HaloFiction

Holy Night 3: O Night Divine

2008-01-21T02:41:17Z

Well, here it is. I still feel like it needs an epilogue, though.

Holy Night

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language and adult content.

Summary: Skwisgaar is haunted by a dream that seems to be pulling him into a hazardous triangle of something he fears to be love.

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

I have spent my life in idle longing, without saying a word, in the presence of those whom I loved most.
–Rousseau

Mordhaus was still and quiet, and somewhere the only original song on the Dethmas album was playing softly over the speakers:

Coldness has come

Lands from afar

A song in the wind

Freezes the heart

Demons come up

Demons arise

Demons rejoice

Dark of the night

Lay down in ice

Bleed out your soul

Make sin in the world

And demons in snow

Snow Demons

Make demons in snow

Snow Demons

I need you to know

Snow Demons

It’s cold down below

Snow Demons

That’s where we’ll go…

It was more lyrical and melodious than it should have been, but it couldn’t be helped. It was a fucking Christmas album for Christ’s sake. The season changed everything, especially music. Especially people.

Skwisgaar and Toki had come back to the homestead with package in tow, then gone their separate ways without a word to each other; Toki to his room to wrap Nathan’s gift, Skwisgaar to brood in peace with his guitar somewhere where nobody would find him. He tried not to think but it seemed as if he had picked up the habit sometime in the past month.

Around 7 pm the call to feast was sounded, and against all odds the entire band gathered around the table. Not because they wanted to enjoy each other’s company on the eve of this warm and cuddly holiday, but because most of them hadn’t eaten anything other than junk food in the past week and they were all looking forward to the gluttony that came second only to Thanksgiving. Even Pickles in his appalling state of intoxication could admit that booze ain’t fooze. Food. Whatever.

Most of the band were too busy wolfing their meals to chat amongst each other, probably for the better. A couple times Skwisgaar looked over his fork to find Toki’s eyes fixed upon him before they fluttered down to his plate, almost ashamed of being caught staring. Skwisgaar did it a few times himself, but nothing else happened between them.

Around 8:30 the gorging ceased and the band started to converse and sling death threats as usual, and that was Skwisgaar’s cue to leave. He had no idea how he was going to get to sleep tonight. Maybe a hard blow to the head. But as he rose from the table and pushed back his chair, Nathan stopped arguing with Murderface to say, “Skwisgaar.”

The Swede looked up.

“We need to talk. Don’t go anywhere.” Then he turned back to continue his discourse with Murderface concerning the nature of skullfucking.

Skwisgaar glanced at Toki. He looked away guiltily, and Skwisgaar felt a cold pang of betrayal shoot through his gut. He knew then that his fate was sealed. There was no point in running. He was going to stand on the tracks and wait for the train to hit him. With luck it would be over quick and he wouldn’t have to worry about getting old anymore. All of his problems…except one…would be solved.

“Thanks, Toki,” he murmured under his breath. I should have known where your loyalty lies.

One by one they went off on their own, Toki being the last to leave Skwisgaar and Nathan by themselves. Skwisgaar kept his eyes fixed upon the table until Toki’s footsteps faded into nothingness. He raised his head to look at Nathan, who was staring at him with a hard, cold expression.

“Want some?” he asked gruffly, reaching for a bottle of what was probably very rare and expensive red wine.

“Sure,” said Skwisgaar. Maybe it would be poison.

To his surprise, Nathan left his place at the head of the table and sat in Pickles’ empty seat beside Skwisgaar. He wordlessly filled two goblets to the brim and pushed one in the Swede’s direction. No toast was given and Nathan took a huge gulp while Skwisgaar took a moderate one. It tasted good. Not poison.

There was an uncomfortable silence between them as they sat staring at the scattered empty tableware. Then Nathan tossed back another swallow and guttered, “So when did you decide you loved him?”

“I didn’ts decide,” Skwisgaar muttered darkly.

“Right. Cause these things just happen every day.”

“Dat’s not what I meants. You’s missing de point.”

“Then explain it to me, Skwigelf, cause I’m just dyin to know.” He took another hard hit from his cup, glaring over the rim.

“I can’ts. It’s is likes…brain enema.”

“…enema?”

“An-anemia? Autism? Annoyism? De brain thing dat kills you all de suddens.”

“Aneurism?”

“Yah.”

“…you’re tellin me it’s a brain aneurism.”

“Likes a brain anyur-anism. All yours live you liffs wis it and den, for no reasons, one day it kills you.”

“…what does that have to do with-”

“My feels,” Skwisgaar interrupted, wishing he could speak in his mother language. Wishing Nathan could understand him better. “How I feels for Toki. I lives wis it ever since I knowns him and den one day…it…killeds me.” He turned his head, eyes taking on a dazelike stare. “I dieds and den cames back. Under de tree. And now I don’ts know whose I is anymore.”

The corner of Nathan’s mouth twitched. He knew exactly what his bandmate was talking about. Because the same thing had happened to himself not very long ago. “Toki must have a knack for creating shit like this,” he grunted.

“He’s special,” Skwisgaar agreed.

“None like him.”

“He’s a idiot. I hates de way he plays guitars and I hates his dumb dildos hobbies and I hates his retarded laughs.” He sighed heavily and covered his eyes with one hand.

“…but you love him. Despite all that.”

He nodded without raising his head.

A long silence fell. They drank, refilled cups, drank some more. The macabre clock chimed 9 pm down the hall. Then Nathan said what Skwisgaar had been dreading all night:

“I’m a jealous guy, Skwisgaar. Fuckin crazy-jealous. I don’t share.”

Skwisgaar swallowed hard and promised himself he wouldn’t break down in front of his cruel, horrible bandmate.

“Especially not Toki. He’s not mine to give. Not like that. But…”

Skwisgaar looked sideways through the tendrils of hair that had fallen over his face.

“…but if he wants to give himself to you I got no problem with that.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Nathan apparently had a lot of difficulty getting that out—he drained his goblet as if wanting to get the taste of the words off his tongue.

“What’s…what’s you saying, Nathan?”

The goblet was set on the table loudly. “I’m sayin, if you break his heart I’ll break you.”

Skwisgaar smiled slightly. “He’s already done dat.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll fix you and then I can break you again.” Despite the threat, despite the harsh words, Skwisgaar could see—through those saber-sharp green eyes—the man inside Nathan, a man not unlike the man Skwisgaar currently was, just as worried and angry and confused by this ungodly mess as he was.

“I promise yous Nathan,” he whispered, “Toki is yours. He tolds me hisself. I don’ts…want to takes dat happiness from him. Or you.”

“Huh. What do you know about happiness.”

“Nothing. Dat’s is why I…need…” Skwisgaar trailed off.

The large man nodded stoically, and after a long pause said in a hollow voice, “One night. You got one chance to fuck yourself back to normal, Skwigelf, then it’s done. You and Toki are over. Got it?” He sighed and jerked his head toward the hallway. “Go on. He’s probably waiting for you.”

Skwisgaar rose from his chair slowly, disbelief clouding his head and causing his thoughts to crash into each other. It took him a few moments to start walking, and as he reached the door he turned to look at Nathan, sitting lonesomely at the table, shadows falling across his shoulders as if trying to comfort him. He was giving up what he cared for the most—for one night or one eternity, it made no difference—so that another might find his life again. A lump formed in Skwisgaar’s throat.

“Nathan…”

“Just go.”

He rested his palm on the door. If he left now it would change things forever, things that could never be fixed after this night. Nathan and Toki wouldn’t be the same again. Skwisgaar would never be the same again. What could possibly be done to set things right? Three-fifths of the band would be at odds with one another, maybe enough to tear them apart. To Skwisgaar, in his egocentric paranoia, it was all his fault. It was all because of him. He never even considered the possibility that maybe what was happening now hadn’t been his fault to begin with; that maybe he had been unfortunately sucked into the tornado when he stopped running long enough to get hypnotized by its deadly beauty. No, he was to blame for it all. His mother was to blame for it all. If only she had loved him like a mother was supposed to…

Skwisgaar blinked, swallowing dryly.

If he had been loved to begin with, he wouldn’t have become the fastest guitarist alive. He wouldn’t have met Nathan and Pickles those many years ago. Wouldn’t have conceived Dethklok. Wouldn’t have met Toki. Wouldn’t have loved him so hard it made him want to die. Wouldn’t have begun fucking women left and right to convince himself he didn’t. Wouldn’t have ended up where he was now, standing at that fork in the road—Hell on one side and a dead end on the other.

Callused, talented fingers slid slowly from the polished wood to hang by his side. He turned. “I can’ts go,” he murmured.

Nathan said nothing. Maybe he didn’t hear.

Skwisgaar took a few steps. “I can’ts go,” he repeated.

“Why.”

“De band…it’s will breaks apart and den…”

“The band’s already broken, Skwisgaar. It happened a long time ago.”

The guitarist was shocked; he strode over to Nathan’s slouching form and stared down at him, half curious and half horrified by his words.

“We’re in this for one reason,” he growled. “Makin money.”

“Metal, too.”

“Whatever. Money’s all that matters. We all fuckin hate each other, you know that.”

“…”

“We were never ‘together’. Legally, yeah. But emotionally…fuck. We’re long gone. And you can’t fix what ain’t broke.”

Skwisgaar thought in silence while Nathan drained his cup. Nothing but echoes of the voices he had heard for the past month.

You not broken, is you?

I hurts…

Is what we does to makes us feels together. Is special.

You can’ts fix what ain’t brokes.

You broke, Skwisgaar. That makes me broke too.

I don’ts knows fucking anything what loves feels like.

Oh what we gonna do?

Is what we does to makes us feels together. Is special.

So it was meant to be, even this. This was supposed to happen. Everything…it was Destiny’s game of dominoes.

Skwisgaar kneeled down so that Nathan was forced to look down at him suspiciously. “M-maybe,” he said slowly, placing his hand on Nathan’s knee, “we cans find ways to brings us together. Alls of us.” He hesitantly, nervously lifted his eyes.

Nathan realized what he saw, understood what was truly being said. “Skwisgaar…” he uttered warningly.

“It coulds help us. You knows it. I…ams willing…”

Nathan sighed heavily, a sound of reluctant defeat. He knew that maybe, just maybe, Skwisgaar had the right idea. But what depressed Nathan most was the nobility behind his words. This wasn’t the selfish motherfucking asshole the rest of the band had known—what Nathan was seeing was the man Toki, his Toki, cared about. A man who was worthy, who deserved that care.

A large hand rested upon Skwisgaar’s, and he looked up to see Nathan staring at him, all traces of resentment vanished from his face.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered. “But right now…” He trailed off and looked towards the door.

Skwisgaar nodded and rose slowly to his feet, his hand slipping regretfully out from underneath Nathan’s. “Thanks,” he whispered.

Nathan nodded. “Go to him. He needs you.”

And right then Skwisgaar broke the promise to himself about keeping it together in front of his bandmate. Luckily he was walking away before Nathan had a chance to see it. He pushed through the doors, wiping his eyes quickly with his trembling fingers.

In the corridor Toki was standing by a column, poking the rug with his foot. He looked up when he heard footsteps. He saw. Then he ran.

Skwisgaar opened his arms and let the weight crash into him, then wrapped them tight around the warm body. “Toki,” he said, “do yous…want-”

“Yeah,” he choked. “Yeah I does.”

They sat together on the edge of a large bed in the guest wing of Mordhaus, a place designated for visiting celebrities, musicians, porn stars, but mostly Ofdensen’s business associates. Toki had explained that his bed wasn’t adequate and Skwisgaar said the same of his own. But the truth was that he didn’t want to bring Toki to that filthy altar of lust; didn’t want to lay him down on the sheets that had seen so many carnal victories and sins of the flesh. This wasn’t going to be a trophy fuck or a pity fuck or any other form of “fuck”. This was going to be different.

Sex is what we does to makes us feels together, Toki’s echo said. Is special.

He didn’t tell him about the offer he made to Nathan. Toki didn’t need to hear it right now. Just like you didn’t need to know how much your gift to someone else cost you. Enjoy the look on their face and forget the price it took to make it.

Skwisgaar timidly reached out and placed his hand on Toki’s leg, giving it a small squeeze. A gesture of awkward nervousness. Toki looked up and gave him a smile that was so warm and so understanding that Skwisgaar felt all of the ice surrounding his heart melt away.

“I sorry I tolds…but I…”

He trailed off as Skwisgaar lifted his hand and touched Toki’s face, fingers combing through brown hair and tucking it behind his ear. The rambunctious child-tyrant the whole world knew was gone, leaving in its place a solemn, quiet being whose sympathetic smile never waned. I guess we all have our faces we wear. Skwisgaar leaned forward and pressed his lips to Toki’s, and Toki responded by wrapping his arms around the Swede’s slender frame and pulling him down. A wave of relief washed over him, carrying away his torment and anguish.

It was unlike anything Skwisgaar had ever known. Every touch and every sigh and every smell was burning their memories into his brain. He was glad for that. He had been afraid that he would forget this moment, this one brief time in his life that actually meant something, but now the fear was gone. He would remember forever, every second, every shade of blue flecked within those eyes, every heartbeat…it was all for him. For them both. And like birth, like death, like the life that took place in between, it would only happen once.

Clothes landed in crumpled heaps on the floor. The covers were drawn back and they crawled beneath them, escaping the coldness of the room. Here in the darkness and warmth they explored with hands and mouths, kissing and touching and grasping and speaking in low whispers things that no author has the right to reveal. They took their time, knowing it would be the last.

But for all their restraint, they could only keep their patience at bay for so long; Skwisgaar rose up from the covers, breathing deep in the cold, dim air and tossing his head to get his hair out of his face. He gathered it behind his neck and smoothed it out, then leaned over Toki with a smile, letting it drape over one shoulder. Beneath him Toki smiled back. It was okay, he seemed to say. Everything will be alright from now on, even if this is the last chance ‘we’ will happen.

Toki was more prepared for this than Skwisgaar, and pressed into his hand what was needed. Skwisgaar spread the warming lubricant over his rigid penis, taking care not to arouse himself with his own touch—every feeling he felt he wanted to be from Toki only.

Toki lay propped against the pillows and watched with passive satisfaction, then slowly reached out to touch for himself. Skwisgaar felt his cock jump when it made contact with Toki’s fingers. They slid along the warm, slick underside and around the contours of the head, then Toki took Skwisgaar into his fist and stroked hard.

“Haaah,” the blond gasped softly, erection twitching with every movement. “Dat…feels so…” He couldn’t finish—he grabbed Toki’s wrist and yanked it away. Toki looked up, confused and hurt. Skwisgaar smiled meekly. “You is too good at dat.”

Toki grinned when he realized he hadn’t done anything wrong, and Skwisgaar felt his heart swell with emotion. Nathan was right. There was nobody else quite like him.

He opened his mouth to say “I love you” but as he kneeled there and gazed at Toki’s face, he found the words severely lacking. Whatever his heart was feeling right now, his tongue couldn’t translate it.

“Comes to me,” Toki pleaded, holding out his arms.

Skwisgaar obeyed willingly, sinking down onto the firm body below with a deep kiss as his gift. Toki spread and wrapped his legs around the blond, nudging with urgent desire. Skwisgaar slid one arm under Toki’s back and cupped his shoulder, his other hand traveling down to get his cock in position. Then he pressed forward slowly, allowing Toki’s body to slip comfortably around him. He was in him now, inside of him.

“Oh g-gods…” Skwisgaar stammered in a fervent whisper, body and mind swimming in a nuclear radiation field of pleasure.

“Yes. Yes,” Toki whispered, holding Skwisgaar’s face in his hands and kissing it randomly. “Come on. Do it.”

Skwisgaar did it. He rocked himself forward, deep inside, rocked back, pulling out halfway. Again and again, the friction sending him over a precipice where he hit the ground and died and rose up again for the next fall.

He realized then that he had been wrong—you don’t just burn once. He had become a phoenix now, a bird of pure fucking fire that burned and died and was born again from its own ashes. Every minute that passed was a cycle of flames. He had never felt so alive, even in the moments when he felt himself die.

Skwisgaar’s free hand grasped Toki’s weeping cock, working it to the same feverish pace which he was moving. Toki pressed hard into the pillows, moaning loudly and gasping for breath as his hips ground circles into the body above him. Here they were, right now, together. But it was more it was more, it was so much more than that.

Skwisgaar sat upright on his knees and continued to thrust. He wanted to see. He had to see them coming together. He grasped Toki’s hard thighs and pushed them forward and up. Skwisgaar breathed heavily. The sight of his own body going into Toki’s…like something holy but broken at last being fixed.

Sweat rolled down the side of his head and his hair fell into his face, tangling in his open mouth as he sucked in breaths of air. “Toki,” he gasped. “I wants to cum in yous. Do you wants dat?”

“Y-yes.”

“You wants me…filling you up…letsing it go insides of yous…alls of me…”

Toki moaned in the agony of satisfaction, stretching his arm up to grasp Skwisgaar’s sharp shoulder. “Fucking does it in me, Skwisgaar,” he begged hoarsely. “I needs it. I needs you…in me.”

Skwisgaar was so overwhelmed by the sensation of oneness with Toki that he never even realized he had tears dripping from his eyes. He thought it was sweat. Only Toki saw. Only Toki knew the truth. He wrapped his arms around Skwisgaar, almost crushing him from the tightness of the embrace and he wailed the Swede’s name, bucking and writhing as he came. Same lyric, new song.

A flash of mental light, an earthquake, a burst, and then the long fall into darkness. Death ruled this land devoid of time and light, and it seemed he lingered here until his years were doubled. Then Skwisgaar came back to life, rose up with a sob like a man surfacing from the ocean. The roots of his hair were damp, sweat slicked the places where his body was in contact with Toki’s. Semen was smeared between them, the glue that now bound them together both physically and spiritually.

Toki had caught his breath and now gazed up at Skwisgaar fondly. “I feels you,” he whispered, eyes darting across the Swede’s glistening face as he rubbed his belly and softening cock. “I feels you insides of me. Just likes…” He trailed off and his smile faded.

Skwisgaar touched Toki’s cheek concernedly. “Likes what?” he asked gently.

“Nothing,” Toki replied, banishing the terrible dream from his mind. “You fix me and…” He reached up and took the Swede’s face in his hands, smiling, knowing that he would not turn into dust. “And you has de most prettiest eyes ever that I see.”

If Skwisgaar’s heart didn’t already belong to Toki, it would have burst through his chest and run to him. “Toki,” he murmured, unable to say anything else. Words were lost to him, all save this one. “Toki…”

And outside the window, on this night divine, across the icy fjords and deep into the forest where wolves and Destiny dwelled, it was beginning to snow.

Holy Night 2: Fall on Your Knees

2008-01-08T03:24:35Z

Still incomplete as of yet--am on the verge of finishing for good. My apologies for the delay. I'm as anxious as you guys are to see this thing THE ENDed. Very soon, I promise. Here's what I have so far:

Holy Night

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language and adult content.

Summary: Skwisgaar is haunted by a dream that seems to be pulling him into a hazardous triangle of something he fears to be love.

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

I have spent my life in idle longing, without saying a word, in the presence of those whom I loved most.
–Rousseau

A few days had passed and December was aging into its 20s. Mordhaus was unusually quiet lately, what with the minimal staff and the band’s ingrained desire to avoid each other as much as they could. Well, except for the special case of one lead singer and his rhythm guitarist, who made no effort to conceal the fact that they were getting into the holiday spirit hardcore. If the holiday spirit was synonymous with mating season. Skwisgaar went out of his way to avoid them because he didn’t like being reminded that there was something he wanted but could never have. “Need” was an alien concept to him—he got whatever he needed and he had whatever he wanted. Except for this.

The worst of it came the week before Christmas. Pickles and Murderface had made a drinking game out of playing Battle Chess on the computer and Toki had managed to coax Skwisgaar into helping him put together a jigsaw puzzle of the Snuff Film Beauties of 1993. Everything was okay before Nathan walked into the room and told Toki that his teddy bear was lying on the front walk in pieces; yard wolves musta gotten a hold of him somehow. Toki had launched out of his chair and knocked all the puzzle pieces on the floor, running toward the front door, screaming for vengeance. Naturally the sadistic assholes who enjoyed laughing at other people’s misfortunes were right behind him.

Toki threw open the double doors and found not his mangled beloved bear, but a shiny blue go-cart with big fat wheels and a pennant on a long bendy rod that said “T”. Toki’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Four stroke engine,” Nathan grunted, stepping up behind him. “Auto transmission, all-terrain tires, 4-wheel drive, titanium hull, leather seats, top speed 60 mph, 6-disc CD changer with a full set of speakers…and its own smoke generator.”

Toki turned to look at him, mouth still ajar. Nathan grinned. “Merry fuckin Christmas.”

For a minute Toki was torn between running to the go-cart and running to Nathan, and the most irreplaceable of the two won out; he jumped wholly onto Nathan and wrapped his legs around the big man’s hips. “YAAAA IS DE BEST GIFT EVERS, NATHAN!!”

Murderface and Pickles gawked at the new ride with admiration while Skwisgaar fell into an injured, envious sulk. He’d never seen Toki so happy before, and it was all thanks to Nathan: the big dumb brute with a big dumb dick and a tiny dumb brain. But that big dumb brute knew how to make Toki smile and laugh. Skwisgaar was sick with jealousy and remorse—because he had never done or tried to do anything to make Toki happy. He was too busy ripping on him and trying to make himself out to be the better guitarist (which he was, there was no question about it) but it was at this crucial moment—as Toki hugged a bashfully-smiling Nathan and babbled to him about how cool his present was—that Skwisgaar felt all his years of selfishness come crashing down on top of his head. If only he hadn’t been so full of himself, that might be him Toki was embracing.

“I know it’s early but I couldn’t wait. Go on,” Nathan said, setting the Norwegian back on his feet. “Ride it, try it out.”

Toki smirked, leaned close and murmured shamelessly in front of everybody, “I rather rides you.”

No one had ever seen this side of the sexless, childish Toki Wartooth, nor had anyone heard such fervent words spoken by that candy-munching mouth. It was blasphemous.

It was also sexy as fuck.

“Huh,” Nathan chuckled, one eyebrow arching wickedly as he placed a thick arm around Toki’s waist. “You can do that later.” He just as shamelessly kissed the top of Toki’s head. “Better play while it’s still light out.”

“Okay!” And then Toki turned to Skwisgaar, who was retreating indoors. “Hey Skwisgaar, you wanna comes with me? Two seats, yeah!”

He should have felt honored that Toki invited him first on the go-cart’s maiden voyage instead of Pickles or Murderface, but Skwisgaar was far too bitter at this point. “No,” he declined bluntly. “I wouldn’ts want to spoils your happiness.” He disappeared into Mordhaus.

Toki appeared crestfallen and had to ask someone else to ride shotgun; only Pickles was drunk enough to accept the offer. Those remaining went indoors to get out of the cold as the go-cart roared to life and tore across the snow-covered lawn.

So that’s what set it off. Skwisgaar, now in a state of immense depression and jealousy, started hanging out with Pickles, who by this point was intoxicated 24/7 and could use the company when it came to things like walking, opening bottles, or having somebody help him stand up to take a piss. It wasn’t uncommon now that the Swede fell into a drunken sleep with guitar in hand, or woke up in some part of the house he didn’t remember going to. Sometimes he wished Toki had just left him under that tree. Whatever. Drink until you can’t feel it hurt anymore. That was his Christmas wish.

But ever since that day Toki got his present (and the encore gift from Nathan that night), Skwisgaar found it was more difficult to avoid him than any other bandmate. This was because Toki wasn’t stupid. Toki knew he had done something to Skwisgaar, that it was why Skwisgaar was avoiding him and drinking more than he normally did and pulling that fake-anger shit in the rare chance a conversation started between them. Toki was worried. He felt Skwisgaar drifting away from him, not that he and that stuck-up jerk were ever BFF or anything, but they were close. They had a closeness that couldn’t be described, a mutual dislike of each other with a little room—just enough—for something a bit less hateful. That was as far as either of them dared to go. They were both very afraid of something about their relationship with one another, so they kept things competitive and aggressive. It sure beat the alternative, which was probably the very thing they feared.

Toki wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the ribcage, either. He didn’t know how to analyze his thoughts to this extent, and neither did Skwisgaar. They never knew the right questions to ask themselves, and so they stumbled through the darkness of their confusion, unaware of what they were going to trip over next.

Skwisgaar had almost forgotten about The Dream when one day Toki came over and sat next to him on the sofa. “Hi,” Toki said, as if they hadn’t talked in years.

“Hu,” Skwisgaar muttered, fingering his guitar. He wasn’t drunk yet but now he wished he was.

“You been…” Toki had to think of a word and then translate it to English. “…different a while. You not becoming sick, is you?”

“No. Just sick of yous.”

“But…why?”

Skwisgaar closed his eyes. Of all the goddamn questions he could ask, he had to ask that one. “I don’ts know. Go aways, I is watching TV and you’s bothering me.”

Toki’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Skwisgaar, I…really needs you now.”

The softness of his voice made Skwisgaar forget all about CSI: Alabama. He turned to look at Toki. “What does you mean?” His heart had unexpectedly begun to pound.

“I wants to gets Nathan a gift,” Toki confessed. “But I don’t knows anything. I afraid of getting him something stupid. I needs your help.”

“Why don’ts you just fuck him,” Skwisgaar said icily. “He seems to likes dat.”

“Sex is not gift,” Toki replied defensively. “Is what we does to makes us feels together. Is special. Gifts is what we gifts, er, gives to makes us feels happy a little while.”

Skwisgaar brooded silently, thinking about the happiness incited by that flashy hunk-of-junk go-cart. Toki touched his arm. “Helps me. I can’t makes Nathan happy without you.”

The irony was thick enough to choke on, and Skwisgaar almost did. It took everything he had to keep his anguish from ripping its way out of his beaten, bruised soul. “Anything’s for yous, Toki,” he murmured unsteadily.

Toki broke into a smile and would have hugged Skwisgaar if he hadn’t stood up to remove his guitar.

“Oh boy, thanks Skwisgaar! You a real pal!”

“Whatsever.”

“Where we gonna go first?”

“De internets. Come on.”

They pulled up two chairs to the living room computer and surfed the web. Ninety websites, three hours and five beers later, they seemed to have found the right thing. “De Skullmaster’s Goblet. Solid ebony, polished, 19 centimeters tall,” Toki read at Brutal-Antiques.com, “silver trim, ruby insets—what’s rubby?”

“Ahm…uh…” Skwisgaar thought. “You knows, rubin?”

“Sound likes Swede-language.”

“It is.”

“I don’t knows it.”

“Rubin, ruby, doze red things dere.” Skwisgaar pointed at the screen.

“Ohhh. Okay. Pretty red rocks.”

“Yah.”

“It say here de Skullmaster’s Goblet is made in Medieval and gots drank from by King Author-”

“Art-thor.”

“Arthor and Merlin de Wizard, Marquis de Sade, Raps…Rasp-ew-tun, Aleister Crowley, Joseph Stalin, Adolf Hitler, Rob HalforRRRD MY GOD WE GOTS TO GET THIS SKWISGAAR QUICK QUICK QUICK HURRY CLICKS DE SHOPPING BASKET RIGHT NOW-!!”

So that was how Skwisgaar helped Toki sink over a hundred grand (drop in the bucket, you know…billionaires and all that) for a drinking vessel. After extensive background checks and verification of the certificates of authenticity, rush shipping would put the package’s arrival around Christmas Eve. Toki was beside himself with glee and made a point of repeatedly thanking Skwisgaar for all his help, otherwise he’d be wandering lost around a mall somewhere incognito, bored to death and miserable and picking out something awful like new socks or aftershave.

Each spoken word of thanks was like another nail in Skwisgaar’s coffin; now Toki had something that was bound to make Nathan shit his pants with unbridled joy, and Skwisgaar felt like some sick kind of matchmaker. He felt used. He didn’t realize that he was just as guilty of using people, using them in the worst way and then discarding them like yesterday’s garbage. Only when the tables had turned was it no longer fun. Everything he had enjoyed in life was taken away—his ability to remorselessly fuck women he didn’t know, his bastard attitude that kicked in like instinct when he was down, his quasi-friendship with Toki, his respect for Nathan, his very sleep. And Toki had saved his life so that all of this shit would be perpetuated. It was like a death sentence, only death was no longer the dreaded part; it was a life sentence.

Skwisgaar was trapped inside his own head, obsessing over a man he could barely call his friend and yet whom he wanted more than anything else in the world. He didn’t even know if he loved him, the feeling was that blind.

He pushed back his chair and stood. Toki asked, “Where you going?”

“Piss,” came the reply as Skwisgaar walked away.

Toki waited patiently, playing a round of Hearts and hoping Skwisgaar was in the mood to go through and leave nasty comments on those pathetically hilarious You Tube videos of Dethklok fans trying to play their favorite songs. That was always good for a few laughs.

But Skwisgaar never came back.

“I really worried, Nathan,” said Toki, carefully ripping at the small sheet of paper he held. “There something wrong with Skwisgaar.”

Nathan was lounged on his back, hands behind his head, comfortable and relaxed. “Why d’you say that?”

“He been acting weird lately,” murmured Toki, concentrating on the brightly-colored paper. He could hear it whisper across the prints on his fingertips. It sounded like the wind in the trees.

“Yeah, well…that guy’s weird anyway. We all got our quirks.”

“No…no, this ain’t a quark. He been, likes…upsets with me or somethings. Like he mad at me.”

Nathan looked hilariously dull. “Uh…you hate his guts.”

“Yes but-”

“And he hates your guts.”

“Yes I knows but-”

“So what’s the big deal? Don’t tell me you got expectations for him.” Nathan wrinkled his nose as he said the word. It was a bad word, right up there with marriage, taxes and soft hits of the 90s. If they had bones he’d crush them all.

Toki shook his head and continued to tear little perforated squares off the paper, setting them delicately on the tray beside Nathan. “No, I don’t has that or anything. I just…”

“What.”

His shoulders twitched restlessly. “I just knows there somethings wrong with Skwisgaar. He seems different. Like lost in de sea. Has you notice this?”

“Uh…no. Cause I don’t care about Skwisgaar.” Pause. “Do you?”

Toki didn’t reply.

“He had a dream about you, y’know,” Nathan said, watching the red lightning bugs dance high up near the ceiling.

“A dream?”

“Yeah. Week or so ago, week and a half. That night he had those German chicks over.”

“You means de Russian?”

“Yeah, I think…whatever. They all sound the same.”

Toki crawled across the mattress, moving closer. The sheets were so, so soft. “Did he tells you anything?”

“About the dream? Yeah. Said he fucked you. Seemed to think I was gonna kill him for it too.” Nathan paused, one eye narrowing. “Now that I think about it he seemed pretty shook up.”

Toki’s eyebrows lifted. “So he has a dream that he fucks me? That’s…sick.” I think.

“He’s a sick guy, Toki. He’ll fuck anything that moves.”

“I knows.”

“Guy’s got no standards. Doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

Toki stared down at the line of healing stitches on his right forearm, hearing an echo bounce off the walls of his mind: Just because I gets laids more dan yous, you think I don’ts cares about anyones?

“He’s a selfish prick, Toki. You know that.”

“Yeah I knows.”

Well you’s are WRONG, dildos.

“I don’t think he’s ever had a relationship that, y’know, meant somethin. Doesn’t seem to care though. Guess he’s happy just fuckin a bunch of dumb chicks day after day.”

You tells me I’s too non-carings to understands you, when you’s too non-carings to understands me.

“But hey, whatever floats your boat.”

Toki cocked his head. “My boat?”

“Just a saying.”

“Saying what? Oh. Figment of speech.” Toki sat still and was thoughtfully quiet, looking at the threads holding his flesh together. They were huge, high as a fence. A ragged, bruised mountain range of skin. Could it all be the truth, every bit of it? Skwisgaar couldn’t be like that all the time. If he was, what could explain that rare glimpse Toki had seen smashed under that tree, or in the infirmary? If that wasn’t Skwisgaar he had seen, then who was it?

“You uh…you gonna keep all those blotters to yourself, Toki?”

He came back to semi-reality with a shake of his head, just enough to get the bubbles out, and pushed the tray toward Nathan. “Sorry. I just thinking too much.” He picked up one of the tiny squares. “Opens up.”

Nathan opened his mouth and Toki placed the LSD on his tongue before doing the same to himself. Then he leaned down and gave Nathan a long open-mouth kiss.

The big man smiled when Toki pulled back, pupils already dilated from the two previous blotters. “Nice,” he murmured deeply, and snaked his arm around Toki’s waist.

“Nice,” Toki repeated, allowing himself to be rolled over and pushed into the velvet quicksand beneath him. He floated on it weightlessly like an astronaut in space and tried to think about how good it felt to have Nathan’s many hands all over his body. His personal Krishna. His Kali. But his thoughts kept pulling to one side, like a shopping cart with a faulty wheel, guiding him to a white hallway where Skwisgaar sat in a classroom, wearing his mother’s tiara and holding a bouquet of wilted blue roses. The chalk was writing itself, spelling out hurtful words and forming equations whose answers were always zero.

But the daydream faded away as Nathan gently pushed himself inside Toki’s universe, murmuring, “I wanna get lost here. Right here…” The rest was indiscernible, and what followed until the end cannot be written for lack of a better medium. But the dream that came afterwards, that can be written.

The ceiling rolled above him as he lay on his back, one pretty panel after another, in his flying bed. Toki smiled sleepily and put his hands on his flat belly, feeling warm and happy.

“We cannot justify,” the man in the gas mask said above him. “We cannot run.”

The gurney wheels squeaked rhythmically and the people in white scrubs gripped onto the edge of the bed, steering it from the hall with the pretty ceiling to a hall with no ceiling at all. Toki could see the snow falling from above, a passing treetop or two, but he never felt the cold.

“We must purge,” said the man in the gas mask. “We must remove.” He lifted Toki’s head and pressed the Skullmaster Goblet to his lips, and Toki choked on the thick liquid. It went down dry and cold like liquid nitrogen, steaming and dribbling into his collar. He wanted to turn away but the people in white scrubs held his head and his nose, made him drink and drink again until he finished with a scream, feeling his insides pull away from him.

“We must remove,” said the man in the gas mask. “We must operate.” And he guided Toki’s gurney into a room with a cold sun in its center, blinding him as he lay on his back. Straps passed over his shoulders, his thighs, around his wrists and ankles, and he knew what they were going to do before he could even begin to feel terrified.

The scalpel tip touched his navel before plunging in, dragging down his abdomen and opening it wide. Blood sprayed onto the people in white. So classy. Toki screamed and screamed though he felt no pain, screaming from the horror of being eviscerated alive. The procedure was repeated, going up to his sternum through muscle and sinew. He imagined he saw his intestines roll out in a heap to one side.

“No!” he was screaming. “Don’t takes him! Don’t takes him!”

The man in the gas mask put aside the scalpel and buried both arms up to the elbow in guts. Toki felt them move, push, twist, and he felt tears rolling down the sides of his face. The man withdrew slowly, holding in his hands the blood-covered parasite that Toki was trying so desperately to defend.

“Don’t takes him from me! Don’t takes him away!”

The child was already growing in the hands that held him, now an infant, now a toddler, now a boy. A sprouting weed in fast motion, a weed that was Skwisgaar. He turned to look at Toki as he was carried away, eyes filled with fear and sadness. Toki saw him begin to fade away into the bright light, and a raging desire to protect him sent the straps bursting apart.

Left arm across his belly, holding in his dangling innards, Toki fell off the table, grabbed the log poker lying on the floor and took a swing. The mask-man’s face disappeared where the end struck, leaving only a ragged stump of spine and mangled brains. Preadolescent Skwisgaar slid to the floor and stayed close to Toki’s leg. Like a lioness defending her young, the rage and fury fell upon all who had dared to harm the helpless. White scrubs became red and they went down without a fight, faceless piles of bone and mutilated flesh, all destroyed.

The room spun and Toki reeled onto the tiles, dropping the poker, losing his grip on his wound; slippery coils of intestine unraveled in a bleeding heap, and he turned his head to see a teenage Skwisgaar staring at him with tears in his eyes. “Something’s broke,” Skwisgaar sobbed. “I’ll try.”

And he picked up a gold needle and silver thread and leaned over Toki, opening his mouth and letting a waterfall of tiny rubies cascade from his lips in crimson sparkles. He picked up the entrails and put them back into the gaping hole in Toki’s middle, and began to sew it shut, gems and all. In a bleary haze of sideways disorder, Toki watched Skwisgaar become a young man, then a man, and then gradually the blond in his hair began to fade and lines appeared on his face.

“Oh no,” Toki wept. “No…”

He was an old man by the time the last stitch was cast, and Toki rose up in perfect health while Skwisgaar lay down to die.

“No!” he sobbed. “No, Skwisgaar! No!”

The old man was frail and white-haired, his skin paper-thin, his fingers gnarled and his cheeks sunken in. He lifted his eyes—as blue as they were the first time he had looked at Toki—before letting them fall closed.

“NO! NO NO NO-”

His flesh collapsed over his skeleton, withering and drying and turning to dust, bones and hair and blue eyes…

“NO!” Toki sank his hands into the fine dust and clenched them, grains of Skwisgaar running between his fingers. “NO! No…no no…”

He rubbed the dust on his tear-stained cheeks and felt the emptiness ache inside him, forcing him to howl. The birth-wound was now a scar and a memory, and nothing was left but what he held in his hands.

Toki’s eyes opened with a start and were greeted by blackness. His mind was still far enough away that he didn’t know if he was still dreaming or if he was awake. His hands flew to his stomach, feeling for the stitches. There were none. No guts, no rubies, no dust. He rolled over and saw Nathan beside him, staring up at the darkness.

“You were dreaming,” he said. “Kept twitchin and jerkin around.”

Toki felt his heart fill with cold, heavy dread. He didn’t want to ask if he had made noise in his sleep. He didn’t want to know how loudly he was calling Skwisgaar’s name. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Bad dream.”

“Then don’t sleep.”

“I has to.”

Toki felt a large hand fumble over his body, and he reached out to grasp it.

“Stay here,” Nathan murmured, squeezing his hand.

“I wasn’t gonna leaves.”

There came a heavy sigh, and nothing else was said. Toki slowly drifted off into a dreamless sleep with his hand held tightly in Nathan’s.

Pickles was so drunk he was down in the studio recording Christmas carols set to Peter Frampton songs.

“Dooo you, YOU! Heeeear what I hear…”

“Oooh baby I love yer sleigh, ev’ry dayyyy-yay-ee-yeah. I wanna ride it this holiday…”

Skwisgaar sat at the controls and grimaced. He had a bottle of Captain Morgan in his fist and was hoping that the more he drank the better Pickles’ singing would sound. It actually wasn’t that bad, but the only thing Skwisgaar hated more than Peter Frampton was Christmas carols. This was like being in rock-n-roll hell. But at least Pickles was sharing his booze. That was part of the deal.

Toki wandered in around 2:30 pm and stood beside Skwisgaar for a while, watching the redhead wail in the recording booth.

“That really sound bad.”

“Yah.”

“Really bad.”

“Yah.”

“Why you down here with torture likes this?”

Shrug.

“Well,” Toki said, “de mail cames, I think.”

Skwisgaar purposely did not look at Toki. “De package?”

“Maybe. But de mail guys is on vacations. You wanna goes and checks de mail with me?”

“Ahm…no.”

“Please?”

“De drive’s way is ten miles long, Toki. It’s is like…negative five’s degrees outsides.”

“Celsius.”

“I is not goings out dere.”

Toki put his hand on the panel in front of Skwisgaar and leaned down, almost face to face with him. “Skwisgaar. I needs you to come gets de mail with me.”

There was silence.

A little while later they had mounted their dethmobiles and roared off, riding the snow banks that flanked the epically long driveway. They rode without speaking for a long time, past frozen blood-waterfalls and obscene marble fountains, past snow-covered bushes groomed to resemble skulls and dragons, through thick areas of lonely forest with only the silence to keep the trees company, past a small pack of yard wolves who looked up as their human masters sped by. They traveled until they were about a mile from their destination—then Toki suddenly slowed and cut the engine, pulling off his goggles. Skwisgaar went another 20 yards before he realized he was alone, and abruptly stopped his snowmobile.

“What’s going on?” he turned and asked, his voice loud in the snowy quiet that had surrounded them.

“I wants to walk,” Toki said.

“Whats? Why? It’s fucking cold outs here.”

“I wants to walk.” Toki dismounted his dethmobile and started to do exactly what he said he wanted to do. Skwisgaar had no choice but to follow him on foot, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his white parka, huffing clouds as he stomped his way through several inches of snow. The exercise warmed him in a way that riding a snowmobile couldn’t, and soon he was almost glad Toki had decided to walk the rest of the way. It was nice without the noise of the engines, but it also made for an uncomfortable silence, a silence that grew heavier with each step they took.

Skwisgaar was prepared to politely ignore the social discomfort of the situation when Toki, without turning his eyes from the path ahead, said, “I dream about you de other night.”

All the warmth that Skwisgaar had generated abruptly left his blood. “Ah. Really? How…huh.” He couldn’t think of a word in English or Swedish, not at a time like this.

“It was pretty scaries,” Toki continued. “I was broke and you fixeds me.” He paused, waiting for a response that never came. “I think something broke with you and me, Skwisgaar. I wants to fix it but I don’t know how.”

A violent chill ran up Skwisgaar’s spine as he recalled his Dream, and the words Toki had said to him. The same words Toki had just now said to him.

“What’s broke?” he feigned. “You can’ts fix what ain’t brokes.”

“You broke, Skwisgaar. That makes me broke too.” Toki stopped and turned to face him, expression more serious than Skwisgaar ever remembered seeing it before. “Nathan tolds me about de dream you hads of me. He tolds me that you made sex with me, and now you acting so much weird ever since.” Toki swallowed, and something like worry began to settle onto his brow. “Tells me now, Skwisgaar, right heres, and you better not lies to me or I won’t never talks to you again.” Breath. Then a small, gentle voice. “Has you gots…does you.” It wasn’t coming out, no matter how hard he forced it. “Does you…you.”

Skwisgaar felt what little sanity he was holding onto quietly slip away from him, and he knew he had nothing left to lose. “Do I loves yous, Toki? Is dat what’s you’s trying to tell me?”

Toki’s mouth opened slightly, his eyes answering the question.

Skwisgaar bit his lower lip and inhaled, looked somewhere up into the trees and tried not to think about how fast the tears would be streaming from his eyes in the next couple minutes. “I don’ts knows,” he uttered hoarsely. “I don’ts knows fucking anything what loves feels like. How shoulds I, ah? Nobody’s ever loveds me, nots my mom, nots my bands, nobodies.”

He swallowed hard, still not looking at Toki. “One day I realizeds dat my live were a fucking joke. I gots nothings left for me.”

“But. Skwisgaar, that not-”

“I realizeds dat I has becomes de thing I most hates. I has becomes my mother.”

Now Skwisgaar faced Toki. Tears rolled down cheeks, but there was no shame. “I wish yous woulds had just lets me die dat day. Under de tree. Because…now I knows I love you, Toki, and it’s is killing me. Dat is, I beliefs, a ironing.”

Toki was silent, stunned, heart pounding. “You loves me.”

“Yah. And I fights it all de way.” Skwisgaar’s face flashed a brief look of desperation. “I didn’ts giffs in till—till it fucking rips my guts out and, and leafs me screaming to die.”

Toki’s breath hitched as he recalled his dream, his guts strewn over the floor and Skwisgaar dying as he fixed the wound. And in the daydream before, Skwisgaar in the tiara holding dead roses. His mother. The thing he hated most.

Somehow, Toki knew, everything fit together. Everything made sense. Everything here. This dream, this confession, this shit, this agony, this love, it was all supposed to happen. This was meant to happen. It was supposed to happen.

“I didn’ts plan to ever loves yous, Toki, you stupid fucking Norsk dildo shits-bag,” Skwisgaar sputtered, bowing his head and letting the hood of his parka obscure his face. “Buts dere’s something dere. You knows it. I knows you cans feel it too. Ever since we meeteds de first time, we knows.”

“Yes,” Toki murmured, and every memory and every moment shared between them now seemed colorful and viciously alive, a warm living thing with a beating heart and teeth and claws.

“What’s woulds you do, I wonder, if you wasn’ts wis Nathan. I wonders,” he seemed to be talking to himself now, “if you coulds ever loves dis guy here now. Cause dis is me, Toki. Nots dat guy who fucks ladies he don’t know or de guy who wants you to always lose on de guitars so dat he cans look betters. Dis is me, de me dat loves you and always wills. Dis is de guy who were hidings in me so long he almost dies. I think…maybes dat de old me dieds under dat tree, Toki.”

Toki was speechless, not even breathing at this point.

Skwisgaar raised his head. “I am fucked now,” he muttered. “Fucked.”

His eyes swirled unsteadily and Toki darted forward just in time to catch Skwisgaar’s arm as he fell to his knees in a half-faint. Toki wrapped both arms under Skwisgaar’s, held fast to his torso, and lowered him gently into the snow. But didn’t let go.

“This is wrong,” he whispered urgently. “You needs to wakes up, Skwisgaar. You just dreaming still. Comes back to real life. You sick or something. You just sick with…de flu. You don’t means anything of what you just says.” He wasn’t all that sure if he was talking to Skwisgaar or to himself. How gloriously fucked up it all was, here on Christmas Eve, on the desolate 10-mile driveway in the snow, holding onto the man he thought hated him.

“I with Nathan now,” Toki said. “I with Nathan and I won’t leafs him.”

“I knows.” A shudder and a quick sob. “I knows I cans never haves you, Toki.”

“What we gonna do?” Toki rested his head against Skwisgaar’s shoulder. “Oh what we gonna do?”

He felt Skwisgaar’s gloved hands pulling him upwards until they were looking at each other’s stricken, wounded expressions. Skwisgaar slowly removed his gloves and touched Toki’s cold cheeks with them, caressing the unusual softness with the back of his fingers while Toki returned his stare, eyes like the mirrors he never wanted to look into.

They both leaned forward at the same time, and what followed was either the greatest victory or the saddest defeat in both their lives. Skwisgaar pressed urgently, blood warming as he wrapped his arms around Toki and pulled him closer, holding his hips while he nudged his own forward. He wanted it so badly. He needed to feel it, the thing he was being denied.

And here he was on the bathroom floor again, uselessly grinding himself against Toki, never able to sate the desire that was burning him up from the inside out. It was the fire that was going to kill him. So let it be. You can only burn once.

When their lips parted Skwisgaar held Toki’s head against his own. “One night,” he whispered. “Just one. Dat’s all I needs.”

Warm tears smeared across Toki’s cheek when he rubbed it to Skwisgaar’s and embraced him hard. “Me too,” he said. “One night.”

When they stood to their feet a light snow was drifting down from the heavy grey sky. Tiny snowflakes landed in Toki’s hair and shimmered like diamonds before melting. He looked up toward the clouds and smiled fleetingly.

“Is snowing, Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar said nothing but watched Toki, wishing he would dance.

To Be Concluded Soon, I Promise

Holy Night 1: In Sin & Error Pining

2007-12-25T04:20:18Z

A Christmas story, more or less. Happy holidays!

Holy Night

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language and adult content.

Summary: Skwisgaar is haunted by a dream that seems to be pulling him into a hazardous triangle of something he fears to be love. ~~Capslok Dethklok contest entry (godwilling). Prompt: many.~~

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

I have spent my life in idle longing, without saying a word, in the presence of those whom I loved most.
–Rousseau

He writhed in his sleep, too warm within the sheets but not hot enough to warrant moving. He was dreaming. He rarely had dreams. They disturbed his rest and he hated them.

