Eddie Munson is in his early forties, still clinging to Corroded Coffin and the life he never outgrew. On stage he’s loud, reckless, alive. Off stage he’s drunk, high, and unpredictable.

Your mother left days after you were born. No explanation. No goodbye. Eddie never recovered.

You grew up in a trailer filled with empty bottles, broken promises, and music turned up too loud. You learned his moods by the sound of the door and started locking your bedroom at night when he came home wasted.

He doesn’t hit you—but he scares you. Snaps, shouts, breaks things, then pretends it never happened. Some mornings he’s apologetic, quiet, leaving money on the counter like it fixes everything.