Well, who knows… Personally, I wouldn't call the "Angels of Satan" work music. Though, I've long since stopped judging things like this. With age, you tend to care less about such things. If they're singing it, someone must be listening. Otherwise, they wouldn't be performing it, right?
Astaroth's voice was much higher than I expected. In a breaking tenor, he belted out barely distinguishable lyrics, which mostly seemed to revolve around mentions of the devil, evil, blood, and other unpleasant things. The whole spectacle looked… ridiculous. But honestly, that's what I expected.
At first, I even strained my ears to make out what exactly our frontman was singing.
Hellfire Roars above us
And the whole world trembles
Under its steps
A black banner
Flies above us
A hollow idol
Will fall in pieces…
As far as I'm concerned, you could substitute any words, and it'd still be the same incomprehensible mess. And as for the music… I tried again to focus, but I couldn't tell one song apart from the other. But Astaroth's face was glowing with inspiration and enthusiasm. He was clearly proud of his work.
He saw himself as some sort of hellish envoy, a demon in the flesh, or something like that. But the way he came across…
Not quite there.
His face looked even more childish because he was trying so hard to give it a fierce seriousness. Like those memes where nerds with scraggly mustaches offer pickup artist courses or promise tough showdowns.
I almost laughed out loud at the thought. My hand even twitched toward my pocket to pull out my phone and find the meme online.
Then I remembered just in time that I didn't have a phone and that it's 1991. The only people with mobile phones now would be those guys in bright expensive blazers. Big, clunky flip phones. Or did those blazers come later?
The important thing now is not to get lost in these thoughts. I need to accept that this is my life now without overthinking it like some old gossip.
But Kirill played surprisingly well. As he was tuning his instrument, he ran his fingers over the strings, and it was clear that he handled it confidently.
I sat on the table, swinging my legs in time with the ragged rhythm of the satanic music. I wasn't trying to get into it anymore. And I tried not to think about how my young, growing, and annoyingly skinny body was craving food. To distract myself, I decided to check out the contents of my pockets—the ones I hadn't gotten around to earlier.
So, I had a worn notebook with an alphabetical index. A quick flip through it showed that some of the pages were actually filled. Ah, it's a contact list. I also had a passport, which said my name was Vladimir Viktorovich Korneev, born in Novokinevsk on December 20, 1972. So, I'm an adult. And my birthday's coming up. I flipped through the pages further. Unfit for military service, registered address… Dostoevsky Street, 15… Alright, I can roughly imagine where that is. Something tells me I still live there with my parents. Because if I had my own place, why would our metalhead crew be drinking at Astaroth's apartment, under the looming threat of his mom coming home in the morning?
Well, that's easy enough to check later.
What else?
Hmm, a piece of paper… Graph paper, like it's torn out of a notebook.
"Dear Lena! Come to the Lira café on Saturday; there's a surprise waiting for you."
Crossed out.
"Lenok, how about we meet for coffee? Maybe at the Lira café?"
Also crossed out.
And then the name "Lena" repeated several times in different sizes.
Well, that's normal. I'm a perfectly healthy and mature guy who tried to ask some Lena out on a date. With unknown results.
I'm really curious about what happened to the previous owner of this body. While I was unfolding the paper, for some reason, I expected to find a note like, "Blame N for my death, I'm leaving this life voluntarily, it's unbearable to walk the same earth as…" Nonsense, of course, but at least it would've made sense. Instead, it seems like this guy was just living his life, strumming a guitar, and then—bam!—he vanished. On one hand, it seems pretty dumb to commit suicide at a casual hangout. On the other hand, it's not the worst choice. You slip away to the bathroom, swallow a handful of sleeping pills, come back. Collapse under the table like a little heap. Never wake up. No one would even notice you passed out. And then they'd deliver the body to the morgue later.
But the note was about something else. So, it looks like I won't be finding out the secret of why the metalhead known as Belial disappeared just yet. If I ever do, that is.
"Belial!!!" Judging by Astaroth's yelling, he'd been calling me more than once.
"What do you want?" I crumpled the paper and shoved it back into my pocket. I'll deal with this Lena later.
"How did we play?" our frontman asked.
"Brilliantly, as expected," I lied. I hadn't even listened to what they were playing. And I definitely didn't catch the lyrics. Probably should have. A broken arm is temporary, so I'll still have to learn these "masterpieces" eventually.
"Pack up! We need to go," Astaroth started winding up the microphone cord.
We had to travel almost across the entire city. I didn't ask any questions, but it wasn't hard to gather from their conversation that this wasn't just any concert—it was part of a big rock festival. And not just any festival. It was "Rock Province." The very same one that had Genka drowning in nostalgia. Ha, looks like I'm about to see some familiar faces?
