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The club manager's flashlight meant that it was finally time. The band had been playing new metal cover songs for a few hours now because they were not allowed to really play until it was late. The club was a typical "underground" hangout. This particular club was a mecca of brutal "black metal" music. Most of it doesn't have much to say but the late night patrons aren't there for up to date political satire. Tonight's band was not an oddity for this club, except for the lead singer. Usually these bands are made up of people in their late 20s, however, the lead singer looked no older than 18. Not that he didn't fit the role. He was tattooed from head to toe and many piercings marred what would have been a pleasantly handsome face.

The lead singer turned to the rest of his band, "You ready to play?" They nodded in agreement.

"We're ready Diel," and with that, they turned up their amplifiers. Diel readied his guitar and smirked, THIS was the fun part. Diel walked up to the microphone.

"Ok everybody listen up. We just got the green light, so…1…2…a 1 2 FUCK YOU!"

Diel was giving his all and the crowd was loving it. Sure, he wouldn't be able to speak correctly for a few days after all this screaming but it was all worth it for the fans. The roar of the crowd, a collective appreciation and admiration for his talents; that is what he did this for. Diel was half way through a song when his hand quickly slipped off the fret board, bringing the song screeching to a halt. Something was wrong.

"Hey man what's up?" The bassist asked.

Diel turned back and quietly said, "Look...I...I gotta take a break, ok?" Diel then turned to the microphone, "We are gonna take a short break but we're gonna be back with some seriously heavy shit soon enough!" The band members got a little worried. Diel looked seriously spooked, and when Diel got spooked he usually got...suicidal.

"Aw man! I knew it! Now THIS is why I come here!" one of the patrons said to his friend.

"What the hell are you talking about? They just took a break," his friend answered non-chalantly, obviously not understanding why his friend was so excited.

"Dude! you just don't get it. These guys are Hammer Smashed Face and that's Diel!"

"So"

"SO! Dude, whenever Diel walks off the stage like that it means one of two things. He either comes back without getting a fix and brings his guitar with him, meaning more mediocre crap..."

"Or...?"

" Or he fucking cokes up backstage and will only do vocals. But the most fucked up vocals you have EVER HEARD! Plus it gets real fucking bloody up there on stage when that happens. I heard Diel can't play in Germany anymore because when he cut his throat on stage, he invited a fan to drink it and she got aids."

"Oh shit...then this should be good..."

Diel went backstage, sat down on a large couch, and just stared at the wall thinking. He knew something was wrong; it had to be. Joss had enabled him to play beyond his normal limits, but it had never failed him that quickly. Diel was startled to his senses when his cell phone went off. He flipped it open and took the call.

"Yeah?"

"We've got a job for you."

"Look is this some kind of..."

"Diel Azazel...do not forget who your benefactors are." He had left the surname Azazel way back in the past. His father's name was Azazel, but his father was a cruel heartless bastard.

"Fuck off." This was bad. This was very very bad. He hadn't done a "job" in a long time, he didn't want to. He just wanted to play music and then live the last of his years in a nice place in the Norwegian mountains. 80 years was long enough, he didn't feel like doing Azazel's dirty work or the Camarilla's. They could all go to hell, just leave him be.

You know...you shouldn't let anger brew like that. Yeah, it was right. He shouldn't. Sometimes you just have to let rage flow to satiate your cruel desires. They are gonna get a great fucking show tonight...

Diel quietly approached the stage. He walked with his head down so that the stage lights that normally illuminated the band instead shrouded Diel's face in a mask of shadow. He strolled up to the microphone slow and steady, completely oblivious to the overjoyed screams of the audience. As he reached the microphone, the only part of his face not blanketed in shadow was a pair of gleaming fangs that poked out from under the darkness.

