The True and Unvarnished Tale of
Brocas Helm
Medieval Metal Merchants
Specializing in Demons-Wizards-Death and Destruction-Rape-Loot-Pillage- and Other Philosophical Subjects Suitable for Rendering at Maximum Volume.
ACT I: Whereby such a name is chosen, even though certain to be mispronounced, misspelled and eyed skeptically by many.
CHARACTERS: Two musicians of might, namely Bob Wright of slashing lead guitar and a thousand oft-voiced opinions, and his bass-wielding companion James Schumacher, bespectacled, festooned with medallions and mysterious of manner; their ladies of the hour; and various sundry compatriots/roadies. Bob still wears a baseball cap and has yet to become the Dark Rider, but Jim has been the Wizard since he was hatched.
SETTING: The phenomenally cluttered chambers of the Wizard; the atmosphere reeks of various types of smoke, and the fumes of numberless beers.
"The mystic scrawl appeared even as our heroes the musicians grouched and grumbled about (among other things) their need for a fine, new name for the fine, new band they planned to form upon the ashes of their past enterprise. And behold! at the very height of their lamentations, the words "BROCAS HELM" slashed themselves in crimson flame across the chamber wall, giving much grief to several posters. And after the screams of honest terror died and everyone present had sworn off strong drink forever, the Rider-to-be, mighty in vocal exercises both onstage and off, did not hesitate to produce an opinion.
"Verily," quoth he (or some other swear word much like it) " it's no less than obvious that yonder is written the name we seek, handed to us by the very gods in this hour of crisis when we seek to reform our noble band of bards after having through treachery lost our drummer..."
"Alas," agreed his audience, this short word being all they could get in edgewise.
"...and requiring therefore not only fresh troops but also a unique new title to distinguish us from our past, elementary endeavor..."
"Perhaps," observed James the Wizard with a skill born of much practice in interrupting his cohort, "the Wall would like to say something."
"Yeah, but what does it mean and how do you pronounce it?" an underling was heard to mutter in the sudden hush.
As if in answer, a picture formed upon the wall beneath the words of mystery, like unto a coal scuttle reversed, the sight of which caused many present to reaffirm their faith in strong drink.
"Behold the helm of chivalry, the finest of its kind, the BROCAS HELM," said the Wall, in deep and awful tones which impressed even Bob, the seasoned orator. "Behold the symbol of your new goal; to ride into battle upon the wings of metal and kill! To bear axe against all wimps of rock, all weaklings of metal; to bring power to the invocation of the god Music! To inflame the populance, to stir the multitude to frenzy; plainly stated, to kick ass!"
"Oh, yay! " observed the listeners, stirred by such eloquence. "Such was ever our goal, anyway," Bob stated, determined to have the last word over a mere wall. "Yet there are now but two of us, and to truly perform such wonders we must find at least a couple more minstrels with like goals..."
"Then do it immediately!" shouted the mystic voice, blowing several roadies across the room. Then both name and helm exploded in a storm of fiery sparks; two bookcases and half the ceiling crumbled upon the wailing occupants, and every beer in the place burst into flame.
"I think, " observed the Wizard, dusting various debris from his cape, "that we'd better Do It."
"The sooner the better," agreed Bob, eyeing his smouldering Budweiser with great misgiving.
And so they did. And after much searching and sorting and auditioning of all sorts and qualities of musicians, they found John Grey, he of the poker face and the toes that clung unto the stage like roots of tree, anchoring him in a single position throughout an entirety of show, in telling contrast to the searing flight of his guitar as it juggled leads with that of the Dark Rider. And one day mild-mannered Jack Hays ascended the drums and startled everyone, for his drumming was anything but mild; and when the wall spoke to him and told him what was what, he seemed more delighted than intimidated.
And so thus it was that Bob Wright, Jim Schumacher, John Grey and Jack Hays were chosen from all mortals to become BROCAS HELM - warriors of a music forged of both past and present, of magic and metal. And soon they were sworn to the quest of medieval metal; sworn to howl at the moon, to bang heads unmercifully, and to lash their audiences to hysterical madness...because their fans approved their efforts most noisily, and because to wield a killing blade of music was ever their goal...
...and because if they failed to maintain the integrity of the Helm, they knew that damned wall would get them.
Beware the Dark Rider who wears the Brocas Helm!
* * *
POSTSCRIPT: Concerning the departure of one warrior and the choosing of another.
And lo, as time passed, the Wall proved itself anything but a part-time oracle. Not only was it a perfectionist of lofty ideals, but also a being of strong will and decided opinions. Gifted with the power of speech, the Wall scorned to be niggardly in the giving of helpful advice; it was anything but timid in expressing its viewpoint.
Indeed, so helpful did the Wall become that its ceaseless exhortations began to fray the nerves of at least one of the chosen warriors. For the oracle was not limited in its scope to only the Wizard's chambers - nay, it was an omnipotent wall, able to follow each band member separately and orate from any outwardly normal partition within earshot of its hapless audience. Only by living in tents could the four evade the constant stream of instructions, since any building automatically provided a fleet of tongues for this God among walls.
To this imitation of a drill instructor, the four reacted variously as befitted their personalities. The Dark Rider, his awe lessening with familiarity, took actual pleasure in debating with the Wall, even as he shaved or showered. The wizard made judicious (and frequent) use of a secret pair of earplugs. Jack trained himself to fall asleep whenever the Wall's monologue droned on past the minute-and-a-half mark.
Wall: (blasting forth abruptly, decibel level of a Lear Jet)" Ho, varlet! Practice again tonight, and how do you stand on the tree songs you were to learn without flaw between 8 and 9 of the clock yesterday evening?"
John: (after rebounding several times from ceiling and floor)" Fuck you! I quit!" (Flipping off all four walls in turn, as they are all now yelping in quadrophonic outrage)" I quit! Fuck you, you son of a stucco outhouse!"
Thus, for the sake of his nerves (not to mention his bladder) did John decide that even being a chosen warrior was not worth putting up with the harping of the infernal Wall. But though abdicating his place in the Helm, he remained a valued compatriot and champion of the cause, faithfully appearing whenever the band played and merrily beating his head on the stage along with the other fans. And eventually the Wall, recovering from the shock of this base ingratitude, chose another warrior to serve its cause. But the tale of T-Bone - flashy, flamboyant, and total opposite to John of the unmoving stage presence - will be told at another time, whenever the Wall so wills it.