Bringing Metal To The Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination

Dedication

To God and Jesus Christ for giving me life and for giving creation to the amazing cast of characters that make up the music business. Without them, life wouldn’t be as insane or as much fun as it is. I also should mention Vaseline lubricating jelly—without which my ass would never have healed from the relentless pounding, hammering, fisting, plowing, and gaping joys I received from said cast of characters.

Epigraph

ON THE COVER: The spiked wristband I’m wearing on the cover of this book was a gift for my thirty-ninth birthday from my good friend and Black Label brother Kerry King, a true Berzerker who also calls upon the OdinForce of Valhalla to forge the Metal for his band, Slayer.

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

General Black Label Society Warning

Foreword by Chris Jericho

Author’s Note

Preface

Chapter One: The Berzerkers of Asgard

Chapter Two: The Black Vatican

Chapter Three: GIFD

Chapter Four: No Shitting on the Bus

Chapter Five: Perils of Valhalla

Chapter Six: Pssst! Don’t Tell the Warden

Epilogue: One for the Road

Picture Section

Appendix: Bonus Material

From the Desk of John DeServio

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

NOT A SINGLE SENSICAL WORD EXISTS IN THE CONTEXT OF THIS Volume, Nor were Any Good Judgments or Rational Decisions Executed in Its Production. This Book was Planned, Developed, Produced, and Submitted under the Complete, Utter, and Absolute Idiocy of the Authors. In Fact, This Book is So Completely Horrendous that any Physical Contact with its Pages may cause Vertigo, Memory Loss, Nausea, Vomiting, and Uncontrollable Evacuation of the Bowels. The Authors do not Recommend that you Attempt any of the Stunts in this Book, with the Exception of some of the Really Cool Ones. Lastly, no Animals were Fondled in the Making of this Book. I look forward to Performing my own Prostate Exams each day and I Thoroughly enjoy Fucking Slamming my Meat all by Myself. I don’t need no Stinking Fucking Animals. While this Book Offers Extensive Advice Intended for the Betterment of People’s Lives (Because that’s What I do), By No Means is it a Safe Alternative to Traditional Therapy. This Book will, However, Make your Penis Larger. If You don’t Have a Penis, it Will Still Make it Larger. And if your Wife has a Penis, it will Make hers Larger as Well.

I’VE BEEN IN SHOW BUSINESS FOR OVER TWENTY YEARS AND IN THAT time, between wrestling, music, writing books, and acting, I’ve met a lot of characters: freaks, geeks, sheiks, big jerks, young turks, Captain Kirks, Aussies, Ozzys, Fozzys, chicks, pricks, dicks, dicks with chicks, chicks with dicks, and everything in between. But I’ve never met anyone like Zakk Wylde. In a world infested with obnoxious egomaniacs, backstabbing charlatans, temperamental prima donnas (of which I confess I am one), world-class fakes, and all-around Grade-A Assholes, Zakk Wylde is real.

A real nice guy.

A real family man.

A real fan of music.

A real kick-ass guitar player.

And a real stinky son of a bitch.

Yeah, stinky! You want an example? One afternoon, following one of our notorious all-night drinking binges in New York City, I met up with Zakk and noticed he was wearing the exact same clothes he’d been wearing while throwing back cocktails the night before. His hair was a cross between Bozo the Clown’s and Dee Snider’s circa 1984, and good lord in heaven did he reek of alcohol and odors I’ve never smelled before or since.

“Great Caesar’s ghost, Zakk!” I bellowed in disgust. “Why don’t you take a shower?”

“Vikings didn’t have showers, brutha,” Zakk replied.

“Yeah, and Vikings didn’t travel in their own private tour buses and sleep in the Waldorf hotel either. Take a shower, ya fuckin’ scumbag!”

And therein lies the genius of Zakky. He is a stellar musician and one of the greatest guitar artists of any generation, a man who has written some of the most classic riffs and songs in Heavy Metal history. He is a talented vocalist with a style completely his own and a vastly underrated piano player who can make grown men weep with his emotional ballads. But he is also a guy who considers himself to be some sort of Nordic warrior and has no problem farting in public, bragging about his sexual prowess (but only with his Immortal Beloved, Barbaranne), using more cuss words than a fleet of soused sailors, and washing that confused mess he calls his hair at best once a week, probably much less.