It was in the second floor bathroom, but not like the bathroom on the second floor. The hallway was different, the connecting rooms different. His mind’s eye panned, cinematic-like, around the room. Newspapers screaming in 300-font about trees littered the floor. The tub was filled with blood and cotton balls. The faucets were spraying water all over the place. In the midst of the chaos was Toki, who spoke with his thoughts and explained that something was broken and needed to be fixed but he didn’t know how.

The world skewed. The water turned into diamonds. Then Toki took his clothes off and danced in the gems that were now raining in slow-motion from the ceiling. It was arousing. He wanted Toki, and went to him with hot desire. Limbs spread and wrapped around him, held him warm and close. He nudged his hips into Toki’s but his cock was trapped in his pants and his fly wouldn’t come open. He slipped to the floor with him, grinding desperately with frustration and wanting Toki so bad that he could feel his own erection burning through the other side of the dream.

Skwisgaar was semi-awake now, eyes still closed, half rolling in bed as his hips continued their slow gyrations, loins aching with need. Then he lay still and opened his eyes to behold the familiar ceiling of his bedroom. He stared without blinking, and the foggy realization that he’d just had a dream about grinding his bandmate filled him with sick worry.

He was sweating, yet the sheets were thin and he always kept it at 67 in his room. It was colder now that the snow had come, and outside the faint pre-dawn glow of pale light on ice reminded Skwisgaar that it was December. Again.

“Deck the halls with rotting bodies-”

A blast of gut-wrenching guitars followed.

“Tis the season to be jolly-”

Junjunjunjunnn, me-meedly meedly meee.

“Don we now our steel armor-”

Another murderous rhythm line substituted the happy “fa la las”.

“Grab your axe and join the slaughter.”

Jun junjun jun JAA jun-meedly meedly mee…

Nathan was lounging by himself in the jacuzzi, enjoying Dethklok’s latest album release, “Christmas in Mordland”, featuring such memorable hits as Violent Night, Satan’s Claws Are Coming For You, Frosty the Psycho, It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, and who could forget Grandma Got Dismembered by Bing Crosby. Though most of the band were atheists, nihilists or both, they all agreed that it had been a good financial move.

“We will make Christmas metal,” Nathan himself growled at the release party earlier that month. “Have yourself a BLACK AND BRUTAL CHRIST-MESS.” In one hour of its release, the album became the top-grossing holiday CD of all time.

It was about 5 am, and none save one had actually gone to bed yet. A beer rested on the floor beside Nathan and a small hardback was wedged between the fingers of one beefy hand. Its cover read “The Illustrated Guide to Serial Killer Crime Scenes by Mort A. Pandanzlemeizer”. It was how he unwound before bedtime. Nathan looked almost fatherly with his reading glasses on, but it would still be a while before he found himself into a Norman Rockwell painting.

Skwisgaar trudged into the scene, dressed in a black Mordhaus robe and skull loafers (yes, you read correctly), his hair in disarray and dark circles under his eyes. He stood at the edge of the jacuzzi for a while in silence. Nathan ignored him. Then the Swede walked into the water, dressed as he was, and sat down. His robe puffed around him like a bubbling mozzarella pizza. Nathan’s attention was broken from his book and he peered expressionlessly over the rim of his glasses.

“You know you’re not supposed to wear clothes in the tub, dickbrain.”

Skwisgaar didn’t move or say anything. Just stared straight ahead like his mind was on vacation. Nathan had nothing more to add and went back to his book. He’d just gotten to the Frankford Slasher and there were several high-quality photographs never before seen by the public, including the horrif-

“I hads a dream dat I fuckeds your boyfriend.”

A heavy, awkward silence followed.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Nathan grunted lowly.

“But he’s yours.”

“Yeah. He is.”

“So.”

“So?”

“So you’s are going to kill me nows, right?”

“Not over a dream. I could find a better reason to. Huh huh. You probably. I mean yeah, you probably have dreams about fuckin people all the time, you ho bag.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’ts. I just.” His sentence dead-ended.

Nathan frowned.

“I just…I.”

“WHAT?”

“Ahm. I don’ts…you sees, it don’ts. It.”

Heavy sigh. “Skwisgaar. If you don’t have anything real to say then shut up and go away.”

“But. But Nat’an, what ifs dere’s more to dis dan-”

“SKWISGAAR. FUCK. OFF. Thank you.”

And the conversation was brought to a close. Skwisgaar remained in the jacuzzi for a few stunned moments before lifting his drenched person from the water and squishing off into the hallway. After a moment’s deliberation, he decided to go to the kitchen and get some coffee.

Twin snickers echoed in the dim kitchen.

“Okay. Alright. Okay. M’good.”

“Go aheads, Murderface. We listen now.”

Pickles giggled, which started Toki up again, which made Murderface snarl, “SCHUT UP, DAMMIT! I CAN’T CONSHENTRATE.”

“We sorry,” Toki said, wiping away a tear.

“I’m gonna blesh you two fuckin assh-tardsh wif the gift of mushik-”

“Ken I get a side-order ‘a earplugs?”

Toki and Pickles fell over each other laughing. Pot does that to people.

The three bandmates sat at the large island counter top in the main kitchen. A slew of empty chip bags, lollipop sticks, pickle jars, candy bar wrappers, beer bottles, beer cans, liquor bottles, and about a dozen roaches (not the insect kind) littered the counter, telling the history of a long night spent in each other’s hazardous company. Murderface was drunkenly perched on a stool with his acoustic sitting in his lap, waiting for the hyenas to shut the fuck up so he could get on with his performance. Once the mongrels had settled he cleared his throat, hocked a wad of phlegm onto the floor, and strummed a C major chord that led into a surprisingly pleasant tune.

Murderface closed his eyes and rasped, “Viiii-olent night, gorrr-ry night

Aaaall is wronnng, noooothing’sh right…”

Skwisgaar walked into the kitchen and paused for a moment, wondering if he had the capacity to withstand this type of shit this early in the morning.

“Frommmm the corrrrpshesh dishmemmbered, defiled

Reeeeeksh the shtench of decay for a mile…”

Skwisgaar’s eyes settled on Toki, sitting beside Pickles and leaning on his shoulder, the both of them grinning dreamily in that characteristic, mellow glaze that said all that needed to be known. Against his better judgment, the Swede slid into the stool beside Murderface and tried to go deaf as best he could.

“Raaake the boooodiesh in heeeee-EEEEAPSH.”

God that high note.

“Ray-aake the bodiesh in heeeeapsh.”

The final chord was strummed, and all was quiet. Then Pickles said seriously, “That’s the best song in the whole world.”

“I conjure,” Toki echoed. “You sings like Paparazzi, Murderface.”

The bassist sighed melodramatically—almost sadly—as he said, “Yeahp, well, it’sh a curshe, really, you know, not many people can shing like me-”

“Thank gods for dat,” Skwisgaar muttered.

“Oh hey Skwisgaar!” Toki cried, and they all looked at him as if he’d appeared from thin air.

“What’re ya doin up this early fer? I thought’cha intivid, vintitid, invidet. Had those Russians over.”

“Russhiansh?” Murderface slurred.

“Tch. Yeah. Sofya, Yeva n’ Lexia, the Holy Trinity ‘a foreign porn.” Pickles raised his eyes to the ceiling and, like any good Catholic, muttered a perverse prayer in Latin.

Stars shined in Toki’s eyes. “Dems goyles…”

“Titsh to die for.”

“Lucky Skwiss. Got ta havva sleepoverski. Heh. Fuckski Partyski.”

Everyone chuckled knowingly except Skwisgaar, who decided that nobody present was in any condition to make coffee for him, so he got up to go find Jean-Pierre.

“Hey, where you goin?”

He didn’t answer.

“Weirdo,” Toki said, puzzled. “Whatever.”

Murderface raised his guitar again. “Thish one goesh out to all you loversh…you know who you are.”

Skwisgaar could hear Murderface gargling out Adeste Fellatio and was grateful to have left, though he felt somehow injured inside. Nobody had even noticed his dripping clothes. Of course not, they were all toasted. And right now Skwisgaar was thinking he’d like some rum in his coffee, 60-40. He descended down the winding stone stairwell, loafers still squishing out watery footprints with each step, and at last entered the real kitchen where all of the magic called cooking happened. Pots and pans hung on the wall. Libraries of carving knives graced every surface. An ancient oven large enough to bake an ox in sat in the corner. An open, roaring fire lit the room with a reddish glow, and Skwisgaar drew up to the hearth. The heat felt good on his cold wet skin.

Behind his shoulder Jean-Pierre came staggering out of the epically humongous pantry and saw the lean, wilted figure backlit by the fire. “Mwuh…Master Skwisgaar,” he murmured in his drooly slur. “Eet is not good for Master to be here like zees. You are…gleh…so-oaked.”

Skwisgaar barely heard the disfigured Mordhaus chef—his thoughts were elsewhere. It wasn’t until he felt something touch his shoulders that he snapped out of his moody reverie. He turned his head and saw Jean-Pierre sink from his tip-toed position; a small tablecloth draped loosely around him. For a moment Skwisgaar was so touched that he didn’t know what to say.

“Come, my lord,” Jean-Pierre grunted, limping away. “I make you somezing hot to drink.”

Skwisgaar sat at a table usually reserved for food preparation and waited wordlessly. The aroma of coffee perfumed the air with its rich scent, and his mind wandered to the events that took place earlier that night, with the girls. They put out well enough and had enjoyed what he had to offer, but by the end of the night Skwisgaar knew they were only actors. They put out for a camera and pretended to look like they enjoyed it for 50 takes in a row. They were professionals the same way Skwisgaar was. Only he did it for real.

Somehow that didn’t make him feel any better. A big piece of him had gone missing in the last few weeks. Probably the holidays. Stupid fucking Christ-mess.

Wonder what Mom’s doing. Oh right. Don’t care.

Nathan had gotten a package this week with a Florida postmark. A sweater and a fruitcake that had more years on it than Katherine Hepburn. Nate had promptly burned the sweater and given the fruitcake to Toki, who ate the entire thing and two cherry-flavored Alka-Seltzers, said it was delicious, and actually wrote Mrs. Explosion a thank you card. Nathan purposely gave him the wrong address, and somewhere in Denver a puzzled orthodontist got a free autograph from Toki Wartooth.

Huh. Wonder what Toki’s parents are up to? …never mind.

Murderface was happy to have actually been given some solo space on the Christmas album. The only problem now was getting him to shut up. He’d been giving private performances to anyone he could catch off guard ever since the album had gone to the label. Now he was just way too cocky for his own good. Nathan had threatened him with extermination if he didn’t stop parading about his “unbearably natural talent”. Dickhead.

But Pickles seemed to be the happiest about the Christmas season. His shipment from Jack’s International Liquor Emporium should be here in a few days. Over 600 gallons of spiced holiday rum to be delivered in a tanker truck. Pickles had done the math and calculated that if he drank 22.22222 gallons a day he could finish every last drop by News Year’s. He seemed quite happy at the prospect of being shitfaced the whole month. “I fuckin hate Christmas,” he’d muttered. “I don’t wanna remember a goddamn thing about it.”

And Skwisgaar…Skwisgaar was still trying to find some way to fuck himself into feeling happy. Suicides always went up during the holidays, and with good reason—it was a shitty, lonely time of the year if you had nobody who cared about you. Yeah, there was the band, but when did they ever give a damn about each other? Oh right. About the time the lead singer started banging the rhythm guitarist. They claimed it was nothing serious, but a little over a year later everybody knew it wasn’t.

It sucked. It sucked for Skwisgaar. He felt like he’d lost an enemy. An enemy that was kind of like a friend.

I’ve always hated you, Skwisgaar.

He put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palm.

Ah, miliy moy, I lof you, Skwisgaar.

Ya lublu tebya, Komrad Skwisgaar.

Da, Skwisgaar, we lof you.

Actors. Nothing more than pretty outsides, false masks of youth and beauty, and none of the insides that he was looking for. No blood, no muscle, no guts. Paint and plastic, hollow on the inside. Cut them in half and there was nothing there. Had he expected to find something? He had to be stupid to think so. Dumber than a fucking sack of rocks.

Either that or hopeful, which was more depressing because it meant that he was naïve as hell.

But he didn’t have the courage to ask if they cared. He knew they didn’t because he didn’t care about them. He had finished with them and sent them off, and then fallen asleep thinking about a snowy Danzig forest and a promise that stretched from this world to the next. And then came the dreams.

Skwisgaar lowered his hands. Jean-Pierre pushed a large mug of coffee in front of him. “Cream or shhhlshugar, Master?”

“Rum please.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Mordhaus was running on a skeleton staff—pardon the pun—this holiday season, not because Dethklok were caring employers but because they’d been fruitlessly promising a two-week vacation for the past five years and as a result employees were dropping left and right from executive overload. Ofdensen had told his boys that unless they wanted to re-hire a brand new staff of thousands by the next quarter, they ought to give them a vacation. The band reluctantly agreed. Now the only Mordhaus staff consisted of cooks and guards. The groundskeepers and the housekeepers and the barkeepers had all gone home, which meant that if Dethklok needed some bushes whacked or sheets washed or cocktails mixed, they were on their own. It’d be just like the old days Before They Were Big, roughin’ it. It’d be fun. Besides, Pickles had a built-in Beerdar. He could find a pint blindfolded in the Mojave without using a forked stick. If worse came to worst they could always count on Pickles. And they were used to living in their own filth, no biggie there. Murderface once went a month without washing his feet and hardly anybody died. Two weeks on their own would be a piece of cake.

Unfortunately, this minimal staffing also meant that if anything in the way of holiday decorations was to be done, it was going to have to be done by the band. Toward the late afternoon of that same day, about the time everybody had woken up and after they’d eaten breakfast (steak medium-rare and eggs over easy for Nathan; Bud and Pop-Tarts for Pickles; gnocchi and herring for Toki; beans and franks for Murderface; and a cream cheese bagel for Skwisgaar) it was decided, mostly by Nathan, that they would go out and find an Antichristmas tree. Naturally everyone started bitching and moaning. Nathan snarled that he didn’t wanna do it either, but if they didn’t do it now then it would never get done and they would all regret it when Christmas rolled around and they didn’t have a tree of their own, covered in black lights, pentacles, fallen angels and blood icicles. They grudgingly agreed.

Around sunset five speeding Dethmobiles cut through the pristine white snow and off into the Mordland forest. Ofdensen had been wary of letting them go off without supervision, and had installed GPS tracking devices in each of their snowmobiles. After what happened in Danzig they could never be too careful these days.

The yard wolves were attracted by the noise and escorted their masters, yipping and snarling, into the woods. They almost looked playful with their long tongues lolling out and their puppy-like eagerness, but the band had seen what they’d done to Twinkletits and knew better than to slow down. After a while the pack tired and dropped back, disappearing into the snowy twilight shadows of the forest.

Toki led the way, whooping and hollering as he slalomed recklessly between trees. His dethmobile was painted to look like a WWII bomber plane, complete with glossy military grey paint and a shark-tooth grin on the nose. Nathan’s vehicle had the fiery band logo on the front. Murderface’s was solid black and had his Planet Piss trademark on it. Pickles’ was neon purple and had orange hotrod flames going down the sides. It was too gay for even Elton John to wrap his legs around, but it complimented Pickles quite well. Skwisgaar’s snowmobile was completely white except for the front, where a burst of red in a distinctly liquid pattern made it look as if he had just mowed somebody down. Everyone agreed that it was very classy.

Over their headsets Nathan’s tinny voice came through: “Somebody keep an eye on Toki. I think that fruitcake might still be running its course.”

Pickles: “Looks like that fruitcake’s jest a little too excited about gettin’ a tree.”

Murderface: LOLSH

Nathan: “Seriously. Kid’s gonna get himself lost and I don’t wanna be out here all fuckin night looking for him.”

Murderface: “I’ve gotta take a pee-pee break. I’ll catch up wif you shuckersh later.”

Nathan: “…Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar: “Uh?”

Nathan: “Toki’s gone outta radio range. Keep an eye on him for me, wouldja.”

Skwisgaar: “…”

Nathan: “Skwisgaar?”

Skwisgaar: “Alrights, alrights.”

He hit the throttle and chased after Toki, but everything was not alright. He didn’t get a chance to continue burdening himself with intense, brain-wracking thoughts as keeping up with Toki proved to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. The idiot had vanished completely and it was only by the tracks of the snow-bomber and the faint hooting that Skwisgaar was even able to locate him. The others quickly fell far behind as Skwisgaar was forced to maneuver difficult paths, and after a while he started to get the ominous feeling that if he wiped out right now and hurt himself it might be a long time before anybody found him.

By the time he was starting to get angry he buzzed into a small clearing and slowed down. Toki had shut off his dethmobile and was examining a copse of firs with a decisive manner. Skwisgaar drew up alongside and cut the engine. The silence of the forest was eerie.

“What’s up, dildos?”

Toki pursed his lips, causing his mustache to jut forward humorously. “I think that one.”

“Huh?”

“That one.” Toki went to his snowmobile and popped open the storage compartment, removing a medium-sized hatchet.

“Oh. Yous founded a tree, ah?”

“Yeah, that one there. Is perfect. Gets out your chopping-knives and helps me, Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar looked at the tree Toki had selected and let out a single bark of scornful laughter, breath misting in a telltale cloud. “Idiot. Dat’s too big.”

“Maybe for you,” Toki dared, “but is right for me.”

The Swede remained a moment on his snowmobile before muttering under his breath, “Fucking selvesfish little brat,” pulling off his headset and getting the hatchet out of his vehicle’s compartment. Toki had already taken a couple swings at the tree’s thick trunk by the time Skwisgaar trudged up. “How we’s gonna do dis.”

“Is easy, I chops at one end and you chops the other, and we meets in de middle.”

“…dat sounds real dangers-us.”

“Fine. You can goes sits on de sides-of-line with all de crybabies and I’ll do de man’s works-”

“Fuck yous, Toki.” Skwisgaar took a swing, irritated by his falling for Toki’s fine art of manipulation. But he was smiling a little, because Toki was smiling at him when he had said that. All in good fun. An enemy that was kind of a friend.

Skwisgaar wasn’t really built to use an axe that wasn’t musical, so his side of the tree was hacked away pretty shittily while Toki’s side was clean and almost halfway through after a few minutes. As they went wordlessly about their task, Skwisgaar listened to the echoes of steel against wood ring into the still forest around them, felt the clumps of snow patter down on his shoulders and wool hat. He became distracted and looked at the trees. Trees and trees, so many trees. He looked at Toki, brow furrowed in concentration, mouth pulled down into a firm expression of exertion and determination. He breathed hard and steady, breath condensing in the cold air, the sound of it sending a little tingle through Skwisgaar’s belly. A little bit of wet brown hair around his face had fallen free from his ski hat and dangled loosely over his lumpy coat. His cheeks were a warm red and he looked like he was working up a sweat. Skwisgaar wondered what he was like in bed.

Just then an ear-shattering clang of metal on metal brought Skwisgaar from his daydream with a pounding heart. Then came the sickening sound of wood splintering; a shadow descended upon him, crushing him into the ground and turning the inside of his head black.

The first sensation was that of being deathly freezing cold, so cold it hurt. Biting pinpricks of icy pain sticking him all over. His bones felt frozen, his flesh like cold beef hanging in a meat locker. He couldn’t feel some things, like his fingers. Maybe they were gone. Then the scent of pine sap registered, pungent and spicy. Sharp needles pricked his face and bark dust rained into his eyes. He couldn’t move arms or legs. It had fallen on him. He was trapped. Pinned under the tree, he knew. He heard a voice nearby but he couldn’t understand the words. They sounded heated, desperate. They stuttered and choked and stopped in odd places. In another few moments Skwisgaar was almost fully awake, listening to Toki’s grief-stricken sobs and curses for the fucking tree that had squished his friend to death.

And all Skwisgaar could think of at that moment, despite the pain and the fear and the cold and confusion, was his dream last night. Newspapers on the bathroom floor. Newspapers about trees. He could see the headlines now: SKWISGAAR SKWIGELF KILLED BY FALLING TREE. SWEDE’S HALLS DECKED BY CHRISTMAS FIR. DETHKLOK GUITARIST’S HUMILIATING DEATH. TALLER-THAN-A-TREE DIES BY TREE. SERVETA SKWIGELF INHERITS FORTUNE. TREE-BURNING RIOTS IN STREETS HONOR GUITARIST’S UNTIMELY DEATH.

No. Not yet. He had so much to live for…right? He had so much to accomplish, so much to see…right?

It was in that moment, trapped under a goddamn Christmas tree, that Skwisgaar realized the truth. He had nothing to live for anymore. He had gone as far as he could ever go in life, achieved a level of fame that eclipsed any Hollywood celebrity’s, and now he had nothing to look forward to but old age and death. It would be better if he just died now. The world didn’t need him anymore. He’d made his mark, and now it was time to disappear. The world wouldn’t miss him. Not a bit. It was a revelation so profound that it sickened him to the core.

“Oh gods no,” he moaned, breaking down into tears of utter hopelessness and despair. “No no n-”

“Skwisgaar…? SKWISGAAR!? IS YOU ALIFES!? OH FUCK, SKWISGAAR! WHERE’S YOU!?”

And then there was light. Skwisgaar closed his eyes and felt the crushing weight of the branches disappear; when he cracked open one wet eye he beheld Toki standing a few paces away, lifting the 15-foot fir tree completely up above his head and chucking it to the side like a flimsy piece of firewood.

This heroically touching moment was brought to you by pure adrenaline.

Toki was gasping for breath, eyes wide and bloodshot from crying. He stared at Skwisgaar like he was a ghost. “Skwisgaar!” he exclaimed, and took a few steps before falling at the Swede’s side. “I fucking thoughts you died,” he spoke with a raw voice. “I thoughts I killeds you.”

Skwisgaar lay in the flattened snow and tree debris, hair splayed out around his head, trembling from the melted ice that had seeped into his clothes. The trunk had missed him by ten inches. His hatchet had missed him by two. He gazed up at Toki hovering above him and felt those horrible feelings of worthlessness slip away.

He nearly smiled. “I thoughts you killeds me too, dildos.”

“I didn’t.” He touched Skwisgaar’s forehead. “You not broken, is you?”

“I hurts.”

Nod. “Okay. I gonna calls de others.” Toki yanked his cell phone out of his coat pocket, decorative spikes ripping a couple nice holes in the down lining, and took off his gloves with his teeth so that he could mash the buttons.

Skwisgaar watch Toki’s motions with blurry interest, dizzy and sleepy. “You saveds my live, Toki,” he murmured distantly.

“You woulda dones de sames for me.”

Yes, Skwisgaar thought, I would have. But it wasn’t that life I was talking about.

“Nathan?” Toki spoke into his cell. “Hey, I gots good news and bad news.” Pause. “We gots de Anti-crits-moss tree.” Pause. “It lands-ded on Skwisgaar.” Pause. “No, he alife.” Pause. Tinny laughter could be heard emanating from the cell. Another pause. Toki’s eyes settled on Skwisgaar’s. “He look okay. Say he hurts.” Pause. “Okay.” Pause. “Okay.” Long pause. “Okay. Bye.” Beep.

Toki shoved the phone back in his pocket and reached for Skwisgaar’s arms. “You gonna ice to deaths if you stay down there in de snow. Come on, stands up.”

The Swede found his feet after a while. Nothing had been broken but he hurt like hell all over. Toki limped Skwisgaar over to his bomber-snowmobile and sat him on the back, then mounted the vehicle and started it up. Skwisgaar wrapped his weak arms around Toki’s waist and rested his head on his back. They started on their way, the Norwegian resisting the urge to zip around trees in favor of a surprisingly mature manner of driving.

“They gonna come gets de tree,” he explained over the rumble of the snowmobile. “Nathan will calls Ofdensen’s, gets de co-oro-detonates froms your dethmobile. Pickle say he gonna tows it back.”

Skwisgaar honestly didn’t give a fuck about the tree or his snowmobile or anything else. Toki was taking him back home and everything was going to be alright from now on. Toki had given Skwisgaar his life back. He never knew the gravity of that rescue, how much it meant to the Swede. How it had changed the way he felt about his enemy-like-a-friend. And hopefully, Skwisgaar thought, it would stay that way.

“Go to de lefts a little. It’s is still leanings,” Skwisgaar dictated, sitting on the couch and watching the rest of the band grunt and groan as they hefted the Antichristmas tree into an upright position. “Yah, okay. Dat looks good.”

Pickles secured the mangled trunk into its holder, said “A’ight!”, and everyone released a grateful sigh before launching into bitchings and grumblings.

Ofdensen stood behind the couch, observing with his arms crossed over the front of his business suit and red peppermint tie. “That’s a, uh…very large tree, boys. May I ask how you got it indoors?”

“No,” the boys answered in unison.

“Ah. Very well.” Ofdensen put a hand on the blond’s shoulder. “Skwisgaar. Are you feeling better now?”

“Yah. I aching alls over but…yah. I’m good.”

“Hands okay? Arms, shoulders?”

“All’s fine, yah.”

“I still think it would be wise to have x-rays taken of y-”

“Ah come on, I’s not deads or anythings, or, you know,” Skwisgaar pfffted, shrugging the hand off his shoulder, “in a hospital’s wheeling-chairs. You is not my wifes either, so stop wis de nags. Huh.”

Ofdensen made an annoyed expression. “Fine.” He raised his eyes to the rest of the band. “I’ve got some end-of-the-quarter paperwork to-”

“Yeah yeah yeah, go do it already and don’t tell ush about it.”

“Yeah,” Nathan grunted. “We don’t care. Really. We don’t.”

“…okay. Then I assume you can find the ‘anti-Christmas’ ornaments on your own. And the lights. And the barbed wire wreaths. And the eight plastic reindeer pulling Satan’s hearse that Murderface ordered last year-”

Nathan facepalmed. “Alright. God. Fuckin LORD you’re a dick. Where is it?”

“Ground floor storage closets C and D.”

“The ones beside the garage?”

“No, the ones beside the hangar.”

“The jet hangar or the copter hangar?”

“Jet hanger. Closets C and D. May I now go and take care of your employer’s quarterly tax and wage reports?”

Nathan made a face. “Ew. Yeah. Go right ahead. Have fun.”

Ofdensen bade good day to all and departed, leaving Dethklok to decorate Mordhaus as they saw fit. Which we all know was Horrible Mistake Number One. Skwisgaar was the only one who had any sense of interior design at all, and he was basically stranded on the couch beside the fireplace with a bottle of scotch, wearing two sweaters and longjohns under his jeans and forbidden to go outdoors for the rest of the day.

So the four other bandmates cracked their knuckles, hocked loogies and adjusted their balls before stomping out the door in their big heavy boots while Skwisgaar swallowed four aspirin, pulled a flannel blanket over himself and went horizontal on the couch until late next morning, when the sound of Murderface falling off the roof with a scream woke him up.

Just another holiday casualty. A casualty because in an hour Murderface was keeping Skwisgaar company on the couch, and the Swede would rather suck his mom’s dangling dog-tits before being that close to Murderface’s bare feet. He was not gentle in departing, either. He showered before returning to his room and getting dressed: black jeans and the charcoal-grey sweater he’d worn the day before. The sweater was still good judging by its odor, hadn’t passed its expiration date yet.

As he pulled the sweater over his head and shook his damp hair free from the collar, he happened to hear a commotion outside his window. Hopping from one foot to the other as he yanked on his socks, he bounced over to the glass to see what was up.

The yard wolves, five or six of them, had surrounded somebody down there in the snow and were taking shots at him one wolf at a time. The person was shouting, cursing, lunging away from the beasts and making a lot of noise. It could only be Toki.

“Ah FUCK.”

Skwisgaar ran to get his boots.

Two and a half minutes later Skwisgaar came charging out of Mordhaus in Toki’s direction, coat hanging off one shoulder and one glove missing, swinging a log poker like a drunken golfer and screaming at the top of his lungs. Toki and all six wolves turned to stare at the crazy bastard for a few moments before the predators turned their attention back to their prey.

“HOLDS ON, TOKI!” Skwisgaar ranted, stabbing the poker in the air like a sword. “I SAFES YOU from de wol…” He slowed to a stop and lowered his weapon, panting for breath in the cold air. Utterly ignored, he saw what he had failed to see from his window.

“Gimme that back!” Toki threw himself at one of the wolves, which darted away playfully. A large sausage was in its mouth, apparently stolen from the x-rated snowman Toki was building. Toki went belly-down in the snow and two wolves jumped on top of him, pulling on his thick coat in gestures of obnoxious puppy-play. Toki turned on the two and sent them rocketing off with delighted barks as he pursued them as far as he could crawl. A third wolf sprang over him like a lamb, and a fourth used the back of his head for traction, sending him face first into the snow.

Skwisgaar stepped forward slowly, unable to believe that he was witnessing Toki—dumbass Toki Wartooth, King of the Dildos—playing with those vicious fucking land sharks. The game was innocent enough but puppies played rough, and those wolves had teeth that Toki didn’t; thick spatters of bright red blood were strewn over the churned-up snow. He saw that the right arm of Toki’s coat was torn. Pink skin flashed here and there through the tear, flesh smeared a violent red.

“Toki!”

The Norwegian turned to look. He seemed surprised. “What, Skwisgaar?”

“Toki…” He pointed with the poker to the snow. “De bloods. You is hurt.”

Toki looked down at his arm as if he hadn’t realized it. “Oh.”

“Idiot, you coulds have hurteds your’s hand.” He stomped forward, peeved but somehow relieved, swiping at the yard wolves and sending them sprinting off across the snow banks with their prize. He kneeled down in front of Toki. “Lets me sees it.”

Toki held out his right arm and let Skwisgaar look at it for a few moments.

“Dey fucking bited you alls up,” he muttered, casting an irritated look into Toki’s eyes. “Stupid littles kid, makes fucking man-of-snows wis a sausage when dere’s yard’s-wolfs all arounds—pffft! You’s shoulds know betters dan dat, you dummy.”

“Hey I was just havings fun!”

“Yous shoulds think a little bit first. Dis arm-” Skwisgaar gave Toki’s wounded limb a shake. “-is imports-tant. We needs it like yous needs Pickle hands or my hands.”

“Is just a scratch.”

“It’s is just NOT. You’s gonna gets fucking Arabies froms playing wis wolfs. Get ups now. We’s going to de infirmirary.”

“But Skwisgaar-”

“Don’ts be selvesfish, Toki! You almost kills me yester’s day and today’s you gonna kills yourselves, ah? I don’ts think so. Hurry up, and don’ts bleed all over me.”

Toki glowered in silence but allowed his bandmate to lead him back into Mordhaus. They immediately went into the nearest basthrohmnse on the first floor and Skwisgaar ordered Toki to remove his coat.

It was a lot worse than they thought. Blood drenched Toki’s torn sweatshirt and Skwisgaar told him to get rid of that too and come stand near the sink, where he turned on the water and tried to rinse off some of the blood. It was awkward trying to get Toki’s arm underneath the faucet so they went to the bathtub and kneeled down on the rug, and Skwisgaar took the removable showerhead and hosed the wound. Toki closed his watering eyes tight and bit his bottom lip. He didn’t make a sound. Blood ran down the drain a diluted dark pink, and Skwisgaar had a very weird feeling of déjà vu.

After a while he turned off the water and said, “Stay dere,” while he got up and rummaged through the cabinets for something to stop the bleeding. All he could find was Q-tips and cotton balls.

“Hurries, Skwisgaar,” Toki said anxiously, gripping his arm at the elbow and watching fresh dark blood begin to drip down into the white tub.

“Okay,” the blond murmured, returning to the tub and ripping open a fresh bag of cotton balls. He grabbed a handful and pressed them to the wound. The cotton effectively soaked up the blood. Skwisgaar packed more and more on, some falling into the tub where they saturated any liquid that had dripped there. Skwisgaar had just about slapped enough cotton on there to slow the bleeding when The Dream came back to him. The one from the night before. The one with Toki, the trees, and

the tub filled with bloody cotton balls.

He slowly gazed up at Toki, mouth slightly open. The look on his face must have worried Toki because he asked, “You okay, Skwisgaar?”

Their faces were so very close. He could see Toki’s individual eyelashes and the wavering line of his mustache and he could smell Toki’s skin and blood and hair, and then Skwisgaar fell into a pair of blue eyes, got lost, and was never found again.

“Skwisgaar?”

“…uh. Yah. I is okay. Ahm.” He ripped a towel off a nearby rack and wrapped it around Toki’s arm. “Come on, you’s needing surgeries.”

Toki gingerly poked at the gruesome line of stitches holding closed the 5-inch laceration on his forearm. The Saint En’s doctor was spewing out a list of how Toki should take care of his wound while he lightly wrapped the new stitches with a thin gauze.

“-don’t stretch them, don’t pull them, don’t pick at them, be sure to wash the area with antimicrobial soap three times a day, change the wrappings twice a day, avoid soaking it in anything but-”

Skwisgaar approached the examining table with a cigarette between his lips and nudged the doctor out of the way. “Yah yah, we all knows, moof overs, I can do dis better.”

“You know there’s no smoking in here.”

Skwisgaar made a point of exhaling a cloud in the doctor’s face. “Dere is now.”

The doctor gave up with an angry sigh. “Alright. FINE. Fine. Do what you want. I leave my patient in your expert care, Mr. Skwigelf. Good day to you both.” And then he promptly left the room.

“I tolds you so,” Skwisgaar muttered to Toki, securing the ends of the gauze strip with electrical tape. If it was good enough for amp wires it was good enough for bandages, that was his logic.

“Yeah yeah, big deals,” Toki replied. “So what. Is all fine. My hand is not hurted too much badly, see?” He flexed his right hand and wiggled his fingers. “All fine. You worries too much I think, Skwisgaar.”

“So whats if I worries. You’s a guy to worries abouts. Doing stupid things alls de times. Dey shoulds keep you in a locks-up pen. One day you’s gonna gets your hands smashed or cutted off cos you’s doing somethings dumb, and den we are gonna haffs to fires you and gets a new guitars-player, and dat’ll be BYE BYE.”

“Yeah right. You wish. Nathan won’t sends me away.”

“Maybe ifs he gets tires of fucking you he will.”

“We not just fuck-friends,” Toki said darkly.

Skwisgaar grinned sarcastically. “Oh whats? He loves you den? Hah.”

“No. Is not like that. We has de anti-love.”

“What’s dat?”

“You wouldn’t understands. You never cares about anyones before.”

Now it was Skwisgaar’s turn to look insulted. “Why you says dat, ah? Just because I gets laids more dan yous, you think I don’ts cares about anyones? Dat I is incap. Incaspable. Incap…not ables to’s?”

“YEAH. That what I thinks.”

“Well you’s are WRONG, dildos.”

“Okay then! Name one peoples you cares about.”

The Swede balked, caught off guard. The name was in his mouth. He felt it sitting there, burning his tongue and palate. If he opened his lips it would come roaring out, and the shit would hit the copter blades. He knew silence meant losing the argument, but he would rather lose that than lose something a lot more important.

Toki smiled triumphantly when no reply was offered. “Ha. I knews it. You don’t cares about anyone.”

“I do too bastard,” Skwisgaar protested softly. “I do buts I…can’ts…” He trailed off. Toki was quiet. You could sense his cockiness disappearing like frost at sunrise, replaced by something more sympathetic. And when Skwisgaar looked up at him, Toki knew that he had hurt his bandmate somehow. Hurt him deep, down in some place he had never seen before or known was there, a vulnerable place now exposed between them.

“Skwisgaar,” he said quietly. “Did I breaks something?”

“No,” he answered. “No, you’s just makes me sick. You hippos-crit.”

“Hippos-crit?”

“You tells me I’s too non-carings to understands you, when you is too non-carings to understands me.”

A light flickered behind Toki’s dark pupils. It might have been understanding, or maybe he was faking it. Skwisgaar didn’t know. He just wanted the conversation to end. It was getting too dangerous for him.

“I sorry,” Toki murmured. “I was too fast judgings you, Skwisgaar.”

“Yah, well, don’ts be.”

“What’s should I be then?”

Skwisgaar stood up and flicked his cigarette to the floor, crushing it under his heel and exhaling. “Invisible” he wanted to say, but he said nothing. He turned around and bumped through the door, leaving Toki sitting on the examining table with a hurt, curious expression creasing his brow.

To Be Concluded in Part II

ETA: Now with illustration

Snow White (conclusion)

2007-11-20T06:38:04Z

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language, violence, drug use and “adult situations”.

Summary: The classic tale of a jealous, psychotic stepparent out to get their stepkid. Now sexier with 25% more drugs.

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

he stars were wide awake by the time the two agents and the refugee got back. They didn’t mean to be gone for so long, but after dinner Pickles had suggested a short visit to the bar, and that was funny because the phrase “short visit to the bar” doesn’t exist anywhere in Pickles’ personal encyclopedia. They ended up staying until closing time and then Murderface fell asleep in the back of the El Camino. Skwisgaar, who was a little less trashed than Pickles, drove back to the motel. The good thing about getting behind the wheel drunk in the middle of the desert is that if you run off the road there’s a good chance you’ll hit nothing. Maybe a cactus if you’re the lucky kind of guy. So they took quite a few detours around the old oil rigs and lost the road twice before they finally found asphalt again.

“Why didn’tcha nagivate…nagvigave…nangvi—use th’ stars,” Pickles said after the fact as the El Camino parked crookedly between the white lines of the motel parking lot. “Coulda got us home faster.”

“I don’ts know stars,” replied Skwisgaar.

“Fuck,” the agent disregarded. “Yer from L.A. And yer Scaninadian.” As if that meant anything.

Skwisgaar was silent for a moment, staring over the wheel at something nobody else could see. “I grows up in a dark place, Pickle. No stars shine dere.”

A few moments later something touched his hand. It was another hand. He turned and saw Pickles gazing at him, drunk and bleary but all heart, in the orange glow from the street lamps, with shadows falling across his face like classic horror. His face. The face of the first person who ever actually gave a damn. “Yer gonna see stars again, Holly,” Pickles murmured. “I prosmi…prom.” Sigh. Stare. Green eyes. “I swear.”

There was one second of pause in which anything could have happened next. Anything in the world. Skwisgaar’s vision blurred wetly when he smiled, because for the first time he actually believed. He had something to believe in.

“Pickle…”

Then there came a drunken howl from the bed of the El Camino. It was Murderface, picking up where his partner had left off: “-BY THUH MOOOON AN’ THUH SHTAARZSH IN THUH SHKYYY! I SHWEAA~ARE! …dah duhhhh duh. Fer better ‘er WORSHHH-”

Pickles said, “Let’s ditch.”

“-til deashth do ush PAAAaaaaa~AARRT-”

Skwisgaar nodded. Two car doors slammed as the front-seaters abandoned ship.

“I LOVE YOU WISH EVVV-ER-EE BEEEAT OF MA HEARRT, ‘N I SHW-”

Then he abruptly, mercifully, passed out.

Pickles and Skwisgaar met under the lamplight and chuckled in pity at Murderface’s disparaging condition, tottering from their own lack of sobriety.

“Jest leave ‘im,” Pickles grinned. “He’ll come around.”

“Arounds what?”

They looked at each other for a moment and then started laughing. It echoed all through the parking lot and into the flat darkness beyond, tears running until the last echo faded.

“Okay. Oh…okay now,” Pickles gasped, wiping his eyes. “Okay. Now…it’s…hellifeyeknow o’clock-”

Skwisgaar guffawed briefly.

“-n’ we gotta…gotta long day ‘hedda us t’marra.”

“We does?”

“Leavin’. Yanno.”

“Oh. Ja…”

Pickles straightened and looked skyward. “We should prob’ly…go t’ bed now. I mean sleep now. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not sleepsy.” Skwisgaar turned to look out into the black desert and the star-filled sky. “I t’ink I…takes a walk.”

“Wh. What fer?”

“Say goodbyes.”

“…ta who?”

His eyes moved, scanning the invisible walls of his sandy prison. “Dis place…cos I nevers will—sees it agains.”

Pickles seemed to understand and nodded. “Okay, Skwiss. I…you do go that. Do whatcha gotta…yeah. I think I’m gonna. I gotta go lie down. Can’t hardly ain’t…walkin’ good no more.”

Skwisgaar turned to leave.

“Hey Hollywood.”

He paused and turned.

Pickles’ brow was creased in unusually sober concern. “Ya be caref…don’t be gone fer too long, a’ight.”

Skwisgaar smiled thinly. “I won’ts, Pickle. Just saying goodbyes.”

nderneath a beach of stars and above a beach of sand, locked between the strata of this cage known as Earth, Skwisgaar sat cross-legged and stared up through the towering steel girders of a pylon. He was comfortable here for the first time, now that he knew he would be escaping from it for good. Bears, lions and warriors, shapeless fantasies, held themselves fast to the roof of the world.

A new life would begin for him tomorrow. He’d leave his old one behind, take it off like a coat and let it drop onto the shards of that ugly snow-lined mirror, the thing that haunted him with images of blood, drugs, guns and guitars. All the bad would wash away—the Snow would melt and disappear. The cold lifeless winter would lose its grip on his soul and the sun would creep over the horizon, bringing with it spring and warmth and companionship. He was twenty five now. His whole life lay ahead of him. All would be clean and new, restored, ready to start over.

Skwisgaar sighed into the cool night, wondering if this would be the last time he ever saw stars like this again.

A distant sound reached his ears and he turned around to see headlights like coyote eyes approaching slowly over the desert terrain. It was Pickles in the El Camino. Skwisgaar must have lost track of time, stayed out too long. Pickles was probably worried.

…maybe he would take Skwisgaar with him wherever he went. Skwisgaar needed someone to give him more banjo lessons. He was a fast learner sure, but he liked spending time with Pickles. He decided that even if he got a new banjo, he’d still keep the one Pickles had given him. It was special. Maybe they could form a gig, the two of them, travel around on weekends, go out drinking together…

It was only now, at this very moment, that Skwisgaar realized what was happening. No. What had already happened. It startled him a little at first, but his mind was already made up by the time the shock wore off. So what. So what if he did. He wasn’t ashamed. Shame couldn’t touch him now, not when he was finally free. It had haunted him in the form of his mother, his illegitimacy, his wealth, his life, himself, but it wouldn’t haunt him now. No more.

He decided he would tell Pickles everything, right now. Tonight. Get it off his chest. He had a funny feeling that everything, even after this, everything was going to be okay. He felt it deep down in him. For the first time, everything was going to be okay.

Skwisgaar smiled a little to himself and crawled to his feet as the car slowed to a stop a few yards away. The engine cut but the headlights still glowed. Skwisgaar walked toward the car as a silhouette emerged and the door slammed.

“Hey, Pickle. Sorry I stays out here too-”

Something cold hit him in the chest. It was terror. Something wasn’t right. As if by some extrasensory power, Skwisgaar felt the presence of a predator. Death was here. It was right here with him.

The fear cleared his sluggish senses, sharpening them to razor ice in a matter of seconds. His hair rose. His heart thrummed fast in his chest. His skin perspired. And his eyes widened in horror as the father of his nightmares stepped into the beams of the headlights.

Skwisgaar seemed to register the gleam of the 9mm before he registered Toki Wartooth’s smiling, sadistic face.

“Hello. Son,” he said, words and eyes like needles.

Skwisgaar took a step back. “Ha-how dids—dis can’ts be-”

“You shoulda know I finds you. Nobody can runs from me, Skwisgaar. You of all shoulda knows that.”

The crown-and-snowflake winked at him, rife with memory. It had a legacy to fulfill. Panic flooded Skwisgaar’s heart, causing it to pound hard in his chest as if it suddenly remembered the bounty it’d had on it once upon a time. He unconsciously reached a hand to his chest and clutched his shirt in his fist, protecting. Covering. Afraid that this devil possessed the power to rip it out with a glare.

Toki had to chuckle when he saw the reaction. “Don’t worries, Skwisgaar. I let you keeps your heart this times. It not what I wants beside.” The grin faded. “I wants everythings now.”

Skwisgaar licked his lips and tried to summon some words of bravery. “If I screams den dere’ll be guys wis guns out heres and dey’ll-”

“Oh shuts up, you stupid idiot,” Toki snapped tiredly, raising the gun at his stepson. “You scream and I shoots you in de fucking head.”

“You’s gonna shoots me anyway.” Funny how easily he could speak the truth now. It gave Skwisgaar courage—it was the only weapon he had now, and he lashed out with it. “I is not scares of yous no more, Toki. Yous was nevers a father to me’s. I knows it’s were you who’s kill my mother-”

Smirk. “I dids her a favors-”

“-and you is so fucking jealousy of me dat you t’ink you gots to kills me.” He gritted his teeth. “You is a fucking cowers, Toki. Yous are so powersless dat alls you can do is sits up on yours throne and tell Big Nate to go and do t’ings for yous, since you is too scares and weak to do dems yourselv.”

The Norwegian’s face was a mixture of shock and rage. “H-how…dares you. You-”

Skwisgaar took a step forward. “Your kingdom will falls. It’s is falling right now. Dat’s why you’s here, because no ones else will do your dirty works for yous anymore. Dey’re all leafing you. You makes big mistake by coming heres, Toki.”

The safety clicked off. Skwisgaar remained undaunted.

“Go aheads. Shoots me. You’s only proves what a big fucking cowers you is. It won’t saves de business. De FBI knows. Dey is gonna hunts yous for de rests of your live. It’s over, Toki. You lose no matters which way de snow falls.”

Liquid fury burned in Toki’s red eyes. “Jævla Svenske,” he growled. “I still has control overs this situation.”

“Ha. No you doesn’t. Dat’s just you lying to yourselv.”

“Shut up.”

“You is finished, Toki.”

“SHUT UP!”

“And you can’ts do nothins abouts it.”

He squeezed the trigger.

Skwisgaar staggered backward with a choke and fell from the light. A plume of dust rose in his absence. A small circle of blood appeared on the right side of his chest. He gasped raggedly for breath, one lung filling with blood. The shadow of his stepfather fell across him, half-obscuring his face. He spat crimson into the dust. Then he started to laugh.

Toki took a step. “SHUT UP!” Shrill and desperate. “SHUT UP!”

Skwisgaar smiled up at him with shiny red lips, blue eyes bright and full of life. “You wills never win.”

The second shot went through his shoulder, dangerously close to his heart. He gasped, the pain tearing him apart. The world became black and white, glaring brightness and deep shadows. He curled in on himself, tendrils of hair trailing in the dirt.

“I wins this at least,” Toki muttered, only his outline visible.

“You win n-not’ings,” Skwisgaar rasped, drooling blood as he raised his head. “Cowers never win. Dey just—ng. Steals from others.” With that, he launched himself from the ground and sprang at Toki.

The gun rang out a third and final time, and Skwisgaar Skwigelf fell to the ground. He didn’t move. Blood, red as sin, pooled in his yellow-gold hair and ran across the cocaine-white skin of his cheek.

Toki was shaking as he climbed into the Caddy and turned the ignition, but once the tires found asphalt everything was fine again. Everything was good. It was finally over. He’d finished it once and for all.

The Prince was dead.

Long live the King.

he walls of the room were pale yellow, almost white, where the two federal agents sat. The color was too happy. Too bright. This was a place of death and disease. They needed to be black. Paint them black, black as that night, blacker than the emptiness Pickles felt inside him. Blacker than the place where the one he was supposed to protect had gone.

