Probably 10 years ago my man and I were friendly with a high-ranking record weasel. Thankfully, that’s long since subsided.
One day Record Boy told us that Slayer was coming to play at the Shrine, and since neither of us had ever seen them (or any of their ilk) live, we wrangled some sweet VIP action.
We arrived at the Shrine and were whisked up to the private scumbags-only balcony where we got a perfect view both of the stage and of the meatheads moshing below. The show hadn’t started yet but they were moshing to whatever music was being piped in to get them warmed up. In fact, they even kept it up in between songs, which meant you could look down at them and see them moshing to nothing.
Of course, being able to see them also meant that they were able to see us – by which I mean see me (or at least my boobs) spilling out of some extremely tight and revealing outfit.
The crowd yelled up to me and after a long exchange of yells and waving, eventually I gave them the sign of the horns – they went nuts! These were MY people, not Slayers, and I was their Goddess.
Finally that all died down, Slayer took the stage, and the Cookie Monster Rock washed over us until we were reborn in Satan. And Slayer.