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

have had a flash of my pain. Feel sorry for me.
    The year 2003 turned to 2004, and I was preparing to leave the Mansion. We were making arrangements to finish the album at Rick Rubin’s actual home, a place that is almost creepier than the house this chapter is dedicated to. Another band was getting ready to take over 2451, and I was setting up shop in a hotel. For one month I finished my vocals next to a giant stuffed bison I named Smitty in the basement of the Rubin residence. One night Trent Reznor showed up to hang out and see how things were going. Now, I am a massive Nine Inch Nails fan, so much so that when I heard Trent was there I could not even bring myself to go in the control room and meet him with everybody else. So while Joey, Paul, and our engineer, Greg Fidleman, sat chatting with him at the recording desk, I was out in the backyard that overlooked Sunset Boulevard pacing and chain smoking. From outside I heard the unmistakable strains of “The Blister Exists” being blasted from the studio’s reference monitors inside. They were playing music for Trent! I wanted to go in and see what he thought, but I could not do it. When I finally got up the courage and walked inside, Trent was suddenly gone and everyone in the room was smiling. “What?” I said. They all looked at each other and Greg said, “Trent was fucking blown away. He said he had to go home. We think it fucked him up a bit!” When I finally met Trent years later, I asked him about it, and he simply laughed and nodded his head. I was very proud.
    It was finally time to say goodbye and god bless to the hulking construct on Laurel Canyon. I was going to miss it in my own weird way. I had spent many nights really fucked up in that house. I had then started the long process of getting my shit together halfway through my tenure there, swearing off drinking and devoting myself to being a better man all around. But before I moved out, there was one last happening that still gives me the chilly fucks to this day, ten years later. So do not say I did not warn you: proceed with caution, and a clean nappy.
    My last night in my room I was alone because Clown had moved out and gone back to Iowa; he had finished his parts earlier and was spending time with his family before the tour fired up. When I looked at his side of our wing, it made me sad to see nothing over there—none of his posters, none of his . . . tobacco pipes, nothing but his rental furniture and a crude set of drapes to keep the California sun at bay. I could have used his balcony, but I never did—it still felt like his area, and I respected that, even though he was gone. I was almost done packing up the stuff I had accrued during my stay, like some posters, a broken acoustic guitar and a dock for my iPod so I could listen to music. My suitcases were stuffed to fits with all my clothes and toiletries. All I had to do was go to sleep, ship the stuff I would not take back home, and move into a hotel. In fact, that was the plan I fell asleep thinking about.
    I am not sure what time it was when I saw the figure at the end of the bed.
    I am quite sure it was between two and three in the morning, because the moonlight, which only shone in the window during those hours, was really bright for some reason. Then again, maybe this thing was creating this light. Either way, there was a pale blue-gray to the room, like that time in the morning when you know you should not be awake, but you have to pee, so you peep your eyes to slits and let your mind guide you toward the toilet like a telepath, praying to god you get there without stubbing your toes on the wall and also hoping you can keep yourself from pissing all over your feet. That was the color of the room. But there was also a dark shape right near my feet. As groggy as I was, I assumed it was one of the guys in the band, possibly looking for something or needing assistance. I was obviously in no mood to help with anything, so I closed my eyes