Excuse The Blood by A.K. McCarthy

Excuse The Blood

By A.K. McCarthy

Fret Frenzy Magazine staff writer Michael Dufresne was assigned to profile rock guitarist Alistair Cromwell in April 2018, and the following is the article he submitted. Dufresne has not been in contact since sending this, and Cromwell has denied that this interview ever took place.

Don’t call him Al.

That’s the one thing Alistair Cromwell’s agent told me in advance of my interview with the Fetus Fajitas lead guitarist. The simple, if odd, request made me picture a standoffish subject and one who prefers to set the narrative, even when it comes to what people call him.

Get him at his favorite San Antonio coffee shop, though, and the 24-year-old seems like an old friend.

Cromwell told me to meet him at Rubella Coffee at noon sharp, and when I got there a few minutes early I found Cromwell already halfway through his first cup. We sat on the patio, the merciless Texas sun beating down on Cromwell’s heavily tattooed hands as he gripped his coffee mug. Even in the heat, he was wearing his famous black silk scarf.

He didn’t waste any time making me welcome, as he ordered me a black coffee to match his and pointed out a spinach-stuffed croissant on the menu.

“It’s to die for,” Cromwell said, leaning back in his chair and brushing his stringy brown hair behind his ear.

It was hard to picture Cromwell, known for his heavy riffs and scorching guitar solos, enjoying a croissant.

“People picture us as these guys who are just wild and aggressive all the time, but that’s really just the on-stage persona,” he explained. “I don’t mean to dash anyone’s image of us, but when we’re not screaming and breaking shit on stage, we really don’t do much.”

Fetus Fajitas, fresh off the massive success of their third album “Death March,” just completed a world tour. Cromwell and his famous scarves had traveled from Miami to Moscow.

“Now,” Cromwell explained, “it’s time to get back into our hobbies.”

Those hobbies, believe it or not, include getting involved with his church. Unbeknownst to me, Cromwell had arranged for us to go to a service after coffee. We were only at Rubella for about half an hour when he said it was time to head out.

A church service with a metal guitarist? How could I pass that up?

We hopped in his Ford Bronco, hardly the ride of a guy who’s the driving creative force of a multi-platinum rock band, and headed to the west side of town.

“It’s not a traditional church service,” he said, turning the radio down. “It’s very interactive.”

After about 20 minutes of driving — and listening to a couple singles from metal newcomers Flipswitch — Cromwell pulled the Bronco over into the parking lot of a strip mall. The surprises just kept coming.

We walked up to an unlabeled door and Cromwell pulled out a long, black key. The windows were all covered from the inside with black paper.

“Don’t tell anyone this is your first time here,” Cromwell said. “Just lie. Trust me.”

I shrugged and nodded my head in hesitant agreement. I found myself longing for the comfort of a spinach-stuffed croissant.

“Don’t worry,” Cromwell told me, seeing the hesitation on my face. “You’re gonna like this.”

He unlocked the door and we walked in. The space was empty behind the black paper. Cromwell’s steps echoed off the white walls as his black boots struck the concrete floor. I followed hesitantly, wondering if I should have my phone at the ready to call for help.

My concern only grew worse when Cromwell knelt and opened what appeared to be a trapdoor of some sort. An orange glow shot out of the open square in the floor, filling the dim room with what appeared to be candlelight.

“I’ll go first,” Cromwell said, his lip curling up with a smile.

Cromwell deftly hopped onto the ladder that led downward. I leaned over him uneasily, trying to look around him to see what awaited. I took one last glance toward the front door. Then I looked back.

Cromwell was smiling up at me, as dozens of candles made it look like his skin was moving.

I convinced myself that this would make a great story, both for publication and for just telling for the rest of my life. I stepped onto the ladder and climbed slowly down.

The room was vast, and much larger than the space we’d just been in. It was still sparsely decorated, as the cement floor and drywall were mostly untouched. Tall, orange candles lined the room, making the it look like some kind of hellish dance club. The whole space looked as if it were breathing.

In the back of the room was a small stage. A dais stood in the middle of it.

To the left and right of the dais were two guitars connected to enormous Orange brand amps. The guitars were matching black Schecter Demon S-II guitars. They were horned like a usual SG model, with one horn slightly higher than the other.

A few dozen wooden chairs faced the stage, and were mostly full. Many of the parishioners to this horrific service looked much like Cromwell, with long black hair and black shirts. Some of them too wore black silk scarves to match Cromwell.

Probably fans of the band, I thought to myself. Fetus Eaters, as Fetus Fajitas fans called themselves, were famous for wearing the scarves to concerts.

I followed Cromwell to a pair of seats on the right side, and my curiosity was starting to grow. We waited in silence for just a couple minutes until a man stood up from his seat in the front row and walked to the dais.

