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The Band

The Band

Growing up in the seventies, it was like every motherfucker just wanted to be in the band.

In the sixties, we’d been spoilt rotten by the array of musical talent hailing from both sides of the pond.

There were The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys, The Doors, The Kinks – and that’s all without even mentioning The motherfucking Beatles, man.

Back then music was everything, and seeing those young fellas up in lights made everyone want to pick up an instrument and follow suit like a herd of fucking sheep.

All except, that is, for yours true.

I mean don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved my music, but the band simply wasn’t where someone like me belonged.

I wanted to be where the true talent lied; with the guy behind the scenes at the wheel, driving those musical machines into the god-damn ground.

This Saturday night, live and fucking kicking, the stage is set for another round of the Battle of the Bands.

Just as they did a year ago, a group of aspiring musicians will rock up to this famous music hall we call The Slaughterhouse with the dream of becoming an overnight sensation.

With their faithful instruments in hand, they will audition under the watchful eye of the judges who will determine them talented enough or not to take their place in the greatest show on earth.

Pande-fucking-monium baby.

For those twenty young performers fortunate enough to make it through the heats, they will be given the opportunity to strut their stuff on the biggest stage of them all with the promise of a number one hit record.

Whether they be multi-platinum selling artists such as Luke Storm, or new kids on the block like Starboy or Lucy Seraphina, everyone will be turning up their amps in an effort to blow the rest away and make the biggest noise of all.

All except, that is, for yours true.

You see, I am no more of a twisted firestarter like Pyre than I am daydream believer like Mordecai.

I don’t want to turn back time like The Generation Kid any more than I want to find out what’s over Vigour’s rainbow.

Truth be told, little lambies, I’ve got no interest in trying to outplay, out-sing, or outperform any of you.

When all is said and done, I shall take my rightful place at the top of the charts courtesy of each and every one of you playing to the tune of my song.

Through all the clamour that ensues on stage, it will be The Head Snake – back turned on the audience, conducting the commotion as he so often does – who prevails.

Like my adoring snakes, the beating of your hearts at Pandemonium will be like a tiny orchestra playing just for me.

And when it is all but silent; when the show is over and the fat lady has sung her fucking last, I will lead whatever there is left of you through the trapdoor to your slaughters before turning and taking my bow.

It’ll be me – Viper fucking Roberts – still standing, don’t you know?

Better than I ever did.