Daemonum
By Richard Beauchamp
“I don’t know man, the guy kinda spooks me honestly. I tried looking him up after I heard the demo reel. No social media, no previous band history.” Brett Aickman said as he faced his Engl half stack and tuned his guitar while his bandmates performed other various pre practice rituals. “Guy is a fuckin ghost. Look, if he kills it today and we decide to bring him on board we gotta talk to this guy about building an online presence.” He continued.
“Who gives a fuck if the dude lives off the grid or something man, we go on tour in a week, and his vocal performance was one of the most insane things I’ve heard. I’ve heard brutal gutturals before and guys who can fry their highs out the ass, but this dude literally doesn’t even sound human. I love it. I’d give less of a shit if he was the fuckin’ zodiac killer. If he can bring that sound to the stage and keep us from having to cancel our CD release tour, then I’m sold.” John Cromwell said as he likewise tuned his bass and fiddled with the settings on his Ampeg head.
“What he said.” Aiden Parson replied, speaking over the soft padding of his sticks beating a rubber practice pad. The trio proceeded to warm up with their set list as they waited for their potential new vocalist to find the studio they practiced out of, a repurposed brewery plant on the outskirts of Saint Louis.
When the man, who called himself Agares, finally appeared, no one in the band was expecting what they saw. Other than the sleek, long black hair that flowed past his shoulders, he looked more like a model for Calvin Klein than the vocalist for a technical death metal band. A flawless alabaster face, sharp defined cheekbones, piercing gray eyes that made every member who looked into them feel light headed. He had the chiseled muscles of a bodybuilder. Brett, who was fairly secure with his sexuality and had never been attracted to another man in his life, could only describe Agares as severely beautiful.
“I am hoping you are the band known as Daemonum, otherwise I will be late.” He said in a booming voice that was not loud, but projected powerfully nonetheless, in an accent that was unplaceable.
“Uh… Yeah, yeah! That’s us man. Pleasure to meet you, I’m Brett.” Brett said, stammering at first before remembering his manners and going up to shake the man’s hand. It was a ninety degree summer day outside, but despite this, Agares’s grip was hard, and icy, like shaking hands with a statue. Likewise introductions were made around, everyone trying not to wince as their hands came in contact with his.
After a brief chat in which Agares, who did not reveal a surname, told them that he was just a nobody working as a bagman in some town they had never heard of, a passionate metalhead who heard about the audition call for their band and decided to take a chance. They all encouraged and expressed how much they loved his recorded audition, and eventually they put a mic in his hand and did a quick sound check before rehearsal.
To the ears of Brett, Aiden and John, it was the most beautifully heavy rehearsal they had ever heard. Agares performed flawlessly, sounding somehow even better in person than on the demo. No one in the band could really tell what he was saying, but the phonetic patterns sounded eloquent despite being screamed out in that hellishly powerful voice. After the practice, it was almost like they were all high, or drunk, despite no one in the band ingesting any of their favorite psychoactive vices. After a brief discussion about the tour, in which Agares seemed very eager to “spread his message”, the band had come to an agreement.
The decision was unanimous, the manager was called, and it was official: The “Hell on earth: Daemonum CD release tour!” was scheduled back on.
# # #
John and Aiden were busy loading up the van and attached trailer with merch, gear and bottled water when Brett came up to them, a black notebook in his hands. They were heading out tonight, their first stop was The Mud House in Kansas City, a four hour drive, and once Agares arrived they would head out immediately.
“What’s that?” John asked, pointing to the notebook.
“Man… Look, Agares left it here last practice, okay? I wasn’t going through his shit, but he just left this out in the open. I didn’t know what it was, so I opened it. Just… Look in there man. It’s weird.” He said, his voice sounded nervous, almost afraid, something John had only heard from his guitarist when the acid they occasionally dropped together would come on a tad bit too strong. He grabbed the notebook, a leather bound type with tanned pages, it looked incredibly old. He opened it carefully, and his eyebrows went up as he slowly flipped through some of the pages. Many pages had long lines of what he presumed were lyrics, scrawled out in an elegant old fashioned script, but they were written in a language he didn’t know. At the top of each page was a name, or a title, all of the words in that bizarre foreign, yet familiar language. “Bael” “Valefor” “Barbas” “Amon”, and next to each title was a small, yet fastidiously detailed sketch of some kind of creature, each one unique and hideous in it’s own way. Aiden had stopped loading up the amps to peer over John’s shoulder, and his brows furrowed in concern.
“I’m pretty sure that’s Latin. Those names look familiar too. Demon names? I don’t know, I dropped out of my philosophy courses half a semester in.” He said, taking the notebook from John.
“Oh, of course you would know that. Looks like that psychology degree was good for something.” John said sarcastically.
“Look man, I know we have like pentagrams and shit on our merch, and I know Alex was big on the militant atheist schtick back when he screamed for us. But I’m not down with having an actual occult motherfucker around. He’s an awesome vocalist, but I just get a weird vibe from the guy.” Brett said, drawing eyerolls and a scoff from the rest of his band members.
“Yeah, the dude is a little weird, but who gives a shit? How many metalheads do you know that aren’t weird in some way? Now stop fucking around with this stupid crap and help us get the rest of the equipment loaded up, it’s already two and the load in is at 6:30. Speaking of which, where is Agares? I told him to be here at 12.” John said.
“He said he’s driving himself. Or that he has his own transportation, something like that. Whatever, he said he would meet us there.” Aiden said, his voice growing apprehensive as he realized this little peculiar tidbit was only strengthening Brett’s position that their new vocalist may have something to hide.
