Check out these blood curdling snapshots the HAZMAN caught on a recon mission last night. It appears Atlanta thrash pallbearers SADISTIC RITUAL, among other filthy cohorts, were spotted devouring the set during a hard hitting house show! The HAZMAN was lucky to have made it out alive. Enjoy.

It is odd how the universe works. Quite miraculous when you really take a look at the world around you. The collision and interaction of ultra-specific elements can spark brilliant and/or sometimes catastrophic reactions. Some would call these events fate or acts of god. Others would consider them pure coincidence. The story of Ricky and the man who drank macchiatos is no exception.

He came into the busy coffee house at the same time every day. His skin was sickly pale with a grim and bony facial structure. He ordered the same drink every day. Iced caramel macchiato, an odd request for such an odd man. He sat in the same corner, pulled out his dog-eared sketchpad, a sharpened pencil and resided for hours illustrating and drinking endless macchiatos.

At this same coffee shop worked an aspiring young boy named Ricky. He was like any other teenage kid; curious, creative with an appreciation for the arts and skateboarding. He was responsible and did well in school.

Ricky had always taken notice of this peculiar man but did not think much of him until one day he caught a brief glimpse of one of his illustrations. Although it was only a glimpse, it was enough to send shivers down his spine and turn his extremities ice cold. From that brief encounter Ricky's mind was tormented with chaotic visions of exhumed corpses, broken skulls and other ghastly images reminiscent of the Book of Revelations. Like a festering spider bite Ricky's curiosity began to consume him. Everything about the man fascinated Ricky. Who was he? Where did he come from? What he was drawing and why did he drink so many goddamn iced caramel macchiatos? Every day, there he was, hunched over his sketchbook in deep concentration illustrating his scenes of the macabre.

One day, Ricky could take it no more and decided to approach the man.

Nervous and somewhat scared, he tentatively approached the dark corner where the man furiously sketched, with his face just inches from the surface of his sketchpad. Suddenly the man jerked upright like an alert viper staring through Ricky's retinas and into his young soul. Startled, Ricky almost stepped back. There was an eerie silence in the air and time seemed to stop. Ricky could not look away from the ocular stranglehold. An arid sensation filled Ricky's throat and mouth before he finally choked out, "W-Wh-What is that you are drawing?"

The man answered with an oddly welcoming demeanor. "It is for a publication that I run. A magazine of sorts." He glanced at Ricky's skateboard shoes. "Do you skateboard?" he asked with a gleam in his eyes.

 "Yep! Every day. I love it!" Ricky began to speak with a sense of courage. The man took a sip from his macchiato, swallowed, furrowed his brow and smiled mysteriously as he spoke. "Well then I think you will like my magazine." Ricky's ears perked up. He was now even more intrigued.

 "You see this magazine is all about blood, guts, rock & roll and of course lots AND lots of skateboarding." Ricky's eyes widened. He could barely contain his curiosity and asked "Where could I find a copy of this magazine???"

The man responded, "It is funny you should ask, because I happen to have a copy with me." Ricky's jaw dropped as the man reached into his bag and pulled out the magazine. He held it out and just as Ricky began to reach for the magazine the man pulled it away

"Be careful Ricky. What lies within these pages is beyond your worst nightmares. Are you sure you are worthy of perusing its gory depths?”

Without hesitation Ricky nodded with determination. "Very well then," the man spoke. His eyes blazed with fire as he handed the magazine over. Ricky snatched the magazine greedily.

The man whispered conspiratorially, "Enjoy. Just keep it secret."

As the man finished his sentence a barista in a slick Nazi haircut, V-neck t-shirt and thick-rimmed, non-prescription glasses shouted from the front counter, "RICKY! Cappuccino and espresso shot to Matilda at table five! On the double!"

Ricky had almost forgotten he was at work. He rolled up the magazine, stuffed it into his back pocket and went to take care of the order. Suddenly, he realized that he forgot to thank the man. He turned around but to his astonishment the man was nowhere to be seen. He was gone.

A week went before the man returned to the coffee shop. The snobby barista with the slick Nazi haircut, kitten tattoo and thick-rimmed, non-prescription glasses slouched apathetically behind the counter with his arms crossed. "Wuddya need?" the barista asked with a snide attitude.

