Ghoul Unleashed: A Descent into Monstrous Madness
It was supposed to be a simple photoshoot with a few questions. On the road from Oakland, Ghoul was stopping in town as part of their Weapons of Mosh Destruction V tour promoting the Noctious Concoctions EP. A quick interview. Some photographs. The usual bullshit circus. Then, I could just smoke some weed and chill – like always. Little did I know this would be the start of a headlong spiral into lunacy and crime—the kind that leaves stains on your shirt and your soul.
The location was a warehouse in a forgotten corner of Seattle—a dark, cavernous space that reeked of mildew and bad decisions. The band stood under sputtering fluorescent lights, like conquering warlords, awaiting my arrival. There were four of them: Cremator, Fermentor, Digestor, and Dissector. Each clad in tattered rags, bloodstained masks, and splattered with God knows what.
I barked instructions, snapping shots as the band members wielded their weapons—chainsaws, machetes, and a massive cleaver that looked like it was stolen from a butcher’s fever dream. Ultimately, Cremator pulled a severed head out of a bag as the band stood leering at me from the top of a staircase and yelled, “This is from the last fool that tried to interview us!”
“Alright,” I said, stepping into the circle like a fool entering a lion’s den. “Let’s talk.”
Digestor grinned through his grotesque mask. “Oh, we’re talking, alright. But you might regret it.”
The Smell of the Damned
“Let’s address the elephant in the room,” I began, waving a hand in front of my nose as if I were swatting away a ripe fart from a corpse. “You smell like a fucking morgue fire.”
Cremator leaned forward, his voice a deep, menacing growl. “We start working on our smell at least two months before going on tour. We rub some victims' intestines under our armpits. It’s an integral part of the show.”
“Victims’ intestines?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Digestor said, as casually as we were discussing the weather. “We’ve tried all sorts of methods. This one really sticks. The musk is critical. People pay for authenticity.”
“Bathing must be an issue,” I said, leaning back as Fermentor scratched himself violently.
“We only bathe by licking ourselves clean throughout the tour,” Cremator replied. “We have to lick each other clean, too, because there are parts we can't reach. Know what I mean?”
I stared at him. “You lick each other?”
“Out of necessity,” he said.
There was no arguing with that logic. I scribbled in my notebook: Two months unwashed. Lick each other—intestine musk. I moved on to the next question.
Advice For New Fans: You Will Get Filthy
“Let’s say someone’s going to a Ghoul show for the first time,” I said, pressing on. “What do you recommend they bring?”
Cremator didn’t hesitate.
“We definitely recommend protective eyewear, protective neckwear, protective thorax wear, protective footwear, and armwear. Full-body condom, maybe?”
“It’s for their own good,” Dissector added, nodding solemnly. “We do not take responsibility for what happens once the show starts.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Flying meat chunks,” Fermentor said.
“Projectile vomit,” Digestor added.
“Bone shrapnel,” Cremator concluded. “You might also want a helmet.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, writing it all down. I had seen mosh pits. I had seen people lose teeth in the frenzy of metal shows. But this sounded like warfare with a chance of Hepatitis B thrown in for good measure.
The Chicken Incident
“There’s a story going around that Fermentor…” I paused, choosing my words carefully, “got intimate with a chicken in the last town you played in. Care to comment?”
Fermentor released a horrid cackle and pounded the floor with a blood-crusted boot.
“We had to actually pull Fermentor out of a chicken cage two days ago,” Digestor explained. “He got in there and just kept fucking as many chickens as he could.”
“How many chickens are we talking about?” I tried to clarify.
“Hard to say,” Cremator grunted. “At least a dozen. Maybe more. Feathers everywhere. It was horrifying.”
Fermentor shrugged. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
The Emotional Side of Ghoul
Up to this point, it had been pure debauchery. I wanted to see if Ghoul had a softer side or if they were just as monstrous as they appeared.
“What about emotions?” I asked. “Does Ghoul ever feel…love?”
The room fell silent. The fluorescent lights hummed.
Digestor looked up, his tone uncharacteristically reflective. “There was this one time…”
“Go on,” I said, intrigued.
“We were driving through some godforsaken backroad,” he began, “and we hit a deer. Poor thing. Laid there in the road, dead. But there was something beautiful about it.”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes,” Cremator interjected. “We… well, we all fell in love with it. The dead deer. It became part of us.”
“You fell in love with roadkill?”
“Love knows no boundaries, Malley,” Digestor said. “Get that through your thick skull!”
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. These men—these masked maniacs who rubbed guts under their arms—had once fallen in love with a deer they ran over.
The Experiment
“You look tense,” Cremator said, breaking the moment. He reached into his pocket and produced a vape pen like I’d never seen, filled with a dark green liquid.
“What the hell is that?” I asked.
“A little something we’ve been working on in the Ghoul lab,” Digestor said. “Experimental. It’ll relax you.”
I don’t know why I took it. Maybe it was the relentless stink of the room frying my brain or the oppressive gaze of four masked freaks. Perhaps it was just curiosity and my usual penchant for trying anything – once.
I closed my eyes and took a huge hit.
The world tilted sideways.
The Rampage
I don’t remember much after that. What I do remember is flashes—horrid, hallucinogenic flashes. Ghoul’s laughter echoed through my skull as I tore through the streets of Seattle like some possessed demon. They were in my head, guiding me like a psychotic puppet on a telepathic string.
I remember sprinting up to the Amazon Spheres, dropping my pants, and unleashing a torrent of urine on their perfectly manicured plants. Cremator cheered, “MARK YOUR TERRITORY! TO HELL WITH BEZOS!”
Then, there were all the Starbucks locations and corporate headquarters. Digestor handed me vials of LSD, and I poured them into milk frothers and syrup dispensers, every single batch of coffee I could find – laughing like a maniac.
Finally, Ghoul dumped me—naked, filthy, and delirious—outside the warehouse, where it had all begun. The cold pavement sobered me just enough to hear Ghoul’s van peeling off into the night, their laughter fading into the distance. “See you at the show!!!”
The following day, the headlines read: “Naked Lunatic Goes on Seattle Rampage: Amazon Spheres Defiled, Starbucks Products Contaminated.”
Until next time, Ghoul – Until next time!
