The world of heavy metal was shocked to its very core this month, as the sensational trial of heavy metal ‘vokillist’ Randall P. Scythe, front man of the bewilderingly popular ‘meathead metal’ band Sheep of Vishnu started at the Hague. Scythe stands accused of the cold-blooded murder of dozens on a killing spree ten years wide and several continents deep.
In pursuit of ‘The Story’, Demon Pigeon goes into the heart of this horrid affair to bring you all the made-up fictional news that’s fit to print.
Before he was unfathomably considered a heavyweight in the turbulent world of heavy metal vocalising, Scythe was born Archibald Merriweather in the sleepy Dorset town of Slumberton. He grew up with a fascination with two things: heavy metal and murder.
According to prosecutors at the war crime tribunal, the first murder committed by Merriweather—then just a tender 14-year-old—was of his elderly neighbour. According to eyewitnesses, when said neighbour made a remark to Merriweather concerning ‘the devil’s music’, Merriweather responded with vociferous argument to the effect that not all heavy metal fans were in league with the devil. In fact, most heavy metal fans were only interested in beer and The Ladies, insisted Merriweather, a message that was lost somewhat after the old man was shoved off a cliff with his arms severed.
The missing limbs were never found.
This first act of passion by Merriweather/Scythe appears to have awoken in him a ferocious blood lust, and by the time he reached his twenties he’d killed several more people, according to lead prosecutor Kris Madup.
None of these people were of any real consequence, however, and as a responsible blog that knows how to cut to the chase, we’ll just gloss over those.
It was when the hit 90’s ‘Grove Metal’ band Pantharo came to town that Merriweather experienced the revelation that gave birth to his alter-ego Randall Scythe, at the age of 22. He had long enjoyed the medium of heavy metal as a fan, but after a chance encounter with Pantharo’s guitarist Bodybag Darren, Merriweather decided to reinvent himself as a hard drinking ‘vokillist’ much in the style of Darren’s own ‘vokillist’, Prince Phillip of Asgard.
Together Scythe and Bodybag spent a chilly Dorset evening recreating the crimes of Jack the Ripper with some unfortunate ladies of the night, Darren simply waving away any police interest by showing them his ‘International Rock Star’ passport and signing the Chief Inspector’s man boobs; a surprisingly effective tactic in mid-1990s Dorset.
After this brutally formative experience, Scythe began trying desperately to get a band together, but could never quite achieve the sound he so craved. He knew he wanted to create something that would linger in the imagination, like his friends in Pantharo. But being utterly devoid of his own ideas or talent, it wasn’t until years later when Pantharo returned to Slumberton that Scythe was finally able to realise his destiny.
‘Chilling’ backstage with his old crime-buddy Bodybag Darren, he happened to spot his idol’s ‘Big Book Of Pantharo Riffs’ in the backstage area, and he knew immediately what he had to do. What happened next was even more ‘chilling’ than the ‘chilling’ Pantharo were doing backstage (and Pantharo were a band known for their legendary ‘chilling’ abilities).
Scythe quickly reached out to his network of locally-based murderous lunatics, and offered £24.67—the full contents of his wallet—for the death of Bodybag Darren during the gig itself; this hasty plan was achieved on that infamous day in 2003 or 2004 or whenever it was, when the now infamous Statham Fale stumbled onto the stage waving his arms around. Having tied hair-trigger shotguns to his arms, which duly went off, Fale created a scene of utter carnage that Slumberton will not soon forget.
According to his plan, under the cover of the ensuing panic, Scythe managed to smuggle the book out of the venue. And two weeks later Scythe had recycled enough Pantharo riffs to have a whole album’s worth of songs for his new band. Initially called Set Fire To The Vicarage With The Vicar’s Wife Trapped Inside, the name was soon changed to the snappier Sheep of Vishnu. Their debut album, New English Testament, was a dreadful cacophony of recycled 90s riffs. In an innovative production technique, all drums were tracked by letting a hamster fart on a breadbin with a microphone inside it.
New English Testament was entered by prosecution counsel into the record of evidence as one of Scythe’s greatest acts of depravity.
Prosecutors attest that the next ten years of Scythe’s life were a mêlée of murder and dreadful generic metal. Each album shuddered further down the barometer of quality, as Scythe was forced to select less and less promising riffs from the much-missed Bodybag Darren’s Big Book of Pantharo Riffs. Meanwhile, each tour lead to more and more unexplained disappearances of assorted local children, livestock, cheerleaders, and fast food workers. At one Japanese musical festival, Scythe is accused of having slain an entire ladies’ basketball team, for no crime greater than happening to share the same hotel at the same time as Scythe.
According to prosecutors, he spotted them singing Karaoke in the hotel bar and by breakfast the next morning they were all, without exception, found hanging from lampposts proceeding along all cardinal directions (that means compass points, idiot) away from the hotel. It is believed they may have been singing the Pantharo hit This Glove in the bar when Scythe struck, and the prosecution asserted that it was this reminder of Scythe’s own inadequacies as a songwriter that sparked his homicidal rage.
The picture painted by the prosecution is a grim one indeed, although it is for none of these crimes that Scythe was first caught; nor are his offenses against tasteful music to be considered by the jury.
Despite Scythe’s alleged trail of destruction, it is the deceptively simple—and for Scythe, routine—murder of a fan at a gig in some European backwater that finally brought this monster’s reign of terror to a halt, at least for the duration of the trial, anyway. The prosecution alleges that the fan ‘died of being killed’ after Scythe, who had recently had laser eye surgery to allow him to fire lasers from his eyes, chose a random crowd member and set him aflame. Shortly prior to this, it is alleged, Scythe remarked to the crowd: ‘You pussies wanna see something SICK?’
Scythe’s defence team argues that the lasers were installed as a promotional gimmick at the behest of a record label increasingly worried about Sheep of Vishnu’s dwindling relevance in a market no longer dominated by recycled 1990s riffs. The lasers were meant to engrave the band’s logo into the back wall of the venue, they argue, but due to a mote of dust that rudely lodged itself in Scythe’s cavernous nostril, causing a sneeze, he accidentally ‘let off’ a small burst of concentrated laser fire, and reduced the fan to a smouldering husk. The defence also state there is no evidence for any of the other murders, but then they would say that, wouldn’t they?
Today’s developments have now seen the trial of the century pushed back, after the entire witness list reported seeing a menacing cloud in the shape of a sheep outside the hotel where they are sequestered. Scythe’s defence team and management have put out a joint press release stating: ‘Our client has no control over the weather, and accusations that he does are utterly unfounded. Oh, and so are the murder ones, obviously.’
The trial begins again in March. Until then battles will rage on and in the pages of a million pointless and shitty heavy metal media outlets, where people will defend Scythe or condemn him based entirely on whether they like his music or not. And you can, of course (not), catch all the latest developments right here on the very best of those shitty heavy metal media outlets, Demon Pigeon.
The trial continues. Also don’t sue us, we’ve got nothing.