). In my room, Valo, the handsome singer of HIM, appears, accompanied by a gang composed of Glenn Benton (center forward), Ghaal (right wing), (left wing), Euronymous (goalkeeper), Satyr (referee), Dead (a lousy defender, always scores own goals), Bard Faust (central midfielder), Burzum (stopper), Feinriz (midfielder), Demonaz (libero and model). Glenn Benton looks very angry so much that his evil cross burn on his forehead is even redder and more malignant (maybe he just redid it) and his hair is so Luciferian like even my armpits are not when I leave the gym. Also, he’s pronouncing mephistophelean and malevolent formulas saying something like "Ma va fa mmocca’! Figghi e’ pputtana! Ti shpac l’ossss!" He raises the baseball bat he has in his hand and tries to hit the singer of HIM who was meanwhile performing a shameful dance; but the singer is quick and ducks so Glenn lands on me and dislocates my jaw. I am happy because now I can boast of a real satanic fracture inflicted on me by the Archmagus of infernal and diabolical evil; Ghaal catches my jaw in mid-air and nibbles a piece; he apologizes saying he was hungry and that his Viking soul couldn’t wait. Burzum starts and opts for a simple knife: it’s clear he gets confused though and aims directly at Euronymous's throat. Now they’re without a goalkeeper and furthermore, Burzum continues to attack despite Feinriz keeping telling him he was supposed to hit the other guy. Satyr expels Burzum and the other one continues to wiggle while singing his love songs: Dead tries to strangle him with Euronymous’s high E string (he didn’t need it anymore) but somehow, he manages to hang himself instead. Demonaz is doing photo shoots for that erotic calendar with war axes and studs everywhere, so he's out of the question. Feinriz tries again to stab the guy he calls "poser" with a chainsaw, but he does a languid pirouette and Feinriz ends up sawing my couch. But Bard Faust, who knows a thing or two about fairies, pulls out the true Nordic ice sword and stabs him to death among the cheers of everyone, the groans of Euronymous and the silence of Dead. Then they all gather in a circle around me and ask if I recant everything I’ve done; I nod because the sight of Valo’s pink blood made me desire satanic goats and wicked witches again, of Lucifer's sorcerers, and devil’s cats, of Jesus’s scars and Madonna's tears.

So all together they pound "Love Metal" into crumbs; then, since Ghaal is still hungry, he tears off an ear from me and seasons it with "Love Metal" pepper. He’s so evil that even eating such a load of love, he farts black and in the fog they all disappear. Today I learned that it’s no use being "Love metal" in this world, it’s much better to be Black or Brutal because Glenn is cool and then while Feinriz was slicing the couch he threw himself on the chainsaw shouting "Chainsaw Gutfuck Me, Satan!" Now Glenn has a new ring-shaped gash on his belly to show the world to further the cause of the God of evil. And I, for my part, not only have I witnessed a direct Brutal and slightly Viking killing but I’ve also learned to wiggle my hips properly. Today was a Love Goregrind day.

PS: Photos of Demonaz taken that afternoon will be visible in the next issue of Playboy.