Nortt
Graven

Glenn Benton proved once again to be one of the most Brutal personalities in the entire Brutal scene: he cloned my credit card and drained my bank account to fund Satan's black lodge against Christ. Even though this was very Brutal, I couldn't help but feel some resentment towards Glenn, especially since my mom (who is more Brutal than Glenn) made me realize that Brutal could go beyond “Kill the Christian” and “Incynheratjklmn.”

Many days have passed since the last time I received a Brutal CD, and now my life is hardly Brutal at all. I was just trying to brutalize the day by kicking the printer when suddenly the doorbell rings: my doorbell is Brutal, and it doesn't go “Ding Dong,” but instead, a growling scream recorded by Chris Barnes himself… from the way Chris screams this time, I realize it's the postman. He has to stop ruining all my most Brutal moments, so I grab the ink cartridge from the printer and rush down the stairs to kill him with ink cartridge blows... it's not even an original Hp one, so... but something changes things... he has a package in his hand... he's trembling... he hands it to me... he dies... something went wrong, I think, as I put the non-Hp cartridge back in the pocket of my Necrologio hoodie.

What happened to the postman that I was supposed to kill? But I am Brutal, and a corpse on the stairs shouldn't shock me too much. So I do something Grind, that is, I kick him and go back upstairs, cheerfully humming a lively tune from Morte Napalm. I unwrap the package and realize it's a CD from Nortttttttttttt, which is really a single guy who gets photographed with a painted face and chains on his wrists: “This is not Brutal,” I say to myself, and indeed, my doubts are confirmed by the writing on the cover “Pure Depressive Black Funeral Doom Lifeless Agonizing Mournful Sad Deadly Lethal Crushing.”
I remember that I didn't order any CD of this type because my account is in the red (blood red, of course, even my bank is Brutal because there's a Brutal figure behind it who seems to be named Richoni or Ricchetti or Ricchini), and then there's no Brutal writing on the cover. I'm skeptical... “this stuff isn't for me,” I keep thinking, but I put it on anyway.

The disc starts... it feels like being in church and so I cross myself... but then I read the cover well... it says “black”… what the hell! I should have made the sign of the cross backward! I immediately remedy it while bells arrive... a piano... it may not be Brutal, but the sky has turned black, and the windows have fogged up from the cold... what sadness!!
Suddenly, a tombstone crashes through the ceiling and plants itself in the floor... while the tenant from the floor above peers through the hole to see what the hell happened with his tank top stained with vanilla ice cream, I read the names on the tombstone... there's mine, my father's, and my sister's... my mother's not there because she's more Brutal than everyone else, and she indeed brutalizes herself every afternoon watching shows on Channels 5 and 6... when documentaries are on, she gets pissed because she hates animals... not to mention that mom doesn’t recycle and throws everything off the balcony, but that's another story... .

Meanwhile, with the notes of Norttttttttt, the bed has transformed into a coffin with a violet inner lining: I've grown a hump, and my hair has turned white... I wonder how it would be to headbang with white hair... it should be very Brutal! Dad, meanwhile (who's always at home because he doesn't work) can no longer make it to the toilet and soils himself: this is the effect of the terrible Norttttttttt, truly and purely black depressive funeral doom sad lifeless deadly ... my sister has a flat EEG and is reduced to a vegetable, while mom starts to lose her patience because I've made everyone old, and she hates old people, especially when they cut in line at the post office... she always shouts that they have little time left to live and that they have nothing to do in their shitty days, and that they might as well queue like everyone else.

I look at the photo of Nortttttt, a man who manages to turn even the most vital people into minerals and... HE'S BECOME YOUNGER!!! In a heartbeat, I understand everything: seems like a few years ago, an American guy (or Irish, I can't remember) wrote some sort of song about a guy who made a photo age (or maybe it was a painting) instead of himself (or something like that)... and Norttttttt must have done something similar, except that it's the listeners who grow old, and he rejuvenates! I understand why the postman died, why my sister is gasping, why dad soils himself, and why I have white hair... aging is not Brutal, it's too Funeral Black Doom Depressive Sad Mournful Lifeless for my taste... I remove the disc from the player, also because I can't tell when one song ends and another begins and because it seems that instead of Chiamparino, here in Turin, Buttiglione won, forcing everyone to sing church songs as he had planned (and Turin, which is a bit Brutal and a bit Black, only gave him 30%).

Slowly, I return to being young, and dad finally stops soiling his pants. The vodafone® phone rings (I unplugged it, what are you doing?) because precariousness is very Brutal, and the vodafone® phone is very precarious, so, by transitive property, it's very Brutal. A cavernous voice answers me... it's none other than the current Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi (or so he believes) who tells me that his henchmen have informed him that I possess a very powerful weapon. Of course, because he intends to use “Graven” by Norttttttttt to eliminate Napolitano once and for all: he says that, according to him, listening to the Intro should be enough to send him to the other world. He offers me two showgirls and a spot on TV, I can't refuse.
A few minutes later, I receive a second call: it's D’Alema, he offers me a sailboat and a seat among the Ds if I give him the powerful disc because he wants to eliminate Napolitano too: I preferred the women, so I refuse. And the phone rings again: it's Prodi, he reads Berlusconi's government's financial records to me, saying that he won't be able to keep his promises. This changes the game; what to do?

The situation is resolved by a final phone call: it's Napolitano who reveals a big secret to me. Norttttttttt is him in person, he thanks me for making him a few years younger and tells me he plans to reopen the Calabresi case. I still prefer the women, but I'm still happy that my country's representative is one who records Pure Depressive Black Funeral Doom Sad Lifeless etc etc. discs.

Long live the Republic!