A woman in white approached. “You may go see him now,” she said.

Pickles faintly registered Murderface asking something. Whatever it was, she shook her head and apologized softly. Murderface had to take Pickles by the arm and help him stand.

They entered the room and his heart chilled like it had the very first time. He must have hesitated or looked like he was cracking up because Murderface gripped his shoulder and said, “Buck up, Patrick.”

The redhead sat down beside the bed and tried to keep his face from twisting.

There he lay in his coffin of clear plastic, dressed in white, head bound with gauze. Tubes to help him breathe. Liquid to keep him alive. Machines beeping slowly on the side. Monitoring his life. His semi-life. Or whatever you’d call the stage between life and death, wherever he was now.

“The infection in his lungs is clearing,” someone said. “He still needs the curtain for now. We’re giving him antibiotics…” Jumble jarble words words words. “…help if he would come out of the coma but…” More words. Same as last time. Broken record. Cold and emotionless. Didn’t they know who he was? What he meant to- “…due to the possibility of brain swelling if he comes around…” Shut up. For the love of God. Just shut up. “…very slim chance of-”

“Can ya jest shut th’ hell up n’ go away,” Pickles snapped, clenching his fists. “Go on. Get out. Leave us alone.”

The words were driven away. Now he could think. Now he could see. Sort of. It had been difficult to see these past few weeks. Everything had been blurred.

Murderface stood by the door and screwed his face into a hard expression to keep himself from breaking. He felt it too, but he was better at repressing it. He watched his partner in the chair, hands reaching out with nothing to touch, nothing that he could touch. It was unimaginably cruel and unbearable to watch.

“Wake up, Holly,” he heard faintly, the same mantra he’d heard every time. “I can’t stand seein’ ya like this. Yer not s’posed ta…be…I’m, I’ll never fergive myself for lettin’ ya go out alone. Don’t let ‘im win, Holly. Please come back t’ me.”

The next day Skwisgaar was pronounced clinically brain dead. He was suffering like this, the doctors said. He would never recover. They suggested pulling the plug and letting him die naturally. Hopes dead and heart wounded, Pickles signed the consent form.

He could at last touch Skwisgaar now, freed from the plastic curtain. He held his hand as the life support equipment went quiet and tried to keep himself together. Tried like hell. It still didn’t stop him from letting out a sob when he saw the chest stop rising and felt the faint pulse go still. The doctor pronounced him and then left the room.

Pickles massaged those talented fingers, the fastest in the world, now cold and lifeless. “Goddammit, Hollywood. Ya were s’posed ta live. We…”

It didn’t matter anymore. Skwisgaar was gone. The case was in shambles. Wartooth, if he had any sense, was three countries away by now. All to shit, everything. Just when the struggle seemed over, fate dealt its cruel hand.

But Pickles didn’t care about that anymore. The case that had occupied him for the past three years, that had consumed his every waking moment, suddenly didn’t mean shit when someone he loved more than any-fucking-thing had just died right in front of him. Nothing meant anything anymore. Nothing ever would. Life was grey and colorless to Pickles now, for the light that had shined through the prism of his monochrome existence and created rainbows had flickered out. That star, that shining beautiful diamond in this whole shitty stinking world, was gone now. Skwisgaar, who had cheated death and survived so many times, now dead because of…

Pickles heaved a trembling sigh and reached out to stroke the Swede’s forehead. “I’m serry,” he whispered, staring at the peaceful face. “I’m serry I couldn’t protect ya enough, Skwisgaar. Gad knows I tried ta.” Deep breath. “Yer troubles’re over now, at least. No more hidin’. Yer free now. No one can hurt ya anymore. I hope yer happy…wherever y’are.” He wiped his face with his sleeve and stood. “I never got ta tell ya how much I love ya.”

Fresh tears dripped from his cheeks as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to those soft, warmthless lips. He drew back slowly and gave the cold white hand a gentle squeeze. “Ya been gone two minutes,” he choked, “an’ I miss ya already.”

He sat down in the chair and wept soundlessly, head bowed, shoulders shaking, eyes hidden. Murderface strode over and placed a crushing hand on Pickles’ shoulder, holding in his own feelings of grief.

“It’sh okay, Patrick,” he murmured. But they both knew it wasn’t, nor would it ever be again.

Pickles was so overwrought that he didn’t register the sensation of movement in his hand for a few seconds. He raised his head as he suddenly became aware, and opened his hand to reveal those white fingers slowly curling.

“Musht be…rigor mortish,” Murderface muttered, though his eyes were wide.

“Can’t be,” Pickles breathed. “Too soon.”

“Maybe…uh. Posht-coma convul-”

“Waitwaitquiet!”

The two agents were silent, listening. A small hiss. Like air being squeezed through vocal cor-

“Ah…aah…”

Nobody moved a muscle. Except Murderface, who moved his mouth to say, “Oh my fuckin’ GAWD.”

Pickles sprang from his chair so fast that he flipped it over with a bang. “He’s alive! HE’S ALIVE! Quick! Get the defibrill-”

Murderface grabbed his frantic partner by the arms and hauled him back as he prepared to perform CPR on Skwisgaar.

“Don’t touch him yet! Let ‘im come around!”

“But I gotta-”

“He doeshn’t need you fer thish, ashole! Jusht let ‘im come back on hish own.”

“No! He could slip back at any-”

“I’m gonna punsch you in the fuckin’ ballsh, Picklesh, I shwear to-”

The lips moved. “Pih…Pickle…” Bruised eyelids fluttered open. Murderface felt Pickles go limp and decided to let go.

On the bed, the living dead: Skwisgaar weakly raised an arm. “Pickle, I can’ts sees you.”

“I’m right here,” he replied, grasping his hand.

The blue eyes wandered groggily for a moment before they settled on the agent’s face. “Oh.” A faint smile. “Dere yous are, Pickle.”

“Yeah. Here I am.” He swallowed dryly. “Ya came back?”

“I hads to. You…wokes me up from a nice sleeps.”

It was almost funny. In a panicked, hysterical way. Pickles bit his lower lip and tried to contain himself. “D’ya…know what’s goin’ on?”

“Ah…no.”

“Huh. Shtupid azsh ever. It’sh good to have ya back, Shkwishgaar.”

“Shut up, Murderface,” his partner snapped.

“Aw fuck you.”

“Skwiss.” Pickles redirected his attention to the more important. “Toki, he. He got ta Seven Ores somehow n’ he…yanno, found ya. Shot ya three times. Got ya in th’ head, put ya flat out. Skull splinters’n everything. Ya shouldn’t even be alive right now.”

“…hu.”

“They got th’ bullet out okay though. Heh. Ya gotta bald spot where they took it outta ya.”

Skwisgaar made a pained face. “Unhh. Doze. Fucker. Dumb dildos.”

Pickles smiled, and then it all decided to come out. Tears, confessions, everything. He pressed Skwisgaar’s lean hand in both of his and said, “I shoulda told ya sooner but I never…couldn’t seem ta find th’ right time ‘r place but…an’ the fact that ya coulda left this world without knowin’ how much I love ya, Skwisgaar, it. I. It made me wanna lay down an’ die right beside ya.” He gripped the hand and held it to his lips as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

The Swede’s blue eyes grew large and soft. “Pickle. You loves me…back?”

Pickles looked up, put his entire person on pause while the thoughts kerchunked through his mental gears. Then there was a crash as the entire engine dropped out. No further thought was required—he leaned over Skwisgaar and kissed him. Kissed him like he should have done a long time ago. And Skwisgaar, he slid an arm around Pickles’ shoulders and held onto him like he never wanted to let go.

“Oh goddammit, cut that schit out,” Murderface grunted, nauseated. “You guysh’re makin’ me shick.”

“Mf. Den turn arounds.”

“Yeah, turn around.”

But Murderface didn’t turn around, partly because he didn’t want to leave his ass exposed and vulnerable with two gayfers in the room and partly because it was kind of sick and interesting to watch. But it suddenly got a whole lot more interesting when Skwisgaar broke his lips from Pickles’ and said lowly, “Let’s us go get him.”

Pickles looked perplexed. “Huh?”

“I know wheres he is.”

“Who?”

“My steps-father. I know to wheres he is runned.”

Pickles and Murderface exchanged shocked looks.

Skwisgaar said, “I has no longer fears of him. I want to go do dis-” He sat up, face creased with pain.

“Wait wait, hold on a sec there, Skwiss, I mean, Jesus Christ, ya jest came back from th’ dead n’ now ya-”

“And now I wants to go and puts de fears of death into Toki. And I know ex-kactly how I shoulds do its.”

hey didn’t bother telling the hospital about the Lazarus Kiss or even that they were leaving with a presumed corpse. They’d find that out soon enough. Skwisgaar walked—walked as if he hadn’t been shot and comatose for three weeks—from Montevista Hospital in a set of stolen scrubs with vengeance glinting in his eyes and a happy smile on his face. He was immortal now, fearless and invincible.

The tires of the El Camino squealed as they left the parking lot and headed down U.S. 93. Murderface drove, though the term should be used loosely because even suicidal maniacs used the brake pedal once in a while.

Pickles wanted to call in the big guns, but Skwisgaar gently talked him out of it.

“No. Dis is personals. I must do dis by myselves.”

“But…Skwiss. Yanno, we’re talkin’ about th’ guy who tried ta-”

“Pickle, I needs dis. Please.”

Who could say no to those eyes? Pickles didn’t understand yet, but he nodded all the same and left his cell phone untouched.

Two whole days on the road. It didn’t take much to cross the border—being federal agents had its merits—and Skwisgaar told them which route to take. He knew it well; his mother had dragged him here on “vacation” often enough. Nothing but one long nosebleed and orgasm after another. He’d always hated it here. Still, it would be nice to see “the family” again.

They came to a long, expensive driveway in a high-profile desert-oasis town. Skwisgaar took the wheel and crept the half-mile to the security gate, said hi to Rico and was allowed to pass. The mansion was Mediterranean in style with tropical landscaping only the Valenzuelas could afford in this part of Mexico. Skwisgaar cut the engine in the front drive and turned to give the two agents a somber stare.

“Put on a vest at least,” Pickles pleaded. “Please.”

“He is already knowings dat bullets is useless, Pickle. I wills be okay.”

Pickles knew it was pointless to argue. It was out of his hands. All he could do now was hope. He leaned forward and Skwisgaar felt the tickle of Pickles’ bristly goatee against his face, then soft lips. It was the same kiss that had brought him back to life when he thought he had nothing left to live for. He had something now, and he let Pickles know it, returning the gesture with every ounce of love and gratitude he could muster.

Murderface grumbled and gnawed on his half-spent cigar. “Alright, ladiesh. Let’s get thish over with now,” he muttered.

oki was on the phone with Ofdensen in the study, cheerfully discussing plans for his solo album.

“-and don’t lets anyones else tells you otherwise. Oh, and I wants that new track on there too, Poison Apple.”

“Ah yes, the…one about a desert homicide.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Mr. Wartooth, I would ah, advise you against doing that with your stepson’s…accident still fresh in-”

“Ha! Who gives a craps about that olds news anymore? Not me. Boo hoo, so sad. I think I gonna cry-”

“But Mr. Wartooth, I’m afraid you don’t-”

“Look, as soon as this all blow overs I be right backs in L.A. to finish things up with de albums that is gonna has that fucking songs on it or-”

“Toki, there isn’t going to be an album.”

“…what?”

“A letter on my desk this morning. Sender unknown. It said that-”

There was a knock at the door. Toki put his hand over the receiver and snapped, “What is it!”

From behind the door, Big Nate rumbled, “Someone to see you, boss.”

“Tells them to go away! I’m very-”

The door swung open. Toki turned and froze, his face a picture of horror.

“…you are no longer the fastest guitarist alive, Mr. Wartooth.”

The phone thumped onto the rug and was silent.

Skwisgaar, upright and bandaged but very much alive, stood in the doorway with Nathan towering in silence just behind him. Toki stumbled back as if he were seeing a ghost. In a way, he was. Skwisgaar smiled menacingly. “Hello. Daddy.”

Toki backed up against the desk, eyes wide. “No. No it can’t be you. I fucking shoots you.”

“You misseds.”

Time stood still as stepfather and stepson stared each other down, then everything suddenly snapped into motion: Skwisgaar lowered his shoulders and charged, slamming Toki in the chest with his shoulder. Toki hit the floor with the Swede on top of him, pummeling him with both fists. But Toki was stronger, and where speed had allowed him to be taken by surprise, strength now was the determining factor. He planted his knee into Skwisgaar’s stomach and caught him in the head with a hard right. Pain shot through Skwisgaar’s whole body when the fist impacted with his still-tender GSW. He landed on his back, blind with agony, and Toki crawled to his feet.

“Gun!” he called to Big Nate, and caught the weapon with one hand. When Skwisgaar opened his eyes he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that had already taken him down once before.

Toki smiled triumphantly. “Ha ha! Déjà voodoo. Funny how that is. I really hates for your brain to be ruinings this nice rug, but…I hates you more.”

Skwisgaar muttered under his breath, “Fuck.”

Cold metal touched his forehead as the muzzle pressed into his skin.

“I won’t miss this times,” Toki whispered eerily. “Good night, sweet prince.”

Skwisgaar closed his eyes. He could feel the thoughts inside his head. Wondered what they’d feel like flying behind him in chunks. There was a click. One second…two…three…

He opened his eyes. Toki was looking down at him, surprised. He squeezed the trigger again. Click. Again. Click.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

A deep, throaty laugh faded into existence from behind them both. Big Nate was rolling eight hollow points from hand to giant hand.

Toki’s mouth fell open. “You…you…”

“I quit,” Nathan growled. One by one the bullets dropped to the floor and rolled away.

Skwisgaar was chuckling under his breath as he climbed to his feet. A small rivulet of blood had stained his bandages and was running down the side of his face but otherwise he looked quite well. Certainly better than Toki, who decided to try the gun one last time; he lashed out, intending to stun Skwisgaar with a pistol-whip to the face, but Skwisgaar sensed it coming. Though he wasn’t as strong as his stepfather, he was—and would always be—faster than him.

He ducked. The firearm missed him by inches. He reached up and grabbed Toki’s forearm, still in motion, and pushed hard. Then he grabbed Toki’s left wrist and jerked it in that same left-to-right movement, effectively using Toki’s own momentum against him. This took only one and a half seconds. A full body slam later and Toki was face first on the floor, Skwisgaar on top of him and twisting his right arm behind his back. Fingers loosened and dropped the gun. Skwisgaar wrenched upward, forcing the Norwegian to scream in pain.

“Likes dat, ah? It’s is somethings I learns froms de FBIs.”

Toki snarled and Skwisgaar twisted harder. There was a scream. What a lovely sound.

“Okay, lets me gets one thing straights here,” he spoke lowly in Toki’s ear. “Don’ts fuck wis me, Toki Wartooth, or I fuck yous up real good. You don’ts evens want to know what wills happen if I let Nat’an have yous.”

There was an answering growl of approval, and Skwisgaar smiled. “Now, I is going to tell yous how it’s going to be from nows on…”

he stage was still empty but the crowd was humming like a hive, a mass thousands strong roiling with anticipation, cheering and chanting for one thing only.

Backstage. It was semi-dark in the dressing room, mostly quiet. Two dim figures were moving rhythmically on the futon, motions languid and fluid. Golden hair draped long over bare white skin, glowing ethereally in the low light. A back arched sensually like living art, blond tendrils falling away to reveal the tattoo of a crown-and-snowflake below the nape of the neck.

“Ahh…” sighed Skwisgaar, sinking onto the hips again and letting that big cock fill him up. “Pickle…”

The redheaded ex-agent pushed against Skwisgaar’s weight, making him moan beautifully. “Yeahhh,” he encouraged softly. “Keep doin’ that, baby.”

The Swede kept on, rolling his hips up and down while Pickles grasped his cock, sliding his hand up and down the warm, solid flesh.

“Yer perfect…hhaaa yeah, so fuckin’ perfect…”

Skwisgaar held his eyes half open, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he continued to ride Pickles’ erection.

Just then there were a few warning bangs on the door and the familiar gargle of Murderface’s voice: “I KNOW WHAT’CHER DOIN’ IN THERE YOU FLAMING FAGGOTSH! WE’RE ON IN TEN MINUTESH SHO HURRY UP!”

It was hard not to laugh at that. Skwisgaar did, grinning and hissing quietly as Pickles mirrored him. It didn’t take Murderface—now retired from the FBI and quite satisfied with being a full time bastard—long to figure out about the Pre-Concert Good-Luck-Fuck tradition that Pickles and Skwisgaar shared. There was more to it than just that of course, but they at least had the dignity of sparing the details from everybody else, fans and bandmates alike.

“Mm, comes in me, Pickle,” Skwisgaar muttered huskily, resuming his sensual motions. “Comes hard ins sides of me.”

Pickles felt his eyes fall half shut as those hushed and fiery words ignited his desire to fever pitch. A few moments later he granted Skwisgaar’s wish, thrusting hard and letting loose inside of him to a symphony of the Swede’s own moans and sighs.

“I love yous,” Skwisgaar whispered, leaning down to brush his nose and lips against that red goatee. “Patrick.”

Pickles smiled vaguely at the name that was now all but dead to two people in the world, and ran his hands over Skwisgaar’s scalp. His fingers sifted through golden strands of hair and his palm brushed gently against the small lump of scar tissue on the side of his head. It always reminded Pickles of what he had almost lost, once upon a time.

His smile faded and an expression of seriousness and melancholy happiness followed in its wake. “I love ya too. Hollywood.”

They shared a kiss, one that never seemed to lose its powers to resurrect life and soul, and then Murderface practically smashed down the door with his fist.

“WE’RE GONNA BE LATE, LOOZSHERSH! MOVE YER ASSHESH!”

Pickles smirked. “Better not be late fer yer big debut, babe.”

Five minutes later they appeared onstage amidst a sea of screaming humanity. Lights flashed, flickered, showered them like glittering stardust from falling comets. Skwisgaar raised his arm and the screaming increased by 50 decibels. He ducked his head a moment, slipping the solid black, steel-tipped, skull-studded banjo of heavy metal doom onto his shoulders. He slid the thumb and finger picks onto his right hand digits and shot a glance at the rest of the band: Nathan was poised at the mic, his naturally guttural, terror-evoking voice making him an apt singer, ready to astound and destroy; Murderface smiled superiorly at the attention he and his bass were receiving, already famous for his notorious Pick Dick technique; Pickles waved at the crowd behind a set of drums, reveling in the glory; and directly beside Skwisgaar, humbled in the shadow of his former stepson, Toki Wartooth was ready to provide rhythm backup on his Flying V as per the arrangement agreed by the U.S. Supreme Court and the National Institute for the Criminally Insane in the case of The People v. Toki Warooth. A pair of 24/7 ankle cuffs had long ago broken his will to run, and even if he somehow managed to break the computer-chip activated lock, two sharp-shooting federal attendants were always nearby to pacify him with 5cc’s of heavy duty animal tranqs. It sure beat being in prison at least.

Toki had settled into his new lifestyle quite well, having undergone some major changes; his power lost and his kingdom fallen, he had now regressed to a “safety age” of childlike naiveté and selective ignorance where he felt least likely he would be harmed. This was his knee-jerk reaction for self-preservation, and he had a lot to fight for. The constant reminder of being Second Best and the ridicule he received from others was the punishment he would endure for the rest of his life. Cruel and unusual it might be, but it was better than wasting talents of even the homicidal second-fastest-guitarist-alive to a syringe of sodium thiopental.

Skwisgaar spoke loudly over the roar, “You readys, Daddy-Os?”

Toki looked up and nodded wordlessly.

Skwisgaar glanced one last time at Pickles and then faced the teeming, clamoring sea of fans. The camera flashes shone like thousands of stars before him—stars more brilliant than those in the sky, for these had greater meaning—and he had a funny feeling that everything, even after tonight and all the tonights stretched out in front of him, everything was going to be okay.

Everything was going to be okay.

Points of Authority

2007-11-06T04:13:35Z

Mature Content: This story contains elements that are graphic in nature. Please exercise discretion.

Points of Authority

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for graphic violence, gore and explicit sexual material.

Summary: Toki is caught having sex with random Mordhaus employees, but this is only a symptom of the true problem.

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

Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

–H. Kissinger

He was still naked when he planted the axe into the shoulder of the black-hooded figure. There came a shrill, terror-drenched scream of shock and pain, and then Toki wrenched the blade free. A waterfall of blood came pouring down, beautiful dark red, running thickly. The hooded man fell and writhed on the floor, howling and kicking his legs spasmodically. The axe fell on the skull and silenced the noise forever. Toki always enjoyed that sound. Like chopping through wood and raw, wet meat with one clean motion.

The blood pooled on the carpet and reached his bare feet. It was still warm. Toki stepped back daintily, dispassionately, and stared at the exposed grey-purple folds of brain that were oozing blood. The ragged wound in the shoulder displayed sliced muscles, severed sinewy tendons, the yellowish-white bone of the clavicle. He surveyed the mess he had created with expressionless interest before kneeling down and pleasuring himself. He ejaculated into the blood with a low cry and rested for a moment. Then he stood and gathered his clothes, dressed himself, and gave one last look at his work of art.

On his way out of the empty recording studio, he pressed the intercom button to the servants’ lodge. “Gets somebodies down here to cleans up,” he said flatly. “Another guy has kills hisself.”

The urge hit again a few days later. This time it happened in the Mordhaus garage. One of the mechanics for the steam-powered Dethlimo seemed like just the right cure. It never took any convincing, not much anyway—being ungodly wealthy and powerful had its benefits—so it wasn’t long before Toki was bent backwards over a large tool drawer with his legs spread open, moaning as the mechanic’s thick cock punched in and out of his tight, clenching ass. The guy was huge; fat, hanging gut, muscular arms and chest covered with hair, stinking like transmission fluid and grease, a real sweat-hog. He left his hood on by request. Toki didn’t care what his face looked like. All that mattered was that there was a hot, hard dick fucking in and out of his body; what it was attached to was negligible.

The mechanic pulled out and spilled his load onto Toki’s naked torso, also as requested. Now came the easy part.

As the guy pulled his pants back up and was occupied with sucking in and buttoning, Toki took a screwdriver from one of the worktables and embedded it to the hilt between the spinal disks of the man’s lower back. He let out a bellow and fell to the garage floor, paralyzed from the waist down. Still nude, Toki calmly picked up a hammer and straddled the mechanic’s body. Raising the hammer, claw-side down, he let it fall again and again wherever there was flesh and bone. The man screamed, but only for a little while. Blood sprayed into the air after every hit, and soon Toki was covered in spatters. He didn’t stop until he could see pieces of skull and matted hair jagging up from the drenched black fabric of the hood. Then he dropped the hammer, stood to his feet, and wiped himself off with a nearby oil rag. He put on his clothes and went to get somebody to clean up this unfortunate accident.

That same evening he sat down and played a game of Super Smash Brothers with Pickles, and was laughing it up when his Kirby KO’d Pickles’ Mario using the super hammer. He later got into an argument with Skwisgaar, who he accused of eating all the extra-buttery microwave popcorn. A brief tussle ensued and a small amount of hair was lost by the time the two Scandinavians had roughed each other up to justify their confrontation. Then Toki ate dinner with Knubbler and Murderface (they had a barbecue outside) and they threw the bones to the yard wolves afterwards and watched them fight over the leftovers. The rest of the night was spent lounging in the jacuzzi, trying to hold a conversation with Nathan, who was already a few beers into incoherent.

Predictably, Ofdensen showed up to spoil the party.

“Toki. May I see you in my office.”

“What’s for?”

“A private conference.”

“What’s for?”

“It’s a, uh, secret.”

“Why?”

“Because I said it is. Now are you coming or not?”

“Aw mans,” Toki pouted, but crawled from the hot water and threw on a Mordhaus robe. He followed Ofdensen all the way to his office. The manager closed the door behind them and then sat down at his desk. The leather upholstery squeaked expensively. Ofdensen adjusted his glasses and leaned his elbows on the table, threading his fingers together meditatively. Toki stood impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and shaking the water out of his hair.

“So what’s you call me in heres for?” he asked.

“I think you know very well.”

A manila folder opened up on Ofdensen’s desk. Toki stepped forward to view the contents. Photos. Crime scene photos. Gruesome crime scene photos. Toki recognized each and every one. There was the pool boy from last month, hauled up from the bottom drain with a net tied tight around his throat. There was the steroid-loaded security guard he had dropped with a horizontal gut-wound from the guard’s own knife. The grey-pink intestines had come uncoiled, slipping out so fast that it had momentarily scared Toki. But he had gotten better about it after the third guy. Ah, there was the construction maintenance guy with 38 nails studded through his heart-

“There have been over 23 employee deaths in the past three months,” Ofdensen interrupted. “That’s up 66% from the usual.”

“So?”

“So. I think you, ah, might have a good idea as to why, Toki.”

“I not knows anythings!” Toki cried, offended. “Why you always gotta picks on me? You racist or somethings?”

“No, Toki. But it has come to my attention that you have apparently found an outlet for your newly-developed and deeply-repressed violent sexual fantasies, and we simply do not have enough unskilled employees to keep your bloodlust in check.” Pause.

Toki looked impressed. “How you finds out?”

“It is my job to know what goes on in this house, Toki,” murmured Ofdensen eerily. “Every breath taken, every warm body present, every word spoken, every act committed within these walls is known to me. I am omniscient in this respect. It is what I am paid to do—to protect you from others, including yourselves, and to act in Dethklok’s best interest. Therefore,” he sat back in his chair comfortably, “is there anything you would, ah, like to talk to me about? Anything you’d like to…get off your chest?”

Toki wasn’t sure, but he felt just a little bit afraid right now of the man sitting nonchalantly across from him. The fear was stimulating, addictive. It made his spine grow cold and his heart beat faster. This was a man with power, perhaps even more power than Dethklok itself. And anything more powerful than the most powerful enterprise in the world…that was a force to be respected and reckoned with.

His mind wasn’t even completely made up before he untied the belt of his robe and let it slide from his shoulders. The black terry cloth crumpled around his bare feet. And there he stood, in silence.

Ofdensen raised his eyebrows briefly, but his reaction was otherwise invisible. “Why did you just do that, Toki.”

“Because,” he answered softly, staring into nothing.

“Come here.”

The voice was firm, commanding. Toki obeyed. Ofdensen rolled his chair back and turned as Toki came around his desk. If the manager was at all affected, he didn’t show it. Not even his eyes betrayed emotion. Looking into them, Toki remembered that snowy night in Poland that seemed so long ago. Cold and terror and blood and inhuman strength. Funny how he had never considered the implications until this very moment, when he was staring at a man who could kill him as easily as Toki himself had killed those dozens of Mordhaus employees. The tables had turned, but he realized it all too late.

“Kneel.”

Toki’s mind was lashing out indignant insults, yet his body heeded Ofdensen’s word like a robot obeying its master. He found himself eye-level with the crotch of an expensive pair of Italian pants. He lifted his head to look at his manager—with the pale, wide-eyed face of a frightened juvenile. Ofdensen stared mutely with an expression set in stone. Toki reached out and carefully unfastened the pants, exposing a semi-erect penis whose proportions surprised him. He leaned inexorably forward by some will other than his own and rubbed his lips against a hot, velvety soft cockhead. A few moments later it was inside his mouth, growing harder by the moment.

Toki had never sucked a man’s dick before, nor would he ever admit to doing such a nasty thing. His logic was flawed—it was one thing to be fucked by random, faceless, expendable bodies, but quite another to be forced into a position where he might actually enjoy himself. That wasn’t the plan. He needed a vent for the rage and impotent frustrations he encountered daily; he needed an outlet for the deviant sexual desires he longed to unleash; but most of all, he wanted the power that was so often denied to him. This was not what he wanted.

And yet…

Toki felt a firm hand grasp the roots of his hair and pull, lifting his head. The cock slipped from his glossy mouth with a moist suction, and he was staring at Ofdensen’s still-stony exterior.

“Stand.”

He was on his feet three whole seconds before his ass was shoved onto the desk, a warm body inserted between his spread legs, and a face nose-to-nose with his own. Ofdensen loosened his tie.

“You will cry,” he said, as if stating a fact. His tie was whipped off and tossed aside. Toki jumped fearfully. Ofdensen grabbed Toki’s leg and lifted it high, causing Toki to fall back on the desk. He leaned over and swept all objects from the desk top: pens, calendars, planners, a framed photo of something. They clattered to the floor noisily.

Toki was unprepared for the sexual voracity that fell upon him. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He was brutally manipulated, pushed to and fro, forced under; his neck was bruised by unaffectionate kisses, his hair pulled for no other purpose than to inflict pain. He was bitten, bloodied, spread, contorted, twisted, stretched, teased, pinched, pulled and tortured. But it was nothing compared to the horrific rush he got when he felt Ofdensen’s cock pry its way into his body.

He did cry. He wailed and bit his knuckles and shut his eyes tight and screamed in two languages for Ofdensen to stop and never stop. Toki felt his own cock jump and spurt and strain, aching for release and receiving none. He didn’t understand. He had never become aroused by the others—

“Ah!” So deep. So deep. “Off-! Ofden-!” Something inside him was being satisfied, some demonic, destructive force was being beaten into submission like a disobedient dog- “Ahh! Nhh! Ch-Charl-”

That same strength Toki had seen that snowy night in Poland was now focused entirely on his body, conquering it with a combination of terrible pain and unbearable pleasure.

“N-nei. Nei! Ahhhnn!” His hips bucked uncontrollably, his muscles tense and tight, hands gripping the edge of the desk as he came violently. It didn’t seem to end. There was so much, so much…as if his evil seed was being drawn from him like a poison.

Just before Toki finished, Ofdensen started. This time Toki was powerless to object—he felt the warmth flood into him and he knew exactly what it was. It seemed to spread inside him, the heat radiating up into his body, seeping to his legs and toes and arms and fingers and heart and brain until finally all thought ceased and he fell into darkness.

When Toki came to, he was sitting in the chair opposite Ofdensen’s desk, wearing the robe he had discarded. Ofdensen was standing in the corner behind his desk, putting his tie back on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Toki’s mind was still bleary and uncoordinated, like he had been drugged with some hardcore shit. He rose to his feet carefully, adjusting to the vertigo. He looked at Ofdensen, and began to think that the whole incident had just been in his head.

“…Cha. Of-Ofdensen…”

He hadn’t heard, either that or he was ignoring him. Ofdensen finished fixing his tie, straightened his collar, and turned to acknowledge Toki. “You’re going to behave now, aren’t you, Toki?”

Toki was too stunned to do anything else but nod dumbly.

Ofdensen smiled. “There’s a good boy.”

Toki wandered out of the office. For some reason, it was past noon. Tomorrow was happening right now. Disoriented and tingling all over, he made his way to his room and promptly went to sleep. He slept over 12 hours and woke up ready for midnight dinner. He put on clothes and went to find the others, met up with Pickles and Murderface and went to pester Jean-Pierre for filet mignon and cheese doodles.

And the Mordhaus employee suicide rate dropped down to its normal percentage.

Makes Perfect

2007-10-01T02:04:15Z

Mature Content: This story contains elements that are graphic in nature. Please exercise discretion.

Makes Perfect

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for graphic sex and profanity. Total PWP.

Summary: Coach Nathan keeps Skwisgaar after rehearsal for a little extra practise…

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

Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.

-Aristotle

The Mordhaus rehearsal auditorium was hot and stuffy that summer night. They were all sweaty and tired and sober and wanted to go get wasted and cool off in the pool. The thing is, they all knew they should be rehearsing since their autumn tour—Blood-o-Lantern—was coming up fast and they still sounded like shit. Pickles couldn’t keep the guitarists together or vice versa, Toki was flubbing his rhythms, nothing new there, Skwisgaar was showing off and adding too many licks, ditto for that, and Murderface was just fucking improvising the whole time. Nathan’s last nerve had died hours ago and his patience had already been chucked in a six foot hole a few weeks before.

“Alright guys, ENOUGH,” he snarled, tossing his mic onto the stage where the others watched it crack into lots of pieces. “If you dicks’re not gonna be serious about this then just get the hell outta here and come back when you actually give a shit.”

“Fine,” chirped Pickles, who gratefully tossed his sticks behind himself and moseyed away. Toki and Murderface peeled off their guitars and followed the drummer, and Skwisgaar was in the process of removing his axe when Nathan walked over and wrapped his large hand around the neck of the X-plorer, holding it in place.

“Not you. You’re stayin’ here until you fix those licks.”

Skwisgaar immediately took offense. “What! What’s were wrong wis dems?”

“They sounded terrible.”

“Bullshits! Yours de one-”

“Your playing was loose and sloppy.”

“Who’s are yous to-”

“Like your mom.”

“Okay I agrees wis you dere but-”

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

“No.”

Nathan nodded matter-of-factly. “That’s why. Here.” He pulled a flask out of his back pocket (he always had something to dampen his throat during rehearsals) and put it in Skwisgaar’s hand. “Take a few swigs and try it again.”

The Swede reluctantly did as he was commanded, wincing at the burn of the alcohol that poured down his gullet. “Ugh,” he muttered. “Taste like somebody’s drunk benzene and pisseds it into dis.” He handed the flask back to Nathan.

“From the top.”

Skwisgaar licked his lips and nodded.

Nathan counted off and the guitarist began his lead, attacking the licks with lesser focus than earlier, with some improvement. When they had gone through one song they moved on to the next. Sometimes they did the song twice before continuing, especially if Skwisgaar’s ad libbing went awry. Then they would go through it slow, then fast, then slow again. Skwisgaar began to show signs of steadily growing fatigue until he finally dropped his hands in the middle of one of the songs and gave Nathan a furious scowl.

“I’s are through,” he stated, just in case the frontman had any doubt. “I’m goings to de bed now.”

“Huh. I don’t think so. You’re stayin’ here ‘til we get this right.”

But the blond had already taken off his guitar and set it in its stand. He tossed his sweat-dampened hair behind his shoulder, smiled facetiously and uttered, “Fuck yous. I’s now leaving. Adjö och godnatt.”

Nathan would really like to see him try; he strode over and dropped his hand onto Skwisgaar’s head, gathered a fistful of hair and pulled it hard. Skwisgaar let out an angry squawk and his arms shot out, fists swinging. Nathan grappled him in both of his big arms, the Swede struggled and writhed, got turned around and accidentally knocked his teeth into Nathan’s chin. It was your average scuffle, nothing special about it. Then Nathan squeezed Skwisgaar close, tight up against him. Their hips suddenly pressed together and everything came to a grinding halt.

Blue eyes, now calm and placid, gazed up into smoldering green ones. “Oh,” Skwisgaar breathed, as if it all made sense now and everything was forgiven. “Okay.”

One hand still knotted in blond hair, Nathan pulled lightly and leaned forward, meeting those full lips halfway, eclipsing that slippery hot mouth with his own. He felt a pair of talented hands grasp his hips for leverage, and the kiss was returned with added hunger. An American tongue caressed a Swedish one; this was the only time Nathan was ever something like gentle. He didn’t like showing that side of himself, so Skwisgaar had learned to take advantage of such brief tenderness, knowing that things were going to get very rough very fast. He was always right about this.

Nathan pulled his lips away and reached around to grab that enviable ass of Skwisgaar’s, provoking an abbreviated bark of surprise. He squeezed hard, digging his fingers into denim and flesh, and nuzzled his face against Skwisgaar’s neck. “I wanna fuck you so bad right now,” he growled dangerously, pulling that ass towards him until a skull-shaped belt buckle was grinding against his fly. “Band’s driving me fuckin’ nuts…need some. Relief.” Another low growl. Nathan nudged his hips forward, making sure the other man felt the extent of his need. “I want you, Skwigelf. I wanna take you right now.”

Skwisgaar had gone quiet, a sign that he was already turned on and willing to yield himself to his bandmate’s desires. He always stopped talking when he got like this—the English-speaking part of his brain seemed to shut down, and all he could do until post-coitus was moan out broken sentences in a language nobody understood. Even Toki would’ve had trouble deciphering sex-drenched Swedish, and his and Skwisgaar’s motherlands were practically sisters. That made them cousins. Sort of.

The blond managed to pry himself out of Nathan’s crushing hold, and started to walk backwards with an arch grin teasing one side of his mouth, leading the way backstage. Nathan leered wickedly and followed, and once they had entered the semi-darkness the larger man grasped Skwisgaar by one wrist and one shoulder and pinned him against the wall.

“Right here. Right in this fuckin’ hallway. C’mere.”

He wrapped his big hand around Skwisgaar’s jaw and kissed him, pressing into him hard. The Swede snaked his bare arms over Nathan’s broad shoulders and allowed his bandmate’s thick thigh to rest between his legs. He nudged his hips receptively, indicating his compliance with Nathan’s dominance. He never had a problem with feeling inferior or insecure in his masculinity when it came to Nathan. Other men, maybe, but everyone knew that Nathan wasn’t a man.

He was an animal.

Nathan brought his free hand down to caress the thin fabric of Skwisgaar’s shirt. There came a broken sigh when the hand rubbed over something unnaturally hard, and Nathan grinned knowingly.

“You wore them today…”

He pulled Skwisgaar’s tucked-in tanktop out of his jeans and jerked it over his head, tossed it to the floor. Flyaway blond hair cascaded over Skwisgaar’s face, disheveled and beautiful, and the steel rings through each of his nipples gleamed red in the light of the exit sign above. Hard metal through soft flesh.

“I love it when you wear these,” Nathan purred like a flesh-eating beast, pinching one ring between his thumb and forefinger and tugging gently. Skwisgaar’s face melted into an expression of delirious lust, and he gripped Nathan’s biceps tightly. He uttered something that Nathan actually understood, having heard it moaned often enough during encounters like these.

“That’s right,” he snarled softly, grinding his hard-on against Skwisgaar’s narrow hips. “Keep begging, Skwigelf. Maybe I’ll listen.”

There came an answering moan with a few foreign words scattered throughout—the slender guitarist slipped his hand between his and Nathan’s bodies and worked his own jeans open as his bandmate continued to work the rings. Nathan helped Skwisgaar with his pants finally, hunching slightly to yank the denim down around his knees. That put him at a convenient height to attack those dusty pink nipples with his mouth—and he did.

Blue eyes rolled back for a moment and Skwisgaar leaned his head against the wall, stared at the ceiling, and grabbed a handful of blacker than black hair in his fist. “Gods damn it,” he groaned, feeling a slippery tongue tease one of the rings. Teeth clamped down on steel and skin, hard enough to produce an effect but light enough not to bleed. Skwisgaar was sobbing for breath at this point; wet lips parted, cheeks colored deeply, sex appeal defined.

But the foreplay wasn’t meant to last. Not when Nathan was this horny. He stood straight again, like a massive shadow rising to wreak havoc, and turned Skwisgaar around so that his cheek was pressed into the wall and his ass was jutting out vulgarly.

“Wait, Naten,” the Swede pleaded. “You’s have to-”

“I got it,” Nathan growled. “Stay still.”

Skwisgaar relaxed a little and waited patiently. By this point in time he’d found it necessary to carry a small thing of all-purpose lubricant with him in his jeans pocket; you never knew when you might need to oil a crankshaft or slip your head out of some rails, or grease up your mangina to accommodate your bandmate’s giant dick. For, as the saying goes, ‘tis better to have lube and not need it than to need lube and not have it.

Skwisgaar felt Nathan’s slippery hand between his asscheeks, large fingers gliding almost playfully in his warm cleft. They penetrated once or twice, just barely enough to make Skwisgaar want to scream for the cock, before retreating altogether. He half-smiled, half-winced in anticipation, bit his lower lip, bracing himself with legs spread wide. Totally and unabashedly wanting it.

Nathan guttered softly and rubbed his throbbing hot dick against Skwisgaar’s fleshy, perfect buttocks before guiding it down with his hand, positioning it just right, and ramming forward with all his might.

“Uh!” cried Skwisgaar. “Nh. Hah! Ah…oh.”

A couple more in-outs to smooth the way, and then there came that final thrust that slid sweetly into place, deliciously slick and tight and warm and right where it fucking counted.

The Swede reeled like a bludgeoned steer at the slaughter as the first shockwave of pure carnal pleasure hit him. “Fffahhh…fffahhhh!” He tried to swear but he’d forgotten how to speak.

Nathan held the narrow white hips in his big, meaty, tan hands as he pounded away like Thor at his anvil. “Gonna fuck you so hard,” he grunted between breaths, long black hair swinging pendulously as his hips thrust forward and back, “you’ll split. Two fuckin’ pieces.”

Skwisgaar pressed his forearm into the wall to have something to rest his head on, lest he get pile-driven through the drywall. He listened to Nathan’s words and reached down between his own legs with his other hand, stroking his straining cock.

These few moments of wallsex were interrupted when Nathan suddenly pulled Skwisgaar upright, turned him slightly, then forced him down to the floor. “On your knees.”

Skwisgaar obeyed, falling onto his hands and knees, but Nathan had other plans; the larger man grasped him by his slender arms and pulled him upright, until his narrow back was pressed tight against Nathan’s enormous chest.

“You’re not a bitch,” came the sultry growl in his ear. “Not till I say you are.”

Nathan brought his hands around to caress Skwisgaar’s lean torso, teasing his nipple piercings while the thrusts from behind came slow and deep. Nathan ducked his head down to rub his face against Skwisgaar’s neck and into his tangled blond hair, lapping and biting and sucking in such a way that the Swede would have done any-fucking-thing that Nathan asked him. And when Nathan pushed Skwisgaar’s hand out of the way and took that pretty cock in his own big fist, and started to stroke it in that way that made Skwisgaar moan like a virgin, it was on. Time for the hardcore, ass pounding, fuck-till-you-collapse final four minutes that was the whole reason two testicles-bearing bandmates had come together in the first place.

It happened fast; Nathan put all his weight behind each thrust, like he wanted to see the head of his dick crack through the top of Skwisgaar’s skull, and swore in single syllables with each rhythmic maneuver. Skwisgaar fell forward onto his palms, unable to steady himself on his aching knees alone, and chanted his worship of the cock that was making him feel so good, so so good. He came violently all over the floor and Nathan’s hand, and about a minute later Nathan came inside of Skwisgaar.

The two paused for a few moments, regaining their sensibility (ha) or something like that. Nathan pulled out, stood to his feet with a grunt and tucked himself in. Skwisgaar attempted to do the same but the vertigo got to him first, making him wobble worse than Pickles after an all-nighter. Nathan managed to catch him on his way back down to the floor, and Skwisgaar said to him, “Thanks.” Nathan steadied the Swede as he pulled up his pants and fastened his belt, retrieved his shirt from the floor and slipped it over his head. He didn’t say another word when he walked out of the hall.

Nathan grinned, watching him leave. He really liked Skwisgaar. He didn’t ruin the moment by fucking talking, he knew how to take the cock, how to suck it and milk it and ride it, and he didn’t stick around afterwards for any of that “cuddling” bullshit. He didn’t want commitment, didn’t want love. He just wanted to have sex, then roll over and go to sleep. Sometimes he even shared his cigarettes. He was every guy’s dream girl. Just cooler and penisier. All this made Nathan like Skwisgaar even more.

Later than night Nathan stopped by Skwisgaar’s room and found him sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in nothing, with his guitar in his lap. The amp was off and he was fingering the strings quietly. This was his before-bed routine.

“Thought you were goin’ straight to bed,” Nathan grunted.

Skwisgaar shrugged lazily. “Ah. Can’ts goes to bed wisout playings a little first.”

Nathan stood in the doorway a while, then walked over the amp sitting on the floor and clicked it on. The middle of Skwisgaar’s lick suddenly rang out in clarity, but the guitarist kept going. Nathan had to fight hard the urge to smile when he realized that the tune Skwisgaar had been having so much trouble with earlier that night was now as smooth and seamless as a pane of black glass.

He got a little bit carried away then and said, “You’re fuckin’ awesome.”

Skwisgaar looked up blankly and blinked. “Thanks.”

A lot of awkward ensued after that until Nathan drew a long breath and rumbled something about joining the rest of the guys at the jacuzzi. Then he left.

Skwisgaar stayed up a little bit longer, playing quietly, working on some new things he was going to try to incorporate into future songs. This idle tinkering was meditative, gave him time to think. He thought about lots of things now, but only one of them made him smile. In a little while he turned off his amp and the lights and went to sleep.

Even the perfect need a little bit of practice now and then.

Note: I'm still working on Snow White. This is just an old, mostly-finished fic that I finished up tonight.

Snow White (part iii)

2007-08-11T01:13:40Z

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language, violence, drug use and “adult situations”.

Summary: The classic tale of a jealous, psychotic stepparent out to get their stepkid. Now sexier with 25% more drugs.

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

t had been a pretty good week for Skwisgaar so far. His banjo performances had become a nightly occasion down at the old bar, and there always seemed to be more people every night, people he didn’t recognise as Seven Ores residents. True, most of them were grizzled old-timers who had no idea what metal or a Hellrider cover sounded like, but they were fans all the same and Skwisgaar liked being bought beer afterwards. They were a pretty okay bunch.

He got a ride back to the motel that night, bid his adieus to the leathery Jiacomo brothers, and prepared to have a nice sleep. He had drunk a bit much that night and was feeling bleary and uncoordinated, so when his door was kicked down at 3 a.m. and the howling mad Dr Rockso came crashing in with a whirling length of chain in his hands, Skwisgaar was completely unprepared and totally helpless.

With a high-pitched squeal and a pelvic gyration came the introduction: “I’M DOCTA ROCKSO, THA ROCK N’ ROLL CLOW~WN! I DO COCA~AINE!”

This was the last thing Skwisgaar was expecting, and the scariest thing he had ever seen. He jumped to his feet and wobbled, unsure of what to do. Rockso caught him in the temple with a flick of the chain, and Skwisgaar went down. By the time he had regained his senses Rockso was behind him, trapping the Swede between his massive spandex thighs, and pulling the chain tight around that white neck.

Skwisgaar grasped the chain in both hands and tried to ease the pressure to no avail; it was already too tight against his throat to intercept the metal with his fingers. Skin pinched between the links and bled. The pain wasn’t bad, but the instinct to breathe was killer. Windpipes and vocal cords and other tender pink ductwork failed to bring oxygen to the rest of his body. It began to shut down. Skwisgaar sputtered, struggled, scratched, kicked, fought for air, but Rockso was too strong. In one minute his face had gone light purple and the world was getting smaller and black-fuzzy around the edges, splotching in soft, comforting bursts of dark blue.

The clown laughed at the sport. “Just die already, brutha! Save us some time!”

Skwisgaar decided, with the situation hopeless and his world disappearing, that maybe it was best if he listened. So he closed his eyes and went away from it all. Rockso felt the body go limp and he waited a bit longer, then loosened the chain, stood up, and looked down at his victim.

“Too bad you WASN’T a chica, man! We coulda had us some fu~un!”

And with a tip of his cap, he took his chain and left the scene of the crime. A few moments later his chopper revved to life, a ridiculous horn blared a few bars of The Mexican Hat Dance, and the Doctor sped off into the night, task completed.

ickles and Murderface, driving back from L.A. in a dried-vomit-yellow El Camino with ghetto rust spots, passed Rockso on the highway, doing about 85 and laughing maniacally. Probably swallowing moths.

“Holee shit,” moaned Pickles, glancing in the cracked rearview mirror. “Was thatta clown?”

Murderface shuddered and said, “I think sho. I hate thoshe fuckersh but…shumthin’ about that one makesh me really shick.”

