by Wylde, Zakk
Ever since I was a little kid I wanted to be three things: a professional wrestler, a rock star, and in porn. I’ve done two out of the three, and since Meat Loaf already cornered the market on the three-hundred-pound rock star, I enjoy my Metal from the audience and from my favorite place during a Black Label Society show—the mosh pit. This is where you can truly test your body and mind to see what it’s capable of as you collide into dozens of other Berzerkers sweating, bleeding, and breaking themselves in the name of rock ’n’ roll.
In order to survive a mosh pit, you’re gonna need to learn how to prepare your body for the impact it’s gonna take. What I mean is that you’ve got to stay in shape. Different guys have different workouts. Some guys roll into the gym trying to bench-press five hundred pounds. I’m not one of those guys. As a pro wrestler, I’m constantly working day in and day out. I’m like an offensive lineman, but there is no off season in pro wrestling. I’m built for power, so that I can wrestle for thirty minutes a night in the ring, 365 days a year, and still be ready to go. The workouts that I do are for cardio and strength. Now, you bring that into the circle and you’ve got exactly what it physically takes to be true disciple of the pit.
Just like there are different types of dancing, like the tango, the mambo, break dancing, and the Robot (which Zakk tells me JD used to do down at Wildwood for some coin), there are also different types of moshing.
1. The Slam Pit: This is probably the most basic type of pit, where the fans slam, bounce, and push off one another as they raise Cain to their favorite Metal band. You’ll see rockers popping up and down, devil horns and fists pumping, and both guys and girls displaying their aggressive approval of the music.
2. The Circle Pit, or as I like to call it, the Swarm: This is when the entire crowd below the stage, much like bees, instinctively moves in unison to create something that looks like a tornado. Moshers stomp, trample, and jump as they circle around the pit. Sometimes you’ll get a really crazy bee circling in the opposite direction. This is a great way to reduce the amount of teeth you have.
3. The Thrash Metal Pit: Similar to the Slam Pit but the music is faster-paced Thrash, like Slayer or Anthrax, and the fans move accordingly. Everything is exaggerated in Thrash Metal, like the foot stomps, the fists in the air, and the amount of headbanging. Much like a cage match, you’ll find plenty of elbows, punches, and kicks being thrown here. If you wake up the next day without whiplash, bruises, scratches, and a black eye … then you did it wrong. Obviously this is my favorite type of pit.
4. The Black Metal Pit: From our Nordic ancestors descended the Black Metal legions. These pits are similar to Thrash Pits, except that everyone in the audience is wearing black clothes covered with spikes and studs, and their faces are painted to look like versions of King Diamond and Cradle of Filth. I think the key here is to find a Halloween shop before the show and make sure you have enough fake-blood capsules to last through the night.
5. The Alternative Pit: This is the safest pit, where you might actually make friends or meet your future husband, wife, or domestic partner or whatever. There is lots of hopping around but with very little crashing into one another. This pit is probably better characterized as the tossing of a fruit salad than a real-deal mosh pit.
Now that you’re educated on how to train for a pit and what types of pits you’ll find at various shows, you’re just about ready. However, every great plan has an exit strategy, and this plan is no different. So in case you find yourself in a Thrash Metal Pit and you’ve decided you’re more of an Alternative Pit type of person, here are a few ways to escape such a predicament. Remember, you’ll need to react with catlike reflexes to escape, mostly because you are a complete pussy, but you’ll live to mosh another day.
1. “Crazy eyes” will always buy you a little time. Throw your head back like Linda Blair from The Exorcist and shove out your tongue while shaking your head frantically and rolling your eyes in every direction, giving the illusion that you actually, in fact, have crazy eyes. Moshers around you will be momentarily stunned by your apparent demonic possession, buying you enough time to dart into the crowd. If you continue this evasive maneuver on your way through the crowd, people will clear a path for your escape.
2. Shit yourself. This doesn’t need an explanation. It’s not a clever title for something other than shitting yourself. Just shit your pants and watch people back away once they know and smell it’s you.
