66: Crash Course In Brian Surgery

  "His brians?" Günter asked. "You mispronounced it. It's brains."

  Damon had also heard the mispronunciation, but his scalp itched, and he imagined his brains were at this moment squirming around in search of a back hatch to his skull. At least it was distracting him from all the huge numbers floating above Blayre and the heads of the librarians. These combatants were gods and goddesses, and he was a flea.

  "Brains!" Blayre said. "You know the whole"brian" thing was a slip of the tongue. I don't even know anyone named Brian. You librarians have been correcting me ever since my dearly departed father sent me to your academy for gifted wizards."

  "It is our sacred duty to correct all mispronunciations," Glauten-Globen said, their point strengthened by the duet of their voices. "We swore an oath."

  "And we only accept spelling from the Official Heavy Metal Dictionary of Metaloria," added Glieben. "Not those silly Hair or Riff spellings. Rock with two Ks. That sort of abomination. Both lands are loose with their hair, their morals and their spellings!"

  Frankly, Damon had never been so interested in grammar and spelling and mispronounced words. Because as long as they were arguing about that, no one was going to be eating his brains. His body also seemed to understand the threat he was under, since it had, without his knowledge, tried to pull itself away from Jam.

  "Dude," Jam whispered, not even struggling to keep Damon in place. "This whole brain-eating thing won't hurt. And it is for a bigger cause. Kind of like Live Aid, but different."

  "It's for your cause," Damon said. He glanced above Jam's head to see:

  Metal Health: ++++

  But the number glowed purple, not red. Did that mean it was only temporary?

  "Metal Dad's cause is my cause," Jam said. "He and I have the same metal running through our blood. Don't struggle! You'll never escape my massively powerful grip." He looked down at his hand. "If I weren't holding onto you right now, I'd flex."

  Damon still pulled with all his strength, but Jam was just too strong.

  "Blayre is not your dad," Damon said. "You know that, right? He doesn't even look like you."

  "He's my Metal Dad Dude, Dude," Jam said, tripping a little on that last dude. "I'm not stupid. I know he was never on Earth. But he gave me the gift of being a god of metal with abs and nice hair and a great leather jacket and tight jeans. My so-called real dad didn't even bring back milk for my cereal."

  "And furthermore," Blayre raised his voice enough to drown out the librarians, who had begun talking about homonyms. "I don't need to follow the Official Heavy Metal Dictionary of Metaloria. The palace you are standing in is mine. And so are the words I speak in my land. All mine."

  At least they were still arguing, Damon thought. Kim was on the floor, recovering from what must have been a gelatinous cube, and if he wasn't being held in place by a Dwayne Johnson wannabe, he'd be by her side. Damon then looked up to see Fiora stuck to the ceiling, a cluster of tentacles holding her there. She struggled, but she was outclassed by the magic of just one librarian. How could he help her? And finally, Gord lay out on the floor, looking very much dead.

  Kim let out another unflattering upchuck sound, but somehow heroically found the strength to look right at him. She struggled to lift her arm and point a thumb at her back, then her hand slipped in the gelatin, and she caught herself just before she did a face plant. But the movement had brought up more of whatever was inside her, and the upchucking continued. "I wish hot girl in love would stop doing that," Jam said. "She doesn't look as smoking hot when she's throwing up. I'm sure Metal Dad has a spell that'll clean her up to rock star standards."

  Kim had been pointing at her back for a reason, and now, stealing a glance, Damon saw what it was. His staff was strapped there. She'd brought it for him! He flicked a page in his mind, and his list of spells appeared floating in front of him:

  Light in the Dark

  Mini Metal Militia

  Enter Sandman

  Purple Haze

  He stared at them. This room was too bright for light to do any kind of damage, and he might illuminate his nose again. And sleep wouldn't work on anyone as strong as his enemies. That left the newest one, which—

  "Are those the only spells you have?" Jam chuckled.

