CHAPTER

ONE

It was a glorious blaze, the fire we set. A wicked, glorious blaze.

Its flames leapt as tall as we were at fifteen years of age, however tall that was. Dibbs was short, so the flames even went above his head.

We stood like some kind of untouchable demons with our backs to the fire, legs locked apart, and forearms crossed above our heads with fists clenched. Our white-, black-, and red-painted faces were lowered, our eyes staring at the wet, almost freezing Ohio street beneath our booted feet.

As cars approached our black, soldierlike silhouettes and the burning wall of fire behind us, they slowed and turned around to find another way to their part of the neighborhood.

Ah, the power. Adrenaline pumping. Hearts pounding. Fear mixed with fascination.

We felt like gods.

Then we heard the sirens, a bunch of them, coming it seemed from every direction.

We took off, sprinting down the middle of the street in the direction of my house, malt liquor coursing through our bloodstreams, frantically looking for the first sign of headlights or flashing red lights in the blackness.

There. Red lights. Painting the trees in the distance.

Dibbs dove headlong into a pack of thornbushes at the side of the road. I laughed when I saw him stuck in midair, arms stretched out in front of him like he was diving into a pool. He screamed from the pain of the prickers.

I lit down a side road near the city park and did a ten-foot baseball slide through the wet grass up to the base of a big willow tree. Lou Brock couldn’t have done it better.

After the first fire truck and squad car passed, Dibbs came thumping down the dark street, his breath pumping steam into the frigid night. Where are you, man?

I darted to meet him, and we ran toward my house again, smack-dab down the middle of the street.

Out of nowhere, headlights catapulted toward us.

Next, the screeching of tires as a Dodge Charger’s rear skidded toward us. In unison with the stop, the Charger’s passenger door banged open and the dome light came on, illuminating my older brother Eddie who was—that night—our savior.

My name is Everett Lester. I’ve been asked by a New York publishing house to pen these memoirs. The experiences and encounters you’re about to read are true, I can assure you of that because I was there for all of it. And the story isn’t finished yet.

I am presently seated in a rather sterile courtroom in Miami-Dade County, Florida, at a long-awaited murder trial, portions of which are being shown on major network television.

It’s a media circus.

As I write this, mobs of press people with phones, recorders, shoulder bags, and bulky equipment flood courtroom B-3. Presiding judge Henry Sprockett, who resembles Dick Van Dyke, has had to settle the movement along the perimeter of the wood-paneled courtroom several times already. The hype is nothing unusual for me—I only wish it came under different circumstances.

Late that night, after our little experiment lighting the road on fire, I distinctly remembered staring at the white sink in my basement bathroom as the black, white, and red makeup swirled down the drain. I simply stared.

Eddie had shown up at just the right moment, as he would many more times during the days of my youth.

What if the cops had nailed you? What would Mom have said? What would my father have done?

The cold fact was, it just didn’t matter.

As far back as I could remember, I was going to be somebody. I realized at a young age that I would have one pass at life—and I was going to make it a showstopper. A raging youth, I was brimming with emotion: everything from fear and anger to pride and insecurity. I felt like a big, bad, bodacious thunderhead ready to send out my lightning across the universe. A whole world awaited me out there, and my desire was to take it by storm.

Ever since my older brother, Eddie, sold me his worn-out KISS Alive! album for two dollars, I was hooked on rock ’n’ roll. My friends—Dibbs, Scoogs, Crazee, and me—had a band called Siren. We played clubs throughout northeast Ohio, from Akron and Cleveland to Canton and Youngstown. We did numbers from bands like Queen, Rush, Bowie, Kiss, and Springsteen, plus a bunch of our own tunes.

Early on, promoters came out to see us at bars like the Agora Ballroom, Backstreets, The Big Apple, and The Bank. We were one of the few amateur bands back then to use pyrotechnics in our shows. After several years, we changed our name to DeathStroke. By the time the band was five years old, I was twenty, and we had landed our first record deal with Omega Records.

Blastoff.

Before we knew it we were warming up for stars like John Cougar Mellencamp, Joan Jett, AC/DC, and Pat Benatar. The first record, DeathWish, sold 500,000 copies within six months of its release, and we were playing concerts on the road 260 days a year.

It’s all a blur to me now. Like a dream. Large bits and pieces—even years—are simply missing, probably never to be recalled.

That was for the better, I was sure.