As I said, Zakk is real.

Really funny.

Really genuine.

Really obsessed with James Hellwig.

Really respected by one Chris Jericho.

And now really sober.

Yeah, you read that right. Sober. Zakk is one of rock ’n’ roll’s last true characters and the tales of his drunkocity will live on in the annals of rock history forever. I should know; I was a part of many of them. But Zakk was getting near the end of his lifetime cocktail punch card, and instead of using it up taking a seat at the bar in God’s tavern with so many of his peers and heroes, Zakk chose to stop. Cold turkey. No therapy, no rehab, no Dr. Drew. He just stopped. And that’s what I respect most about my friend. He recognized the problem and eliminated it. And he’s a funnier, more talented, better man for it. I’m proud of him for that.

Now without the excess booze baggage, Iron Chef Zakk is out there working harder than ever to make those doughnuts. This book explains in every way, shape, and form how he has created those delicious treats for the last twenty-plus years and how he will continue to do so for decades to come. Zakk discusses what it takes to become an SDMF-certified Berzerker and will take you step by step through the mind of a Truuuuu Rockaaaaaa!!

So sit back and enjoy. Pay attention; read slowly and maybe you’ll find out a little of what makes our intrepid protagonist tick. And maybe you’ll understand why he always wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer.

And that’s for real.

Chris Jericho

October 4, 2011

Lady Gaga’s dressing room

Author’s Note

METAL. DID IT COME FROM THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH FULLY FORMED? Or was it a gift from the god Odin, handed down from Valhalla, forged into his son Thor’s mighty hammer, known as the Mjöllnir (a hammer that would one day inspire the title of the telltale book Hammer of the Gods)? Or was Metal birthed across the ocean by Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath and driven across the world on the iron-horse track they laid for every Metal band to follow?

Because this is my book, I’m going to start where I believe Metal begins in all of us, and that is the exact spot where your stomach ends and your bowels begin. That twenty-eight-some-odd feet of smaller and larger intestines that end at your colon is what I’m referring to here. I’m sure you are familiar with the phrase Metal up your ass. I stand here before you in true testimony—they weren’t kidding.

You go into Metal wanting to be the best musician you can be, practicing until your fingers bleed and grow calluses, studying the masters of your newfound craft. You shell out for the best gear your wallet will allow, and you associate with others in search of that same holy grail. But beyond that, the rest is one unbelievably rude wake-up call. Anything that you actually take seriously, that you hold sacred to your heart, goes straight through your bloated sack and right into the fuckin’ shitter, and your lower intestine actually disembowels itself. That’s when you know you’ve made it in the world of Metal.

But fear not, my fellow Berzerkers and Berzerkerettes, for you shall receive no such colonic intrusions here. Much like Jesus bore the cross so that all of us wouldn’t have to suffer his burden, I’ve already taken it for the team so that none of you have to endure the monstrous ass-reaming of rock ’n’ roll. Well, I haven’t taken all of it—you’ll get your fill of musical cock and balls. And when you get poked and prodded in all the wrong ways, hopefully, after reading this book, it will be more like Jenna Jameson’s pinkie rather than Brock Lesnar’s fist. I’m about to share some of my musical conquests and follies and a few words of advice to help shorten that lengthy path of musical doom you are about to embark upon.

There is one thing I want to mention before you embark upon your quest for the holy grail of Metal. And that is the ongoing theme throughout the pages of this book: the numerous degrading, belittling, and morally unpleasant references to one John DeServio. My comments are obviously not to be taken seriously. JD and I have been best friends since we were kids and I love him like a brother, which is exactly why I like to ridicule him to no end, with as many cheap shots, punches to the rib cage, and insults as I can drop upon his pathetic and fatigued person in my book. And someday when JD gets his own book, which would most likely be titled How to Ruin Everything, I would expect nothing less from him than a full-blown, cover-to-cover literary retaliation. Although I know in my heart that pigs will spread wings on the day that JD actually gets a chance to write a book, and his odds of successfully mocking my greatness are even less.

At this time, you might feel inclined to ask me, “Hey, Zakk, where did you learn to become the mighty Berzerker you are today?” Well, I studied in school just like everybody else did. But instead of Berklee College of Music or MIT, I’m a Delta Tau Chi graduate from the University of Ozzy Osbourne. And now I’m working on my PhD in Black Label Global Domination.

