While I have many and various musical tastes, one of my more guilty pleasures is listening to heavy metal.  I owe this influence to my younger brother, who even in his adolescence was already listening to classic metal acts like Metallica, Black Sabbath, and Slayer.

This tale happened one weekend while I was away at college and my brother was still living with our parents and attending a Catholic high school in central Pennsylvania…

One Saturday morning, my dad was using the computer, which used to be located in my parents’ finished basement.  It was early enough that morning that my dad had not yet put on shoes and was clicking away at the computer while his bare feet rested on the carpet under the desk.

Suddenly, my dad then felt something scratch at his toes.  But when he looked down at his feet, he saw nothing.  Moments later, the scratching sensation returned.  This time, when my dad looked down, he saw that one of his toes was slightly bleeding .  And next to his foot sat a mouse.  The mouse had been nibbling at his toes.

After informing my mom and my brother of what had just happened in the basement, my dad suggested setting a mouse trap.  My brother, however, always gentle and caring when it comes to animals, proposed to catch the mouse himself, without harm, and then release it at the nearby park.

My brother made quick work of setting up barriers in the basement, therefore cornering the mouse without harming it.  He then put the mouse in a small box and made way to his car.

Now, this is where the metal comes in.  My brother, at the time, was particularly fond of Slayer and would listen to their music at earsplitting volume in his car at all times.  So, my brother put the mouse-in-the-box on the passenger seat, cranked the Slayer, and drove off to the park to release the mouse.

But when my brother reached the park and opened the box, he learned that sometime in the few minutes it took to reach the park the mouse had died.  What had happened?  He concluded that the most probable cause of death was heart attack caused by the sudden and jarring sounds of Slayer.

That’s right, faithful readers, heavy metal apparently has the ability to kill small rodents.  Death by metal.  What a way to die.

Update: Since I posted this blog last night, a friend of mine did some research, and as it turns out, the following tale is an urban legend. I must concede that I was duped completely. Oh, well. Hey, in my opinion it’s still a great story , so enjoy!

For some reason, dogs get the short end of the stick when they appear in this blog (see “Tail” of Woe). This strange true tale of woe, told to me by a friend, is no exception…

A young woman—let’s say her name is Nicole—was put in charge of watching her friends’ dog, an old German Shepherd, while her two friends (a married couple) were away on vacation. One bright summer afternoon, Nicole went to her friends’ apartment to check on the dog. She found it on the kitchen floor, dead.

Not knowing what exactly to do, Nicole called her friends and told them the sad news. Her friends were upset to be sure, but the dog was old and they were not wholly surprised by its demise. Not wanting to cut short their vacation, however, Nicole’s friends asked her if she could take the dog to the veterinarian and have it cremated. Nicole agreed.

Now, most people at this point would have called Animal Services or something, but I should let you know that this event happened in my hometown, Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, and God knows if they even have such a thing as Animal Services like they do here in Los Angeles (a quick Google search for “Animal Services Mechanicsburg” didn’t yield too many useful results). But, of course, if Nicole was that sensible, this story wouldn’t be heading in the unfortunate direction it’s going, and the world would be short one perplexing story. But I digress…

Nicole tried to move the dog, but did so with much difficulty. First of all, the dog weighed over seventy pounds; and Nicole herself barely weighed 100 lbs. She soon realized there was no way she was going to get the dog out the apartment door, down the hallway, into the elevator, and out to her car without some kind of assistance. So, Nicole called the dog’s owners again.

The owners suggested that Nicole put the dead dog in a suitcase they owned, which was large and had wheels. Yes, a suitcase. Nicole agreed. So, Nicole stuffed the dead dog into a suitcase and wheeled it out of the apartment and to her car outside. But when Nicole went to lift the heavy suitcase into her trunk, she was again met with difficulty.

Fortunately, a man driving by stopped his car and asked Nicole if she needed any help. Nicole said, yes, she did. The man got out of his car and lifted the suitcase, felt its weight.

“Jesus,” he said. “This is heavy. What do you have in here?”

Nicole, not wanting to tell the stranger that she had a dead German Shepherd in a suitcase, said something to the effect of Well, I’m moving and I basically put my entire life in this suitcase.

Then, the man who offered his assistance presumably realized how valuable the suitcase was if it in fact had the young girl’s worldly possessions in it. So, he did what any sensible man in his situation would do:

He punched Nicole in the stomach, snatched the suitcase, jumped in his car, and drove away.

And that’s one way to get rid of a dead dog.

This story isn’t about me, nor is it really a tale of woe. Well, maybe it’s a tale of woe for some of the persons involved, but not for the person who told me the story, my friend Troy.

Troy and I both worked part time for a national bookstore chain. I was a recent college graduate, living at home, and wondering constantly about what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life. Troy was recently divorced, had an eighteen-year-old daughter, and lived in an efficiency apartment that was once an attic to an old home. He hailed from Memphis, was in his late 30′s, had a great southern accent, and wore his hair in a severe flattop, which belied his usual jaunty attitude. When we first met, one of the first things he told me, which endeared me to him immediately, was that every Wednesday night he attended anger management classes.

So, on with the story. Troy, at the time of this story, was in his early 20′s, still married, his daughter a mere 12 months old, and he had just bought his first house in Memphis. All this is to say he was strapped for cash.

One day, while working in the yard, Troy was approached by two male salesmen. They were selling encyclopedias, they told Troy. Troy explained that he wasn’t exactly in the market for an expensive set of encyclopedias.

“Oh, that’s no problem,” said one of the salesmen. “Just let us show you what we have to offer. There’s no pressure to buy.”

Troy finally succumbed and let the men inside his home. While Troy’s wife cooked dinner in the kitchen, the salesmen gave their spiel about their awesome encyclopedias. Then, when the sales pitch ended, one of the salesmen asked Troy, “So, how would you like to pay for these?”

“Listen,” Troy said, “I told you before you came in here that I’m not looking to buy any encyclopedias.”

Then the salesmen let Troy have it. Didn’t Troy care about his daughter’s education? Didn’t he want to provide knowledge to his burgeoning family? Wasn’t he, as the obvious head of the household, concerned with giving what was best to his family?

Troy said nothing. He eased off the couch and approached a nearby cabinet.

Troy’s wife saw what Troy was doing and started pleading, “No, Troy, don’t! Don’t!”

So, Troy did what any self-respecting southern man in his position might do. He opened the cabinet, calmly reached in, and then drew out a handgun, which he promptly pointed at the salesmen.

“Get out,” Troy said. “And leave them books.”

Did Troy actually say, “And leave them books”? Well, no he didn’t, he admitted moments after telling me this story, but I’d like to think that Troy was thinking this as the salesmen grabbed their books and fled his home.