Miami-Dade prosecutors were having a field day with former DeathStroke drummer David Dibbs, who had occupied the witness stand for the past fifty minutes and was nervous as a cat.

Dibbs looked old now. White beard stubble showed distinctly on his tan face. He wore a light blue, cotton-silk shirt with a pointy collar, no tabs, unbuttoned to his chest; its long cuffs were unbuttoned also. Dibbs repeatedly threw his stringy brown hair off his face, back behind his right ear. He fidgeted with his hard hands and bit at the cuticles of his stubby, calloused fingers. Looked like he could use a smoke.

No wonder Dibbs was antsy. The bulldog, county prosecutor Frank Dooley, had led witnesses to reveal incriminating evidence from the past about Dibbs himself. The drummer had been forced to confess that all of us in the band, except Ricky, used drugs in excess during the heyday of DeathStroke—including marijuana, Valium, hash, cocaine, and heroin.

In reality, however, Dibbs had nothing to worry about. After all, he wasn’t the one on trial here.

I was.

Scores of DeathStroke groupies camped out at record stores coast to coast, awaiting the release of our second heavy metal album, Our Own Religion. Needless to say, sales figures went ballistic, with the title track making it to the top of the charts within two weeks. Here are the words to that hit, which I penned, sang, and shared guitar duty on alongside John Scoogs:

Ain’t no god above,

Ain’t no god below,

Ain’t no god in the afterlife,

Ain’t no god gonna keep me in tow.

We got ourselves a new religion,

One we call our own,

It’s about taking life by storm, my pilgrims,

It’s about livin’ in the danger zone.

If you want a little taste of heaven,

Come with me after the show,

I’ll take you to kingdoms above and beyond,

Anything you have ever known…

Dibbs, Crazee, Scoogs, and I were gods. Fans worshiped us. We were on a pedestal so high, none of us knew how we got there or how to get back down to reality, even if we wanted to. Any drug, any girl, any meal, any instrument, any car—anything—was ours for the asking. Our manager, Gray Harris, saw to that as he took DeathStroke to breathtaking new heights.

By the time I was twenty-three, I was so strung out on booze, pot, uppers, and coke that I often got confused about what city we were playing. More than once I would grab the mike in, say, Baltimore, and yell to the crowd, "How ya doin’, Pittsburgh? Are you ready to rock?"

I was ugly, all right, spitting into the crowd one night, stomping offstage another. I was drugged out and utterly insensitive. And I made no attempt to hide the fact that I was making time with as many women as possible while we rode the crest of this fame-driven wave.

Dibbs, our drummer and my best friend since childhood, was the first to approach me about my unbridled antics—and my growing dependency on drugs, which was beginning to vex even the regular users in the band.

Dude! Dibbs cornered me one night in Vegas between sets. Clean it up, man. You’re a zombie! You’re ticking these people off. They’re not gonna take this kind of abuse forever.

"Dibbs, chill, man! These groupies would follow us straight to hell if that’s where we were playing. Now get out of my face!"

Do you hear ’em? he screamed above the roar. I’m hearin’ boos out there! They made us who we are, Lester. You need to clean up your act. I mean it!

Clueless was I to the fact that Gray and the boys in the band had been putting out feelers to see if there were any other lead singers who might be able to take my place—a thought I would have both cursed and laughed at, had I known.

It was during this period that I started getting the letters from Karen. Don’t get me wrong, we got thousands of letters each day from fans, not to mention hundreds of flowers, gifts, clothing, hotel room keys, and other strange paraphernalia. We also received death threats from angry parents, suicide notes from strung-out teens, and hate-filled letters from so-called Christian community leaders.

Amidst it all, Karen’s notes stood out. Part of me passed them off as the fanatic obligation of some wigged-out cultist. But another part of me—a very tiny, unreachable part buried beneath layers of steel and stone—wanted to cling to the words like a suffocating person clings to oxygen, as if they were life itself.

Dear Mr. Lester,

Unlike most of the mail you receive, this is not a fan letter. I am not a fan of yours, but I would like to be your friend. My name is Karen Bayliss. I am sixteen years old and live in Topeka, Kansas. Most important, I am praying for your salvation. I will not stop praying for you. It is my desire for you to surrender your life to Jesus Christ and for you to lead your following of fans to Him.

You will hear from me often. Until next time, may the Holy Spirit begin to draw you to Himself.

