The Longest Winter

Stop me if you've heard this one before: an egotistical lead singer starts to put himself into situations that make the rest of his band-mates feel unrepresented. He starts going on interviews solo and arriving at shows late. The behavior goes on long enough that someone finally screams "enough!” and the growing divide is dealt with. It's a story as old as time and the dissolution of The Lizards of Nü Metal is no different. Everyone has their demons.

In 2002 AD, The Lizards of Nü Metal's debut album, Winter's Over, took America by storm. From skate parks to frat houses, nowhere was safe from the chugging riffs, slapped bass, and primal percussion that culminated into The Lizards' signature sound.

With three chart topping singles, ("Suns Out, Tongues Out", “Your Body Heat Betrays You”, and "New Skin") it seemed like The Lizards were well on their way to becoming household names. Komodo Jo and his merry gang of misfits had slithered out of obscurity and into our hearts like a snake in tall grass… so what happened? Why did these rising titans of the music industry break up? These questions and more were soon to have answers, but first I'd have to travel to both sides of this unnecessarily massive country to find them. Everyone has their cross to bear and it appeared that mine was to reunite America's greatest lizard themed rock band and put an end to what fans referred to as "the longest winter" once and for all.

There was no short list of obstacles I would have to overcome to make this reunion authentic as possible. The largest of which was the fact that only three of the original four members were alive. In 2013, Miles Monitor, The Lizard’s legendary percussionist, had met an early demise at the hands of untreated gout. To quote Miles’s stepson, David, it was "the least rock ‘n’ roll way to die possible."

David, last name withheld, is now 24. He owns a gym in California called Erickson's Crossfit. He is the type of man that flexes his muscles on purpose, but then claims that they're twitchy from his latest workout when called out on it. He swears now that he has obtained the knowledge to heal his late stepfather back through the art of crossfit. Currently, he is looking for a time machine and a Vatican certified exorcist so that he may go back in time and save Miles from the diabolical spirit of gluttony.

God bless that man and his efforts, but winter was coming once again and I had no time to wait on miracles. The Lizards never performed in the winter, as Komodo Jo was “hibernating.” Distraught, but not discouraged, I knew I would have to hire a Miles impersonator for the reunion.

Whilst Mile's family mourned his untimely death, another ex member of The Lizards of Nü Metal was forging her own path as a solo hip-hop artist. Iggy Azalea, whom would come to be known for her timeless classics "Fancy" and "Black Widow", had came a long way from playing guitar and singing backup for Komodo Jo. Despite nearly a decade of inactivity, she was back playing stadiums as if she had never stopped.

Going through the proper channels, I manage to get in touch with her manager, whom in turn sent me this email: "While I do believe you have a story here, I do not believe it is one about redemption and reunion. This is a story about mental health and how it can deteriorate if left unchecked and cause a person to feel unhinged from both the expectations of society and their personal obligations as a member of society. Iggy said she would be open to lending aid to the project if you change the premise, but she will not be reuniting with The Lizards of Nü Metal. Not in this lifetime, or the next."

Upon receiving that email, I felt like I was the one that died from gout. A surge of emotions ran through me like a komodo dragon running after a slab of beef. Had all my efforts (calling David and emailing Iggy’s manager) been for nothing? Was I doomed from the very start? I had already hit two major roads blocks and I hadn't even addressed the elephant in the room: where was Komodo Jo Leavings?

Before we travel back to the last confirmed sighting of Komodo Jo, let’s set the scene a little bit. It’s July 5th, 2005 AD. The Lizards of Nü Metal's sophomore release, Dangerous Species, finally dropped despite Frill Bill, lead guitarist and primary songwriter, quitting the band early on in the recording process, citing irreconcilable differences.

The album was more than just a commercial flop. It became the epitome of a commercial failure. The first single, "Human Tastes A Lot Like Chicken", featured Miles Monitor laying down an exquisite breakbeat while Komodo Jo hissed to no particular melody while playing a grating bass line in a completely different time signature. I reached out to various members of Tool and Meshuggah to ask if this song was “any good”, but received no responses.

