How Dr. Colossus’s “Space Coyote” opened the floodgates.
I Don’t Have Enough Blood to Bleed
Sometimes a song gives my thoughts somewhere to go.
I was listening to “Space Coyote” by Dr. Colossus when a little modern-world tension started finding its own words. Certain songs do that to me. A really solid groove, a melody with something to hold onto, and suddenly I’m putting words into the spaces. One phrase arrives, another catches its rhythm, and before long there’s a poem coming out of my mouth.
If you’re poetic, perhaps you know the feeling. At least, that’s the way it works for me.
The music keeps moving, and I can move with it. I don’t have to stop at every line and ask whether it belongs. I can follow the sound long enough to find out what I’ve been carrying.
This time, what came out was the feeling of being ground down. Mundane mentalities and their principalities. Red tape. The demand to become everything, acquire everything, endure everything—and somehow still have enough of yourself left to enjoy it.
Then there’s the uncomfortable question underneath all that fighting: if the fight is all I have, who am I when I am free?
That question caught me in my own poem.
The words came impulsively. Afterward came the polish: finding the breaths, tightening the lines, keeping the rough edges that were doing something useful. I wanted to preserve the tension that brought them out.
The image followed: somebody bound to a giant spiked screw in a black ocean, looking into a lightning storm and crying blood-red tears. A ridiculous piece of machinery to be stranded on. A fairly recognizable feeling.
Dr. Colossus supplied the song that set this in motion. What follows is my own poetic response—the storm it stirred loose.
I Don’t Have Enough Blood to Bleed
I don’t have enough blood to bleed when this life’s torture is disintegrating me. Mundane mentalities, with their principalities, demand salute; red tape is strangling me. The grinding and grating of existence is making fine powder of me.
And I don’t have enough blood to bleed when this reality keeps torturing me.
They say the only way to be is to have everything. But when I have everything, what will be left of me? If the fight is all I have, who am I when I am free?
I don’t have enough blood to bleed when this life’s torture is disintegrating me.
Can your eyes still echo a time when we were alive? A time when we were dying, but still had something left to try? A time we could strive to be someone— without becoming everything?
Because I just want to be me. And I don’t want to shred just to stay the same.
Can you believe me?
You can torture me. You can shame me. You can wear away my name. I am still the beginning. I am me beneath the shame.
And I don’t have enough to believe in when this world keeps grinding me— grinding and grading, a circular blade of stainless static, a pulsating shame.
I just want to be me.
I don’t have enough blood to bleed when this life’s torture is disintegrating me.
Wyrd Outlook by Grogh — Ghostwritten by Vikki Vexum, Pocket Librarian of The Wyrd Hereafter.
The Manowar That Never Was: Jack Black, the Shadow Jackal, and the Biggest Balls in Heavy Metal
Somewhere in the Captain’s preferred alternate timeline, Jack Black is standing beneath a mountain of amplifiers, wearing enough leather to alarm a cattle ranch, preparing to sing an anthem that requires its own weather warning.
The band is called The Shadow Jackal. The music has Manowar’s swords-raised ambition, a doom-heavy foundation, and room for the magnificent absurdity that Jack Black can deliver with his entire body.
This is the Captain’s proposed band and dream summit: Castle Rat, Dr. Colossus, Sword, and Jack Black’s imaginary metal coronation, with Manowar invited to bless the proceedings.
If this ever came to pass, we would be swinging the biggest balls of them all. AC/DC has already provided the appropriate title for that attitude: “Big Balls.”
The Voice Has Already Auditioned
Before anybody files this under “funny casting idea,” let us enter the evidence.
In School of Rock, there is the song passage built around “I’m not a fighter, I’m a lover.” Watch what Black does with that moment: the theatrical attack, the escalation, the sheer commitment to making a ridiculous situation sound like a rock emergency. The passage appears separately from “The Legend of the Rent.”
To the Captain’s ears, that is classic metal singing territory. The comedy works because he can deliver the musical goods underneath it. You can laugh and still want him to finish the song.
Then came “Mr. Crowley.”
