It’s Just The Darkness of my Kind

It was an exceptionally dark and dreary Swedish night. The rain was belting off the roof of the old, wooden house and the wind was howling up a storm. The electricity had been flickering intermittently on and off for several hours and a bored, 40-year old Toblerone Fudge had already lit some candles- just in case. He didn’t want to be plunged into darkness. Not on a night like this. The WiFi already went down ages ago and he had no contact with the outside world. Who even sends text messages anymore anyway? He had entertained himself earlier by strumming a few songs on his acoustic guitar, playing to the dancing shadows on his wall while reminiscing of days long past. But even that bored him after a while.

He sighed as he looked at his watch while sitting at his small round kitchen table: 11:06 pm.

"Toblerrrrrrrroniiiiiiii," a reverberated voice drifted from the back of his mind, although he wasn’t entirely certain it originated there.

Go away! he thought irritably. That wind certainly was blowing a gale outside it seemed. He lit yet another cigarette and drew a long, deep breath.

"Come. Play, Toblerone of the Fudge! You know you want to..." the voice coaxed beguilingly. "You never know what treasures you’ll find up here."

Fuck it, he thought. I might as well see if I can find those old band flyers someone was heckling for on the Internet a few months ago.

Toblerone grabbed the nearest candle, placed it in a little vintage lantern he picked up in a thrift store in Stockholm years ago, and trudged up the stairs. Along the way, he finished his cigarette and stubbed the butt out in the ashtray on his bedside locker. When he came back into the hallway he looked to his ceiling, wondering if he was actually brave enough to open the attic and climb up into it. He was all alone after all. If he stumbled and fell on his arse, no one would find him for days.

How graceful, he thought as he imagined himself in a heap on the floor surrounded by mementos of his own past. I’d look a right narcissistic mess. I’ll just watch my step. I am 40 after all.

He sought the old pole from the spare room and hooked it onto the attic door. Pulling with all his might, for the door was incredibly stiff and he had stringy, noodle arms, he successfully enticed the folded wooden steps to fall out before him. A whoosh of cold air blew down, reminding Tobler he would need a jumper at least before going up there. He fetched his favourite jumper: a slightly oversized black, soft, crew neck jumper that had absolutely no logo or font emblazoned on it. It was savagely comfortable and fit over his Mayhem t-shirt snuggly.

Right, here goes nothing he thought and warily put one grubby white Converse runner on the first step. It creaked loudly, moaning at its first real chore for several years. When he realised it was good to carry his weight, he started climbing slowly, careful to not look down and especially careful not to think about The Shining. Whatever’s up there better disappear when I reach the top. He might be a 40-year old fully grown man but sometimes his own old house weirded him out. His irrational fears of complete isolation still reared from time to time.

Upon reaching the top, Toblerone stretched his lantern out before him at arm’s length, dimly illuminating the attic. Boxes covered in a thick layer of dust neatly aligned the walls in a typically Swedish logical and orderly fashion, and an old rug sat in the middle of the open floor. The room looked neat in a classic scary movie kind of way although the little round window on the gable wall showed nothing but blackness.

"Yes! You made it you fucking wimp!" the breathy voice sneered from the far corner. "Come over here."

Not yet, Tobler thought, not even realising he was enabling the voice he suspected his overactive imagination was conjuring. He wanted to see about those flyers first. That would be one thing off his to-do list when he eventually found them and it would get that overly zealous superfan off his back. He pulled himself up onto the rug he used to have in his old Stockholm apartment, recognising the design and texture with fondness. He eyed up all the boxes and was suddenly grateful someone had the sense to label the front of each one clearly. Something he certainly didn’t have the patience for. At least he could disregard the ones labeled with 80s/90s stickers. That would be delving too far back and that would be revealing too many embarrassing childhood memories. Old cassette tapes of poorly recorded, overly ambitious songs tucked inside folded artworks of ridiculous childish angry scrawlings. No, these can stay in those boxes for another few years. No need to recall his sense of embarrassment of himself.

00s boxes he eventually found. Ah, there were quite a few of those. Where do I begin? He picked one at random and prized the lid off. Dragging it onto the rug, he sat cross-legged and delved into memories from 20 years prior. His mind transported him back to his old haunts, the kind of music he listened to then, and the people he hung around with as he flicked through old photographs and crumpled setlists. No flyers here, he realised.

He put the lid back on and picked another box. This was more recent; his long hair was cut off in these photos. He recognised a slightly more mature version of his youthful self in days where he could do as he pleased and answered to no one. The days when screw-all people knew who he was because quite frankly, he was a nobody. He was trying to be a somebody back then though. He tittered at his younger self. You absolute poser. Look at you trying to be cool. You have no idea. Wait until you meet the...

