Why “Blackened Death Metal” Should be Referred to as “Plague Metal”
The streets are heavy and oily with the stench of death which hangs in the air like a thick fog.
A soiled cart creaks by rhythmically with remains piled high. Once upon a time, you knew those bloated, lifeless bodies. A bell rings. A man shouting, “Bring out your dead,“ can be heard faintly in the distance.
Infected, raw sewage runs along side the road. Mangy rats scurry over forgotten corpses strewn on the ground. They relish the eyes of your dead family’s pock–marked cadavers.
You cry, “What is happening!?”
It can’t be… but of course it is.
You have the Septicemic Plague.
You are gross. You are covered in festering boils. You have precious few moments left on earth. You don’t have time to tell people you have “Black Death.” Too many syllables. You scream, “Plague.“
You die.
Hail Satan,
Ritual Grim
Leave a Reply