Cannibal Corpse: The Pilgrimage

by Patricia Naylor

The tour had ended yesterday for Cannibal Corpse. They all sat in George’s living room, drinking beers and hanging out, some with their wives and girlfriends. Finally everyone had showered, trimmed off the split ends, and gotten laid. Jack had cooked barbequed hamburgers, and now they were all drinking beers and watching RAW is WAR—all the taped episodes they’d missed while they were on tour. Suddenly Paul spoke up.

“You guys we gotta fucking visit Elvis’s grave. I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a little kid. His performance on the Ed Sullivan show was legendary.”

“Dude,” George said, laughing. “The guy died on the fucking toilet. How can you respect someone who had twenty different drugs running through his system when he croaked? He had an overflowing medicine cabinet.”

“He was a musical genius!” Paul said, taking a step towards Corpsegrinder. George’s wife snickered loudly. The guys didn’t mess with George, since he was built like a tree. Paul threw up his hands in despair.

“I told myself I would visit his grave by the time I reached thirty. That was a couple years ago. Come on you guys, he’s been a musical inspiration ever since I was a kid.”

Pat laughed so hard he was rolling on the ground. This sparked Alex to laugh so hard he started coughing. Soon they were all laughing, and Paul screamed, “SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’M SERIOUS!”

“All right Paul,” Jack said, still laughing a little. “You’ve been in the band since the start, we’ll fucking go to the land where men can’t decide to hump their farm animals or their wives.”

“Hey-“ Paul said, but again, Pat started laughing, and Alex said, “How many beers did he drink? Dang.”

“It’s fucking decided,” George said, standing up abruptly. He turned off the RAW tape, and then put the tapes in his duffel bag for further viewing. “Ladies—start packing. Pat—score some more beer and greenery. Paul—log on to the fucking Internet and find out how to get to Memphis. Call Graceland for tickets. Alex—round up the CD and Video collection. Get some Dark Funeral, Marduk, Exhumed, Nile and some classic metal—like Motorhead, Slayer, Death, Suffocation, and Venom. Jack—find our driver, make sure he’s sober. Start feeding him coffee. I’ll go buy us some food. Ain’t no way in hell I’m going to eat at some truck stop in buttfuck nowhere. Start loading the fucking bus, people.”

It was not long before Paul was printing out maps from Yahoo!, Alex had a small suitcase full of audio materials, Pat began loading the bus refrigerator and breadbox with beer and weed, Jack was carrying a sleepy-eyed driver, and George had enough food to feed them all for a month.

“Let’s gas this fucker up and go!” Jack shouted, as they all piled onto the bus. Six hours later, they all climbed into their bunks, and for a while, Paul and Pat had to listen to the grunts and moans from the other band mates and their wives, as they lay alone in their bunk beds. Paul unconsciously reached down and jacked off to the sounds. After he climaxed, he cried out, and then heard Pat say, “You’re one sick motherfucker.” Paul laughed.

Alex was the first to voice his doubts about the trip. “I don’t know you guys…Nashville, Tennessee? This is going to suck ass.”

“It’ll be fun to terrorize some hillbillies for a couple of days,” George said.

“If the women look anything like Dolly Parton, I’m game. She has a rockin’ body,” Paul said, wistfully.

George’s wife laughed. “You’re going to leave a string of broken hearts when we leave, pretty boy.”

Paul opened his mouth, and then closed it. George’s wife was right, though. He couldn’t remember how many groupies he’d laid.

They awoke in Hickville…er, Nashville. While the driver took them to Graceland, Jack cooked everyone bacon and Monterey Jack cheese omelets, toast, hash browns, and black coffee. Pat put Kahlua in his coffee to kill the hangover. George ate twice as much as everyone, while Paul was too nervous to eat.

“I can’t believe it…we’re so close,” Paul said, tapping “A Skull Full of Maggots” on the kitchen table of the trailer. Pat had to go into the bathroom, he was laughing so hard silently. Once inside, they heard him howling with laughter. Alex choked on his eggs.

            When they stepped off the bus and into the garish mansion where Elvis had lived, it was like Moses parting the red sea. They weren’t looked upon like angels. These country people freaked out. They saw four guys with really long hair, another with an Anton LeVay look, all of them in black, including the three ladies. One old lady crossed herself when she saw the pentagram on the Dark Funeral t-shirt Pat was wearing. George savored all the looks of fear, the exclamations. An Elvis impersonator in a black and baby blue cowboy suit gasped, “Son of a bitch.” Paul glared at him so fiercely the guy ran away with a wet spot in his pants.

Paul ignored the “Do Not Enter” tape and sat on Elvis’s bed. The look on his face had several members of the group tittering. Alex’s wife laughed silently, pressing her face into her husband’s back. They could hear Pat laughing on the stairs. The look Alex and George shared said it all: This was what made the trip. The only thing left to see now was the gravesite.

Paul knelt and kissed the headstone. More snickers and jeers. Then he pulled something out of his pocket and started shaking it.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Alex said.

Paul spray-painted a 666 onto the headstone. Then he put, “See you in hell, motherfucker.”

“Fucking run! That Security Guard looks pissed!” Pat said.

As they ran towards the bus, Paul knew the trip had been worth it.