1991

Growing up with Dave Mustaine as your dad was anything but ordinary. One night stands out vividly in my memory. It was past midnight when you heard the front door creak open, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy boots stumbling across the floor.

You rushed down the stairs to find him leaning against the wall, his fiery red hair disheveled and his eyes, usually sharp and intense, now glazed over. He looked up at me, a half-smile forming on his lips.

"Hey, kiddo," he slurred, trying to steady himself. "You should have seen the crowd tonight. They were... they were wild!"

"Dad, you're drunk again," You sighed, stepping closer to help him.

"Not drunk, just... just inspired!" he insisted, his words blending together. "Came up with a killer riff tonight. Gonna blow everyone's mind."

You guided him to the couch, where he flopped down heavily. "Dad, you need to take it easy. This isn't good for you."

He laughed, a sound that was both joyous and sad. "Rock 'n' roll, kid. It's in the blood. But don't you worry, I'll be fine."

As you watched him, the legendary frontman of Megadeth, trying to navigate the chaos of his life, you couldn't help but feel a mix of admiration and concern. In that moment, he wasn't just a rockstar; he was my dad, struggling to find balance between the stage and home.