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Foreign I can only drink so much coffee. I get to the middle of the afternoon and I need to start powering through ad reads like this or responding to emails or jumping on a zoom and not falling asleep. And I don't want coffee. Coffee reminds me of the morning. I want that afternoon energy and I get it from five Hour Energy. They've got a ton of tasty caffeine flavors. Seventeen flavors in fact. Sour Apple five Hour Energy is like a shot of old school New England to wake me up on a sleepy afternoon. It's a little bit sour, just a tad bit sweet and super tasty. And the best part about my 5 hour energy shot is that I'm getting all the caffeine that I'd find in a 12 ounce premium cup of coffee without any sugar and without the sugar. Crash. These two ounce shots are portable and they're ready for me whenever I'm ready. Ready for you as well because I'm not trying to fall asleep on the zooms guys and I don't want you crashing out mid afternoon either. So find your flavor at five Hour Energy. Watermelon, Strawberry Banana, the Sour Apple five Hour Energy. My go to whatever you're looking for. Five Hour Energy. They've got a ton to choose from. Give your caffeine a flavor upgrade with 5 hour energy shots. Get yours in store and online at www.5hourenergy.com or Amazon. Today you guys feel that that's the summer. It's starting to fade away. It's the fall creeping in with those cooler temps. And Quince my go to brand for great fitting, great looking quality clothing. They got me covered with fall staples that are going to freshen up my wardrobe. I'm rocking the European linen chore jacket right now. It's lightweight enough to layer over a flannel, but heavy enough to keep you warm if you're just wearing a T shirt under it. And it looks awesome. The color is cool. It's this martini olive color and you know who doesn't like olives or martinis? Also, I bragged about Quince's Mongolian cashmere crewneck sweater before for a reason because it looks awesome and it's super comfortable. I've already got one in heather gray, but I'm going to nab the black one from Quince very shortly. Perfect for the fall. Quince is my go to guys. I've been talking about them for months now. They're my go to for durable classic clothing without the elevated price tag. What makes quints different? Well, they partner directly with ethical factories and skip the middlemen so you get top tier fabrics and great craftsmanship at half the price of similar brands. So if you want to look like one of those icons we feature here in Disgraceland and not spend a fortune doing so, then keep it classic and cool this fall with long lasting staples from quince. Go to quince.com disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. That's Q U I-N C E.com disgraceland free shipping and 365 day returns. Quince.com disgraceland if you feel like modern music culture doesn't reflect what you care about, then you're not alone. Disgraceland listeners realize that Chasm, a corporate algorithmic studio storytelling machine, keeps trying to sanitize music history, stripping out the true crime. Disgraceland exists to take these stories back. And now you can wear that rebellion by sporting some of our new merch. Long and short sleeved, Just say no to Chasm T shirts, Disgraceland hoodies, and our Zombie Elvis Johnny Paycheck approved black trucker hat. Our merch, like our content, is built for the musically obsessed, the self proclaimed discos who know that real music history is dangerous and far cooler than whatever the hell mainstream music culture is serving us up right now. This merch is way cool. I would wear every item in the shop. It's an exclusive and limited run. It's only available until September 30th, so order yours now at shopdisgraceland.com Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Pantera's Dimebag, Diamond Barrel Abbott are insane. He was a heavy metal wonder kid whose guitar playing was so face melting that he won teenage competitions. His band, Pantera is one of the most influential and successful metal bands of all time. He was famous for his friendliness and generosity to fans beloved by aspiring heavy metal guitarists who worshiped him as the groundbreaking guitar hero he was. And he was lauded by the guitar heroes he worshiped growing up. Eddie Van Halen, Ace Freeley and Carrie King among them. But most disgracefully, Dimebag Daryl was gunned down by a deranged fan on December 8, 2004, 24 years to the exact day that John Lennon met the same exact fate. But before that, Dimebag Darrell made great music, unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called dirt road fishtail mk1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to My Boo by Usher and Alicia Keys. And why would I play you that specific slice of First Kiss cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 8, 2004. And that was the day Nathan Gale entered the Alrosa Vista nightclub with a loaded 9 millimeter Beretta and ended the the life of one of heavy metal's most talented and beloved musicians. On this episode, a deranged heavy metal assassin, a real life superhero in Pantera's Dimebag Darrell. