The Rock N' Roll Horror Zine

The Riffmaster General by Ben Fitts Lilith trembled as she plugged her Gibson Explorer into the massive Orange stack on the stage. Of course, her guitar wasn’t really made by Gibson and the amplifier wasn’t really made by Orange. They were just clones of the original brands. It was possible that those companies still existed back on Earth, but Lilith thought it was unlikely. Ever since the United Nations Of Earth ordered the exile of all metalheads from the planet, citing their presence as a danger to religious freedom and Christian values, the gear manufacturers must have been hit pretty hard. Lilith thought Fender was probably fine, though. The decision had no impact on indie rock bands or country singers. Everyone from the village was there watching her, sitting solemnly in their ceremonial patch jackets and bullet belts. She was able to make out her parents in the dim blue light shining on the audience. They sat front and center by the stage, as was customary fo...

REMEMBER 85 By Marc Shapiro Screaming guitars that made ears bleed. Drugs out the wazoo in firmly packed blunts and finely drawn lines. Women standing in line, legs wide open, falling all over themselves to partake of a real rock and roll ride. This was the stuff of Jesse Brand’s dreams. The rest was his reality. His nightmare Jesse woke from a troubled sleep with a shutter and a start, hung his head over a cot that passed for a bed and puked his guts out into a plastic bucket. The bucket was the latest in a seemingly never ending addition that had marked his physical and emotional decline. It was added when Jesse realized that he did not have the strength or desire to make it to the toilet when his every morning rush of upchuck said hello to the day. Nor did he have what it took to empty the bucket on a regular basis. The stench was palpable. The stench was something he had long since gotten used to. His innards now sufficiently purged, Jesse rolled back onto his cot...