Hell’s VIP Lounge, 2024.
Lemmy Kilmister, nursing a whiskey laced with brimstone and shattered amps, spotted a charred figure limping in—The Cockroach, a merc who once crossed Don Tonzo’s path during a hit and paid the price in ash.
“Tonzo?” Lemmy growled, glancing at the demon dealing blackjack in nothing but scars. “Just a tall tale.”
“Tall tale?” The Cockroach laughed, soot crumbling from his grin. “I watched him fleece Satan for a bigger cut. Then he forged that—”
He gestured to a tee flickering into existence on the bar. Blacker than a collapsing star, its spade logo throbbed with the howl of Sagittarius A*.
---
THE FORGE
When Lemmy flatlined, Don Tonzo raided Hell’s armory. Snatched the First Skull (Lucifer’s childhood nightmare). Chugged a dying galaxy. Forged the shirt from:
- Satan’s molten crown flames
- The Ace that sank Venice in 1653
- Lemmy’s final Motorhead riff, still echoing through the void
“Ace of Spades?” Tonzo sneered. “Lemmy’s the Beast.”
The tee’s creation atomized four lesser demons on impact.
---
THE TRIBUTE
It appears in a pawn shop that only opens during blood moons. The spade’s skull grins like it knows your sins. “Mischief” and “Mayhem” hiss from the threads, daring you to wear it.
“Sixty souls,” croaks the vendor, a reanimated roadie with no eyes. “Or your record collection’s ashes.”
First wear, your scars start whispering. Second wear, your rivals’ bank accounts catch fire. By the third, Don Tonzo looms in your rearview mirror, sipping a brew distilled from quasars, judging your playlist.
“Nice try,” he mutters, flicking the flaming spade. “But the shirt owns you now.”
THE BEAST OF SPADES Black Tee | Tonzobeast Original
- Fabric: Gildan 64000. Woven from Hell’s linen tax. Pre-shrunk to survive hellfire and laundry day.
- Fit: Relaxed-fit purgatory. Hides stab wounds, highlights midlife mutiny.
- Durability: Double-needle sleeves for bar brawls. Tag lists your felony count.
- Artwork: Spade glows under blacklight (and police spotlights). Skull’s eyes track your parole officer.