He wore a plain white robe, which contrasted perfectly with his long, black hair that hung just past his shoulders. The man, whose name I would later learn was Father Crowley, extended his arms out to his sides.

“Welcome, my children,” he said in a booming voice. “Today is another beautiful day to praise Auran.”

“PRAISE AURAN,” the majority of the attendees boomed in response.

I almost stood up to run, but I was too frightened.

“Passion is the key to feeling alive,” Crowley said, shaking his fist. “You cannot drift your way through life.”

Heads were nodding throughout the room, slowly.

“As the Book of Necrobutcher tells us, ‘Those who worship calmly live calmly. And those who live calmly never feel the ecstasy of emotion.’”

“Yes!” one man shouted from the left. Heads were nodding a little harder.

Crowley continued for a few minutes, each line looking to stir the emotions of the longhaired congregation. I found myself nodding my head from time to time.

“Now, for a hymn,” Crowley said when he had his audience engaged.

Two long haired men wearing white vests and black leather pants walked up to the guitars. They strapped them on, and launched into the ghastliest, most depraved song I have heard. And remember, I write about metal for a living.

They strummed clashing minor chords, making everything in the room shake like a china cabinet full of broken plates. Everything was rattling, but none of it in rhythm with anything else.

I looked around, seeing that most people had their eyes closed and their heads facing the ceiling. They were breathing hard, for the most part, some of them absolutely heaving as they felt carried away with whatever was coursing through those Demon guitars and Orange amps.

I let those horrific chords wash over me, the descending notes dripping with electric fuzz as they burst from the amps. It seemed like it lasted for an hour, and I found that I was almost in tears by the time it ended.

It stopped suddenly, both guitarists muting their strings at once. The room was silent except for the heavy breathing of the worshippers. Crowley, who had taken his seat in the front row for the music, walked back up to the dais.

“Auran teaches us to indulge,” Crowley said, his voice getting lower and slower on the last word. “If you’re listening to music, listen to it loud. If you’re making love, do it hard. If you’re playing drums, carry two sticks in each hand. And if you’re worshipping him, do it with all your heart and your mind and your body.”

Crowley surveyed the room.

“Are there any among us who have not yet committed yourselves to him?”

Remembering what Cromwell told me, I stayed quiet. A few hands went up. Crowley motioned for them to come to the front of the room.

Three women and two men walked slowly to the stage as Crowley and the two guitarists watched them closely. Crowley motioned for them to move closer to him, beckoning them with a wizened index finger that was topped with a long nail.

They obliged, gathering around him on the stage a few feet behind the dais. Crowley reached his hand under his robe and appeared to pull out a handful of powder. Crowley bowed to the five newcomers, then blew the powder into their faces.

They stumbled backward for a moment, but then all stood rigidly at attention. The room was dead silent, everything still for a moment.

Crowley smiled contentedly and signaled for the quintet to turn toward the audience. They turned, and a pleased murmur spread through the crowd.

Their faces appeared to have been painted white, with black paint around their eyes and on their lips. They looked like any number of black metal stage performers I’d covered or read about over the years, except for one major difference: they were smiling. Beaming, in fact.

Crowley walked around them and up to the dais again.

“I introduce you all to the new sons and daughters of Auran.”

Everyone in attendance shot their fists up in the air in unison.

“PRAISE AURAN! PRAISE AURAN! PRAISE AURAN!”

Silence fell back over the room, but only for a moment. The guitarists struck again, this time hitting the same chord, which sounded to me like a diminished chord of some kind. It was equally as horrifying, but with both of them playing it in unison, the room seemed to vibrate with energy.

The candles seemed to burn brighter. The people in the seats seemed like they started to breathe in unison. The recently transformed children of Auran smiled a little broader.

I found that I was beginning to feel something, too. A deep, dark energy seemed to be rising within me.

Then the humming started.

Crowley raised his arms and all the people in the congregation began to hum. They all hummed the same note, matching the haunting chord. It was a low sound at first, but began to rise.

The guitarists kept pounding those chords in unison. The parishioners kept humming. Crowley kept his arms in the air. The children of Auran kept smiling.

The humming grew steadily louder, and some of the devotees began to stand up. Others began to shout or even scream, all of them keeping the same note.

Suddenly, I felt it coming up inside me. I couldn’t stop it. I began singing, loudly, on key with the rest. I slowly rose out of my chair, almost without meaning to do it. I looked down at Cromwell, who smiled broadly as he saw me standing up.

Cromwell rose a moment later, still humming, and put an arm around my shoulder. A warm surge ran through my body that I’d never felt before.

I can’t say how long this went on. It could have been two minutes or it could have been two hours. By the end of it, everyone was standing. Some embraced each other platonically while others kissed passionately.

