Chapter Text
Once upon a time, young Pelle Ohlin sat busy in his room in Kråkstad. It was cold, bleak, biting weather. The dead birds in Pelle’s room seemed to shiver as the breeze from his open window rushed through the room. The sky outside was dark, though it was not yet four in the afternoon.
The door of Pelle’s room was open, that he might keep a better eye on the movements of his bandmates in the house. As he hunched over his desk, writing his letters, a cheerful voice broke his thoughts.
“Great rehearsal today, Pelle! Our next show will be awesome!” It was the voice of young Necrobutcher, who came upon him as stealthy as a rat through a tunnel.
“Bah!” said Pelle. “Bullshit!”
Necrobutcher had so warmed himself with drink that his cheeks were all aglow; his eyes sparkled and his excitement was evident in his stance.
“Bullshit, Pelle?” questioned Necrobutcher. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”
“I do,” replied Pelle. “Good rehearsal? Hellhammer could barely sit upon his stool, such was his drunkenness. Øystein changed his mind about the riff for our newest song no less than 46 times. And you, yourself, forgot to come in on one song and interrupted me to ask if I thought there might be girls at the next show. What right have you to be merry?”
“There is a feeling of excitement in the air!” protested Necrobutcher. “We have a tour planned! Mayhem are going to be famous!”
“There are many things from which I might have derived happiness,” continued Pelle, “but a promise from Øystein that one day this band will finally do something is not it. Why, I am of a mind to return to Sweden for good, and pursue music with my old friends in Morbid, or a different career altogether.”
“Pelle, you mustn’t!” Necrobutcher cried, but Pelle had already turned his attention back to his letters, forming his plans to return to his homeland. Necrobutcher slunk away, feeling as rejected as a man in jogging shorts trying to enter Helvete.