The Death Metalist Next Door

In the Versailles of Louis XIV there must have been somebody who said, somewhat conspiratorially to his friend, 'You know this can't go on, this is all going to go really tits-up'. That is, if the French have or had an expression for 'tits up'. There must have been someone in the court of Phillip II in Madrid who muttered 'Christ! What are we going to do with all this gold? It's a huge deflationary time bomb!' That is if they had an inkling what deflation might be.
I feel the same way about the City of London, now virtually knocking on my front door (see previous post) so I was delighted last night to find I have true agents of the apocalypse living next door, and nicer bunch of fellas it would be hard to meet. If this got out of it might ruin their image, I don't think death metal bands would even subscribe to likes on Facebook, but I promise no evidence of satanic ritual have reached my ears; no bats, no strange deathly aromas, not even a bit of moodiness in the air. I  hear only light hearted chuckles. There has been no grunting or thrashing at all, and I now find myself rather embarrassed that I might have played, over loud, Black Sabbath's 13, and raised no more than an eyebrow, and certainly not a scythe, in next door's spotless living room. Neither have been no troops of groupies passing my kitchen window with streaming black make-up. In fact, our only crossed paths come when I knock on the door to pass on a parcel or two, to be greeted by a charming man wearing a Moonmadness tee shirt. Now I did remark, with insouciance, that way back I had seen Camel on their Moonmadness tour, but I wouldn't have if I'd known I was talking to an agent of death.
He protested we wouldn't like their album, Julie saying I'd play it when she's gone to bed. I did, I liked it a lot, scary yes, but good. But from now on, when I pass on those parcels, I'll make sure it's not in the morning.