"Iced Caramel Macchiato," said the man raising one eyebrow in response. As the barista prepared his order the man asked, "Where is that sprite young kid who I always see busing tables, doesn't he work today?"

The barista looked up. He seemed irritated as if the man had asked him how his day was. "Ricky? You mean the little skateboard punk?" said the barista.

"I believe so," said the man. The barista shook his head in disgust. "Pff! That little brat blew it! He doesn't work here anymore."

"Oh?" the man said as the barista continued. "Ricky came in to his shift one morning, grabbed his free daily pastry out of the case and just walked out. Skateboarded away with that weird magazine in his hand. And now I've had to cover for his ass." The barista was hard to hear over the steamer.

"A weird magazine?" inquired the man.

"Yeah, he said he found it somewhere. We tried to take it away from him because we would always catch him reading it on the job. It's like it was his bible or something."

"How strange." The man said in a peculiar tone.

"Whatever! I never liked that little poser anyway. Here’s your iced caramel macchiato!" said the barista. The man took his sugary morning brew and as he began to turn away the barista spoke to him.

"Wait. Aren't you that guy who is always drawing shit? Are you an artist or something?" The man turned slowly.

"I am many things." The man grimaced as he spoke. "The drawings are for a magazine that I publish." The barista listened silently. "It is a conglomerated abomination of all that is blood, guts, rock N roll and skateboarding!"

The man stared at the barista. Feigning indifference, it was nevertheless obvious that the barista couldn't hide his curiosity about this hallowed magazine. Finally, no longer able to contain the urge, the barista spoke. "Where could I find a copy of this magazine?"

The man’s eyes seemed to glow as he smiled malevolently.

"Well, it is funny you should ask, because I happen to have a copy right here with me." With his bony fingers the man reached into his bag and pulled out the same issue he had given to Ricky. Slowly, knowingly, he handed it to the barista. The barista removed his glasses and his eyes widened with horrified recognition as he gasped... "Hazmat?"


\m/ ------ THE END ------ \m/

Do you like Danzig? Do you like whiskey? Then saddle up and try to hold on to your guts for this wild west rock n' roll ride!

Back in the day when I lived in the Big Sky wastelands of Montana I was a wild country girl with a thirst for hard music and hard liquor. My mother had said I was the only HELL she had ever raised. As any rebellious youth I lived a lawless lifestyle with a liver soaked in bad decisions. It was a whirlwind of a ride engulfed in backwoods bonfires under a full moon of nightmares on a 4 wheel drive vehicle of teenage chaos. You could say I lived in the moment and asked questions later. This lifestyle was my only release for a young girl like me growing up in Montana. We were not given the comforts of leisure and entertainment that any common city slicker would have taken for granted. 

As far as live music there was only local country cover bands. The closest thing you'd find to a mosh pit was a square dance or two steppin' in smoky honky tonk dance halls. When it came to touring acts you could always count on the annual town rodeo. Although the lonesome country twang of a steel guitar and fragrance of fresh manure in a warn down rodeo barn still brings a tear to my eye I always wanted more. So when I heard that Danzig was going to be passing through town I just about went up in flames like a high prairie wildfire. Glenn Danzig was the ultimate symbol of musical sacrilege and destruction. It was going to be my goal to attend this concert and make it to the front row to be face to face with Glenn Danzig. Hell, maybe he'd even pull me onstage to sing along to my favorite song Last Caress. I mean anything could happen.

Danzig was the only thing on my mind in the days leading up to the show. I could barely contain myself from bursting like an unmilked dairy cow. Soon the day of the great Danzig show arrived. The local religious radio stations were rallying the locals to picket and protest with fire and brimstone against the dark forces of Glenn Danzig and his legion of satanic blood rockers. But I never gave into that Halloween horse shit. I knew the only dark message that Danzig delivered was to let loose and rock out like a bloodlusting demon on an altar of sacrifice.

Myself and a group of friends had arrived at the concert grounds early and had begun an unwholesome tailgate celebration before the show. From the speakers of our van we blasted Glenn Danzig's evil music through the open doors. In the gravel parking lot we pumped our fists whilst swigging cold beers and passing a large bottle of Kentucky whiskey amongst us. I was greedy with every pull I took off of that vile bottom shelf bottle of firewater. With every swig the music got louder and the world around me span faster than a Texas cyclone. Nonetheless I couldn't wait to see Danzig. It was a lifelong dream, or should I say, a nightmare come true. It was going to be a night to remember.

