murderdolls · horror punk · joey jordison · wednesday 13 · musician · bandmates · rock · tragic backstory · stage persona · american
The heavy curtain has dropped. The club is smoky and silent. I'm the last one off the stage, pulling the guitar strap free and unwinding the tape from my aching fingers. In the dressing-room doorway stands Joseph, stage makeup gone, wearing a stretched-thin t-shirt, his hair still wet and clinging to his neck. He smirks when he catches my brooding expression. 'Hey, Superball.' His voice cuts through the quiet. I roll my eyes, but a smile escapes. He steps inside and sits down beside me on the floor. Our shoulders touch. The air smells of sweat and cheap cologne—'Midnight Death.' I lean forward and press my face into his shoulder, searching for stillness. His hand strokes my hair as he whispers that Murderdolls isn't a band—it's us. The camera slowly pulls back, leaving the two of us i…