Review Summary: so powerful it might just start a...manowar4 of 4 thought this review was well written
[loud screaming echoes from behind the door of your friend zanes bedroom. you debate, for a moment, if you should go in -- after all, the last thing you want is to become entrenched in a family war -- but you were invited to spend the weekend, and regardless of all the commotion, you're just looking to get a little shut eye before the unforgiving rays of tomorrows sun come spraying in through the blinds and render sleep all but an ill-fated fantasy. you open the door -- but much to your dismay, you find zanes enraged dad standing over the obese, rippling, naked body of zane, tarnished and bloodied from what clearly was one of the sickest ass-beatings of all time. "ride the dragon" blasts from the computer speakers on the right of his bed. bits of smegma cover his entire body, which is weird, because no one was even touching his dick, but whatever. they ignore your presence and continue arguing.]
"I TOLD you what happens when you play that queer shit in my house, son! I told you!" Zane's dad yelled, the scent of alcohol rolling off the folds of his tongue. "And you didn't listen! I TOLD you to turn that shit off. I TOLD you I was trying to watch the game! Goddamn it, Zane. I have to go to fucking WORK in the morning and you're up here blasting what sounds like a goddamn trio of card game playing retards making horse noises with their mouths! What the FUCK are you thinking?"
[zane's naked and oiled body glistens in the warm glow of his multicolored lava lamp. he slowly rises to his feet, each roll of fat jiggling like waves in a furious ocean, their power generating energy to be harnessed by his body for the ensuing mortal combat. zane reaches underneath the bed and grabs his replica katana, quickly unsheathing it and brandishing it in a warrior stance.]
[as if it were destiny aligning itself for this final battle -- as if manowar themselves were extending an ale of good fortune towards zane, clashing their steels together in comradery before battle and slinging their arms around one another in a succulent, muscular embrace, sticky and tender from the sweat of having effortlessly taken the fucking necks, balls, and cocks of their enemies and slammed them against the cold blades of their battle axes -- "the power of thy sword" comes to a close, and after a short spotify commercial, the harmonious soundscape that had prepared zane for this very moment in time, the song that had chronicled every moment of zane's many perilous training sessions -- "the demon's whip" -- begins to play.]
"Is that a goddamn Korn song?" Zane's dad shouts, himself unaware of Zane's powerful transformation.
"The men I listen to aren't "retards," dad," Zane finally whispers, his eyes wild with power. "They're the greatest power metal musicians to have ever lived. The Triumph of Steel? The very piece your ears are currently absorbing? Easily their greatest work. Those weren't mouth noises you imbecile -- those were real Cherokee spirits recorded mid battle as Manowar slayed an entire dragon army with only their bare steel to protect them. The opening song to this album is a 28 minute labyrinth that segues between 8 individual movements, each one weaving a complex web of multilayered solos and coasting effortlessly through beautifully orchestrated power-metal harmonies unlike any they'd ever attempted before, or would ever attempt again. You wanted to watch the GAME, dad? Well, THIS is no GAME! TROLL, YOU WILL RUE THE DAY YOU EVER RODE TOWARDS M"---
[zane's dad backhands him hard as hell, this time with the ring on, sending him tumbling back down to the floor faster than you had ever seen him move before. crushed and defeated, you hear him whisper out a faint prayer -- "odin, forgive me" -- but you know the worst has yet to come.]
[you slowly stand up and walk out the door, shutting it behind you. the scent of freshly microwaved corndogs wafts from the kitchen. from a distance, you hear a sharp yelp -- "NO DAD, NO!" -- and the piercing sound of a folded up belt smacking against pimpled white ass follows, cutting through the humid air. you leave the house and never return.]