Mind Scraps was halfway through the second song of their third encore before the crowd finally started to thin out. The Slam was a fairly decent-sized club, but when it was packed with screaming kids who thought death metal was a brand new concept, Patrick Chafin couldn't help but think that he ought to have risen above this by now.

Patrick had been the drummer for Mind Scraps for over two years, and although he never said so out loud, he always thought he was more talented than the rest of the band. He was still waiting for his very own fairy talent scout to swoop down and carry him off to a real stage in a real ampitheater with fans who actually came to listen to his band instead of just panting over whichever thrash band happened to be headlining that night.

Somehow, the accolades of devil-worshipping teeny boppers no longer carried the power to sufficiently boost Patrick's ego. And the same old dark, pagan lyrics and empty thrashing licks and beats were beginning to grow ragged. Patrick had also decided long ago that the whole "we-love-Satan-but-live-in-the-suburbs" mentality he was surrounded by was not only comical but pathetic. After all, as far as Patrick was concerned the devil didn't even exist. Any more than God existed. Despite his band's persona, Patrick did not consider himself a devil worshipper. It was all part of the act; it was their hook. Not that it was much of a hook - Black Sabbath had originated the concept over two decades ago. Patrick never liked to label things, but if he had to, he would call himself and athiest. God and the Devil were as meaningless to his reality as Cinderella and the Easter Bunny.

When the encore was finally over, Patrick scanned the main floor for Kayla before heading backstage. But just as he expected, she hadn't shown up. There was a time when his girlfriend wouldn't miss one of his shows for anything in the world, but those days were definitely gone. Somewhere along the way she had grown up - or grown old, one or the other. Now she seemed more content lying on their couch watching sit-coms then being a part of the rock scene. Not that he could blame her, really. The scene had become unbearably lame lately.

Patrick collected his share of the band's earnings, bullshitted around with his buddies for a few minutes and then slipped out the back door before anyone could insist that he join them at an all night drinking fest. Kayla would probably be asleep by now, but he decided he'd better fire up his last joint on the way home anyway, just in case she woke up and smelled it. Normally it wasn't too cool to walk down the sidewalk toking on a "j", but as long as he held it like a cigarette, he was sure he wouldn't be hassled. Besides, any cops lurking around this neighborhood, this late at night, had more important things to worry about.

Patrick already had a pretty good buzz going when he began heading down the alley behind Food World and heard a scratching sound coming from inside the trash dumpster. "Fucking cats", he muttered as he shook his shoulder length blonde curls and continued down the alley. He stopped dead when the noise took on a new persona. The light scratching sound suddenly became replaced by a loud, insistant thumping.

Someone's trying to get out of there, Patrick thought as he took a final drag on his doobie and flicked the roach onto the ground. He moved toward the dumpster without an instant of hesitation, not because he was terribly anxious to help whoever was stuck in there, but because he was incredibly curious. What kind of asshole would get themselves locked in a trash dumpster?

The brown metal lid was heavier than he anticipated, but he managed to lift it over his head and peer down inside the deep metal box. It was dark, but from what he could tell, there wasn't anything inside the dumpster but trash. Certainly he would be able to tell if there was a person or an animal in there. He wasn't that stoned.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The resumption of the sound made Patrick drop the lid with a bang, as he jumped nearly 3 feet backwards. The noise wasn't coming from inside the dumpster.

It was coming from behind it.

The moment he had that particular realization was the same moment he noticed the shadow on the wall. Suddenly he didn't care who or what was making the sounds, he just wanted to get the hell out of there. But before he could even finish turning halfway around, a figure leapt out from behind the metal box. Patrick felt leather, in the shape of a hand, violently seize his throat. Then he felt the blood.

He was now six inches off the ground, and as he stared down at the gaping hole in his chest, he felt a numb, sickening, brain-swelling repulsion. Then he raised his head slowly to view the face of the man who had attacked him. Maybe it was because he was so scared, or maybe it was the after effects of the marijuana, but Patrick Chafin's final thought as the hand scraped out the last pulpy remains of his heart, was that he was staring straight into the eyes of God himself.

(C)1999, Arden Davidson