Hide your mothers, It's The Master of Metal!

After a dark and bumpy ride in the back of a Chupacabra down the Highway to Hell, I couldn’t help but notice the excellent choice of music as I dismount. The wailing guitars of Slayer and Leatherwolf drown out the torturous screams of politicians, rappers and members of New Found Glory and Nickleback as an army of miscreants take it upon themselves to dismember, torture and destroy for all eternity in an effort to please and entertain The Master. Waiting in line continues as I quietly wait for The Master’s hearse to come. It isn’t long before the distant unmistakable smell of nitro and the sound of Dio's Don't Talk to Strangers grows louder announcing the quickly-approaching hearse, the most beautifully demonic hot rod - one with big fat tires and everything.

The door opens and the sweet, sweet smell of deathleaf engulfs me as a cavernous, omnipresent voice fills the air: “Welcome to the Belly of The Beast.” From the front seat emerges Mortimer, amidst a steam cloud of sulphur. After a growl and some drooling he steps on it and we dart—it’s 1’320 to go ‘till the finish line. The Hearse from Hell blazes at the speed of light through a crowded, seemingly never-ending school zone, blasting Iron Maiden's Aces High and ploughing women, children and little old ladies a la Carmageddon.

After an unforgettable ride we pull into a cola bud-lined driveway, and I can see The Master standing at the end as he waits for our arrival. A most gracious host, The Master greets me with a skilfully wrapped number of the finest deathleaf from hell as he guides me into his lair. A modern day Dante, my ripped jeans, battle vest and Motörhead tee doesn’t compare to The Master’s black leather trench coat and Simmons-like boots, making me feel slightly underdressed—how dare I not dress to match the occasion? The plethora of beautiful nude women serving us food and other favours quickly makes me forget the attire as it slowly peels off and is left near the door. The Master’s lovely assistants bring forth a feast of unmentionable debauchery in which they take full part, a fitting preamble to a long awaited audience with The Master.

Before we get down to business, it is—in my view—imperative to ask you Master, where have your (YouTube) featured assistants gone? “Ah, my lovely assistants,” he adds with laughter. “The sad truth is I keep eating them, and yes, they are quite tasty! I would stop enslaving such lovely assistants but my minions insist on hot chicks with their metal and I can only oblige. Unfortunately for these ladies, I can't help feasting on their tender flesh. A conundrum like this cannot be easily solved. Luckily, there are millions of female minions eager to worship their Master so I won't run out of assistants or a warm food supply.” The army of lovely servants is overwhelming, supporting every word The Master says, an army that has made every effort to ensure I enjoy a comfortable stay.

A skilled magician, The Master has delighted his minions worldwide with a short selection of majick tricks, but will we see any more tricks in the future, Master? “Perhaps,” The Master continues, “I have a new trick which involves shuffling a deck of cards, picking three of them randomly to lay out on the table in front of a lucky Pooper or two, and then skull fucking them mercilessly while I ram the rest of the cards down their throats to suffocate them as quickly as possible.” The lone mention of the act makes his assistants pour over him in anticipation, as they all want to volunteer for a show. “[The poopers] are quite surprised and Mortimer always gets a kick out of it, quite a good trick for weddings and bar mitzvahs. Plus, Mortimer gets to eat the bodies and practice his perverted brand of lovemaking. Not in that order, of course.” So speaking of dirty tricks, have the contents of your bag changed? “The contents of My Bag are always changing, depending on what I need. For instance, right now in My Bag I have three and a half ounces of supreme Deathleaf,” adding quite proudly, to which I can vouch for in full, “half a bottle of lubrication, a small well-sharpened axe, a bag of peanut M&M's, a coil of rope, a grappling hook and a list of addresses for mothers I will soon fornicate with…I don't like to scrape the darkest depths... unless it is the dark depth of your Mother's cavernous vagina!” as He bursts out in his signature demonic laughter, letting out a thick cloud of yellowish-green smoke.

