The world came to mourn the Prince of Darkness. Thousands gathered in the rain-soaked square—rock legends, weeping fans, even skeptics who just wanted to say they’d been there. Then, as the first chords of “Crazy Train” played through the speakers, the sky did something impossible.
A swirling black cloud—dense as ink, silent as a shadow—descended over the crowd. Not a storm. Not smoke. Something alive.
People gasped as it pulsed like a heartbeat above Ozzy’s casket. A woman’s crucifix burned her fingers when she touched it. A photographer’s lens cracked as he tried to snap a picture. Then, just as the priest began to pray, the cloud spoke—not in words, but in a distorted riff from “Iron Man” that vibrated in everyone’s bones.
And just like that, it was gone.
Scientists called it “electromagnetic interference.” The church declared it a “sign of spiritual warfare.” But Sharon Osbourne, wiping her smudged eyeliner, laughed hoarsely: “That’s just Ozzy. Even death can’t make him show up on time.”
That night, every metal radio station on Earth played his music simultaneously at 3:07 AM—the exact minute he’d died.
Coincidence? Maybe.
Or maybe the devil finally got tired of waiting for his greatest groupie.