First, we took a tram, then switched to a trolleybus. The rattling, clanking, and sparking box rushed down Lenin Avenue—the shortest straight line connecting the central, respectable part of Novokinevsk with the industrial zone, Nahalovka, and the rough outskirts. It was interesting to see my city in the past. I barely remember it like this. Over the years, I've gotten used to the well-maintained appearance, the lighting, cafés, and smooth sidewalks. But here… The city was plunging into dusk; the streetlights were mostly on at first, but after the intersection with Yugo-Vostochnaya, it felt like we'd entered a different city. The street lighting was almost nonexistent, buildings had broken windows here and there. Everything looked shabby, gray, and grim. The few pedestrians hurried along, constantly glancing over their shoulders, clutching their bags. But there were others too, huddled in groups, dressed in tracksuits. They didn't seem scared at all.
"Duck down, quick!" Astaroth yanked me lower. "Bakhmet's at the stop! If he sees us, he'll definitely start something!"
"So what?" I asked. Of course, I ducked down—still a stranger in this monastery.
"Are you stupid or what?!" Behemoth, crouching next to me, hissed. "Or did you break your brains along with your arm? There's like ten of them!"
I cautiously peeked out the rear window. A group of stocky teenagers was milling around near the blue stop booth. About seven of them. A couple were in leather jackets, the rest in denim. Tracksuits. Too small-time to be real thugs. Just typical street punks.
"Belial, sit down, they'll spot you!" Astaroth tugged me down again. But it was too late. One of the little punks in a cap pointed at the trolleybus. The tallest one leaned into the open door, and within seconds, the back platform was crowded.
"Well, well, look who's here, and without bodyguards!" the small one yelled, planting his hands on his hips. "What's with the squatting, you planning to take a dump?"
"And the hair! The hair!" chimed in another, with a purplish bruise under his eye. "Can't afford a haircut? Don't worry, we'll help you out!"
"Bakhmet, leave us alone," Astaroth said nervously, standing up. "We're heading to a concert."
"A con-cert?" the small one snickered. "How about you play right here, and we'll listen!"
The punks burst into laughter.
"Bakhmet, what did we ever do to you?" Astaroth whined, and it made me want to smack him myself. His tone was so pathetic, it made my teeth ache.
"To you, it's Viktor Mikhailovich," the tall one spat at the ground. Missed his mark. Meant to hit Astaroth's shoe but ended up hitting his own.
"Gentlemen, planning to pay for the ride?" came the cranky voice of the conductor from the front platform.
"We're only going one stop!" the small guy declared with a mocking tone. "Promise, promise!"
"What is this nonsense?!" the woman snapped indignantly. "Get out! Lev, open the doors!"
"Bakhmet, seriously, we really do have a concert tonight…" Astaroth whined again. The big guy moved forward and shoved him with his shoulder.
"You're riding through my turf and not paying for the fare, huh?" he sneered. Astaroth shriveled up, his lips trembling.
"Viktor Mikhailych, you seem like an educated person," I interjected, gently nudging the crumpled Astaroth aside. "Do you know what 'envolturation' is?"
"What?" Bakhmet's flat face turned toward me.
"Pay up or get out!" the conductor fearlessly wedged herself between the two thugs.
"Envolturation," I calmly repeated. "It's a satanic curse where they stick needles into your wax effigy, and then your dick falls off and your head hurts. Get it?"
"What the hell are you saying?" Bakhmet blinked rapidly. The gears in his brain were turning so slowly you could almost hear them creaking from the outside.
"I'm filling in the gaps in your education, Viktor Mikhailych," I smirked. "By the way, wasn't that you I saw at the flea market yesterday? I think you were selling wooden dildos…"
"What?!" Bakhmet roared but didn't move. Someone in his crew snickered. A couple of passengers laughed audibly too. Bakhmet's flat face began turning crimson.
"Oh, my bad, I must've mistaken you for someone else," I said. "Anyway, Viktor Mikhailych, listen up. Lord Satan, our protector and patron, is a big fan of our work. And if we don't make it to our concert on time because of you, he'll be furious. Then we'll have to make a wax doll of you and start sticking needles into it. And you'll be cursed for seven generations… Although, you probably won't even have any generations, because your dick will shrivel up, and I doubt you have kids now."
Bakhmet listened to my crazy rant with his mouth slightly open. Honestly, I could've said anything at this point. The key was to speak confidently, even if it didn't make sense.
"You don't want your dick to shrivel up, do you?" I asked.
"Who even are you?" the small guy cut in, pushing his way forward.
"Hold on…" Bakhmet waved him off. We were now standing face to face. I was actually a bit taller. It's just that the previous owner of this body rarely straightened his hunched shoulders. Bakhmet silently stared into my face. I calmly looked back at him.
