The Fall of Mike

As you gargle into the microphone about the injustices committed by Christians and Orcs against your red haired Viking ancestors from Scandinavia who had their ponytails forcibly cut off, their guitars broken and their beer replaced by sugary soft drinks to convert them to Christianity I feel the anger flowing through me and begin to nod my head up and down, my long luscious hair slowly flowing behind my back.

Then it happens. The refrain. As you curse the Orcs who built their churches on top of your grandfather’s grave and the blast beats fill the room with the atmosphere of hellish destruction I clench my fists and move my head rapidly downwards, causing my ponytail, the phallic symbol of my masculinity and dedication to metal, to move up and ejaculate a mixture of beer and other people’s sweat over your face.

Some wimp with hair that doesn’t fall beneath his shoulders throws his devil horns in the air, but you step down the podium and push him aside, as you only have attention for me. “Watch where you headbang, shouldercore retard!” You shout, trying to maintain an image of dominance to the crowd of younglings. “Why don’t you go back to rapping, I can see your hair extensions from here you Juggalo!” I respond.

Now the room becomes silent, as the crowd holds its breath. “ARE YOU CALLING MY PONYTAIL FAKE!?1?” You shout. I start to laugh and calmly respond “Not as fake as the drum machine on your first album!”. You jump in my direction, as I barely dodge the punch you throw, causing you to fall into the arms of a big girl with cutting scars on her wrists and a Korn Tshirt that’s too small for her. “Black metal is about individualism, so how about we take this outside huh?” I yell in your direction, as you struggle to escape her loving stranglehold.

As you follow the direction of my tight black leather pants, we reach the field in front of the club. You manage to punch me in my head unexpectedly, and as I fall down you sit down on my chest and look at the band-patches on my black denim jacket.

“What’s this huh? Burzum? I got a new patch for you, faggot!” As your drummer holds my arms, you begin to sew a new patch on my jacket. “NO, STOP, PLEASE, I’M SORRY!” I shout. But it’s too late. I look down, and see what you are doing. A Linkin Park patch is now firmly sewn into the jacket that I lovingly invested 200 euro worth of band patches into.

You struggle to hide the growing bulge in your tight black leather pants as you ask your roadie to bring you a pair of scissors. “I’m gonna show this shouldercore poser who’s wearing hair extensions from now on!” You yell.

My greatest asset. After two years of avoiding having my hair cut, I finally had enough hair to put into a ponytail. I recalled the reactions on Facebook after posting the first pictures of my hair in a ponytail. “Pony to the bone man, pony to the bone \m/” Andrew, my colleague posted. It required a dedicated regime of not using shampoo and encouraging split ends by back-combing, to cultivate the appearance of an aloof and manly intellectual, with a reactionary longing for the lifestyle of his pagan ancestors.

And now, as I lay here on the ground, all this hard work would be lost in mere seconds. “No please, I will do anything for you!” I shouted. “Anything?” A smile appears on your face. “Yes, anything!” I respond. “Alright guys, load him in the truck.”

I was saved for now, but it came at a high cost. Skip forward two hours. “Who’s the poser now huh!” You shout, as you dip your ponytail in a glass of beer and splatter the liquid in my face. Powerless to resist this humiliation I squirm in anguish in an attempt to escape.

As you take out your scissors again, I realize I was foolish to trust in your mercy. But then it dawns on me. I see an edge of pink on top of your computer. There is only one option left that could save me. “Hey, what’s that CD-case I see lying there?”

“Don’t pay attention to that guys, help me out here!” You respond, as one of your roadies walks up to your computer. “Wow, that’s Emily Autumn’s debut album, I bought this for my sister!” The roadie shouts. “What the hell Mike?” Your drummer shouts. “It’s not mine, my girlfriend owns it.”

“So why is Misery loves company your most played song then?” The rebellious roadie yells as he opens your Spotify account. You begin to blush, and shout: “Ah shut the hell up you fool, grab some scissors for me will you!” You try to appear fearless while you struggle to hide the sense of panic that’s taking over in your head.

Oh how the tables have turned, as I’m driven back home by your roadie, holding your severed ponytail in my hand. “I always knew Mike was a poser, thanks again for calling him out.” Your drummer says to me. “How about you come sing for us man?” He continues.

“Are you sure?” I ask. The drummer laughs and says: “Man, The Ponytailed Headbangers would sound much better with you as our lead singer.”