Growing up in Hammond, Indiana, the only thing I ever had to look forward to was the annual Augustfest, a conglomeration of rusty, hastily-erected rides, has-been musical acts and the only beer garden in the world that can be seen from space.

Later, I would look forward to the fest so I could get drunk on keg beer and pick fights with the gap-toothed carnies, but before all that, Augustfest had the dart toss.

For a dollar a pop, I could throw a dart at a balloon. My prize for popping a balloon was my choice of one a hundred or so posters plastered across the back wall of the game trailer. The Budweiser posters were popular. Spuds Mackenzie. Posters showing thong-wearing beauties with such witticisms as "Haulin' Ass" writ underneath appealed to damn near everyone. Harley Davidson posters abounded as well as marijuana leafs. All bullshit.

I only had eyes for the Iron Maiden posters. Each poster featured Maiden's skeletal mascot, Eddie, looking bad ass, and not needing a thong to do it. I had them all. At least all that were available to me in the confines of Augustfest along with a few more I picked up from the local flea market, most notably the massive Live After Death concert poster with a long-haired Eddie busting out of the grave.

My personal favourite was Eddie dressed as a British soldier, sabre in hand, carrying a tattered Union Jack as he plunged into battle.

There was fighter pilot Eddie, strait-jacketed Eddie, Sphinx Eddie, futuristic Eddie, prophet Eddie, meat cleaver wielding Eddie, nuclear bomb detonating Eddie. All of them staring down at me from the walls as I tried to sleep.

Stopping by to play Commando on my new Nintendo, my buddy Cas surveyed the posters. "Iron Maiden is an awesome band," he said.

"Band? Iron Maiden's a band?"

Cas opened his Sony Walkman and withdrew a cassette. "I stole this from Zayre. I all ready stole all their Quiet Riot tapes. Been trying to get all the stuff with cool covers. Ever hear of Molly Hatchet?"

"Gimme that tape."

To say I was predisposed to enjoying Iron Maiden's music had nothing to do with the posters. I was born with a mullet. I was throwing up the devil horns when I was two month's old. My baby blanket was a denim jacket.

When I put the cassette into my boom box it was like my destiny unfolding before me. I'm not going to say Iron Maiden was responsible for my future drug addiction, or for dropping out of school or even for the time I caught crabs from a three hundred pound metalhead chick with the Metallica tattoo on the glacial expanse of her ass. But I don't think I could have had one without the other.

That fateful day I learned there was more to Iron Maiden than Eddie bearing a flame thrower as he flew through the sky on angelic wings. There was Bruce Dickenson with his metatronic voice. Steve Harris's galloping bass. Dave Murray's blistering guitar riffs. Nicko McBrain's resounding drums. And some Adrian guy I didn't care much for.

Iron Maiden spoke to me about things I didn't know I needed to be spoken to about. Satan. The plight of the indians. The Crimean War. The downside of being a pharaoh. Nuclear Armageddon.

Today, the mullet's gone. The dope is in the past. I'm even fairly certain I got rid of the crabs. But Iron Maiden remains. And every time I play the songs from Live After Death on my Ipod, I throw up the devil horns and play air guitar like it's 1986.

Karl Koweski is 32 years old. He is co-editting Zygote with Brian Fugett. He has a poetry chapbook, ‘Can't Kill a Man Born To Hang’ available from Bottle of Smoke Press and another one, ‘Internet Killed The Mimeo Star’, available at Hemispherical Press. He has a myspace page also, for anyone who wants to get in touch with him here. To read his story, ‘Holly Go Darkly’ on the showcase section of this site, click here.

© 2007 Laura Hird All rights reserved.