*Clink!*

Tobler jumped off the floor in fright and hit his head off a slanted wooden beam. He cursed loudly and felt a small amount of blood weep from an open wound.

What the hell was that? That came from the freaking corner! He thought he was a pro at jump scares after all the horror films he devoured in his lifetime but that was simply uncalled for!

"Get your peachy arse over here, Swede Boi. We need to talk." The breathy voice was back, although he was certainly rasping now. "You know exactly where I am."

“Do I absolutely have to?” Tobler groaned, stooping down and walking carefully toward the back corner. He saw immediately what he was looking for. He put his hand on it, rolled his eyes, and scuffled back to the rug. He sat again and touched his sore head. Toblerone tutted. He remembered clearly the day he first met this curious thing. It was a small black box. On one side was a tiny handle that twisted and wound internal springs. It was literally a child’s toy: a classic Jack-in-the-box, except for this was no ordinary plaything. Not with those white occult designs on each side and the fiendishly, scary white clown head inside who sprung up from a black satin skirt once the twinkly music stopped. It was quite the contradiction: a soft, sweet, delicate chime-like melody that heralded the oncoming of the ugliest distorted evil head. It was cool as fuck and Toblerone was besotted with it over 25 years ago.

Maybe the melody would sound cool as an interlude or as an introduction to a song for the next record he thought absent-mindedly and wound the handle taut. He imagined himself bringing it to the studio and some engineer excitedly placing the most expensive microphones from his cabinet in a convoluted quadrophonic array around it, hoping to faithfully commit the unique melody to Pro Tools. He let go of the handle and sure enough, the box clicked into action and started singing its vintage tune. Toblerone listened with joy, his mind already analysing the melody and fabricating aural atmospheric spatial effects around it. He also conceptualised heavy, distorted guitars feeding back around it in a swirly, dark, evil ambiance. He loved the striking differences between light and dark, visually and aurally. Maybe it was worth coming up here after all he thought.

A single *clunk* told Tobler the tune had ended. Right on cue, the old grotesque clown's face sprang up out of the box, his arms outstretched in the most uninviting hug you could ever wish to not receive. But that wasn’t everything: a dark cloud, blacker than black itself hurtled out and smashed straight into the old full-length mirror behind Tobler.

Oh no! he thought, Fuckity fuck! Tobler put his palms to his face in horror.

“OOOPH!” a familiar voice grunted. Silence followed. “Well, fuck you Bitch, it’s about fucking time!” he snarled eventually.

Tober peaked fearfully through his long, piano fingers. He forgot about that guy.

“Hi, Mary,” he groaned.

“Hi, Swede Boi yourself. Where the actual fuck have you been? I’ve been calling you for years. It’s terribly cramped in that shitbox with ShitFace the clown there,” Mary Goore complained sourly.

“You’re not real” Toblerone moaned. “Get back into your box and rot and die.”

“Hell no, Tobler-fucking Fudge! That’s no way to greet me back from sleep. I’m back and it’s time to fuck shit up.” Mary stretched his long, skinny arms and every bone in his body cracked audibly. Mary hadn’t changed at all since the last time Tobler saw him over 10 years ago. He was wearing a Morbid Angel sleeveless t-shirt, ripped jeans, Doc Marten boots, and his jet black choppy hair was a greasy, sweaty, bloody mess. Blood poured down his face and his black eye makeup was smudged across his white complexion. He was still as gaunt as ever and there wasn’t a single wrinkle or crease on his eyes or forehead despite decades of scowling.

"Look at your stupid face, did you get a boo-boo up here?" Mary pointed to the side Tobler's head where a small stream of blood was starting to dry. "You idiot."

“You’re not here to fuck anything up, Dickhead. I’ve got things nicely under control here.” Tobler noticed the small wound on his head was mirrored on Mary. Though of course, Mary's cut was much more dramatic and obscene looking.

“Oh wow, don’t we have a nice life now! Look at this fancy-ass attic! I can’t wait to see your gaff! Did you win that fucking Grammy yet, Looser?” Mary sneered and looked around him in greedy nosiness.

“You’ve grown up I see.” Tobler sighed, not in the mood to put up with his adolescent behavior at the stroke of midnight. “Yes I have a nice life, I’ve got it all actually AND I got the Grammy, yes, but you aren’t going to see it, you’ll probably get your nasty greasy shit all over it.”

Mary feigned offence. “Me? Greasy? Never. May I remind you I was always the hotter side of you? Chicks threw themselves at me, not you, remember? I’ve still got it. What age are you now anyway? 100?”