Staying on the topic of cavernous vaginas, on the drive here Mortimer mentioned the time he had to collect you after escaping Samantha’s vagina, a true odyssey by the sounds of it! How did you do it? “Are we talking the Sex in the City Samantha or the Bewitched Samantha? For no man would ever want to escape Elizabeth Montgomery's twitching witch hole! As to the Sex in the City Samantha, that vagina was more difficult an exit than when Indiana Jones tried to outrun that boulder in the Peruvian jungle. You may recall the rope and grappling hook from My Bag, which I used quite successfully to scale the gargantuan walls of that monstrous mound of vagina. Once I got to the top, I was able to navigate her taint and apply a modest amount of crushing anal penetration on the backside. Upon finishing, I let the other three girls lap up My Manspunk with their tongues until Samantha was clean enough for another go around, after which a thousand Minions had their way in the largest mass spelunking in the history of crevices and caves. Sloppy thousands, anyone?” –No kidding! And what about your Sack? Have you reached the bottom yet? “Not even close! However, many of My Minions have reached the underside of My Sack with their yearning tongues and hungry lips. Quite frankly, My Satanic Scrotum has never been cleaner!”

And speaking of clean, Mortimer allowed me to listen to some of your new recordings and mentioned you have a new album coming out soon. Is there anything else you can tell us about it? “My Minions have been begging and pleading for a studio album from their Master and in between mother fuckings and ganja burnings, I have recorded just such a ribald treat. Entitled "Rhapsodomy in Black," the album will feature newly recorded versions of some of My live favourites as well as songs that no (other) Minion has heard the Master perform. Provided you have the good sense to purchase one, I will squirm into your ear canals and infect your brain with culture, lust and degradation. Soon you will see and hear it all on YouTube and iTunes! For now, salivate and wait.”

And while we wait, you urge us to confess to be saved, however, wouldn’t that prevent all minions from partying for all eternity with you here at The Castle? “Confession is so very important, Minion,” The Master insists adamantly, “your fellow deviants and miscreants share their deepest, darkest secrets with you; it's the least you could do to share yours with them. Being saved from a life of Ignorance, Hypocrisy and Bad Taste in Music is all part of being a Minion. I'll also liberate your virginity and save your genitals... for lunch!” I can attest to this, after a succulent all-you-can-eat featuring The Master’s lovely assistants as the main course. “Salvation as offered by the Church only includes molestation, shame and sodomy in the fine print. I put it right on the front page in bold letters so you know what you're getting into. And I know what I'm getting into... it's called your sphincter! As to hanging with Me for eternity, that all depends on your ability to procure high quality ganja, freshly shorn vagina and new Minions to be inducted into the 9th circle of Hell. If you can handle that, you are welcome at the Castle!” If I may, oh great master, you mention the 9th circle and I’d like to thank you for the opportunity to unwind on some nasty politicians; which brings me to my next question: Why is it important to vote? “Though it may seem hopeless, voting actually holds power. Power against Poopers! Power to change things from the stupefied reality we now soak in to a glorified future that until now has remained forbidden. Take the UK, where Gordon Brown has recently earned his last name by stepping in a hot pile of shit of his own making. That grotty ponce David Cameron has shown us that somewhere a toolshed is missing its largest tool as he spews his xenophobic and bitter solutions to the problem (for the record, I don't believe euthanizing immigrants is good economical policy in any country.) That leaves Nick Clegg, whom I rather like. [He] seems like a decent chap who wants to get in and change the toxic culture of politics in jolly Olde England. He's like a brave man with an optimistically large shovel standing before a monumental mountain of steaming turds (thank you, Maggie Thatcher). No matter what, he couldn't possibly fuck up England any worse than the Labour party has for years. And his sickest nightmares would pale in comparison to the hellish landscape of a Conservative-run country, where the NHS would soon stand for "No Help. Sod off." In My estimation, Clegg is the only real choice. Is he the UK's Obama? Well, I haven't seen the size of his wang but he talks like he's got a right hearty set of bollocks, so perhaps he'll rise to the occasion. Perhaps if My Minions help get Clegg elected, he'll promote Me to Minister of Culture, where I can preside over a Carnal Cabinet of Mirthful Minions and host a nightly television spectacle on the BBC, channel 666. Sodomy, torture and cooking tips, plus a few musical moments and the execution of anyone who still says "Hey, Nonny, Nonny." Ah, a Master can dream...”

As per the need of minions worldwide to get a live glimpse of the Master, He adds, “In the words of Monte Hall, let's Make a Deal! See you soon, Minions!”