by Scott Ian
SCOTT: I don’t know man. Just let me call the cops. It’ll be over in fuckin’ fifteen minutes. You’ll be done, and go to bed.
DARRELL: Baldini, don’t call the cops. No police. No police, I told you.
SCOTT: All right, man, okay. I don’t know what to tell you.
DARRELL: Look, I’m fuckin’ comfortable. I got a pair of pants rolled up under my neck for a pillow. I’m all good.
SCOTT: A pair of pants rolled up for a pillow. That’s some plan. Look, I gotta go to bed. Just call me tomorrow and let me know what happened…
Scott hears the sound of the closet door crashing open.
KRRAK!!!
“SEBASTIAN”: THERE YOU ARE, MOTHERTRUCKER! AAAAA-AARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!
SMASH! KRAKK! WHAM! BASHH!
Scott hears what sounds like a tornado crashing through a house and “Sebastian” yelling at Darrell right before the call disconnects. Scott drops the phone; it sounded like “Sebastian” was physically coming through the phone line. Scott is really nervous now: he is friends with “Sebastian” and Darrell and is worried about their safety. It’s taken a dark turn. Scott thinks it sounds like “Sebastian” is a bit depressed about his life, is having a crisis of confidence, thinks everybody can’t fuckin’ stand him, and is now hanging out with Scott’s bro Darrell, who would rather hide in a closet than spend one more fuckin’ second with him.
Scott thinks, What if this gets physical? What if they get in a fight or something? Or even worse? What if something crazy violent happens? Scott has read a lot of crazy things in the newspapers over the years about friends getting into altercations when booze/drugs are involved, and it’s five in the morning and, Scott being a bit delirious, he decides to call the police. He feels he has to do it. If something were to happen to one of them, he’d never forgive himself for not doing something. So Scott, against Darrell’s wishes, calls the cops.
911 OPERATOR: 911 emergency, hello?
SCOTT: Yes, I need to make a noise complaint.
911 OPERATOR: Yes sir, what’s the address?
SCOTT: Yeah, my neighbors have been making a lot of noise. Here’s the address…
Scott gives the 911 operator Darrell’s address.
911 OPERATOR: Sir, are you okay?
SCOTT: Yeah, I’m fine. I just can’t sleep. My neighbor’s having a party, and there’s a lot of screaming going on over there. I just can’t sleep. Maybe you could send the police around.
911 OPERATOR: Sir, you’re saying your neighbors in Fort Worth, Texas, are making too much noise and are keeping you awake, but you’re in an apartment in Manhattan. If this is some kind of prank call, you should know we trace these calls and can press felony charges against you…
Before the 911 operator can finish, Scott hangs up the phone like it was on fire. Scott realizes the huge mistake he just made by making what turns out to be a prank call to 911. Inadvertently or not, they will arrest you for doing that. They know exactly where you’re calling from, they send the police, and they take you to jail. All these thoughts are racing through Scott’s brain as he tries to make sense of this mess going on at five o’clock in the morning. He knows he needs to get out of the apartment before the police arrive. He decides to get dressed and head over to the twenty-four-hour restaurant next door where he can watch for the police to arrive and then, after they leave, go back to bed. As Scott is quickly getting dressed he realizes that John Bush is sleeping and has no idea about anything that’s been going on. The police will ring the bell, and John will buzz them into the building, and when he answers the door they’ll possibly end up arresting him. Scott finishes getting dressed and is about to go wake up John to explain what happened and get him out of the apartment when the phone rings.
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
SCOTT: (exasperated) Hello?
DARRELL: Baldini!
SCOTT: Dime! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
DARRELL: What the fuck are you all riled up about?
SCOTT: Dude, I don’t have time for this anymore! The fucking cops are coming!
DARRELL: Whadda’ you mean, the cops are coming, Baldini?
SCOTT: The cops are coming! They’re coming to get me!
DARRELL: Why are the cops coming to get you?
SCOTT: (very exasperated) I called the cops to come to your house, but I gave them the Texas address, and I’m in New York City, so they think I made a prank call! Look, I have to go.