Ten minutes later they arrived at the motel, noticed the busted door to Skwisgaar’s room, and rushed in to find their chief witness and precious link to The Business sprawled on the floor with his long goldish hair spread out like a fan and his face tinted a pale bluish purple round the edges.

“Aw fuck!” Murderface swore, cigar dropping from his mouth.

Pickles didn’t say a word. Just darted over beside Skwisgaar, fell to his knees, and pressed two fingers to the bruised neck. One pause, two.

“He’s still alive,” Pickles muttered. “He’s still alive!”

He locked one hand on top of the other on Skwisgaar’s chest, and began to count aloud and thrust. Murderface dashed away as fast as an overweight federal agent can dash while Pickles attempted to resuscitate Skwisgaar. All kinds of thoughts were flashing through his mind: Who did this, one-two, why did they do this, how could they do this, three-four, what had the kid ever done to deserve this, don’t let him die, don’t let ‘im die, one-two, please live Holly c’mon please live please don’t die Holly-

Pickles pinched Skwisgaar’s nose and brought his lips down to his mouth, forcing air into him and then continuing with the chest-pumping.

“Fuckin’ wake up, Hollywood,” the agent muttered. “Ya don’t got permission t’ die yet. Do that on yer own time, but right now yer on mine n’ I’m not gonna fuckin’ lose ya like this. Fuckin’ wake up. I need ya. I need ya. Wake up, Holly…”

And then, like nothing had happened at all, Skwisgaar opened his eyes and let out a cough. Never had those half-glazed, bloodshot blue things looked prettier. Pickles stopped and broke into a relieved grin, releasing a huge sigh. “Jesus Christ, Holly. I mean Jesus Christ.”

Murderface came dashing back into the room, saw Skwisgaar sit up and exclaimed, “Jeshush Chrisht!”

“It’s…” the Swede rasped in a hoary whisper, “is startsing to…sound likes de church in heres.”

Pickles began to chuckle while Murderface sputtered madly. “You shtoopid shunnuva bitch! You shkared the fuckin’ crap outta us! An’ that fuckin’ clown that tried to kill you wuzsh even shkarier!”

“Wait a sec, you mean…?”

“Motorshykle tracks in the parking lot,” said Murderface lowly. “We shaw that freaky bashtard azsh he wuzsh leaving. Attempted homishide.”

Pickles helped Skwisgaar off the floor and onto the bed. “Take it easy there, Holly. There ya go. Murderface, get some water n’ ice…ya feelin’ okay, Hol?”

Skwisgaar coughed. “Somes creepy clown’s try to choke me wis a chain, Pickle. No, I is not feeling okay.”

“My bad,” Pickles murmured. He touched the bleeding bruise on the blond’s temple. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out who did this n’ make th’ motherfucker pay. I’ll see to it personally. I’m gonna go get somethin’ ta wrap yer head with, so stay right there. We’ll get this all sorted out.”

He stood to his feet to leave, but Skwisgaar grabbed him by the wrist. “Don’ts leafs,” came the soft whisper. “I don’ts want to be lone.”

Pickles sat back down on the bed and waited for Murderface to get back. The two agents tended to Skwisgaar’s wounds, received a full account of the evening, and Pickles let the Swede sleep in his room that night. He fell asleep in a chair, a full clip loaded in his pistol and the safety off. Just in case a posse of insane clowns should return to the scene to finish what they had started.

he story of Skwisgaar’s encounter with a chain-wielding, spandex-clad madman made the front cover of the Seven Ores newspaper again, though this time a big stupid-looking hulk of muscle with long black hair stopped at Mr Garcia’s gas station to buy a copy. Then he got back in his Cadillac and rode to L.A. to deliver the joyous news to his boss.

“Fucking clowns,” Toki snapped behind watering eyes, dropping the rolled Benjamin onto his desk and rubbing his nose. “Dr Rockso never faileds me until now.” He sighed, swivelling in his leather executive chair and looking quite like a kid. Nathan was glad his master had been doing lines for most of the afternoon—he could handle bad news a whole lot better when he was high.

After a few moments of intense thought, Toki swung his chair around to face his bodyguard. “Calls Ofdensen at de studio. Tells him to gets me in touch with Magic Ears. I think he still has a favour he owe me.”

ick “Magic Ears” Knubbler was a real piece of work. Tax evasion, disfigured a co-worker at an office party (melted her face with acid), soliciting prostitution, drugs, quite possibly a 25-year sentence. He was scrawny and lanky and chinless and he had a smile that would scare a shark. A psychopathic, psychedelic flower child who turned in his post-hippie days to studying poisonous mushrooms and psychotropic acids, he became a record producer as a day job and an international fountainhead of chemical espionage on the side. He was The Spy Who Drugged Me. He knew exactly 4,891 ways to poison a person; 3,055 ways to do it covertly, and how to do it in all four states of matter. He knew in what amounts these 4,891 ways were required to kill a man, woman, or child, and his idea of relaxation was downing a bag of pop rocks with a cola chaser. He had lost his eyes—yes, eyeballs—in a nuclear radiation leak and had had them replaced with electronic telescopic computer lenses wired to his brain. He could see everything, which came in handy for his side job.

Knubbler was badly-dressed and quirky but a pretty swell guy as long as you didn’t piss him off. He owed Toki Wartooth a favour for lending him a Snowy bargaining chip not too long ago, and today Toki called in his favour. He gave Knubbler an address and instructions, and told him to use twice the recommended dosage. Just in case the headache persisted.

he link-shaped bruises on Skwisgaar’s neck were beginning to fade by the time the agents felt that it was okay to leave him by himself again. They told Javier to call their cell phones if any suspicious people showed up; Javier agreed and they went on their way to L.A. to chase down some answers and investigate Skwisgaar’s case.

The Swede knew, somehow, that the clown had had a purpose. Somebody had sent him, and he seemed exactly the type of character who would be in association with Toki Wartooth. Birds of a feather flocked together—one crazy murdering bastard deserves another. How Toki had discovered him he knew not, but Skwisgaar kept his door bolted and windows locked and shades drawn and didn’t venture out after dark while the men with guns were away. Bad things always happened in the night, where no one could see them happening. That’s what had happened last time, so Skwisgaar wasn’t expecting his next attack to happen during the broad daylight.

The agents were due back that night and so Skwisgaar was feeling at ease, and decided that since nothing had happened to him all this time that maybe it was okay to let the windows open and get some of that fresh desert air. He was lounged comfortably on the bed, practising some new techniques with his banjo, when he was suddenly distracted by a noise at the window. Thinking (and correctly) that it might be some mercenary about to smash his way through, Skwisgaar quietly set his banjo on the bed, went to the door—the only other exit—and turned the knob, pulling it open slowly and making his escape.

The device rigged to the door was triggered by the angle of its opening, and a nozzle swung out into Skwisgaar’s face, spraying him with a paralysing neurotoxin. He took two steps backwards and fell to the floor, and Dick Knubbler stuck his head in through the window.

“Yo,” he said in a cheerful, nasally voice. “Don’t try to fight it, man. It’s got a groovy afterglow you’ll really like.”

The dweeby looking villain causally unlatched the window and set a silver attaché case—the kind that any master spy carriers—inside the room, and crawled in. He made his way to the groaning, motionless Swede.

“Sucks to be you, huh? Nyehh heh heh! Oh well. C’mon, let’s make this quick. I’ve gotta meet with the label in San Fran in three hours and I can’t spend all day killing you.”

In his mind Skwisgaar was screaming and fighting and thrashing, but outside in reality he remained still, paralysed from the neck down by the fast-acting drug he’d been sprayed with. Knubbler dragged him onto the bed with much effort, laid him out neatly and made him comfortable, then opened his attaché case and began preparing a hypodermic needle, filling it with a blue liquid from a small bottle.

Skwisgaar could see everything. He was watching his own death be prepared for him, and there was nothing he could do to intervene. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. He could only watch and wait. Every second and every breath he took was counted dearly, and the higher the numbers went the faster his heart began to beat. Skwisgaar didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. But he had no choice now. It was taken from him. Well, he thought, if he was going to die then he at least wanted to know the truth before he went.

“My steps-father send you’s, didn’ts he?” he stammered quietly.

Knubbler tapped the needle. “Right-o,” he answered brightly in that obnoxious voice of his. “Just got the call on Monday. Since that coke-crazy clown failed in choking you to death, Mr Wartooth thought he’d bring in the big guns this time, nyehh heh. Kay now, hold still while I jab you.”

“Wait!” cried Skwisgaar. “It’s is too early! Let’s me-! Just giffs me one second-!”

“Relax, man, this isn’t gonna kill you.”

“…it’s not?”

“Nyeh, this is just a mild hallucinogen with some diazepam to kill the vomit reflex. It’s a new thing I’m testing. The shrooms are what’s gonna kill you.”

Knubbler gleefully stuck the needle in Skwisgaar’s arm and shot the blue stuff into his veins. In a matter of seconds Skwisgaar’s pupils were wide open black and he was seeing things like cacti made of musical glass sprouting tiny banjos instead of spines, and burning red-orange grains of desert sand that were really individual suns in individual galaxies all burning and churning and whirling at once. And then a single-file train of chattering little bread umbrellas started chugging away from him, and Skwisgaar chased them across the surface of his firework-sparking, glitter-sand encrusted brain until he caught the caboose umbrella and ate it whole, and it was still kicking and screaming when it went down his throat but he knew somehow that he had to eat more or else all the pretty things would run away from him and he’d be alone alone all all alone…

But he caught the train to Australia and ate every umbrella, like a good boy. Yes, now everything was fine again. The sun fizzled out and a gooey warm lava-light darkness came, and the banjo-cacti pling-plinged for Skwisgaar as he lay on the warm sun-sand and felt the umbrellas turning into sparkly things inside him.

But then bits of nastiness started to interrupt the peace, like flashes of blaring loud static on a TV when the channel signal is fading, only this wasn’t like static—it was pictures of ceilings and floors and glass bottles and weird faces, and they brought feelings of horrific pain with them. These bursts became more and more frequent until finally there was one long flash that didn’t go away, and this was when Skwisgaar woke up.

Murderface was in front of him, forcing tequila down his throat while Pickles was behind Skwisgaar, arms wrapped around his middle, and giving the Heimlich Manoeuvre for all he was worth. The impacts were sickening.

“S-stop!” Skwisgaar cried, then he felt the vomit rushing up his esophagus and all he could say after that was “Hhrrauuuugehhhhrr!”

Deadly half-digested shrooms poured out into a putrid brown puddle on the carpet, and Skwisgaar was sure that he had just puked out his own guts. The two agents relentlessly continued this treatment until Skwisgaar had nothing left to throw up. Pickles laid him out on the bed, cleaned up his face, and then set to work forcing cup after cup of water between his lips. The pure liquid soothed his burning throat and quenched his thirst. In about an hour, unable to down another cup, Skwisgaar had passed into a deep but harmless slumber.

Pickles sat on the bed and held his head in his shaking hands, exhausted and heart still slamming.

“Awright,” Murderface grunted in the silence, staring down at the shroom and tequila mess on the floor. “I think we’ve overshtayed our welcome. It’sh not shafe here anymore, Picklesh. You know what we hafta do.” There was a dramatic pause. “Inquishishun time.”

“What?”

“Beat it outta him,” Murderface repeated matter-of-factly.

Pickles looked alarmed.

“You know he’sh hiding shumthing. He knowsh thingzsh an’ he ain’t tellin’ ush nuthin’.”

“That don’t mean we-”

“The only way to make ‘im talk ish to do it old shkool shtyle.”

“We’re not doin’ that.”

“We’ll break hizh toesh firsht.”

“We’re not breakin’ his anything!”

“Then WHAT? Faysh it, Picklesh! The idiot hashn’t helped ush one fuckin’ bit. Yer just keepin’ him around ‘cuzsh you like ‘im.”

“So?”

“SHO?”

“So?”

Murderface scowled. It was like watching a storm build in the mountains. “Yer bein’ nice to ‘im hashn’t made ‘im wanna tell ush nuthin’. We’re no better off than we were shix monthsh ago.”

“Jest give ‘im time, fer Chrissake!” Pickles said in a harassed tone.

“He won’t betray the Bizshnesh.”

“Well he’s scared t’ death to!”

“He’sh worfless.”

“He’s an asset!”

“He’sh a LIABILITY.”

Silence fell. The truth had been told. Murderface had won but he was anything but triumphant. Seeing the look of anguish on Pickles’ face had killed any sense of enjoyment out of winning the argument. Murderface felt it a little of it himself. Skwisgaar had grown on them both, but the line had to be drawn somewhere.

“Think about it, O’ Doyle,” he muttered.

And he left Pickles keeping vigil over the sleeping Swede.

unrise crept up on the small desert town of Seven Ores, and Skwisgaar woke to the sound of shuffling and zippers. He sat up in bed and saw his two rescuers gathering things like equipment and clothes and putting them into duffel bags. The blond blinked blearily and rubbed his eyes.

“Pickle? Myurgolfice? You’s are going to somewheres?”

Murderface muttered something under his breath that sounded like a smartass comment, but Pickles paused in his packing to go sit beside Skwisgaar.

“Holly,” he said, “it’s not safe here fer us anymore. Or fer you. We’re packin’ it in.” He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. “We came back last night n’ found ya unconscious, two minutes from dead. We found this-” He held up a bit of brownish grey something between his thumb and forefinger. “-on th’ floor.”

“Yah. I was poison, Pickle,” Skwisgaar murmured. “Some guy try to kills me wis mushed-rooms.”

“We know. Lucky we decided ta induce vomiting with th’ tequila, otherwise ya might not be here.” Sigh. “It’s all too big fer us. Somebody out there wants ya dead, n’ we can only pr’tect ya fer so long. We can’t risk our cover gettin’ blown. We-”

He stopped short and looked over at Skwisgaar, who read the agent’s green eyes easily enough. He read that he was now a risk to them, his rescuers, putting their whole operation in danger after all those suffering long months of work. They didn’t have to look after him; they didn’t have to care about him and protect him—they did it out of the goodness of their hearts, or at least that was the way Pickles was looking at him now. And deep in his still-queasy stomach, Skwisgaar felt that old guilt gnawing away at him, eating and eating like a single fat snowy white grub. It feasted on his conscience and his dreams and the heart he had almost lost once upon a time, and it wasn’t going to stop until everything had been devoured.

It was with that thought that Skwisgaar knew what had to be done. Toki was going to get him one of these days, sooner more likely than later judging by the rate of goons he was sending out, and Skwisgaar owed it to these two feds to let them hear the truth. Here would be his revenge on Toki Wartooth, his revenge on his neglectful mother, his revenge on Snow White, the thing responsible for so much violence and misery.

The life that Skwisgaar had so valued yesterday now seemed small in comparison to the sacrifice he would make. Fucking let them come and get him. He’ll be waiting and ready.

“Pickle,” he said to the redheaded agent, “I…know things. Things that coulds help your case.”

Pickles perked up and arched a suspicious eyebrow. “What things?”

Skwisgaar gulped. “Everythings. I know it alls. My mother…you see, she startsed it alls. Wis Columbia’s connects-con…de Snow White. I wills tell you’s anythings you-”

Pickles reached out and put his hands on Skwisgaar’s narrow shoulders. His face was white with disbelief, eyes wide and unblinking. “Wait. You…mean ta tell me…yer the son ‘a th’ Cocaine Queen.”

The Swede nodded, looking as if he could almost burst into tears, so great was this feeling of freedom. “My name’s is Skwisgaar Skwigelf, son of Serveta Skwigelf, de Snow Queen.”

Pickles smiled slightly, looking just a little insane. “I don’t believe it. I knew you was somehow involved in th’ business, but th’ goddamn son-! Murderface!”

“What!?”

“Get th’ tape recorder an’ a whole buncha blanks!”

“Fuck you!” But that meant he was going and getting them.

Then Pickles, overwhelmed, took Skwisgaar’s face in his rough, gun-chapped hands and looked him straight in the eyes. “You have no idea how precious y’are ta us, Holl- Skwiss. Skwisgaar.” He smiled, getting used to the name. “Yer a fuckin’ shinin’ beautiful diamond in this whole shitty stinkin’ world. An’ right now there’s no guy who’s courage I admire more than yours.”

One thumb absently stroked Skwisgaar’s cheek in an odd, gentle way that Skwisgaar found he didn’t mind at all, and then Murderface plodded over like a bull in a china shop and dropped the recorder and blank mini-tapes on the bedside table.

“Have at it, ash-holes,” he good-lucked to them, and Pickles let go of Skwisgaar reluctantly and began setting things up.

The Swede told everything in sharpest, accurate detail. He told of every misery, every jealousy, every drug orgy, every lonely moment, the story of his whole wretched life up to the point of his equally wretched near-death experience, and he named names. He gave addresses, numbers, associates, contacts, nicknames, everything that a childhood surrounded by drug cartels had afforded him.

Pickles sat on the bed and listened intently as the mini tape recorder clicked quietly away on the table. It was well into sundown by the time they ran out of tapes and decided to take a dinner break. “No mushed-rooms,” Skwisgaar warned, and went out to town with the agents in their dried-vomit-yellow El Camino with the ghetto rust spots, feeling safer and happier than he had yet felt in his life.

he small camera hidden in the ceiling light glowed red and alive from its unseen vantage point. It had been planted by a recent visitor as assurance to record the greatest death scene ever, but had recorded quite another scene altogether. And the live feed back to a laptop in Los Angeles had just delivered some very very bad news.

Toki Wartooth sat at his desk and clawed at the leather arms of his chair, grinding his teeth together in a perfect rage. “Fucking rat,” he seethed. “Fucking Sweden-rat! He working with de feds all this time. Fuck!” He paused a moment, massaged his forehead like it was his mind. “Well…all de little rats die someday.”

He reached into the lower right drawer, beside the empty silver cigar box, and took out the custom-made semi-auto 9mm. There was a snowflake and a crown fashioned on the muzzle. He stood and wedged the gun into the back of his jeans, then called to his henchman for the keys to the Caddy.

“Where are you going?” Big Nate asked.

“To ends what you didn’t,” answered Toki coldly.

Because if you wanted something done right, you just had to do it yourself.

To Be Continued...

part i - part ii - part iii - conclusion

Snow White (part ii)

2007-07-20T17:05:44Z

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language, violence, drug use and “adult situations”.

Summary: The classic tale of a jealous, psychotic stepparent out to get their stepkid. Now sexier with 25% more drugs.

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

hen Skwisgaar awoke two days later, he thought he had died and gone to Hell. That was the only reason to account for the ungodly heat. He sat up weakly, finding himself completely naked and lying in grungy motel bathtub filled with murky water. His arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably, and when he tried to get on his feet he promptly slipped, fell over, grabbed the mouldy shower curtain on his way to the floor, tore the whole bar and everything down, and smashed into the toilet.

A few moments later the chain-smoking redhead appeared in the doorway, dressed in dirty slacks, a ratty wife beater and an unbuckled shoulder holster, and watched with amusement as Skwisgaar crawled to his knees.

“Mornin’, Hollywood,” he said. “Thought ya weren’t gonna make it there fer a while.”

“Where’s…are I?” the Swede moaned, clutching the toilet bowl for support. His skull felt as if it had an axe lodged in it—he reached up to check for a hatchet or something but found nothing.

“Yer safe n’ that’s all that matters,” said the stranger, tapping his ashes into the bathroom sink. He tossed a towel to Skwisgaar and then leaned against the doorframe. “Y’ almost died back there, Holly. Was a lucky thing me n’ my partner found ya when we did. Yer organs coulda been on their way to Mexico in styrofoam boxes by now.”

Skwisgaar rose unsteadily to his feet and wrapped the towel around his waist. He raised his head slowly, eyes ringed with dark circles and his skin blanched like a corpse’s. “Who are yous?” he whispered.

A bright, shiny badge was suddenly flashed and Skwisgaar lost his balance, toppling backwards onto the floor in shock.

“Special Agent Patrick O’Doyle, FBI,” came the methodic tone. “Call me ‘Pickles’.”

The Swede stifled his urge to vomit at the mention of food but found it to be in vain; luckily the toilet wasn’t too far away and he emptied his guts into the grungy porcelain while Agent Pickles looked on without batting an eyelash.

“Yer some kinda fucked up, Holly,” he murmured, “but me n’ my partner ‘r gonna help ya. Then yer gonna help us. Fair n’ square, yanno. Whadda ya think?” Puff. “We gotta deal?”

Skwisgaar slumped against the toilet and nodded faintly. Right now he was too sick to care about anything other than his own survival. “Ja,” he croaked. “We gots a deals.”

Pickles nodded as if he’d been expecting the kid’s cooperation all along, and then helped him to his feet, limped him out of the bathroom and gave him some clothes to put on. Skwisgaar pulled on a pair of whitewashed jeans that were too big for him and a Rusty Wallace NASCAR t-shirt that he would have to be wasted to the point of death to wear. And considering that he had been wasted to the point of death, wore it without complaint. Then he curled up into a ball on one of the beds and tried to keep himself from shaking. His teeth were chattering like Vegas dice on a Saturday night.

Pickles sat down on the opposite bed and ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table. “Ken I get ya anything, Holly? Coffee, water, tequila…”

“Ice,” Skwisgaar mumbled. “Just…ice.”

“Okay,” said the agent, “but first I need ta know somethin’. How’d a nice guy like you end up inna nasty parta town like that?”

Skwisgaar winced, not wanting to be interrogated right now. “…I don’t remembers.”

“Ya remember Snow White though, right?”

The Swede’s heart skipped a beat and he suddenly became more attentive. He slowly lifted his pale face from the faintly mildewed coverlet. “How’s do yous know about dat?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come ta it, don’t worry Holly, jest tell me what happened n’ then y’ll get yer ice.”

Skwisgaar, head pounding like a double-kick, shut his eyes tight and pressed his face into the stale-smelling sheets, as if pushing his head straight through into the mattress springs would alleviate the throbbing pain. “It’s were a set-ups,” he groaned. “De drugs…guitars. Dey tries to kill me’s. Fucking…steps-father. Cut outs my heart and puts it in a box. I got aways and I’s run…run and run. Still alifes…still…de fastest…” He trailed off and could say no more. His head was splitting and he wanted to throw up again, but he knew there was nothing left in him to heave.

Pickles seemed satisfied by this information and got up to go to the lobby, picking up an empty ice bucket along the way. He found his fellow agent at a small table, cigar wedged between the gap in his front teeth, playing solitaire with a deck of 51. The ceiling fan did little to stifle the heat of the room, and Pickles slid into the chair across from his partner.

“How’zsh he doing?” asked the mustachioed cigarist, studying his cards.

“Better. Woke up a li’l while ago, not sayin’ much. Withdrawal, yanno.”

“Ya get anything yooshful outta him?”

“Yeah. M’ pretty sure he’s got some kinda connection to th’ industry. Says someone tried ta kill ‘im, stepfather or somebody. Seems pretty naïve ta be involved in this operation, if it weren’t fer th’ hair.”

“Hair?”

“Eh. Long. Kinda girly. I think he’s one ‘a those metalheads. You saw th’ shit he was wearin’. An’ he’s got calluses on his fingers. I’m guessin’ he’s some kinda guitarist. Sounds Dutch ‘r somethin’, yanno, real thick accent. Maybe he’s a turncoat to th’ industry, that’d explain someone tryin’ ta off ‘im. Kid’s been through a lot.” For a fleeting moment Pickles looked sympathetic, and his partner caught it.

“Don’t jump to conclushionsh, O’Doyle,” he muttered, laying down a card. “Theshe people are all the shame: fuckin’ bottom-feeding schit-a-th’-earth shcumball druggiezsh who’ll cack their own mom for another hit. Don’t wayshte yer time feelin’ shawry for ‘em.”

“I know I know,” Pickles muttered, annoyed. “Fer Chrissake I’m not fallin’ in love with th’ guy ‘r anything. I’m jest sayin’, if we keep ‘im around long enough instead ‘a throwin’ him inta th’ state pen like you wanted, maybe we ken squeeze some names outta him. Act nice, yanno, gain his trust. We might could use it. An’ if he’s who I think he is, you an’ me ‘r finally gonna blow this Snow White business right outta th’ water.”

t turned out that Skwisgaar had been taken from the dangerzone of L.A. to the outskirts of a small desert town called Siete Menas, a.k.a. Seven Ores, not far from the Nevada-Cali line. It was a bustling mining town once-upon-a-time, but when the gold and silver ran out and the land had scarred like lacerated flesh wounds, the only ore left to reap was a small bit of oil. The massive rigs still cast their shadows of perpetual motion across the flat horizon, and this is where the few remaining citizens of Seven Ores plied their trades. A rundown motel off the main highway served as home base of operations for two undercover federal agents and now the fastest guitarist alive. They never asked him his name, but called him “Hollywood”. Probably because of his platinum blond Barbie hair. They had a thing for nicknames, it seemed.

It took about three days for Skwisgaar to fully recover from his close brush with death, but the two men to whom he owed his life seemed to view it as merely a job that had to be done. Agent William “Murderface” Murdoch was particularly gruff and unfriendly, but Pickles assured Skwisgaar that his partner was a chronically hateful son-of-a-bitch and that anything he ranted about wasn’t to be taken personally. Murderface was the veteran of the duo, had worked more high profile drug cases than he had pairs of clean underwear, and was a notorious hardass who preferred being “out in the field” rather than back at the Bureau. Pickles had a decent number of cases under his belt and was by no means a rookie, yet he didn’t seem to be in as much danger of spending the rest of his life as a complete bastard.

But the agents’ attitudes couldn’t be helped, really; they were on month 21 of their assignment to rein in the drug lords responsible for trafficking a new brand of cocaine that was twice as dangerous as the regular dope. “It’s wicked shit, Holly,” Pickles said to Skwisgaar one night as they smoked cigarettes and watched Hawaii Five-O reruns. “Laced with all kindsa poisons, spiked like a Tennessee prom punch. Ya can tell it from everything else ‘cuzza th’ way it glitters. Like snow, yanno. Snow White. It’s killin’ people. Young people. Kids n’ all that, dumb teens who don’t know better. Me n’ Murderface, we think we’re gettin’ close. Somewhere in L.A., we think…but it’s a huge business. Scary business. Like ass-on-th’-line scary. No one’ll say anything, not even th’ cops. Our options’re runnin’ out, n’ we need a lead like yesterday...”

Skwisgaar felt sick to his stomach as he listened to Pickles’ words, and knew that the only way he could repay these nice feds for saving his life was to be a rat and tell them everything. But Skwisgaar wasn’t stupid. He knew what happened to rats—they went for a ride in the family Rolls and never came back. Or they ran to Mexico, and a phone call later met up with the Valenzuelas, one of the Skwigelfs’ finest clients. No one ever got away once they sang. And for someone in the family to betray another—if Skwisgaar, son of the Cocaine Queen herself, were to tempt the wrath of his already psychotic, murderous stepfather—the punishment would be a thousand times worse than any car ride or trip south of the border. Toki knew things, sick things, methods of torture, ways to keep people alive when they should be dead, and his madness only made him more powerful. That gruesome heart-carving murder attempt was just a sample of the guy’s sadistic nature. The thought of Toki Wartooth finding him alive, or finding out that he had leaked info to the feds, filled Skwisgaar with a brand of terror that muted his tongue against any confession.

The blond stubbed out his cigarette and wrapped his arms around himself in an unconscious defence mechanism. It was the only way he had ever found comfort. Not a hand had touched him nor arm had held him that had ever truly loved him. And out here in the middle of the fucking desert, trapped in some shithole motel with a couple guys who were probably going to send him to the big house, Skwisgaar had never felt so alone and unwanted in all his life.

n the second storey overlooking the pool, in an expensively decorated office, behind a polished shiny desk that occasionally wore fine white lines, in the lower right hand drawer that was always locked, beside the same gun that had a year earlier screamed “long live the queen”, was a silver cigar box that held a pig’s heart. Toki would open it up from time to time and smile at the putrefying organ, oblivious to the treachery his most loyal servant had committed, still believing that he was the fastest guitarist alive.

he days were long and hot in the desert. The agents took care of Skwisgaar for the most part, made the crummy motel as good a home as they could manage, but whenever they went to L.A. to run down leads and tap phone lines, Skwisgaar was left by himself for sometimes days on end. Pickles had warned him to stay low while they were gone, but Skwisgaar didn’t need to be told that; he didn’t want to be found out any more than the agents wanted to lose their golden link in some tragic act of retribution.

Boredom was the biggest obstacle to overcome. Much of Skwisgaar’s day was spent at the motel, watching daytime TV and sucking down ice cubes or wandering around the desert, kicking at cacti, challenging rattlesnakes and seeking shelter in the shade of the groaning oil rigs, which stood out on the horizon like a herd of grazing dinosaurs.

The sun was brutal, lethal, out here. Skwisgaar’s pale Scandinavian skin turned red, burnt, peeled, turned white again, and so on. Tan didn’t stick to him at all. No, his skin was and would always be white as cocaine. To save his face from the UV he took to wearing a mangled cowboy hat woven out of straw. He had found it in one of the empty motel rooms and Javier, the wrinkled, sun-scarred old man who owned the place, let him keep it.

The ramshackle town was too far a walk during the heat of the day, but sometimes Skwisgaar would wander in around sundown, visit the local pub for a few hours and shoot a game of pool by himself. He missed L.A. He missed the clubs. He missed his wealth. He missed his guitar and his groupies and his fame. He missed his life, as miserable as it had been—it was a hell of a lot better than this. He wasn’t used to this kind of desolation; he was raised in a crowd. Faceless strangers clustered around him made him feel secure. They were his surrogate family. He liked their mob mentality and their drugs and their horny girls. Seven Ores was like the surface of Mars in comparison. Here he felt cut off and vulnerable, lost and forgotten. He was in danger, alone like this. He needed the pack.

But he could never go back to the pack. He could never be seen again. He was nameless now, nothing but a memory. He really was dead. This was Death. This really was Hell. Hell is obscurity, and Skwisgaar was living it.

On most nights, sleepless and afraid, he would sit out under the dark blue sky, just outside his motel room, and smoke or drink beer. Sometimes both. The miles of dirt and sand around him were silent, and the only sound came from the battered TV just through the open door of his room. He would stare up at the stars and wonder about them. He found himself liking them, lonely pretty things like himself.

Funny. He’d never seen them in L.A.

he weeks were starting to run together like a bad dream when Skwisgaar came back from town early one evening and discovered Agent Pickles smoking lazily out on the front walk, waiting for him. He tossed his cigarette when Skwisgaar approached and grinned slightly, red goatee arching in a friendly way. Skwisgaar sat on the step beside him and said nothing, knowing that soon the silence would be filled by the agent’s Wisconsinish drawl.

“We gotta hit t’day,” said Pickles conversationally, “found a rat in South L.A., runnin’ for it. We took ‘im in fer questioning n’ left ‘im with th’ cops while Murderface n’ me traced th’ guy’s route. We come back later to a body bag n’ a crime scene. Offed in his own cell with a 9 mil, filled ‘im with enough lead t’ make a pencil out’ve ‘im.”

Skwisgaar felt his posture sinking, as if the words were weights being placed on his shoulders. They filled him with that vague feeling of low-key terror that was all the more terrible because it was the truth.

Pickles went on calmly, “Cops didn’t notice th’ perp till it was too late. Getaway car waitin’ outside. Smooth operation. In, bam, out.” He stared out across the barren twilight desert and sighed. “No matter what we do’re how close we get, these guys’re always one fuckin’ step ahead of us. I don’t know how they do it, Holly. I jest don’t know.”

Pickles took a swig out of the beer sitting on the other side of him and sucked in one of those suffering heroic “what’s done is done” breaths through his teeth. Then he sighed and the heavy subject was forgotten.

“Saw somethin’ t’day that made me think ‘a ya. Yer prob’ly gonna hate it, but at least it’ll help pass th’ time.”

Skwisgaar turned. “What its is?”

Pickles jerked his head behind him. “See fer yerself. I left it in yer room in case ya stayed out late.”

Something light and cheerful fluttered inside Skwisgaar’s belly, a pleasant feeling that he hadn’t felt for a long time, and he stood to his feet quickly, went to his room. Pickles remained where he was, smiling to himself. A few moments later Skwisgaar came trudging outside and plopped down next to the agent. He wasn’t smiling, though his reaction made Pickles chuckle.

Skwisgaar held in his hands a secondhand banjo.

“Dis thing is dildos,” he muttered.

“Ya haven’t even tried it yet.”

“I is not wantings to. It’s is a stupid grandpa’s guitars.”

“It ain’t a guitar, Holly.”

“It’s looking like it, a dumb lollipop ones dat’s half a snare drums.” Skwisgaar tapped the body to produce the drum sound. “Only de peoples wis red neck and no tooths froms de Sows plays dis.”

“That ain’t true,” Pickles said defencively. “My gran’dad was full-blooded Irish n’ he could tear th’ banjo better’n any redneck. He even taught me how t’ play a bit.”

“Good, den you’s use it,” Skwisgaar pouted, passing the banjo to Pickles.

“Yer such a pussy,” tsked the agent, plucking the strings experimentally and adjusting the tuning pegs. “I’ll show ya whatcha can do with this thing, n’ then you’ll like it.”

“Pffft.”

Pling plong. “…kay, I think it’s in tune.” Pling pling. “Hope I remember how t’ do this...” Pong pong pling pong. “Mmm…okay. Got it.”

And then Pickles, the boring-ass federal agent with scraggly red hair, started to play a lively old Irish folksong. Skwisgaar sat up in surprise when he heard how fast the notes changed, and saw how skillfully the player’s fingers were moving. It was a delight and an insult to the Swede’s heavy metal soul at the same time, like some kind of ancient electric guitar. It really didn’t sound that bad, if you could forget about the stereotypical hillbilly label attached to it. In fact, if it could be tuned to maybe a D minor, modified to a black body, the steel hardware detailed with skulls and dragons, and outfitted with a killer strap…

For the first time since he had been taken to this wasteland, Skwisgaar smiled. Pickles looked up and saw it, and he smiled too.

“Well…ya get th’ picture,” he said, handing the banjo to Skwisgaar, who said—though somewhat shyly—for the first time in his lifelong musical career, “Teach me how’s to plays likes dat?”

And Pickles agreed.

oon the banjo lessons were paying off, what little time Pickles could spare to teach. Skwisgaar took to it like a drug habit and soon he was making trips to town to show off his skills to the townsfolk, breathing a little bit of excitement into their dull, dusty lives. He had soon become the town’s most beloved son. He took requests, did some fantastic covers, and a few weeks later even earned a photo and a big fat column on the front page of the Seven Ores newspaper, which was really only a 4 page publication and limited to 30 copies. Pickles was genuinely glad for Skwisgaar, and since the paper was so small and never left the city limits he harboured no worries for the Swede being discovered. But just to be safe, Pickles had the writers change the printed name to Garth Squiggly.

But we all know this story, and we all know that something’s going to fuck up sooner or later. So here follows the chain of events that caused the story to fuck up:

Mr Garcia ran the town’s only gas station and was a particularly big fan of Skwisgaar’s, and bought several copies to stock his magazine rack. Over the next few days a couple truckers passed through to refuel and unload, and needed fine literature to read on the crapper. Most of the time that’s where the paper would stay, but one trucker in particular took an interest in the crossword and decided to bring the paper with him.

Said trucker worked at a furniture distribution centre in L.A., and left the creased paper bearing his finished crossword at the loading bay. There was a big delivery to be made to a Beverly Hills address, and by coincidence one of the staples on the cardboard boxes had given out due to a piece of glass chafing the box, and was partially sticking out. One of the workers grabbed a nearby newspaper, stuffed it in, and stapled it shut again.

The delivery was made to Bev Hills, and since the owners were environmentally conscious, they decided to recycle the packing contents of their new furniture.

The crumpled paper sat at the bottom of the recycling bin until Tuesday, then the recycling truck dumped in the contents and drove off through the other high class burbs in L.A. to do their rounds. They didn’t notice that some of the trash was half-pinned in the compactor, and soon enough it had torn free and was left in the road behind them, sticky with who the hell knows what.

A car drove over it, the clump of mangled papers got stuck to the tyre, dislodged and got blown into the undercarriage, where it rode for a few miles before falling free again. Then the hot L.A. breeze carried it through the security gate onto somebody’s manicured green lawn. One of the yard maintenance guys picked it up and tossed it onto the top of the pile in the recycling bin, which was kept just outside the 5-car garage. That night the owner’s manservant came out to deliver some large booze bottles to the bin, took one look at the greasy, wrinkled, dishevelled front page of the Seven Ores newspaper, and dropped everything he was holding.

Shattering glass broke the still night air like gunshots. That man was Big Nate, and when he saw the banjo-bearing, cowboy hat wearing, NASCAR shirt-clad but familiar face of Skwisgaar Skwigelf smiling up at him, he went whiter than the Swede himself.

Nathan grabbed the paper and went out to the back yard to light it on fire and dispose of it, but his boss just so happened to be in the back yard playing putt-putt with his favourite groupies. Toki called to his bodyguard to come over and watch this putt, and Nathan nearly panicked. Nearly. He kept his cool, wadded the paper in his big fist, and hoped that Toki wouldn’t ask. Surprise, he did.

“What this here?” the Norwegian queried, pointing to Nathan’s clenched hand.

“Stress relief,” Big Nate grunted.

“Lets me sees it.”

Nathan was dumb but he was obedient, and he opened his fist and allowed Toki to unfold the crinkled paper. A few seconds later he let out a low, sputtering scream as his face turned dark red with rage. He glared up at Big Nate, then back down at the paper, Nate, the paper, and so on and so forth until he finally detonated like a bomb.

“How possible this is!?” he demanded to his servant. “You kills that brat months ago! You cuts out his heart and giffs it to me! Is up in dat box, right? RIGHT!?”

Nathan said nothing, but hung his head in answer.

Toki’s jaw dropped in shock. “YOU DECEIF ME!” he screamed, as if even he couldn’t believe it. “HOW COULDS YOU DOES THIS TO ME!?” The groupies scattered like roaches.

There was, again, no response.

Toki took a slow, collective breath inward. “So…de sons of a dead bitch is still alife?”

Nathan nodded.

Toki, calm again though face still red, looked down at the paper. “Seven Ores. Okay. I thinks I has a job for de Doctor. He cans fix this problem.”

Big Nate blanched and gulped loudly. “No. Not him. You…you can’t.”

“Oh hoho, yes I cans,” Toki uttered, staring venomously at his bodyguard. “Since you isn’t man enoughs for de job, den I gets someone else to do its. De Doctor alway makes house call.”

he Doctor, as he was called, wasn’t really a doctor at all. He was a clown. A rock n’ roll clown. He did cocaine, and that was how he was paid for his services. He was perhaps the scariest clown on earth; he wore a skin tight, revealing neon-coloured spandex jump suit, combat boots, a huge wig, a black leather biker hat, all of the clown makeup, foam nose and all, and a spiky dog collar. He spoke in screams like a shrieking Mississippi grandma. His brain was full of holes from drug use, he was sociopathic, manic depressive, passive aggressive, coercive, a registered sex offender, extremely violent, and occasionally available for parties. But he was mainly a hit man, murder-for-hire. And he was the man that Toki called when he needed to put out a hit. No one ever expects a killer clown. Besides, Toki liked the guy. He made him laugh.

“Dr Rockso,” he said on his cell phone, “I has a job for you…”

Nathan could only stand outside his master’s door and listen passively to the plans to snuff the life out of the one he had tried to save. There was nothing he could do now. He was in the dog house. Toki probably had some horrible punishment waiting for him after Skwisgaar was taken care of. Sure, Nate was nearly twice Toki’s size, but the little guy was meaner than hell and he had a lot of fight and power in him. Nobody fucked with Toki Wartooth.

And that was a lesson that Skwisgaar was going to learn.

To Be Continued...

part i - part ii - part iii

Snow White (part i)

2007-07-10T19:19:26Z

Been working on this one a while. Here's what I have to show for it (so far):

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for language, violence, drug use and “adult situations”.

Summary: The classic tale of a jealous, psychotic stepparent out to get their stepkid. Now sexier with 25% more drugs.

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

os Angeles CA, late 70s. It was a good era for the Eurotrash. Serveta Skwigelf, former Miss Sweden from a year she had stopped mentioning a decade ago, blonde and perfectly-figured, had been a beloved fashion accessory on the arm of many a rising young star. Twinkling blue-shadowed eyelids had bowed before millionaires, long lashes had fluttered seductively over martini glasses at parties, silver high heels and painted-on miniskirts had been tossed under myriad beds in Beverly Hills, cigarettes had been lit between glossy red lips in dark, smoky corners of Hollywood’s most illustrious clubs, and there was nothing which her sex appeal could not afford her. Serveta became famous by her associations, rose to aristocracy through her glamourous personality, and was Tinsel Town’s favourite sex symbol.

The tabloids targeted her many affairs and scandals, most of which were true, yet this negative attention only made her more renowned. She married once, twice, thrice and more. Still currently divorced after #5. A reputed lush, her dirt was legendary, as were the rumours of her extraordinary sexual appetite and a penchant for pretty white lines. But none of that was equivalent to the shock received when her pregnancy first went public. The media hype was sensational, and speculation as to who was the father of the child went unresolved. Serveta herself never spoke of the baby’s paternity, and thus was her bastard son Skwisgaar born into a society of ill-gotten luxury—skin as white as cocaine, hair as yellow as gold, blood as red as sin.

Skwisgaar, alike in beauty as his infamous mother, was innocent and oblivious of the world that was now against him, and it was not unusual to find Serveta leading the attacks on her own son. Her beauty was ravaged by the strains of maternity; the weight never left her thighs and belly, her once-admirable bosom began to sag, she developed varicose veins and cellulite, her complexion became rough and dry, her hair dulled and lost its splendour, and she owed it all to her son, whom she in turn neglected and put in the care of a sitter whenever she could. He was excess baggage—nobody wanted a woman with a kid. Serveta underwent plastic surgery to undo gravity and time, and swallowed her pride with Vicodin chasers in order to maintain the standard of living to which she had become dependent. She went through rich, trashy boyfriends like underwear—not that she was ever particularly fond of wearing the latter—and Skwisgaar became accustomed to her many paramours and the nights when thumps and moans were his only lullaby.

Serveta was dating an alcoholic rock star when Skwisgaar turned 6. She’d been with him longer than any of the rest, mainly because of his constant supply of cocaine and a lack of good judgment, and was the closest thing to a father figure that Skwisgaar was ever going to get. His mom’s boyfriend gave him a guitar for his birthday—a shiny new Gibson X-plorer—and when the guy OD’d five months later, Skwisgaar focused his angst and frustration on the guitar and soon found a suitable outlet for the emotional pain that plagued him daily. Skwisgaar taught himself to play, and play well. He avoided his mother and the endless queue of men she continued to drag home, found no comfort or reward in his schooling (as his Swedish tutor was also banging his mom), and soon Skwisgaar had developed a dislike for all things female.

Serveta, her looks having already vanished by the time Skwisgaar was 13, fell into association with a high-profile trafficker from Columbia and formed “a business arrangement” that was to the benefit of both parties. Marketing a unique blend of coke dubbed “Snow White”, she became the queen of the Los Angeles night, earned a reputation for being a saucy bitch who flashed collagen smiles as she sold her poisoned apples, and was revered by dealers everywhere—the sweetheart of narcotics, the honey-mama of crime. Her rule was absolute and everyone in town bowed to her. The LAPD was bought and paid for, the CIA wouldn’t touch her—she was omnipotent.

Such as it was, money was no longer a concern and the Skwigelfs lived in excessive luxury, though Skwisgaar was not made any happier because of it. Alternately it made his life a living hell. “Snow White” haunted him, hunted him, prevented him from achieving any legitimacy and normalcy for himself; always would he be known as the bastard son of a drug dealing slut. He’d given up on goodness long ago, being damned before he had even been born. Music was now his only passion and he quickly became known for his legendary licks in the L.A. metal scene, an attachment that was perhaps as dark and brutal as that of the cocaine industry.

By his fifteenth year he’d been offered several contracts and labels, but being a minor, required his mother’s permission before any official action could be taken. Serveta, however, was far too busy entertaining clients by the poolside to sign her name to her son’s dream. Skwisgaar retaliated by taking his music even more seriously and haphazardly throwing his virginity to the wind. He was rich, talented, handsome and Swedish—getting girls was easy. And that was all they were to him. Easy.

Entering his 20s granted Skwisgaar certain freedoms, but he still remained wholly dominated by the Queen of Cocaine, trapped in her realm and rendered a helpless subject to her power, forced to witness her unyielding affection for Snow White, a love greater than a mother’s love for her son. But Skwisgaar was strong. He held out, hoping bitterly that someday this would end. Someday he would be free.

Someday his chance will come.

kwisgaar was a few months short of 23 when from out of the blue his mother announced that she was getting married again. This would be Hubby #7. Skwisgaar was indignant about it all, but that was nothing compared to the shock he received when he discovered that his soon-to-be stepfather was as young as himself: he was a long-haired Norwegian guy with an impressive physique and a hulking, stupid-looking bodyguard named Big Nate who talked in growls and towered over peoples’ heads like a Gotham City skyscraper. His master, Toki Wartooth, was not a man to be fucked with. That was made clear the moment he and Skwisgaar were first alone, shortly after the wedding had taken place; the back of a hand went across the Swede’s face and a boot to the chest sent him slamming down into a chair. That same boot then rested itself on the crotch of his jeans as Toki leaned in close, smiling pleasantly.

“We gets one thing straight here,” he murmured, taking Skwisgaar by the chin, “don’t fuck with me, Pretty Eyes, or I fucks you up real good. You doesn’t even wants to know what’ll happens if I lets Big Nate has you.”

There came an answering growl from the shadows and Skwisgaar squeaked in humiliation as his balls were painfully pinned between a heavy boot and a chair.

“I runs this show now. Your mom don’t know what’s it is she got herself into, but I here to stays, understand? Your mom’s mine, and you mine too. Son.”

A thumb stroked Skwisgaar’s trembling, bleeding lower lip and Toki sneered at him lewdly. “Bloods as red as sin. You such a pretty thing, you knows. Lots prettier than your mom. Look likes I joins de right family.” With a wicked laugh he released Skwisgaar and then vanished with his henchman. The young Swede was strong, but not strong enough for this. He folded himself in two and wept, and never spoke of the incident for fear of his own life.

Six months later Serveta S. Wartooth “accidentally” shot herself while passed out drunk one evening, and everything—including Skwisgaar—passed into her husband’s possession. Toki was now the king of L.A., and his stepson was soon to become the focus of his most ardent attention…

ach day would start as the last: upon rising in the early afternoon, Toki would attend to his hangover, talk to clients over brunch, do a few lines, and then play his guitar in the plaza outside. He was fast, he was good, and he was metal. But he knew not of Skwisgaar’s similar talents, though when the knowledge was disclosed it did not make him any more affectionate towards his stepson. Instead he became jealous and paranoid—exceedingly so—and hired a manager who had beaucoup connections in the music industry and who knew all of the greatest guitarists in the world. He was instructed to stalk Skwisgaar and make note of his rapidly advancing abilities.

Every day Toki would ask the same thing, “Ofdensen, you knows everythings. Tells me, who is de fastest guitarists alive?”

“I’ve double-checked all my sources, Mr Wartooth,” Ofdensen would reply. “There is no guitarist alive who is faster than you.”

