In Other Words

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language and adult content.

Summary: Credit cards. Teenagers. Mopeds. Mustard. And another word for hate.

Disclaimer: Names, places, characters, etc. belong to Small & Blacha. All rights preserved & embalmed.

A/N: All dates and ages mentioned in this story are made up. If anything sounds unbelievable, just use your imagination.

“One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can’t utter.”
-J.E. Jones

Like all great stories, this one begins with a misunderstanding.

Five well-known bandmates, who looked just a little bit different than they do today, stood together in a corporate office building somewhere between Hell and Finland, cracking open beer bottles and stubbing out cigarettes on the expensive carpet. They were the band called Dethklok…but you already knew that.

“Alright boys,” said the band’s new manager—a Mr Charles Foster Ofdensen—as he stood from his desk and held up several manila file folders. “Your new bank accounts have been set up and your credit cards have arrived. Now, I’d like to take this opportunity to explain some guidelines for sensible use of-”

“What’s our credit line?” Nathan interrupted.

“Exactly one hundred thousand.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“No.”

“Brutal.”

“Now then,” Ofdensen continued, “after I distribute your cards in an orderly fashion, I’ll take a moment to discuss any ques-” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as an epic mass of long and metal hair swarmed over his desk and mobbed him; Ofdensen decided it was better to just let go and save his right arm at this point, and soon enough the hairy pack retreated to riffle through their respective folders and shred apart the envelopes containing their cards.

“Oh boy!” Toki cried, holding up the holy plastic rectangle with both hands as a chorus of fat Valkyries shed radiant beams of light down on him. “My first credit’s card! Look, is so shiny! WOW-EE! A hellogram is on it too! It…” He trailed off, squinting, and brought the card close to his face. All of the stupid “hallelujah” effects I mentioned abruptly stopped. Then Toki drew back, sputtering angrily as a bright red blush bloomed across his face.

Pickles leaned over to see what the dilly-o was, sprayed out a mouthful of Killian’s, then erupted into gut-wrenching guffaws.

“What’s de matters?” Skwisgaar snapped, peering over Toki’s shoulder. “What’s so funny abouts…WHAT’S IN DE FUCKS IS DAT!?”

“How dids dis happens!?” the Swede ranted, face turning red (and not out of anger). “We’s not relations! And our account’s numbers is de same!”

“What de hell!?” Toki supplied backup harmonies to Skwisgaar’s bitching. “My name’s not stupid ‘Skwigelf’! Is Wartooth! Why’s de doubles-you in de middle likes that? Is like we gots marriage or somethings!”

The two Scandinavians got really quiet and looked at each other. Appalled. Disgusted. Shocked. Mortified.

“I think I can explain this, boys,” Odfensen said levelly before clearing his throat. “It has come to my attention that Toki has not been completely honest about his age.”

All eyes were then on Toki, who looked suddenly very young and very mean.

“What?” he snapped. “Why you all looks at me likes that for?”

“Toki,” Nathan grunted. “How old are you?”

“Twenty three, I tolds you.”

“That’s not what your birth record indicates,” Ofdensen remarked, producing papers that were undoubtedly something that required a lot of permission to acquire. “According to actual data bestowed on me by the social security bureau of Norway, it says here that, as of this day, you are a good eight months short of turning 18, which is the legal age one must be in order to obtain a credit card. Now, in light of this discovery I have decided it best if you simply share a joint account with Skwisgaar until you turn 18.”

“WHY HIM!?” Toki shrieked, holding onto the sides of his head as if his brains were in danger of roaring out of his ears in a bloody, gutty stream. “I HATES HIM!”

“Don’t sugars-coat it or anyt’ings. Fucker,” Skwisgaar muttered.

Ofdensen ignored the quarrelling and continued, “Joining your accounts would be much easier than me destroying all of Toki’s personal information and rewriting it-”

“Wait. You can do that?” Nathan interrupted again.

“Yes. But it’s a lot of trouble and it makes the federal government very suspicious. I suggest we do this the legal way for once.”

“Gad, yer only 17?” Pickles gawked.

The outed teenage Toki nodded grudgingly.

“Yer still a kid fer Chrissake!”