DARRELL: (very serious) Baldini, I fuckin’ told you: DON’T. CALL. THE. COPS! You see what happens? You call the police, only bad shit happens! I told you it’d set a bad precedent! You’re gettin’ arrested now—God dammit…
SCOTT: Dime, I can’t talk about it right now, I gotta go. I gotta wake up John Bush…
DARRELL: You gotta wake up John Bush? Why you gotta wake him up?
SCOTT: I can’t leave him here for the cops to arrest him! Listen I HAVE TO GO. What happened before with “Sebastian” and the closet?
DARRELL: Aw man, your boy was pissed off when he found me in the closet. He was fuckin’ mad. But I fuckin’ talked a bunch of crazy shit at him, and he forgot and is listening to KISS downstairs right now.
SCOTT: Okay, good. I gotta go. I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.
DARRELL: All right, motherfucker. Call me back when you get out of jail! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
They both hang up. Scott rushes out of his bedroom and is just about to knock on John’s door when the phone rings again. Before Scott can even say hello Darrell yells.
INT. LIVING ROOM, EARLY MORNING
DARRELL: Baldini!
SCOTT: Dude, I can’t, I’m fuckin’—I gotta go!
DARRELL: Hold on! Someone wants to talk to you!
SCOTT: What are you talking about?
Scott hears Darrell handing the phone over to “Sebastian.”
SCOTT, cont.: No, Dime! Not now! I have to…
“Sebastian” cuts Scott off midsentence, yelling.
“SEBASTIAN”: (excited) Hey, mothertrucking Scott Ian! How you doing?
(“Mothertrucking” was “Sebastian’s” play on “motherfucking.”)
SCOTT: “Sebastian,” I can’t talk to you. The cops are coming to my house! I gotta go!
“SEBASTIAN”: What? The cops are coming?
SCOTT: I gotta go! I can’t fucking explain right now! Ask Darrell—he’ll tell you. I gotta go.
“SEBASTIAN”: (pissed off) Oh, you’re going to blow me off too? You’re going to be a dick? Yeah, you’re in a fucking band people like. Nobody fucking likes my band!
SCOTT: (exasperated) “Sebastian,” I love you, but I have to go!
“SEBASTIAN”: (yelling) Hey man, that is fucking bullshit! Nobody cares about me anymore! You know, I fucking wrote “I Remember You,” and nobody remembers me!
SCOTT: “Bas,” I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m sorry. I gotta go. Good-bye.
Scott goes to hang up the phone.
“SEBASTIAN”: Dude! Hold on! Somebody wants to say hello.
Scott pauses, confused by the idea that there’s someone else there, and then this other voice gets on the phone.
DAVE WILLIAMS: Hey Scott! How’s it going? It’s Dave Williams from the band Drowning Pool.
Scott knows Dave and, for a moment, is stopped dead in his tracks by this new wrinkle, forgetting about the cops and everything else going on.
SCOTT: (confused) Uh, hey Dave. You’ve been there the whole time?
DAVE WILLIAMS: Yeah, sure have.
SCOTT: Huh, well, that’s weird ’cause I just thought it was Darrell and “Sebastian” and the goat. I’m just confused. I didn’t know someone else was there the whole time, and… anyway, I gotta go…
Scott starts to come back to reality.
SCOTT, cont.: The cops are coming to get me. I gotta get out of my house.
DAVE WILLIAMS: Yeah, Darrell told me. You shouldn’t have called the cops, Baldini.
SCOTT: (an
noyed) Yeah, great. Thanks, I know. Look, I gotta go. Sorry, Dave, I’m not blowing you off, but I really do gotta get out of here.
DAVE WILLIAMS: Hold on. Someone wants to say hi.
Scott hears “Sebastian” immediately back on the phone.
“SEBASTIAN”: Hey mothertrucker! It’s “Sebastian Bach” from Skid Row!
SCOTT: “Sebastian”? Yeah, I know…
And then the voice immediately changes back to Dave Williams’s voice.
DAVE WILLIAMS: Hey, Scott, it’s Dave Williams from the band Drowning Pool.
SCOTT: Huh?
And then the voice changes back again to “Sebastian’s.”
“SEBASTIAN”: Hey mothertrucker, it’s “Sebastian Bach” from Skid Row!
