Jake Brennan

So you bailed.

And then your murderous plan faded.

Saved by a crackhead angel, your ex-girlfriend never realized how close she'd come to death.

That is, until she read your book, where you detailed everything.

You wanted the world to know who you really were.

Marilyn Manson, not Brian Warner.

Brian Warner had to die.

Brian Warner was in the way.

Brian Warner was preventing you from becoming the Antichrist Superstar.

That was the whole point.

That's what you were gunning for.

From Fort Lauderdale's industrial underground, nailing women to crucifixes, leading them around on all fours, degrading them, keeping kids in cages on stage, hurling raw meat and bloody animal parts at the audience.

catching the attention of Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor and his Nothing Records label, to your debut album, Portrait of an American Family, to your breakthrough on MTV and into the mainstream with your excellent cover of the arrhythmic Sweet Dreams Are Made of This, and finally, back into the studio in New Orleans, a former funeral home, by the way, with Trent at the boards to create your magnum opus, Antichrist Superstar.

But there was an uninvited guest at the studio, Brian Warner.

Fuck them and fuck Brian Warner.

First, it was cocaine.

A lot of cocaine.

Rails and rails and rails of cocaine.

From the minute you entered the studio until the minute you left.

Then you tried drowning Brian in alcohol.