“What the fuck? Are you serious? I put in the extra third row seat for him and everything.” John replied, turning his head to look at Aiden with incredulity. In all his years of touring, John Cromwell had never heard of a member, especially the front man, riding solo on a national tour. Aiden shrugged, and Brett had that smug I told you so smartass look on his face. John sighed and threw up his hands.
“Whatever man, as long as he’s there when we pull up. Come on, I’m done discussing this shit. You guys can investigate whether or not he likes to sacrifice goats and other satanic fuckery on your own time.” He said as he opened up the back doors of the Econoline 500 and began throwing boxes of t-shirts onto the bench seat reserved for Agares.
#
Agares was there, and their first show of the tour was a major success. The venue was packed, the crowd was energetic, so energetic in fact, that the four mosh pits that formed during their set ended up sending ten people to the hospital, with one young fan going completely berserk and trying to fight the EMTs that were attempting to suture shut a gash above his eyebrow. “Kid was clearly trippin’ on something, must of turned south, he was completely out of his mind.” The venue manager told the band after the show as they were tearing down, and he paid them their share from the door. Despite the violent evening, the band had sold over five hundred dollars in merchandise that night, which was an astronomical profit compared to how much they usually earned during a tour cycle. The band chalked this good night up to their new vocalist, whom everyone seemed to love, and left the venue in high spirits as they substituted their usual ramen and dollar beer meals with Mcdonalds and premium malt liquor, feasting like royalty.
The next night, they played The Hushpuppy in Denver, and it was almost identical in terms of turnout and profitability. The crowd was even more violent this time, and twice security staff from the Hushpuppy had to break up fights where weapons were involved, and by the end of the set the grimy gum-pocked floor looked like a Jackson Pollock painting in which Crimson was the dominant pallet.
“Did anyone see Agares leave? That guy just seems to fuckin disappear. I’ve never even seen him drive.” Brett said as he piloted the passenger van down I-80. John was about to comment with a smartass reply about his fixation on Agares when Aiden interrupted.
“Holy shit guys.” He said, his face illuminated by the glowing rectangle of his phone. He passed it to John, and saw that it was a breaking news headline from CNN:
45 PEOPLE DEAD IN APPARENT RANDOM MASS SHOOTING IN KANSAS CITY BAR FRIDAY NIGHT the headline screamed, and showed the shattered glass front of a bar called the Hi-Dive, which was right down the street from the venue where the band began their tour. When he saw who the suspect was, John nearly threw up the beer he was drinking.
“Jesus man, that was right down the street from us! And that guy was at our show! That’s too fuckin close for comfort. Way to fuckin close.” John said, his voice shaking.
“ What’re you guys talking about?” Brett asked, and John read him the article.
“Remember that guy? He bought like 5 t-shirts and all of our albums. Jesus man, I hope they don’t make a connection there. He literally just left our show and went and killed like fifty fuckin people man.” Aiden said from the back seat. A tense silence hung in the van as they drove on, headed towards Salt lake city.
The next night, when they met up with Agares outside of the Club Bistro bar and told him the news, he seemed utterly nonplussed. No one in the band commented on his bizarre, almost cruel attitude towards the tragedy, but this aberration in human behavior was eclipsed as they headed inside the bar and saw the headlines flashing on the flat screens perched on either corner of the serving area.
25 PEOPLE KILLED AND OVER 60 INJURED FROM APPARENT GARBAGE TRUCK ATTACK IN DENVER- Sources say that a city garbage truck was stolen from Denver Municipal waste and driven into a crowded sidewalk in downtown Denver late last night. Suspect is in custody. No word on whether or not… Brett stood stock still in the middle of the bar, watching the ticker scroll across the monitor. They briefly showed an image of the suspect, a young male in his early twenties, sporting a DAEMONUM shirt.
“No fucking way.” Aiden said under his breath. Agares saw the screen, and grinned. They all noticed it, and none of them could deny the look of savage glee on his face.
That night, two people in the audience were stabbed. Brett stopped playing and was about to get down into the crowd when he felt a cold hand around his throat.
“No, you do not stop playing, you never stop playing, not unless I say so. The message will be spread.” He heard an inhuman voice whisper in his ear. And like some subliminal command, he kept playing, oblivious to the blood shed that occurred around him as Agares seemed to touch his soul with those cruel words.
That night, someone had thrown a pipe bomb into a crowded SLC metro bus, killing thirty seven people. The suspect was wearing a DAEMONUM shirt. By the end of the tour, the band was nearly world famous, being labelled “the most dangerous heavy metal act in the world”. Their merchandise sales went through the roof. They had three different record labels contacting them. They were getting offers for international tours. A grand total of around five hundred people had been killed by acts of mass violence by the time they came home, the linking motif to these killing grounds being the lone DEAMONUM fan who sought out the blood lust they could not satiate in the mosh pit.
#
By the time of their third tour, everyone of the original members of Deamonum had surrendered their autonomy to Agares. During this slow, subtle brainwashing process, Agares had told them of his origins. How he was actually sent by his king, who’s real name could not be pronounced with a human tongue, to spread the message of cleansing. That he was a slave to his king until his job was done, and the members and fans of Daemonum would be slaves to Agares until humanity was freed of it’s heretical attitude to deny the existence of the true forces of the world. It was a slow, numbing process, with some resistance from the members at first, but eventually they learned to welcome it. It was easier than facing the fact that they were slowly ushering in a new age of chaos, of dark reckoning.
The more time they spent with Agares, the more they came to understand his message, his cause, and the more they saw him as a prophet. Their goal was to spread a message of cleansing, of purity, of brotherhood across the world. They had their first world tour a year after he joined. With every show they played, they gained legions of loyal followers. They gained national religious status in many countries. They gained infamy, and legacy.
By the end of their world tour, Agares was no longer a slave. The advent of enlightenment and cleansing had consumed the world, one shredding riff at a time.
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