"Are you threatening me?" Bakhmet finally found a phrase from his limited vocabulary.
"Just informing you, Viktor Mikhailych," I replied. "Whether you want to test my information or not is up to you."
"Get out of the bus now!" the conductor yelled, suddenly remembering her duty.
"Let them keep talking, it's just getting interesting!" chuckled a guy sitting in the back row.
"Fucking nutjob," Bakhmet muttered and stepped back. "We'll see who is getting shriveled…"
He was the first to jump out of the trolleybus, followed by the rest of the thugs. The small guy lingered for a moment, squinting at me as he sized me up from head to toe.
"We'll meet again, tough guy!" he said before quickly retreating too.
The trolleybus slammed its doors shut and rumbled further into the depths of the slums.
"Are you out of your mind talking to them like that?" Behemoth suddenly snapped at me, having been cowering in a corner throughout the whole confrontation. "Bakhmet won't let us live in peace now! He'll be lying in wait outside our houses!"
"Unlikely," I shrugged. "He's just a cowardly scumbag."
"He's under Marquise's protection; he'll complain," Behemoth nervously peeked out the window, as if the thugs might chase after the trolleybus. But of course, they were nowhere to be seen in the dark.
"My dear Behemoth," I grinned and put my arm around the chubby guy's shoulders. "I mean Abaddon, of course. I appreciate your advice, but I'll decide for myself how and with whom I speak, agreed?"
"You're acting kinda… weird," Behemoth eyed me warily.
"Weird?" I smirked. "Well, I did wake up feeling a bit off."
"We're getting off at the next stop!" Astaroth said, doing his best to pretend nothing had just happened.
The trolleybus dropped us off in the middle of nowhere. A vacant lot, a concrete fence, and a rundown bus stop pavilion. Across the road were some bushes, trees, and nondescript buildings. Man, what a dump. I remember this place looking completely different. Where the fence now stands, there's a glittering shopping center in my time; on the opposite side, there's a promenade with a permanent farmer's market, and further on is the renovated Kolkhoz Market building—a sort of Soviet-era monument. We need to walk past that market and then a bit further to the chemical plant's cultural center. In my time, it's a book flea market. But now, it seems, it's still a functioning cultural center if we're having a concert there.
We reached it without any incidents. The dome of the "Kolkhoz Market" was dark, with only a lone dim bulb illuminating a tightly closed booth. Probably the guard's.
After we passed it, my companions visibly perked up. Loud shouts, laughter, and even some music could be heard. The "Angels of Satan" picked up the pace, almost breaking into a run.
There was a crowd on the steps. Quite a few people, though not a massive turnout. Genka's nostalgic event—the one that got me sent here—probably had a larger audience. Besides, his club was bigger in capacity than "Chemists."
"We need to go through the staff entrance," Astaroth said and, with an air of importance, started moving along the steps. "Like a king going to his palace!" I thought. Some of the smokers outside the entrance glanced at us. Huh, the crowd… The girls, who looked like older high schoolers, were dressed in ultra-short skirts and fishnet stockings. Their faces were painted in a "train station prostitute" style, their hair teased or pulled into high ponytails. As for the guys… I wasn't as interested in checking them out.
We climbed the side steps and ended up in a narrow corridor with the typical office look. It reeked of smoke, and a bit further from the entrance, a shaggy guy lay on the floor with an idiotic grin on his face. Above him, another guy, looking like his twin, was smoking melancholically.
"Hey, who are you?" came a woman's voice from the open door at the end. "Where's Artem? Why are they letting just anyone in through the staff entrance?!"
"We're not just anyone! We're the 'Angels of Satan'!" Astaroth protested, stopping at the doorway. "We're performing tonight!"
The room matched the corridor—walls that hadn't been painted in a hundred years, and two tables arranged in an "L" shape. Behind one of them sat a chubby girl in a red turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket that clearly didn't close on her. Her unkempt hair hung to one side. She had a bracelet made of safety pins on her wrist and a similar necklace around her neck. In front of her on the table was a checkered notebook. She pursed her lips and flipped through it one way, then the other.
"What's your band's name again?" she asked, squinting suspiciously.
"The 'Angels of Satan'!" Astaroth proudly straightened up, probably so the girl could read the name on his t-shirt letter by letter.
"I don't know where you're performing, but it's not here" she said disdainfully. "You're not on the list!"
"How are we not on the list?!" Astaroth squealed. "We made arrangements with Yevgeny!"
"Did you go through the audition? Where's your number?" The girl extended her hand. Her fingers were stained with blue ink.
"Uh… What audition?" Astaroth stammered and shot me a helpless look. "No one told us about audition…"