Everybody would like to get signed at eighteen years old, sell twenty million fucking records, and throw down for massive crowds at Donington, but that ain’t the way it works. This is when fantasy ends and the harshness of Metal reality begins. You know that shitty taste of tinny metal you get in your mouth from some piece-of-shit beer can of whatever the hell you’re drinking? That’s where it started for me.

Welcome to the Wonderful World of Showbiz

MY MOTHER WAS IN SHOW BUSINESS. SHE USED TO DO CASTING CALLS TO place kids in commercials. You know how the BFGoodrich commercials use little babies to show that their tires will keep your kids safe? Stuff like that. She was responsible for many of the Oscar Mayer wiener kids as well. I can still hear the jingle ringing in my head: “Oh I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener . . .” Just glad she never placed me as one of the kids desiring to be a wiener—even though since childhood I have thoroughly enjoyed pounding my wiener into submission until I’m legless and in complete vertigo. But she did get me my first gig as a musician.

My cousin Karen, who had been working at the Playboy Mansion in the Pocono Mountains, had brought home this guy named Jerry. I didn’t know much about cocaine at the time, because my buddies and I were just into drinking beers and playing music. A few of them might have smoked weed, and I remember one or two of them snorting Freon or some stupid air-conditioning shit like that. Freon and weed were the only drugs I’d ever seen. Obviously I knew what cocaine was, but I was never interested in that shit and even if I was, none of us ever had the money to afford it. So I had never actually seen the abundance of sweat that pours from the body of a true GAC hound—a bona fide fuckin’ cokehead.

My mother and father came from the Sinatra generation and my dad was a World War II veteran. The only thing they knew about copping a buzz was drinking highballs, and the stories they’d heard about marijuana were from the Vietnam generation. They knew fucking nothing about drugs.

That said, Karen brought home this drug-riddled motherfucker she had met at the Playboy estate. I’ve never seen anyone polish off as much booze as this motherfucker! He literally cleaned out the liquor cabinet that was usually reserved for fifty people coming over for the holidays. Later in life I learned that any of my friends who did do cocaine could fuckin’ drink until the cows came home and never cop a buzz! They could drink all fuckin’ night, drink Jack Daniel out of booze if they had enough cocaine to hold the story—a Titanic full of fuckin’ whiskey—and not even get the least bit sloppy.

So this cat was telling my folks that he was a producer and about how he was making a record at the time. These were big words flyin’ around for my mom, her being in showbiz and having a sixteen-year-old son who played the guitar. Obviously my mom jumped at the opportunity to let him know that her son played the guitar. And he instantly invited me to be on his record.

I had never been in a recording studio before. I had always dreamed about being a professional musician, but I never had a clue how to make that happen. And now my mom had just booked my first gig. I figured this, the recording studio, was where all my dreams were about to come true, where all the “magick” happened, where the Wizard of fuckin’ Oz existed, and this Dorothy was on her way to the Emerald City.

Jerry gave me the address and the date and told me to meet him at this place to record some guitar tracks. So me and Barbaranne, now my wife and mother of our three children, made the excursion up north toward the Poconos and ended up getting to this big-ass mansion-type house. I grabbed my amplifier and guitar, we knocked on the door, and it was opened by this guy with his dick hangin’ down to his fuckin’ knee! He was completely naked, and Barb was standing there staring at this guy’s schlong!

“Do you want some of that?” I asked her.

“Yeah,” she said, “you go play with your guitar and I’ll play with this massive pussy-gaping cock of his.” It’s moments like these that reassured me of my deep penetrating love for Barbaranne. Good times indeed.

Despite Dirk Diggler and his dangling dong show, we still went into the house, not really knowing what to expect. The next thing you know, we saw people fucking everywhere! It was like we had just walked onto the set of Caligula—people were on the floor, on couches, even up on the tables, just fucking everywhere.

We were led into this room where a full-on recording studio had been built. Not only was the studio outfitted with a nice-looking mixing board, but the console came complete with a rock ’n’ roll–sized mountain of cocaine piled up at the end of it. It looked as if Scarface was engineering the damn thing on a porn set.

