The Mentors.

I didn't always travel with my own bands. When the Mentors came to town, I couldn't resist the urge to go on the road with three smelly guys that dressed in executioner hoods, and sang about fucking your bottom. Their little truck held two in the front, while me and Sickie Wifebeater lay coffin-style underneath the equipment in the back. They were real pussycats, and after 3 days El Duce bought me a ticket home. Real gentlemen!