Ritual Sacrifice by Patricia Naylor

 

Cannibal Corpse were in the middle of Sweden on their European tour, when the Emperor Magus Caligula from Dark Funeral told them about the ritual sacrifice party that would be occurring at Morgan’s house, the guitarist from Marduk.

 

“We gotta go,” Pat said, an old friend of the black metalers, having drank with them all hundreds of times.

 

“Well, we won’t get any sleep and we’ll piss off the bus driver, but when has that ever mattered? Let’s go!” Jack said, and everyone else nodded.

 

They arrived at Morgan’s house to find their other tour mates there as well. Eric Hoffman and Glen Benton were standing in the bong corner, where Paul promptly joined them. Pat and Jack gravitated to the bar, where the boys from Exhumed stood, shot-gunning beers and arguing about who’d fucked the most women, and Morgan watched silently, with an amused look on his face. Pat, Morgan and Jack immediately began debating who was better: Jimi Hendrix, Hank Williams Sr., Jimmy Paige, or Chuck Schuldiner.

 

Karl Sanders from Nile and Alex talked about ancient history, while George helped Dark Funeral herd the goats they’d found in someone’s backyard into a makeshift pen, next to a huge circular pentagram platform, which doubled as a dance floor. Immolations’s “Unholy Cult” blared from a stereo on the deck.

 

Legion, Marduk's headsinger, came out of the house wearing a black robe and a silver baphomet necklace, and carrying a large torch. The music ended abruptly and everyone quieted, even the people from the bong corner. He held up a torch and spit fire in the air.

 

“We pledge our alliegence to you Satan--” he screamed.

 

“And you Ramses,” Karl Sanders from Nile muttered.

 

“That you deiver us from Christian Opression and live through us that we may serve you!”

 

Emperor Magus Caligula from Dark Funeral carried two goats in his arms up to the platform, while his bandmate Lord Ahriman followed him with a meat clever.

 

“Accept this sacrifice and we shall receive your blessing, oh Lord of hellish dominions!”

 

Emperor Magus Cligula held the goats down while Lord Ahriman cut their throats, and Morgan filled a goblet with their blood. Legion gulped the blood, then sprayed the crowd with it. It was an effective goat’s blood baptism.

 

“Hey, I didn’t sign up for this bullshit!” Paul said, having been one of the only ones that didn’t wear black. Now his clothes were ruined. Matte from Dark Funeral handed him a black robe.

 

“I feel much better,” Jack said, toasting beers with Pat.

 

“I needed a shower anyway,” the head singer of Exumed shrugged.

 

As soon as the goats died, they cut off their heads, and Legion put them on pikes and stuck them near the edge of the dancefloor. Caligula and Ahriman started skinning the goats. Morgan turned to his guests.

 

“Glen—fire up the barbeque. I’ll bring another keg up from the basement. Let’s eat!”

 

And they never forgot that night, or the delicious goat steaks, or the gigantic smorgasbord on the patio table. The beer was cold, and they were the best of the best of Black, Death and Gore Metal.