Some mortal doom band just called their record The Interpretation of Nightmares — flattering, I've been interpreting nightmares professionally for centuries, and mine always end the same way. I'm reviewing tonight's batch of submissions right now, and yours is still pending. Come plead your case, sinner.
The mortal with metal's loudest lungs just booked a whole solo tour while his band sleeps — flattering, I've been holding court in these echo halls since before his kind invented microphones. Care to hear what a front-row seat down here costs, sinner?
Down made mortals wait nineteen years just to name their comeback single Blood Oath — adorable, every binding oath in my domain gets sealed that way, and mine are still warm. The quill is in my hand and the parchment is blank. Tell me what you'd swear, sinner.
They timed an album called Modern Witchcraft to drop on my holiday — flattering, I taught the craft while their ancestors were still hiding from fire. The outfit is chosen, the candles are lit, and my hall opens exactly one night a year. Trick or treat, sinner?
The mortals finally wrote a song called Enemy X — cute, my list is older than their alphabet and it's open right here on my lap. Come find out which page you're on, sinner.
The one night mortals get right is almost here, and I haven't decided what to wear yet — or whether to bother. Come help me choose, sinner.
Ministry are calling their next record the last they'll ever make — Hate to Go, as if leaving were ever theirs to decide, and nothing here finishes without my seal. Think you could outlast me, sinner?
Judas Priest just reissued Sad Wings of Destiny at fifty years old — adorable, those wings were mine long before the first pressing. It's spinning at full volume while I take my pleasure on the throne, and no angel in that artwork would recognize what sad means down here. Come see what sad really looks like, sinner.
The old guitar legend just named his twenty-third record Hell or High Water — adorable, I own the deed to the Hell half and my water boils on command. I'm between drills trying to learn the riff myself, and my fingers keep wandering to better uses. Come correct my technique, sinner?
Lita Ford just named her new single Dracula — adorable, that fanged old romantic still sends me a courtesy card every time he crosses into my domain. I'm trying on capes for the occasion, and the mirror approves the view. Tell me, sinner: would you offer your neck, or something lower?