“Yah,” Skwisgaar leered, leaning down to grin lewdly at his underage bandmate. “I coulds gets in very big troubles if yous were a girl...”

Toki punched Skwisgaar in the arm. “Shut up! You a per’s vert!”

“And you’s a dildos. Hah! A kid dildos. Mini-dildos. Huh huh huh. You wants me to buy you’s a lollipop and take you’s to de playgrounds, Baby-Toki?”

Toki snarled a vow for revenge under his breath, but still managed to look miserable.

Pickles was still stricken and reeling. You could practically see his hair turning white and his skin wrinkling. “I mean, when you was born I was…” He did the math on his fingers. “…fuck! I could drive a car! Ohhhh. Oh gad.” He had to sit down. “Gad’m old. Older’n water.”

Unbelievably, Murderface patted the drummer’s shoulder in a gesture of solace. “It’sh okay, Picklesh,” he slushed gently. “You may be old azsh fuck, but at leasht yer not fat like me.”

The redhead cradled his face in his hands and settled into a nice mope while Skwisgaar and Toki tried to get used to the idea that they would be bound together in financial matrimony for the next eight months. Toki was clearly upset, but Skwisgaar was strangely reserved because—as if you didn’t see this coming—he found himself suddenly intrigued by the fact that Toki was a minor and technically off limits should he, in a fit of madness, decide to turn Toki into a Swedish cock receptacle. But the band was still new enough at this point that all Skwisgaar felt towards Toki was vague annoyance and a belief that Dethklok’s final addition was fundamentally useless except for making the lead guitarist look good. So Skwisgaar banished his gutter-borne thoughts and pretended he was cool with everything.

This was not the case with Toki, who was so vexed that his surname had been polluted by the vile, loathsome Swede that he refused to use his credit card at all. He hadn’t even signed the back of it to validate it yet. He just couldn’t bring himself to write “Toki W. Skwigelf”. If he had a gun to his head he probably wouldn’t do it. Dying was better than pretending to be related to that pompous, arrogant asshole who thought he was the hottest shit in the cess pool. If Toki didn’t already hate Skwisgaar before this whole ordeal, he sure hated him now. But he loved his guts. He thought about them all the time, especially clenched in his bloody fists.

Mordhaus was halfway through construction when Skwisgaar knocked on Toki’s door one night. The whole band was shacked up together at someplace worse than the Bates Motel on the edge of town for the time being. It was really a wreck, even by Murderface’s standards, and the five musicians looked for any excuse to stay away from their temporary home. They spent most of their time hanging out at a local bar and living off of booze and salted peanuts. They were bored a lot.

Skwisgaar knocked for the third time and waited. Finally the door cracked open. It was darker inside than it was outside. A pause. “Fuck off,” Toki muttered.

“What’s your up to?”

“Sleeps. Go away.” He tried to close the door but Skwisgaar’s boot lodged itself in place.

“You’s been sleeping alls de day,” he said. “Yours going to gets a sickness and bed’s sore.”

“What de hell you cares for? Gets your fucking feets out of my door.”

“Not untils you agrees to come wis me.”

A long pause. “To where?”

“I don’ts know. Out, somewheres. Maybe go gets some foods.”

“There no place to gets food around here, stupid.”

“I knows dat. We gots to go to someplaces and finds dem.” Skwisgaar waited. “It’s will be likes an adfentours,” he added.

A few seconds later the pressure on Skwisgaar’s boot eased a little and the door opened. In the orange light of the streetlamp, Toki looked rough. Bags under his eyes, messed up hair, lines on his face from the mouldy rotten pillows, and it looked like he hadn’t showered in three days.

“How we gonna gets to where we going?” he asked pointedly.

“I gots dat covers,” said Skwisgaar. “Come on.”

Toki shut his door behind himself and followed Skwisgaar out into the empty parking lot. Empty except for two beat up cars and something very familiar to European teens.

“Is that a moped?” Toki gawked.

“Moped-scooter. Brand’s new dis years.”

“How’s did you gets that!?”

“Uh, I buys it? Wis my credit’s card?” Skwisgaar replied with that you’re-so-stupid-for-asking-me-this voice and swung one leg over the bike. “Gets on.”

