Meat Loaf arrives at the gates of Heaven. A band of leather-clad angels riding silver Black Phantom bikes gather to greet him, their engines purring like the helicopters in Apocalypse Now.
St. Peter takes one look at Meat and his face turns to granite. "No way!" the gatekeeper thunders, with a deep, dark voice like the Big Bopper gone bad. "You ain't coming in here, boy!"
"But," says Meat, "why not? I led a good life. I brought nocturnal pleasure to millions of people across the world. I made them laugh, I made them cry, I made them sing so loud they tore a hole in their throats until the words came pouring out like a hundred desperate convicts fleeing Alcatraz. I was Eddie, I was Bob, I drove the bus in Spice World, for god's sake! I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday! I never took myself too seriously, I treated my fans with great respect, I did anything for love... except that. And every night, EVERY NIGHT, I got down on my knees and I prayed to the God of Sex and Drums and Rock 'N Roll!"
"That God ain't here, boy," says St. Peter, and his voice cracks the tarmacadam with every booming syllable. "And this paradise certainly ain't for the likes of you!" Then all the angels start to cackle and roar, the faces of the Seraphim and Cherubim turning Chuck Berry red and splintering into the fiendish reflections of every lost boy and golden girl cast out into the darkest shadows of the world, every one of them glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife.
And in that twisted moment, St. Peter reaches into Meat's chest, tears out his flaming heart and hurls it down to the Netherworld. Meat has no choice but to follow.
Standing outside the gates of hell, at the bottom of a pit in the blazing sun, stitching the still burning heart back into his chest, Meat hears the heavy clank of a padlock. The noise echoes through all the nine circles, like a million Harleys screaming in heat.
Meat turns, ready to face Satan, Beelzebub, and all the evil little bastards who called him fatso in high school... but when the gate swings open, he just sees a tall man dressed in ill-fitting black leather, with long grey hair and mirrored sunglasses that shine with the light of a billion virgin suns. Yet it's the face that causes Meat's still-pounding heart to stand still: a face he immediately recognises. And then his body starts shaking like a wave on the water, and Meat stutters:
"J-Jim?"
"About time you got here, pal."
"Is this some kind of punishment, Jim? Were we really so bad? Have we been condemned to the fires of eternal damnation together?"
"Not at all, man," says Jim, laughing as he claps an arm around his old friend's shoulders. "Someone must have blessed us when he gave us those songs."
"What are you saying, Jim?" asks Meat, and all at once he feels his knees grow weak... while his soul starts flying high above the ground.
"You've been through the fires of hell," says Jim, leading Meat through the great iron gates, "and I know you've got the ashes to prove it. But down here, Meat, the angels had guitars even before they had wings and everything's louder than everything else. You see, they've been waiting for us, buddy. Me and you, Meat... we're taking over this place!"
And maybe I'm damned if I do,
But with every other beat I've got left in my heart,
You know I want to be damned with you.
