This article is part of the The Legend of Tooth Tooth series.
Word. So he hopped the bus out to the country, hit up the gates, paid the seven-dollar admission-- gotta pay with a five and two ones to avoid suspicion, because a black man with a shoe-sized knot of Salmon P. Chases gonna attract attention anywhere, regardless whether not he smell like the swineflesh so familiar to these crackers. Tooth even had to go to the bank to get them bills, boy ain't even touched anything less than a twenty since he was eight years old, but I left that shit out of the story for purposes of being concise and shit.
When he got in that fair, you best believe the boy was in a bad state. He'd been beating back the hog sickness as best he could, but that shit was getting to him. You wouldn't even have recognized the cat, he all gaunt and bloodless-- so ashen was his countenance, god, that you might even mistake him for a white man. And don't you ever tell him I said that shit, cousin, because even in fucked-up times, you ain't never supposed to level words so vile at a former righteous teacher. But it's the truth, god, word is bond.
So he began to think, "is there no refuge for a black soul in this playground of Yacub?" But no sooner had the words passed his lips than he spied a poster on the wall of the fairground's event center-- a musical event of a cultural nature to begin shortly. "Mørktvarg," the poster advertised-- "Kings of Black Metal."
Black Metal! Could Tooth have discovered an oasis of African sanity in this desert of moral perversion and pig-regarding abominations? Now, Tooth ain't a big metal fan-- it is, traditionally, the sort of comically rudimentary cultural endeavor for which a true original black man has no time-- but he was so sick from the toxic miasma of white and pig that he was determined to seek the respite of anything black. He was a tad wary, to be sure-- our boy was pretty deep in enemy territory, and he ain't know what a Mørktvarg is. Certainly not a word from any African dialect, since Tooth know all of them by righteous instinct.
But despite his reservations, in Tooth went, without fear in his heart, for nothing could hurt him any more than he'd already been hurt by Yacub's agent. The room was dark as night, he couldn't see nothing. Tooth pushed past a hundred bodies, all dressed in t-shirts and blue jeans like goddamn children, all sweating out the stink of cigarettes and pigs and bad living. He posted up at the front of the stage, still can't see shit. Then, suddenly, bunch of fire started shooting out the stage, everything light up, and Tooth find himself amid a grotesque nightmare of whiteness gone mad: pig heads on stakes, fake crucified naked-ass dudes up there and all that.
And these cats up on stage start playing some shit with guitars and yelling all like they tryna puke. Tooth quickly apprehended that was metal, but just as quickly that it most definitely was not black. How dare these miscreants misappropriate the word most dear to him? They were truly an affront to blackness: dressed all in spikes and clown-type shit, hair not curled in proud afros but lying long and flaccid; faces painted up in garish whiteness, whiter than white, a hideous amplification of Yacub's most evil creation.
The strange visage of black metal.Of course, Tooth forget all about his hog malaise. He could not stand idly by as a group of wack-ass chumps impugnede the very concept of blackness; Tooth immediately get on the phone and call up his boy from back in the neighborhood who has a computer that control the entire New York state power grid, and--
Yo, I think I know who you mean.
Yeah, kid. So Tooth like, "Yo, Jay, I know you may have heard some shit about me recently, maybe some shit about me unwittingly eating a morsel of swine due to the evil plotting of a white sorcerer, but it is absolutely imperative that you shut down power to the events pavilion at the county fair. This is an emergency at the highest levels of blackness." And so it was done, cause even if Tooth has been corrupted, cats still know that when he say there's an emergency, some real shit is probably going down.
All the amps go out, band was still thrashing on they unplugged shit for a few seconds, then the generator lights came up and all them white-ass metal kids all looking around like "what the fuck," but the dudes up on stage-- they who dared to co-opt the essence of the original man-- knew exactly what up.
Big seven-foot crazy-ass singer motherfucker up front on stage with his hair and face all matted with white paint and blood and whatnot, he pointed down right at Tooth, and he was like, "Tooth Tooth, you grace us with your presence. We have much to discuss. But first, I will kindly ask the audience to take their leave." And all these confused white pawns filed out of the room at the command. Word is bond. Now it was just Tooth up there in front the stage with this wild-eyed Nordic cat surrounded by pig heads and shit.
And, this is some weird shit but word is bond, the wack Norseman addressed Tooth like he was his brother: "I am Valp Kattunge, leader of Mørktvarg. Come with me backstage, Tooth Tooth, and we will build awhile in the fashion of righteous teachers. You are very ill, and should rest."
Shit is crazy, son. This some crazy shit.
You right on that, god. And wait till you hear what this cat tell Tooth.
To Be Continued
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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