Sincerely,

Karen Bayliss

No return address, no phone number, nothing. Just a crooked gray postal stamp on the envelope confirming that it came from Topeka.

Prosecutor Frank Dooley was a piece of work. Thick, dark brown hair, not one out of place. Dark blue suit with a white hankie sticking up out of the breast pocket. Long face. Always tugging at his sleeves out in front of him, making sure about three inches of white cuff could be seen, as well as two big gold cuff links. His Southern drawl was as thick as Coca-Cola syrup; every word had at least two syllables.

Your Honor, he said in response to an objection from my attorney. It is my intention to make it crystal clear to you what kind of individual we are dealing with here. Everett Lester has been a troubled soul since the day he was born, and I am simply asking the witness, who has been a lifelong friend, to answer some specific questions about Mr. Lester’s youth.

Judge Sprockett pinched at his protruding Adam’s apple and overruled the objection.

So then, Mr. Dibbs, is it true that the defendant, Everett Lester, was excessively violent as a boy?

"I don’t know if you would call it excessive. Boys are⁠—"

Mr. Dibbs, Dooley interrupted, is it true that Everett Lester had three large pet piranhas when he was a teenager?

Objection Your Honor, said my attorney, Brian Boone, almost laughing. "What could having a few pet fish possibly have to do with⁠—"

Overruled. I’m going to humor you, Mr. Dooley, but let’s make this quick.

Mr. Dibbs, Dooley zeroed in on the witness, is it true that Everett Lester had three large pet piranhas when he was a teenager, and that friends would pile into his basement bedroom to watch these flesh-eating creatures devour live fish and mice, and even rats?

Yes...

And is it true that Everett smashed mailboxes, shot guns at street signs and picture windows, set roads on fire, and tipped over cars with the help of friends?

Pellet guns. He used pellet guns, not real ones.

That is not the question, Mr. Dibbs. The question is, did Everett Lester destroy mailboxes, shoot at homes, set fires, and roll automobiles?

Well…yes.

And is it true that when you and Everett Lester were boys, he was known to sell drugs?

"At times, yes, but his family⁠—"

Steal cars?

"Yes, but you need to⁠—"

Sleep around?

Yes.

And beat the living tar out of other boys for even looking at him wrong?

Shaking his head and looking down, as if he were being disciplined, my old best friend managed one more yes, and Dooley was done with him.

CHAPTER

TWO

As it turned out, the band members in DeathStroke did not kick me out of the group. It wasn’t that I quit the drugs or alcohol, but over the years I built up such a tolerance that I was able to perform while flat-out stoned.

Besides, my compatriots were not about to get rid of their cash cow. They realized my popularity was the major factor in the success of DeathStroke. I was not only the group’s charisma, but also the musician who had written the lion’s share of our top hits. For their own good, my buddies chose to dance with who brung ’em, even though they were watching me disintegrate in the process.

Our third album, Deceiver, sold more than the previous two albums combined, going platinum in one year. At that stage of my life, I had everything anyone in the world could want. Between the income from concerts, records, gift sales, and endorsements, all four DeathStroke band members were millionaires. Imagine it—I was only twenty-four.

I was bewildered to find that, although powerful, those seven figures did not bring contentment. I always needed more; I yearned for more. More drugs, more booze, more women, and especially more power and recognition.

Coincidentally, it was during the Deceiver era that I started interacting with a popular West Coast psychic named Madam Endora Crystal, whose profound insights were said to have helped Hollywood celebrities, politicians, pro athletes, and Fortune 500 executives. Oddly enough, Endora resembled the mother-in-law witch by the same name from the old TV show Bewitched—red hair and all.

Endora lived in LA. I met her at a party thrown in Burbank by friend and actor Robert DeBron. During the bash, Endora performed ten- to twenty-minute psychic readings with any partygoer who chose to do so in a private study. I didn’t participate simply because I didn’t think it would have looked cool; I never wanted to appear like I needed anything from anyone.

It was well known in celebrity circles that Endora stunned people with her remarkable insights and accuracy. She was said to have uncanny psychic, medium, and channeling powers to explore the past, communicate with the dead and higher powers, and accurately predict the future.

At the party, Endora told me she was intrigued by me and would love the opportunity to do a reading. As the days went by following the party, I couldn’t get her off my mind. So when we played LA several months later, I arranged for a limousine to pick her up and bring her to the Ritz-Carlton, where we were staying.