The Lizards' subsequent world tour was canceled after the second date when Komodo Jo released a lounge of Gila monsters into the crowd in Houston, Texas while performing "We're Hiss-tory (One Last Hiss)", a haunting ballad in which lead singer Komodo Jo laments about divorcing an actual lizard. There were sixty-two reported injuries that night.

In lieu of being arrested, Komodo Jo fled to Honduras. He would return to the states a few months later, but he would never be the same.

On September 22rd, Frill Bill's new band, Head Shop Boys, whom performed stoner rock reinterpretations of Pet Shop Boys songs, were set to perform their maiden gig in Orlando, Florida. The band made it halfway through their sixteen minute rendition of "West End Girls" before Komodo Jo barraged the stage.

In the chaos that ensued, Komodo Jo bit Frill Bill on the neck and ran away never to be seen again. Frill Bill fell to the ground convulsing. Before the paramedics could arrive, he would fall into a powerful coma that would last two grueling years.

Unbeknown to everybody at the venue that night, Komodo Jo had just returned from Honduras. During his time there, he had an aspiring veterinarian surgically implant the venom glands of a rattlesnake into his mouth. According to the team of doctors that rehabilitated Frill Bill, it looked to be a successful procedure. Komodo Jo could no longer be charged with assault with a deadly weapon— he was a deadly weapon.

Fully healed, Frill Bill returned to Bakersfield, California where he took up a job as an accountant for a company that manufactures vinyl siding. The unfortunate soul traded making vinyl records for making vinyl siding, the stage for a desk, and the life of a rock star for a house with a two car garage. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Despite my reluctance for not wanting to see one of my former heroes as a mere shadow of the man he once was, it was beginning to look like he was my only option for moving forward. With a single phone call and a lot of luck, I managed to secure the one interview no one else in the music industry could… if they ever cared too.

I gasped in horror as Bill “Frill Bill” Hertzwig opened his front door. The behemoth of a man that once donned an animatronic frill chalked full of pyrotechnics was practically a husk of his former self. The best description I can muster up is that he looked like the artistic rendition of a self-loathing nerd with incredible low self esteem created by the nerd’s own hands. In less words, he looked like a total loser.

“Can I help you?” He asked nasally.

I introduced myself and reminded him that we spoke a few days ago on the phone. He invited me in to his humble abode. After a brief tour, we found ourselves sitting at his dining room table drinking kombucha. I’d had rather drank rattlesnake poison.

“How come it took this long for you to decide you were ready to be interviewed about the demise of The Lizards?” I asked.

“Because no one tried.” He answered.

“Really now? Not even NME? They’ll interview anyone.” I followed up.

“Not even NME.” Frill Bill said with a slight chuckle then added, “You got to understand I was in coma for almost two years. By the time I awoke, lizard fever was dead and gone.”

“Speaking of your coma, can you explain the moments leading up to it?” I asked.

I’m not a big drinker and the kombucha was already getting to me after the first couple sips. I couldn’t believe he was letting his two sons consume the beverage alongside us. Neither one could of been older than eighteen. I considered contacting CPS, but decided against as it would certainly hinder my prime objective of reuniting The Lizards.

“A few months prior, I quit The Lizards because Jo wouldn’t stop pestering me about getting risky and expensive plastic surgery done to my face. My new band Head Shop Boys had just taken the stage for the first time. We were about to go to the bridge of our first song when Komodo Jo rushed the stage and attacked me. I blacked out from the venom before I fell to the ground.” He responded casually.

"So you have no idea where Komodo Jo is?" I asked, scared of the answer I'd receive. He was my last lead.

"No, like I said he bit me, I passed out, and he scurried away." Frill Bill reiterated.

He seemed to be growing slightly irritated each time I mentioned his ex band-mate, but this was a crucial first step in immersion therapy. He would have to get over his fears of The True Lizard King soon or that would make three lookalikes I would have to hire for this reunion.

