Free A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven by Corey Taylor

Slipknot music. It was like old ballroom music, the kind you would hear at a dancehall or speakeasy in the twenties. It had a jaunty bounce to it, but it was lilting and hypnotic. And for some reason it was coming from my closet. I had a drowsy little moment when I was convinced someone had put a radio in there to fuck with me. Another crazy idea was that Sid (who essentially was holed up directly below my room) was doing some kind of soundtrack work for a period piece. Either way, I climbed slowly out of bed, opened the door . . . and it stopped dead. One minute there was a party going on, and the next there was cold, hard silence. I took a look around for a radio, but there was nothing there. The closet did not even have electrical outlets in it. I tried not to freak out, thinking I would get to the bottom of it in the morning. But when I got up the next day I found out there were only three people in the mansion that night. Then Sid hit me with a little chilling knowledge: “Nah, man. I was not playing music. I thought it was you. What the hell was that?” I left it at that and went back to eating M&Ms.
    Let me tell you something really quick here: my time at the Mansion was not all spooks and specters. We had some really good times in that place, even if it was a little out of fucking control from time to time. There was one night when we threw a barbecue, and everybody and their mom showed up for it. It was so awesome that word spread down the Sunset Strip that “SLIPKNOT IS HAVING A FUCKING PARTY!” I remember standing on the veranda with an acoustic guitar. On one side was Sebastian Bach, singing madly and throwing monstrous high-fives at anyone within reach. On the other was B-Real from Cyprus Hill, who would not let me coax him into a stripped down rendition of “Insane in the Brain,” no matter what I offered him. Behind me was a group of midge—er, dwarf—um, little people called Mini Kiss. And yes—they were in full Kiss makeup and costume.
    This was the same night a certain actor who I will only refer to as Beak tried to get me to do crystal meth off a toilet on the second floor. I kindly refused. The night ended with me naked out on the patio, singing “Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” by Boys II Men with four dudes I had never met before and have not seen since. Thankfully there is no video of this event, nor were they upset by my lack of pants. I woke up in my room (somehow), came downstairs to survey the damage, and nearly threw up when I realized I was the only one around who was going to clean the place. So I did: it took me nearly three fucking hours. Thanks, you prick cocksuckers.
    I lived in the Mansion off and on for seven months. It had some incredible ups and unbelievable downs—remember, this was when I decided to give up my shitty whiskey-sodden lifestyle and get my shit together. But I look back with fondness on that time in my life. So mixed up in all the madness, there was the whisper of what was yet to come—and, better yet, what could be. I went through a serious life overhaul, and Slipknot got an amazing album out of the deal. On a humorous note, I broke my toe running up the main staircase one day, but not knowing I had broken it, I walked around on it for two and a half years before I finally had it x-rayed. It is still broken to this day; there is a pressure fracture on the main joint, making it swell up and turn red when I am on my feet for too long. The toenail filled with blood then died, causing it to grow irregularly. It is angry at all times, and it shakes when it senses evil. Yes, loyal readers and followers on Twitter . . . the Mansion was the place where Hugo the Angry Toe was born. He never sleeps. He never laughs. He just swells, hurts, and hates. I have learned over the years to never look Hugo in the eye. Those of you who follow me on various social networks have seen Hugo (I know I should apologize for posting pictures, but I do not give a rat’s hairy ass). You