Once again I found myself staring at this fucking cokehound Jerry, still sweating profusely, like he was in the fuckin’ Sahara desert or something. Mind you, the air-conditioning was blasting, and to me and Barb it felt like we were in a meat locker, but this guy was still sweating his fucking balls off. That’s what happens when you’re gacked to the motherfucking gills.

It turned out that the record was for Ginger Lynn, a famous porn star—she was basically the Jenna Jameson of her time. They were trying to have Ginger cross over from porn into music, you know, and have her become the next Madonna. Well there I was, my first “professional” recording session ever (since I got paid for it), and I was knocking out tracks for a porn star’s album.

We laugh about that now, and the funniest thing is that my mother was the one who sent me, her son, to the gig! I can hear her now, saying shit like, “Oh, my little Jeffrey is making a record! I’m so proud of my Jeffrey . . . ,” as she sent her son out on a quest to the land of cock and balls, and pussy and ass and tits—cum and cocaine everywhere. “That’s my boy!” Mind you, Barb couldn’t walk a straight line for two weeks after that. Once again—good times indeed.

Welcome to the wonderful fucking world of Metal.

Yay, I’m on my way! I’m gonna make it!

Congratulations, asshole,

Zakk

To my Brothers and Sisters, Berzerkers and Berzerkerettes, for the Immortal Beloved sayeth, do we not reside in Asgard?! For the immortal strength of the OdinForce shall carry them to victory and make all of Asgard Proud! And we shall celebrate with drink and feast, another glorious day in our holy lands, brimming with the enlightenment and enchantment of Rock.

And whilst I break away from the highest peaks of Valhalla, where I forge the Metal of the Gods, after once I hammer the Immortal Beloved with mine crotchal Mjöllnir, thou shalt don thine axe and join me in allegiance as we wage war against the enemy that has brought Vaginal countenance to our sacred rites!

So shall I return to Asgard victorious or upon mine own shield. And I shall once again drink from the cup and savor the Nectar of the Gods!!! What sayeth thee, mine battle-ready brethren? Shall we march forth in unison to the measures of the sounding drums? For the quakening of the earth is near upon us, and all shall hail the flags of Asgard! Let us beseech the blessing of almighty God as we begin this great and noble Black Label Crusade!

Zakk, you are so cute when you imagine yourself a Viking.

—BARBARANNE WYLDE

Note from Zakk: Trust me, I don’t think I’m a fucking Viking. But the fact that everybody keeps throwing this shit in my face ’cause I’ve got long hair and a fucking beard—all the while taking the fucking piss out of me—I guess we’ll just run with it. With all the little chuckles I hear from you motherfuckers, you guys seem to be enjoying yourselves.

The Berzerkers were the most crazed motherfucking Vikings that ever lived. To give you a little history lesson on these ancient warriors, they fought in a nearly uncontrollable, trancelike fury, much like the Incredible Hulk on a cocktail of steroids and acid. They battled in the name of Odin, chief god of war and ruler of Asgard, one of their mystical Nine Worlds. In battle, many Berzerkers fought bare-chested to prove to the enemy their immunity to iron weapons. And if they had to wear clothes it was surely pelts from bears or wolves. These motherfuckers were fearless and brutal, eating their enemies and toasting with the blood of their foes. On a side note, this kind of behavior also exists in my home. When my wife, Barbaranne, comes at me with an iron weapon, I simply expose my manly chest and she freezes in astonishment. Mind you, it’s probably from my sheer patheticness, but she freezes nonetheless.

Going “berserk” back then usually happened during the heat of battle, but the condition could also kick in during heavy labor. Men, who were chosen by the OdinForce to become berserk, were capable of crazy, superhuman feats. The condition would begin with tremors, chattering of the teeth, and finally, a deep chill would set in; then their faces would swell up and turn red with fury. These symptoms of mightiness developed into an all-encompassing rage, under which the Berzerkers would howl like wild animals, bite the edges of their shields, and cut down everything and everyone in their paths with their mighty blades, and without discriminating between friend and foe. It took up to several days for Berzerkers to come down from the adrenaline. These warriors were so infamous that many of the Viking kings chose to use Berzerkers as their personal bodyguards. They were so ferocious and uncontrollable that they were even afraid of themselves. And I’m positive that’s why Barb married me. She thinks I’m her personal Viking bodyguard, with some extra benefits, one being my Crotchal Mjöllnir, and she has given it many endearing nicknames—bather of conquest, hole puncher, rod god, labia stretcher . . . you get the idea.