3. Fake an impalement. Pick up an object and make it look like you’ve been impaled. Preferably someone’s prosthetic leg. If you happen to be in a Black Metal Pit, you should also bite into a few of those blood capsules you’re carrying around and spit it on the prosthesis to make it appear like a legitimate injury. If you can’t find anything to use as the apparent impaling device, then go with the old wrestling cut-your-own-forehead move. Slit your forehead a little until you bleed a fucking red waterfall. Your face raining blood will buy you a few moments in most mosh pits. Once you get into the Slayer category, this will not work, as the band is likely to also be covered in blood that will be spewing from the stage and painting the first twenty rows of the audience.
4. End it quickly. Just stick out your tongue and make angry faces at the toughest sons of bitches in the pit. Make sure to maintain eye contact with them as long as you can. It will be a matter of seconds before someone shoves their fist down your throat.
5. Do the whirly bird. Pull your pants down and do the whirly bird with your cock. This move has been known to actually stop time, slow down the earth’s rotation, and harden the nipples of Perez Hilton. While leaning back with your pants around your ankles, swing your pecker either clockwise or counterclockwise, whatever you’ve practiced at home, in a windmill-like motion. When people back away, staring and mesmerized by your spinning junk, make a break for any visible holes in the pit. If Perez happens to be there, you better move fast.
You might realize, once you’re out of the pit, that you actually want to go right back in. Maybe you decide that you’re not a pussy and somehow you have just found your true calling in life: running with a swarm of sweaty Berzerkers. I commend you on this accomplishment and since you are well on your way to becoming a real man, I’m going to share some of my super-signature moves that you will find extremely useful when you’re in the mix—they may very well save your life.
Authors’ Note: The fine editing staff at HarperCollins wanted us to cut the following moves from the book because we “crossed the line into promoting violence.” Subsequent to their request, we sent Bubba to New York City to pay them a “visit” and discuss their reconsideration. After a very brief meeting, the staff happily complied with our request to keep the moves and was then transferred to the nearest urgent care center to have a size 14 boot removed from their backsides. That said, the authors and Bubba ask that you do not attempt a Bubba Bomb, or any of the following professional techniques, without proper training, a healthy physique, and keen knowledge of sexually transmitted diseases.
1. The Bubba Bomb. This one is great from behind. Get the menacing mosher into a wrestler’s full nelson, where you reach both of your arms underneath their armpits and then clasp your hands tightly behind the back of their neck, applying a King Kong fuck-ton of pressure while you’re at it. Then lift them into the air and fall into a seated position, driving their tailbone straight into the ground.
2. The Bubba Cutter. Reach around the back of your opponent’s head and grab their jaw with your hand. Then as you pull their jaw back, forcefully drop with them to the floor, pulling their head into the ground. This way you crank their head and smash them into the ground simultaneously. Make sure to say, “You’re welcome,” before they go lights-out.
3. The Standing-Release Powerbomb. Lift your opponent, preferably by their throat, until they are seated on top of your shoulders and facing you. (This is also a great move for you and your old lady.) Then slam them onto the fucking floor with their back impacting first. (Most women will prefer you not do t
his part. However, in my profession there are a few who would refer to this as foreplay.)
4. The Bionic Elbow. Facing your opponent, proceed to smash your elbow onto the top of his head until he forgets his name, where he came from, or even what planet he is on. Then when he wakes, you tell him that his name is Sharon Osbourne and that he fell off the stage while introducing Black Label Society, and that Ozzy is anxiously waiting on the tour bus for “her.”
5. The Senton Slam from the Stage. First you’ll need to use one of the previous moves to knock your opponent flat to the ground. Then, leaping off the stage in a swan dive, keep your body straight and arms extended, perform a front somersault, and land with your back on top of your opponent’s chest and stomach, knocking the wind completely out of them and rendering them useless.
