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August 1982 – San Francisco
Stacks of padded envelopes were piled high in the corner of the apartment. Each one stuffed with a dubbed cassette, a black-and-white insert folded inside, hand-stamped with the jagged logo: Metallica – No Life 'Til Leather.
James sat cross-legged on the carpet, ink smudges on his fingertips as he sealed another envelope with a slap of his palm. Across from him, Lars scribbled mailing addresses on the front, eyes half-open, handwriting getting worse with every passing minute.
"How many's that?" James asked, yawning.
Lars licked the edge of a stamp and slapped it onto the next. "Two hundred? Three?"
"You said we were sending thirty," James muttered.
"I said we were sending thirty to fanzines. The rest are fan requests. Look at this." Lars held up a stack of scrawled letters. "There's one from Germany. Another from New York. One dude sent us five bucks and asked for 'anything brutal.'"
James couldn't help but grin. "Guess we're brutal now."
From the kitchen, Cliff poked his head out, holding a half-eaten sandwich. "You guys ever sleep?"
Lars answered with a dramatic groan and flopped backwards onto the carpet.
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Later That Week – Record Vault, Berkeley
The bell over the shop door jingled as James stepped into Record Vault. Fluorescent lights buzzed above. The scent of vinyl, cardboard sleeves, and dust hit him in the face like a warm memory.
Behind the counter, a skinny guy in a leather vest was talking to two longhairs — all of them hovered over a boombox playing something fast and razor-sharp.
"…I'm telling you, this is the new tape," the guy said, holding up the cassette like a holy relic. "They're called Metallica. Local band. Hit the Lights, The Mechanix, Jump in the Fire… all bangers."
James casually browsed a stack of Slayer imports, listening.
"Sounds like Motörhead fucked Iron Maiden," one of the customers said.
James smirked, kept his head down.
"That Hetfield guy can really scream," the clerk said. "Someone told me he's only 18."
James paid for a patch and left without saying a word, but he couldn't stop grinning all the way back to the van.
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Rehearsal Space – That Night
Cliff was noodling through a melodic line on his Rickenbacker. Dave sat on a folding chair, half-drunk, tuning his guitar and tapping out rhythms with his boot heel.
"We ever gonna name these new tracks?" James asked.
"We got names," Dave said. "You're just picky."
James ignored him, flipping through a lyric notebook. One title caught Cliff's eye: Phantom Lord.
"That one's got potential," Cliff said. "Feels… cinematic."
James nodded. "Been working on the lyrics. Might be something."
"Add it to the next demo," Lars said, walking in with a stack of newly dubbed tapes. "If we ever sleep again."
Dave stood. "You mean if Cliff doesn't slow everything down again."
Cliff shot him a look but said nothing. The tension was still simmering — not boiling yet, but close.
James shut the notebook and stood. "Enough tape talk. Let's rehearse."
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A Few Days Later – Lars' Apartment
Lars was on the phone, pacing like a man possessed. "Yeah, L.A. I know we left it behind, but this is different. The Troubadour, man. If we get a slot, even just opening, people are gonna notice."
He paused, listening, eyes lighting up. "We'll bring the whole damn house down."
He hung up and turned to James. "We're going back."
"To L.A.?"
"To conquer it this time."
James leaned back on the couch, arms folded. "One tape and now you're talking empire?"
Lars grinned. "The empire started the second you screamed that first verse of Hit the Lights, brother."
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August 1982 – Sunset Strip, L.A. (Tease)
Flyers were already circulating in the right record shops. Word was spreading fast: Metallica returns to L.A. — louder, meaner, tighter. A name like that didn't go unnoticed anymore.
And somewhere, deep in the buzz of Sunset Strip, eyes in the industry began to turn.
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