Part Three : June 22, 1994 Metallica🤘and The Bruised Man

June 22nd 1994 finally arrived, it was Metallica time, and little did I know, another encounter with the Bruised Man! (Catch up on Part One & Part Two here.)

Chris had been my best friend since third grade. He was average height, stocky, built like a bulldog, could be aggressive, but was naturally a teddy bear. Chris was the kind of guy that would defend you to the end if you were his friend. There were several times during our friendship that he would fight just because some low life wanted to spout off at the mouth. We both played football in middle school, my size warranted I be the center position on the offensive line. The place where another guy, the quarterback, would shove his “alligator” shaped hands up towards my jock and say “hut,” “hut," triggering me to push the ball through my legs like delivering a baby, or hot potato. Chris was always on defense, and I was a bit envious as he ploughed through the opposing team finding and tackling the ball, with lightning quick speed. I always wished I could be that confident. Chris was like a firecracker, that once lit, delivered a tackle, whereas I was just a gentle giant that hated playing the sport. I mostly performed because nothing ventured nothing gained? Needless to say, Chris was the ideal friend to bring along to an unpredictable crowd and first time Metallica concert.

The trees surrounding the hills of Setzer's Knob were in full shade, sunlight dimpled through them as I drove my bright red 1990 Jeep Cherokee Sport through the winding roads to get to the parking area of the knob. This place was unique in that there was a slanted grassy hill, lawn seats, wrapped around a pavilion where there were physical seats, and which held the stage. Setzer's Knob was the center attraction for many bands, including Stevats' own, Conquering Worms who also played there over the years. As I pulled into the parking area and got out I could feel the tension of all concert goers. Some stuffing whiskey into shorts, sneaking video cameras and recording devices. There were those who were stoned out of their minds with glossy eyes and blank stares. I was going into this one sober, I wanted to soak in every detail. The intermingling scents of body odor and the aroma of food trucks were almost nauseatingly sweet.

Maria, Thereasa, Chris's girlfriend, and Danielle had talked themselves into vacating the lawn seats after we ambled through the gates following the rest of the rough edged concert herd. Chris and I situated ourselves in the center of the lawn. The smell of pot hung heavy in the air, mixed with a boozy undercurrent of beer. We sat down. We were ready to be treated to Suicidal Tendencies, Danzig and then Metallica.

I looked at the human tapestry before me. Females, dressed in tight shorts, skimpy shirts, and males walking shirtless, adorning mullets and looking like ninetie's Neanderthals'. Occasionally, even though the early summer heat was dominant, a rare flannelled fan walked around aimlessly. The WRIF, a City based rock radio station, played all the latest hits, entertaining the gnats until the live music began. Chris and I watched the crowd fill the remainder of the grass or "lawn seat" area. I thought of what songs Metallica would play. I couldn't search on the internet for the set list, because it didn't exist and I didn't have a subscription to a magazine that would educate me. I was going in to the concert blind, as was Chris.

The lawn had filled up and the sound of Suicidal Tendencies echoed out the speakers. I thought the crowd would go nuts, but they were all waiting for Metallica. There were a few supporting fans that were throwing up the traditional "devil's horns" with their index and pinky fingers, shaking the sign, but most were just listening. The band went through their set and finished exiting the stage as Danzig's' stagehands scurried about.

The stage was being handled and three people walked in front of me. One was the guy that drove the pick-up when I waited for tickets, another, Brad from the ticket line, and coming up behind, a tall, lanky man, with a bald head. His smile spread like a thick perma-grin, his ears pointy, and more bruises filled the skin of his head. His smile exposed those sharp teeth and my balls crawled into my stomach. As he walked by I could smell a musky, pungent scent of sweat and shit as if he hadn't showered in weeks. He reached into a pair of unwashed baggie shorts and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He opened the bottle and slugged some, passing it to the driver. The driver guzzled. The bruised man turned toward me, winked, smiled, and flashed those sharp teeth. He averted and shouted at a topless female nearby. Chris focused on the threesome, making sure they didn't want beef.

Danzig got on stage and that's when the crowd transformed from a mild headbanging squad to a mob of fucking degenerates. Sunlight penetrated the tops of the surrounding trees silhouetting grass as it flew through the air whizzing over everyone's heads. Danzig played on, and then belted out it's hit of the summer, Mother, a remastered version of it's 1988 original. The crowd fucking went nuts, ripping up chunks of the grass, dirt and squares of sod, throwing them through the air, Clods landed on people's heads, and down into the pavilion. I stood keeping an eye on the three drunkards in front of me. I hoped the bruised man didn't turn around, but he did, gazing angrily at me. I saw him kneel and his hand moved toward his feet, not losing eye contact with me, his fingers splayed over some grass and dirt. Chris moved closer to the situation and kept his eyes on the three of them.

For the first time in my life, I did something I never thought I'd do. I reached for the bruised man's skinny arm, and pulled on it. He looked at me, surprised, with a sneer and flash of his sharp teeth. I said, "no," and shook his arm until he let the grass go. My confidence came out of nowhere and adrenaline raced through me as I expected some conflict. The man, despite my doubts, dropped it, looked at the other two men and tilted his head back toward another area. I don't know if it was my towering height, or Chris waiting for the right time to strike, but they left us as Danzig finished the set and exited the stage.

The sod-fest simmered down, and the tension waiting for the Mighty Met was an electric buzz. The sun was almost completely set, there were stage hands on stage moving around like automatons. The crowd calmed and there was an uncanny quiet solitude, then...the soft music of Ecstasy of Gold played louder than the first two bands combined. Gooseflesh crawled over me as my four idols ran on stage and James' Hetfield mumbled, "Testing one, two, what the fuck...is thing on?" and then belted out, "BREADFAN!" The rockers started playing and...the crowd went nuts, Chris and I found out what whiplash was and Metallica gave us two hours of heavy metal bliss. People threw their long hair around like frayed mops, and the idea of a stiff neck was but merely myth. Everyone was there for the band, and the music entered our veins, our minds, pulsed with our hearts, and sealed us as one entire unit of like minded concert hounds for those two hours of ecstasy.

Fortunately, I never saw the bruised man again...but I have created a version of him in my fiction, as he is a messenger in another realm of existence. He is quite the opposite in his death than he was in life.

Thanks for reading and know that I took liberties with this story. Most of the incidents are based on true events, but I love writing fiction, and have shaken the events up to entertain you. You can view that concert, all two hours and eleven minutes here: Metallica, June 22nd 1994, Clarkston, MI

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Tim Eagle

Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.com 

1990's Tim Eagle, Metallica June 22nd, 1994, and the Bruised Man