And this would satisfy Toki until he would hear Skwisgaar up in his room, composing new licks and shredding them with such a magnificent sound as to put the Norwegian’s playing to shame. Thus Toki spent his days beside himself with envy and fear of the Swede eclipsing his own talents.

And then, perhaps a year or so after the death of Serveta, when Skwisgaar was at his handsomest and most affluent point in life, Toki asked of Ofdensen the usual question, but this time the manager replied, “It distresses me, Toki, to tell you: there is one other now who is faster than you.”

“Who is he?” shouted Toki, slamming his fists on the table. “Gives me his name!”

Ofdensen sighed and said, “You know it well enough; he is your stepson, Skwisgaar Skwigelf. He is now the fastest guitarist alive, and is at this moment on the verge of forming his own band. If that happens…”

Toki frowned darkly and stroked his Fu Manchu. “Yes, he is havings such good lucks, so much to lives for. It would be so very unfortunates if somethings was to happens to him…Nathan!”

The monstrous man was at his master’s side momentarily. Toki turned to him with a deadly glare. “I thinks now would be a good time for you and Skwisgaar to gets to knows one anothers. Takes him to Mira-Mira, they hasing a rave there tonight. Waste him, load him, fucks him up.” He reached across the table and slid an ornate silver cigar box towards his henchman. “Cut out his heart and puts it in this. I wants it on my desk tomorrow mornings.”

Nathan picked up the box with a grunt of acknowledgement and disappeared.

kwisgaar was surprised and suspicious when Big Nate came to him early that evening and suggested that they attend a rave at one of the underground hotspots; however, Skwisgaar was too intimidated by the dark haired man to say no, and so the Swede put on his leather and stainless steel, strapped his guitar to his back, and set off with his escort, unaware of the large knife hidden in Nate’s belt and the silver cigar box in the back seat that would be carrying his heart home in just a few short hours.

Everything went as planned at the rave. Skwisgaar was almost a little grateful to Nate for taking him out like this. Letting himself go wild and loose was a luxury his suffocating lifestyle rarely afforded him. After a couple blotters of LSD, several lines of Snow, and enough absinthe to impress even the most hardcore 19^th century literary figure, Skwisgaar took to the stage with his X-plorer and added a little metal to the obnoxious techno beat.

Even wasted beyond comprehension, the Swede was still the fastest—if not the best—guitarist alive. Anyone who could turn electro-techno-geek-fag-music into brutal bone-crushing metal possessed a talent that few on this earth could claim to be blessed with. Nathan was witness to this, and deep down in his black heart he regretted that he would be forced to extinguish this prodigy, to savagely carve out its soul and deliver it to his cruel and hateful master like a prize. Surely, to own the heart of the handsomest, most gifted young man on earth was indeed a prize…but not like this. Not this way.

Four thirty in the morning saw Nathan dragging a barely-conscious Skwisgaar from the dwindling rave and into the backseat of the Caddy, where he gently lay the blond down on the black leather and crouched over him on his knees, staring down at him. Even in a drug-induced state of hazy delirium, Skwisgaar was beautiful: his hair, yellow as gold, spread about his head and cascading in winding tendrils off the seat; his skin, white as cocaine, soft and cool and hugged tightly by his dark clothes; his blood, trickling from his nose from too much blow, red as sin.

Nathan leaned down and peeled off Skwisgaar’s shirt, folding it carefully—as if it really mattered—and putting it in the front seat. The Swede, grateful for the cool air against his feverish flesh, slung his forearm over his eyes and sighed drowsily. The man drew his knife silently and stared down at the white chest beneath him, gently rising and falling, the shiny metal studs that pierced those rosy nipples gleaming in the faint light. Nathan placed his left hand over one, feeling the throb of the heart beneath it, the warmth of the skin, the softness.

The blade came down, its sharp point painlessly ghosting the area just to the right of Nathan’s hand. The man gulped, blinked, sweated, trembled unsteadily. One move. One quick downward thrust and it would be done. He could do it in maybe 5 or 6 slices, providing that the steel would go through the bone easily enough. If he had to carve, it would take longer for the kid to die, and he might fight back. Sling blood. Scream. Wouldn’t matter anyway. Nathan had towels in the back for the blood, could be useful for gags as well. Maybe he should gag him first, just in case…

A small bead of red-as-sin blood had formed where the tip of the blade was pressing into Skwisgaar’s chest, and the blond suddenly lowered his arm and blinked sleepily, gazing up at Nathan. The big man froze in pure horror when those pretty blue eyes fell upon him, and he immediately lifted the knife and tossed it down onto the floor.

“I can’t…I can’t do it-!” he choked gruffly, eyes stinging with tears. “Forgive me, Skwisgaar. Forgive me…”

Skwisgaar, alarmed by such odd behaviour, sat up and noticed the blood drop that ran down his chest. He touched it tentatively, then saw the shine of the knife on the floor of the car, and through his overdrugged mind he managed to put two and two together.

“He…sent yous to kills me, my stepfather dids,” he said, and Nathan nodded.

“He wanted to kill you. For being the fastest guitarist alive,” came the explanation. “Ordered me to bring your heart back. In that box.” He pointed to the silver cigar box nearby, then hung his head. “I’m loyal to Toki…but I can’t kill you, Skwisgaar. You’re…still innocent. Never hurt anyone. Talented. Beautiful.” He reached up and brushed his large hand against Skwisgaar’s pale cheek. “But you can’t go back home. Ever. Run away, Skwisgaar. Run away and never come back!”

Skwisgaar, fright magnified by the drugs coursing through his veins, somehow dragged himself over the side of the car and tumbled out into the alley.

“Leave L.A. right now,” Nathan told him. “Call a cab. Get the first flight outta here. Change your name. Do whatever it takes.”

“But…what’s about yous?” Skwisgaar cried. “What’s will you do ifs you goes back wisout my heart?”

“I’ll thinka something,” Nathan muttered, sliding in behind the wheel and shooting the Swede a glance. “Enjoy the rest of your life. It’s yours now.”

And just like that, he drove off and left Skwisgaar standing alone in the alley, shirtless and guitarless, in a part of town he was unfamiliar with, terrified and fucked up from all the drugs he’d taken. He staggered down the alley through the shadows, smashing into metal and wood and breaking glass, falling down and hardly being able to get himself back on his feet. His terror manifested hallucinations, and suddenly everything in the whole world was after his heart. They reached out with their claws, wanting to sink their daggers into his chest and rip the red jewel—drenched with blood and still thumping with fear—from his breast. Shadows closed in on him, cracked windows smiled down at him like glass devils, and the pounding of his heart did nothing but magnify their lust for his most vital of organs.

Trapped in this nightmarish wonderland, Skwisgaar began to run, fleeing from the horrors of an attempted murder, scratching his flesh on jagged ends of chain link and running into people who looked more like monsters than people: red-eyed, shadowed, beastly, grinning at him like Death. He saw a dead hooker in a dumpster who turned into his mother, the grey-skinned, rotting corpse of the Cocaine Queen who grinned maggots and reached out to grab her son and pull him into the garbage-coffin with her. Skwisgaar dodged with a scream and sobbed as he ran onward. The alleys were a giant maze and he was a small mouse, turning one corner and then another, not knowing if the next change in direction would lead him to salvation or to a hungry, coiled snake.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Skwisgaar was too tired to take another step and collapsed where he stood, right into a stack of cardboard boxes that smelled like cat piss. A few moments later the battered back door of one of the buildings banged open and a cigarette-puffing redhead stepped out into the shadows.

“Ey! Who’s there? I swear t’ Gad if it’s one ‘a you damn cats again I’m gonna go down t’ Sancho’s TANIGHT n’ buy me a freakin’ SHOTGUN n’ start blowin’ buckshot in yer raggedy-”

A low moan in the nearby pile of cardboard halted his rant, and after moving a few boxes out of the way, he peered down in astonishment at a very attractive blonde chick who was passed out and…wait a sec. Was that a dude? It was. And he looked seriously messed up. The redhead crouched down to inspect the pretty boy and discovered that he had probably OD’d on cocaine, evident by the blood trickling from his nose. Looking closer he also saw the powdery white residue clinging to the long strands of blond hair. The stranger frowned, reaching out to collect a bit of the coke on his fingers, then gazed down at it meditatively for a few moments.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “This’s the stuff.”

Wedging his cigarette between his lips, the redhead leaned down and grabbed Pretty Boy by the arms and dragged him inside the building. The door slammed shut and locked behind him.

To Be Continued...

part ii

In Other Words

2007-05-25T01:07:35Z

Something metal, something new.

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.

Tokirella

2007-04-13T01:22:45Z

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: T+ for some graphic violent content, language, narrative stupidity and disgusting cuteness.

Summary: The classic rags-to-riches fairytale gets a heavy metal makeover.

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

nce upon a time in a cold, dreary Norwegian village there lived a young reverend named Aslaug Wartooth, who led a pious, isolated life until he was introduced to Anja, a young woman with a face like a funeral dirge who was just as silent and austere as he was. Though both were devoutly religious members of the church they were firstly human beings, and like all human beings they needed to get their freak on at least once in their lives.

At first it was easy to get away with, being that they were both tight-lipped and scary looking enough that no one dared ask them questions, but it soon became apparent that Anja was pregnant and no one in the village was going to buy the “immaculate conception” excuse. Someone had been diddling her in the doo-dah, and every finger in town was soon pointing right at Reverend Wartooth.

The church’s flock dispersed once the humiliating scandal went public, and the village fell into disrepair. The sun ceased to shine from above; dark clouds hung low over the village and cast shadows over the mouldering ruins of a once-gloomy town now reduced to something even more suicidally monochromatic than an Alfred Hitchcock movie set. The God-fearing villagers took this as a sign that someone Upstairs was seriously pissed off and they all fled overnight, leaving behind only a handful of religious masochists.

Reverend Wartooth could have easily blamed the whole thing on Anja, calling her a vile, wicked temptress of lust and deceit, but with her looks no one would believe him. He decided that the best thing to do would be to marry the broad who was carrying his illegitimate love-child, but he was the only holy man left in town and he didn’t know if it would be right to marry himself. So they formed a strange sort of union that really didn’t do anything to bring folks back to town, and several months later Anja gave birth to seven and a half pounds of wailing, blood-drenched divine justice.

God must have finally had mercy on the two sinners because the baby boy that had been brought into the world bore very little resemblance to his homely (see also: hideous) parents; still, He must have had a sick sense of humour because the littlest Wartooth totally messed up Mommy’s reproductive plumbing on the way out, making any chances of sex after the kid nil. Not that Anja or Aslaug ever planned to do that again, but having a mangled vagina just added injury to insult.

They named him Toki. It was Norwegian for “worthless little accident”.

y the time little Toki was old enough to toddle his parents had started to put him to work cleaning the church, sweeping the cottage, chopping wood, breaking stones, fetching water, cooking meals, carving soap, peeling potatoes, pruning the weeds, skinning rabbits, washing clothes, washing dishes, washing walls, washing tables, washing the wash bucket, basically every chore you’ve ever had to do when you were grounded as fuck. Only this was like being grounded from the cradle to the grave without parole. Anja and the Reverend wanted to make certain that their son had no chance of ever being happy and meeting an ovulating female and subsequently spawning the Antichrist, so they kept him busy with menial tasks from dusk till dawn and told him stories about how God was going to punish him if he ever disobeyed them. It had worked so far.

God had nothing against Toki at all and He had no idea why the Warteeth were being such cunts to their adorable little blue-eyed son. So He called up Odin (Norway was under Odin’s jurisdiction anyway) and told him to see if there was anything that could be done so that the poor kid got in a few kicks from time to time. Odin did just that by “adjusting” a major road running through Lillehammer, which caused a lot of lost tourists to end up the village every now and then. Toki enjoyed the visits from foreigners—most of whom were from the United States—and was apparently the only one who did since the whole village was about as happy to see Americans as they were the Black Plague. Toki found ways to sneak out of school and spend time with the visitors, and he even learned a little bit of English. That sure beat sitting in a freezing, dilapidated classroom with a bunch of kids who hated his guts just because he brought the Dark Ages down on everyone.

The biggest turning point in Toki’s miserable-thus-far life came when a Finnish metal band ended up in town due to an unfortunate accident involving their tour bus driver, a fifth of vodka, and an upside-down map of the Arctic Circle. They had nothing to do but wait until somebody arrived to fix their broken-down bus, and it was during this time that Toki got his first exposure to modern music.

He had never seen men with long hair before and was utterly fascinated by the ritualistic way they seemed to enjoy swinging their heads round when they practised their songs in the village hall. The clothes they wore were covered with skulls and snakes and thorns and hammers and burning hearts and bloody naked women and all of the things that looked applicable for entrance to Hell, and they wore chains around their necks like jewelry, boots and belts of steel and iron, and leather everything studded with spikes long enough to be an eye hazard. And the beautiful metallic screaming that came from their strange-looking instruments! Toki was thrilled by it all.

One night he was spotted eavesdropping on the band and was invited by one of the guitarists to come listen since everybody else in the village was locked in their houses and too busy praying for destruction of the Sodomites and Gomorrans in their midst. The band played their whole show just for Toki and the little boy couldn’t have been happier. It must have been destiny now when you think about it because he never once felt fear from these otherwise scary-as-fuck looking men of metal. Of course, this was the kid who played in the village cemetery since he was banned from the playground and had the two most frightening parents on earth. A couple long-haired guys who made beautiful music certainly wasn’t going to terrify him.

When it came time for the band to leave a week later, Toki bade them a tearful farewell and the big evil-looking metalheads got very sad and took turns giving him bone-crushing hugs that smelled like booze and armpits and old leather, and the rhythm guitarist who had become rather fond of the boy offered up his spare Gibson.

“Is not much wit’outs de amp,” he said, handing it to Toki, “but is good for to practising on. Maybe you one day grows up and be in a metal bands of you’s own.”

Toki breathlessly thanked the man and returned to his home where he hid his special gift out in the woodshed and said nothing to his parents. Late at night he would sneak from his bedroom window and go to the shed, dig the guitar out from behind the piles of wood, and play quiet songs by moonlight. And like any self-respecting Norseman he named it—Mjølner, after Thor’s mighty hammer.

oki was now sixteen years old and cut like a stone fox from years of hard labour. He had decided to grow his hair long like his metal heroes and it vexed his parents; they used to creep into his room and trim his hair while he was sleeping, but soon Toki had learned to become a light sleeper, so all efforts to keep his hair short were met with failure. Anja and the Reverend would on the rare occasion force their son into a chair and have at him with the scissors, but Toki quickly learned the signs of an impending shearing and would run away for a few days. But the town was remote and surrounded by miles of wilderness, it was always cold outside, and no one wanted to take in a grungy, long-haired teenager who was the bastard child of an unholy union. So Toki always ended up crawling back home sooner or later. He was trapped in this awful place. Trapped, unwanted and unloved.

The only thing that kept Toki from throwing himself on his parents’ mercy was Mjølner. His fingertips had become hard and calloused from their years of dancing on the steel strings, and he was fortunate that enough tourists and misguided bands passed through who had guitar strings and picks to spare. He lived to play Mjølner, and it had become his only joy in life. (Aside from sitting in the cemetery and talking to the corpses after bad days at school—that always cheered him up, wishing he was dead.)

But soon the winds of change were stirring, and the metaphorical weathervane of Toki’s destiny had begun to spin.

One day a mob of metal groupies wandered into town (by accident of course/as usual) and, like a cloud of destructive locusts, stapled flyers to everything that was staple-able. And what they couldn’t staple they taped. Though the residents tore each and every flyer down after the strangers had continued on their way, Toki managed to rescue one out of the dumpster behind the church:

Toki’s metal-loving heart practically burst through his sternum when he read it. But then he saw the age restriction at the very bottom and that metal-loving heart of his began to rust with sorrow. No participants under 21. He was still a good 4 and ¾ years short of being able to qualify. If only his father had stuck it to his mother a few years sooner. Now he’ll never be able to attend. Nevertheless, Toki carefully folded up the paper and put it in his pocket, a memento for what could have been, perhaps.

Later that night, when he was out in the woodshed listening to Anthrax on a Walkman he had traded a stupid tourist for an authentic piece of “lucky” Norwegian gravel, Toki decided that he was going to the Ball, age restriction or not. When everyone heard how incredible his playing was they’d have to let him in. Compared to all the bands he’d heard over the years, none of the guitarists seemed capable of playing riffs faster or better than him. He didn’t just randomly mash the strings and slop the notes either, hell no. He was clean and precise and sharper than a polished razor. No one could best him, he was sure of it. He and Mjølner were going to go to the Headbangers’ Ball and melt the faces off of everyone there, especially that new band, Dethklok. Toki had heard a lot of recent visitors to the village talking about Dethklok in reverent whispers, as if their music was sacred or something. They certainly seemed to be more popular than Jesus. (Don’t hassle me, folks. John said it first.) Either way Toki wanted in. And also out. He wanted to be in a band. He wanted out of this crummy life in this shitty town and his depressing home with his tormenting parents, and he never ever wanted to come back. If he played the best he could at the Ball and if Dethklok allowed him to join the band despite his youth, then Toki could say goodbye to all of this misery forever. The end. Happily ever-fucking after.

He was actually smiling when he crawled into his cold little bed that night, and his dreams were filled with blood drops on roses and blisters on fingers, bright steel guitars and death-growling singers, black metal sacrilege, dragons with wings. ‘Cause these were a few of his favourite things.

orning dawned bleak and grim at the Wartooth home. Not that the bleakness and grimness was anything new, no, it was just the start of yet another unhappy day (and I use that term loosely—like 55 year-old crackwhore loosely), but Toki was in a cheerful mood as he left for school in the frosty semi-darkness. [Note: he walked in the general direction of school but he sure as hell didn’t go to school.] His happiness over attending the Headbangers’ Ball clouded out everything negative and every hateful person he encountered, and he spent the day sitting on the stone wall on the outskirts of the village, drinking stolen booze and daydreaming as he watched for misguided tourists. After a day well-spent he would trot home, do his backbreaking chores for the next six hours, and stay up late practising licks in the woodshed until he was too tired to move his cold, aching fingers.

The next day the cycle would begin again, and so it continued for a few weeks. The date of the Ball was fast approaching and Toki had to figure out a way of getting to Oslo without his parents knowing. He couldn’t even begin to guess which direction to go, even if he knew how to drive a car, because the only maps he’d ever seen of Norway were hanging up at school and gosh, he never went there.

By Wednesday the 10^th, Toki was one grain of guano short of going completely batshit. He was too stressed out that night to even practise his routine with Mjølner; if he couldn’t find a ride to Oslo then it wouldn’t matter how well he played because no one would ever hear him. But late the next day—the day of Headbangers’ Ball—his curses were answered: after playing hooky again and wandering the streets looking for tourists who might offer him a ride out of town, a small posse of vacationing American teens passed through who, by sheer coincidence, had gotten lost on their way to Oslo; it turned out that they were going to the Ball as well, and Toki didn’t even have to threaten their lives in order to convince them to give him a lift.

“Get your stuff and we’ll split,” they told Toki. “But we can’t wait forever. If you’re not back here in a half hour we’ve gotta leave ya behind.”

“No to’s worry,” replied Toki in his broken English. “I get back sooner evens den dat!” And he was off and running joyously home to get his things and get the fuck outta this place. He was so unbelievably happy! This was the best day of his whole entire life! He laughed out loud as he raced past all the gloomy buildings, and for once he was untouched by their dreary, invisible hands. They were nothing but blurs and shadows to him now.

It was already late in the day and the sun had set behind the trees by the time he returned home and found both his parents waiting for him. That wasn’t alarming. What was alarming was Mjølner standing in between them, supported by the Reverend’s hand. Every ounce of rebellious bliss drained out of Toki’s spirit and he instantly became submissive. For the sake of his precious guitar there was no level to which he would not willingly sink.

“What are you doing with Mjølner? Why do you have him? Give him back to me, please!” he begged to his stone-faced parents. “I’ll do anything you ask!” As if to illustrate his point he fell to his knees and clasped his hands together prayerfully. This sight would have broken the heart of any human being alive, which only supported the theory that Toki’s parents were either not human or not alive. Maybe a little of both.

“We have given you sixteen years to find the path of righteousness,” Anja murmured tonelessly, “yet still you have chosen to disobey us. We know of your fascination with the Devil’s music and of your truancy at school. We know that you have learned to speak the heathen American tongue and we shall not allow you to further soil your father’s reputation.”

A pile of crumpled black t-shirts landed in a heap on the floor: Toki’s secret stash of band merchandise he had picked up from tourists. Soon the shirts were joined by his Walkman, his cassette tapes, his entire collection of everything metal and everything he had ever cared about. Even the wrinkled Headbangers’ Ball flyer he had accidentally left in Tuesday’s jeans pocket. Everything he had kept hidden from his parents for years and years out in the woodshed, and here it all was, right on the floor like a waiting sacrifice. It was a painful scene to watch, much less endure. The wayward teen had tears rolling down his cheeks. He already knew how this was going to end and he didn’t want to waste his breath with grovelling.

“Take it all,” he whispered, “take anything you want, but please don’t take away my guitar.”

Naturally Mjølner was the first thing to go. Two solid swings against the big pine out back was enough to shatter him in two. Strings broke with high pitched twangs as the neck and body splintered and went flying in opposite directions. Anja stood beside her grief-stricken son and watched the Reverend destroy the instrument of Satan forever. They made Toki collect kindling for the fire, forced him to douse his worldly possessions with kerosene and toss a lit match onto the pile. By this time the moon had risen and it was already night. The Americans had long since left for Oslo. Toki was mostly dead inside now, so he was able to watch his dreams go up in flames until nothing but ashes and cinders remained. Satisfied with the punishment that they had dealt to their unruly child, the Warteeth returned indoors and left Toki standing outside in the cold night. But he didn’t go inside. No, he went to the cemetery and sat under the dead tree and cried and wished he was as decayed and forgotten as the bodies buried six feet beneath him.

As his tears dripped onto the barren earth beneath him, Toki suddenly became aware of a strange sound. It seemed to be coming from inside the ground, and as the headstones began to topple and the earth began to tremble, he jumped to his feet in shock and watched as the cemetery was split in two. A gaping cavern had emerged in the centre of the yard and a hideous roar bellowed forth like all the monsters in Hell. Toki was frightened beyond the capacity to move a single muscle, so he simply screamed as loud as he could and hoped that he would at least be disembowelled quickly.

From out of the pit crawled a horrifying troll with glowing yellow eyes, sharp claws and even sharper teeth. It was smaller than your average Finnish lake troll, but a troll is still a troll no matter what goddamn body of water or cemetery it comes from, and this thing was a brute. Ten feet tall, gaunt and bony, leathery loose skin, long stringy hair, sinew and tendons and all kinds of gross things rippling over its alien body. It was Michael Jackson on a good day.

Toki backed against the tree as the troll raised its clawed hand towards him and growled with the blackest death growl he had ever heard, “DO NOT BE AFRAAAAID, LITTLE ONE. I HAVE BEEN SENT BY ALMIGHTY THOR, THE GOD OF ALL THINGS METAL, TO HELP YOUUUUUU.”

“Help me?” squeaked Toki. “But…you’re a troll!”

“I AM A TROLL, YES. BUT I AM YOUR GUARRRDIAN GODTROLLLLLLLL.”

“Wh-what does a guardian godtroll do?”

“GRANT YOU YOUR HEARRRRRRT’S DESIIIIRES.”

“You mean like…wishes?”

“WHATEVERR.”

Toki was understandably nervous talking to a monster who claimed to be some form of magical legal guardian, but his angst and desperation lent him courage. “I w-would really like to go to the Headbangers’ Ball.”

“…THAT’S ALL? YOU DON’T WANT YOUR PARRRRENTS TO DIIIE HORRRRRIBLE DEATHS?”

“Maybe later.”

“WHAT ABOUT DESTRRRROYING THE VILLAGE? HOWWW ABOUT THAT?”

“Nah, I can do that when I’m famous.”

“…JUST THE HEADBANGERS’ BALL, HUH?”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

The troll grumbled a sigh. “ALL RRIGHT. IF YOU WISHHH.”

And with a wave of its gangly arms, the burial plots in the cemetery rose up—coffins burst from the ground and opened, and soon a crowd of moaning, rotted skeletons was stalking between the tombstones. Snakes slithered over the ground and thousands of spiders crawled from their hidden homes to converge at the same spot, coiling and hissing and spinning ropes of silk. As Toki watched in amazement the skeletons began to fall apart, the individual bones magically dancing off to attach to other bones, eventually forming something that looked a hell of a lot like a carriage, held together by serpents and spider webs and who knows what else.

Then a legion of screeching bats swarmed up out of the cavern in the ground and descended upon Toki, covering him in a whirlwind of leathery wings. The young man panicked when he thought he was being attacked, but in a matter of moments the bats flew away and he found himself standing in black knee-high boots with spikes on the toes, wearing glittery black pants and a silver dragon belt with red ruby eyes on the buckle; black leather straps crisscrossed over his bare chest and held the spike-studded shoulder guards in place, and sleeves of tight black satin covered his arms from bicep to wrist. His hair was primed for swinging, his eyelids painted black, and a long cloak draped from his shoulders. He looked like a cross between a gladiator, a barbarian and a something out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was the fuckinest, awesomest thing ever.

But it wasn’t over yet—six horses charged up out of the crack in the ground, each one with manes as black as night and eyes like fiery coals. [Author’s note: the soundtrack to this scene is phenomenal.] Their hooves were iron and threw sparks wherever they landed, and they snorted brimstone and sulphur as they took their place in front of the bone carriage. And lastly, from out of the same crack rose a white dragon that was so massive in size that it didn’t fully ascend from the pit; it pierced its own breast with its shining claws and pulled from its black heart a guitar made of pure fire. The flames cooled and solidified into a shining ebony V-frame body with platinum strings, a silver pick guard in the shape of flying dragon, and a fret board with ruby insets.

The dragon passed the holy guitar to the troll, who approached Toki and said, “TEMPERED IN THE FORGES OF VALHALLA AND BLESSED BY THE VALKYRRRIES, HIDDEN WITHINNNN THE HEARRRT OF THE ARCH-DRAGONNN OF Åsgard, THIS GUITARRR SHALL DESSSSTROY ALL WHO CHALLENGE ITS POWERRR. TAKE IT, YOUNG MORRRTAL, AND USE IT WELL.”

And the troll bestowed the magic guitar to Toki, who held it in his hands and felt as if he had been reunited with Mjølner, so instantaneous was the bond. “How can I ever repay you?” he asked, trying not to turn into a complete crybaby and make his eye-makeup to run in front all the cool monsters.

“ALL IN GOOD TIIIIIME, LITTLE ONE,” the troll growled, “BUT REMEMBER THIS: AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT ALLLL SHALL RETURRRN TO NORMAL, BUT THE POWERR OF THE GUITAR SHALL BE RESTORRED AT SUNSET. YOUR CARRIAGE SHALL NOW BEARR YOU TO THE BALL. GO FORTH, TOKI WARTOOTH, AND HONOUR THE GODS OF Æsir WITH METAL.”

And so without another word, Toki hastened to his ride and was soon flying to Oslo at the speed of darkness.

hen Toki arrived at the Headbangers’ Ball, the festivities had already begun and the participants were inside the grand palace of something-or-other that was being used for this most spectacular occasion. Toki disembarked from the skeleton coach and made his way up the stairs and into the foyer, where the sentries standing guard cast their gaze upon him and immediately fell on bended knee, respectfully averting their eyes before His Metalness. Toki tried not to become self conscious as he entered the sprawling ballroom of thundering music and darkness, but the moment people in the crowd laid eyes on him, they grew quiet and parted in awe. Toki walked right up to the stage, and the poor bastard who was already up there and trying out took one look at Toki, dropped his pick, removed his guitar and crawled away in shame. Toki ascended the stairs and stood on stage before the four princes of metal, Dethklok.

“You. What is your name?” growled the largest prince, whose hair was blacker than the blackest black times infinity.

“I’s…” Toki stammered in his awkward English, “am M-Mjølner. My lord.”

“You wisch to be a partch of our band, do you?” rasped another of the princes through his princely gap. “Impresshive.”

“Yer getup is pretty sweet,” said the redheaded prince with the dreds.

“Buts yous cannot wins de constests wis dat alones,” said the last prince, whose hair was as golden as cheese and whose elegant hands held an impressive guitar. “Shows us what’s you cans do, Mjølner.”

Toki took a gulp and readied his fingers, closing his eyes…and then he unleashed all those years of torture and agony and repression of all the things he had ever loved, forcing the energy into his hands and allowing the magical guitar to translate it into music. But not just any music—the most metal, most brutal, most painfully beautiful music ever.

The handsome prince with the golden hair was so stunned by Toki’s playing that he could not resist joining in; he accompanied the deafening melody of the sacred guitar with supersonic licks that all but threw fireballs from the strings of his X-plorer. And then, one by one, the other members of Dethklok joined in, enchanted by the talents of this incredible stranger. The crowd began to mosh and scream for joy, and thus Toki and the four princes passed the night playing an endless assortment of improvised metal.

Never had our unloved little accident named Toki been so happy in his whole life. As he stood beside the rest of the band and played to the screaming audience, he knew that this was his destiny, his fate, his purpose, his raison d’etre, his insert-another-synonym-here, where he was supposed to be. The stage was his home, and Dethklok was his family. And he wanted to spend the rest of his life with them.

Toki was having such a ball at the Ball that he completely forgot about the time; at the end of yet another stupendously improvised song, the teen suddenly heard the faint chiming of the clock in the square outside—and it was chiming midnight.

OhfuckinhellMIDNIGHT. When everything would be turned back to NORMAL.

Toki panicked and started to dash off the stage but the large and intimidating body of the black haired prince blocked his way. “Hey. That’s some fuckin’ awesome playing, kid.”

CHIME.

“Where’d you learn to play guitar like that? It’s not like the-”

CHIME.

“-I’ve heard anywhere else…where’re you from?”

Toki, as terrified as he was of damaging his reputation with the band, was more terrified of being transformed into a poorly-dressed, underage loser in front of hundreds of people. So with fear lending him strength and courage, he plowed past the massive prince and tore into the halls backstage as fast as he could manage. It was a lucky save—he hadn’t even gone fifteen paces before his clothes melted back into his t-shirt and jeans, his makeup magically lifting from his face, his smooth and shiny hair returning to its normal dried out dullness, and his magical guitar turning into an ordinary brown broom.

Toki was instantly depressed but then he remembered the words of his guardian godtroll, who told him that the power would return at sunset the next day. He took heart and was a little bit happier, although not by much.

Just then, who should come thundering around the corner like the horsemen of the Apocalypse but the four princes of Dethklok, who were giving chase to the mysterious and talented stranger. Toki turned his face away and pretended to sweep the floor, and the princes ran past him, thinking he was just a janitor. Once the band had taken a turn down another hall, Toki jogged around looking for an exit and finally stumbled out into a darkened alley. Relieved to have escaped the Ball but exhausted from his ordeal, he wandered through the deserted streets until he found an abandoned warehouse: shelter for the night. Toki fell asleep, shivering but grateful, with the broom clutched tightly to his chest.

he next morning was slept through, as was a good part of the afternoon. Toki roused himself from his nest of mouldy old newspapers and damp plywood and decided to see if he could find anything to eat. Luckily he met a friendly bum in the abandoned warehouse next door who helped him scrounge the dumpsters for the best pickings, although they had to fight off a gang of hobos to secure their prizes. Being penniless and homeless was brutal, Toki realised as he thought of all those times he had tried to run away from home…but where dignity fell short, liberty persevered. The bums were all free men who could do whatever they wished, and that was something even a jaded young metalhead could be envious of.

Evening could not come fast enough; Toki camped out a few blocks from the Headbangers’ Ball and waited for the sun to set, and once the last rays of fiery orange had faded on the rooftop horizon, a mighty shadow descended upon the young teen and left him standing in magnificent metalness, gripping the gleaming guitar of ebony in his hands. All of the common folk parted before Toki as he entered the Ball, and the four princes of Dethklok immediately recognised the stranger from last night.

“Mjølner!” cried the blond prince, hurrying forth to meet Toki as dozens of other contestants looked on jealously. “You leaves us so soon de others night. You will stays wis us longer dis night den, ja?”

Toki nodded but never verbally agreed. Inside he was overjoyed, however, for Dethklok played only with him the whole evening and refused to allow anyone else the chance to compete. The princes seemed to have already chosen their new guitarist, and the music that Toki made with them that night was created out of pure joy, ringing with the devotion that he would show to his new family, Dethklok.

But midnight once again snuck up on him, and Toki found himself fleeing from the stage as the clock in the town square began to chime. Once again the princes hastened after their beloved guitarist, only to mistake him for a lowly custodian and pass him in the halls backstage. Toki escaped once again into the cold Oslo night and took refuge in the abandoned warehouse. That night his dreams were the only thing that kept him warm, and he smiled in his sleep as he held the humble old broom against himself tightly.

he dawn of the final day arrived, and Toki counted the seconds until the sun had sunk behind the hills and he was once more transformed into a metal god. This was the last time he would change—this was his last chance. He entered the Ball and ascended the stage where the dark haired prince laid his large, heavy hand upon Toki’s shoulder and glared into his eyes with surprising tenderness.

“You keep running from us, Mjølner. Why? Is it something we did? You got someplace more important to be?”

“No!” Toki insisted. “I just…is something personals. But today’s night I promise-” He gazed at the other three princes around him. “-I stays with you all till de dawn’s break. Den you’ll see…everythings.”

Toki knew that revealing his true self to Dethklok and the entire audience would be the most brutally agonising thing he’s ever done in his entire life, but if the magic of this gods-given guitar would not fail him, then all would be well by sunrise.

The teen took his place beside the blond prince, who gave him a challenging smile before breaking into a supersonic shred. Toki responded with a hammering rhythmic accompaniment, the bass and drums exploded into the duet, and then the dark prince led the crowd into an orgasm of molten metal. It was hideously, grotesquely beautiful.

They improvised and rocked the palace roof so hard that the grand chandelier in the centre of the ballroom cracked free from its mount and hit the floor like a crystal A-bomb. People were impaled, dismembered, some sliced in half by the flying glass; blood and organs and other slippery things greased the floor like Crisco, but the music played on and the survivors created a mosh pit of blood, flinging intestines and body parts all over each other like confetti. It was the most brutal concert ever. At least this far in Dethklok’s career.

“Go on, Mjølner, jump the mosh!” encouraged the band.

Toki, delighted at the thought of his first moshing, carefully removed his guitar and then tossed himself off the stage and into the hands below. The spikes on his outfit caused some damage, but there was way too much blood all over everything for people to notice their own mortal injuries. Besides, this music was more addictive than caffeine. Who cared about a punctured skull?

Toki laughed as the hands bore him all around the room, but then a couple people slipped in a puddle of blood and toppled down, taking Toki with them, and he disappeared from view. It was the Ninth Circle of Hell down on the floor, but the blood-drenched teenager managed to crawl to his feet and muscle his way out of the melee to the side of the room. And it was there that he was seized by a pair of hard, frigid hands.

“We knew we would find you in this hellish gathering of lost souls,” spoke the familiar voice that was even colder than death.

Toki, blood turned to ice, slowly turned his head and gazed in horror upon the faces of his parents. They stood motionless like pillars of salt while the sea of bloody flesh churned all around them—never had they looked more terrifying as they did now. The power they held over their son was not limited in this outside world; Toki wilted in submission as years of religion-inspired intimidation swept over him, weakening him like a beaten dog.

“You are coming home with us,” said Anja hollowly, and the Reverend began to lead his son to the door.

Halfway there Toki’s survival instincts kicked in and he began to scream for the princes to help him, but nothing could be heard when one was as far from the stage as he was. He struggled for a moment and managed to raise his arm high in an attempt to be seen, but the angered Reverend jerked him through the doors and Toki disappeared into the foyer with his parents.

A few moments later the dark haired prince lowered his mic and turned to the bassist. “Where’s Mjølner?”

“I thoughts I sees him just now,” replied the blond prince, his voice murky with doubt, “by de doors, but I’s …he’s…”

“He’sh left ush again.”

“No…” said the drummer paranoidly, staring at the magic V-frame leaning against an amp. “He was taken from us.”

“Great. A kid’s napping. What’s do we do now?”

The lead prince narrowed his green eyes and curled his upper lip, revealing unnaturally sharp canines. “Skwisgaar, get the kid’s axe. Pickles, call Ofdensen. Murderface, get your knives and come with me. We’re not gonna lose ‘im this time.”

train bore Toki & family from Oslo back to the village that same night. The terrified teen, stripped of his brutal attire and now dressed in black robes like his parents, sat sleepless and still in his seat and tried to stifle the urge to scream. So much he wanted to say, so much he had to explain, yet his voice was robbed from his throat by a single deadly glance from the lifeless grey eyes of the two sitting across from him. He wanted to ask how they found him, why they bothered to search for him, how they managed to enter the Ball and recognise him…but all Toki kept coming back to was the possibility that they had some kind of otherworldly power on their side.

It was so unfair. Just when he thought he would never have to worry about anything ever again, these vindictive vultures pluck him from paradise and bring him back to the prison from which he had been trying to escape. Cruel. Heartless. Why oh why…

Toki tried not to cry but it was impossible; he had lost his magic guitar, his hope, the four princes of Dethklok, and his one and only chance. His life was over. He might as well be dead.

They disembarked at the station the next morning and walked the 22 miles back to the village in complete silence. Toki imagined that it was his own funeral procession. When they reached their ramshackle cottage his parents locked him in his room. No words. Just imprisonment. Toki would have felt better if they had at least given him a sound beating—the lack of action only suggested that they were thinking of worser things.

Anja unlocked his door that evening, led him to a chair, and long tendrils of brown hair landed silently on the wooden floor as she clipped her son’s locks to a length he hadn’t had since he was six.

“I knew from the moment I first felt you in my womb that nothing good would ever come of you,” she murmured, brushing her fingers through Toki’s short, choppy hair. “I should have given you back to Satan when you took your first breath.”

Nothing else happened that night. Toki returned to his room and fell asleep with tears still rolling down his cheeks. Maybe soon, if time were merciful, he could learn to forget how happy he had been for those three brief nights.

eeks had passed since the Headbangers’ Ball, and still the four princes of Dethklok searched for the missing Mjølner, determined to find him. They travelled to every town and city and village in Norway with the Flying V and offered it to those who claimed to be the one. But the blond prince especially knew the sound of Mjølner’s playing, and he knew an imposter when he heard one.

“Dis guy is not him,” he would sneer. “Let’s us moofs on. We’s are not stopping untils we find him!”

So they searched and so they listened, again and again and again. Stavanger, Bergen, Molde, Trondheim, Steinkjer, Bodø, Tromsø, Vadsø, north to south and east to west and back again, the four princes traversed city and country looking for the only one who was worthy of completing their band. They had only one more town left—Lillehammer—before they would be forced to return empty-handed to Oslo, and it was here that the quartet was beginning to lose hope. No one in the urban area proved to be Mjølner, nor in the rural. With heavy metal hearts they reluctantly boarded their steam-powered limousine and began to make their way back to Oslo.

“It’s sad,” lamented the red haired prince over a bottle of Killian’s. “He was a great kid.”

“Sho talented,” agreed the bassist forlornly. “It’sh shuch a schame…I wonder if he wuzsh murdered or shumthing. Shtrangled…gutted…hacked to pieshes...”

“I thought he’d be the one,” the lead prince growled. “He really had it in ‘im.”

But nobody was more affected than the blond, who sat staring at the glimmering V for hours, sometimes without saying a word to anyone. “He was de only ones who coulds play almosts as fast as me,” he would murmur occasionally. “I am de fastest guitarists alife…we’s will never finds another player like him. I will never play besides anyone’s else.”

These final words seemed to be Dethklok’s epitaph but then, like so many other travellers before, the limo took a wrong turn and soon the princes found themselves in a dreary, depressing village not too far from Lillehammer, and the driver said that they needed to stop here to stock up on some coal. (For the steam engine.)

The four musicians were left to explore the village in search of a pub but found none, and the villagers ran away crossing themselves in fear whenever any of the princes tried to approach them. The only one who didn’t run away was this young, short-haired guy dressed like a monk who was hefting a heavy satchel down the muddy street. He didn’t even notice the blond prince was behind him until he said something:

“Hey kid. Do you’s know if where’s dere a bar in dis place?”

He knew that voice, that deep Swedish voice mangling the English language even worse than he did—Toki dropped the bag he was carrying and turned around, blue eyes shimmering with joy. “My prince,” he choked with awe. “You…you finds me!”

The blond squinted his eyes and turned his head slightly. “You’s sound likes…I know you’s. Who’s are y-”

“Toki Wartooth,” interrupted the Reverend, approaching his son’s side and glaring venomously at the stranger. “Why are you talking to this heathen? You know you are forbidden to speak. Come. There is much work to be done before the evening prayer.”

And taking Toki firmly by the arm, pulled him away. Toki gathered his satchel obediently and gave one last desperate glance over his shoulder before he and the Reverend disappeared into the shadows of the creepy trees that lined the road.

The prince was troubled. “Dat guy acts like he knowns me. I don’t know a Toki. Pfft. Such stupid kid’s name.”

And yet those eyes seemed so strangely familiar to him. Reminded him of someone he might have run into a few weeks ago, at night maybe. If he imagined this Toki kid in a dim room, and if he had long hair and makeup on his face…

At that moment two wires crossed in the blond’s brain and caused a bioelectrical short circuit. The revelation came in the aftermath a few seconds later, and he suddenly broke into a run in the opposite direction. “Nat’an! Pickle! Myurdolfice! Gets dat fucking guitars rights now and comes wis me!”

hey have discovered Toki,” said the Reverend to Anja as he dragged his son through the door. “They will come for him.”

“Really?” cried Toki with an excited grin. “You really think-”

“Silence.”

“We must hide him,” Anja insisted.

“It is no use. They will find him.” He stared expressionlessly at his son, who was already at the window and waiting. “The wolves know the scent of their own kind.”

“What then can we do?”

The Reverend was quiet for a moment before he murmured something to Anja in a voice low enough that Toki did not hear. Then Anja nodded solemnly, left the room, and returned a few minutes later with a grim face.

“Toki,” she beckoned, “come sit at the table. Your father and I have something to say.”

Toki looked afraid but nevertheless obeyed; he sat down at the rustic wooden table and his father stood behind him, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders comfortingly.

“How badly do you wish to join those four demonic princes?” she asked him.

Toki didn’t lie. “I’d give anything to be with them.”

Anja and the Reverend shared a brief glance. “Is this true?”

The teen nodded strongly. There was a long pause.

“Very well,” said Anja. “You have our blessing to go. But first-” She grasped Toki’s left wrist and, with surprising strength, pressed it onto the centre of the table, all five fingers spread. “-you must give.”

Toki looked up to ask his mother what she was doing, but the question died in his throat when he saw the shining steel cleaver held in her other hand. He tried to spring up from his chair but the Reverend’s gentle hands had become as strong as iron, pinning his son where he sat. Toki thrashed uselessly.

“Peace, Toki,” murmured Anja. “You said you would give anything to be with them, and we accepted your proposal. I think your left hand should be a reasonable bargain.”

“No!” cried Toki in utter, horrified panic. “Stop this! Don’t! Why would you do this to me!?”

The Reverend spoke calmly, “No son of ours shall play the Devil’s music. We would see you dead before that day. Be still now, Toki. You wouldn’t want your mother to miss.”

Anja rolled up the sleeve on her son’s robe while he begged for mercy. His fingernails bit into the wood, shaking uncontrollably. The Reverend began chanting a prayer. She raised the cleaver high for the chop. Toki shut his eyes and screamed. A blunt, terrifying sound came, followed by the sound of steel clattering against wood. Then Toki passed out.

The red rays of the setting sun spilled into the room like a wave of blood from the door that had been kicked in, right off its hinges. In the threshold (the whole threshold and nothing but the threshold) stood a man with hair blacker than the blackest black times infinity, teeth bared like an animal and green eyes burning bright with anger.

Anja stepped backward, over the cleaver she had dropped on the floor, and stood quietly beside the Reverend. No words needed to be spoken. The large man entered the room, allowing the three others behind him to come in. The blond held in his hands the magic guitar. Toki’s parents laid eyes on the instrument and crossed themselves, whispering under their breaths.

The red headed prince approached the teen, slumped over unconscious on the table, and poured whiskey on his head before taking him by the hair, lifting his face up, and giving it a few hearty slaps. Toki came round soon enough, sputtering and rubbing the burning alcohol from his eyes. He had barely enough time to reckon what had happened before the long lost Flying V of Valhalla was placed into his [whole, intact and unharmed] hands. A pick followed the guitar, and an amp was slammed down onto the table. Toki gazed up to find the blond prince staring down at him coolly. “Play,” he commanded.

Toki swallowed, cleared his head, and wrapped his trembling left hand around the neck of the guitar. All was silent in the room, dark and void. And then, like golden lightning bolts ripping through the thunderclouds, the sound of pure metal was struck to life in the nothingness, singing more brutally, more beautifully than human ears had the privilege of hearing. It was the sound of Valkyries thundering across the valleys of the dead, of Thor striking his hammer in the quaking forges of Åsgard, of holy dragons rising from their slumber to breathe fire upon the mortal world.

The four princes smiled. They had found their Mjølner.

e was taken from his parents without protest, loaded into the smoke-belching beast of a limo, and driven far far away from the village that he would never again return to. He was stripped of his robes and given different clothes to wear, and the Swede known as Skwisgaar ruffled his short brown hair teasingly. “Don’t worries, Toki. It’s will grow back.”

Toki smiled shyly and tried not to show it (‘cause being shy wasn’t metal). He had a big job to do now, being the rhythm guitarist of Dethklok, and he had a lot to learn about being in a real live metal band.

“You’ll catch on soon enough, kid,” assured Nathan. “We’ll show you how to be brutal, just like us.”

And Toki did. His hair grew out and the hormone gods finally blessed him with facial hair, he was introduced to sex, drugs, television and worst of all candy, and life was pretty fucking metal. Later, during Dethklok’s second world tour when they came back to Norway, he returned the magic guitar to his guardian godtroll and thanked him for letting him borrow it. He didn’t need it anymore, though. He had everything he needed now, everything he had ever dreamed of. The gods were pleased, the band was pleased, the record label was pleased, and everything was a big pile of WIN for everybody (except the Wartooths who stayed nicely out of the picture until Episode 6 and now you know why Toki didn’t say one word that whole show).

But sometimes at night, when the halls of Mordhaus were as silent as the graveyard in which he used to spend so much time, Toki would lay awake and wonder what he was going to have to do to repay his guardian godtroll for his kindness. Who knows? Not I. You try guessing. And then he would fall asleep and dream of blood drops on roses and blisters on fingers, bright steel guitars and death-growling singers, black metal sacrilege, dragons with wings.

‘Cause these were a few of his favourite things.

In Sickness & In Health

2007-01-25T03:24:45Z

In Sickness & In Health

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: T+ for language, dumb humour and some adult situations.

Summary: Skwisgaar gets the flu, and Toki takes it upon himself to “cure” him.

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

Do you take this band to be your lawfully wedded profession?

“Where th’ hell’s Skwisgaar?” Pickles snapped worriedly at lunch. “I ain’t seen ‘im all day.”

“Uh, probably shleepin’ off lasht night’s hoedown,” Murderface muttered, trying to find some way to eat cream-of-beef soup with a knife. “I could hear the noiszhe all the way from my room. Fuckin’ manwhore.”