That very thought brought a tear to my eye. Before I knew it, I was sobbing uncontrollably.

The old Frill Bill, the good Frill Bill, would of made his frill flair out at something this awkward. He would of made pyrotechnics go off in a display so dazzling that I forgot why I was crying in the first place. The pale imitation of a lizardman that stood before me simply patted me on the back and told me to "let it out."

Let it out? Maybe I will.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person on Earth actively trying to make this reunion happen!" I manage to get out between sobs.

"You probably are." Frill Bill said in a soothing tone.

Later, he would brag to my assistant that having two teenage boys of his own caused his paternal instincts to kick in, but that would be after I reminded him of the other fork in the road: the path he walked first.

Waterworks still in top gear, I logged into Facebook, pulled up The Lizards of Nü Metal's fan page, and handed Frill Bill my phone. Something magical happened as Frill Bill began to scroll.

"Look at all the women that got my signature tatted on their chest!" Frill Bill exclaimed, but when I looked up from wiping my tears, I quickly discovered he wasn't talking to me.

"Wow! There's like eleven of them dad! You're actually pretty cool!" Junior, the younger of Frill Bill's sons, announced as his dad scrolled through the very same Lizards fan page that dubbed me "The Harbinger of Spring."

"Dad, these ladies are, like, married to other dudes, but they, like, got your name on their bosoms! That's gotta be, like, the most legit thing I've ever seen!" Ian, the oldest, pointed out. Frill Bill might as well named him Captain Obvious as much as he described what everyone else was looking at.

Just when I thought a beautiful family moment was about to unfurl right in front of me, Frill Bill turned to me and said, "There's a private investigator in Orlando named Isabelle Tollman. She helped me get in touch with my biological dad after I quit The Lizards. She’s the best in the biz. If anybody can find Komodo Jo for you, it will be her."

I nodded and took his direct tone as a sign that the interview was over. I collected my phone from him and began to head out the door when he called for me again.

"And when you find Komodo Jo, if and only if, you can get a muzzle on him, I will make this reunion happen for you. You showed me some really beautiful things today. I always thought The Lizards was just a flash in a pan kinda thing, but seeing all these encouraging words and breast tattoos makes me feel like I've been—" He paused as if to choose his next words carefully and eventually decided to go with "negligent to my fans."

Words can not describe how humbling it is to have a man whose guitar work helped a record sell over five millions copies admit he has fans right in front of you. With a name and number to the greatest P.I. in the biz, I left my meeting with Bill "Frill Bill" Hertzwig feeling more optimistic about the future than ever before.

I had already made it to Florida when it first occurred to me that Komodo Jo was a man who wanted to become a beast. Getting him to agree to put a muzzle on was almost as likely as David traveling back in time and saving Miles from his untimely death. To keep myself from getting discourage prematurely, I told myself I wouldn't know what Komodo Jo would be down for until I finally found him. That's where Isabelle Tollman comes in the picture.

Despite being a private investigator, Isabelle Tollman was an open book. She's the type of person that will tell you things about herself that most people would want to keep private. So when she told me that she had caught her husband cheating on her with a man five minutes into our first meeting at a diner during rush hour, I attempted to change the subject.

Taking my lack of interest as disbelief in her claims, she showed me videoed evidence. She let the video play with the volume all the way up on her personal bluetooth speaker causing a pair of overbearing grandparents to cover their two grandkids ears with their hands. The manager was called over and I immediately began to panic. It was the same guy as in the video!

Before I could turn my head to look at her, Isabelle had already poured her orange soda on the man. She leapt from the table, hurling herself at him as if she could transmogrify into a missile at will. She could not.

I sat frozen, unable to make up my mind on how to defuse the situation. Suddenly, an off duty cop ran up and threw Isabelle to the ground. He slapped cuffs around her wrists and my heart fell to the floor. If I was going to get any help from her now, it was going to be after Orlando PD dealt with her.

