Yo, dudes, what’s up? Man, good to be back at the Saint Vitus Bar. There are only so many Svart Records releases from Finland that I can listen to in my small apartment in Bay Ridge before I need to get out and see some real fucking metal sounds, live onstage! Hey, where do you get your drugs?

Let’s have a beer, man. Which do you prefer, a bitter draft IPA or a super cheap tall boy? I prefer the second, as it represents my ethos. I’m more like that, a budget-conscious young man just trying to make enough to buy cassettes. Isn’t it so cool how cassette tapes have become a new alternative to vinyl among people of our social sphere? It’s more circuitously retro, dude, because finding a Walkman is tougher than buying a turntable these days, and in the later 80s when metal thrived, all we had were cassettes. There’s no critiquing it, that’s just how we are as modern metalheads! Listen, what I’m really trying to find is drugs. Mainly cocaine, if you know a guy.

Who’s on your shirt? Aw, man, I used to listen to those guys before they got so into hipsterism. Those pastel colors and collegiate artistic expressions just aren’t true metal if you ask me. When I was getting super high a lot, my old drug dealer was a real headbanger and would play me tons of Enslaved, but then he started hanging out with all the dudes in The Liturgies and suddenly he just wasn’t real anymore, as within the context of real and false metal. He sold his leather jacket for a blazer, man. Can you believe that? This isn’t Revolver, with all its fashionable rock bands. We’re trying to be the underground, of metal! So I need a new drug dealer, someone who references Accept and has a real metal philosophy. I feel like you guys might know someone. You seem pretty true. What? No, that’s not a badge. That’s a band pin.

Like this patch, man? Yeah, I fucking love Nachtmystium, man. I had to write away to Rockabilia to get them to send it to me. It was worth the wait, though—this is true esoteric metal culture. This band’s mixing of ‘70s psychedelia and black metal really opened up the genre, and you can tell by how quickly they send out merch that they’re dedicated to their fans. This is a patch of the limited version of the album cover that had a microphone in it. Come closer and check it out. What? I can’t hear you, dude, talk into my Nachtmystium patch. Have you called your drug guy yet? No worries if you haven’t, just let me know when the deal is going down, and be sure to lean in towards the patch because I can hear you better.

10-4, moving in on suspect, over. What’s that, dude? Nothing! Hail the Devil!

Man, I can’t wait for these bands to whip the crowd into a frenzy. My main thing is headbanging. While moshing feels sophomoric, brutish, and unnecessary for much of the progressive metal music we listen to here in Brooklyn, I’m also not one of those snobs who just stands there with his arms folded. You need to headbang and go metal thrashing mad up front like they used to in the old days. Maybe if a faster, or more ‘core’, band was playing, then I might throw some elbows, but this isn’t the place for five-finger death punching if you ask me. Heavy metal is more about enjoying new music, and cocaine, that’s sold tonight, in this area of Brooklyn. All I need is the hook-up, especially a phone number and the name of a supplier. Can you tell me one, and describe the items I might buy from him? Louder, dude.

Dude, I do so many drugs. It’s cool, my young body can stand it the morning after. Last time I was here, I caught Inner Armor from Richmond, and I got so high on weed nuggets and key bumping that I had a sky burial of my own, if you know what I mean? Right, dude? Right? Naw, it’s cool, I just wish I could get shwasted tonight, but like I said, I just have too much metal pride to call my hipstered-out ex-dealer. Maybe if you have an old number lying around, maybe? Someone whose name you got from one of your junkie metal friends who just likes to party? It’s all good, man. Just trying to get crazy tonight. Let’s stand up and shout for now. But we’ll talk later, okay?

— Scab Casserole