Thrasher Magazine

Posted: March 11th, 2009

"...in Creepsylvania skateboarding is a crime."
Interview & Photo by Ryan Furtado

On dark nights you may be able to catch a glimpse of them, bloody hoods peeking through the cold shadows. Grunting and drooling as they scrape through the blackness, searching for their next victims—and it may just be you. And when these masked rippers leave the shadows and step onto the stage, the crowds scream in delight as the spectacle of terror ensues. 
The reports started in 2001, when this incognito group of masked metal heads hit the stage under the name of Ghoul. Their identities shrouded beneath their bloody hoods, the rumors spread like a purging Malibu wildfire. Who were they? Where did they come from? Did they truly dine on human flesh? Known as Digestor, Dissector, Cremator, and Fermentor, they sound like a tale from the crypt, not a Northern California metal band. Though there are those who speculate about the true identities of this foursome, their speculation has done nothing to subside the horror. Chapters of fervent fans, calling themselves Ghoulunatics, have sprouted up around the globe. An Internet-driven façade or risk to national security? One cannot be certain. 
If all this sounds too ridiculous, too unbelievable, I beg you not to see them live. Your heart may seize when you come face to face with the fearsome killbot or the mutant teenage were-pig that stalk the stage as Ghoul plays live. I wish, for your sake, I were kidding. Listen at your own risk.

What do you pay the grunts that set up your equipment? Where’d you find them?
Digestor: We pay them in the official state currency of Creepsylvania, pickled cabbage. The suckers we got to lug our gear around are all from the Creepsylvanian Department of Public Works. They were checking on a leaky tar pipe in the catacombs when we came across them and bludgeoned them into oblivion. A little numbskull juice injected into their rotting brains and they were revived as willing servants of Ghoul, unflinchingly 
lugging our gear anywhere we tell them to.
Dissector: Yes, they also unflinchingly play “Mario Kart” when they are supposed to be loading in and unflinchingly drool all over 
our guitars.
Fermentor: Come to think of it, I’ve seen them flinching a bunch of times.
Cremator: Mon ami, “guitar?” Is zat zee ting I ’ave been hitting to make zee noises zis ’ole time?

Has skating reached Creepsylvania? How’s the Creepsylvania skate scene?
Digestor: While the population does know of it, in Creepsylvania skateboarding is a crime. Anyone caught with a deck is put in stocks and people throw rotten vegetables at him. Judging by what I’ve read about the behavior of the average skateboarder in Thrasher, they’re getting off lightly. I’m sure in your country capital punishment for skating is a common occurrence, no? I hear you execute retards there; a practice we wholeheartedly endorse. We did have one professional skateboarder here, but that was years ago, before the new Christo-fascist government took over. His name was Schmingy Vlutczek. Was he in your magazine? Well, he wasn’t so much a proskateboarder as he was a beggar with no legs who sat in a little box with wheels, but he was taken by the secret police a while back.

Who did the graphics for your board? How did that come about?
Digestor: A fellow by the name of Putrid drew it, and he did so without our knowledge, simply out of love for his favorite band, Ghoul. We’re suing him as soon as we get a chance, of course. After he drew it a small skate company called Black Tooth skateboards put it out and the rest is skateboarding history. Every kid over the age of six has one now, and there’s no end in sight to the amazing Ghoul skate deck fad that’s sweeping your pitiful nation. Next up: Ghoul hula-hoops!

You have fan clubs around the globe. 
How many active Ghoul chapters are there? What exactly does it take to be 
a Ghoulunatic?
Digestor: The Asylum count is up to around 20 or so; though, we hesitate to call any of them “active.” That’s as specific as we can be, for tax reasons. The average Ghoul fan is about 15, hopelessly socially retarded, with BO and bad breath—but, you know, in a good way. Fermentor: What does it take to be a Ghoulunatic? That’s a question for the ages, friend. Something we ponder every night. Very deep. Deeper than Atlantis. The real question is, what doesn’t it take to be a Ghoulunatic? Dissector: And remember kids, you can supersize your Ghoulunatics membership by sending at least one jar of cabbage to Dissector, care of Ghoul.

What’s the most interesting piece of fan mail you’ve received?
Digestor: We got an email advertising P3N1S EnL*RgMnt, and one with a Free $500 Gift Card to Macy’s. Both made us feel very, very special. All but Fermentor, who feels that while his penis could be bigger, it would be cheaper to just drink until he doesn’t care anymore.

Do you feel any responsibility for what happened to Billy Spungbein, otherwise known as the Mutant Mutilator?
Digestor: If we are responsible for every nerd who wanders into the catacombs, finds a mystical crystal skull from an alien civilization, and transforms into a rampaging were-pig—slaughtering his enemies and becoming an inhuman monster for the rest of his short life—we’d never get anything done.
Dissector: I mean, come on, he looks way cooler now anyway.
Cremator: He was, ’ow you say, big pile of shit-knuckle sandwich. Now, he can lick his own balls. De rien, Billy!

Could you describe your relationship 
to Mr Fang? Is it true that he’s your 
sole benefactor? Fermentor: Mr Fang is the owner of a little shop here in Creepsylvania called Mr Fang’s Coffins and Curios. He’s a smelly old pervert with some dubious appetites, but we let him announce our shows, when we can get him to hit his marks, and occasionally he breaks out the old Fear Bong and treats the audience to a refreshing libation.
Cremator: And oui, it’s true he provides us generously with free shoes.

Has anyone from Ghoul attempted to eat each other?
Digestor: There was that time we went camping and Fermentor woke up with Dissector gnawing on his—well—that’s a story for another time.
Dissector: My, uh, foot! Uh yes—eh hem—stupid Fermentor, one jar of rotgut and he can’t control himself.
Cremator: Zat scene, soon to be in a major movie: Chokeback Mountain.

Have you ever been tempted to consume lesser metal bands?
Digestor: I resent your assumption that we are not the most lesser band there is. If anyone’s lesser, it’s us.

When are you planning to grow up?
Digestor: As soon as I get that 
kidney transplant.
Dissector: Hopefully soon, we seem to be going backwards at the moment.