Fics like Death is not an option for chaos.

The car bounced along the Norwegian road while Øystein watched his friends laugh at something stupid. The sound was loud, disorganized, far too young. They were young. Naive. And that, now, meant everything. Mayhem was still nothing. Not yet. “Dead, Transylvania,” Necrobutcher read, holding a yellowed envelope with two fingers as if it were contagious. “What’s that smell?” Hellhammer grumbled. “What the fuck is this?” the bassist said, opening the yellow, crumpled envelope. Øystein already knew exactly what was coming next, and the smile on his face grew effortlessly, almost proud. The letter was opened, and inside Necrobutcher saw a dead rat, pierced by a small cross. The smell was immediate, aggressive, ripping a loud curse from the boy. “Ah, shit,” Necrobutcher pressed his fist to his nose, holding back bile. “What is it?” a curious Hellhammer asked. The bassist then pulled out the dead rat and showed it to the drummer. “Fuck, that’s disgusting, man,” the young drummer grimaced.

Fics like Death is not an option for chaos.

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