---
The ringing tone buzzed in James's ear as he waited for the line to pick up. He glanced at the circled ad in the paper again:
> "Lead guitarist looking for fast, heavy players — not into soft crap.
Call Lars, 555–2317."
Click. "Hello?"
James cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh… I saw your ad in the Recycler. You still looking for a band?"
The voice on the other end perked up. "Oh, hell yes. What do you play?"
"Rhythm guitar. I sing too. Heavier stuff. Fast. Aggressive."
Silence, then: "Do you like Diamond Head?"
Bingo.
James smirked. "More than my own family."
The guy laughed. "I'm Lars. You free to jam tomorrow?"
---
Ron and James pulled up to a modest home tucked in the suburbs of Newport Beach. The lawn was uneven. The garage door was halfway open, and from inside, they heard rapid-fire drumming — chaotic, unrefined, loud.
James looked at Ron. "This is either the best idea of our lives… or the worst."
They stepped inside.
A skinny Danish teenager with frizzy hair and a sweaty headband was going absolutely feral on a kit that looked like it had survived a war. Cymbals clanged, toms rattled, sticks flew.
Then he saw them and stopped mid-fill.
"You James?" he asked, eyes wild.
"That's me. This is Ron."
Lars hopped off the stool and offered his hand, breathing hard. "You got gear? Let's play."
No small talk. No questions.
Just music.
James liked that.
---
Twenty minutes later, they were in Lars's cluttered garage with amps buzzing and sweat pooling in the corners of their eyes.
James played the opening riff of Hit the Lights.
Lars's face lit up like he'd been struck by lightning. "What is that?"
"Something I wrote."
"That's insane." He dropped in with a thunderous double-time beat, completely raw and slightly off-tempo — but it had fire. Energy. Attitude.
Ron kept up, fingers flying over the fretboard. The groove locked for a moment — rough but powerful.
When they finished, the three stood in stunned silence.
Then Lars just laughed. "You wrote that? Dude. That's what I've been looking for. Everybody I meet wants to play Eagles or Led Zep. Screw that. This is it."
James nodded slowly. "We've been playing with ideas. I've got more."
"You got a name?"
James hesitated.
"No," he said. "Not yet. But we will."
Lars was grinning ear to ear. "This could work, man. This could really work."
---
They jammed into the night, Lars showing off his massive stash of obscure British imports — Diamond Head, Tank, Venom, Witchfynde, Holocaust. Half the bands James remembered, the other half he'd forgotten even existed.
They listened to Am I Evil? on vinyl while sipping warm sodas. Lars tapped the beat out on his knee with military precision.
"I wanna bring this sound to America," Lars said, eyes glowing. "Nobody knows about it here. But if we mix it with something heavier, thrashier... we'll blow the whole scene open."
James smiled.
"You don't know how right you are."
---
As Ron packed his bass, Lars leaned closer to James.
"You ever think about recording? Like, real stuff?"
James nodded. "I've got ideas. More than just jamming. A band. Real songs. Maybe even an album."
Lars raised an eyebrow. "I know a guy who's organizing a compilation record. Like a demo for underground metal bands. He owes me a favor."
James blinked. The Metal Massacre compilation. That's where it begins.
Lars grinned. "If we pull this off… we could change everything."
James stared down at his callused hands. The weight of history — and the chance to shape it again — settled on his shoulders.
This wasn't a fluke.
It was fate.
---