Young, Scandinavian country mouse Varg Vikernes (alias: Count Grishnackh) has traveled to Oslo to meet with the guitarist and mastermind of the black metal outfit Mayhem, Øystein Aarseth (alias: Euronymous). His eyes glint with dreams of black metal fame, National Socialism revolution, and maybe - just maybe - true love. He waits outside of Euronymous' flat and knocks. Euronymous answers, clad only in a pair of silk boxer shorts decorated with skulls. His face is streaked with the sweaty remnants of face-paint, expressionistic black-and-white geometric patterns which once suggested a demonic and diabolical internal nature, but now only serve to characterize him as a harried, second-rate Kiss impersonator.
Euronymous: (eyes betraying a sense of unwelcome surprise) Varg!
Varg: (sheepishly staring at his feet as he nervously scuffs the floorboards) Hi, Euronymous...
Euronymous: Please - call me Øystein.
Varg: (finally looking into Euronymous' eyes, still sheepishly) Hi, Øystein...
Euronymous: What brings you to Oslo, my comrade in evil?
Varg: Oh, you know...church burning and the like.
Euronymous: Yes, yes! Young Varg is quite a hellraiser!
Varg: (embarrassed but flattered) Oh...I'm nowhere near as evil as you, Euronymous.
An awkward pause. Varg is left on the precipice of the doorway, suddenly feeling the repressive symbolism of the threshold; the threshold that represents the social and subcultural obstacle between him and Euronymous - a love that dare not speak its name.
Varg: I've been thinking about you all week. May I come in?
Euronymous: (slightly taken aback) Can it wait? It's very late, guy.
Varg: Oh yes, yes...I know, very late. I was just wondering if we could talk about what happened last week.
Euronymous: Last week? Oh yes, that...That was meaningless, guy! We were both drunk.
Varg: Do you really believe that? Or are you just worried about what Necrobutcher will say? (ed. note: Necrobutcher is Mayhem's bassist)
Euronymous: Of course not! You know me better than that, guy. I'm a libertine, an ubermensch. I don't care one iota for the stifling conventions of the idiotic bourgeousie. I'm Euronymous, damn it!
Varg: Of course! I know that. I'm just worried. You haven't called me since...well, since it happened.
Euronymous: I told you already, guy! Forget it! That was all meaningless!
Varg: (with quickening anger) So it was all meaningless you say? Those three hours of passionate lovemaking were meaningless?
Euronymous: (annoyed, looking over his shoulder) Keep your voice down!
Varg: Why? Who's in there? Have you replaced me with some glam metal faggot? Oh, this is rich, Euronymous - I mean Øystein. Did some waifish young swain in a Ratt t-shirt steal your affections in the past week?
Euronymous: (embarrassed) Nothing like that! I'm pure evil, guy! You think I give a damn about...about love and tenderness? About staring with bedroom eyes at your one and only soulmate?
Varg: Of course not.
Euronymous: Then it's settled! Come back and see me tomorrow. Have a cup of hot cocoa and calm down.
Varg: Okay, okay. You're right. But can I at least come in for a minute? I have to take a crap. I had some bad Mexican at a rest stop and I can feel the diarrhea bubbling between my cheeks.
A voice from off-stage is heard. It has a distinctly Afro-Germanic cadence to it.
Voice: Øystein, baby? Come back to bed.
Varg: (suspiciously) And what the hell was that?
Euronymous: Nothing! It was a demon! I'm conducting a black seance right now. Trying to resurrect Hitler, you know.
Varg: A black seance sounds right. Are you also resurrecting the spirits of Amos and Andy?
Euronymous: Well, no, that would be impossible. Amos and Andy were fictional personages.
Varg: I know that, you shit! I was implying that...that something "funky" is going on in this apartment!
With this racially-pointed remark, the agent of the voice off-stage appears - an attractive young black man. It is Fab Morvan of the disgraced vocal-pop group Milli Vanilli.
Varg: And who is this...this pickaninny coon?
Fab: Who you callin' coon, you spectral, mouth-breathing cracker? You reek of your parents' mildewed basement.
Varg: It's a crawlspace, not a basement!
Euronymous: Fab, please. Let me handle this.
Fab: Alright, baby. Give me a call if anything happens.
He kisses Euronymous on the mouth, and, on his way out, glares at Varg.
Varg: What the hell is this? You get a little fame and now you're shacking up with Milli?
Euronymous: Vanilli, actually. Let me explain, guy. We met at an industry gathering, and one thing led to another. I love him, guy. I'm sorry.
Varg pushes Euronymous violently into the apartment. On the coffee table is a Tony Montana-sized mound of cocaine, butt-plugs and dildos of all sizes and colors, several Rick James LPs, and a drum machine.
Varg: What is all this? What kind of hedonistic garbage has Milli - I mean Vanilli - been breathing into my beloved Euronymous? My sweet, Aryan Øystein?
Euronymous: Well, Fab has been getting me into black music. Come on, guy! It's not all bad. We've been going to discotheques every night and blowing lines! I'm finally living, Varg. Fab has opened my eyes to a new world. A world beyond evil.
Varg: A world beyond evil? Have you forsaken evil?
Euronymous: Aw, come on, guy! Lighten up! Our next LP is going to be a dance album. We're going to use a drum machine. Mayhem is about to get funk-ay!
Varg: Then you must die!
Varg begins to chase Euronymous with a knife in fast-motion while the "Benny Hill" theme song (a.k.a. "Yakety Sax") plays. Varg stabs Euronymous some 30-odd times. With each wound, Euronymous raises his arms in a comical, Olive Oyl-esque fashion. Finally, Euronymous falls to the ground. Varg stoops over his dying body.
Varg: What noise is this? Not dead — not yet quite dead?
I that am cruel am yet merciful;
I would not have thee linger in thy pain
He kisses Euronymous and, tenderly, closes his eyelids.