I was unsure of the hour but judging by the darkness that surrounded me I figured it was nighttime when I awoke in a pile of my own blood strewn vomit. My head throbbed while my stomach quaked and bubbled like a Yellowstone hot spring. What the hell had happened? Why was I alone and where was Danzig? 

Upon gazing about my surroundings and seeing the curtain windows and seat belts I realized I was on the floor of the van within the parking lot of the concert hall. There was vomit everywhere. My throat burned and my stomach gurgled. My friends must have dumped me in the van and headed into the show without me. I had to get my bearings and try to make it into the show. Possibly Danzig had not taken the stage just yet. I sat upright and my head almost exploded. I was so dizzy and nauseated that even moving was a hard task. I was still drunk and clumsy as a newborn calf. The noxious stench within that van and in my nostrils was as thick as fog and reeked worse than a pack of hogs wallowing in their own filth. Then, I heard the sound. It was that iconic voice of Glenn Danzig bellowing out the chorus to Last Caress. I could hear the audience screaming along with him. It was the last encore of the night and my poisoned body had cruelly and ironically awakened me at that very moment to hear the final notes of my favorite song. I had missed the show. To this day whenever I hear Last Caress I am reminded of that night and the vile aromas of awakening while covered in the putrid byproduct waste of my own self-destructive demise.

Written by: Squid Vicious

Welcome to the Chronicles of Gnar. Here you will find courageous tales about headbanging, stagediving, skateboard slams, hair raising and hellraising house parties of destruction. All told from real life metalheads and knuckleheads who lived to tell it all. Every account is loosely based off of actual occurrences.

Heavy Metal Wine Tasting

By Rad Ricky Rodgers

In my early 20's I drove up from Seattle to Vancouver BC to see MEGADETH in concert. There were numerous bands on the bill but I only wanted to see MEGADETH! The concert was utter chaos and MEGADETH had been delivering a grueling set. I had managed to fight my way to the front row to witness Dave Mustaine shred right in front of me. He played some of his most timeless THRASH classics about political corruption, government conspiracy and nuclear annihilation. I couldn't believe how much raw power and insane energy there was. There were multiple circle pits, crowd surfers, shirtless fat dudes, not a lot of girls and tons of sweat.

About half way through the set Dave stopped to talk to the audience. He made note of an ill mannered interview he did with a reporter from some half ass publication that isn't HAZMAT. The reporter had apparently asked a question regarding Dave's choice to not drink alcohol anymore. To which he replied in his ever so snide tone that can only be Dave Mustaine, "What are you talking about?! I have a glass of red wine every night before I go onstage..." 

Just as you would expect the crowd erupted in applause with a sea of devil horns and fists thrust high into the air. Dave gestured to stage left where from backstage came his iconic skeletal mascot Vic Rattlehead dressed as a butler with a half filled wine glass on a round tray. Dave snatched and smugly swirled the glass of wine. Then he stuck his nose in to the rim to smell the oaky aromas. He withdrew from the glass, nodding with approval to the audience. "Smells like a Cabernet!" he sneered into the microphone with a cynical grimace. He brought the glass back to his face to take a sip and swish the wine in his mouth. With his opposite free hand, while still swishing and savoring the wine, he managed to hammer and tap a furious guitar solo with without a guitar pick. THEN! He spit the blood red wine back into the glass. The crowd roared as Mustaine shouted while raising the wine glass high into the air "That was a cabernet sauvignon from Sonoma wine country and this song is called "Tornado of Souls!" 

His teeth stained purple, Mustaine shattered the glass over his head and took off into the opening riffs of the face melting song. While headbanging, shards of glass fluttered out of his gorgeous fire red hair. The small glass particles sparkled in the air as they reflected the strobing stage lights. The crowd was in a mad frenzy at this point. At front row several longhaired metalheads each held a full glass of the NorCal wine which they daintily sipped from in between windmilling their hair and pounding their fists against the barricades. I looked up and saw Dave sneering through his long flowing red locks in ultimate approval to the legion of headbanging wine tasters. It was a heavy metal night I will never forget.

More on Cabernet Sauvignon:

Cabernet Sauvignon is one of the more widely recognized and globally produced red wines. From mountains, prairies lands, dry plains and coastal regions you can grow its grape vine in a variety geographical and temperature zones.