It was a dark and stormy night in the city as he and his black 2013 Harley Davidson flew down Main Street. The rush he felt almost equated to that of screaming in his infuriated tongue on stage. The glossy silver sheen of his helmet reflected the light as bolts threatened his bleak horizon and he shuddered with every rumble closing the distance. Somewhere, he knew, shrill shrieks of terror were piercing the blanket of darkness, as naive children cowered in their beds. The wind whipped around him, lashing at his tattooed arms and stinging his face through the translucent plastic visor that protected his Day of The Dead Sugar Skull makeup, willing him to pull down even farther on the throttle to speed through the final hours of that Halloween night.
Heading south from his home in Huntington Beach, he could barely recall why he left in the first place. It was a night of celebration after all ; his five-year-old daughter had so meticulously adorned herself in a crimson wig and seashells to transform from blonde belle to fire-haired siren for nightfall’s affairs. Just what had enraged him so ? Had he fought with his wife ? Did one of his band mates exasperate his patience ? By now, there was no explanation ; the bottle of Jack already breaching all rational thought with every up-shift of the gear. Fuelled by the intensity of the storm, he disengaged the clutch once again, addicted to the high. He felt invincible. It was in his nature after all ; every day he had to prove to his fans it was possible to survive even life’s most grim adversities.
Past Utica Avenue and Huntington Beach High School from where he would watch his daughter eventually graduate, he rode. Crossing 17th Street, and nearing Adams Avenue, he reminded himself to post an update on Instagram of the night’s excitement. A dedicated musician with significant support, he always made sure to keep his followers informed of his daily activities. In fact, just a few hours before, he had uploaded a photograph of himself in his Day of the Dead Costume to the social media web-site with the caption, “The dead are living.” Leaving behind the intersection of Main and 14th, he allowed his clouded mind to chuckle at the irony ; in the last haunted hours of darkness, he was going to pass 13th street and conquer every one of the number’s unlucky connotations.
Several hours later, he had finally returned home. The lights were still on and the gate unlocked as if his family was waiting for him, but it was early in the morning and the world was quiet with, he presumed, the snores of people in REM contentment. His world seemed eerily at peace. Kilometres away, a crowd had gathered at the intersection of 13th and Main. They surrounded the light pole on the corner, illuminated by the light and appearing like a glowing halo atop an angel’s head. From the crowd, saddened cries and tearful sobs could be heard, piercing the otherwise silent morning. A young woman and a five-year-old girl still in her Ariel costume from the night before approached the ring of observers, who, like the Red Sea, parted on their arrival. There, in the centre of the crowd lay a black 2013 Harley Davidson, and beside it, with the marks of the light pole still fresh on his body, a lifeless 28-year-old tattooed man with smudged Day of the Dead makeup.
A week later, that halo of people multiplies into rows, standing nearly as still and quiet as the stones surrounding them. Beneath a tree in a shaded patch of grass, a long wooden box sits, preparing for its six-foot journey. Inside, the man sleeps soundly, no longer covered in face paint, but keeping the tattoos that will remain even six months after he has turned to dust. Ariel is long gone and in her place, a little blonde girl who must now say goodbye to her Daddy ; her Daddy who will never see her graduate from Huntington Beach High School.
Now, two years later, whenever a storm occurs and the thunder can be heard in the distance, they look up to the sky and smile with a grief that will never quite be forgotten, for the horizon is now the man’s stage and he is doing his famous Lucker stomp high up in the clouds.
Mitch Lucker died 01 Novembre 2012. He left behind his band Suicide Silence, his wife Jolie, and his daughter Kenadee.