  Damon blinked and put his spells away in the scroll inside his head. "You can see them?"

  "Of course," Jam said. He tapped his skull with his free hand. "I have all-powerful, all-seeing eyes. It must be sad being so weak."

  "You're only strong because Blayre made you strong," Damon said.

  "I'm strong because I chose the right dad, dude," Jam said. "Your dad is dead on the floor. He has no numbers above his head."

  There was no point in arguing with him about that being Kim's uncle. And maybe the numbers vanished if someone was unconscious. Then he realized Blayre and the librarians were looking in his direction.

  If he had that staff, he could access the spells. And strengthen them. But they would do nothing against these enemies.

  Instead, it would have to be something that was obvious.

  Words, he thought. The librarians and Blayre were all about words. And words could start wars.

  "Deathface Blitzkrieg sucks," Damon said.

  "What?" Jam hissed.

  "Deathface Blitzkrieg sucks," Damon repeated. "They couldn't even kiss Lemmy's feet. Their singer, Kelv?n, doesn't hold a candle to Bruce Dickinson or Rob Halford, and their guitarists are hacks."

  "This is the second time you've dissed them," Jam said. Each word came with a gob of spittle. "Take it back right now! They don't suck. They don't!"

  "I'd rather listen to 'Achy Breaky Heart' a thousand times than hear one Deathface Blitzkrieg song," Damon added.

  Jam lifted him so they were face to face. "No one says Deathface Blitzkrieg sucks."

  "You just said it," Damon said. "Literally."

  "Prepare to be destroyed by my metal might." Jam's muscles flexed everywhere all at once.

  "Don't you hurt his brain!" Blayre shouted.

  "Deathface Blitzkrieg double suck!" Damon said. "Every true headbanger knows that."

  Jam pulled back a fist. Damon squinted, but stopped his eyes from automatically closing. He needed to dodge.

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  The fist stayed in place. "You were just trying to get me mad, weren't you, Dude?" Jam tapped Damon on the forehead. "You wanted to make a distraction. Well, it won't work. I outsmarted you." He tapped the side of his own skull with a massive finger. "My smarts were muscled up, too."

  "All I really wanted," Damon said. "Was for you to lift me up high enough that I could do this." He reached and plucked the low E on the Schenkeraxe strapped to Jam's back. Damon knew the fretboard well enough, so he could play the notes he was certain were also in Jam's head. His shredding powers allowed him to envision the strings. He played several notes then pulled his hand away.

  "Was that what I thought it was?" Jam said.

  "Yes," Damon replied. "It's 'Master of Puppets'."

  And after saying that, he tapped the armband on Jam's arm that said: Repeater +2. As if he didn't have control, Jam lifted his hands to flip the guitar around and play the song. Which meant Jam let Damon go.

  Damon fell to the ground, landed and began running. Because his plan was unfolding by the microsecond, he hadn't planned where to run, so he chose away from Jam, the Librarians and Blayre. It crossed his mind that he could jump back through the portal and return with the proverbial cavalry. But as far as he knew, the cavalry was all here, and the portal was broken on the other side. And that would leave Fiora stuck in the ceiling. It would be best not to forget her.

  Damon went to the only other person within reach—Kim. The plan then sprang fully formed into his mind. He would grab his staff and augment his spells while dodging all the tentacles and blasts that would come his way, which might allow Kim to escape.

  Damon landed beside her, and instead of grabbing her or saying hello or doing any of the things he wanted to do, like wipe the gelatin off her forehead, he pulled his Screaming Eagle Staff staff from her back, stood tall and turned to face the room. He pointed and, with a whisper, sent out the Purple Haze spell.

  A puff of purple smoke streamed out of the floor between him and his enemies. One librarian, perhaps a little asthmatic, let out a cough. Now they could dash away.

  Kim tried to say something that he assumed would be a compliment, but it came out as a cough. He reached down to help her up, but paused when he realized the smoke had dissipated. His enemies continued to stand there looking bemused.

