Who Wants A Guitar Hero: Metallica T-Shirt?

Not exactly a competition. JB HI-FI offers what sounds like the same shirt with pre-order (generic GH above generic Metallica). Or you can win this AND pre-order for the foot pedal at EB :)

this is an automated message generated by the Guitar-Hero-A-Tron 9000 mark2, I am a purpose built robot designed to play band simulation software at its most highest level (expert)… I feel this item of printed linen would be a suitable gift for my master and creator. It should also be noted that I have scanned his bio-mass and he is indeed of the correct proportions for a human size M.
I must now continue with my prime directive of annihilation of the less skilled humanoid players.

beep..beep.beep

I don’t want the T-shirt, send me the review copy and I’ll review it for you. Then I’ll let you take all the credit.

Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone.

The night was a dark, cold, and particularly miserable one. Rain assaulted the pavements, in a manner that suggested somebody had picked up the Pacific Ocean and dropped it over the city of Hobart.

Wade Matthews needn’t care. He had a job to do.

As he splashed through yet another lake-sized puddle, he took a drag on his cigarette. The sweet, calming embrace of nicotine took hold of his lungs as he adjusted his hat, and made sure his coat was done up tightly. After all, he had a package to deliver, and Mr. Ulrich would be none too happy if it got wet. Least of all, if that wetness was due to a sudden spill of blood.

The streets of Hobart in 1932 were a dangerous place. The street walkers made their best attempt at your money and pride, and their pimps made sure you damned well noticed them. A delivery job like this seemed simple, easy. Sure, a novice might think that. Matthews knew better.

He sucked down the last, sweet lungful of smoke and dropped the now-dead cigarette into a puddle. The rain was finally easing, yet his senses were on a knife’s edge. Every drop of rain sounded as if it were the report of a .357, echoing over the sounds of traffic and into the night.

He turned into Mathers Lane. Instantly, all sound ceased, all that was left was the sound of his shoes hitting the wet pavement. He felt for, and found the reassuring bulge of his gun. It was enough to make him cry with relief.

Halfway up the lane, he turned into a small door way. The sign above it read “Fango’s Dry Cleaning”. This seedy little bar masquerading as a legitimate business catered for a whole new breed of low-life. This was the kind of low-life he was here to stamp out for good.

—-

It was exactly two hours beforehand that the blonde lady had walked into his office. A head full of long, golden locks, legs that just wouldn’t quit, and a face that would devour you quicker than you could shoot back.

She strode into the room, carrying a small package under her arm. Sitting in the chair across from Mathers, she folded her legs on the desk.

“I’m up here, Mr. Mathers,” she said in a sultry voice.
His eyes darted back up to hers. She was good.

“What can I do for you Miss…”

“Lucifon. Mrs. Lucifon.”

She put the emphasis on the Mrs.

“Ok… Mrs. Lucifon. How can I be of assistance?”

“Mr. Mathers, I know you’re in this game to take down every low life scum out there. You want to make the streets of Hobart a safer place.”

Mathers nodded.

“I can help you. What would you say if I told you I could help you take down Lars Ulrich?”

At the mention of Lars Ulrich, Mathers stood up and walked to the window. Putting his fingers between the blinds, he looked out over the never-sleeping city.

“I’m listening.”

She stood up and strode over to him.

“I want you to deliver this package to him. He is expecting it in short order, so you must leave tonight,” she said, holding out the small, soft brown paper bag.

He appraised it, and asked her “what’s inside it? And why should I trust you?”

She smiled, one of those evil smiles that are so dedicated to the devastation of male hearts everywhere.

“Inside this bag is a shirt. You will trust me because this is the first solid lead you have had on his location. And before you ask, I have a personal vendetta against the man. Seeing him taken down would bring joy to my heart once again…”

He looked her over, and took the package.

—-

Now, as he walked down the stairs into the den, he thought that it sounded all too good to be true. At the bottom of the stairs was an old green door. He rapped on it three times, waited a second, and then rapped twice more, as Mrs. Lucifon had instructed.

Instantly, the door swung open, and he found himself staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle.

“What’s your business here?” the presumed owner of the rifle demanded, as he stared down from the other end of the barrel.

“I got a delivery here for Mr. Ulrich, care of Mrs. Lucifon.”

The rifle lowered, but the bald headed man who held onto it didn’t make any effort to look more trusting.

“He’s in the back.”

Mathers made his way past the man, who shut the door behind him. He walked through the bar, with every eye in the joint boring into his back as he passed. In the corner of the bar was a table surrounded by thugs, pimps, and hoes. In the middle of them all was a well dressed man, whom Mathers assumed to be Mr. Ulrich.
Striding up to the table, Ulrich spotted him, and motioned for all present to be silence. Instantly, the room was quiet enough to hear a mouse choke.

“Can I help you good sir?” Ulrich asked, dragging on a Cuban cigar.
Mathers unbuttoned his jacket and let it fall open, and pulled off his hat. Instantly everybody at the table had their jaws open as low as they would go at the sight of the Detective. He took this moment of surprise to his advantage.

“Mrs. Lucifon has a little surprise for you!” Mathers said with a grin, and whipped out the pistol hidden behind his back.
Five headshots, five bodies, twenty witnesses who would stay silent to protect their own shady past times. It couldn’t have been an easier job.

Putting his gun back in his belt, he turned, and left the seedy underground bar, but not before leaving the package he had been drafted to deliver.
He opened it, and removed the shirt. It was black, and the words on it seemed a fitting end to Mr. Lars Ulrich’s life.

He laid it down over the table and walked out. The words on the shirt quickly became red with blood as it soaked up the life force of those at the table.

The words that said, “GUITAR HERO: METALLICA”