Our first private meeting blew me away. The woman knew details from the past that I never would have recalled, and she exhibited knowledge about personal matters that would have gotten anyone’s attention.

She spoke of an older brother who loved me very much, yet while cloaking himself with a mask of happiness and success, was dreadfully troubled and dejected.

Obviously, she referred to Eddie, who had a high-pressure job in New York City, a tempestuous marriage, and three teenagers who regularly cursed him to his face. My heart felt dark and heavy, my stomach almost sick, when she told me Eddie would be wishing for his current problems in the years to come when he’d face what she termed a long run of bad luck.

The oldest brother, Endora said, was the loyal one in the family, the model child. That would be Howard, still residing in northeast Ohio with a wonderful wife and three delightful children—and still taking care of my mother, Doris, who now lived with Howard’s family.

Next, Endora spoke insightfully about my only sister. This one has chosen to travel a different path, she said. I’m feeling you are bothered by this new direction she has taken. After a moment of silence, she smiled. But do not worry. It’s going to be okay. Good things lie ahead for her.

Mary was four years older than me. After raising two boys and steering through an ugly divorce, she had become, in her words, a born-again Christian. And yes, I was concerned. Every time I talked to her, she quoted the Bible to me. She wrote letters loaded with Bible verses. We argued about religion. She insisted Jesus Christ was the only way to heaven. I thought she had joined a cult.

I’ve traveled the world, Mary! I would yell into the phone. I’ve seen more religions than you’ve seen movies. You can’t tell me that the people I’ve seen worshiping their gods are going to hell! It’s too small, Mary. If there is a God, He’s got to be bigger than the one you’re describing.

Let’s not argue, Everett, she would say. We have such little time to talk. I was always traveling, and she had a new life in a small city in southwest Ohio. It was good to hear Endora tell me things would work out well for Mary. She was a kind person, and I hoped the best for her.

When we neared the end of that first session, Endora’s countenance became disturbed as she tapped her long, black fingernails on the table between us.

There is a dark cloud that, unfortunately, still hovers over you, Everett, she said with her eyes closed. I sense something…missing in your life. I feel a heart, beating fast—very fast. Hoping. Wishing. Trying… There is warm water; it is dark and perilous. You are fighting to get through, to find what’s missing…

A tear actually slipped out the far corner of Endora’s purple-shaded eye. And with that, BAM, it was over. She raised her head quickly and opened her eyes, as if to draw a line to stop what was happening. To separate herself from the emotion of it.

That’s enough, she said coldly, shaking slightly, and beginning to rise up as she spoke. We’ll cover more next time.

From that moment on, the forty-eight-year-old redhead named Endora Crystal became my personal psychic. I started her out on a retainer of twenty thousand dollars a month, plus expenses, to be at my beck and call. She traveled with us as often as possible, and when she wasn’t touring with our entourage, she was within reach by phone.

The combination of my secret insecurity, constant drug abuse, and Endora’s profound knowledge about me, my background, and my behavior led me to lean on her daily for encouragement. I trusted Endora, and soon she became kind of a spirit figure to whom I could run with all my problems.

If I was uptight after a show, drunk, empty inside, mad at the world, or bitter about the past, I would call her, no matter what time of day or night. Often, I would wake up in the morning with an aching feeling in the core of my stomach, and I’d phone her before my feet even hit the floor.

Endora had a way of drilling into my head that I was more than a rock star. She believed I had been sent from the gods to lead millions of people to the truth about life itself.

The fact is, dear Everett, she said to me on many occasions, "there are many gods. I believe you have been chosen to reveal to society that all gods are good. It’s obvious you yourself are a god. And people must be free to choose whatever god they want to serve: Apollo, Zeus, Buddha, Athena, Everett Lester—or even themselves!

This truth will allow people to live freely. Do you see, Everett? No more guilt. No more condemnation. No more fear of judgment or damnation! And Everett, they must know that when they die, they will immediately live again on the Other Side—and possibly even be born into the world as a new baby or even an animal, a new personality. It’s an unending cycle. Do you see? And it can be glorious, if you can just convince people. And you have the power, Everett Lester. You have the following…

My attorney, Brian Boone, was small, quiet, and smart. A Harvard Law School graduate, he knew how to listen; and when he did speak, it counted. Brian was not intimidating in stature. Well under six feet tall, he had sandy brown hair, a friendly face, and a calm demeanor. He was one of those people some would describe as comfortable in his own skin. I liked that about him.