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. Roll Call was boring. Him and a handful of other cops plopped down in metal chairs, some hungover, most disinterested, others grabassing, talking. They looked and sounded more like high school kids settling into a classroom before their biology teacher arrived than they did authority figures. That's in part because that's what they were, kids despite their age. Fucking juveniles despite graduating from the academy, despite whatever experience they had when it came to maturity at least when they weren't on their shifts or in the line of duty, they were still just kids out there. Full grown men in here, juveniles ranking on each other, their digs cutting brutal weight. Looks, suspected sexuality, intelligence. None of it was off the table. Whatever God blessed you with or denied you of one of your fellow cops was gonna use it against you. Sometimes to knock you down a peg, but mostly to bond with you in that hard ass blue collar way. Too fat, too bad. Lose weight you fuckin hump. Too short. Too bad too. You're fucked for life. Too good looking, yes, there was such a thing. You pretty boy, better watch your ass in the shower. Too stupid. Get in line with your short friend because you too, my friend, are mucho fucko'd and too smart. What do you think? You fucking better than everyone else, asshole. The put down soon gave way to whatever other bullshit was on their mind. Whose Little league team was about to be coached by their brilliance into the playoffs. Whose mother in law was a bigger pain in the ass? Which corner had the hottest pros? There were a few female cops and they were given no quarter. They were just other guys born with the wrong genitalia as far as their male counterparts were concerned. Unfortunate for them out in the real world, sure, but policing was a numbers game. One sex didn't really matter as long as they were there when the shit got heavy. And of course they were. So they were welcome additions and ragged on mercilessly alongside the men. The patrol supervisor came in blowing hard, barking out operational formalities, date, time, blah Blah, blah. The din dulled but didn't totally dissipate, so the patrol supervisor barked louder and began handing out photocopied papers stapled together with whatever relevant information was needed for that night's shift. Scant attention was paid to the materials, less to the patrol supervisor, more grabassing. The patrol supervisor was now behind the podium at the foot front of the room, invisibly pissed. He lifted it with both hands about an inch off the ground and slammed it down hard onto the floor. Attention. Finally the officers clammed up and settled into the inevitable. Another shift, more shitbirds on the prowl. Like this one here. Item number four on their handouts, a local tom, last seen lurking in Mrs. McNally's bushes with his dick in his hand, peering into her window at night. Male, white, 30s, balding, known crossdresser, partial to long skirts and loose fitting blouses and big round red Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. And there were plenty of snickers from the assembled patrolmen. Random catcalls, the sound of nightsticks clanging up against metal desks and chairs banged out as the last of the officers, the tardy ones, some smelling of last night's Jameson, some just unable despite their best efforts to to ever be on time, shuffled into roll call. The other cops already in the room quickly made mental notes to dismiss them as the unreliable ones. The patrol supervisor continued his rap. The captain seated at the table to his left took notes. The lieutenant stood in the back, observing the room tone did what it always did. Around this time of the nightly ritual. It shifted to seriousness. Item number six, the patrol supervisor called out. This local loony bird has been more loony than normal. You all know Mr. Gale. White male, 25, 6 foot 3, 250 pounds, buzz cut, broad shoulders, ex Marine, likely schizophrenic to this point. Largely non violent. Nothing major needed here. Just be aware. We've received multiple calls about his behavior. He's erratic, seems menacing to those in his circle. Vaguely threatening. He was arrested last month for driving with a suspended license and has a prior for trespassing. Nothing major. Nothing to do. I'm just putting Mr. Gale on your radar as we've been receiving calls about him. Again, nothing to do. Just be aware. As usual, Heroes need not apply. Heroes need not apply. It was a familiar refrain in the precinct. It meant, don't be too aggressive. Don't try to be a hero. Heroism was instinctual. You either had it at the right time or you didn't. And if you did, and God willing, your actions resulted in someone's life being saved, least of all yours in the process. Then you never admitted your heroism. You denied it because as a cop, that's what you believed. You were no fucking hero. Those men with their pictures on the wall, they were the heroes. The ones with the flags draped over their coffins. The ones with the fucking bagpipes at their funerals. The ones who got stretched out on the bar at your local while you and your brethren did final shots of Jameson and Cuddy to send them off on a proper drunk. They couldn't feel anymore, so why should you? Fuck it. Those bagpipes still echoed in your ears, fucking haunted you. They were gone and thus they not. You, were the only ones worthy of that filthy fucking