Screaming through the sky on his flying two horned anvil, Samwell is heavy metal's champion superhero, in possession of invincible powers of performance. With his nuclear voice and infinite supply of energy that keeps him rocking in perpetual motion, Samwell delivers the riot sparking goods with every beat of his metal heart, annihilating any band sharing a bill with King Hell who dares to play staring at their feet. An attempt to water down a King Hell show by sneaking the Christian band Jars Of Clay onto the bill went well enough until they dropped to their knees to pray, whereupon Samwell incinerated them with a blast of hellfire.

Samwell was not always the invulnerable superman of metal, however. He was once Samuel Hubbins Tenderson, a mild mannered professor of ornithology and lover of chamber music. But one Sunday, taking a stroll through the woods, he was hit by an off course military rocket containing an experimental anvil made of neutronium, the densest, heaviest metal known to man. (Why the military would want to put an anvil in space remains classified. - AP) The neutronium penetrated his body to its very atoms, changing his flesh to steel, his blood to boiling lava, and imbuing him with a 666 decibel voice - we won't even speak of what it did to his nether regions. His mind was also changed, implanted with the complete history of heavy metal, including its most closely guarded, Satanic secrets, like the original name of Black Sabbath. (Polka Tulk. No, really. Google it. Obviously it's an incantation. - AP)

Thus transformed, the reborn Samwell unleashed his electrifying powers on our docile world, vowing to return entertainment value and testicular fortitude to rock n' roll. Navel gazing bands secretly on our CIA payroll beware: you may hear a rumble in the sky while playing a loft party with your coma inducing Theremin, Moog synthesizer and one string bass trio. It's the only warning you'll receive before Samwell crashes through the ceiling and forcibly shaves bald anyone he spies with fake bed-head.

A mesmerizing crooner and criminal mastermind, Doc Thompson commands ladies' hearts and the largest underworld empire in history with his undeniable, velvet voice. His organization's tentacles reach into every facet of life; they are the secret owners every Duane-Reade pharmacy and Curves Women's Gym. Attempts to infiltrate his gang have failed utterly. Our last agent to attempt this was found at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean wearing a clown suit and a tutu; his body was only discovered because the criminals had attached a tether running to a buoy, which shot fireworks continuously. (I feel this was overkill. - AP)

Starting as a nightclub singer in a mob controlled establishment, Thompson soon realized he had the same unequalled skill for entertaining as he did for usurping power from other gangsters. One by one, he replaced the club's goons with his own people, developing an ingenious system of clandestinely issuing orders to his men by secreting messages into song titles like "You're My World - The Same World Which Sal 'Fat Thumbs' Bruno Could Shortly Be Departing" and "Strollin' On The Boardwalk, Where, By Complete Coincidence, We Just Happen Upon The Washed Up Body Of Jimmy Russo, That No Good Rat". It was this sort of stealth genius that allowed Thompson sneak up on and overtake the rest of organized crime, which apparently wasn't paying very good attention.

With his grip on the underworld solidified, Thompson turned his evil eye back to music. Intent on maneuvering King Hell to be the largest band in the world, Thompson is surreptitiously preparing the way for the band's coming by planting subliminal markers throughout our culture. Note the recent turn for the subtly Satanic some advertising has taken, for instance Burger King's new slogan: "Burger King; Hell it's good!" We can even see the mark of the beast in some products, like Duane-Reade's new forked, flaming toothbrush, which aims to subconsciously influence children to look to the Devil, and thus King Hell. Without immediate action, it's only a matter of time before the world hears the band's deafening arrival, and all of us are burning our lips off on official King Hell toothbrushes.

The year is 2093. The world is ravaged, and the average temperature is 163 degrees. On the plus side, the Earth is so scorched her ashen soil can no longer nurture humanity's most dangerous crops: barley and hops for beer. (Who knew we could achieve prohibition through global warming! - AP) Better still, Justin Timberlake - his life prolonged in a gleaming, lily-white cybernetic body - rules the planet, having become the single highest earning entity on Earth. His first decree as Emperor: banning heavy metal. The people are forced to buy the Emperor's every record - including re-mixes - at astronomical prices.