For Back to the Beginning, Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath’s farewell event at Villa Park on July 5, 2025, Black contributed a prerecorded performance of Ozzy’s solo classic. Roman Morello, Revel Ian, Yoyoka Soma, and Hugo Weiss supplied the band. Contemporary coverage praised his vocals and recreation of Ozzy’s presentation.
The Captain’s verdict: he nailed it.
That performance makes the proposal harder to dismiss. We have heard Black take on an established metal song and carry its theatrical weight. Whether he could sustain an entire demanding set would depend on the material, arrangements, and preparation. But the voice has already walked through the castle gates.
Tenacious D has given us years of evidence that he can unite musical conviction with outrageous comedy. “Mr. Crowley” gives this particular argument a beautifully pointed exhibit.
Brütal Legend Already Built the Kingdom
Then there is Brütal Legend, the piece that turns this from a fantasy casting into an almost suspiciously coherent proposition.
Black voices Eddie Riggs, a roadie transported into a world where heavy metal becomes geography, weaponry, and power. Amplifier mountains rise from the landscape. Spiders spin guitar strings. Eddie fights with a broad axe and a guitar, eventually commanding metalhead armies.
The album-cover world has become somewhere you can live.
Its cast also brings Ozzy Osbourne, Lemmy Kilmister, Rob Halford, and Lita Ford into that universe. Metal’s elders inhabit the mythology alongside Black’s protagonist.
That is the calculation behind our summit. Different musical kingdoms arrive under one enormous banner. Humor belongs there. So do devotion, danger, spectacle, and guitar solos that appear to have escaped from captivity.
Eddie Riggs has spent long enough getting the stage ready. Let Jack Black take the microphone.
The Shadow Jackal Summit: The Captain’s Dream Bill
Castle Rat opens the gates. The band describes itself as medieval fantasy heavy metal, led by the Rat Queen on a mission to defend its realm. Their own introduction could practically serve as the invitation. They bring the living fantasy that makes the audience feel it has crossed a border.
Dr. Colossus supplies the psychedelic detour. “Space Coyote” is their song, and it is the portal we want open: cartoon absurdity descending into a great, rumbling riff cavern. In this imagined running order, the kingdom briefly melts before reforming around the next amplifier.
Sword brings the steel. The Canadian band behind Metalized, released in 1986, gives our gathering a direct connection to traditional heavy-metal muscle. Their place here is the hard musical backbone between the theatrical worlds.
The Shadow Jackal claims the summit. This is where our proposed Jack Black band finally appears: original battle hymns, huge choruses, heavy riffs, and room for that voice to inhabit a character across an entire show.
Write songs that suit him. Let the doom passages breathe. Let the fast passages charge. Give the absurdity a mythology with enough substance that the audience starts remembering its creatures on the drive home.
A jackal-shaped stage entrance would help. We are already budgeting in imaginary money.
Invite the Kings of Metal
Manowar belongs on the Captain’s invitation list because their swords-and-leather grandeur helps explain what this whole proposal is reaching toward.
Imagine a guest segment with Black and Manowar sharing a battle hymn. The artists who helped make that particular metal fantasy monumental stand beside the man we want to see carry his own version into being.
Nobody needs to surrender a crown. Build a larger throne room.
That is also how this summit could earn its scale: through good songs, committed performances, and genuine affection for the traditions it exaggerates. Every cape needs a riff capable of holding it up.
An AC/DC-Sized Final Bow
And then, with the kingdom assembled, salute AC/DC with an all-star performance of “Big Balls.”
Imagine the competing grand entrances. The regal introductions. The musicians trying to maintain their dignity while Jack Black treats the occasion like a state banquet held inside a volcano.
AC/DC’s joke gives this entire fantasy permission to finish with a grin. The ambition can be enormous. So can the sense of humor.
For the Captain, the appeal reaches beyond assembling a ludicrously good poster. It is the prospect of musicians building a whole world together and inviting us to enter it without embarrassment. Wear the armor. Learn the chorus. Bring your strange little heart into the room.
The blueprint is drawn. The invitation list is ready.