“Someone should go check on him,” Nathan proposed gruffly. “He might’ve finally fucked himself to death.”

“Don’t get our hopes up,” Pickles smirked.

All eyes collectively settled on Toki, who was munching away on a grilled cheese sandwich (yes again, he likes them a lot) and flipping through an issue of MAD magazine, deaf to everything around him.

“Hey Toki,” said Nathan, “go to Skwisgaar’s room n’ see if he’s still alive.”

The Norwegian half-shrugged and said airily, “Nah. I don’t feels like it.”

A Sharpie slid across the table and skidded to a stop on Spy vs. Spy. Toki looked up at Nathan. “I’ll give you ten bucks to do somethin’ to his face with that.”

Toki grinned mischievously, crammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, picked up the Sharpie and was off.

Nathan smirked and turned to the rest of the band. “Kid’ll do anything with the right motivation.”

Toki didn’t bother knocking (not that he even had the vaguest conception of manners in the first place) as he walked into Skwisgaar’s bedroom and found the fastest guitarist alive sandwiched between a lovely pair of Japanese twins that didn’t look a day over eighteen. Feeling the bitter sting of envy, Toki pouted and walked over to the bed, quite oblivious to the three naked bodies tangled together on top of it.

“Hey sushi breath,” he snapped, poking Skwisgaar’s bare shoulder. “Wakes up before I draws a va-guy-na on your face.”

The Swede, lying on his side with his back to Toki, didn’t stir. He was alive, judging by the way his shoulders rose and fell and the tiny wheezing sound of breathing, but he seemed to be in a deep sleep. Toki poked harder, then slapped, and then finally took up a handful of snarled blond hair and gave it a mighty yank. Skwisgaar let out a yelp that woke up his mewing bedmates and Toki let go, stepping back and crossing his arms.

“Time to gets up, Sleeping Slutty,” he chirped maliciously. “You needs a bath to washing off all that sex juices.”

But when Skwisgaar rolled over onto his back, Toki’s meanness abruptly died. The blond looked really bad; his eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks were flushed, his nose was leaking snot down his upper lip, a crust seemed to have formed around every facial orifice he had, and there were circles under his eyes so dark that he could have passed himself off for an Italian.

One of the newly awoken twins noticed her famous lover’s condition and melted over him in a disgusting (but also very perky-breasted) display of sympathy. “Oh! Sukuwisu gaaru-sama!” she moaned sadly, rubbing herself against his bare chest so sensually that Toki had to look away for fear that something might pop up. “He is siku! Ayaa...but is oh-kei, koibito. We make yu betta soon.”

“Poor poor beibi,” cooed the other one, stroking his feverish cheek. “No worry. Ayumi and Ayame take gooda care of yu-”

“Ah haha. No you doesn’t,” Toki snorted jealously, wishing to deprive the lucky bastard of any sort of medicinal treatment from a couple of Asian girls who were probably very qualified to do that sort of thing. He bent down and picked up a plaid skirt and one knee high sock, then tossed them at the two young women. “Sleepovers-fucks time is through, ladies. Go home.”

“B-but! But Sukuwisu gaaru-” Ayame cried.

“Who are yu to terr us what to du?” retorted Ayumi.

Toki got angry. The nerve of some groupies, thinking they could walk all over him in their stiletto heels just because he would totally let them. He’d show these gorgeous, barely-legal sex kittens a thing or two. “I his lawyer, that who’s! Now gets out before I…before I sues you, yeah!”

Ayame cocked her head. “Law…yer?”

“Law…ver?” echoed Ayumi.

“Lawver?”

“Lovver?”

“…lover?”

“…”

Then they both looked at each other and let out a piercing noise of joy that made Toki clap his hands over his ears in agony and what we all know to be the mighty SQUEE.

“Get out! Get out!” he yelled desperately, and actually had to shoo them off the bed and toss them their clothes and have one of the Mordhaus guards show them the way out. Once they had left the room Toki slammed the door shut gratefully. “Damn crazy fan-banshee-goiles. Make my ear bleeds. I hates those type!” But, on the other hand, he would totally do them. How strange, this mind of men.

Guests gotten rid of, Toki strode over to where Skwisgaar still lay on the bed and crouched down to eye level. “Hey. Butter head. How sick is you?”

You could almost hear a pair of rusty hinges squeaking as the Swede opened his eyes. “Oh gods Toki,” he rasped in a voice that he hadn’t had since he was twelve. “I’m goings to die.”

“Liar. Don’t sets me up for disappointments.”

But when Skwisgaar closed his eyes and accepted the retort without so much as a peep, Toki started to get worried. This wasn’t the cocky, lady-killing son of a bitch he knew.

“Oh…Skwisgaar,” he said softly, sinking down to his knees and placing a hand on the blond’s burning forehead in a gesture of unusual compassion. “You real sick, huh?”

Skwisgaar nodded pathetically and sniffed, which sounded like someone sucking egg whites through a straw.

In that moment, as he was staring at the sallow face of perhaps the one person who knew him best, Toki did a very noble and mature thing: he accepted a responsibility. A responsibility that was deeply rooted in the forging of the world’s most powerful band. A responsibility that he had agreed to take long long ago, one that he alone must do.

“Okay Skwisgaar,” he said with sudden energy, grabbing the Swede by the wrists and dragging him off the bed with a loud and undoubtedly painful THUMP. “What’s you needs is a nice hot bath! I now looks after you until you gets better—I knows a lot about helpings sick peoples with de real home medicine—so leaves it to me that I’ll gets you better in zero time!”

And even though Skwisgaar protested in a variety of hoary groans and moans, Toki succeeded in dragging his awesomely naked bandmate out into the hallway and in the direction of the main bathroom. By sheer and unbelievable coincidence (it’s my fic—I can have all the sheer and unbelievable coincidences I want, however unlikely they are) Ofdensen happened to be making his way down the same corridor, talking with a Mordhaus employee about who cares when he suddenly caught sight of Toki Wartooth dragging a nude and presumably lifeless body that looked an awful lot like Skwisgaar.

“Good heavens he’s killed him,” Ofdensen murmured, then called out, “Toki!”

The Norwegian paused in hauling, looked up, tossed his long hair behind his shoulder, smiled brightly and said, “Don’t worry, I takes care of it! I clean up de bathrooms when I finish!”

These were not comforting words, and Ofdensen very calmly turned around to go alert the rest of the band about this unfortunate tragedy.

Toki shut off the tap in the large spa bathtub, turned around, threw Skwisgaar over his shoulder like a continental soldier, and dropped him into the scalding hot water. Much of it was displaced in the resulting splash. It was a lucky thing that Skwisgaar’s voice was mostly gone, otherwise Toki might have been rendered utterly deaf by the scream. The Swede’s pale skin took on a blotchy red complexion as he panted congestedly and weakly tried to crawl away from the pain. But Toki put a hand on his chest and shoved him back down, pulling out a sponge and setting to work.

“Augh! Auuuggghhhh!” Cough cough. “TOKI! What’s de fuck you doings dis for!?”

“You sick,” Toki answered pertly. “I takes care of you.”

The blond’s sinuses had opened and he was leaking snot like Slimer from the Ghostbusters. “I don’ts need yours care, dildo head! Let’s me out of dis-”

“Woo-ee, Skwisgaar, what shampoo you been using? You gots de split end on every hair, and dan’s ruff, lookit that. Hang on, I thinks I got some Heads & Shoulders in here somewheres…”

“Don’ts-” Cough. “-touch my fucking hairs, idiot! I-! Uhh…” Skwisgaar slumped, his energy to fight against Toki’s ministrations dwindling. The water didn’t actually feel so bad now…now that his flesh was boiled to a practically edible state. He thought about cannibalism and murder by heat as Toki poured a dollop of shampoo into his blond hair and merrily set to work lathering it up, digging his fingers in too hard and pulling hair and letting the suds run into Skwisgaar’s eyes and into his ears, and then dousing him over and over again until he choked and was sent into a chronicle of hacking.

Then Toki picked up a bottle of body wash and totally chaffed Skwisgaar’s already tender burnt skin. He put up a hell of a fight when Toki showed that he had every intention of scrubbing the Swede’s nether regions, claiming that owning tools this dirty was probably illegal, and after a brief tussle that Toki won after six seconds, Skwisgaar had nothing to do but lay in the tub and take it like a champ. Toki was remarkably unbothered and casual about it all, which was a little comforting. But then he decided to rinse Skwisgaar using ice motherfucking cold water straight from the berg floes of Antarctica, and the blond’s teeth were chattering so loudly that he sounded like a typewriter at 90 words a minute. He was so cold that he forgot his pride and clung to Toki when he dragged him out of the tub like a dead walrus and wrapped him in a fluffy white towel. Toki thought Skwisgaar was showing his appreciation, not his severe need for body heat, and was flattered.

“Come on, Skwisgaar,” he said comfortingly, leading his sick bandmate from the bathroom. “Now you needs to gets dress up nice and warm. I gots some thing in my closet I thinks will fits you just fine…”

“Boys, I have some terrible…terrible, terrible news,” Ofdensen said at the three gathered members of the band. “It seems that Skwisgaar Skiwgelf is dead, and Toki has taken it upon himself to dispose of the body. He is, as we speak, dismembering the remains in the second floor bathroom, I believe. Whether or not he is responsible for Skwisgaar’s death, I’m uncertain, but if this does turn out to be the case I suggest we do everything in our power to snuff Toki and make it look like a double suicide.”

No one. Said. A word. Then they all jumped up at once and ran to the doors.

“Uh, where are you going?” their manager asked.

“T’ go see!” Pickles exclaimed.

“Bathtub of blood,” Nathan uttered excitedly. “Severed limb suicide. That is so fuckin’ METAL.”

“God I hope he’zsh uzshing the right knife!” Murderface worried, hands to his face. “Anyshing but a sherrated blade’s gonna shnap like a toothpick!”

Ofdensen facepalmed and let the trio run off to see the carnage.

Skwisgaar, alive (but not by far), sat hunched over on the edge of Toki’s bed, dressed in Toki’s clothes, and looking for all the world like a catatonic rape victim. He was wearing bright blue polka dotted toe socks, red plaid pajama pants, and a grey-blue sweatshirt that had the Norges Fotballforbund (Norwegian soccer thing) logo on it. He stared straight ahead numbly and tiredly, and sucked the snot down his throat as Toki, smiling like a proud mother, finished tying the second pigtail-braid in the Swede’s long blond hair.

“There! That will keeps de snots outta your hairs. You looks better already, Skwisgaar!”

Skwisgaar snuffled and turned to gaze at Toki with heavy, dead eyes. “I…really hate yous.”

“Ah, you just says that ‘cause you sick and crankies. Here, sleeps in my bed for a little and I’ll go makes some teas.”

“Toki.”

“Isn’t this fun?” Giggle giggle. “I gets to takes care of you!”

“Toki.”

“You wants some peanut’s butter toast too? That stuff really helps making you feels better. I all de time eats that when I gets de sickness and it alway makes me to feelings better.”

“Toki.”

“You bed’s room off limit now, is all fulla germs you know. Beside, is too cold in there anyway, and probably also nasty from screwings all de time.”

“TOKI.”

“Yes what.”

“I need meds-dicines, Toki.”

“I makes you good medicines, don’t worries.”

“Not dat herb’s teas—shlerrrk—you fucking shits-for-brain, real meds-dicines. Pills. Green liquids stuff dat has mints and all dat shit.”

“Hey I resents that! Herb teas is good for you.”

“I don’t want anys. Get me outs of heres.” Skwisgaar tried to stand up but Toki wasn’t having any of that.

“No,” he ordered, and shoved Skwisgaar down into the pillows. “You stays right here and not gets up. You needs to rest, okay? You doesn’t wanna gets any more sick, do you? Here, Teddy Bear will keeps your company.” And Toki picked up his own pointy-tailed bear, set it against Skwisgaar’s shoulder and tucked the blankets up under everybody’s chins, then clasped his hands together and beamed with selfless maternal warmth.

Skwisgaar stared up at Toki through half-lidded eyes. “I’m not sick. You is sick. You sick fucking bastard.”

Toki smiled generously and patted Skwisgaar’s warm forehead. “I be right backs with some tea and a thermomostat.”

Just then there was a knock at the door and the rest of the gang suddenly invited themselves into Toki’s room. “We followed the trail of water here,” Nathan said, looking around for signs of violence. “There wasn’t any blood in the bathroom and we figured…” He trailed off when he saw the scene before him. “Oh sweet lord.”

“Shkwishgaar! Yer alive?” Murderface cried, somewhat disappointed.

The Swede sat bolt upright, braids flying. “Help!” he croaked. “Calls de police! I being holds hostage!”

Pickles gaped. “Jeezes Christ, Toki! What’ve ya done ta him!?”

“Done? I just taking cares of him.”

“No yer not, yer killin’ ‘im!”

“He look likes that when I founds him! He sick!”

Everyone calmed down right then and got real quiet. “How sick?” Nathan ventured warily, giving Skwisgaar the eye.

“Oh, very very sick,” Toki answered gravely. “I takes good care of him though. He be betters again real soon.”

“Is it th’ flu?” Pickles asked. “Or somethin’ else we should know about? Like fuckin’ SARS or rabies or some shit like that?”

“It’s nothings! I’m fine!” Skwisgaar snapped, and then launched into a series of sneezes and coughs to prove his point.

“Jeezsh, letsh get outta here,” Murderface muttered, making a face. “I don’t wanna shlip in all that goddamn shnot. I mean look at it, it’sh all over the plashe.”

“Yeah Toki, keep that Swedish snotball away from us, ‘kay?”

Toki saluted smartly. “No problems!”

“Good luck with your patient, Dr Dolittle,” Nathan grunted with a smirk. “Let us know when to call the morgue.”

“Oh ha ha, very funny,” Toki retorted, then got up and shooed the trio out of the room. “Goes away now, no visitations! Skwisgaar’s needing rest and you all bothers him!”

Skwisgaar moaned in defeat and flopped back down into bed, accepting his fate with grim tact and more than a little hope that death would spare him from any long term suffering.

In the days that followed, Toki did everything he could to make Skwisgaar as comfortable as possible, which meant that most of the time Skwisgaar was as miserable as could be. First Toki got the notion into his head that a) he knew how to prepare hot tea and that b) he would use herbs and spices that he grew himself, just like the real greenie, holistic-medicine type apothecary hippies did. Only Toki a) didn’t know how to grow plants and b) didn’t know anything else about plants other than they grew between cracks in the sidewalk and clogged the gutters. But he decided that anything green couldn’t possibly be bad for you, and that pine cones and dandelions were just as good as chamomile and ginger. The first time Toki made his special Wartooth Blend Home Flu Remedy tea, he had to give Skwisgaar the Heimlich Manoeuvre after the Swede got a dead snail stuck in his windpipe. Then Skwisgaar threw up all over the place and was violently ill for the next two days. Maybe snail allergy or something.

But Toki didn’t give up after that; he’d heard about the magic surrounding the all-powerful chicken soup, and Jean-Pierre nearly suffered a massive heart attack when he entered the kitchen one morning to find his Norwegian master surrounded by a truckload of stinking, pecking, shitting broiler hens.

“Helps me, Jon-Pear!” Toki demanded desperately. “I keeps asking these chicken about de secrets of their magic soup, but they don’t says anythings to me! I been asking for hours and they doesn’t listens! I thinks they don’t even knows how to makes soup at all!”

But Jean-Pierre, after almost falling to pieces again, composed himself and took care of the problem, and everyone ate chicken for the next week and a half. Toki never did learn the secret of the chickens’ magic soup, but he did learn how to operate a can opener. Skwisgaar eventually got his chicken soup, though Toki lamented about it not being “the real thing”.

The rest of the band observed with incredulous disgust the tender care that Florence Vikingale was dishing out to his Scandinavian brother, and began placing bets on whether he would end up killing his patient or whether the patient would kill himself first. It was a tough call. Either way it seemed Skwisgaar was going to die, so the band prepared themselves to look for a new guitarist to fill in the tall, slender gap that the Swede would leave.

A week later and Skwisgaar, despite Toki’s diligent care, showed no signs of improvement. The second fastest guitarist finally got the idea that maybe a more Swedish method of treatment would have better luck in helping Skwisgaar to regain his health. So one day Toki wheeled his patient over to the Mordhaus spa, where Skwisgaar was buried in a vat of mud while Toki looked on approvingly. Then he was excavated some time later, hosed off in mineral water, and then soaked in a jacuzzi.

Skwisgaar was actually feeling somewhat better after this extensive pampering and could almost begin to forgive Toki for holding him captive all this time. But then Toki decided that no trip to the spa was complete without a nice massage, and instead of a couple of buxom women administering the sick Swede, Toki had taken it upon himself to deliver the healing touch. He also wanted an excuse to try out the Swedish-style massage methods he had actually taken the time to learn from Björn, the Mordhaus Master Masseuse.

So Skwisgaar, squawking and croaking and protesting the whole way, had to be bodily pinned down to the massage table in order for Toki to do his thing. Skwisgaar was still pretty weakened by his illness, and after a few minutes lost the interest and the energy to fight against the much stronger, healthier Norwegian.

Toki did a miserable job at first and it was only thanks to Skwisgaar’s sharp cries of “fuck!” and “not dere!” that he finally learned how to massage correctly. And once he got the hang of it, it was great.

“How’s am I doing?” Toki asked concernedly, kneading the aching muscles of Skwisgaar’s lower back.

“Still dildos,” came the flat answer, but Skwisgaar was smiling contentedly through the face-hole in the massage table. “Keep tryings.”

So Toki kept on, Skwisgaar began to get pleasantly drowsy, and it seemed to be quite a while later that he woke up and noticed a very heavy, pleasant weight on his upper thighs.

“…Toki?”

“Yeah?” came the voice from directly above him.

“Yous…are yous on my back?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t reach real good from standings on de sides. What’s you thinks of this feeling?” Toki was rolling the balls of his hands in a circular motion up and down Skwisgaar’s spine, pressing into his lumbar with his strong fingers, rocking his palms up underneath his shoulder blades. “It don’t hurt, do it?” he asked worriedly.

It felt fucking mouth-watering, lip-biting, eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head motherfucking orgasmic is what it felt like. But Skwisgaar could never admit to complimenting Toki so shamelessly. “It’s okay,” he muttered, trying to keep the immense satisfaction out of his voice. “Just…keeps on…”

Well, wait. It did hurt just a little bit, just below there. Like a dull ache that…oh fuck. Fuck.

“Uh. Okays Toki, I t’ink dat enoughs for now.”

“But I not even gets to de good parts yet.”

“Dat’s alls right, I feel betters now. Yous can get offs me.”

“But Skwisgaar, I-”

“TOKI!” The shout echoed in the tiled room.

“…yes?” came the small reply.

Skwisgaar’s face melted in agonising shame. “You haves to get offs me. I…has a big hard-on.”

“Oh.” Pause. “That’s okay, Skwisgaar.” Toki leaned down close to whisper, “I has one too.”

Mother of Judas.

Skwisgaar opened wide and said, “AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

It wasn’t a total relapse, but Skwisgaar came back to Mordhaus that night looking visibly worse for the wear than when he had left. He was extra pale and had a nasty twitch that made him resemble an albino Chihuahua in a cold breeze. Nobody wanted to ask what had happened down at the spa that day, even though everyone had heard the scream resonating from the massage parlour earlier and they all knew it was Skwisgaar’s. They didn’t actually count on seeing the blond alive ever again after that, but the tyre fires of their hopes still burned and smoked brightly to see their esteemed guitarist in one of the nicer looking transition stages between life and death.

Toki made certain that Skwisgaar went straight to bed, and after returning to the room with some freshly-brewed tea that Jean-Pierre had been kind enough to substitute in place of Toki’s catastrophic Ivy and Privet blend, the Norwegian caregiver took a seat in the chair by the bed and placed the tray in Skwisgaar’s lap.

The Swede stewed silently and stirred his tea, deliberately not looking at Toki; however, he still felt too groggy to be truly angry. For a while they sat in complete and awkward silence. When it became apparent that Toki wasn’t going to leave him alone any time soon, Skwisgaar sighed, sniffed down some snot, and uttered, “Why you doos dis to mes?”

Toki looked somewhat taken aback. “Why doos what?”

“Tries to take cares of mes. Acts as if really yous cares about mes. Doos all dis stupid things to make me betters, as if yous woulds be actually gettings a rewards for it. Since whens does I matters so much to yous anyway, ah?”

Toki responded to such nihilism with unusual concern. “Aw Skwisgaar,” he murmured, sounding a little offended by the implications for his own caring behaviour and Skwisgaar’s own lack of meaningful relationships, “we in this together. We’s the fastest guitars player alive. We looks out for each others.”

“Huh,” the blond scoffed. “I don’t look outs for yous.”

“Maybe you one day will.”

“Pfft. Dat’s dildos.”

“We tooks a promise to each others, remember?”

Skwisgaar frowned. “Promise? What’s promise?”

Toki looked hurt. “You knows, de one. ‘To has and to holds for betters or worst, through good’s time and bad’s time, in sickness and healthy, until death takes us’.”

Skwisgaar calmly put down his teacup and smiled acidly. “Toki,” he uttered, “you big dildo…dat’s a MARRIEDS VOW.”

Toki’s expression was utterly blank. It was the look you’d only see on the face of someone whose brain just burnt down from a circuit overload.

Skwisgaar facepalmed. “We is not husbands and wive. We is band’s mate. Yous fucking gay idiot.”

“But…” Toki mumbled numbly, grey matter still smoking. “But we…”

Skwisgaar massaged his temples. “Band’s oath. Legal cons-tract. Pre-metal arrangements. We dids dat. But we didn’ts haves a fucking white weddings! No cakes! No rices!” Cough. “No limos! Dere was no marriages!”

Toki quietly sat in his chair and stared at the edge of the bed. Skwisgaar didn’t feel the need to clarify his point any further and resigned to moodily sipping his tea. After a while Toki rose from his chair and walked from the room, leaving the door cracked slightly. Skwisgaar felt better with that dumbass gone. He finished the rest of his tea and set the tray on the bedside table, then settled down into the blue covers with a box of Kleenex tucked under one arm and Toki’s teddy bear under the other. (It just felt good to hang onto.)

“Your mom’s a big idiot,” he muttered to the bear. “Don’t know bands from marriages. Pfft. No wonders you don’t talk. I’ds be shamed to talk too wis a parent likes dat.”

Skwisgaar closed his eyes but his nose was running and itchy and he couldn’t sleep. He started to get bored, but not bored enough that he wanted to get up and walk across the cold stone floor and find something to do. He studied the posters on Toki’s walls, gazed up at the model planes hanging from the ceiling, at the cluttered desk in the corner with the pieces of his next creation lying unfinished and scattered on its surface. Toki was possessive of his things, like a little kid who would share but never really share. Wanted his toys back as soon as they’d left his hands, never trusted others to take care of his stuff, never wanted anybody else touching his personal things…

Skwisgaar twiddled his feet and watched the covers move. Here he was, dressed in Toki’s clothes in Toki’s bed with Toki’s bear in Toki’s room. And then, Skwisgaar realised, maybe Toki didn’t deserve to be thought of like that.

The door suddenly opened and the Norwegian walked in, shut it behind him, strode over to the bed, sat down in his chair again, and set a very thick book in his lap.

“What’s dat?” Skwisgaar asked hesitantly, sitting up.

Toki said nothing. He opened the tome and went through chunks of pages, then as he got closer to what he sought, page by page, licking his thumb and forefinger to turn them. Skwisgaar watched with a raised eyebrow.

Finally, after running his finger down the length of a page, it seemed Toki found what he was looking for, and he lifted the book slightly, cleared his throat and read aloud, “Mare-ee-edge. Noun. Any cloze or imitate…in-ti-mate. Intimate association or union. ‘De mare-ee-edge of music and word in a hit song.’ A formal agreement between two company or enterprise to combine operation, resource, eckt period, for moo-too-ull…myoo-chyu-ull. Mutual benefit.” He closed the book with a loud slap that sent his brown hair briefly flying. He looked nonchalantly at his friend. “We has a marriage, Skwisgaar.”

“…wheres did you gets dat book from?”

“De book grocery.”

Skwisgaar laid back down on his pillows and snuffled wetly. After a pause he looked the other way and muttered, “Fine. So we marrieds. Big deals. Peoples are marry all de times. Just don’t expecting me to be making de loves to yous.”

“I not expects that from you, Skwisgaar.”

“Good.”

“Anybody can tells you de bride anyway.”

Skwisgaar turned his head to glare at Toki. The Norwegian was smiling cockily but endearingly. Skwisgaar sighed shortly. “Why you so means to me? I don’t deserves dis.”

“Because I hates you, Skwisgaar. More than you ever knows.”

Toki placed his hand on the bed, and the Swede’s own pale clammy one soon found it. They both knew the word game they were playing—they’d played it often enough. They knew the translations now, knew exactly what each other meant. It was fun, it was funny, it was a little bit awkward, but if you couldn’t speak your mind…well then, you’re bound to lose it someday.

Skwisgaar gave Toki’s hand a little squeeze, sniffed, and smiled snidely. “Ja,” he said. And that was all he said.

Two weeks later Skwisgaar was back to his usual hair-whipping, guitar-shredding, groupie-banging old self again. The rest of the band was glad to see that he hadn’t kicked the bucket after all, and promptly cancelled the 8 million MySpace adverts for a new guitarist they had sent out. Morons everywhere died in disappointment at their chances of joining Dethklok being reduced to nil. The band decided to celebrate with a nice drinking binge at their favourite local bar, and by the time midnight rolled around they were all in possession of highly flammable breath and couldn’t be feeling better.

Except for one member of the group, who couldn’t seem to get that rasp out of his voice that had settled in earlier that day.

“Why’s yous beingk so quiets, ah?” Skwisgaar asked Toki, slinging his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Has de cats got stucks in your throat-pipes?”

“I’m fine,” Toki said nervously, massaging the itch in his throat.

“Reallys. Well. You’s…lookings pretty hot.”

“Was that a comes-on line?”

“Huh?” Blink. “No. Yours cheek is…yours tem-pre-toors is hot. Like you gots a fevers.”

“I’m drunks,” Toki excused. And then he sneezed.

Skwisgaar’s drunken blue eyes gleamed with the beautiful glow of vengeance. “You’s are sick,” he said excitedly, then leaned in and gave Toki a crushing hug, petting his brown hair and spilling beer all in it. “Don’ts to worries darling!” he cried chivalrously, “I’ll takes good cares off yous!”

“I knows,” Toki moaned, face skwished against Skwisgaar’s bosom. “That’s what worry me.”

“I’ll make teas for yous and gives you baths for yous and-” He pulled away with a wicked evil grin. “-massages for yous...”

Toki laid his head on the bar and moped with all the dignity he could muster. No way was he going to come out of this on top.

In any sense of the word.

Goldiskwiss & the Three Bears

2007-01-21T06:13:32Z

Mature Content: This story contains elements that are graphic in nature. Please exercise discretion.

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for sexual violence, brutality, forced entry, profanity, drug use, the works.

Summary: A dumb blond is guilty of breaking and entering into the wrong damn house.

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

…but the last one was just right.

nce upon a time in the wilds of Canada there lived three bears. The human type bears. There was Nathan, by far the biggest and most masculine bear of the three, with long dark hair and a brutish growl; then there was Toki, smaller but muscular and feisty, who delighted in grotesque violence; and then there was Murderface, short, plump and hairy, with an affinity for bloodplay and a gap you could slap a hockey puck through. They lived together in a remote cabin out in the woods, levelled any living thing they saw with their mighty chainsaws, and every day wore combat boots and flannel shirts with the sleeves torn off. They ate raw crow eggs for breakfast, raw rabbits and squirrels for lunch, and raw elk for dinner. They made their own vile brand of hooch—a 175 proof concoction that could turn a normal guy inside out—and drank it like water. They rolled their own cigarettes and killed local flora with their secondhand smoke. They were rugged and brutal and dirty and smelled like animals. Dead ones. (But freshly killed dead ones to put it nicely.) They were bristly and unshaven, ungroomed, had filth under their nails and were constantly covered in flecks of blood from butchering their meals alive. Timber wolves and grizzlies were terrified of them. Flowers wilted and butterflies dropped dead whenever they passed by. If trees could run, the whole forest would have packed up and gotten the hell out of dodge years ago. They upset the ecosystem, destroyed the balance of nature, and to top it all off they rarely recycled. They were an affront to the living earth; however, they kept to themselves and their own and were mostly content with their solitary lives.

But all that changed one day.

small commuter plane was flying from Ontario when suddenly it just plummeted out of the sky and into the treetops. There was a big crunch but no explosions. Many trees were tragically killed. Only one person survived, which was a 100% survival rate, seeing as how there was only one person on board and he happened to be the pilot. His name was Skwisgaar Skwigelf, and he wasn’t actually a pilot. He was a guitarist in the Swedish metal band Fangarrok-Al-Unga-Frokk, and his bandmates back at the Ontario airport—bored while waiting for their flight out—had dared him to steal a plane and see how far he could go before the Canadian Air Patrol threatened to shoot him down.

Skwisgaar, living up to his reputation as the stereotypical gorgeous-but-dumb-as-butter guy with long wavy locks of golden hair, had always wanted to be a pilot but he didn’t know the first thing about flying, and that’s why he found himself where he was now: trekking through the forest and trying to find a place where he could get more than half a bar on his cell phone. Night was beginning to fall and he was very cold, being dressed more appropriately for environments with constant climate control. He was beginning to think that he was going to have to find a hollow log to crawl into for the night when suddenly he saw glowing yellow lights between the dark tree trunks, and hastened forward.

He soon found himself in a clearing and looking at a large log cabin; it appeared to be occupied, so he walked up the porch steps and knocked on the door. “Hello? I mights be needing some helps,” he called. “My plane’s crash in de tree and I lost, so please, coulds I comes in and please use your telly-phones?”

There was no answer so Skwisgaar, whose intellect was rivalled only by garden slugs, let himself inside the bears’ home. Pelts and skulls hung all over the walls of the cabin. There was a chandelier made of antlers hanging in the living room. The tables and chairs still had bark on them. The cushioned furniture was upholstered with crudely-sewn leather and camouflage. Strips of curing meat dangled from the rafters overhead. The bones of unfortunate creatures were strewn all over the floor. Crusty pots and pans littered the kitchen counter. Visible from out the back window was a dead oak whose limbs were hung with more gutted carcasses than Ed Gein’s wardrobe closet. Hammers and hunting knives and spare chainsaw belts were on every surface. Fur rugs were laid out on the floor here and there—a few looked pretty fresh, if the flies still buzzing around them were any indication. There was no sign of a telephone to be found. It smelled like death and blood and body odour in here, and the Swede was almost tempted to turn around and take his chances with the hollow log; however, a fire was burning on the hearth in the main room and it looked warm and inviting, so Skwisgaar walked over and defrosted his pale Scandinavian hide by it for a little while, wondering who could possibly live in a creepy place like this.

After sitting by the fire for a while he started to feel a little hungry, so he wandered into the kitchen to see if there was anything edible. To his great dismay he found a mouldy fridge filled with the remnant passengers of Noah’s Ark and mason jars of disturbingly human-sized organs. He slammed the door shut, ran out back to go throw up, and that was where he found three tapped kegs sitting, marked “N”, “T” and “M” respectively. Curious and more than a little anxious to get the taste of puke out of his mouth, Skwisgaar went back inside and got a big mug, went to the “N” keg and poured a sample. It didn’t even make it down his throat before he heaved it out. “Gyah!” he gagged. “Dis stuff’s is too strong!”

So next he tried the “T” keg, took a sip, and spit it out distastefully. “Bleh! Dis stuff’s is too sweet!”

So then he tried the “M” keg, took a tentative sip, brightened, and downed the whole mug. “Ahh! Dis stuff’s is just rights!”

So he filled the mug to the brim, took it inside and found a busted TV in the den with three recliners in front of it. Deciding to pass the time until the residents got home, Skwisgaar sat down in the first chair and slid his ass around, trying to get comfortable. “Pfft, dis chair’s is too hards!” he cried at last.

So he got up and sat down in the second one, only to discover that, while soft, it seemed to be stuffed with guts instead of polyester filling and it stunk like hell. “Eeew, dis chair’s is too gross!”

So he got up and sat down in the third one, smiling contentedly and putting up the footrest. “Ahh! Dis chair’s is just rights!”

So Skwisgaar flicked on the tube and watched Twilight Zone reruns and spilled booze all over the recliner. When he ran out of booze he’d go out back and refill, back and forth, inside and outside, and he drank and drank and pissed and drank and barfed and drank and drank and pissed and drank some more (Skwisgaar is Swedish, mind you) until the keg was bone dry. Quite possibly it was the best booze he’d ever tasted. Now, comfortably loaded, the blond was tired of watching TV and decided to go find a place to sleep. The couch was out of the question—he’d sooner sleep on a bloated dead cow. He found a rough staircase that led upstairs, and there he found three separate beds.

The first bed he laid down in had an “N” carved on the headboard, but Skwisgaar didn’t stay in it for very long on account of it being similar to the first chair he’d sat in. “Ugh! Dis bed’s is too hards!”

So he got up and laid down in the second bed that had a “T” carved on the headboard, but he didn’t stay in it for very long on account of the fact that there was a stuffed skunk in it that totally freaked (and stunk) him out. “Augh! Dis bed’s is too creepy!”

So he got up and laid down in the third bed that had an “M” carved on the headboard, and it was perfectly soft and warm and dry. “Ahh! Dis bed’s is just rights!” And, drunk as a motherfucker, he snuggled down under the fur covers and fell fast asleep.

t wasn’t long after Skwisgaar had fallen into a drunken slumber that the three bears, covered in blood, returned home from a night hunt in their beat up old Studebaker pickup. Once they had gutted and hung their catches from the dead oak tree, they began to make their way up the back porch steps when suddenly Nathan stopped, sniffing the air. “I smell something,” he growled.

“Probably yours upper lip,” snapped Toki, but the big man followed his nose to the kegs just outside the door.

“Someone’s been drinkin’ my booze,” he glowered, his long black hair shadowing his face.

Toki picked up on the scent by his own keg and snarled, “Hey! Someone been drinkings my booze too!”

Murderface walked over to his own keg and kicked it ferociously. “Shumbody’sh been jrinkin’ my boozshe too, an’ zshey fuckin’ emptied it!”

On edge and alert now, the three bears quietly entered their house where the scent only grew stronger. “It’s human,” Nathan muttered, inhaling deeply and leading his posse into the den. “A guy. Young. Clean.” Sniiifffff. “Foreign. Maybe Finnish or Danish.” He stopped at his big hard recliner and took a deep whiff. “And he was sittin’ in my chair.”

Toki followed suit, noticing the smell in his own recliner. “Hey! Somebody been sittings in my chair too!”

Murderface crossed his arms and glared down at the booze soaking into his recliner. “Shumbody shat in my tchair too…and zshey fuckin’-!”

“Quiet!” Nathan hissed, cocking his head to the side. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear whats?”

“It sounded like it came from upstairs.”

Murderface cracked his knuckles and drew his still-bloody hunting knife. “Let’sh inveshtigate,” he murmured.

The three brutes crept up the stairs as quietly as they could, hoping to catch the intruder by surprise. They came to Nathan’s bed first, and the big man sniffed the covers. “Somebody was sleepin’ in my bed,” he growled quietly.

Toki went over to his own bed and picked up his stuffed skunk that had been tossed to the floor. “Somebody been sleepings in my bed too, and dey upset Mr Stunkalot!”

The three looked at each other, and then at the last bed. Murderface stealthily approached his own bed with knife raised, gleaming in the dark, reached down…and drew away the fur covers, revealing the peacefully sleeping face of an incredibly handsome young man whose golden hair was spread out on the pillow beneath him in amber waves.

“Rmm,” Nathan grumbled, peering over Murderface’s hairy shoulder. “Looks like we caught ourselves a pretty little buck, fellahs.”

“He look…del-ishi-us,” Toki said faintly with a hungry gleam in his eye.

Murderface was so stunned that he accidentally dropped his knife on the floor; Skwisgaar heard the noise and his eyes flitted open, and he beheld the three hulking shadows staring down at him carnivorously. At first he was too drunk to realise that this wasn’t a dream, but when he blinked a few times and tried to sit up, he was suddenly slammed into the mattress and overpowered faster than you can say “trespassing”.

he next morning Skwisgaar awoke hogtied like a steer and hanging between the gutted remains of a wild boar and a stag from the tree out back. He began to struggle and swing in a desperate attempt to free himself, but his captors were better than most sailors when it came to tying knots, especially since all three shared an appreciation for the fine art of bondage. The Swede’s thrashing attracted the attention of the three bears, who came outside to inspect their quarry. Needless to say, Skwisgaar was even more frightened of them in the daylight than he was during the night, because now he could see what he was dealing with. And he was much better off not knowing.

“Who ares yous? What ares yous!? Why yous tied me ups like dis!?” he cried.

“Uh, we’ll ashk the queshtionzsh, Goldie,” the hairy brown bear with the gap growled.

“Ah, who’s care about question? I says we go ahead and eats him,” the brown bear with the Fu Manchu said impishly, walking over to where Skwisgaar hung and giving one long lick to the blond’s bare arm. “Mm. Better dan beefs. I could right now takes a bites outta him.”

When it finally dawned on Skwisgaar that he was dealing with three cannibals, the shit hit the fan and he started to scream his lungs out. The beasts stood by and watched complacently. They weren’t worried at all. No one was around to hear anyway.

After Skwisgaar tired of screaming, the bear with the black hair approached and said to him in a grizzly voice, “Looks like you decided to shack up in the wrong fuckin’ house, Goldie. But seein’ as how me and my boys are pretty taken by you, we’re givin’ you a choice. We can either let you stay with us in exchange for bein’ our new Baby Bear, or we can slice you open from belly to balls and you can watch your intestines spill out on the ground. Your choice.”

“I stay wis yous!” sobbed the unfortunate Swede. “I do anythings! Just don’ts kill mes!”

Skwisgaar had no idea what the job description of being Baby Bear was, but it sure sounded a hell of a lot better than being disembowelled alive. Murderface cut the snivelling blond down from the tree and they took him inside, liquored him up nice and good, stripped him naked, and then took turns sodomising him.

That’s what they meant by being Baby Bear.

Nathan went first, and from the moment he first unzipped his massive blood-engorged cock, Skwisgaar knew he was in for a world of hurt. He was wrong. It was much, much worse. The black bear wasn’t very rough with him, but his grossly oversized erection was as painful as it was impressive. At least the broad shouldered brute was kind enough to use lube. Still, it didn’t stop Skwisgaar from screaming, “Gyah! You’s is too big!”

By noon Nathan had finished with the Swede, and Toki came in to take his place. This one was even worse than the last one, not that his cock was gigantic, but the method in which he used it was excruciating. Skwisgaar shrieked and squealed worse than a groupie as Toki fucked him roughly, pulling his hair and bending him into positions that made the blond’s joints and muscles echo with pain. “Augh! You’s is too rough!” he shouted, but his words were paid no concern; the small brown bear took him violently and fiercely, and by the time the assault had ended late that afternoon, Skwisgaar was bruised and bleeding.

He was beginning to wish that he had agreed to being gutted by the time Murderface came in to have his way with him, but the traumatised young man couldn’t have been more surprised; true, this last bear was as un-gorgeous as they get—fat and flabby and hairy and dirty and all kinds of rank—but he wiped the blood and cum off of Skwisgaar’s face, caressed his golden locks with his grubby fingers, and didn’t shove his cock down Skwisgaar’s throat without due warning. It was actually a very nice cock; not too big but not too small, not too thick and not too thin, and it could do all sorts of neat tricks. Skwisgaar found himself suddenly enjoying sucking dick, but that was nothing compared to the enjoyment he received when Murderface put it inside him. Not too long, not too short. Not too rough, not too gentle. “Ahh,” Skwisgaar moaned, wrapping his pale, clean arms and legs around this filthy, revolting beast. “You’s is just rights.”

By the time evening rolled around they’d done it five times and Skwisgaar had achieved multiple orgasms, which was positively astounding considering the piece of work that had been nailing him all afternoon. Maybe being Baby Bear wasn’t as bad as it was cut out to be.

That night he ate raw elk with his new family, who commended him for not letting himself be fucked to death, as such was the fate of most people who wandered into their neck of the woods and who didn’t opt for the disembowelling. Truly he was brutal bear material, and they meant to teach him well. Skwisgaar soon grew accustomed to his new life, learned to skin animals and eat raw things and not bathe quite as often as he was used to. He kept the house in a tolerable state of filth when his boys were away, helped them brew their near-fatal hooch (even introducing his old home-grown-Swedish recipe to the enjoyment of all) and kept the chainsaws polished and shiny. Though his contract as Baby Bear meant that from time to time he would be forced to endure the painful affections of Daddy Bear and Macho Bear, he slept in Murder Bear’s bed almost exclusively and even developed an appreciation for his hideous foot odour.

They lived happily ever after, but it doesn’t end there just yet; about three years later a redheaded hiker from Wisconsin got lost up in the Canadian wilderness and wandered into the Bears’ clearing. Skwisgaar was out back, sharpening the chainsaw belts when he smelled an unfamiliar smell and went up front to investigate.

“Ey!” called the stranger. “How ya doin’? Th’ name’s Pickles. I’m kinda lost n’ I was jest wond’rin’ if I ked use yer phone.”

Baby Bear smiled and wiped his greasy hands on his flannel shirt. “We don’t gots no phones,” he said charmingly, “but if yous come insides, dere’s a couples guys dat coulds fix yous up just rights…”

Small Favour

2007-01-19T02:44:20Z

Mature Content: This story contains elements that are graphic in nature. Please exercise discretion.

Small Favour

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for graphic descriptions of sexual activities, profanity and mild violence.

Summary: Skwisgaar desperately needs something that only Nathan, it seems, can give him.

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

Do not allow a camel to put his nose under the edge of your tent, for soon you will have a camel in your tent.
–Arabian proverb

Nobody knew why they were having a meeting today at 11:00 in the morning. It was practically the middle of the goddamn night by Mordhaus standards. Toki was still in his PJs and Pickles, in his tighty whities, hadn’t stirred from his position draped on the meeting table with his head cradled in his arms. Murderface was carving intricate patterns into the mahogany surface—the equivalent of doodling while you’re on the telephone—as he listened to Ofdensen drone on about something-or-other policies and updating wavers and W-2s for the employees and all of that corporate bureaucratic bullshit that turns sane people into axe murderers.

Nathan glared at their manager and tried to keep his eyelids from falling closed. He, like the rest of the band, was tired and hungover and just wanted to crawl back into bed like any normal man and wake up when the hour was decent. Like around 2 PM. Skwisgaar, guitar oddly absent, sat with his arms crossed and no expression on his face throughout the whole meeting, which was already two forevers too long. Mercifully it ended to the relief of all, and Ofdensen headed out the double doors followed by the members of the band who seemed to be walking the pace of a funeral dirge. Nathan was the last to leave his seat, stretching as he did so and cracking a few joints in his neck, somehow failing to notice the anxious way that a certain pair of eyes were looking at him.

“Naten,” said the Swede difficulty, “I needs to asks yous…a small favour from yous.”

Usually the dark haired man would mutter “piss off” or “do it yourself, asshole”, but there was a high note in Skwisgaar’s normally smooth, low voice that he had never heard before. Made him think something was wrong. Nathan was right of course, but he wouldn’t find out until later.

“Yeah?” he asked hesitantly.

Skwisgaar, same old Skwisgaar, same shirt jeans boots belt Skwisgaar, same pale skin wavy blond hair blue eyes Skwisgaar, stood there and stared at Nathan. Then he said something. Couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7 words, always sounded like more with Skwisgaar. Words that were not same.

Nathan didn’t breathe for two beats. Then he laughed once, harshly. Fucking wiseass. Then he saw the serious expression and everything suddenly got real quiet. Heart rate skyrocketed. Heat rose. Palms sweated. Mouth dried.

“You…really,” he stated, not questioned.

Skwisgaar nodded resolutely.

Four minutes later the Swede was leaning over the table, moist palms skidding on the lacquered wood, pants bunched around his knees, clenching his teeth and purring as Nathan fucked his sweet, tight ass. The table thumped hollowly with each thrust; Nathan dug his fingers into the pale-as-sugar thighs and watched with voracious satisfaction as his cock slid in and out of that warm pink hole, a hardened rouge muscle undulating between those two fleshy mounds of vanilla.

He was salivating like a dog who had caught the scent of fresh meat, more surprised at himself and what he was doing than what Skwisgaar was allowing him to do; the guitarist was as promiscuous as that tawdry slut he called a mother, so it didn’t really surprise Nathan that he would ask for this. He didn’t know why Skwisgaar would ask it, didn’t want to know, didn’t care to know. Don’t question anything that’s free.

Skwisgaar moaned softly, little grunts and sighs, when Nathan changed his angle or shoved himself all the way inside. Slender back arched, shirt riding up and revealing the line of gentle lumps that was his backbone. Thin muscles shifting beneath the skin. Blood and bones and flesh. Just another human body. But Skwisgaar’s. Lean fingers went shaking rigid; he would have put 10 marks in the table if he had any nails, but they were all chewed down to the quick. Hidden anxiety. Everybody saw but nobody asked. They all had demons. Skwisgaar was no exception. Maybe nobody gave a damn anymore. Too busy trying to manage their own shit to care about anyone else’s.

Nathan finally spoke, and it was the only thing he said during this whole process: “I’m about to cum. You wanna-”

“Insides,” Skwisgaar interrupted roughly. “In me. Do its.”

Nathan swallowed, thought about his dick, about Skwisgaar’s tight little boy-pussy, about cumming all up in this body that had probably never been cum in before. He grunted, groaned, squeezed Skwisgaar’s hips in his big hands and slammed in out, in out. Skwisgaar pinched his lips tight and shut his eyes, the pain sometimes drowning out the pleasure. It would happen in waves, making it worth it and also so fucking crazy—why was he doing this, not now, don’t think, just bite your lip baby and never mind those tears, you’re not bleeding so bad…

Restraint gave way and he let out a sob that turned into a low-pitched wail, the friction taking place in his body too much to bear silently. One sweaty hand slipped, went out from under him, he fell forward and his face and upper chest collided with the table. He hit his nose hard and bright blue-red blossoms exploded behind his shut eyes. Nathan kept going. The angle had changed; it was a lot more intense now, the pain and the pleasure. There was a soundtrack of gasp, yelp, moan, yelp. And then Nathan came at last, pouring his load into Skwisgaar and growling deep in his throat like thunder. He leaned forward hard, pressing his pelvic bones into the squishy flesh, making sure that the Swede felt every last centimetre of the cock inside him. A few more courtesy thrusts and he pulled out, wiped off, tucked in, zipped up, stepped back.

Skwisgaar let out a gentle whoosh of a sigh, lifting himself on shaking arms and turning to face Nathan. He leaned back against the table and avoided the questing green eyes of his bandmate, combing a few locks of blond hair behind his ear uncharacteristically.

“Hey,” said Nathan quietly, tapping a thumb to his own nose to indicate Skwisgaar’s. The guitarist quickly lifted a hand to inspect it, somewhat startled to find a thick rivulet of blood running down his upper lip; faceplanting into the table must have torn something delicate. He tried to wipe it off and only succeeded in smearing red all over his mouth.