Ever since I named Brian as my lead attorney, speculation ran rampant, not so much about his capability, but about the fact that he was a complete unknown. Naturally, because of my celebrity, everyone assumed I would be buying and building another Hollywood dream team of millionaire attorneys who would—legally or some other way—find a way to win.

But I didn’t want the hype or the overkill. Instead, I wanted Brian Boone. This sure-footed, no-name Ivy Leaguer had served as legal counsel for DeathStroke well before the Endora Crystal case reared its ugly head.

Brian was a true gentleman and one of the coolest customers I’d met. Working with him briefly in the past, I admired how he used his informal, subtle style as a courtroom tactic, which made him uniquely effective. At times he would appear innocent and almost gullible, somewhat clueless to what was going on around him. But then suddenly, he would strike like a blood-sniffing shark with some brilliant revelation.

As my trial approached, I had told him to surround himself with all the legal assistants he needed to present my case with honesty and clarity. He did so by hiring four of his closest Harvard buddies. And we were on our way.

Today, Boone wore a dark gray suit. His jacket rested on the back of the chair beside me, as he stood in front of the witness stand, shirtsleeves rolled up.

A great deal has been said about Everett Lester’s character during this trial, and over the years in the media, Boone explained in his cross-examination. Mr. Dibbs, you have known Everett since the two of you were children, growing up in the shadows of the smokestacks and refineries in Cleveland, Ohio. How would you describe him as a youth?

Dibbs straightened his slight posture and rolled his hard hands. Everett was the best friend anyone could have. I…I was a nobody growing up. Unpopular. Unnoticed. But Everett didn’t care what other people thought. He was real. He would do anything for me, back then and now. Deep inside, there’s always been a big heart.

What was his home life like? Boone strolled in front of the jury box with his hand on the wood rail and his back to Dibbs.

Tough. Dibbs shook his head, looking down and holding in the emotion. Everett’s old man, Vince, was a maniac. Heavy drinker. Hardly ever around. Disappeared for weeks, staying with other women. And he was strict. He would…hurt Everett. But his mother, Doris, worshiped his father. She didn’t put a lot into the four kids, just lived for Vince. We always thought, if Vince died or left or something happened to him, Doris would just curl up and die.

"You used the word maniac to describe Vince Lester, Brian said. That’s a pretty strong word. What exactly do you mean by that? What made him a maniac, in your eyes?"

My head lowered slowly, the strength rushed out of me, and the backlog of string-tight emotions crept up to my eyes. The voices in the courtroom faded as I remembered…

Summertime. I was learning to drive. Mom had gone with me once in the station wagon, but she worked the pedals, and it was still all brand-new to me.

This humid July evening, I pleaded with Mom to take me again. Dad had been home from work on the line at the rubber plant for several hours. He entered without a word, pulled the shades in the family room, and began hitting the sauce. As he sat staring at the square, wooden TV, its glow bathed his hard, sweaty face in blue, and I didn’t think he heard a word of the pleas I was making to my mom…until he stood up.

Let’s go, he said, tossing me the keys from his black work pants and gliding through the swinging screen door, drink in hand.

I looked at my mom, she shrugged, and I darted for the Ford.

But my joy was short-lived.

Dad insisted I do everything while he observed from the passenger seat. Nervous, I started the car—twice, resulting in a horrible grinding noise and a slap to the back of the head; not a drop of Dad’s drink spilled.

Pressing the brake pedal hard to the floor, I tentatively shifted into reverse to back out onto McGill Avenue. With no help from the old man, I hit the gas—too hard. The Ford catapulted backward, bouncing straight across McGill and into the Salingers’ front yard.

I panicked, literally feeling the heat of my father’s wrath as he cursed a string of expletives, fumbled his drink, and scrambled to reach across for the brake with his booted left foot. But I was determined to make things right.

Having temporarily taken my foot off the gas to stop the madness, I reapplied it to what I thought was the brake. But it wasn’t the brake. And we did not stop.

Instead, the Ford roared to life again, lurching backward, turfing the Salingers’ front lawn, and barreling smack-dab into the front porch of their two-story Colonial.

Then we stopped.