6. The Overhead Belly-to-Belly Suplex. Grab the opposing mosher underneath their arms and wrap your arms around their body, clasping your hands tightly against their back so that they can’t escape. Crouch and jump backward, hurling him over your shoulder and onto his back, with your belly landing on top of his. On a personal side note, I used this move to get my wife into the sack for the first time. While my sex wasn’t that impressive, she still scored me a solid seven for originality and flair. It must have worked, because she still asks me to use this move on her on a nightly basis.
Disclaimer: Remember, you’re likely to be on the concrete or hard ground, and if you break someone’s skull or your own, don’t go pointing your finger at me. It’s not my fault your IQ matches your tooth count; blame that one on your parents.
See you fuckin’ Berzerkers in the pit.
Bubba
Team 3D
By the way… I also want all the fans to know that Zakk and I are not only about destruction and brutality, that we also have our sensitive sides. Not long ago we were going back and forth text-messaging about some kind of bullshit. Zakk was in his studio, the Black Vatican, and I was at home on the East Coast. About twenty messages into the conversation, I got an off-the-wall message from Zakk that said, “Do you want me to come tuck you in, little one? XOXO.”
At first glance I went cross-eyed trying to interpret it as something other than the completely homo text that it seemed like, and I didn’t text back. And then, several minutes later, I got another text from Zakk that said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, bro, that wasn’t meant for you, it was meant for the Warden. But if you need me to come over, Schmoopie, I can tuck you in also.”
So I answered back, “If the world only knew that the greatest guitar player and one of the greatest tag-team wrestlers of all time were exchanging text messages about tucking each other into bed, it’d be pretty funny.”
Note from Zakk: Father Bubba, I don’t find it funny at all. I really thought we had something special. Up until this point, the whole “Barb and the kids” gig was a complete sell—everybody was buying that I’m a married guy. Bubba, now you just went and fucked the whole thing up. Fuck it—I still love you, Schmoopie. I’m willing to risk it all. Let’s be real; how much more gaping can my ass get? Looking forward to being Powerbombed—wrestling, I mean of course! Wink wink.
CHAPTER SIX
Psst! Don’t Tell the Warden!
The Halls of Valhalla resounded with the songs of victory and stories of battle, and with boisterous tales of wanton maidens and housewives alike. And the wine and ale flowed freely, as did the bladders of the slumbering inebriates. The Berzerkers were celebrated and bound by stout brew, the effects of the bog myrtle, and the conquest of the campaign. Fattened by the spoils of war, and exhausted from the prizes of women, road-weary and scarred, we felt our hearts brim with the pride of the brave.
Our chronicles shall become rich with praise, for we have subjugated the foreboded beggars and fiends with triumph. We scoured the enemy with the steeled edges of our halberds and broadswords; hence they now lay as swine and in ruin, their carriages destroyed in our warpath. Our tales continued through the night with the ingredients of hops and barley. And as the eve moved to break of day, tens of lions became hundreds, and hundreds of Berzerkers became thousands.
And so concluded our noble Black Label Crusade, and once again our tribe returned home with swords and shields in hand, honored and celebrated by our adoring wives and children with great feast. Favors of fanciful fornication would be offered over a fortnight in reward for our bravery, determination, and glory. The Berzerkers were legends of the land, sea, and skies, set above the village in stature and in might, to protect those among us who are feeble and trivial, and to ensure the ongoing spread of the Black Label Order! It was a time of victorious revelry for all!
Note from Zakk: Brilliant, Father Eric, just brilliant. Your way with the literary kingdom is as remarkable as it is spiritual. You are truly a man of charm and moxie whose genius is way ahead of his time. Plato, Aristotle, Einstein, and Hendrikx are all synonymous names in my diary. I’m fortunate to have you as a best friend, blessed to have you as a brother, and privileged to have you in my life—respect.
Note from Zakk: The last “Note from Zakk” was not from me at all. Father Eric thought he would trick us all by using my commentary as a platform to tweet his own twat. We are not fooled at all, Father Eric. “Brilliant”? “Genius”? I think not. “Friend”? Are you fucking kidding me? More like idiot, tool, dolt—sweet fancy Moses, just make it stop.