"You're looking for a man who identifies as a lizard, right?" Isabelle asked as I picked her up from county jail the preceding morning. She seemed tired but more in control of herself.

I nodded, interested to see what she came up with. She had plenty of time stuck in a cell to formulate a plan.

"Well there's only one place in the whole country that reptiles in trouble with the law go in order to escape justice. Wouldn't it make sense that a man whom spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on surgeries to look like a lizard to flee to the same place?" She asked.

"The Everglades!" I exclaimed. The woman was a genius!

"Bingo." Isabelle replied coolly. "Now we just need to figure out where in the Everglades.”

I wish I could say that Komodo Jo was just a skip and a hop away, a measly airboat ride up the Kissimmee river, but I refuse to sell out my journalistic integrity and misrepresent my time in Florida.

You see, the game wardens, park rangers, and local tour guides of the Everglades have made a killing accepting bribes from reptiles on the run from the law since the midpoint of last century. There was no way me and Isabelle were going to just waltz our way into this cesspool of hardened reptiles and convenient alibis and procure the location of Komodo Jo from just any one of these hush-mouthed humans. We needed leverage. We needed to mold one of these tour guides into our perfect navigator.

I dropped Isabelle off at her house to recuperate after her stint in jail. Little did I know, she would have the perfect solution to our problem by the time I came to pick her up tomorrow morning.

"Check this out!" Isabelle said ecstatically as she got in my rented car.

She held out her phone to me to reveal a video playing. Another video of her husband's infidelities no doubt filmed on the very night Isabelle sat in jail for fighting for sole custody of his love. Oddly enough, the manager at the local diner was not costarring in this late night romance, but a different man entirely.

"You know who that is?" Isabelle asked as she zoomed in on a scraggly man with a Lima bean shaped head.

I shook my head no.

"That's Tommy Gillen! He gives airboat tours of The Everglades for a living, but what makes it even better is—" Isabelle zoomed further in onto Tommy's hand.

"He's married!" I exclaimed.

I decided to turn a blind eye to Isabelle's domestic problems in lieu of organizing a plan for blackmailing this Tommy Gillen character. If she hadn’t left the man at this point, she probably never would. Regardless, a quick visit to Tommy Gillen’s website granted me his cell phone number and I called him up.

Blackmailing is a common practice in journalism. There is very little in life that is more satisfying than subjugating another person to your will in order to advance your own agenda. All the best reporters do it to some extent or another, but I consider myself a master of all the dark arts of manipulation.

My unwavering expertise in this field is how me and Tommy came to this agreement: he would show me where Komodo Jo was hiding and in exchange I would not tell his wife he was cheating on her with a married man. Easy peasy.

As an additional stipulation, he also requested that I changed his name from Bryce Erwin to something else if it was to come up anywhere in this story. I told him "you got it dude" using my infamous Michelle Tanner impression. There was an awkward silence in which I could almost feel the tour guide rolling his eyes. It was clear to me then that Tommy Gillen had no interest in hearing me impersonate beloved 90’s sitcom characters. His loss.

After we hung up, it dawned on me that I was mere hours away from answering what every Lizards fan was dying to know. Where is Komodo Jo? Where had he been hiding all these years? Was he down to perform "Pro-Venom / Anti-Antivenom" one last time? Needless to say, my pulse could of gave a hummingbird’s a run for it’s money. Every fork in the road had led me here.

With Tommy in tow, me and Isabelle headed down the Kissimmee river in an air boat to a remote section of mangroves twenty or so miles outside of Orlando.

“An eye for an eye. One washed up rock star for one lifetime of discretion over one night’s misdeeds.” Byrce— I mean Tommy— announced as he idled the motor down.

“Where?” I asked dumbfounded.

“Right there.” Tommy responded while pointing between two massive cypress trees.