Without missing a beat, my father turned the car off, got out, circled to make sure no one was hurt, and made a beeline for the driver’s door. With rage in his eyes and his face dripping with perspiration, he reached through my open window and, his hands shaking violently, fumbled for my seatbelt, flicked it open, and extracted me through the window. As kids on bikes and neighbors on porches watched, I was kicked and beaten all the way back across McGill, up our driveway, and into my house.

By the time DeathStroke finally made the cover of Rolling Stone, I was twenty-seven. As usual, I was the centerpiece of the photo, wearing tight black leather pants, no shirt, and a brown, full-length mink coat. At the time, my head was completely shaved, I wore a silver hoop in my nose, and readers could clearly see the many dragons, serpents, and other dark tattoos that marched across my chest and arms and crept up the back of my neck.

Writing this memoir, my editor asked that I give more details about my personal appearance at this stage of the book. To answer that, all I can say is that my look fluctuated a great deal during that era.

The Rolling Stone cover caught me at a muscular stage when I had been working out regularly with a personal fitness trainer. At other times, however, when I was too doped up to do anything but perform, I guess you could call me just plain skinny. As for attractiveness, women used to say my dark eyebrows and solid jaw gave me a rugged, handsome look. But now I realize, people will say—and do—anything to get close to a rock star.

Scoogs, Crazee, and Dibbs surrounded me in the Rolling Stone shot but were dressed tamely compared with me. It was always that way. Our publicist, Pamela McCracken, knew it was my flamboyant personality that sold, so she showcased me whenever and wherever she had the chance.

By this time, the relationships between us band members were strained, to say the least. We practiced, recorded, and performed together but virtually never socialized anymore. Things became so tense and fragmented that, in many instances, only one or two of us would take the official DeathStroke jet to various tour cities while the others hopped their own private planes at the last minute. To be honest, I was most often the one left to travel alone.

Naturally, a lot of our problems centered around selfishness. We each wanted the spotlight and credit for the band’s success. That problem grew in magnitude over the years.

Lead guitarist John Scoogs’s guitar specials got longer and longer, as did Dibbs’s drum solos. This bothered me immensely, because I didn’t think their talent warranted such lengthy exhibitions, and I didn’t like how it dragged things out. Plus, I believed the fans lost interest during those long stretches. Even Ricky Crazee, our bassist, wanted to write and sing more songs, but in my mind, the skill just wasn’t there.

As for me, I just wanted to stay in the fast lane, party, meet women, and build my life as a megastar. The attention validated me. The approval of people met a need deep inside me, or so I thought. Because I wrote and sang all of our top hits, I just knew I was the reason DeathStroke continued to skyrocket in popularity.

Of course, we all knew that if we wanted to keep the coin flowing in, it was our job to make it look as if everything was peachy between us; Gray Harris made that clear.

Our fans wanted to see us jamming in unison onstage, hamming it up in photo sessions, working together in the studio, and complimenting one another in press interviews. So, come hell or high water, that’s what we did, because each of us needed to keep the dream alive.

DeathStroke was why we existed, and there was no way we would allow it to be some faddy, flash-in-the-pan rock group. So, I guess you could say we became very good actors.

How did I get off on this tangent? Back to the Rolling Stone piece. Here’s the interview I did with RS feature reporter Steve Meek. Remember, it was 1991, and I was twenty-seven at the time:

Steve Meek (Rolling Stone): This is a new look for you, the shaved head…

Everett Lester (DeathStroke): Yeah, how do you like it? We were in Atlanta last week, and Elton John’s hairstylist got hold of me.

SM: Tell us, many people assume you are the very backbone and essence of DeathStroke. Would this group fall apart if you departed?

EL: (laughing) We’re a team. We work well together. My style has contributed, I won’t deny that. But DeathStroke wouldn’t be DeathStroke without us four original guys.

SM: Your music and lyrics can be somewhat heavy at times, even depressing. Do you agree?

EL: Yeah, sure.

SM: Are the songs designed that way?

EL: The songs reflect who we are and what we’re feeling. Some are depressing, some are upbeat and fun… Hey, that’s life, isn’t it? A roller coaster.

SM: It’s been said that you had quite a tough childhood.

EL: I’m not making any excuses for our music, if that’s what you’re getting at. I mean, our popularity speaks for itself.

SM: Indeed, your popularity has soared. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a band take off as DeathStroke has. Did you ever imagine you’d be such a universal star? Is this something you knew you wanted to do, as a kid?

EL: When I was young, I knew I couldn’t live an average life. In many ways, I