To get ready for battle, the Berzerkers would lose their fucking minds by powering down fistfuls of hallucinogenic mushrooms and buckets of booze spiked with a spice called bog myrtle. This battle brew was known to maximize aggressive behavior but left them with massive hangovers. The Berzerkers also drank wolf’s blood, believing that it helped to really kick in the frenzy.

Raging, alcohol-fueled warriors with relentless determination, battling in the name of the Metal god Odin—yeah, that was something our boozed-up, pilled-up brothers and sisters heading out to their children’s school PTA meetings could get behind. The Berzerker moniker fuels our pursuit of wreaking havoc across the globe, tearing new assholes, stealing farmers’ daughters, and drinking all the towns’ whiskey—just to live up to our merciless Viking namesakes.

Note from Zakk: Listen, don’t literally go around wreaking havoc, tearing new assholes—as opposed to old assholes—stealing farmers’ daughters, or whatever other goofy-ass shit Father Eric is talking about here that might get your ass kicked, killed, or put in jail. Don’t listen to Father Eric here. Eric is a fucking idiot, okay? We love him. But he’s an idiot nonetheless. Trust me, he has never done any of the ridiculous bullshit he’s talking about here—maybe with his GI Joe doll collection, but that’s about it. Why do you think he doesn’t have a girlfriend? What chick in her right mind is ever gonna hook up with a guy talking stupid shit like this with a GI Joe doll hanging out of his back pocket? Don’t be like Eric. Which literally means: Don’t be a fucking idiot.

P.S. Love you, buddy! :)

Bleeding Black Label

JAPAN, 1991: I WAS WITH OZZY FOR THE NO MORE TEARS TOUR. One insane night, while firing off some really heavy riffs next to the Boss, I swear Odin came straight down from Valhalla and shot a fucking lightning bolt right up my ass. It was either that or I got shocked by my own gear, and since this is my book I’m going with the Viking story. I mean really, for all you know I could have been zapped backstage in the dressing room while plugging in my makeup kit to apply some rouge before the show. Just pay attention, I’m only five sentences into my book and we’re all over the fuckin’ map with it already.

There I was onstage, pummeling through these heavy fucking jams with Oz and the guys, getting zapped in the rectum, and then the vision came to me. All of a sudden I saw the crowd not as what they were but as what they would become—a legion of Berzerkers, or as my manager would prefer to call them, “cash crops with legs.” And as Ozzy and I continued blasting out songs from No Rest for the Wicked, No More Tears, and some of the works of genius that Lord Iommi, Saint Rhoads, and Father Lee blessed us with, I could not stop these electrified visions. And neither could my manager, as he was already making phone calls to place a down payment on a new mansion in Malibu. One second I was looking at a row of cheerful fans, singing along to these musical masterpieces of doom and head-banging to the complete Armageddon of Metal, the next second I was looking on as my manager placed his order for a new Maserati, loaded to the hilt with all the options. The audience looked like a horde of battle-ready Vikings awaiting the command to attack. As I was cranking the shit out of my Marshall wall of doom I could see on the horizon the day of the Berzerker Nation. That was the first night I was drawn into the OdinForce and the first night my manager was drawn into the nearest Prudential real estate brokerage. It also dawned on me during this pinnacle moment of genius that not only do cowboys like Jon Bon Jovi come from New Jersey, but Vikings are from New Jersey as well—along with a high teen pregnancy rate and an even higher involvement with alcohol and getting high by inhaling Freon.

The further we got into our show, the more I could see the Berzerker Metal madness grow, as well as the sheer enlightenment and joy on my accountant and manager’s faces, not so much over the mountains of Valhalla, but over the mountains of potential earnings and 401(k) contributions, as they envisioned paychecks that dwarfed anything they had conceived of. The thought of the piles upon piles of dollars upon dollars set their eyes gleaming like the stars on Orion’s Belt. I was literally blinded by their money-grubbing glares, and the audience was illuminated by the intensity. Each and every fan had an inner warrior, armed and ready to explode into a frenzy of rock ’n’ roll–infused destruction and debauchery. Wait . . . Is this a rock show I’m talking about or the Festivus miracle going on inside my wife Barbaranne’s baby-maker? It wasn’t about me, it was about bringing all Metal fans into one family, one horde, one society, and one womb. All of us joining forces against the world in hopes of keeping JD out of the unemployment line—a line in which he has spent most of his adult life.