Toki hesitated. The Swede glared at him. “Stops being a pussy, Toki. You’s ever ridded on one of dees?”

“Yes!” Toki snapped. “Shut up!”

“Well gets on den.”

So Toki got on, sitting behind Skwisgaar but as far away from him as the seat would allow. Which wasn’t far. There was no way he could position his legs so that they didn’t touch Skwisgaar. It was a very awkward moment. Then the Swede turned the ignition on, gave the pedal a good kick down and opened the throttle, and the scooter hummed to life.

“Dis t’ing don’ts goes too fast,” he said over the idling, “buts you’s might wants to holds on to me.”

“Fuck that!” Toki spat.

“Fine den.” The Swede revved the throttle, let off the clutch, and the moped shot forward across the parking lot. Toki let out a cry and would have tumbled off the back if he hadn’t reflexively reached out and wrapped his arms around Skwisgaar’s chest.

“You’s okay back dere?” came the smug inquiry.

“I hates you,” Toki muttered.

He hated Skwisgaar all right, but when they turned onto the road and picked up a bit of speed, things suddenly weren’t so bad. True, Toki had a bunch of blond hair slapping him in the face, but the night air felt wonderful against his clammy skin, and Skwisgaar felt nice to hang onto. For hanging onto a fucking son-of-a-bitch.

They didn’t speak as they drove on through the darkness. The lone headlight pierced through the infinite nothingness, and the stars were shining brightly above. It was a great night for a ride. Skwisgaar seemed pretty capable of handling the moped, too. He probably bragged about being the world’s best driver. This thought helped Toki rationalise a reason for hating Skwisgaar even more, but the longer they drove the harder it was becoming.

They must have ridden ten miles or so before neon lights glowed on the horizon and a dumpy little town came into view. It was less dumpy than the town behind them, though. They drove past bars and pawn shops and petrol stations and turned left into a shining fluorescent Dimmu Burger. Instead of parking the scooter somewhere, Skwisgaar just pulled into the drive-through lane, right up to the box, and turned halfway in his seat.

“What’s you want?”

“I can tells them my own orders!”

The Swede shrugged one sharp shoulder. “Fine.”

The box crackled to life. “-elcome to Dim—u –urger would you —ike to try our new —uper size combo spe— tonight?”

Between the malfunctioning speaker and two customers who could only speak enough English to barely get by, it took roughly fifteen minutes to get everything straight. Skwisgaar was obsessive-compulsive when it came to making sure that the order was JUST RIGHT, and he made the poor bastard on the other end of the speaker repeat the order four times just to be sure.

“Listens kid, dere’s had better nots be mustards on my burgers. I’s dead fucking sears-ee-us,” Skwisgaar growled. “Ifs dere’s any on dems, I wills coming back here to shove 900 mustards packet down in yours t’roat, got it?”

The kid got it, gave them their total, and told them to go to the second window. The scooter putted up slowly to the window, and Skwisgaar said to Toki, “I flies, you’s buy.”

“What?”

“I drive us outs here. You’s pay for de foods.”

“I don’t gots any cashes on me.”

Skwisgaar pointed to a small sticker on the window. “Dey asseps credit’s cards. Pay wis yours.”

“But…n-no.”

“Why?”

“No fucking ways.”

Skwisgaar shut off the moped and turned almost fully around to stare hard at his passenger. “What’s de fuck’s de matter wis you, ah?”

“I can’t writes my names like that.”

“Why? Because mine name’s in it?”

“Yeah.”

Toki expected the Swede to get really pissed off, but instead he started to laugh. That offended Toki more than anything.

“You’s such a dumb little kid,” he chuckled. “If we hadsn’t founds you’s dat night in Norway, you’d still be living wis yours parents. You wants to know de troots, why we lets a stupid little kid froms de country join dis band? Ah?”

Toki crossed his arms tight against his chest and pinched his lips together tight, trying to hold back the tears welling in his eyes.

