F*-c-k-, Bog! F*-c-k-, f*-c-k-, f*-c-k-eth! Ok, Heretical, straight-up jump the f*-c-k- in the muck pits. Let’s get slayed, beautiful sewer stencher mosh! Bog felt like he was on his dirt bike doing f*-c-k-off whips and jumps over mounds. Bog was reminded of the time when daddy Bog would say to him, “Get down, get down ya f*-c-k-,” when lil Bog was jumping overly excited at his feet. Ok, should we get straight to it, none of that academic thesis bullshit like some f*-c-k- is wanting to prove the existence of a demonic fart in a crypt. Would you like to have the complete shit kicked out of your ears? If so, Heretical does exactly that. Let’s describe the feeling. You know when you’re in a shitty club, and they will not play anything you ask for. Magically, at the end of the night, the track you asked for 5 hours ago appears. It’s a f*c-k-i-n-g sprint to get on the floor and sweat your skin off for about 3–5 minutes. This is a whole album of that feeling. The riffs are nasty, the v...