Malignance
Regina Umbrae Mortis

Fundamental premise: I am a professional warrior metalhead, registered with the Black Flame guild at 75% (dark omen breath: 22 points; martial power armpit: 15 points; bird of apocalyptic extermination: 20 points; grandfather deceased after a hoarse and peculiar scream: 18 points. It’s a bit like in the asylum: if you reach 80%, you get the beatings for free).

This evening, my girlfriend and I went to buy Malignance’s first unforgettable masterpiece, “Regina Umbrae Mortis”: we always do a lot of crazy stuff when we put on death, I get impaled on the tree of Nemehal, and we have orgies amidst immense battles and icy expanses, genocides, and nuclear war: usually, the genocide is done by my friend Tommaso, but last time my father caught us, and that time we postponed the end of the world. In “Fornicate With Pestilence” there’s practically this corpse in a sarcophagus, then the sarcophagus opens, and all the gnomes reunite with the goblins and evil spirits, they go on an acid trip, and when they return, the Antichrist arrives and brings the riff.

In “Statement of Supremacy,” Rivfader, companion of Satan, enters the scene, who wakes up one day, and he’s annoyed, so he calls all the characters and goes to the valley of Belketre to bring the ominous banner of apocalyptic war, and he takes himself so seriously that even Satan suggests he get a hobby. Usually, Rivfader is played by my friend Beppe: last time, however, his father found out, and that time Christ arrived directly at Belketre. We metalheads are strange beasts; we play in a band called “Make a change: kill yourself,” an atypical evolution of free will: I always arrive in a good mood, but when I hear them, I no longer laugh — a matter of respect — I drug myself like a beast and chase other metalheads, screaming “Get out of this body!” while the stereo plays “Even Satan plays speed.”

They call it depressive metal, in my desperate quest for knowledge, it came after national socialist metal, I yelled at them: “Satan, you will never have me!” while they played the march of the ancient Slavic barbarians. When I’m depressed, I like to imagine myself as a perfectly integrated metalhead, I smoothly move from thrash concerts to doom ones, I get drunk like a party guy and confuse genres, approach the artists, tell them, “After failing, I considered life a romantic thing” and in their desperate quest for knowledge, they ask me where the bathroom is.

These depressive metalheads are too touchy anyway: the other day, I listened to one for 3 hours, I told him, “Satan, leave this shitty body!” and then to offend me, he committed suicide another day.