On the first of April 2011, a sixteen-year-old boy left his home in Andalusia, Alabama and rode a Greyhound bus to St Paul, Minnesota. He was born William McCoy, but he had changed his name and personality so much and so often over the years, you might as well consider William McCoy dead. So, we’ll just call him The Kid.

When the bus crossed the state line into Tennessee, it was only the second time The Kid had left Alabama. The first time was a school trip to Disney World in Florida. Back then, he had friends. A tight gang who joined the Scouts together. They rode their bikes down country lanes and fished away a Saturday. At around ten years old, they all joined a karate class. They played video games and lit off firecrackers. By then, The Kid was strange and getting stranger. Over time, his friends drifted away. So did the bikes and the video games. Unlike the others, he kept up with the karate; he appreciated the value of fitness and discipline. Eventually, he studied kung fu and a few other martial arts. Nothing too Zen. The Kid liked violence.

His parents were strict Southern Baptists, so when their son embraced satanism, they had a hard time with it. Pentagrams started popping up on his walls. Black candles and ornamental knives. And the music. That horrible, brain-rattling music. None of that new age, Church of Satan satanism, where Satan is just a symbol of man’s nature. The Kid was into classic pop culture devil worship. Satan was real and he needed The Kid.

Without scripture or a congregation, he found his master’s message in the music. There were no coincidences. His three favorite bands were coming together 1200 miles north to kick off the Desolation Tour. Nothing could stop him. The Kid needed to be there.

For eighteen hours, he stared out the window. He watched the world transform from coastal plains to mountains along the Tennessee border and finally the vast farmlands of the American Midwest. No one sat next to him. But the kid wasn’t alone, he had Meek with him. Occasionally the kid would open his jacket and the small mouse he had purchased at the pet store would look up, pink nose twitching in anticipation of a sunflower seed. They were in this together. Finally, he stepped off the Greyhound bus in St Paul elated, having completed his pilgrimage.

A few blocks down Kellogg Boulevard, he checked into The Saint Paul Hotel. As excited as he was to be in a big city, at least compared to Andalusia, he wanted to be prepared. The Kid set up his altar, a black satin cloth draped over the side table. He lit the black candles and gently placed the pewter bowl in the center. After congratulating Meek for the sacrifice he was about to make, he took out his knife and cut the squealing mouse from throat to pelvis in a single slice. He watched the blood pool inside the bowl before closing his eyes and chanting. The Kid could have spent the entire night on his knees waiting for a revelation, except the alarm went off. It was time.

Another block down the boulevard and he blended into the crowd as they made their way to the Xcel Energy Center. They wore black and grey, chains, and makeup. Many of them wore t-shirts of the bands they were about to see. Some of them looked like him. But they weren’t him. They didn’t know what he knew. They listened without ever hearing. The message was for him alone.

Inside the venue, The Kid cut a path to the stage. When they saw him, they moved out of the way. When they didn’t, they got pushed aside. Some flashed a look or grumbled under their breath. He didn’t understand or care about concert etiquette—this wasn’t a concert. This was communion.

The first band came on. The music started. The mosh pit came to life. Even as the bodies circled around him, stomping, surging, and bouncing off one another, The Kid stood firmly in place. He was all alone. The lyrics came to him, connecting his soul to the deeper truths, revealing his place in the chaos of the universe. The sound of the guitar elevated him to astral planes, where there was no right or wrong, only his will.

After four hours, all three bands had finished their sets. The music and the rampaging fans faded into a low rumble as the satisfied audience headed for the exits.

Baptized in sweat, The Kid pushed his way through.

“Hey, man!”

“Fucking asshole!”

He didn’t hear them. Outside, the smell of exhaust fumes led him to the wide alley where the tour buses were lined up. And there, he caught a glimpse. The messengers of his master strolled out, flicking a wave before loading onto those buses. When the engines fired up and hydraulic brakes released, The Kid knew they were calling him to come along and journey back south. Milwaukee, Chicago, Kansas City, Nashville, Atlanta, New Orleans. He made every show. In between, he caught each of the bands as often as he could. Until, two years later, he followed the same route for the second Desolation Tour.

And then, slowly, it came to an end.

Drugs, money, women, artistic differences. One by one, the bands broke up and went their separate ways. For them it was over. But not for The Kid. They had betrayed the master, and The Kid would make them pay.