The guitarists let the chord die out, and the beautiful sounds faded into a fuzzy oblivion. Everyone turned to the dais, where Crowley stood with a knife and a large empty jug.

“Communion,” I heard one man behind me whisper.

Crowley looked up to the ceiling for a moment, as if trying to listen for something above. His neck skin stretched as he did so, and I noticed a large scar that ran from ear to ear. I began to try and think of what that could mean, but my ears were still buzzing from the music and it was hard to think.

“Being a true follower of Auran means committing fully,” Crowley said, his voice taking on an even stronger tenor. “I’ve done it. Many of you have done it. Now, one of these five newcomers will don the scarf.”

The five people stood still, smiling those stunning smiles. Crowley turned toward them and held his knife in front of their throats, one by one. He started with a small woman on the right, holding the gleaming blade an inch away from her white-painted throat.

He held it there for a moment and then moved to the next person. Then the next. What was he looking for? I wondered.

Then Crowley moved to the next person in line, a tall man with a mop of black curly hair that hung just past his ears. When Crowley held the knife to that man’s throat, both amplifiers spurted out feedback, the likes of which I’ve never heard.

I turned away violently. A few others did as well, making me feel a little better.

When the feedback died out after a moment, another contented murmur ran through the congregation. Crowley turned toward them.

“We have our new scarf-wearer,” he said, as some congregants took off their scarves.

I turned to Cromwell, who slowly removed his. A scar, one much fresher than Crowley’s, crossed his neck.

I looked back toward the stage just in time to see Crowley insert his knife under the man’s left ear and quickly swing it across his throat to the other ear. The man kept smiling — I can still see his face — as a cascade of dark blood flowed lazily from his throat and down into Crowley’s jug.

After a few moments, the man collapsed and Crowley turned toward the congregation.

“Scarf-wearers drink first.”

Cromwell and the others who bore scars on their throats walked excitedly toward the center aisle, where they formed a line. More than a few of them were bouncing from foot to foot, and some were licking their lips.

The first woman in line bowed her head to Crowley, whispered something, tilted her head back and opened her mouth. Crowley nodded and poured a trickle of blood into the woman’s mouth. Crowley then whispered something back to the woman.

This continued, person after person. They all bowed, whispered, drank and walked back to their seats.

Cromwell was near the end of the line, and I watched him closely. I thought Crowley had more of a smile for Cromwell than for the others, but perhaps I was just seeing what I wanted to see.

Cromwell walked back to his seat, and I leaned over to him immediately.

“What did you whisper?” I asked.

“Excuse the blood,” he whispered into my ear.

I hardly had time to process it before Crowley spoke again.

“Now all the others,” he said, holding up a jug that was still half-full.

The warmth that had spread through me from the song earlier was starting to wear off. I walked somewhat nervously toward the center aisle and waited my turn. I hoped Crowley wouldn’t recognize me as a newcomer or an outsider.

When I reached the front and looked into Crowley’s face, I froze for a moment. The lines on his face were shallow, but this close up I could tell his skin was aged. I couldn’t quite pinpoint an age, but I would have believed anything from 40 to 70. His pupils had almost totally taken over his irises, leaving almost no color in his eyes.

Crowley’s eyebrows went up, as if he was impatient. I bowed quickly and faced him.

“Excuse the blood,” I whispered, leaning my head back and opening my mouth.

Crowley poured the blood into my mouth, the taste of iron flooding my tongue and the surprisingly cold blood stinging the back of my throat. I swallowed quickly, and could feel the chill running through me already.

“The blood is excused,” Crowley whispered to me, his eyes softening as they met mine.

I walked back to my seat, almost in a daze. I felt hot and cold, desperately tired and vibrantly awake all at once. I somehow found my spot next to Cromwell and felt as if I were weaving back and forth in my chair.

“Mike,” Cromwell whispered to me. “How do you feel?”

I didn’t even think about my answer.

“I feel dead,” I said, surprised at how flat my voice sounded. “But I also feel like I’ve never lived until this moment.”

I looked over to Cromwell, who smiled.

“That’s exactly what I wanted you to feel,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Feedback shot out of the amps again, sending a shockwave through the room. I looked back up to the stage, and to my amazement, the man whose throat had been slit was standing up.

He still wore the makeup, but not the smile. He walked slowly over toward one of the guitarists, who quickly handed the guitar over.

The newest scarf-wearer strapped on the guitar, turned up the volume knob and launched into a lightning-fast riff.

I looked back at Cromwell, who nodded.

Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil. Alistair Cromwell sold his to Auran.

“Praise Auran,” he said.

“Praise Auran,” I heard myself answer.

This story was previously printed in Issue #4. Get the whole print issue here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/639457118/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-4