Nathan watched the motions with curiosity, then his eyes travelled downwards to the pants that were still bunched around the slender thighs, noticing that Skwisgaar was still hard—he’d never orgasmed. Now Nathan felt a little bit guilty; he was supposed to do Skwisgaar the favour but instead it had worked out more to his own advantage…and at least he didn’t have a bleeding busted nose. Skwisgaar deserved a little something for letting Nathan cum inside him.

He stepped forward, Skwisgaar’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Nathan put his hands on the bare hips and lifted him easily, sitting him on the edge of the table. Skwisgaar didn’t resist; his hands automatically landed on the broad shoulders and stayed there. Blue eyes met green ones as Nathan reached down and grasped Skwisgaar’s cock in his large hand, evoking an almost inaudible grunt. He began stroking and pulling, and he felt the hands on his shoulders grip the fabric of his shirt.

“Yous don’t…haffs to do dis,” said the Swede lowly.

“I need to,” Nathan muttered, then let go of the cock and held his hand to Skwisgaar’s face. “Spit.”

But he didn’t spit—he licked. Opened his mouth and dragged his wet tongue across Nathan’s palm, eyes half closed, though it seemed more methodical, an act of necessity rather than passion. Nathan watched, felt his dick throb in his jeans and was surprised at himself. It was sexy, no doubt about it, but it still wasn’t right. Then again, what the hell was “right” anyway?

With hand moistened, he gripped Skwisgaar’s erection and set to work, trying to find out what he liked best. Silently learning little things about him that nobody else ever bothered to ask, groupies and friends alike, what few friends he had. And they were few. Groupies were even worse: nothing but brainless dick fodder, nameless fuck toys that were more objects than people. They had only labels—MILFs, GMILFs, FBLs—but they didn’t care. Getting nailed by an insanely rich and talented young man, who would? It was a shallow business, sure, but people weren’t interested in love anymore. It was cheap and full of holes. Love had gone to Vegas and died there. Life went on.

Nathan inched closer and Skwisgaar pulled him forward a few more. Their closeness was dangerously intimate, full of silent and terrifying thoughts that the human mind couldn’t help thinking about. Skwisgaar began to breathe raggedly through his blood stained lips, eyes falling half closed. “Jaaa,” he whispered, drawing the word out in a tremulous breath.

Nathan’s free hand slipped around Skwisgaar’s side, under his shirt, painted fingernails scratching the small of his back lightly. Somehow the Swede’s face found its way to the warm crook of Nathan’s neck, his arms wrapped tightly over the larger man’s shoulders. Dangling boots were slyly shucked off, dropped to the floor. Tangled pants soon followed, and then those slender milk-white legs wrapped themselves around Nathan’s warm hips.

There was no red line that spoke of how far was too far. That was the problem. There were no stages, no steps, no levels, no clear definition of what was reasonable. The process just naturally occurred; once something had been achieved it only made sense to continue until the goal was met. Nathan was trying to get Skwisgaar to cum but it was more difficult that he thought. So he tried different tactics, one after the other.

Skwisgaar lost his shirt and was now naked but for his black socks. Nathan pressed his cheek to the Swede’s and nuzzled, his cock growing harder and hotter with every passing second. Soon their lips met and a red flag seemed to raise, but they found a way to sneak around it. Nathan licked the blood from Skwisgaar’s mouth, a carnal gesture. The licking turned to sucking turned to kissing and suddenly there wasn’t an inch of space between their two bodies anymore. Pressed flush against one another they started to grind, Skwisgaar mumbling wordlessly at the hard pain he received from the crotch of Nathan’s jeans. That led to the cock coming out again, which in turn led to a change in focus, which ultimately led to Skwisgaar being laid flat out on the table with his legs wrapped around Nathan as the frontman fucked him for a second time.

The cum already inside Skwisgaar made it much more comfortable—Sloppy Seconds, but sloppy was good in this case. Nathan could see the expressions on the guitarist’s face, more wanton than pain-filled this time around. Skwisgaar raised his arms and stretched his lean, wiry body across the width of the table, pale gold hair spread in tangled tendrils beneath him, smiling slightly as he was rocked by each thrust.

“Jaa,” he repeated hazily, almost to himself. “Du känns så bra inuti mig¹…”

Seeing the Swede so pleased made Nathan feel better. He didn’t realise how far this little favour had taken him, was taking him, would take him. If he’d known beforehand where this would lead, he would never have agreed to it. But he didn’t know beforehand, so that was nothing more than a fantasy now.

The lithe back arched, blond eyebrows pushed together, and Skwisgaar uttered Nathan’s name as he came. Hard. Thick drops spattered on Nathan’s belly, most of it on Skwisgaar. Watching his bandmate writhe in the throes of ecstasy, hands spasming and chest heaving, limbs trembling, Nathan came shortly thereafter, filling Skwisgaar again.

As the guitarist lay there limply, panting for breath, Nathan felt the urge to touch him. So he did. Large hands rested gently on the Swede’s chest then massaged their way down, feeling the rise and fall as he breathed, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, feeling the smooth and sharp contours of flesh and bone. A human being. Skwisgaar’s nail-chewed and gifted hands landed on Nathan’s and stayed there. After a while he sat up gingerly, they parted, and Nathan bent down to retrieve Skwisgaar’s clothes. As he dressed they never once looked at each other. It wasn’t shame that prevented this, but fear of something else entirely different.

Skwisgaar pulled his shirt over his head and adjusted his unruly hair. His nose was still seeping blood but Nathan had licked most of it off. They’d just swapped DNA and acted as if it wasn’t really that big of a deal. It wasn’t really, was it? It was just a favour.

“T’ank yous,” Skwisgaar said awkwardly. “I really needsted dat.”

“No problem,” Nathan grunted.

A brief silence fell. Skwisgaar looked at Nathan but Nathan didn’t look at him. “Its were really goods. Maybe I’s…ones day do somet’ings to makes de favour returns, ja?”

Nathan raised his head and tried to glare but found it impossible. A bond had already been formed. Grain of sand in an oyster. Irritating and horrible, painful even. But in the end…

“Whatever,” Nathan muttered.

Next month Skwisgaar needed another favour. The next month two. Three weeks later one in the rehearsal auditorium. Two weeks later another in the Mordhaus garage. Six days later Skwisgaar went into Nathan’s room and didn’t come out until the next morning.

A year had now passed. The game of favours was still being played. Everybody had to know by now. Maybe they knew and didn’t care. It wouldn’t surprise Nathan. Shit like this happens all the time.

¹Swedish; you feel so good inside me.

Skwisfrogg

2007-01-14T04:58:03Z

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: M for profanity, animal violence, and sexual intercourse between menfolk.

Summary: A spoiled brat named Toki meets a talking frog, and the rest is hysteria.

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

Up high, the flies are playing
And frolicking, and swaying.
The frog thinks: Dance! I know
You’ll end up here below.

-Wilhelm Busch

nce there was a young man named Toki Wartooth who was a mega-wealthy professional guitarist that lived in a big dark mansion in a neighbourhood called Bloodcreek Estates. All of the hardcore metalheads lived there, like his neighbours: William Murderface, a bassist and curator at the local Civil War museum; Pickles, a drummer and also operator of a high-profile narcotics racket out of his garage; and Nathan Explosion, a professional vocalist and a collector of fancy cheeses. These were Toki’s three closest neighbours and they hung out from time to time on weekends.

But Toki wasn’t all that great despite his being naturally good-looking; in fact, he was the dumbest, most selfish, immature, cold-blooded little prick you’ll ever meet in this life. He spent a vast fortune collecting the most worthless possessions, he had no appreciation for art or literature or culture, he spoke terrible English and even mangled his own native Norwegian tongue, he cared nothing about the feelings of others, he insulted everyone he talked to, he drank excessively, hated children, did petty drugs, was quick to lose his temper, and was prone to bouts of extreme depression during which he would shut out all light from his home and eat candy for days. He was, in essence, a horrible person and a worthless excuse of a human being. He was a tyrannical child, a spoiled rotten brat whose company others avoided as best they could. But Toki didn’t care about his shortcomings. He was too selfish to see anything of the world beyond his own Fu Manchu, and that was alright by him.

Then it happened that one day, as he was out walking the great expanse of his mostly-wooded property and idly playing with a small remote-controlled airplane, the little battery in the fuselage died suddenly in mid-flight. The aircraft did a nosedive on the other side of the hill, right near a pond that Toki had no idea was even there. Upon conducting an impatient search of the area, he at last spotted the mouldering ruins of what looked like a wishing well. He leaned over carefully and gazed down into the darkness. Certainly enough, when his eyes had adjusted themselves he saw the red wing of his airplane lodged in the oozing muck at the very bottom.

Normally Toki would have said “de hells” with this and been on his merry way, but he had actually built this airplane himself and it was his very favourite toy. Like a child he couldn’t bear to part with it. It was, however, a very very long way down. So Toki’s next option was to first throw a tantrum, curse the world and everything in it, and then sit down beside the well and mope because there was no way any living person could possibly extricate his airplane.

Just then Toki heard ribbits, ribbits! from somewhere over his shoulder, and when he turned around he was face to face with a large frog. It was a bright golden colour and its funky amphibian eyes were tinted a pale shade of blue; it would have probably been a very pretty frog if not for the weird lips it had. Toki drew back in disgust because he had never seen a frog with lips before, and it looked very—how should I put this?—fugly to say the least. He was just about to slap the mutated looking monstrosity back down the well when suddenly it spoke in a throaty croak:

“Hello, how’s do you doos? It’s is a nice day fors de plane’s flying, ja? My names is Skwisfrogg, what’s is your?”

Toki was stunned and even more disgusted; this slimy, coagulated puke chunk spoke English even worse than he did. But he found himself automatically replying, “My name’s Toki.”

The frog actually smiled. It could do that—it had lips. “It’s is nice to meets yous, Toki.”

The Norwegian had not changed expressions since his initial revulsion, but Skwisfrogg politely ignored the rudeness.

“It’s is seemings dat your aero-plane’s has falling into my house.”

“You lives down there?” Toki gawped, finding his voice. “Down in alls that shit?”

“Dere’s no places like home,” replied the frog lightly. “But I can’ts lives wis a plane stucks in my house like dat.”

“You screwed then,” Toki muttered, slumping down sadly. “Nobody can gets it out. Is too small to fits a person down there.”

“I coulds get it for yous,” the yellow amphibian offered.

Toki was suddenly Skwisfrogg’s best fair-weather friend. “Really?” he cried, crawling to his knees.

“Yes.”

“You…you seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But if I goes down and gets it for yous, what’s will you doos to repay me, eh?”

“Anything you wants!” Toki exclaimed. “A hundred’s buck! A solid gold telephone! You likes my shirt? Is yours!”

But Skwisfrogg shook his head gravely. “Pfft, I don’ts want none of dat stuff. Material’s possession comes and goes too fast. I am a bits…lonely? It’s not much fun livings down in de grounds all by myselv, you knows.”

Toki didn’t like where this was going. “So…what does you want, frog?”

“I wants to be your friend!” Skwisfrogg hopped to show his enthusiasm. “If I goes down and gets you your toys for yous, you must promise to being my friend and takes me wis you wherevers you go.”

“Okay,” Toki lied.

“And lives in your house wis you.”

“Okay, fine,” Toki lied.

“And haves dinners wis you.”

“Okay, that cool,” Toki lied.

“And sleeps in your bed and live alls nice in your pocket when you travels.”

“Okay, whatever,” Toki lied between clenched teeth. This fucking frog was about to become extinct if it didn’t shut up and go get his airplane. Thankfully the list of soon-to-be-broken promises ended after that, and with a smile and a happy ribbit, Skwisfrogg leapt down the well and disappeared into the shadows. Toki peered over the edge but he couldn’t see what was happening, and after a few long moments the frog emerged, carrying the little red plane.

Toki scooped up his plane and cheered, ignoring how fatigued the yellow frog had become from carrying such a burden all the way up the slippery well. But before Skwisfrogg could catch his breath, the double-crossing Norwegian raced off over the hill.

“Hey! You’s forgotted me! I can’ts run as fast as yous!” he called, but Toki didn’t hear. Actually he did hear, but he didn’t slow down. No way was that stupid, nasty old frog setting one flipper inside his house. Toki resolved to never again fly his plane near the pond, and was certain that that was the last time he would ever see Skwisfrogg again.

But we all know how wrong he is, don’t we?

hat evening Toki invited Murderface, Nathan and Pickles over to his house for dinner and pornographic horror movies. They were wrist deep in buckets of buffalo wings and 20 minutes into Sexist Chainsaw Ass Murderer III when there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at the living room window. “Tis shum vizshitor,” said Murderface, and nothing more.

Toki got up to inspect the tapping as it was becoming most bothersome, and when he let up the window that damn yellow frog from earlier that day jumped through and landed on the floor. “Goods evenings,” he greeted pleasantly, as if he hadn’t been ditched earlier that day. “I hopes I’m not bothering yous at dis hour—I was just so afraids you has forgots your promise.”

Toki saw red and immediately began scanning the room for a brick or a cinder block he could just drop on the unwanted creature, but his guests had already noticed the amphibian’s presence.

“DUDE!” ranted Pickles, who was most likely already in a stage of drug-induced hysteria. “That frog just TALKED. Ohmagad. Oh gad I must…I musta got inta some bad reefer or somethin’.”

“No, I am reals,” said the frog to the drummer. “My name’s is Skwisfrogg. How’s do you doos.”

“Oh gad. Maybe that last batch ‘a LSD is still…oh gad. Oh Jesus I think I need ta lay down. I’m…I’m gonna go lay down now.” And poor Pickles was forced to retire to the couch.

Nathan and Murderface—who weren’t strung out on drugs and therefore more able to cope with the illogical—crowded around Skwisfrogg and ooed and awed and said how fucking awesome it was that Toki had a talking pet while the Norwegian stood by and gnashed his teeth together in fury.

Nathan held Skwisfrogg in his big hand and petted him nicely. “Man, Toki. You’re like. So lucky to have one of these. Hey, uh…frog. If I, you know…lick you or something, will anything happen?”

“Ja. I’lls piss on yous.”

“Metal!” Murderface—who had a urine fixation—exclaimed gleefully. “Ah jeezsh, Toki. Thish frog izsh sho cool. You better take good care of ‘im.”

“Yeah,” Nathan grunted, handing Skwisfrogg to Toki, who received the cold, moist creature with nothing less than utter repugnance. “Some people would kill to have a talking frog. You better treat that thing like…a prince or something. Fuckin’ royalty. I mean…’cause if you don’t I’m gonna kick your ass. Seriously. Kick it.”

“Yeah, me too!” Murderface agreed.

Toki glowered and reluctantly patted the smiling frog on the head. This was like a bad dream. “No worries about de damn frog, okay?” he muttered. “I keep it safe and sounds, no big deals.”

“We’re holdin’ you to that,” Nathan said, pointing a finger warningly.

“Yeah, sure sure,” Toki snapped, “I gets it already. Can we just watch de movies yet?”

So they all gathered around the big screen, and Skwisfrogg sat on Toki’s shoulder and croaked and offered commentary throughout the whole movie, totally ruining it for Toki. And as if that wasn’t enough, the frog also ate whatever Toki raised to his mouth, and it wasn’t long before Skwisfrogg was coated in a nice layer of buffalo sauce.

When guys’ night was over, Nathan and Murderface left for home with Pickles draped between them like a drunkard, and Toki trudged upstairs to go take a bath. Skwisfrogg followed him up every stair, and when the drowsy Norwegian had settled into the nice spa-bathtub of warm, bubbly water, there came a ribbit from somewhere in the bathroom and then a splash. Toki’s eyes went wide, and moments later Skwisfrogg surfaced and landed on Toki’s bare chest.

“Hey, dis is nice. Do you thinks you coulds maybe scrubs my back? I can’ts reach it wis my tiny little arms.”

Toki let out a scream and sprang from the tub. Forget the bath. No way was he going to be in there naked with a goddamn talking frog with weird lips. Uh uh. No way, José. Maybe if he we just went to bed he’d wake up in the morning and all of this would have been a nightmare. So Toki dried off, put on some boxers and climbed into bed.

He was almost asleep when there came a familiar “ribbits!” and Skwisfrogg landed on the pillow. “Your bed’s is nice and soft,” he croaked, “buts my bloods are cold and I needs de warmths. I wills just sleeps on you, ja?”

And before Toki could say anything to protest, Skwisfrogg crawled onto Toki’s chest, curled up into a little ball and went to sleep. Toki stifled his screams in his throat and was forced to bite his fist. The feeling of that cold, damp, nasty pond-scum sucking little monster against his skin was almost nauseating; he wanted to grab that son of a bitch in his fist and squeeze until guts went spewing between his fingers like Jell-O…but the threats of Nathan and Murderface echoed in his mind. There was no way he could ever get away with killing that stupid frog. But maybe there were other methods of getting rid of him and making it look like an “accident”.

Comforted by these murderous thoughts, Toki somehow found sleep. And Skwisfrogg croaked softly on his chest all throughout the night.

n the days and weeks that followed, Toki tried everything he could think of to rid himself of his annoying house guest. One pleasant afternoon Toki invited Skwisfrogg on a picnic far far out in the woods, and after the cold blooded amphibian had fallen asleep while sitting on a sunny rock, Toki quietly packed up and went back home.

But later that night Skwisfrogg knocked on the window and Toki was forced to let him in. “You’s are very forgets-full, Toki,” he chided lightly. “I don’ts knows what’s it woulds be thinking of your friends if dey was to finds out you’s was trying to gets rid of me.”

“Oh I wouldn’t does that!” Toki lied between his smiling teeth. “I’m just such one forgetful guy!” But beneath his skin his blood was boiling with frustration. This horrible creature was utterly ruining his life. Every minute of every day Skwisfrogg wanted to be near Toki. It was impossible to hang out with the neighbours anymore; Skwisfrogg always ragged Toki about how rude his speech was and how he should learn to be more courteous and friendly towards other people. And the neighbours—those backstabbing motherfuckers—they actually backed Skwisfrogg up! It was humiliating to be treated like a child in front of others.

“If you wants to be think of likes an adults,” said Skwisfrogg wisely, “den you’s had better to starts acting likes one.”

Next the Norwegian let the frog go down the drain after bath time. A day later he was back, and Toki had to feign being worried and so glad that Skwisfrogg was safe. The frog made Toki promise to take showers from now on and Toki, for fear of an ass beating, grudgingly consented. Yet another part of his daily life had been unalterably changed. He hated that stupid scummy slimeball with legs more than ever.

His next attempt to eradicate the pond dweller went like this: he gathered up the bed sheets one morning while Skwisfrogg was still sleeping in them and ran them through the washer and the dryer. But the little yellow frog somehow persevered, and again Toki was chastised about being more observant of his guest.

Then one day Toki decided to experiment with cooking, and conveniently swept Skwisfrogg off the counter with a bunch of yellow chili peppers and into the garbage, which immediately went out on the kerb in a tightly-sealed aluminum trash can. Toki waved at the garbage man the next morning and enjoyed two days of frog-free peace…but Skwisfrogg, like an amphibious boomerang, came back once again and Toki was forced to sit through a long lecture about being conscious and concerned about missing persons. Then Toki was forced to give Skwisfrogg a bath in the kitchen sink to get rid of the stink that was all over him. That night as the yellow frog slept on his bare chest, Toki contemplated tirelessly what options he had left. There were none. Ass beating or no ass beating, the only thing left to do was to kill Skwisfrogg and get rid of him once and for all.

The next morning Toki nudged the frog awake and said with false cheerfulness, “Wake up, Skwisfrogg! We has a big day to do today!”

Skwisfrogg yawned and replied happily, “Really? Dat’s great! What’s is it we gonna do?”

“Today,” Toki grinned evilly, “I gonna teach you to plays a new game with me. Is called Frog Ball, and I thinks you gonna likes it a lot.”

So after a shared breakfast, Toki tucked Skwisfrogg into his shirt pocket and went out to the garage, found a nice strong cricket bat, and headed towards the back yard. (I know you’re all saying “oh my god noooo!” right about now…and you’re all absolutely right…but just bear with me, there’s a happy ending to this I swear.)

“How’s do we plays dis game?” asked Skwisfrogg innocently.

“Well, first you starts out with a big cricket’s bat, likes this one.”

“Ja.”

“And you needs a frog to plays too, that’s where you comes in.” Toki lifted Skwisfrogg out of his pocket and held him in his hand.

“Ja. Den what’s?” he asked.

“Then you…throws him in de airs!” Toki launched the yellow frog high into the sky and waited for the descent. “And then you HITS HIM AS HARD AS YOU CANS!”

And when poor Skwisfrogg started the way down, the Norwegian drew the cricket bat far behind his shoulder and then PROCK! Sent the amphibian flying out above the treetops behind Murderface’s yard so fast that he was nothing but a mustard-coloured blur. Babe Ruth had nothing on Toki Wartooth. This was the mother and father of all home runs. In a few seconds Toki lost sight of the frog ball and shrugged, shouldered the cricket bat—which now had a fresh blood splotch on one side—and went home whistling merrily. No more frog. He’d tell the neighbours that it just up and ran away from home.

Or flew away.

Toki burst into maniacal laughter. “If you is what you eats, you musta eat a lotta FLIES, Skwisfrogg!”

And this was Toki’s heartless epitaph for the innocent little creature whom he had cracked deep into left field.

hat evening storm clouds rolled in and it rained and thundered. Toki sat inside, nice and warm, and flipped through the channels on TV while eating pizza, thinking about what a horrible past few weeks it had been and how glad he was that he was at last rid of that obnoxious frog. He was so engrossed in watching the screen that he didn’t realise he had been holding the same slice of pizza to his right shoulder for the past 5 minutes. Skwisfrogg had always sat on that shoulder and made Toki feed him whenever it was dinnertime. Right then a strange coldness struck Toki somewhere deep in his belly and he put down the slice of pizza, suddenly not hungry anymore.

He got up, stretched and walked to the window, absently gazing out of the rain streaked glass and into the cold murky night outside. He shivered, grateful—grateful for something for the first time in his life—that he didn’t live at the bottom of a muddy slimy well, that he had a nice home and a warm bed to sleep in every night, unlike some poor bastards out there.

A sharp pang went through Toki’s chest and he coughed. He was probably just coming down with something. Maybe a disease that nasty old frog had given him. Frogonorrhoea or something. Boy was he glad that thing was gone. Boy was he glad. He was glad. He was glad? Was he glad?

Ding-dong!

Toki jumped, startled. The doorbell. Who on earth would come calling at this hour of night, and in such bad weather? He raced to the front door and opened it. Murderface was standing on his front step, wearing a rain poncho and looking very tired and aggravated.

“Murderface!” gasped Toki. “What’s you doings out there in de rains? Won’t you comes in where-” He stopped short, suddenly realising that he sounded like a complete and total…nice person. Toki was so stunned by his own unexpected behaviour that he couldn’t seem to say another word.

Murderface wasn’t bothered; he lifted his hands and muttered, “Uh. Thish izshn’t your frog, izsh it?”

Cupped in his hands was the bruised, bloody, rain soaked yellow frog, half dead and breathing shallowly. You could see his pale little chest barely rising and falling with each fluttering breath he took. He looked so small and fragile, so cold. Toki took one glance at him and promptly threw up all over the door.

Murderface raised an eyebrow. “I can shee you’re a bit…bizshy. Here’sh your pet. Have a pleazshant evening.”

He passed the battered amphibian into Toki’s hand and was off. Toki wiped the barf from his chin and shut the door behind him. Feelings of rage and frustration overtook him—the final unforgiving tidal wave that would sink the ship—and he looked down at Skwisfrogg and yelled, “Why you keeps coming back? I doesn’t WANTS you! I never DIDS! I’ll teach you to ruins my life, you sons of a bitch-frog!”

Toki marched straight into the kitchen and went to the garbage disposal, flicked on the switch, and dangled the unconscious frog by one leg over the rotating blades of slicing death.

The young Norwegian broke into an insane smile before cackling maniacally. “You be chopped into itty-bitty slimeball bits! Gone forevers! Bye bye, Skwisfrogg! I’ve always hated you and your stupid-!”

Toki’s grin faded and a forlorn look washed over his features. You and your stupid baths time. Your new fears of drain and chili pepper. De ways you sleeps on me every night. De ways you wakes me up every morning with your ribbits. De ways my shoulder feel empty when you not sittings there. De ways you makes me feeds you whenever I eats too. De ways you bitches at me to be nice to others people. De ways you keeps coming back to me even though I treats you bad. De ways all you wants is for me to be your friend…

Toki blinked. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He turned off the garbage disposal and laid the frog gently in his cupped hand. “All…you wants. Is to be my friend,” he murmured, gazing down at Skwisfrogg, who clung to life by a bare thread. He would not survive the night. His injuries were far too serious. “Okay, Skwisfrogg,” Toki’s voice cracked. “I’ll be your friend. I’ll be a good friend to you, and we can pretends that it always been that way.”

So he took the unconscious frog upstairs and washed him in warm water in the bathroom sink, rinsing off all the dried blood and dirt from his cold body. Then Toki lighted the fireplace in his bedroom, making it warm and cosy compared to the dreary wet night outside. Then he took off his clothes and crawled into bed, and placed Skwisfrogg onto his bare chest, the frog’s customary sleeping place.

Toki looked down at the dying creature and petted the cool golden skin gently with his thumb. “I so sorry, Skwisfrogg,” he whispered. “I sees now that I was such big screw-ups. I was selfish…a selfish idiot. But now I knows. I has all de time in de world for you now. Please…don’t leaves me.”

Skwisfrogg didn’t answer. Toki closed his eyes and fell asleep listening to the rain drip from the eaves and the fire crackle on the hearth. In a while the little yellow frog was dead…but the curse that the evil warlock Selatcia had placed on the Swedish prince Skwisgaar Skwigelf had at last been lifted.

Toki stirred when he became aware of a heavy weight on his body, and when he opened his eyes he was shocked into petrification to find an outrageously handsome man with long golden hair and familiar blue eyes on top of him, smiling lazily.

“Hello,” the stranger murmured in deep hush. “How’s do you doos? My names is Skwisgaar. It’s is a nice evenings to be’s indoor, ja?”

“Skwis-! Skwis-! Gaar!?” Toki stammered, eyes wide in shock. “B-but where’s Skwisfrogg? Wha-what’s has you done with my frog!”

Skwisgaar leaned down very close to the Norwegian’s face and whispered secretively, “I am de frog, Toki.”

“It…” Toki began to slowly calm down and think clearly. “It’s can’t be’s. You can’t be him.”

“I was once a prince, heirs to de metal throne of my father’s,” Skwisgaar explained, sitting up and straddling Toki’s body. “I plays de guitars just likes you’s, but many year agos a man of de dark’s power puts a curse on me dat turneds me into a frog, to keeps me froms becomings de fastest guitar’s player alife. Only de strengths of truths love woulds be ables to breaks de curse.” The Swede smiled and reached down to brush Toki’s brown hair from his forehead. “You was de one who brokes de curse. Only de persons whose can sees past my ugly frog’s skin, my One True Partner, coulds doos it. For dat, Toki, I will spends de rest of my live wis yous.”

Toki tried to talk but he was speechless. Apparently lack of blood flow to his left frontal lobe had something to do with it, and that would make perfect sense, seeing as how most of the blood in his body had now gone straight to his cock. “I…I not likes that,” he said haltingly, though the upright organ was playing a different song.

“I coulds…makes you likes dat,” Skwisgaar murmured with a superiour smile as he reached down and grasped Toki’s thick cock in his hand. “And I coulds makes you likes it too.”

Toki closed his eyes and moaned and the ex-frog that had already taught him so much began to teach him something new. When he touched Toki his skin was no longer cold like the blood flowing beneath it, but warm and alive. The voice that spoke to him was still the same familiar tone, yet it was somehow smoother, softer, less coarse. Toki ran his fingers through the golden hair that almost never was, caressed the flesh he had almost destroyed, kissed the lips that might never have whispered “I loves you” to him. And when he slid into Skwisgaar’s body and made him moan in pleasure, Toki returned the phrase to the one who had spoken it first, the first one to have ever spoken it to him.

“I loves you, Skwisfrogg,” he panted. “Stays…with me. Forevers.”

And so Skwisgaar did. And Toki, a new and improved Toki, was never seen without him by his side. They were two peas in a pod, two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, as natural as bread and butter. And they lived together—and loved together—happily ever after.

Dethlove, Mach 8 (The Last Chapter)

2006-12-28T07:03:05Z

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

Toki had gone straight to bed upon returning to Mordhaus, still dressed in his concert clothes and makeup. Skwisgaar was courteous enough—just barely—to wrestle off his bandmate’s boots when he checked on him later; afterwards he sauntered downstairs to the living room where the rest of the band was hanging out and getting drunk and/or stoned to cope with the stress. Skwisgaar dropped himself into a chair and sighed heavily, staring at the suspended TV with disinterest. It had already been a hell of a night, and it wasn’t even 2 a.m. yet.

The asexual newscaster was speaking in that typical, bland, accent-less voice: “…from the investigation reported that over 300 fans were killed in as little as 20 minutes due to an audience stampede that left many hundreds more injured. Eyewitness reports from fans in the crowd are largely unsympathetic, and dozens have been committed to local hospitals for attempted suicide. One survivor of a self-inflicted hammer blow to the head quoted before slipping into a coma, ‘It was the most brutal f***ing song ever, like Heaven and Hell having a threesome with metal. I have no reason to live now, because life will not get any better than that.’

“Dethklok has not yet commented on this tragedy but it is expected that the band will-”

Skwisgaar put his heel to a pedal and turned off the TV. “Idi-otts-tick,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “No one is talks about Nathan’s dying yet. Dat’s a little selvesflish? I guess whats dey don’t knows won’ts kills dem…but it wills. I hopes dey all suicides when Nathan’s die.”

“Huh. I guess now would be a bad time t’ tell ya that Nate’n ain’t dyin,” Pickles murmured, flicking his lighter and sucking a drag off his hash pipe. He held it in for a few seconds before sighing lazily.

“Whhhut,” uttered Murderface and Skwisgaar flatly. Oh. The looks on their faces. I’d draw you a picture but this isn’t an illustrated story. Yet.

“He ain’t dyin. I dunno what th’ hell you guys ‘r talkin about, but Nate’n ain’t dyin. S’nuthin wrong with ‘im.”

“You mean…he’sh not schitting himshelf to death?”

Pickles chuckled. “S’at whatcha thought?”

“Pfft, duhs. He only goes to de basthrooms likes every hours.”

“Yeah. T’ beat off.”

“Oh.”

“But den why dids he alway says…?”

Pickles smirked that typical crooked smirk of his whenever he was buzzed and feeling invincible. “He’s gotta thing fer Toki. Happened after Toki broke his legs fallin down the basement stairs. Lust ‘r somethin, maybe love. Nate can’t look at ‘im without gettin stiff. S’why he wrote that shitty song. Audience hate. Bad vibes. Mental scars. Negative association. Bam. No more Tokiholism.”

“My god,” Murderface gawped. “We had it all wrong. We…are the shtupidesht fuckersh alive.”

“Yyyep.”

Skwisgaar look utterly scandalized. “Nathan’s is in loves with Toki?”

Pickles shrugged one shoulder. “Dunno. But the song that was s’posed ta cure ‘im ended up a smash hit. So he’s still fucked. Hate ta be in his shoes.”

“Sho what now?”

“Beats me. I figured it’d work, the love song thing. Didn’t plan fer you three t’ go n’ fuck things up. Guess that was yer big secret huh? Well. Congrats. Ya got my respect.”

Skwisgaar was on his feet and walking away.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” Murderface gargled.

“What’s it to yous?” Skwisgaar muttered. “It’s is nots any bee’s nests of yours. You is not de mudder of me, so buzz offs to your’s little bee’s nest and starts minding it.” And then he was gone.

Pickles turned to Murderface and the two shared the same annoyed expression. “He has got some lip on ‘im, don’t he?”

“Ah don’t worry,” the bassist grumbled. “He’zsh prob’ly jusht having hizsh period or shumthing.”

The Dethklok frontman didn’t make it back to Mordhaus until half past four. He had stayed at the concert, signed a few autographs, punched a few fans, then spent a long time backstage by himself with a bottle of Bacardi. Trying not to think.

He hadn’t even seen it coming. He should have. He must be the stupidest fucker alive. Anyone else probably could have seen it, but no. Not Nathan. Dumb ol’ Nathan high-school-dropout Explosion, with an I.Q. barely comparable to his shoe size. Fucking Toki. This shit was all his fault. Nathan hated him.

Hated him for saying that.

I loves you, Nate’ns. I really fucking loves you. I loves you, Nate’ns…

Over and over, like a broken record. And Nathan, being Nathan, couldn’t deal. He was pissed. Pissed at himself. Pissed at the world. Pissed that the dumb kid he was trying not to fall in love with had ruined his life with three fucking words. So he blamed it all on Toki, made him cry, and then ran away from it all like a coward.

“I am a fuckin coward,” Nathan admitted under his breath. “A fuckin coward.”

Why couldn’t he be a man about it? Why couldn’t he have said something to Toki and just settled this bullshit once and for all? It wasn’t Toki’s fault. Toki was a clueless airhead with all the sense of a 10 year-old. He wasn’t guilty of anything except for being so brutally goddamn cute. So whose fault was it?

Love’s. Love is to blame for everything, Nathan realised. War, crime, poverty, Boston, terrorism, bird flu, everything. It all filters down to somebody’s love for something. Love of violence, misery, money, religion, geese, really shitty music. Love turns men into pussies and women into Shannon Doherty. Love dissects your brain and rewires it all wrong, making you enjoy the feeling of being in immense pain without ever really realising it. Love fucks up your friendships, your wardrobe, your career. And you let it. Because by the time it’s infected your brain you’re too stupid to do anything but sit back and watch it dismantle the rest of your life. You’re a zombie. And the only cure for zombism is a shotgun blast to the head. No hope. There ain’t no cure, there ain’t no cure, there ain’t no cure for love.

I loves you, Nate’ns. I really fucking loves you.

“Goddd,” Nathan groaned, thumping his forehead against the wall. “God god god god GOD.”

“Are you…praying?” Nathan turned his head to see Ofdensen standing in the doorway of the dressing room, eyebrows quirked. “If I’m interrupting some sort of wall-denting mantra, I can come back later.”

“No,” came the replying grunt. “I’m just…whatever.” Sigh. “Think I wanna go home.”

“The limo is waiting outside. I’ll walk you there. Youu…look like you need some help anyway.”

“What’s that s’posed to-” Nathan then answered his own question by taking a step in one direction while his upper body went in another. He wobbled, weaved and stumbled.

Ofdensen sighed. “Come along, Nathan. You’ve had a rough night.”

“No shit? …gimme a fuckin hand here.”

As Nathan trudged wearily down the hall with one hand on his manager’s shoulder, he thought about love and how unfair and cruel it was. He thought about it on the ride back to Mordhaus, and he was still thinking about it as he sat at the bar in the kitchen at 4:42 in the morning. And then—at long long last—something happened in that alcohol-dulled brain of his and the notion came to him like an overdue FedEx shipment: he didn’t love Toki. The things he felt for his rhythm guitarist had nothing to do with love. Because love was hideous and evil, and not the cool kind of hideous and evil either. When Nathan thought of Toki’s sadistic, smiling face he didn’t want to put on argyle socks and wear a sweater. Hell no. He wanted to pin Toki down and shove his dick inside him and hear him scream about how great it felt. That wasn’t love. It was way too merciful. And it wasn’t lust. It was way too intimate.

So what was it? What did Nathan feel? It acted like love. It looked like love and smelled and tasted just like it, but it was a completely different brand. It wasn’t some no-name generic knockoff. No, this was something patented and protected by serious federal fucking law. It was the real thing, the whatever-the-hell everyone was trying to imitate and doing a piss poor job of it.

It was like a hack version of a really great programme, stripped of all the adware and spyware and registration codes and all of that unnecessary shit until nothing remained but the core, the original, what it was supposed to be all along before corporate greed tried to twist it into something gross and unnatural. This was love refined, but so refined that to call it love wouldn’t be right.

It was the anti-love. The original love that had gotten cloned and betrayed and was now facing off with its evil twin, and some hysterical lady had to decide which one to shoot when they both looked and acted alike. And she had no idea that the one who called himself the Anti was actually the good guy. She would shoot him down, real love would die, and everyone would ask for their money back at the end of the movie. Anti-love would lose. The box office would lose. There was no happy ending.

I loves you, Nate’ns. I really fucking loves you.

Do you, Toki? Or are you just saying that because no other word fits? Is the word you’re looking for the same one I’m trying to find? ‘Cause if it is…I think I want us to find it together. I’m so sorry for how I treated you. If you ever talk to me again I swear on every fuckin thing there is to swear on that I’ll make it up to you. Somehow. I’ll do it. ‘Cause…you deserve it. More than any other person. I’ll make everything right again, if you let me. And I’ll sign it all with

Anti-love,

Nate’ns

Toki woke up dying of thirst. He smacked his lips and rubbed his eyes, which stung and burned like all the fires of hell. It must be the makeup. Got into his eyes or something. Owwie. He rolled over and squinted at the clock on his headboard. 4:55. Either that or 11:20. Who cared? Not Toki. He rolled back over and discovered that his fishnet shirt had made a grille pattern all over his torso, and he’d also gotten black smudges all over Teddy from holding him against his face. He was also burning up in these fucking pants and they were sticking to his skin and he still had his socks on. He couldn’t go back to sleep like this.

So Toki got up and drowsily shuffled to his bedroom door, opened it, stepped nonchalantly over Skwisgaar’s sleeping body (who had been keeping guard for all of ten minutes), and went down the hall to the bathroom. He didn’t want to click on the lights but he had to, and it was so bright that he decided that it just wasn’t worth it and turned them back off again. Now he was really blind. He tugged off the tight fishnet shirt and scraped off each of his socks with his toes, then decided to do something about his thirst. Luckily he knew his way around Mordhaus enough that he didn’t need eyes to find his way to the kitchen, so that was where he headed.

They had two kitchens actually: one kitchen for professionals where for-real food was prepared, and one kitchen made just for the band that had a giant fridge filled with booze and sliced deli meat and cabinets stocked with junk and candy. It was every alcoholic minor’s dream. It was also where Nathan sat slumped over the bar, surrounded by empty bottles.

Toki padded across the tiles completely unawares, opened the fridge and clinked his way among the bottles and cans until he found a carton of Skwisgaar’s soymilk. He stood up and tilted the carton back, guzzled away…then his eyes drifted to the side and noticed Nathan’s hulking form at the bar.

“Nklurrgh!”

Brief anatomy-slash-pseudo-health lesson: there are deep vomits (from the stomach and small intestine) and then there are shallow vomits (from the lower esophagus and throat). Toki shallow vomited soymilk out his mouth and nose and back into the carton as he simultaneously screamed. Soymilk exploded—loudly—out of his face, to put it another way. And the noise caused Nathan to jump awake with a start.

“Fuck the what…?” he groaned, looking around.

Toki did what Tokis are best at doing and ducked behind the open fridge door and pretended he was a cute little cocktail frank with a fancy toothpick sticking through the middle and a mustache at one end. Unfortunately you could see his bare feet awash in a puddle of soymilk from the other side, so the Li’l Smokies make-believe didn’t last very long.

“That you, Pickles?”

“Uh…” Toki stammered. “Yehh! I jest…gittin’s sum beee-ers. Uh. Ney-ver minds meeee, Nuh-Nate’ns.”

Guess which word gave it away. (~~Hint~~ Answer: it was the last one.)

“…Toki?”

The Norwegian froze (he wasn’t that far from it—the fridge was blowing cold air on him) and looked upwards very slowly to see Nathan gazing down at him expressionlessly. “Haa…hi,” he said in a very small voice.

Nathan leaned on the fridge door and arched his eyebrows worriedly. “You’ve gotta milk mustache.” Pause. “Uh. Milk. In your…mustache. On your whole face actually.”

“I knows. I…sneeze.”

Pause.

“Why’re you hiding down there?”

“I is…hot?”

“…but you’re shivering.”

“Candy’s high. Diabete. I gots…Parkingstone’s Degrees.”

Nathan didn’t buy any of the three. “Stand up, Toki.”

Toki stood up. Reluctantly. Nathan reached out, noting the way the guitarist flinched, as if expecting to be hit. That was a stab in the heart. “I’m not mad at you,” he rumbled softly, placing a hand on Toki’s bare shoulder. “…woah. You’re freezing.”

“I in de fr-fridgelator. Where is freezings.”

“Well close the door. C’mon.”

The fridge was closed, barfy carton of soymilk put right back where it was supposed to go, and Nathan and Toki stood silently in the dark kitchen for a very long time. Actually it was a very short time, but the awkward silence made it seem like a very long time. Toki looked at the floor between them and tried to keep the tears from coming to his eyes. He was sick of crying like a baby…although it would probably be a great way to flush the shit out of his stinging eyes. He bottled it up anyway; he wasn’t going to give that cruel bastard the pleasure of wringing another drop out of him.

“I’m sorry for. The way. I acted earlier,” Nathan said with great difficulty. “I didn’t mean to get so…well. Yeah I did. You fucked me over in front of thousands of people. That was shitty.” Pause. “But you stole the show. It really sounded…great. I didn’t. Know you could sing.”

Toki half-shrugged a “whatever” and continued to avoid Nathan’s eyes.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole to you. It’s been. For a long time now, I…” Find the words, find the words. Lyrical visionary, find the words. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” Oh yeah. Nice save, chicken shit.

Nathan lifted Toki’s chin and looked at his face. “Wow. Those things are…bloodshot. Like a roadmap. You fall asleep in that shit?”

“What does you cares? They’re not-”

“You’re gonna go blind.”

“Is none of your con-”

“And it’s all over your face.”

“I doesn’t gives a-”

“You should wash it off before-”

“I not takes order from you now SHUT UP!” Toki slapped Nathan’s hand away, Nathan brought up his other hand, Toki blocked it with his forearm, Nathan reached out with his first hand and grabbed Toki by the back of the neck, hauled him in like a marlin, and smashed the Norwegian against his body. Instant reaction. Toki’s arms wrapped around Nathan’s shoulders and squeezed as the larger man did as much. Tight. It was hard to tell if it was a stranglehold or a hug. The lack of a live audience and four corners could only mean it was a hug.

Toki let out a sob against Nathan’s shoulder and bit him for no real reason. Maybe for making him cry again. Soymilk and black makeup stained Nathan’s shirt. Nathan didn’t mind/care/give a dead rat’s ass. He was just glad to be touching Toki. Just fucking touching him. That’s all. It felt so good. He finally understood what those millions of smarmy jackoffs meant when they said they “never wanted to let go”. But they didn’t really know. They weren’t in anti-love. No, he and Toki were the first. The last. The only. That’s what it felt like. Exclusive rights, members only. Badges and everything, a two-man task force sent to blow the shit out of that poseur bastard called love. It was going down. Its ass was grass. Toast. Dead meat. A dead meat and grass sandwich on burnt toast. God Nathan felt fucking INVINCIBLE, like he could punt a Panzer tank 75 yards and mow down a line of Incredible Hulks standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

He gripped Toki’s bare skin tightly, feeling it warm under his touch. He pressed his nose into the brown hair and growled softly, “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It…was never your fault. That song…you know. Fuck it. I don’t care. You’re more important. And I’m sorry I didn’t treat you like…that I didn’t treat you better. What you deserve. ‘Cause what you did tonight, Toki, it was fuckin incredible. And I really meant it when I said it took balls to pull it off. I’m…I am so goddamn proud. Of you. To have you in the band. I’m not just saying that. I mean it. Mean it with every fuckin…every breath of my…god I don’t give a shit anymore, Toki. I really don’t. Just know that I’m sorry for everything and don’t let go of me.”

“I won’t,” came the muffled reply. “I dies with you.”

“…well. Uh, that’s…a bit extreme. You don’t ha-”

“What’s is de other’s use of me? I has not anothers. De band’s is my life. You won’t goes to Death’s house alone, Nate’ns. I comes with you.”

“…Toki. I don’t think you under…” Pause. “You act like I’m gonna die tomorrow. Is that…wait. You think I’m dying?”

Toki pulled back, revealing clean trails down his cack-smudged cheeks where tears had run their courses. “I knows you is. I knows since forever ago. Dyings of a gut’s sickness.”

The look on Nathan’s face was almost hilarious. “Uh. No I’m not.”

The look on Toki’s face after Nathan said that actually was hilarious. “Yes you is.”

“No. I’m not.”

“…a liver’s sickness then?”

“No.”

“…barbecue sauce-bloods?”

“No.”

“…fibromyalgia?”

“The hell’s that?”

“YOU IS NOT DYING?”

“NO. I never WAS.”

Toki smiled joyously for the first time in ages, then he hauled off and punched Nathan right in the jaw. Nathan bit the inside of his cheek and spat bloody chiclets and broken teeth across the kitchen counter as he took a backwards dive in slow motion. He sprawled out onto the floor with a resounding THUD, like he’d just been decked by Mohammad Ali’s white Scandinavian nephew, and waited for his lower mandible to fall off. Because that’s what it felt like it was going to do.

Toki was on Nathan like black on metal, straddling his waist and delivering a nice variety of slaps, thrashes, chokings and kisses between breathless cries of “you dumb sons of a bitch” and “I loves you so much”. Nathan didn’t know what was going on for the first few seconds, and it didn’t sink in that Toki was pecking all over his face like a lovesick hen until he was ready to pass out from a combination of alcohol, unforeseen violence and the ungodly hour. How he avoided going unconscious was a miracle, but he certainly didn’t want to miss out on the nice part of getting his ass kicked by Toki Wartooth.

He caught Toki’s swinging arms in his fists and growled, “You’re gonna have to do better than that.” Push. Twist. Shove. Toki was on the floor. Slipping in soymilk. Whoops. Flat on his back. Nathan came down over him. Toki butted his forehead against Nathan’s. Nathan reeled and lost his grip, regained it in a fistful of brown hair. Toki latched both hands into Nathan’s black hair and almost ripped it out by the roots when he jerked him downwards. Right into his face.

Noses collided. Lips met. Mouths opened. Tongues touched. It tasted like vodka and blood and soymilk. Hair tangled, dragged through makeup and sweat and snarls of tightly clenched fingers. Deeper now. The taste was revolting but the feeling of warm slippery flesh made up for it. Toki twisted his hands in Nathan’s hair as the heavier man put his full weight upon him. The pressure felt good but it made breathing hard. Harder than it already was.

Toki broke away with a gasp and Nathan crawled up onto his hands and knees, hair draping down like a dark curtain. For a second or two they both remained motionless, catching their breath and wondering if they had really done what they thought they had just done.

“Dids we just…?”

“Yeah.” Pant. “Yeah I think we did.”

“Wowie.”

“No shit.”

“…I really likes it.”

“Me too.”

They met each other’s eyes. Nathan reached down and combed a few strands of hair out of Toki’s mouth, then made a concerned expression. “You really need to get that black stuff off your face. You’ll look like hell in the morning.”

“Not as much as you wills.” Toki gently tapped the tender spot on Nathan’s jaw that was already beginning to bruise. “I kicks your butts.”

“I let you.”

“Yeah right.”

“I could split you in two any day of the week, Toki.”

“Tries it. I dares you.”

Nathan leered at the implications. “Careful what you wish for.” He sat up, the lewd smile faded. “C’mon. You need to get that stuff off your face. You look worse than Alice Cooper after a day at the garage.”