And so began the almighty Black Label Society.

And much like Jimmy Page was called upon by the spirit of the dark poet Aleister Crowley to lead mass services in the name of Rock, I was called upon by my boss, the produce manager of Fine Fair, to restock the Granny Smith apples before I clocked out for my ten-minute break. Jimmy is a living god, and much more than just a guitar player. He conjured his art on the guitar, but he also took the lead as a songwriter, producer, mixing engineer, and art director—his band was his baby, his calling. Playing in the Yardbirds put him on the map, but it didn’t sum him up as an artist. Jimmy wandered deep into the forest of dark souls to master his craft and create the heart that would one day beat in the name of Led Zeppelin. His journey was otherworldly. Unlike my journey, from the stockroom to the produce aisles. From Pope Page’s conversations with Crowley in the netherworld, he gathered the ingredients he needed to brew the mind-altering compositions that live on today. And from my direct order from the produce manager, I gathered the freshest and greenest Granny Smith apples I could obtain from the produce gods in the back of the store.

Note from Zakk: Again . . . “Forest of dark souls”? “Netherworld”? I have no fuckin’ idea what the fuck Eric is writing about here. Gimme a fucking break—the guy just loved music. We’ll let Father Eric run with his illustrious bullshit though, since he is a Black Label brother—and I use the term brother in the loosest way. I do, however, still enjoy a fine Granny Smith apple from time to time. Try them with caramel, kids, and if you want to really live on the edge, combine it with peanuts—its netherworldly.

Page formed his band, a concept far greater than himself, and they circled the earth, converting ordinary masses to his rock ’n’ roll religion. And let me tell you, it’s quite the religion—what the fuck this religion advocates is completely wacked. I’ll just say this—morals and overall cleanliness don’t rank too high in this religion. Anyway, moving on . . . So this is what the Nordic gods intended for the Berzerkers and what one cattle-prodding deity beckoned for me to create . . . one global nation of merciless motherfuckers intact with all the insanity and comedy one could possibly hope for.

The Berzerker Empire was founded upon the most important elements of life: God, family, music, and fearless drinking—unlike my manager, whose foundation is Satan, selfishness, dead silence, number crunching, and the utter fear of ending up spiritually broken and penniless. Hold on a second, my manager has no fucking spirit. In fact, he’s completely soulless when it comes to pillaging the pockets, wallets, and purses of anyone he comes in contact with. And that, kids, is exactly why I hired him. It didn’t take long for the concept to progress, for the good word to spread, and for people to gather. Although the foundations of Black Label are expressed in the music, the message is much deeper than drinking and listening to epic tunes. It is greater than the band and the show. It is a family, a brotherhood, a unity, a mind-set, and a way of life. And as long as the money keeps rolling in, management, record companies, and whoever else is on the Black Label payroll will let me believe whatever bullshit BLS represents to me in all that is sacred and holy.

We live by a creed—Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever. Our code, honest and meaningful, is rooted more than a thousand years deep. That is, unless you go by my manager’s timeline, because then it goes back to the first time someone discovered that they could pawn some useless horseshit off on some dumb motherfucker and come out on top. Just like the minute the Indians started selling fuckin’ pelts, it was game fuckin’ on. Getting back to our Viking ancestors, among whom physical, mental, and spiritual strength ruled all and each individual was part of an indestructible fortress. We are relentless in our pursuit, merciless in our behavior, eternal in our hearts. And with the gods of Valhalla watching over our Order, and my manager, wife, accountant, and team of lawyers watching over my expenditures, we stride forward on our path of global domination, spreading the word to the masses at our nightly Black Label church services. Our venue is our electrified cathedral, our music is our sermon, and all who attend are our family. And if you happen to spot a truly shady-looking character passing around the collections basket during our Black Label masses, that would be my manager, lining his fucking pockets with silver and gold to keep up his fleet of Mercedes and to complete construction of a fully equipped wet bar near his heated outdoor pool in Malibu.