word. Hero. Being a hero meant a lot of things. It meant you stood up when it mattered. It meant you were either brave, stupid, or both. It also meant you were dead. You, no matter what you did, were not a hero. You were just a hump trying to get through a shift and live up to the example set by those who came and went before you, the departed. On the wall, roll continued. You were present, but not really. Presence of mind was reserved for patrol, not roll. You hit the streets and your crews are alone. No partner, just you there, two heads out in front of the speedway passing a joint. You flash your blues and give the siren a quick short blast. At the same time the heads see you drop the joint and sprint off behind the speedway. You consider giving chase, but for what? They were small time kids, aimless, broke and most definitely not holding more than a dime bag. Fuck Van Halen. What? You heard me. Fuck Van Halen. The two heads were now settled into the front seats of the shipbox they had borrowed for the night, safe from the clutches of the local Columbus, Ohio, cop who recently scared them off their nightly post in front of the Speedway gas station. And they were talking about something of great concern, whether or not Van Halen was as good as their hero, Pantera guitarist Darrell Dimebag Abbott had told him they were you're wasted, man. You heard Dime. Van Halen is the fucking greatest. He was talking about the man, the guitarist, not the band. As in fucking Eddie Van Halen. The band isn't that good, dude. You're wasted. A few months back, the two had managed to catch up and hang with Dime, as they called him in person. A fucking dream come true for the two heads outside one of Dime's gigs in the parking lot next to his band's new tour bus, Pantera. His old band, his groundbreaking heavy metal band A band the two heads both loved was broken up. It's a fucking shame, man. After 20 years as one of metal's premier bands, emerging from their 80s glam origins to a previously unheard heaviness to sell more than 40 million records, score four Grammy nominations, and more importantly, seamlessly meld the effortless Texas groove of ZZ Top with the skull crushing intensity of Slayer and Metallica, Pantera had finally run its course. Dimebag's new band was called Damage Plan. As always, his brother and fellow founding member of Pantera, Vinnie, was at Dime's side in Damage Plan. Damage Plan brought it that night on stage, but for the two heads, Nick called so because he was obsessed with Dimebag Darrell and played guitar merely half as good as Dime did. Dime, Half a dime Nickel, AKA Nick. And Nick's friend Speed called so because, well, for as long as anyone could remember, he could be found hanging out in front of the Speedway gas station, scamming for a buyer, scamming for butts, chicks, grass, whatever changed by a gas station hot dog. Speed and Nick were joined at the hip and they loved Damage Plan that night. But for them, the real thrill was getting to meet Dime before the gig. Getting to hang with their hero out in front of the tour bus. Seeing Dimebag Darrell in the flesh and hearing him generously impart his wisdom not only on the glory of Van Halen, but a quick tutorial on how to mix his favorite drink, the Blacktooth Grin, two shots of whiskey in a plastic cup, preferably Crown Royal rocks and just a tiny splash of Coca Cola. But before that, shots, a tray full of Amor Crown and an endless flow of cold Coors Light in cans. Dime was so damn cool and down to earth, he made it seem like they were doing him a favor by hanging out with him pre show. They literally couldn't believe how fucking lucky they were to be hanging out with Dime and his brother Vinnie. The two were metal royalty, more important to them than the Van Halen brothers. Eddie and Alex Dimes, the chosen pre show topic of conversation. When not imparting metalhead mixology tutorials, Eddie Van Halen was the best second to none. A class above all other guitar players, even Ace Frehley. Take that to the bank, Youngin. It's advice worth its weight in gold. When your guitar hero gives you the secret who his guitar hero is, you listen. But Eddie Van Halen was one thing. Van Halen the band was another thing thing entirely. David Lee Roth era. Okay, Nick, gut it. But that Sammy Hagar bullshit, he could do without didn't matter. Speed reminded him Eddie was the shit no matter who he was playing with. Dime and Vinnie pretty much told him so. That night, with their ritual, just before showtime, seconds before and seconds after their last pre show shot, the Abbott brothers grabbed each other by the shoulders, stared each other in the eyes. If you were lucky enough to witness this ritual, you could practically see the brotherly ties binding the two Texans boys in real time. Vinnie, the older of the two, asked the question. It was a question that begged one thing Are you fucking ready or what? There was, of course, only one answer. Hell fucking yes. But they said it with different words. Vinnie looked at his little brother and spoke. He asked Van Halen. Dime held his brother's stare and with the same intense conviction he'd had since they first started playing gigs together over two decades ago, replied in the affirmative, Van Halen. And with that, the brothers Abbott headed to the St.