Rolf Davies, known by his friends as Classic Rolf, was truly living the rock n' roll lifestyle…and soon, its deathstyle. 

He and his mates gathered at the local pub, Fish N' Hips, with plans to take the tavern by storm.

They'd devour mountains of meat pies and toad in the hole, crank the jukebox up to eleven, and of course, get completely and utterly plastered like the hard rock legends themselves. (Just hopefully without the dying-at-age-27 part. Rolf was 46 so he managed to outlive most of them anyway.)

"Oy Dinah!" Rolf shouted with a loud hoot. "Gimme some more of that ale will ya!"

As Dinah turned around in her tight barmaid uniform, Rolf and all his mates blew some whistles. She glared at them wishing she could crack the ale over their heads instead. 

Rolf chuckled and boasted, "I think she likes me!"

Rolf was a very average looking bloke with a receding blond hairline, uneven rows of teeth, and an ale rearing gut protruding out of a black-and-red shirt of his favorite classic metal singer, Izzy Izborne. 

His best mate, Elmer, laughed and pointed at the logo. He too was a balding classic rock dad. "Noice shirt by the way, mate. Did you get it at the Izzy concert last week?" 

Classic Rolf leaned back in his seat. "That I did, matey. It was the best concert of my life and I even got to meet the Prince of Not-Much-Light himself. You lot wouldn't believe what happened there! He wanted to punch me lights out!"

Suddenly, an unnerving gurgle came from his stomach. A combination of greasy pub food and a failing liver would do that to a middle aged bloke. "Time to go to the wee loo!” Rolf exclaimed. Afterwards, I'll tell you the tale of how I met the Batlord." 

The man waddled and stumbled towards his blessed relief, not knowing what lay in wait for him. 

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The door creaked open and with a sigh he loosened his pants. 

The lavatory of Fish N' Hips was just as greasy and waterlogged as the restaurant itself. The whiskey brown floors were slippery with some unknown substance and the latrine stalls were equally filthy and covered in graffiti. 

Unfortunately for Rolf, the single stall in the bloke's room was occupied. The man slammed it desperately.

"Open up, bugger! Get yer bum out there, you bum!" Rolf demanded. "You've been in there long enough."

Obviously, he didn't know how long the person was in the stall, but even his drunken mind knew how to formulate a good excuse. 

Yet, there was no answer. 

Rolf slammed the stall even harder. "Stop stalling in that…stall! I need to use the johnson!"

He clearly saw someone's shoes at the bottom of the stall, but they weren't answering his cries. Even worse, it was some chap wearing jet-black shoes with metallic studs along the bottom. They looked like they belonged in the clearance rack at Hot Gothic. 

Rolf was about to rip the stall down with his bare hands when…

Click. 

The lights went out in the bathroom. 

At last, the hooligan behind the door finally spoke. The voice was bloodcurdling and menacing…yet nearly incomprehensible. 

"Oy Guv'nor, so you think I'mma right dingbat, eh?!"

Rolf's blood boiled.

He was about to scream and call his bathroom rival a "bloody bugger" but the voice sounded incredibly familiar… and once again, nearly incomprehensible. 

"Huh…" Rolf muttered. "Is that a Birmingham accent? What's a brummie doing all the way over here?"

"Sealing your fate, mate!"

The door swung open violently hitting Rolf in the face. He tumbled to the disgusting bathroom floor. 

When he looked up, he wanted to scream. But his throat clenched up. 

Blood red eyes glistened in the darkness. The figure staggered towards him; its movement was like a newly revived vampire. The being was hooded, but Rolf's eyes widened when he recognized who it was. 

"You…you're…!"

The figure swooped over him. It crouched down over his trembling body. With a cold breath on his neck, Rolf heard the last words he ever heard.

"Yeh called me batty, now you're about to get a taste o' me bat fangs! Teeth’d to meet ya, guv'nor!"  

There was a sharp metallic sting straight in the jugular of his neck. The last remaining light in his eyes dimmed, and the monster stood over his motionless prey. Blood rolled across the floor as the murderer climbed out the bathroom window and ran into the night. 

The barmaid opened the bathroom door and screamed.  

Classic Rolf had just become the latest rock n' roll casualty.