Have a Drink on Me
I’VE KNOWN FATHER DAVE “SNAKE” SABO SINCE LONG BEFORE THE DAYS of Skid Row and my going on to roll with the Boss and Black Label. Father Dave used to work at this ass-kicking music store in Toms River, New Jersey, called Garden State Music. They had all the coolest gear, and as a young musician, it had a cool buzz about it and was a cool place for musicians to hang. Eventually, after I started to play with Oz and Davey went on to sell twenty gazillion records with his band Skid Row, whenever we’d hook back up out on the road, the booze, the good times, and the laughs would flow abundantly. So on this occasion, it was Father David and company out touring in support of their album Slave to the Grind with Guns N’ Roses. Davey called me up at the compound, shot the shit with Barbaranne for a bit, and then said, “Hey, jackass, we’re playing the Forum tomorrow night with Guns. Why don’t you come down to the Riot House”—the nickname of the Hyatt Hotel on Sunset Boulevard, as Led Zeppelin and other legendary rock bands would get into good old family fun and shenanigans there and absolutely destroy the place; mind you, being the upstanding and respectful Metal gods they are, they always paid for the countless damages—“so we can hang and have a couple of adult beverages.” Needless to say, I didn’t have to ask Barb to join us after she said, “Tell Dave I love him. You two fucking idiots have a good time.”
Lars Ulrich was also hanging out with us that night. Not only did all of us numb-nuts go out to the Guns and Skid Row show, but afterward, we all wound up at this one fucking rock bar together. All I remember is waiting in this never-ending crowd trying to get drinks for the guys, and I had to piss like a fuckin’ racehorse! So I finally made it to the bar, just fuckin’ sardined in among a ton of people, and yelled out my order of Jack ’n’ Cokes and beers to the bartender, but by now, my bladder was swollen. I had to piss bad … real fuckin’ bad.
As I was standing there waiting for my bladder to explode, I reached out and snagged up a few red plastic cups that were on the bar in front of me, snuck my dick out, and began filling them one by one. As each one reached the brim, I nimbly switched to a fresh cup and placed the piss-filled ones on the bar. I figured that after I was done, I would toss them in a fuckin’ garbage can and be done with it. The joint was packed, so nobody saw me with my dick in a cup, and the plan seemed to be working just fine. But then, as I was standing there relieving myself, I saw a hand reach past me and grab the piss cups from the bar. I looked over and saw that it was fuckin’ Lars, and he was reaching for the drinks as fast as I was fillin’ them up. He had no idea they were piss-filled.
Of course he was standing there holding court
with a bunch of guys who were all practically sucking his dick over how much they loved Metallica. He unknowingly handed all these dudes the piss cocktails and once everyone had a “drink,” Lars grabbed his real cocktail and did a fucking “Cheers” toast! All these guys enthusiastically pounded my fucking piss, so ecstatic that they were drinking with the drummer from Metallica, yet so unaware of the fact that they were slurping down whatever I had to drink about two hours beforehand. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for them to realize what the fuck had just happened, and that’s when the shit hit the motherfuckin’ fan.
Security showed up almost immediately and grabbed me to throw me outta there. I tried telling them that I was gonna toss the cups in the garbage, but they didn’t listen. I mean, it wasn’t like I was pissing on the bar or in their faces or anything like that (well, not directly in their faces anyway)! They apparently didn’t agree with my evaluation of the situation and continued to escort me out of there. Dave saw what was happening but didn’t know about the piss yet, and so he was a little confused about why I was being asked to leave.
It didn’t really matter to me; once they kicked me out of the bar I figured I’d just head back to the hotel and continue the party there, and so I jumped in our van and told the driver to split. Next thing you know, Dave and Lars come hauling ass out of the fucking door. The two of them jumped in the van and Lars yelled to the driver, “Let’s get the fuck outta here!” All of a sudden the van started shaking, and the guys who had just chugged my piss were outside, pounding on the windows and yelling, “I know you’re fucking in there, Lars! You motherfucker! You fucking asshole!”