  Because he was distracted, he had not grabbed Kim's arm. Instead, he had somehow clutched the Bag of Ultimate Rock Surprises and held it up looking a little silly but also, he hoped, intimidating.

  Jam was still mimicking Master of Puppets's opening notes, but glaring at Damon. Günter who was licking her beak as she glared at him, perhaps had the most frightening carnivorous look he'd ever seen on a bird librarian's face.

  "We all could turn you to ash in a heartbeat, spawner," Blayre said. "Submit to us now so we don't have to break your bones and make you scream blue murder in front of your friends."

  "I'm going to rock you," Damon said in his gruffest voice, making his staff crackle with sparks.

  He was greeted with laughter. "Your time is up," Blayre said. He lifted his hand. Damon's staff flew across the room and crashed into the wall.

  "You are unstaffed," Blayre said. "So you have no chance of augmenting your meek and meagre spells. It is a wonder you survived my dungeons." He lifted a finger, and Damon floated into the air, spinning slowly like a pi?ata.

  But Damon's hands were free. And he still clutched the Bag of Ultimate Rock Surprises. So, knowing this was most likely the worst idea possible, he reached into the bag and grabbed onto something warm that grabbed him back.

  He pulled it out, grunting, and no one in the room was more surprised than him he could lift something so much heavier than a magic horn.

  For the object he had pulled out of the bag was Lita Fjord, her broken staff now healed and crackling with energy. She took one look around the room and said, "I am here to spell your doom." She paused, giving them a smile. "And yes, I meant that pun."

  And with that, she began her attack.

  67: Becoming a Heavy Metal Maniac

  "You are a god of metal," the voice said. "Get up."

  Gord, lying in complete darkness, felt a thrill, for he had heard that majestic voice many times at many concerts. It was not the voice of his most favorite of all singers, Bruce Dickinson, the frontman of Iron Maiden. No, it was the other voice that made his ears bleed and his heavy metal heart melt.

  As if in response to his realization, a light shone from above, illuminating a bald head and a backlit leather jacket with studs. The man looking down at him was sitting on a 1981 Harley Davidson low rider and holding a black Neumann U87AI microphone on a stand.

  "Yes, it is I," the golden voice said into the mic. "The ghost of Rob Halford past."

  Gord's heart nearly stopped. He'd seen Judas Priest in concert three months earlier, and the lead singer was robustly healthy. "You mean Rob Halford is dead?"

  "No, no," the ghost of Rob Halford said. "I am inside your head, and so I am a ghost. The real Rob Halford is touring Europe right now. I want to be clear: I AM NOT THE REAL ROB HALFORD."

  "So this isn't really happening?" Gord could not hide the disappointment in his voice. "I'm not really meeting Rob Halford?"

  The ghost of Rob Halford sighed. "It is really happening, mate, but it is happening inside your head. The words of metal wisdom are as real as real can be. They are written in the soul of every headbanger. I am here to tell you that you are a heavy metal maniac."

  "I am?" Gord said. He put his hand on his bald head. Rob Halford's embrace of baldness in the 90s had helped Gord give up his monk-like male pattern baldness and shave the last hairs from his head. Right now, he wanted to touch the ghost of Rob Halford's head, but decided it was best if he kept his distance. "I am. Every word you say rocks with truth."

  "Aye, it does," Rob Halford's ghost said. "And what do heavy metal maniacs do when they are knocked down, mate?"

  "They… they rock on?"

  "Yes, yes, they rock on. You're right. Like sentinels. Or hellions. They rock hard." He put the mic closer to his mouth, making his words echo very loudly. "But you can't rock from the ground, can you, mate?"

  "Not very well." Gord rose to one knee.

  "Yes, that's it." The voice of the ghost of Rob Halford was getting even louder. "True believers stand and shake their fists, mate! You are a rocka rolla man who rocks hard and rides free, so you should be hellbent for leather to stand up! Become a jaw breaker!"

