The King of Metal -Part one.

In 1986 I was the king of Metal. I had all the women, I had all the booze, I had all the music. I had everything I ever wanted and more, and I ate it all up, buffet style—a fat kid at a birthday party. My big block ’72 Nova dripped horsepower, and together we muscled and bullied my small town streets one burn-out at a time, terrorizing the locals. The little kids would see me at a stop sign and give me the burn-out signal and I would light ’em up. Smoke billowing thick and mean into the air, Tom Araya screaming vocals to pierce my ears as the double bass drumming of Dave Lombardo punched like Tyson through the Bondo and rust quarter panels in sync with my bored out V8. The kids would scream and run away. Neighbors would come out of their houses, fists raised, and threaten to call the cops. I was a spike studded urban legend rolled up in denim and leather, a long haired Hessian with nothing to lose and a fuck-the world attitude: and Slayer was blasting the soundtrack to my real life Peckinpah style movie and I was the fucking star, no one fucked with me, I was invincible, I was the King of Metal. The world was truly at my feet that year until the phone rang.