“40.”

“40! Haha! Got a pain in your back? Wanna go fetch your reading glasses, Old Man? What are you fucking wearing anyway? En tröja?" Goore pinched Tobler's jumper on his chest roughly. "Lame. Surely it’s past your bedtime. I just heard the chime close to midnight,” Mary taunted him. He really was an arrogant monster. But then, 10 years hunched up beside Captain Chuckles in that box probably would make anyone irritable. Nonetheless, Toblerone decided enough was enough.

“Goore, get back into your fucking box, time to go night-night!”

“No! I’ve got music to make. I’ve got songs to spit. I’m back, Bitch. So you got a Grammy, does that mean you have fans now?” Toberlone rolled his eyes, Mary doesn’t have a clue about the others... Just wait until he meets Rat Boy. He’ll be disgusted he has competition. The fans belong to him. Toblerone doesn’t actively encourage devout fan adoration; it’s all the other guys' doing nowadays.

“I’ve been anointed by my peers: actual industry professionals. You aren’t gonna screw that up now, Goore.”

“Oooh, professionals!” Mary mocked. “Your fans are mine now. Wait until they see me, they’re gonna go fucking wild. They will lose their minds when they hear I’m back. They will not know what hit them!” He checked his reflection in the dusty mirror, fervently admiring his appearance and winking at himself. His eyes glowed vivid green. They were a much more striking green than Tobler’s, for Mary was pretty much a supernatural being. Is he flirting with himself? Toblerone thought irritably.

“Mary, we gotta-“

Goore cut him off. “We gotta go see what you’ve got in your drinks cabinet. You better have something that will warm me up. Race you down the stairs!” Goore slid down the steps in a flash, greasy palms slicking the handrails, and landed with a hard bang on the landing.

Tobler face-palmed his forehead, sighed and picked up his lantern. He guessed he was the responsible adult now. How utterly boring! Why should I let Mary have all the fun?! As he made his way down the steps, he heard Mary had put on the latest Metallica album and cranked the vinyl player up to eleven. Mary was also opening and slamming presses in the downstairs kitchen, all while shouting complete nonsense. Tobler was relieved he had the house to himself, before Mary’s arrival. Only Satan knew what havoc he was about to cause with his hijinks, rude words, and lust for general chaos.

By the time he got down to the kitchen, Mary had already skulled a sizeable amount of raw vodka and lit up one of Tobler’s cigarettes. His Docs were up on the kitchen table, his long limbs crossed over the other.

“Don’t do that, asshole! The missus will go nuts if she knows you’ve got your dirty old boots on the table. How very un-Swedish of you. Take them off!”

“Ugh, you bore me!!!" Mary dragged his boots off the table lazily. "Where’s the old you gone? We need to start having some fun around here. I’ve been shut away for too long! Here, get that down your neck” Goore slid the bottle across the table to Tobler. Tobler found no real reason to refuse. Mary always managed to bring out the worst of him and usually everybody else saw it before he did. It was always Mary’s fault. He took off his jumper and threw it at Goore.

“Fuck you anyway, Goore” he retorted.

We’re so fucked...Shit outta luck... hardwired to self-destruct! The distinctive growl of James Hetfield spat the lyrics and the irony was not lost on Tobler.

“You still listen to good music anyway," Mary muttered admiring Tobler's t-shirt. "Oi!" he snapped, "Open your laptop. Check your emails, Stoopid!”

“We’ve no WiFi, Einstein. The Net is down. There's a raging storm out there.”

“Check again.”

“Fine!” Tobler sighed. He already felt the vodka going to his head. Or maybe it was just Mary draining his energy. Either way, Tobler didn’t feel very much in control anymore, getting bossed around by a younger, snottier apparition of himself.

The Internet was back! Tobler’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he checked his professional email. There was a new message from someone he knew. Someone who wanted to collaborate on something brand new. Except the email was addressed to Mary. Not him.

What the fuck, how did that skinny bastard get this gig? Tobler wondered, trying to figure out if this was reality or just another fantasy Goore was spinning around him.

“What’s the matter? Turning into a pumpkin?” Goore sneered. He leaped up and leaned over Tobler’s shoulder. “Oh look at that. It’s for me. What a surprise. They’re booking me already, Darling.”

“You arrogant son of a bitch!” Tobler gritted his teeth.

“Tell them I’ll be there. But they better have good food and booze. I’ve got a great feeling about this!” Mary clapped his hands together in glee and lit up a cigarette.

Toblerone rolled his eyes. Why did Mary always arrive with such a bang? He started typing a reply to the email but he was already secretly dreading the oncoming scenarios that awaited him...