Here's a new story about Phil and Dil's dream of starting a band and the road to stardom for the lifelong friends, and the trials and tribulations they face along the way.
July 12th, 2014. Rock n Wings Club. Los Angeles.
The echo of the amplifier's distortion rang through Phil's head, as his sweaty guitar pick slammed back down onto his strings in yet another heavy power chord. With his mouth pressed against the microphone, his voice roared throughout the club's darkened interior. His voice's anger, yet melodic touch possessed the crowd of headbangers down below from the elevated stage, all of them dressed in various heavy metal t-shirts and garments.
But Phil wasn't the only behind this possession, for to his right life-long juvenile delinquent and stoner, Z, still with his cliche punk-style green hair plucked away furiously at his bass guitar's strings like Steve Harris. And to his left, the self-kept, but absolute demon at lead guitar on stage, Trevor, ran through an original solo at incredible speeds, not even breaking a sweat or hitting a bad note. In addition to this group of young adults, and not to be diminished as lacking anymore skill than the rest, twenty feet behind them the one and only Dil Pickles kept up on drum set, adding his intricate fills at exactly the right moment, his custom Zildijan Cymbals making beautiful noise amongst the stringed instruments.
There was only one word that could have described them that night: Perfection.
"Now that was our original, 'Scorched Earth'," Phil said into the mic with a grin plastered on his face, nonchalantly brushing his sweaty bangs out of his eyes as the crowd screamed for more, "There is more shit like that on our debut album, Made in China. If you want a copy of it go grab one by our merch stand near the exit." Pointing over to where Chuckie, Phil and Dil's lifelong friend was standing waving over to the crowd of metalheads.
"They're only like ten bucks so don't be cheap and go buy one, and while you're at it grab a t-shirt, and if you haven't figured it out yet, we're called Writing on the Wall," At the mention of their name, the crowd erupted into cheers, causing a smile to spread across Phil and his band-mates' faces for the billionth time that night. Settling back into place for another song, Phil suddenly jumped back up-to the mic frantically, "Oh shit, how did I forget," Pulling a plastic CD case out of his dark jean pocket, "I got a copy of Made in China on me right now. Who wants it?" Phil asked with a devious smile on his face, holding the disk with two fingers in his hand as the crowd grasped for it as if it was the essence of life. "Well, here ya go," Tossing it into the center of the two hundred-plus person crowd, the human orgy immediately becoming a mosh pit seeking the meager eight-song disk, until finally a twenty-something year old with an Iron Maiden Number of the Beast shirt on prevailed. The black eye and chipped tooth he received in the process was certainly worth it.
From the safety of the stage, all the band members were keeled over in sadistic laughter until an always thinking ahead Phil got an idea, "In honor of our number one fan down there, we'll play a special song for him."
Dil eyed Phil intently, practically yelling over the crowd, "What the fuck you talking about?"
You'll see. He mouthed back to him and the rest of the band who were asking the same question.
"Please feel free to sing along if you wish." Phil said in a regular tone before his voice became dark and mystic. The second the first word he spoke was uttered, the three confused musicians behind him immediately caught on, along with the massive crowd below.
"Woe to you, oh earth and sea," The entire crowd shouting his own words back at him in perfect synchronization, "For the Devil sends the beast with wrath. Because he knows the time is short..." Them all itching with anticipation for what was to come next.
"Let him who hath understanding thee reckon the number of the beast. For it is a human number. Its number is six hundred and sixty six."
The whole club, for the first time that night was silent. Complete silence. When Trevor perfectly picked up on the intro riff; it building, and building in intensity with each passing second.
"I left alone, my mind was blank..." Phil began creepily, staring back at the crowd,them all seemingly mesmerized by the young band in that very moment.
The drums kicked in right on cue, fast, perfectly spaced accents on the hi-hat as Phil's voice grew darker. " 'Cause in my dreams...IT'S ALWAYS THERE!" That evil face that twists my mind and brings me to despair...YEAHHHH!" His voice soaring as high as Bruce Dickinson's; as humanly possible. His own bandmates were in shock that his vocal capacity was so extraordinary. I mean, they knew he was good at singing, just not that amazing.
The once tamed mosh pit went back into a frenzy of headbanging and sweat, screaming the lyrics back in Phil's face.
"Night was black, was no use holding back," Phil sang, grabbing hold of the mic, letting Trevor take lead on guitar. " 'Cause I just had to see, was someone watching me?"
The lights blurring their vision, the heat of pure adrenaline, the constant chant of their name in the dark. This is what they always wanted. And they got it. "In the mist, dark figures move and twist, was all this for real or just some kind of Hell?"
"SIX! SIX, SIX! THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST! HELL AND FIRE WAS SPAWNED TO BE RELEASED!"
But any type of fame is no overnight thing, it all has to start somewhere.
In this case, the Pickle's garage six years before.
What do you think? Please feel free to leave a review saying if you like the way the story is going. Thanks in advance, next chapter coming up soon.