“Don’ts know? Den I tell you’s: because yours playing is shitty and you makes me sound better. Dat’s all. Wisout me you ain’t not’ing. I is de only reason yours here. Wisout Dethklok you is just stupid little kid who can’ts do anyt’ing on he’s own. So-” Skwisgaar pulled his special autograph-pen from his pocket and held it out to Toki. “-starts proofing me wrong.”

Toki stared into Skwisgaar’s blue eyes. He stared right back.

The window slid open and a bored-looking girl repeated their total.

“We’ll be pays for dis wis credits,” said Skwisgaar, not breaking his gaze.

Toki waited another moment, uncrossed his arms and took the pen from the Swede. Then he dug into his back pocket, removed his badass Digimon wallet, and slid out the unchristened credit card.

“Hold stills,” he muttered, and used Skwisgaar’s right shoulder blade to bear down on. He signed and validated the back of his credit card, blew on it to dry the ink, then handed it to the girl. While she disappeared to run it through the card reader, Skwisgaar grabbed their food bag off the window counter and rummaged through it, checking for any trace of mustard.

The girl returned a moment later and handed a receipt to Toki. “Need your signature here please.”

Twice in one night.

Toki gritted his teeth and counted to ten. In Norwegian. He took the slip of paper and tried not to be horrified by the appearance of his printed name below the signature line, “Toki W. Skwigelf”. Swallowing down his nausea, he used Skwisgaar’s shoulder blade once again to sign his temporary name. He poked the pen through the paper thrice and made Skwisgaar chirp with annoyance. Toki handed the receipt to the girl, who handed him another receipt and his credit card, bade them a good evening, and Skwisgaar passed the food bag with the screaming hot bottom to Toki. The scooter was kicked to life and they drove off into the night once more.

They sat together on the busted merry-go-round of a spray-painted ghetto playground and ate burgers. The moped, parked beyond the sandbox, gleamed in the fluorescent street lamps. Some young punks with skateboards had taken over the cement stairway behind the basketball court and were trying to find as many ways to bust their scrotums as they could.

Skwisgaar and Toki watched them and laughed whenever one of the kids wiped out. The fact that the two bandmates were sitting together, eating together and laughing together made Toki feel like a traitor to his own cause…but he couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like this. It felt good. Getting out felt good. Maybe Skwisgaar wasn’t such a motherfucker after all. Just a bit of one.

Toki watched as the Swede finished one burger and checked his second one for mustard. For the third time. Toki sucked Mountain Dew through a straw and asked, “What’s de deal with you and mustards? You aller…allergy to it?”

“Somet’ings like dat,” Skwisgaar answered. “I am allergic to cilantros. Sometimes dey puts dat shit in mustards. I don’ts want to take any chances.” He turned to Toki and looked a little fearful, as if he shouldn’t have said anything that Toki could use to fuck him up in the future.

Toki surprised him by smiling. It wasn’t an evil smile either. “So, you not so invisible after all.”

Skwisgaar relaxed a little. “Yah. Everybody gots deir weak-knees. You’s play guitars like crap. I’s allergic to cilantros.”

“…you a bitch, Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar chuckled. Toki grinned despite himself. He liked arguing like this. It was like having a friend you could get away with treating like shit. It was great. Being “kinda-friends” was great.

“I had original wantsed a car or motor’s bike,” Skwisgaar said, gazing at the scooter.

“Why didn’t you gets one then?”

The Swede answered by prying his wallet—a black leather one with skulls on it—from his back pocket. It was on a chain. He flipped it open, wrestled out a plastic card, and nonchalantly handed it to Toki.

Toki frowned and took a bite out of his cheeseburger. “I don’f geft it.”

“Is a licence, dummy.”

Swallow. “I knows dat, asshole. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s is only for mopeds. I ain’t gots no car-driver’s licence.”

Toki toyed with the card in his hand. “Why not?”

Skwisgaar shrugged. “Never needsed one.”

“Huh.” Toki’s eyes drifted to the open wallet. Oh hell no. He saw Skwisgaar’s identical credit card staring at him brazenly from the little slip-pocket.

That motherfucker. He forced Toki to humiliate himself twice tonight when he could have paid all along. Not only that, but said motherfucker had the motherfucking NERVE to call Toki a kid when he didn’t even have an adult driving licence! Toki was fuming. He wanted to say so much but he was too fucking angry right now.