The two voices keep alternating back and forth over and over, and that’s when Scott realizes that Dave Williams from the band Drowning Pool does the best “Sebastian Bach” impersonation in the world. Scott drops the phone on the floor, just standing there in a total state of shock. Scott is trying to comprehend what just happened over the last few hours keeping him awake all night and causing the police to be on the way to arrest him. Scott gets pulled out of his reverie by a little tiny voice coming out of the earpiece of the phone’s handset.
DARRELL: (yelling) AAAAAHHHHHH, BALDINI, I GOT YOU!
Scott slowly picks up the handset off the floor.
SCOTT: (quietly) Darrell.
DARRELL: (very happy) BALDINI! HAHAHAHAHA! I GOT YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! YEAHHHH! You know what we did today?
SCOTT: (quietly) What’d you do, Dime?
DARRELL: Oh man, hahaha! Dave came over to the house around noon, we fired up the barbecue, cracked a couple of beers, and I said, “Hey motherfucker, you still do that “Sebastian Bach” shit?” And Dave said, “I sure do, Dime.” So I told him, “Here’s what we’re gonna do tonight. We’re gonna call motherfuckin’ Baldini in New York City and are gonna keep that fucker up all night long makin’ him think “Sebastian Bach’s” gonna kill himself in my living room!”
Scott’s mind is blown. This was all some incredible wind-up that Darrell had actually planned! Scott, still in shock and trying to make sense of it all, finally replies to Darrell.
SCOTT: Dime, you fuckin’ got me. This was… it was amazing. I don’t know what to say. Congratulations, that was an awesome fucking joke. I can’t believe it. “Sebastian” was never there. Wow.
DARRELL: Yeah, Baldini, I gotcha good. All right, I’ll let you go to sleep—oh, wait a minute, the cops are comin’. I told you not to call the cops, Baldini! Ha ha ha! Have fun in jail. Bye!
Scott stands in the living room, arms hanging at his sides, phone dangling from his hand, shaking his head, and smiling. Let the cops come, he thinks, who cares. He slowly hangs up the phone and walks back into his bedroom, gets back into bed, and drifts off to sleep.
Epilogue, AKA REVENGE!
I talked to Darrell later that day. I didn’t wake up until three in the afternoon, and I remembered everything. Darrell called to see if I went to jail, and I told him the cops never showed up—apparently 911 is a joke, just like Flavor Flav said. He was happy I didn’t get arrested and how that whole ‘“Don’t call the cops, Baldini” was an added bonus to the wind-up. We talked for a bit about how amazing Dave Williams’s impression of “Sebastian” was, and at the end of the call Darrell said, “All right, see ya, Baldini, and don’t forget: ‘Sebastian Bach,’ motherfucker!” and hung up.
I was naïve to think I’d heard the last of this.
For three years after that—for THREE YEARS—especially on the tour we did in 1997–1998, anytime I saw Darrell he’d bring it up. I’d be on his bus late at night driving to the next city, and we’d be watching KISS from the Cow Palace in 1975 on video, and he’d turn around and look at me and say, “Ain’t this fuckin’ cool?” And before I could answer he’d quietly mutter, “Sebastian Bach, motherfucker” and then get right back into the KISS video. He’d zing me with that all the time. I would be eating lunch, and he’d walk by with a big smile and ask how the catering was and then as he was walking away he’d look back and growl, “Sebastian Bach, motherfucker.” He’d randomly call and leave me a voicemail just saying, “Sebastian Bach, motherfucker.” He held that sword over my head for three years, and I didn’t know how to get him back. And I had to, because if you don’t come back at him, he’ll lose some respect for you. It’s part of the game. He takes it just as hard as he can give it.
So it’s toward the end of 1998 and I’m in Orlando, Florida, with Anthrax on tour. This is three years after The Conversation. I’m at dinner with Don Bernstine, the head of acquisitions for the Hard Rock. He was the guy who’d travel around the world to buy guitars for the Hard Rock to hang in their restaurants, casinos, and so on. Don was a great dude, a real friend. He was also friends with Darrell. I tell Don the whole story about The Conversation, and the first thing he asks is, “Well, what did you do to get him back?”