  "Yes, I should, I should," Gord shouted. He placed his foot solidly on the ground.

  "Stand up, Gord!" Rob Halford's ghost shouted. "Show the world you've got another thing coming!"

  "Shouldn't it be 'its got another thing coming'?" he asked.

  "Don't overthink!" the ghost shouted. "Heavy metal is never about overthinking!" He really leaned into the mic now. "You are a heavy duty defender of the faith." His voice, oddly, sounded a little like a woman's voice. "Do all heavy metal maniacs proud, Gord. Stand up!" Now it was very much like a woman's voice. The shade of Rob Halford looked him in the eye, winked, then jumped on the Harley, made it roar once and vanished.

  Quite suddenly, there was light all around him, and he wondered if he were back at the Anvil concert. But then after several blinks, the situation became clear. "I said stand up, Gord. Stand up and defend yourself." This time it was a woman's voice.

  Gord was on his knees in a brightly lit room. Lita, holding a staff that shot ice out of one end and fire out of the other, was shouting at him, "Stand up and fight, Gord. We need your inner metal!"

  "You're alive!" Gord said. "And you even have your hat."

  "Yes, I'm alive. The Tree of Heavy Metal Shuffling and Non-Perfect Wishes sent me into the Bag of Ultimate Rock Surprises and Damon pulled me out. I'll tell you more later, but now we need you to metal up!"

  Behind Lita, staff up, were Kim with her sword out and Damon, who had his hands spread dramatically as if he were going to cast a spell. It reminded him of the Charlie's Angels pose, and he felt a moment of loss for the 70s TV he watched as a child. Why couldn't things be as simple as they were in the olden days? Soon he'd be thinking about the Bionic Man. His other sense of loss was that he wasn't standing in front of Rob Halford any longer.

  "Strike now, Gord," Lita said. "Show us you are a metal maniac and strike now!"

  The word strike stuck in his head and immediately made him think of bowling. And without gathering any more hard-to-gather thoughts, he threw himself toward Günter. The librarian narrowed her bird eyes and squawked a word, "ozenfray!" the same one that froze him, and yet, this time the blast of cold power bounced off his bald palate, and he kept going.

  He smashed into Günter and, because she flew to one side, she clipped Gleiben and Glauten-Globen, and like bowling pins, they flew into the air. Sadly, they got no lift from their wings. The books were knocked from their hands.

  Lita was madly pulling things out of the bag, including a flute that played a Jethro Tull song, a bleating goat that sounded like Megadeth, and a pink snake. Each she tossed at her enemies, though the goat landed and ran off down the stairs. But when she pulled out a glowing whip, she laughed and snapped it like a bullherder, looping it over Glieben and Glauten-Globen. The act of her roping them like calves stirred the farm boy in his heart, but he set aside that feeling.

  As Günter searched for another source word, Gord slipped the Def Leppard bandana over her eyes, knocking her book away.

  While all this was happening, Fiora fell from the glass ceiling, spread her wings and dived towards Blayre, smoke trailing out her ears, her mouth open to blast him with flames.

  Blayre froze, his face halfway between gloating and fear. One can have all the power in Metaloria, but if one does not react to a threat, that threat becomes very real. And even as Gord spun through the air, he knew Fiora would have this one chance to decimate Blayre. Once the wizard had come to his senses, their advantage would be lost. He kept his eyes on the battle, still turning, landing on his back and sliding across the floor, he watched.

  Blayre lifted a hand, but not with a spell; instead, it was in fear, believing he could somehow stop the fury that was Fiora from burning him into oblivion.

  Then another hand appeared in the frame.

  A large hand. Attached to an overly muscled arm.

  And it belonged to Jam. He caught Fiora's ankle, halting her inches from Blayre's face.

  And began swinging her against the floor like a bag of flour.