“You a hippo’s crit,” he muttered darkly.

“Yes I am,” Skwisgaar agreed. “What’s ever you do, don’ts fall in loves wis me. I’ll only break yours heart.”

Toki hesitated, shoved the licence back into the Swede’s hand. “Fuck you, Skwisgaar.”

They finished eating in silence, got back on the moped and headed back towards town. Toki was still pissed at Skwisgaar for being such a prick, but he had to hold onto the bastard or else risk falling off the back. Not the best alternative. Time seemed to stand still, which was the last thing Toki wanted. He wanted the time to pass. He wanted this night to be over and done, especially the riding part. He had been right about Skwisgaar, though. He was a son-of-a-bitch through and through. It was stupid of Toki to think he could ever be “kinda-friends” with a stuck-up bastard like Skwisgaar.

You’s such a dumb little kid. Toki heard the words like they were bouncing around the inside of his skull in a perpetual echo. Wisout me you ain’t not’ing. His cheeks burned and angry tears stung his eyes. The night wind blowing past his face helped dry them. You wants me to buy you’s a lollipop and take you’s to de playgrounds, Baby-Toki?

The teen, arms latched around a slender waist, gave Skwisgaar a squeeze. It wasn’t out of affection. It hurt.

Some time later they pulled into the Bates Motel and Skwisgaar cut the engine and put down the kick stand. Toki let go but neither of them made a move to get off the scooter.

“Why you so mean to me?” Toki asked quietly, finally.

Skwisgaar turned his face to the side and said with an unusual tone, “Because it’s better dis way.”

“Better than what?”

Skwisgaar sighed shortly, as if he were being forced to do something he’d rather not, and turned as far around as the seat would allow. He reached out, touched the side of Toki’s face with his hand, then leaned in to kiss him. Toki saw it coming but his mind seemed to stop working. His body wouldn’t obey his brain. His muscles didn’t function anymore. So he sat there dumbly and let it happen. He let Skwisgaar kiss him in the parking lot that night. And he didn’t do a goddamn thing to stop it.

When it was over, Skwisgaar pulled back and licked his lips, like he was admiring the taste. Toki’s face was crimson with humiliation but his heart was hammering with excitement. For the second time that night he wanted to speak but he couldn’t think of anything to say. His motherfucking-bastard-megaprick-bandmate had just made out with him. What could you say after something like that?

Toki’s bottom lip quivered and Skwisgaar watched it longingly. “You’s such a kid,” he whispered, playing with a strand of the teen’s brown hair. “Too young. Don’ts know shit yet.” He met Toki’s eyes. “Don’ts fall in loves wis me.”

Son of a bitch. What a fucking insult. To think that Toki could ever love that arrogant fucking dickheaded-

And then it hit him. It felt like tripping on the edge of infinity and falling into the void. The anger drained out of Toki like so much blood; the heat and passion of his ire turned frosty cold with fear. Skwisgaar wasn’t talking to him—he was talking to himself. When he said, “Don’ts fall in loves wis me,” he meant, “Don’ts let me fall in loves wis you.”

Suddenly Toki was aware of the different language—a language of ‘other words’—that the Swede was speaking, not with his mouth, but with the heart nobody else on earth knew existed.

“Don’t worries,” Toki murmured, staring back. “I not as stupid as you.”

Skwisgaar smiled. “Good.”

Toki kept his word. He didn’t fall in love with Skwisgaar. He didn’t fall in love with him all the way back to Skwisgaar’s motel room. He didn’t fall in love with him as Skwisgaar pressed him onto the bed and took off his clothes. He didn’t even fall in love with him when Skwisgaar buried his cock into Toki’s body and fucked him hard enough to make him scream “daddy”.

He didn’t fall in love with him the next morning when he woke up beside Skwisgaar. He didn’t fall in love with him when he left. He didn’t fall in love with him the next day, or the day after that.

They both didn’t fall in love many times after that night. But Skwisgaar was always in his head, like an annoying song that wouldn’t go away. Toki never fell in love with him, though, true to his vow. It wasn’t love, anyway. There were other words for it.