He slowly raised his head and a wave of light encompassed his face. The fans stopped hollering for a second; everyone was awestruck at how completely mad his face had become. It's wild eyes darted across the room and was accompanied by a sneer just as violent. Diel then turned his face back down and raised his hands to his arms. He dug his nails into his triceps and began to rake across. Sometimes, you can be too strong for your own good. Blood poured over his arms as he tore through flesh and muscle. He stopped once his hands had finished its gruesome deed by coming to the end of his arm. He took a step towards the microphone and held out his arms letting blood drip onto the stage floor under him.

"We call this, Disciple," he hissed as he tensed his arm muscles, increasing the flow of blood onto the floor. Diel snapped his neck back and howled, " GOD HATES US ALL!"

"Homicide! Suicide!

Hate heals, you should try it sometime

Strive for peace with acts of war"

While Diel's lower soul immersed itself in the rage and hatred of the song that it's host was singing and reveling in the agony dug deep into his arms, he just kept remembering what it was all for. Pain, passion, torment, all of it was a way to a greater understanding. Each tear is a new lesson, each cry a vision of faith. Just a sudden flash of light leaves deeper darkness, so the lash of pain creates greater calm. Restraint comes from the fear of pain; hence, welcome pain and banish restraint. Agony should be savored for the insights it brings - insights that turn to higher joys, if you understand their meaning.

"The beauty of death we all adore

I have no faith distracting me

I know why you're prayers will never be answered!

GOD HATES US ALL; GOD HATES US ALL.

HE FUCKING HATES ME!" Diel screamed at the top of his lungs, only stopping to spit up his lunch. After he wiped what was left of his lunch from his mouth, he took out a knife he had in his pocket. While the guitars kept playing, he lifted the knife up to his chest.

"You know what they say, across for blood," he said as he sliced along the top of his chest. "And down like you mean it!" he shouted, as he made another incision down the center of the first cut to make the sign of the cross.

It was 1:00 in the morning when the concert finally "ended". Diel had lost a lot of blood and had to be carried off the stage because he had passed out. The club owner had been told of Diel's antics by the other band members, so there was already a couch backstage with towels draped over it for the others to lay Diel on. After they situated him on the couch, they left the room.

They knew Diel never wanted to be disturbed after a concert like this. At one point or another every member of the band had wondered how Diel didn't bleed to death but eventually, each bought into the urban legend of Diel "The Immortal".

Diel struggled to prop himself up onto the arm of the couch so he could see his wounds. Even he was shocked at how awful he looked. He counted only four cuts, even though his shirt was soaked red and his jeans looked as if he had jumped into a river. Maybe he had gone a little too far. He had already passed out once and he didn't know if he had the energy to heal these deep gashes, especially the ones on his arms. Diel decided that if he couldn't make a full recovery he would at least stop the bleeding.

He concentrated on the blood pumping through his veins until he could follow the rhythm of his heartbeat and make his breathing synonymous with it. He continued concentrating until he could feel what he sought: It moved like blood throughout his body but felt a little like electricity. His teacher had called it yang chi, the energy of life, motion, and, well, there was a third part that he said, but Diel had forgotten it long ago. It had been many years since he had been formally quizzed on chi, but his practical knowledge of its application was phenomenal.

To him, this stuff was life's blood. By concentrating these energies to where his injuries are he could mend himself well beyond medical means. This gift was what had started the urban legend of Diel "The Immortal". There was also yin chi, but he was never very good at working with that stuff. Besides, those who rely on that usually start to look and act like corpses; not very good for the life of a rock star. Who wants to be a lethargic stiff anyways?

Of course it could be worse, he could be a raksha. These guys were bad news, they didn't just defy their inner demon they revel in it. Why Diel was remembering all this now he didn't know.

He closed his wounds just enough to stop the bleeding. Diel noticed he was starting to slip in and out of consciousness; using his talents usually left him feeling drained. If he didn't bleed all over the furniture, the club manager shouldn't care if he stayed the night, he thought. After that performance, he would be surprised if the manager even had the courage to speak to him again. Of course, the manager might call the cops if he was discovered. Well, that's a risk Diel was willing to take, he couldn't move if he wanted to.

******