I squinted and after a few seconds, my mind was able to separate a man-sized lizard from a pile of brush beneath the two trees. I had spotted chameleons hiding in their zoo exhibits quicker than it took me to notice him. Had Komodo Jo truly transcended from man to beast at last?

“Komodo Jo?” I asked. I could feel weights lifting off my shoulders as he cut his slit yellow eyes at me.

“Yesss?” He hissed. His forked tongue flickered as he held out the “S’s.”

“My name is Justin Colt Smith. I’ve came quite a long way to interview you.” I spoke hurriedly. My words practically running into each other. I was in the presence of true rock ‘n’ roll royalty.

“About?” He asked, the flap of skin below his chin pocketing air for a brief second as if he was a real iguana.

“The untimely end of The Lizards of N—” I started, but he cut me off.

“Let’sss jussst sssay sssome of usss wasss more dedicated than othersss.” He responded. I’m also like eighty percent positive he paused to catch a fly with his tongue during that sentence. It was the most rock ‘n’ roll thing I had ever seen.

“Well, I talked to Frill Bill and the others. They’ve expressed interest in doing a reunion show, but they can’t do it without you.” I replied, nervous he was going to cut me off again.

“Oh! Ssso he livesss after all!” Komodo Jo said with a wicked laugh.

The laugh was cut short when I heard a scream behind me. Abruptly, I spun around to see Isabelle pointing in horror from the safety of our boat as Tommy fought for his life in the waters below. In a matter of seconds, Tommy Gillen had been devoured by the very gators that he made his living showing off to people. The Kissimee River gives and the Kissimee River takes.

I began to panic trying to figure out just how to handle this rigmarole, when Komodo Jo cut me off again to say, “Well are we going or not? Sssun’sss not getting any warmer.”

After a quick prayer, me and Komodo Jo loaded up on the late tour guide’s airboat. Thankfully, Isabelle had lived in the area her whole life and was fully versed on how to operate one. As she busied herself getting ready for our departure, Komodo Jo leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I’m pretty sssure ssshe threw him in while you weren’t looking.”

For the first time since I begun this journey, I thought to myself, Not my circus, not my monkeys. I had accomplished what I had set out to do. The rest was just filler.

I busied myself explaining to Komodo Jo that it was imperative that he wore a muzzle for the impending reunion. He agreed, but only if it was made out of leather. The eccentric recluse still knew fashion.

The air tasted sweeter when I walked into Burmese Records two weeks later. A thin wisp of clouds shone pink in front of an massive orange sun just outside causing everything to look incredibly vivid. It was almost as God itself put a photo filter on the day to symbolize it’s importance. Today, all the surviving members of The Lizards were going to be in the same room for the first time since the summer of 2005 AD.

“I had to cut my nailsss for thisss.” Komodo Jo joked as he dropped his bass’s tuning down another step. Before me and Isabelle smuggled him out of The Everglades, his fingernails were longer than his hands and curled like an iguana’s toe nails.

Frill Bill simply smiled as he engaged a series of pedals on his pedal board. Iggy didn’t look up from her phone. Miles’s lookalike, some fat dude wearing Mile’s signature 420 basketball jersey, laughed heartedly at the joke, just as the real Miles Monitor might of. He was good. In fact, I was certain that Komodo Jo thought it was Miles. The reunion was in full swing. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as I watch the fruits of my labor culminate right in front of me.

Komodo Jo’s leather muzzle looked like something any nü metal front man would of dawned in the genre’s golden years. It reminded folks that he was dangerous, but willing to compromise.

“I’m going outside to smoke a cigarette, then I guess we can get started.” Frill Bill announced, turning his guitar’s volume knob to zero and setting it down in front of his stack.

“No! We do thisss now!” Komodo Jo hissed.

“Fine.” Frill Bill sighed, rolling his eyes. He was starting to act like one of those hormonal teenage boys he was always hanging out with.

Frill Bill began to pick out the intro to “New Skin.” An appropriate number considering Komodo Jo screams the lines “Try again / hide the sin / shed the weight / get new skin.” It was the perfect song about forgiving and forgetting.