But into this desolate world a guitar hero emerged: Motherfucker, he was called. From town to town he went, battling the lip-synching minions of the Emperor, and his allies the whining tribes of Emo. Clone armies of carefully screened no-soul singers and falsely rebellious bands with uneven haircuts and "The" in their names were crushed under his massive, iron riffs. (Which, strangely, show elements of Jazz and Bach; we will attempt to exploit this to discredit Motherfucker's metal-ness, but it may be too awesome to overcome. - AP)

Motherfucker soon realized the futility of his quest. Crop after crop of manufactured music rose faster than he could cut them down. Then a plan came to him: he would travel back in time, using technology too advanced for this agent to bullshit about, and nip these carefully planted weeds in the bud. (Er, if weeds have buds... look, I'm an intelligence analyst, not a botanist, ok? - AP) Now rocking in 21st century with alarming fury, Motherfucker mercilessly dispatches passionless music wherever he finds it. He has even vowed to corn-hole Justin Timberlake with a flaming guitar when he finally battles his way to him. (Agents have been dispatched to Timberlake's residence to warn this great entertainer of the danger to his rectum. - AP)

Agents are advised to run for cover when this devastating drummer and martial arts master pounds the skins with his fists of fury. Channeling his chi - and his whisky's chi - Shille-Lee drives King Hell with his powerful, groove infused beats, and dazzles audiences with drum solos where he lets rip with lightning speed while battling waves of attacking ninjas.

Born Eamon Patrick Seamus O'Hare McLaughlin McGonigle McDonald McMcMc to Irish immigrant parents, Eamon was the 52nd of 60 children, and developed an early interest in martial arts as a means to survive his frequent rows with his 28 brothers. After mastering all the Asian and Brazilian styles of fighting, he focused in on traditional Irish fisticuffs, and developed a new martial art he gave the Gaelic name Braugh Tier Nagog, or Way Of The Iron Leprechaun. In honor of his Irish heritage, he took the fighting name Shille-Lee. (Which, this analyst admits, is an exceedingly clever pun. - AP) Noting a tendency to play beats with his fists while hitting his opponents, he found he had a natural gift for rhythm, and soon dedicated himself to the drums with equal ferocity, even developing his unique style of playing with nunchucks.

After honing his chops in several bands including the cult Irish-rock outfit Shitty Doubloon - later to become the psychedelic group Magic Doo-Doo Machine - Shille-Lee signed onto King Hell, replacing their tambourine player. (This musician was one of our undercover agents; Shille-Lee decapitated him on stage with a flying dragon kick, much to the delight of the band's fans. - AP) Shille-Lee now anchors the King Hell's invulnerable rhythm section, dealing some of the meanest, funkiest beats ever played, and dispatching any ninjas we send his way.

(Note: this profile contains some phraseology culled from interviews with the man-droid Zigabot. I feel he is either talking in code, or is completely bat-shit. - AP)

The only escaped member of the fabled Clones of the mad, musical scientist Dr. Funkenstein, Zigabot "rumbles the junk in yo' trunk" with the elephantine bass tones booming from his 69-inch woofer. With his dazzling strobe light platform boots and roof raising bionic afro, Zigabot inspires both band and audience at every show to "turn this mother out"! Exactly what all these colloquialisms mean, this analyst is unsure, but I'm calling my mother to check on her right now.

Originally another mindless soldier in Funkenstein's clone army, Zigabot experienced an awakening, when, sent on an errand to retrieve one of the Dr.'s pairs of 3 foot platform boots from his chambers, he tripped over a bass guitar Funkenstein had left plugged in on the floor. The sound rattled Zigabot's caged soul loose. Fascinated for the first the first time in his heretofore plastic existance, he picked up the bass. An hour later, the android savant had mastered the entire James Brown catalog.

With Zigabot's newfound consciousness came the awareness that Dr. Funkenstein, his exceedingly jealous creator, would swiftly return him to a zombie state with his rhythm and soul sapping Honkytron Ray should he become the least bit suspicious that Zigabot had "tasted the forbidden phroot of funk." (Alright, he's clearly a mental patient. - AP) Zigabot therefore feigned mindlessness until the first opportunity to flee Funkenstein's Mothership, bailing out over the Atlantic Ocean atop his enormous speaker cabinet and paddling his way to land with his bass. Now un-enslaved, he's dedicated his existence to "freeing the funk wherever it is chained, until We The People see the emancipation of all the world's asses." For this analyst, a world where asses bounce freely all over the place is nightmare scenario. Asses belong in underpants, period.