I say, “Nothing, man. I haven’t thought of anything, and I’ve been trying. How do you fuck the unfuckable? I can’t figure it out.”
And Don says, “Well, man, I have an idea. Do you want to get him back right now? I know that motherfucker inside out. We could get him back right now if you want.”
I said, “I’d be well into that.”
He says, “All right, follow my lead.”
Don takes out his phone, puts it on speakerphone, and calls Darrell’s house. Darrell’s wife, Rita, answers the phone.
RITA: Hey Bernstine.
DON: Hey Rita. Is Darrell there?
RITA: No, he’s at rehearsal.
DON: I just wanted to let you guys know that our vault in Orlando was broken into.
This was a true story. A couple of weeks before this night the Hard Rock vault was broken into, and a whole bunch of guitars were stolen. Orlando is where the Hard Rock’s headquarters are, and the vault is where they keep the super-rare guitars, clothing, and memorabilia until it goes out and gets hung up in one of their properties. I got to go there once and actually got to wear Gene Simmons’s full-on Love Gun tour costume. It was big on me, but it was very cool to wear it.
RITA: Yeah, I heard about that. That’s fucked up, Bernstine.
DON: Well, I just wanted you guys to know we’ve been doing an inventory, and Darrell’s Crown Royal guitar is one of the guitars that was stolen. I just wanted you to hear it from me and to help get the word out there that it’s been ripped off.
This was not a true story.
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
The Crown Royal guitar was a one-of-a-kind Dimebag Darrell Washburn signature model. It was painted in what Darrell called “Clown Royal purple,” and it came in a custom case in which they cut out a section of the hard foam in the inside of the case into the shape of a Crown Royal bottle so you could actually carry a bottle of whiskey in the guitar case in case of an emergency. There were times when they would run out of Crown on the bus, and Darrell would tell the driver to pull over so he could get the emergency bottle out of the guitar case. Don had purchased this guitar from Darrell, and it was safe and sound, hanging on a wall in a Hard Rock somewhere.
But Darrell didn’t know that.
RITA: Oh that sucks, man. Well, I’ll tell Darrell. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.
About twenty minutes later Don’s phone rings, and it’s Darrell. Don puts it on speakerphone.
DARRELL: Hey Bernstine. Rita told me what happened. I’m really sorry about that. It fuckin’ sucks, man. You guys paid me a lot of money for that shit. It’s never gonna get to hang up somewhere. People won’t get to enjoy it. That’s just a fuckin’ bummer, man. If there’s anything I can do to help you…
DON: Well, actually, Darrell, there is something you can do. I’ve got kind of a weird situation here.
DARRELL: What’s that, Bernstine?
DON: Well, Anthrax is in town, and I got a call from Scott Ian this afternoon. He said he’s at a pawnshop in downtown Orlan
do, and he thinks the Crown Royal guitar is at this pawnshop.
DARRELL: Really! Well, tell the motherfucker to just get the guitar and bring it back to you—problem solved.
DON: Well, you see, this is the problem. Scott called me to verify if this guitar could possibly be hanging in a pawnshop, and I said, “You know, Scott, it might be there because we had a break-in.” So, Dime, it seems like someone didn’t know they had such a rare guitar, and now it’s hanging in a pawnshop. Scott told me they only wanted three hundred dollars for it.
DARRELL: Three hundred dollars?
DON: Yes, and Scott bought it. He bought your guitar.
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
DARRELL: Hold on, Bernstine. You’re tellin’ me Baldini got the Crown Royal guitar for three hundred dollars?
DON: Yes, that’s what I’m telling you.
DARRELL: Okay, so what’s the problem then? Is he just gonna bring it down to your office? What’s the problem? He brings the guitar back, and you pay that motherfucker three hundred dollars—whatever, I’ll pay you back. I’ll give you the three hundred bucks, or tell him I’ll give him three hundred dollars, whatever it is, problem solved, you get the guitar back.
DON: Well, Dime, I wish it was that simple. Here’s the story. We’ve been doing inventory at the vault and trying to figure out where all the guitars are and what’s missing and what isn’t missing. And the Hard Rock is being investigated by forensic accountants, and we’ve got insurance adjusters here, and it’s just been crazy, and they’re up our ass about everything…