Miles’s lookalike was just about to tom roll into the first verse, when a mysterious light began to materialize in the center of the room. Light began to refract as an orb of total blackness, small at first but going larger by the nanosecond, emerged. A large swooshing drone began to escalate to a fever pitch, drowning out the music entirely. Just when the dark orb looked like it was going to explode, three bodies stepped out and the orb disappeared in an instant.

David, the real Miles, and a balding man in red robes looked around the room determinedly. As David turned in a circle to examine the room, I noticed a bench press bar attached to his back. Blood stained every inch of the metal shaft. In that moment, I realized David had slain the diabolical spirit of gluttony and saved Miles!

“You’re out, he’s in!” I exclaimed, booting Mile’s lookalike from his place behind the skins.

The doppelgänger left the studio. His fifteen minutes of fame ended almost as quickly as it begins.

Miles sat down at his meticulously replicated throne and counted off. Without missing a beat, the fully assembled quartet begun to rock like it was 2002 AD. Not for the first time this journey, tears came to my eyes.

“I try to think of a perfect memory of the cold, but I can’t let me sleep!” Komodo Jo screamed as the band aggressively segued into the chorus.

“Let me sleep!” Frill Bill and Iggy chanted.

“There’s no closure! Winter’s over!” Komodo Jo continued, ripping his muzzle off. His venom ate through the leather like a hot knife through butter!

Frill Bill was the only person who didn’t notice as he was busy performing the opening sweep of a guitar solo. Staring at Frill Bill as if he was dinner, Komodo Jo struck at him like an addled adder. I closed my eyes, refusing to witness the carnage.

Regret overtook me as I realized Junior and Captain Obvious would grow up fatherless from here on out because of me. My tears of sweet reunion turned to tears of bitter acceptance. In becoming The Harbinger of Spring, I had simultaneously become the harbinger of Frill Bill’s death. I prayed Komodo Jo would come after me next.

As I prayed, I heard a voice through the monitor yell “David! You know what you must do for the greater good!” I also noticed Frill Bill was still working his way up and down the fretboard like an overpriced hooker walking the Vegas Strip.

I opened my eyes to see the red robed priest strangling Komodo Jo with the cord of his microphone. Komodo Jo cursed him between fruitless breaths, no doubt regretting cutting his fingernails.

David removed the metal bar from his back as he ran up to the scuffle. After a few seconds of hesitation, he reared back and smashed it into Komodo Jo’s stomach. Komodo Jo began to gag and the exorcist loosened the wire around Komodo Jo’s neck.

Komodo Jo vomited and an eyeless creature no larger than a closed fist fell on to the floor. A diabolical spirit of vengeance!

“I believe this little guy attached himself to you during your stint in Honduras.” The red robed figure stated and proceeded to stomp it to death.

“It causes a person to become volatile and perform heinous acts of harm to those that it feels have slighted it’s host even slightly.” David explained.

“I thought you were personal trainer?” Of all the questions I could of asked, this seemed like the best choice at the time.

“Yeah, well, I’m also a small business owner, a dog dad, a son, a brother, and a demon vanquisher. I’m a fully fleshed out three dimensional human being.” David said, flexing his biceps.

I nodded, feeling guilty for pegging David as a meathead without truly knowing him.

“You know what else I am, Justin?” David asked while establishing eye contact.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The Harbinger of Spring! Hit it gang!” David exclaimed, turning to look at his resurrected stepfather.

Miles counted off once again and the quartet initiated the greatest performance of “New Skin” I had ever witnessed. I may of not been the one to make it happen, but at least I could be there to witness it.

Komodo Jo passed away a mere three days later. Without the diabolical spirit of vengeance inside of him, his vital organs couldn’t withstand the venom from his implanted glands.

The Lizards of Nü Metal might have been a flash in a pan thing after all, but I’m just glad I didn’t miss it.