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The chatty stranger slides onto the barstool next to you.
Oh, that’s a damn fine song playing—recognize it? Type O Negative, cult band from the ‘90s. Got a batshit story ‘bout their frontman, Peter Steele. Wanna hear? You won’t regret it.
So, back when Pete was young and the band was blowin’ up, he—like any self-respecting metalhead—was no stranger to liquor and… other indulgences. One night, deep in his cups (who knows what he’d mixed), he’s alone at home when—knock knock—on the window. Weird, ‘cause he lived in his mom’s basement then (yeah, really) and in that wall there’d never been a window there—couldn’t be one. But lo and behold, the window’s there—very real—and there’s two goth girls outside, straight outta his wet dreams: pale, curvy, hair down to their asses, dressed to kill. Oh, and one’s got horns peekin’ through her hair, eyes glowin’ like embers. Behind ‘em? A 20th-floor city view.
While our guy picks his jaw up off the floor, second chick flashes fangs of an impressive length and purrs: “We’re big fans. Your band’s gettin’ real popular… down there,” and points downward with her clawed finger. “Wanna invite us in?”
Now, Pete was the heartthrob of ‘90s metal—almost 7 feet in stature, the voice so deep that you could feel its roll in your bones, looks ten-out-of-ten. Chicks wanted him, even some dudes wanted him, although he didn’t give a fuck about dudes. But demonic groupies? First time. Any sane fucker’d bolt, but Pete? Drunk logic won: “Horns are just handlebars when they're on a pretty girl's head, right?” So he opens the window.
What went down? Let’s just say… the ladies left satisfied. At dawn, they slithered back out the window, smirking: “Hey Pete, how ‘bout playin’ a show in Hell someday?” Pete, ever the poet, goes: “Shit, still better than L.A.” They cackle and vanish, and the next moment he wakes up hungover—the window’s a brick wall again—and writes it off as a bender-fueled dream. (Though maybe a song or two got… inspired. You know, love eternal, lust infernal, all that gothic stuff.)
Fast-forward to ‘95, right after Phoenix gig. Tour’s gone to shit, literally—tour bus toilet broke down in the middle of the desert, took forever to fix… long story short, they had to use some nasty gas station bathroom. So Pete’s trudging back from taking a leak when—who the hell does he run into?
Now, Pete was never sober after shows back then—drank before, during, and after sets just to function. But this? This sobered him up real fast. ‘Cause standing there were the exact same chicks who’d crawled through his nonexistent basement window, only now they looked like regular groupies—no horns, no fangs, just two smirking goth girls.
"Hey Pete," one says, all innocent, "ready to roll?"
"Roll where?" he asks.
"C’mon, big guy," the other laughs, "you promised us a show! A deal’s a deal!" They grab his hands—and next thing he knows, he’s tripping harder than beer or wine could ever make him , even if he'd mixed them . (And trust me, mixing drinks is a bad idea anyway. British folks got it right: "Grape or grain, but never the twain." But I digress...)
Suddenly, he’s in this colossal pitch-black arena—bigger than any stadium. Stage lights pulsing, crowd roaring… except the crowd’s all wrong. Horns, tails, claws the length of your finger—but weirdly hot, like some goth fetish party. They’re screaming, clapping, throwing up fists and the horns, girls shrieking like banshees. Makes the Phoenix gig look like a kindergarten party.
The two demon girls—now back to their horned, fanged glory—slap his back: "Relax, dumbass. Drink this." They shove a glass of some unholy liquor at him (think absinthe, but stronger—like 160-proof nail polish remover). One leans in, breath hot on his ear: "Here's your hint for being so nice to us then:
Take no gifts, but don’t refuse,
Peek left to see the Hell's true hues."
(Don’t look at me like this, that’s the rule: demons give advice in verse. They rhyme as best they can!)
Turns out, Hell’s liquor hits different. One sip, and he’s wired. His band’s already onstage, zombied-out but ready to play. "They’re dreaming this," the girls whisper. "You’re the only one who’ll remember. Now go, time to set Hell on fire!"
So, he goes onstage, and they play. And play. And play. Almost everything from their repertoire—Christian Woman three fucking times (Hell loves that one). Every time Pete gets tired, someone hands him another drink—instant energy. The crowd doesn't calm down either, it goes wild. No clue how long it lasts. Time’s fluid down there, you know.
Another song fades out, the crowd roars, and then suddenly—silence, as if someone turned off the sound. And everyone looks behind Pete's back. He turns around and sees some dude with a cane and a lazy eye limping onstage. "Great set," the dude croaks. "We have a little gift for you. How ‘bout that: wanna not just look like a vampire on stage, but become a vampire for real? Forever young and hot. Just gotta lose that soul—but hey, you’re an atheist, you don’t believe in soul, right?" The crowd snickers.
Pete remembers the advice. So he stalls: “Well, I'm still young and hot even without sucking blood. Lemme think ‘bout it.”
Wall-Eye scowls but tosses him a tarnished coin. "Okay, take your time. Use this when you’re ready, just hold it and say so out loud. But don't think for too long, human life passes quickly. "
As Pete takes it, curiosity wins, he peeks over his left shoulder—and the illusion shatters. The venue’s a scorched wasteland. The "fans"? Monsters of all kinds. And among them stands a suspiciously familiar woman-like creature, with huge leathery wings and a fanged maw instead of a mouth, and it waves its rotting hand at him coquettishly.
He squeezes his eyes shut—who wouldn’t?—and wakes up on the tour bus at dawn, coin in his fist. He turns it this way and that, asks the guys about the "dream." They just groan: "Dude, what dream, not everyone here remembers how they got to bed." This doesn't help him decide what to do.
The coin sticks around, though. No matter where he puts it, it always reappears in his pocket.
Their new album, October Rust drops soon after that—hit after hit. How many tracks are Hell-inspired? Who knows.
And so a year passes. One day, Pete’s stumbling home in Brooklyn before dawn, walks past a dark alley, and someone calls him by the name. He turns his head, and from the darkness familiar burning eyes look. Same demon girls. One asks: “Still got that coin?” Pete says: “Yeah.” And the second girl whispers:
"Take the gift, lose the muse,
No soul means no blues.
Live forever, write no more,
Dead men don’t rock ‘n’ roll."
And the eyes disappear, as if it were a vision.
Pete ain’t stupid, he gets the hint. He chucks the coin into the East River and walks away. Gave up drinking soon, never met any strange demonic ladies again. He didn't live very long after that, though, the man died early, but kept making music ‘til the end, may he rest in peace.
That's the story, you won't read about it anywhere, but it's all true, believe it or not. How should I know? No, I didn't know Peter personally, it was my buddy who was at that gig—as he says, the best show in the last 200 years. Anyway, gotta fly. Have a nice evening and watch your liver! And if you get drunk to the point of horned chicks, beware of their tricks. Ugh, see, I’m also speaking in verse now. See how it happens!
You glance away—when you look back, the stranger is gone, as if he had never been here. All that is left is an unpaid tab for three Bloody Marys.