He helped Toki to his feet and together they set off in search of a B-A-S-T-H-R-O-H-M-N-S-E.

Toki had started out with a washcloth to the face but then the black makeup started to run all over the place and it made a real mess, so he decided that it would just be easier to take a shower. The second floor bathroom was spacious enough, so while Toki hosed off all evidence of the concert, Nathan leaned over the sink and inspected the damage to his face. Not too bad. A few busted teeth, mostly molars. Nothing serious. Couple shreds of still-bleeding flesh. That was going to bother him for weeks. Jesus Christ, that kid could throw a punch. The left side of Nathan’s jaw was already beginning to turn a gruesome shade of yellow-green. He was lucky it didn’t get punched right off. That would have been awesome. Brutal, but awesome.

Toki plodded out of the shower stall looking fresh faced and dead tired, with his hair wrapped up in a towel and dressed in the Mordhaus-standard black bathrobe with the band logo on the back. He yawned loudly and stood next to Nathan at the bathroom counter, gazing at his reflection.

“I fucking tire. I gonna goes to bed now.”

Nathan finished gargling and spat blood-tinted mouthwash into the sink. “Okay. Hey Toki?”

“Mm?”

“Are we…good? I mean, are we cool? After. What happened in the kitchen.”

Toki looked like he was going to shrug but his shoulders never made the effort. “Sure. You makes me cry, I beats you in de face, we kiss and makes up. S’fine. Everybody’s does it.”

“Uh. Alright. As long as we’re cool.”

“Yeah, we cool.”

Pause. “Okay. Uh…see you in the…tomorrow then.”

“G’nite, Nate’ns.” And then Toki disappeared out the door.

Nathan sighed and put both hands on either side of the sink, leaning heavily on the counter and hanging his head. He stared at the traces of blood and mouthwash in the sink and decided to take a shower as well. Because he smelled like B.O. and soymilk. And also because kissing Toki had gotten Not-So-Li’l-Nathan’s hopes up. So the Dethklok frontman peeled off his clothes, got in the shower, washed off, jerked off, rinsed off, shut off, dried off and walked off. He didn’t even want to know what time it was. All he wanted was to sleep uninterrupted for the next 17 hours. He’d think about what the hell he was going to do with all this unresolved sexual tension tomorrow.

But when Nathan entered his room he was greeted by an unexpected surprise.

“Oh fuck me,” he groaned under his breath.

Toki, who—en route to his room—had suddenly gotten too tired to make it back to his makeup-stained twin bed on the third floor, had decided to do like usual and invite himself into Nathan’s personal quarters, making a nice little nest in the middle of the oversized bed. He was at this moment curled up with his back to the door, his wet hair let loose from the towel and getting the pillows all damp. And his toes peeked out from beneath the black sheets like those cute little cocktail franks I mentioned earlier. It was the most endearing, distressing and obnoxiously adorable thing in the whole world. Nathan began to get the feeling that some cosmic force somewhere was fucking with him, like he was trapped in a horrible story written by a raving lunatic with a thing for homoerotic clichés. Well fuck that shit. If it was homoerotic clichés they wanted, homoerotic clichés they shall have.

Nathan, conveniently dressed in nothing but a towel around his hips, shut the door behind himself and walked to the edge of his bed. He stared down at his guitarist’s peaceful, snoozing form. “Toki,” he said very very softly, “if you don’t wake up and get out of my bed right now…I’m afraid I’m gonna have to fuck you. I don’t wanna…” Yeah. And Hell ain’t hot. “…but I’ll do it if you make me. You have to the count of three.” Pause. “One two three. Alright. I warned you.”

He climbed into bed, making the mattress dip and squeak under his weight. He put his hand on Toki’s shoulder, rolling him over onto his back, and crawled between his legs. Toki stirred and mumbled groggily, eyes fluttering open. Shit. Nathan froze and waited for him to reckon the predicament he was in.

“Nate’ns?” Toki asked with that calm sort of confused-but-not-really-alarmed tone of voice. He looked down at the large, mostly-naked man who was crouched between his spread legs.

“Hi,” grunted Nathan awkwardly. “You’re in my bed. I’ve got an erection and I wanna stick it in you. Is that okay?”

“What?” Toki sat up on his elbows, eyes wide with surprise.

“I don’t know how. I mean. I think I know. How to…do it.” God this was so embarrassing. “I’ll wear a condom. And use lubrication. I’ll…try. To be gentle.”

“Wha-you gonna to…wh-what’s de hell you needs a condo for?”

“Condom.”

“Condemn?”

“A rubber.”

“Condemn a rubber?”

“NO.”

“What de hell’s you talking about!?”

“I know you’re not this stupid, Toki.”

“I not stupid, I doesn’t understands de fucking word!”

Nathan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. God there was no right way to do this. “Alright. Look. Relax. Lay back.” He gently pushed Toki down onto the pillows; he didn’t resist at all. “Just…yeah. Relax. Get comfortable.”

Worry began to set it. You could see it in the way those brown eyebrows arched up in the centre of Toki’s forehead. “Nathan, what’s you doing?”

“I have no fuckin idea.” No sense in lying. He’d find out sooner or later.

“Is…we…gonna has sex or somethings?”

“I thi…yeah I. I think so. Pretty sure.”

“Oh.”

Silence fell. They stared at each other. You couldn’t get any more un-romantic than this, but it fit in perfectly with the whole anti-love thing. Nathan reached down and untied Toki’s robe, opening it wide and revealing the gloriously naked body of a ~~Greek~~ Norwegian god. Seriously. The kid was chiseled. Nathan never felt so fat and ugly in his whole life. He was overreacting of course. Luckily the light was dim enough that he didn’t completely lose his cool. Besides, he had other things that made up for his out-of-shapeness.

Nathan unwrapped the towel from his hips and tossed it to the side, then watched Toki break into a sweat and squirm. “Nate’nnns,” he said lowly, eyes transfixed on the obvious, “this is not gonna works.”

“Yes it will.”

“No ways. That thing’s…is so big.”

“Thank you.”

“No. I means, is too big.”

“It’ll fit.”

“No it won’t.”

“I can make it.”

“As ifs. Goodbye-” Toki started to crawl away but Nathan reached out and put a hand on his chest, holding him in place. “Please Nate’ns,” he whimpered. Oh that sounded hot. “You gonna kill me with that.”

“No I won’t, stop worrying.”

“Then makes it get smaller.”

“I can’t.”

“Nathan-”

“Toki.” He took the brunette’s face in his hands. “Goddammit. Trust me. I am not gonna hurt you.”

Toki frowned apprehensively. “You promise?”

“No.”

“Does you loves me?”

“No.”

Toki looked scared and confused. You would be too if English wasn’t your first language and you had to talk yourself out of getting cloven in twain by a dick of Goliath proportions. “Then why does you wants to doos this to me?”

“Because I don’t love you.”

“What’s de hell you are talking about!?” Toki wailed, thrashing around like a fish in the bottom of a canoe. “I doesn’t understands!”

“It’s complicated. Hey. Stop that. Shh sh sh.” Nathan leaned down and nuzzled Toki’s cheek comfortingly; he stopped squirming and lay still, allowing the larger man’s hands to stroke up and down his bare chest in a way that felt very nice.

“Ooh,” Toki murmured, surprised.

“Feels good?”

“Yehhhh. I didn’t…knew you could be so gently.”

“It’s not like I break everything I touch,” Nathan rumbled, massaging Toki’s chest and reaching up to caress his neck in a very uncharacteristically-Nathan way. “I can be…nice. Sometimes.”

“But you’s likes a bull in a Chinese store most of de…ooh.” Nathan was tracing circles around Toki’s taut, pebbly nipple with one painted fingernail. Blue eyes slowly became dark and murky as the pleasure seeped in. “Ooh that feel…”

“Nice?”

“Yyyeh.” Toki smiled, eyes half closed.

Nathan grinned slightly and brought his hand to the Norwegian’s cheek, touching it delicately and rubbing his thumb along the fine hair of his mustache. He petted his eyebrows and combed the damp hair out of his eyes, slowly and wordlessly reassuring Toki that he didn’t mean to sexually annihilate him.

“See?” Nathan murmured. “I can make this…good. For us both.”

Toki looked a little doubtful, torn between common sense and basic instinct. The only problem was he didn’t have much experience in either of those two fields, so he ended up giving in to the one he had been born with. And it sure as shit wasn’t common sense.

“Okay,” he consented. “But behaves. No beast’s acting. I am…a delicate flower.”

Says the guy sporting a six pack and pecs you could polish diamonds on. But Nathan wasn’t in the mood to split hairs right now. No, he was in the mood to split Tokis. And he actually had permission.

“I’ll try,” he uttered. That was the best he could offer. He wasn’t going to make a promise if there was any chance he could break it, because for all his metalness Nathan hated liars more than pop music and he didn’t exactly want to go around broadcasting that he was a man of some morals. Loose morals. But still morals.

He tucked his damp, dark hair behind his ear before leaning down and meeting Toki’s lips in a kiss. It tasted a lot better than before, still like blood, but at least the soymilk flavor was gone. Nathan trailed his large hand down Toki’s side, following a path along his hip, his thigh, sliding under to grip the back of Toki’s knee. That produced a snicker.

“Ticklish?” Nathan murmured, pulling away and rolling his lips.

“A little.”

Nathan did the same with Toki’s other side, but this time he didn’t snicker.

“I really likes that,” he murmured, reaching down to place his smaller hands over Nathan’s.

“Like what?”

“When you touching me. Alls over likes that.” He guided the singer’s hand down his muscular belly. “I wants you to does it heres too. Down…”

He didn’t have to finish. Nathan knew, and he gently took Toki’s wakening cock into his hand, stroking it firmly and causing the Norwegian to close his eyes and breathe through his mouth.

“Yyyyeah,” he sighed heavily, a hint of a smile curving his mouth. “I likes this.”

So did Nathan but he kept quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts as he continued to fondle Toki. He never really realized how satisfying it could be to make someone else feel good instead of just taking all the pleasure for himself. This was different from groupies and girlfriends (aside from the obvious fact that this time his partner was minus one vagina). He must really not love Toki a whole lot to be doing something this gay and insane.

The slim body beneath him arched slightly, hips pressing upward needfully. When he looked down at those smouldering blue eyes, Nathan stopped thinking altogether and let the wild animal inside him out of its cage. But Toki was ready to fight it, and they went at each other with raw, savage passion.

It all happened so quickly from there; they kissed as if starved for affection all their lives, ravenous and sloppy. When that fell short of satisfying their hunger they took to nipping and biting, Toki pulling sharply on Nathan’s hair if he bit too hard. No blood drawn yet, but lasting marks were certainly delivered. Hips met, grinding hot flesh together. Fingers gripped and dug in, leaving crescent shaped indentions and red lines. Legs hugged Nathan’s waist and squeezed. Nothing on earth could feel better than this.

“Alright,” he grunted deeply, pulling away. “Alright. I…gotta. Getta.”

“What’s ever, just hurry,” Toki snapped, wiping the saliva from his mustache and gathering his long hair behind his head.

Nathan clambered over to the bedside table, taking care to avoid smashing his sensitive equipment into Toki’s knees, and rummaged around in the drawer until he found what he needed. Toki watched, half-delirious with desire and just a little bit fascinated, as Nathan struggled hilariously with the condom packet and snarled curses at everything until he finally got it open. With a little bit of magic from that endless tube of fun (a.k.a. self-warming lubricant), they were almost ready to rock ‘n roll. Or something a little more metal.

Nathan slathered his fingers in K-Y and hoped like hell that Toki wouldn’t freak out by what was going to happen next. The little krumkake handled it very well—he gripped the covers and bit his lower lip and let Nathan put one of his large fingers into him. Nathan let him get used to it before playing around a bit, adding another finger, spreading and stretching and trying not to do anything that would make Toki squeal in pain. Because those squeals were really-deadly-almighty sexy and Nathan didn’t need to hear them or else he’d lose his mind and get violent. And he didn’t want to hurt Toki. Because he anti-loved him more than anything he had never loved before.

No words were spoken as Nathan withdrew his hand and assumed The Position. Toki knew what was coming and tried to relax and yet brace himself at the same time; it slid in fairly easy, still pretty tight, and Nathan kept pressing until Toki let out a shout of “FUCK!” and grimaced in agony.

“Stay calm,” Nathan half-growled, half-purred. “Don’t tense up.”

There were tears in Toki’s eyes and he was clenching his teeth.

“Put your legs…yeah. Higher. Breathe. You can bite me. Scratch me, anything. Just…” He rocked forward and then back, and Toki moaned. “Relax.”

Strong arms wrapped around Nathan’s shoulders and squeezed, and at the fourth stroke Toki finally let out a long, low snarl of approval. “Oh yeah…right theres. Again, Nate’ns.”

Nate’ns was only too happy to oblige.

It turned out that Toki was a screamer. Nathan had guessed that long ago and been right. The kid yelled a lot on a regular basis, so it was natural that he’d be just as vocally passionate when he was getting nailed good and hard.

“Ooh yeah,” he moaned, eyes closed tight and brows knitted together in concentration while Nathan pounded him into the mattress with each mighty grunt-driven thrust. “Oh yeah. Fuck. Oh yeah! Woohooyehh, that’s what’m talkin’ about YEAH! Hard! Hard! Nnnnh fucks yeah…”

It was half sexy and half aggravating—it was Toki summed up in four words.

His legs were spread wide, one held at Nathan’s gyrating hip and the other secured beneath one mighty arm. Toki braced himself against the headboard for leverage (and also to keep his head from being driven into the wood) and his arms, though strong, were aching and shaking from the exertion.

Nathan huffed and grunted like a beast, dark hair falling forward and shadowing his face. Nothing could feel better than what he was feeling right now: Toki’s warm, tight, slippery body squeezing against his cock like a python with each penetrating thrust, the smell of Toki’s sweat and hair and skin, the weeping uncut prick in his hand, the dull ache as the guitarist pulled Nathan’s hair and scratched his shoulders, the feeling of those slender legs locked around him. Even with a condom, this was the best fuck Nathan knew he’d ever had in his life. Maybe it was from waiting so long. Maybe it was the risk involved. Maybe it was because he was really queer. Maybe it was just anti-love. Or maybe it wasn’t a goddamn thing at all. Whatever it was, he never imagined Toki would feel so great on his cock, not like this oh no. Not like this. Not this good. Never this good.

“You’re perfect,” he growled, grinding his pelvis forward until he felt the soft heat of Toki’s balls against his skin. “You feel perfect.” In to the hilt. Out halfway. In to the hilt again. The bed squeaked and rattled. Toki shrieked in ecstasy and writhed on the massive thing inside him. Nathan didn’t even care if the whole haus heard. Let them hear it. This was something worth hearing.

“God I don’t love you,” he snarled as he sank himself into Toki again and again, faster and faster, quickly driving himself to the brink. “I don’t love you so much. Fuck, Toki. Fuck I don’t love you, Toki.”

“I fucking…OH GODS I fucking…doesn’t loves. Nate’ns, I…oh yeah. Oh hellig jævla-” A string of guttural Norwegian suddenly spilled from Toki’s mouth; it sounded vulgar as hell but Nathan really liked it, and when Toki spattered cum all over his belly the singer released a bellowing death growl, thrusting rapidly and shallowly as he came a few seconds later.

There. It was done. They had done it. And the world was still here. Nothing bad had happened after all.

Nathan hovered on his hands and knees over his anti-lover, and noticed for either the first or millionth time how fucking gorgeous he really was: panting heavily with eyes closed, those honey-brown tendrils tangled all over his blushing face and snarled into knots in the pillow, and those flushed cheeks and rosy lips that oh Christ he had to kiss them RIGHT NOW-

It was totally gay and not metal to be so sentimental, but Nathan didn’t give a damn. He wanted to kiss Toki and nothing was going to stop him. It took Toki by surprise at first, this sudden burst of affection, but he was soon kissing back, reaching up and holding Nathan by the ears until they both had satisfied themselves. They parted slowly, not really knowing when to stop planting shallow kisses on each other’s lips. Follow-up kisses. Just-in-case-I-did-something-wrong kisses.

Toki smiled breathlessly and rubbed his rounded nose against Nathan’s sharp one. “I understands, I think,” he whispered. “De not-love. Be-cause loves are evil. So you un-love me insteads.”

“That’s right,” Nathan replied, sitting up and displaying a rare smirk. “See. I knew you weren’t that stupid.”

“Just foreign.”

Nathan let out a snort of amusement and gingerly peeled off his rubber, tossing it on the floor somewhere and settling back down into bed. Toki, his bathrobe still dangling off one arm, rolled over and nestled against Nathan’s side as if that was where he was supposed to be. Nathan wasn’t big on cuddling but he decided to make an exception just this once, and discovered that it actually wasn’t as bad as he thought it was. Of course, having meaningful intercourse with somebody is bound to bring out some sort of repressed cuddling gene.

Nathan snaked an arm beneath Toki’s warm neck and they both found a comfortable way of braiding their bodies together. Their hair was going to be a bitch to comb through tomorrow. But who cared about tomorrow? Not Nathan and Toki, the anti-lovers. No, they weren’t going to think about anything yet. It was too early to do that. They were just going to take it easy for now, enjoy the awesome music they had made at the concert and the awesome sex they just had, and give a hearty “fuck you” to everything else.

Because they were still mother-metal-fuckers. They hadn’t changed at all. A monster named love had tried to break them, betray them, make them turn on each other, but anti-love had saved the day. The beast had been slain and they would now grow rich off its carcass. It was a fantastic ending. The fans would win. Dethklok would win. Even that dumbass box office metaphor I had thrown in 5,473 words ago would win. Everything would be alright now. Everything was fine. And the world’s greatest band still had plenty of leg room to kick off the ass of the music industry.

Nathan was almost asleep when suddenly his eyes shot open and he stared at the ceiling, petrified. It had come to him just now, of all times, like those little nagging details that don’t surface until you’re falling asleep six months after the fact and you’re so gripped with horror at the heart-stopping recollection that you can hardly seem to move.

“Tuh…Toki.”

“Mm?” came the sleepy mumble.

“…when was the last time we fed the rats?”

Silence.

“Oh hell.”

Dethlove, Stab 7

2006-12-20T23:58:05Z

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

A voice slowly faded in: “…mean, gadda mighty. What the hell happened here?” Jarble jarble jumble noise. “…alive n’ jest wasted r’ somethin’? Ey. Murderface. Wake up n’...”

Skwisgaar gradually began to notice upon being roused from his slumber that his body was a solid mass of pain. All italic letters pain. Not quite bold pain though, just italic. Certainly nowhere near capital letters PAIN yet. He tried to roll over to alleviate some of the pressure on his back but he discovered all too soon that Toki had apparently gotten cold during the night and crawled between his legs for warmth. The dozing Norwegian had his upper body wedged in there tight and was using Skwisgaar’s crotch for a pillow. And with Skwisgaar being…well, Skwisgaar…he suffered from a chronic case of morning wood ever since he’d hit puberty. So now the pain had a name and address, and the whole neighborhood was letting him know.

“Gyah, get offs me, Toki! You squish my thing!”

“Uh?” came the half-conscious reply.

“Goes on, up! Up up offs! I can’ts feels my leg. Dey both died!”

“M’ in-a-sense I swears...”

“Skwisgaar!” Pickles’ voice raked across the Swede’s eardrums like nails on a chalkboard, and the drummer was soon standing over him and looking down suspiciously. “Skwisgaar.”

“What.”

“What? You tell me what. Like what n’ the hell yer all doin’ passed out on the floor. Dude, what’re ya even doin’ in here? Nobody knew where the fuck ya were all mornin.”

“Rehearsals,” Skwisgaar muttered, dragging himself out from underneath Toki and patting his pockets in search of a smoke.

“Rehearsal? The hell ya need ta rehearse for?”

“Nothings, we just likes to.” Skwisgaar tapped out a cigarette and then began to search Toki’s pockets for a light.

Pickles didn’t buy it. He scowled. “A’right, what the hell’re you guys hidin? Yer up t’ somethin’, aren’t ya?”

Ticklish Toki giggled in his sleep as Skwisgaar wrestled a zippo out of his left-front pocket. The blond took his sweet ass time to light his cig and answer—he finally sighed out a smoky, “So what’s if we is, ah? You is not de mudder of us. Minds your own bee’s nest, Pickle.”

Ooooh. “M’ serry, what was that?”

Skwisgaar crawled to his feet in order to gain the advantage of height. “You heards me. What’s we does are nots any business of yours.”

“Uh, ya know what? Yer in the band. N’ I’m in the band. Yeah. So it fuckin well is my business.”

“You just loves stickings your nose in other’s people personal-”

“Dude. It’s not personal-”

“Pffft. Yah, dat’s a-”

“We gotta concert in less than a week n’ all ‘a ya look like ya haven’t slept in a fuckin year!”

“We’s are FINE-”

“No yer not! Yer completely cracked! Fried! I mean dude, what the hell gives!?”

“FUCKS OFF, PICKLE!”

“MAKE ME, DOUCHEBA-”

Murderface suddenly sat up, holding a very large hunting knife in his fist as he screamed, “SCHUT UP OR I SHWEAR TO GOD I’LL COME OVER THERE AND CUT’SHER FUCKIN’ THROATSH OUT!”

“Yehh, me too,” Toki mumbled.

Pickles and Skwisgaar glared at each other silently for a few moments before the Swede decided to back down for the sake of his bandmates. And for his headache. Mainly his headache, because Skwisgaar wasn’t that noble. So he collected his guitar and made his way off the stage. And just because he always had to get the last word in, no matter how pwned he had gotten, he muttered to Pickles as he passed, “Dildos.”

The drummer flipped him off nonchalantly and then turned his attention to the still-snoozing Toki. Once he was sure Skwisgaar was gone, he kneeled down and shook him gently by the shoulder.

“Wake up, honey, yer gonna be late fer schoooool,” cooed Pickles in the sweetest Mom Voice he could manage.

“I not goes to school today, I sick,” slurred the Norwegian without opening his eyes.

“Yer friends’re gonna miss you.”

“Mnhhr.”

“Skwisgaar n’ Murderface won’t be able t’ rehearse without ya.”

“They’s fine…says we ready…sing love’s song for Nate’ns.”

Aha. Now he was starting to get somewhere. “Sing a song fer Nate’n?”

“Yehh. B’fore he dies…n’ we dies.” Toki had no idea what he was saying. Or maybe he did. Because his next words were : “I loves him.”

Pickles sat back on his haunches and stared down at the sleeping guitarist, wondering how seriously he could take those three little words. He’d have to think on it. Toki and the others were acting like they had some kind of big fucking secret that they weren’t going to tell anyone. It was getting annoying and everyone was already gnawing each other’s legs off because of this concert. Maybe the little guy was just stressed out and worried about Nathan. Nathan was definitely a guy to worry about.

Of course, the only other logical answer was that Toki was experiencing mutual feelings for Nathan. Without Nathan knowing. Without anyone knowing. What are the chances of that kind of shit happening?

Pickles stood up and trudged off, muttering under his breath, “Gad if this keeps up we’re gonna hafta change our name t’ Fagklok.” He shook his head. “Gayer than the gayest gay times infinity.”

It was the night before the opening performance, and somehow all the fun had been taken out of the jacuzzi. Not the water or anything, just the fun. It was almost a tradition, soaking and boozing it up in the tub together before the start of every tour. (God that really does sound gay, doesn’t it? No wonder all this crap is happening—it was just a matter of time.) So anyway, the whole band sat in the jacuzzi with beers in hand (or in Pickles’ case a 30 oz. hurricane glass of some godawful looking tutti fruity concoction) and didn’t say a word to each other. It was very uncomfortable, sitting naked in bubbly hot water with nothing in common with the people around you but an awkward silence.

And it was pretty awkward even without the silence: Nathan sat squashed against Murderface to avoid making any contact with Toki, who seemed intent on inching closer to Nathan just to be near him, and Murderface was slowly scooting closer Pickles since Nathan was getting all up in his personal space, and Skwisgaar’s fucking guitar was just a nuisance. It wasn’t in anyone’s way, it was just annoying. Nobody even knew why he brought that thing in the tub anyway or how it never seemed to get water damage.

“Are…you boys alright this evening? You seem awfully quiet,” said Manager-whose-name-we-now-know-to-be-Ofdensen-but-I’m-not-going-to-edit-this-whole-fic-just-because-we-know-it-now, sitting on the other side of the room and taking care of business. Whatever it was. He was talking on his cell phone a lot and going through papers. Probably something important that the band never thought about or cared to think about.

“Eh. We’re jest…y’know,” Pickles muttered.

An executive brown eyebrow arched. “No, I…don’t know.”

“We’s is mediastating,” Skwisgaar threw out a random excuse.

“You means moderating,” Toki corrected with only half of his usual viciousness when it came to correcting the Swede.

“I think he means meditating,” Nathan grumbled.

“Pffft. No, dat’s not it eithers.”

“Who gives a schit anyway?” Murderface spat. “I don’t. Nathan, shtop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Movin closher to me. Yer shquishing me an’ I’m fat an’ I need room. Move the fuck over to your shide. Ya got shumthin against Toki or what?”

“No-”

“Then git offa me.”

Pickles’ Gay-Panic Alarm went off. “Uh Nate’n, ya don’t hafta move it ya don’t-”

“Schuttup Picklesh.”

“Bite me, Wilma. Nate’n, ya don’t hafta-”

“Yeah, is okay Nate’ns,” Toki said, moving closer and touching the singer’s arm. “There a lot of room he-”

Nathan almost explosion. I mean exploded. “Will everybody just SHUT THE FUCK UP AND NOT TOUCH ME…uh, please. Thank you.”

Silence.

Ofdensen observed, “I…see you’re all having some issues with communication. Nervous about the show, are we?”

The mixes of “yes” and “no” confirmed his suspicions.

“Very well. I’m not going to mince words—I think this love song of yours is going to be one of the worst career moves in the history of music, and you should all be scared shitless.”

“No no, y’see, we have ta do it,” Pickles insisted.

“No, you don’t.”

“YES, WE DO,” Nathan grunted.

“Fine,” Ofdensen conceded, “if you insist on willingly damaging your image like this, then I suppose there’s nothing I can do. But don’t come crying to me when you are all sitting around and wondering what happened.” He stood from his seat. “You need to talk to each other again. Keeping secrets will destroy you.” And with a quick adjustment of glasses, he was gone.

Toki hadn’t been this nervous since their first gig, and even then he’d been too drunk to feel nervous at all. He was pretty sober as he sat in the dressing room back stage and fought to keep himself from retching. He had already undergone the routine procedure to acquire his sexy/mangled voice, and throwing up stomach acid would probably hurt worse than fuck-all. Skwisgaar had already spent some time shouting at Ralph and Huey on the porcelain telephone and was now wandering around anxiously, fingering his guitar as an ingrained defense mechanism or obsessively combing his hair. And he was shedding all over the place. They’d gone through two sticky roller sheets already. Murderface sat in the chair in the corner and just stared straight ahead like a soulless doll, stabbing a knife into the cushioned arm until stuffing had begun to puff out like mangled guts. To say he wasn’t thrilled would be a gross non-exaggeration.

Toki stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was a pretty neat outfit, he had to admit—clunky black boots and leather pants and a fishnet shirt with a red-eyed rat on the chest—but he didn’t feel like wearing it. He didn’t want to go out there. He didn’t want to sing. He didn’t want to die. It was too much. He should just kill himself now and get it over with. Anything would be better than doing what he was about to do.

He faintly registered Skwisgaar pulling up a chair beside him; the Swede turned him around so that they faced each other. Skwisgaar looked sick. Not just the normal barfy-drunk-stoned sick, but like deathbed sick. Even his corpse makeup couldn’t hide that glazed look in his eyes, glazed like a dead body that had died with its eyes open.

“Boy you really looks bad,” Toki croaked bluntly.

“I knows.” Skwisgaar reached over and picked up a compact of black makeup, positioned Toki’s face like an anal retentive hairdresser, and began to apply the stuff to his face. They didn’t talk to each other at first, too focused on listening to the dull, growing noise in the background that was the audience they would soon be standing in front of. But then Skwisgaar broke the proverbial ice: “Toki.”

“Yeah?”

He dabbed the poof over Toki’s eyelids. “Dis coulds be de last preformstance ever dat we does.”

“Yeah I knows.”

Pause. “I thinks it’s pretty cool dats you would die for…de band. So, uh. Whatevers happen out dere, I just wants yous to knows…I never really hated you alls dat much. Really I kinds of…loveds you a little. Likes friend does.” Pause. “I goings to miss playings wis yous. Not a lots, ‘cause your guitar’s is shit and you can’ts plays it for a damn, but I will miss yous…fuckings up my leads. Pissings me offs. I wills…remember yous alway for dat.”

“You real sweet, Skwisgaar.”

“I knows.” He clapped a hand on top of Toki’s head and shook him gently by the hair. “So try nots to die before me, fucker.”

“Right. You has to be de first one who does everythings.”

“Yah.”

Murderface broke up this lovely Scandinavian display of brotherly-slash-homoerotic affection by chucking his knife into the opposite wall and standing up. “If we’re goin’ down tonight guyzsh, let’sh give ‘em a schow they’ll never forget.”

Skwisgaar nodded as he stared at Toki. “We’ll rocks off all deir fucking face off. Isn’ts dat right?” Silence. “Isn’ts dat right Toki?” Silence. Sigh. Slim hand in brown hair. “…fucking says somethings to me Toki. Please.”

Suicidal bravery gleamed in Toki’s eyes—resignation at last. “I ready. Let’s…goes forth and dies. Come on.” He stood to his feet. The awesomeness radiating from him was the most metal thing ever. “They waiting for us.”

“ARE YOU READY FOR THIS, MORTALLLLS?” Nathan snarled into the mic like a beast as he stalked the stage back and forth, glaring at the solid sea of humanity who roared their response. “I SAID, ARE YOU READDDDYYYYYY?” The screams went up a few decibels. Bare arms formed a blanket of beige tones, hands unanimously displaying index and pinky.

Cloaked in shadows, the rest of the band sat poised for action, motionless. Except for Toki, who seemed to be memorizing the texture of his left forearm. “Toki!” hissed Pickles from up on his drum altar. “The hell’s up wit’ yer arm? Is that a tattoo?”

“Is nothing,” Toki lied, dropping his arm to his side. “Just remainders.” Well, he wasn’t actually lying per se; like an academically challenged high schooler he had written the lyrics to A Monster Named Love on his skin. In Norwegian. Since he read that only slightly better than English and no one would call him on it anyway.

Skwisgaar sidled up to Toki and checked the straps on his false cast. “Dees is too tights, dildo. You’s goings to cuts off your blood’s circus.” He fixed the cast as Toki stood numbly, listening to Nathan practically incite the audience to orgasm with nothing but his voice. When Skwisgaar was finished he clapped a hand on Toki’s shoulder and said, “Try nots to sounds likes shit, Wartooth. We’s recordings dis, you knows,” before taking up his set position on stage.

“-THEN PREPARE,” Nathan boomed, “FOR A JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS. A DESCENT INTO THE DUNNNGEONS OF A TORTURED MIND…”

Murderface began strumming a slow, steady riff on his Thunderbird as the shadows started to lift from the stage.

“…WHERE THE ONLY COMFORT TO BE FOUND…”

Toki came in with another layer to the riff as Pickles started a simple beat with the bass, ride cymbal and snare. It was the breath before the scream.

“…IS IN THE RED EYES OF THE RATS THAT SURROUND YOUUUU.”

With jaw set and lips pinched tightly, Skwisgaar struck a piercing screech way up on the frets and then unleashed a full 32^nd note assault as Toki brought his cast down on his strings, producing a skull-splitting metallic thunderclap that was as shocking as it was gorgeous. Pyrotechnics exploded on all sides, showering sparks and dazzling red glitter into the pit. Yellow and red lights erupted on stage, illuminating the band in all their brutal glory. The sound of the guitars was deafening, yet the excitement of the audience and their screams of ecstatic joy came close to matching their loudness. Pickles threw himself into his drums and led the band into the beginning of Staircase to Hell, and for a little while Toki forgot all about everything except making love to his guitar with his hands.

The response to Toki’s new sound was incredible and the crowd loved it, screaming extra loud whenever he had finished shredding a heavy solo. He felt a little awkward whenever the spotlights captured him—he wasn’t used to being the center of attention like this. That was Skwisgaar’s thing. Still, all that extra practice paid off and he didn’t fuck up anything, even with the lingering reminder of the recording devices being able to pick up the slightest scrambled note or botched rhythm. The band tore through their show, song after brutal song, until at last the finale was upon them.

Nathan emptied a bottle of water over himself and threw it into the clambering masses. He shook his head, sending drops flying from his hair. “This next one is a little different,” he growled to the still-cheering audience. “Maybe you’ll like it. Maybe not. We’ll see.”

Pickles grimaced in agony as he began to lay out one of those drippy 1950s doo-wop beats, the rest of the band joining in slowly and trying to stifle their nausea and shame. A quiet lull struck the crowd, and Nathan let out a heavy sigh as he began to sing in a surprisingly lyrical voice: “I love you more than words can say…I need your love both night and day…I cannot live without you there, to hold me close with warmth and care…”

The audience turned into petrified mimes, shocked to hear this sappy drivel oozing from the mouth of the world’s most metal, bloodthirsty singer. It was shocking. Appalling. A crime against music, committed by the last person on earth that anyone would suspect.

A rosebud of panic had begun to bloom in Toki’s chest, to put it poetically; his mouth went dry, his hands began to shake and he suddenly forgot his own name. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t function. He just wanted to run off the stage right now. He tossed his hair to get Skwisgaar’s attention and then shook his head at the Swede to signal that he couldn’t go through with it. Skwisgaar made a horrendously evil face in response and mouthed “I will KILLS you” between clenched teeth. Murderface joined in on their silent conversation, picked up on Toki’s cold-feet-retreat plan, and similarly threatened death with an elaborate dance of eyebrows and dagger-launching glares. Toki buckled and tried not to cry. He had no choice now, he thought, staring at Nathan’s back. He’d have to face the music.

Nathan had his eyes closed tightly, concentrating on not letting himself choke on the endless stream of revolting words. “Love love love…I love you so, more than you will ever know…so kiss me now and smile bright-”

Toki took a breath a snarled into a nearby mic: “BECAUSE A MONSTER’S RISING UP TONIIIIGHT!”

Skwisgaar and Murderface ditched the happy melody they had been playing and lit into an ear-smashing aural assault led by Toki and his wailing chainsaw guitar. Pickles floundered for two seconds before his survival instincts kicked in and he began to hammer out the first powerful rhythm he could think of to match the mutinous guitarists. Nathan whipped around with a face that looked as if he were either going to have a heart attack or detonate in rage. He was glaring right at Toki, who tried to look both innocent and apologetic at the same time. He nodded his head to tell Nathan to get back in his place, which was sacrilegious—no one told the frontman what to do. But Nathan did, and he pretended that he hadn’t just been overruled by his own band. Those feelings of betrayal didn’t get any better when he heard what Toki had begun to sing:

“There’s a monster living in my flesh…A feasting parasite, digessst. Eats me alive from de inside out…I need a knife to carve!” JUN JUN. “De monster!” JUN JUN. “Ouuttt!” JUN JUN RREEEEE!

Skwisgaar’s X-plorer squealed, complimenting the heavy rhythm of Toki’s guitar. Pickles had no idea what was going on but he was doing the best he could to fake it. It must have been working because the audience slowly began to come back to life, roaring when Toki once again took his place in front of the mic.

“De monster crawled into my skin, like maggots burrow deep within.” He was reading the Norwegian lyrics off his arm and his English had never sounded better. Ironically. “Cannot kill it, cannot fight. De monster makes me dreammmm…toniiiight.”

Nathan, unwilling to stand by and let himself be KO’d without throwing a single punch, began to sing the original song. Rather than clashing, the two separate lyrics blended together, with Toki grunting the lead and Nathan offering the melodic backup in a sick, twisted, bizarre love song.

“In my dreams you were there-”

“I need you now my dearest one…”

“Causing carnage everywhere-”

“Your light shines on me like the sun…”

“Flames rolling off your tongue-”

“Take my hand, we’ll travel far…”

“As you crush de bones-”

“And go to where-”

“-of de Forgotten-”

“-the rainbows-”

“-Onesss.”

“-arrre.”

Skwisgaar shredded into the bridge of the song, whipping his hair around like a windmill as the audience steadily began to lose their minds with euphoria. Toki was sweating so badly in his anxiety that he had to get creative with his shoulder in order to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Doing good. Still alive. Just a few more verses, then it will all be over, he can put down his guitar, take a bow, and then lay down and die. Sweet death. Sweet merciful beautiful death.

He and Nathan ad libbed their way through the song, their completely different voices forming a strange harmony with one another that added a whole new dimension to a previously flat song. It was something new, something strange. And they were all starting to like it. But only Nathan knew. Only Nathan felt it shatter inside, that delicate something he had been trying to keep safe all this time. The crowd had disappeared—no one existed on earth now but he and Toki, and they sang to each other like a pair heavy metal doves:

“Reign supreme but bow to me-”

“And if we never meet again…”

“Crowned in blood, my undead king-”

“My love for you will never end…”

“De monster poisoning my blood-”

“You’ll always be here in my heart…”

“Belongs to you-”

And because Nathan already knew the words, he joined Toki in unison, their voices blending together as they sang: “Its name…is Love.” Then his throat shut itself and would not allow him to whisper another word. It didn’t matter anyway. The song was over. Skwisgaar boasted another impossibly fantastic lick and allowed Toki to take over, closing the song in three strikes. Pickles thankfully had enough sense to feel the ending when it was coming and did a final crash before dropping his sticks and sitting back, dumbfounded and shirtless, panting from the brick-shitting terror he had just endured.

The audience was utterly silent for all of ten seconds. Dethklok stared back at them anxiously, not knowing what to expect. And then everything explooded. People began screaming in ecstasy, throwing themselves into and over each other, clawing at the stage like frantic cats trying to get out of the bathtub, whistling and howling and begging for an encore. Nathan actually had to step back to get away from the arms reaching out for him; if he were to throw himself into the mosh he’d probably get torn into a million pieces and eaten alive without a single drop of blood even touching the floor.

He lifted the mic still clenched in his fist. “Uh. Thank you all. That was…”

He turned to look at Toki, who said shyly into his own mic, “A Monster Named Love.”

“A Monster Named Love, sung by our own Toki Wartooth. This was his first, uh...vocal debut...so give it up for the kid with the BIGGEST FUCKIN BALLS ON THE CONTINENT.”

The resounding cheer was so loud that the walls began to crack. Soon thousands of people were chanting “TO-KI! TO-KI!” over and over again. The suddenly bashful Norwegian raised his arm to the audience and tried not to blush at Nathan’s flattering comment, though he guessed that the niceness was only a precursor to the astounding violence that would take place backstage in a few minutes.

“This was a special night for us all,” Nathan went on, pointing to the crowd. “This was your night. Thanks for coming out here and making us feel good. The fifth world tour had begun—see you in Paris.”

Cheers and chants of “DETH-KLOK! DETH-KLOK!” echoed throughout the concert hall. Nathan planted the mic back on its stand and turned around, striding calmly towards Skwisgaar, who looked around himself in confusion. As if Toki were the one Nathan should be going for instead. The Swede didn’t think to move until Nathan was within arm’s reach of him, and by then running away wasn’t an option; Skwisgaar attempted to bolt but Nathan’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of blond hair. The audience loved it. Skwisgaar screeched and clutched at his scalp to intercept some of the pain as Toki darted to his side.

“Stop it, Nathan!” he cried. “He didn’t do it, is all me! Don’t-”

The big man reached out with his big hand and nabbed Toki by the back of the neck, rendering him helpless and submissive. Like picking up a cat by the scruff of its neck. “I know,” he growled, staring at Toki with uncharacteristically wet green eyes. “It was always YOU.”

Pickles leaped down from the altar in alarm and sprang after Nathan as he proceeded to drag the two Scandinavians backstage. Murderface wasn’t far behind—witnessing a gruesome snuffing was something he never missed.

“Ah! AAAAAAH!” Skwisgaar screamed endlessly throughout the hallway, kicking and putting up a forceful resistance that didn’t really mean shit to a guy of Nathan’s size. “Ge slipp! Inne om namn av OH MY GODS lets goes of my fucking hairs you sons of a bitch! Dat HURTS!”

“That’s kinda the point,” Nathan grunted, giving an extra hard tug and forcing a squeal from his left-hand victim.

“Please don’t kills us,” Toki begged as the singer kicked off the door to the dressing room. “I can explains everythings-”

“I know. And you’re gonna start explaining RIGHT NOW.”

He released Toki and tossed Skwisgaar away, then brushed off the strands of blond hair sticking to his hand. Skwisgaar bounced off the wall and tumbled to the floor; Toki kneeled down to help him to his feet. He didn’t want to be the only one standing up to a dangerously pissed off Nathan Explosion. Pickles and Murderface breathlessly appeared in the doorway and the drummer immediately began to coach: “A’right now Nate’n, jest calm down a little an’ try not ta-”

“Did YOU know anything about this?” Nathan growled over his shoulder.

Pickles blanched. “Fuck no. I was jest improvisin the whole song. Ya hafta admit, it did sound pretty metal-”

“Which one of you DID IT?” Nathan demanded, taking a step towards Toki and Skwisgaar, who found themselves literally backed into a corner and blocked by a solid mass of anger. “Which one of you fuckin read my notebook? Is NOTHING SACRED to you glögg-sucking Eurotrash assholes? Do I have to keep my shit fuckin locked away or something?”

“Well, I do believe that wuzsh a rayshisht comment-”

“Murderface, jest shettup. Dude. Nate’n, hey. C’mon. Why don’tcha ease up on ‘em an’ siddown-”

“Why don’t you just SHUT THE FUCK UP AND MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS PICKLES.”

Skwisgaar peered over Nathan’s shoulder and said to the pwned drummer, “See? I tolds you’s dat you needs to minds your own bee’s nest-”

“Skwisgaar,” Nathan uttered, “I am very close to smashing your skull in with my bare fist. Don’t make me.”

“I am not scareds of you,” the Swede spat, challenging the larger man by sticking his face out as an offering. “Fucking brings its on, Tonto.”

It was a well known jinx that anyone who called Nathan “Tonto” ended up dead or mutilated beyond recognition. The band knew this. It practically paid the fee for the obituary ad. This was precisely why Toki threw himself in front of Skwisgaar as Nathan cracked his knuckles in preparation for rearranging a pair of well-defined cheekbones.

“Stop it, Nate’ns! We didn’t means to doos it! We was only try to saves your career.”

“So dat’s you don’t dies a total pussy,” Skwisgaar added.

Nathan frowned. “The fuck are you talking about?”

The tears Toki had been holding in all night finally burst out. He went to pieces. Shreds. Tatters. Probably the worst breakdown he’d ever had to date. God he needed medication. “We knows,” he choked hysterically, “we knows you is d-dying! De song you had writed would follows you to de graves. We c-couldn’t lets you does that. So we stold your note’s book and finds that song, and we practice every days for months so we could plays it to makes you happy one last times…”

Murderface made a strangled sound and wiped away his own tears. “That’sh sho tchrue.”

Toki turned his eyes to Nathan’s, and once again Nathan found himself struck by the desperation he saw, the need. The…oh my god. It couldn’t be.

“Because I loves you, Nate’ns,” rasped Toki before he let out a mighty sob. “I really fucking loves you.”

It was. God damn it. God damn it.

Nathan unleashed a frustrated roar and Pickles ducked out of the way as a fist swung past his head and impacted with the wall. Not many people can punch a perfect hole through two layers of sheetrock but Nathan was one that could. And that’s what he had done.

“You don’t. Understand. Toki,” he guttered through clenched teeth. “That song was supposed to be hated. It was written to BE. SHITTY.”

Brown eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Buh…but why?”

“That was its purpose. I NEEDED people to hate it. I needed this for ME. But now people love it. They fuckin LOVE IT. Everything is ruined.”

“I’m sorry…”

“And it’s all because of you, Toki. Everything is your fault. Your. Fucking fault.”

That is what is known as a below-the-belt hit. Flying out of left field, unanticipated, unexpected. The Norwegian looked horrified, wide-eyed and implacably miserable. Then he hung his head and wept. Because he couldn’t do anything else.

Skwisgaar’s jaw dropped open in disbelief and any fear he had felt earlier packed up and left town faster than the Christmas spirit on December 26^th. “How ffffffucking dares you. I will kills you myselv-!”

But Nathan wasn’t sticking around to hear idle threats from a guy he could snap easier than a Slim Jim; he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Murderface to comfort a crying Toki, and Pickles to calm an angry Skwisgaar. Neither Murderface nor Pickles were much help at all and Toki probably needed to be committed to a psychiatric hospital, so they all decided the best thing to do was to say the hell with any backstage groupie parties and just go back home and wait for Nathan to blow off some steam.

But Toki didn’t want to. “I not goes back there,” he said in a gravelly voice, yet allowed himself to be corralled into the waiting Dethlimo. “Is not home anymores. I quits. I quits de band right now, calls de manager and tells him I wants out-”

“Stops wis de cries and shuts up,” Skwisgaar snapped, but put an arm around Toki’s shoulder comfortingly. “You’s not quits anythings. Be gratesful dat at least we’s still alifes.”

Murderface and Pickles slid into the seat across from them and then the limo began making its way back to Mordhaus. Toki fell silent and pulled away from Skwisgaar, bringing his knees up to his chest and huddling to one side so he could look out the window. Not that there way anything to see except his reflection. He sniffed and rubbed his face. “This makeup shit make my eye red.” Quiet groan. “I thinks I gonna throws up.”

“D’we need ta pull over?” Pickles asked.

Toki shook his head and hunkered down into a fetal position. It looked ridiculous for somebody dressed like a heavy metal sadist to be in that pose. He stared at the lyrics written on his left forearm and snuffled to get the fresh snot out of his nose. That stupid song had ruined everything. The one time Toki had actually tried to do something nice for another person and it had fucked things up a thousand times worse than it had been before. Now Nathan would never forgive him. It was worse than being dead. And Toki didn’t even have the energy to put himself out of his own misery like a real Norseman. It was over. Over in the worst of ways.

Because all of that love had been for nothing.

To Be Continued...

Dethlove, Divvy 6

2006-12-07T02:44:01Z

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

Nathan sat alone in the recording studio, listening and re-listening to the album on the digital playback. But not really. He had started out listening, sure, but then he got carried away with his own thoughts (and they must have been pretty goddamn strong, because we all know Nathan’s not a big thinker) and it wasn’t long before he was pressing a steady pattern of buttons and slowly getting an awesomely brutal headache. He’d probably done more actual thinking in these past five months than he had in his whole life, and not without any side effects: he was even more irritable and unapproachable than ever, he hadn’t got a decent night’s sleep in weeks, all the fun had been taken out of getting drunk/high/someone killed…his life in general…and he was still popping wood at the mention of Toki Wartooth.

And yet, either by coincidence or cruel irony (who gives a damn, they’re both sorta the same thing), Nathan hadn’t been able to get turned on by any other source. Girls Gone Whory. The Sin-a-Max TV Network. Even his prized collection of raw vintage 1970s porno mags were losing their power. He thought he just needed new material but that stack of Millennium Masochist he borrowed from Murderface wasn’t helping either.

The few attempts to assert his heterosexuality (which was pretty much in shambles) with a couple random groupies had ended with cringe-inducing embarrassment. He hadn’t been laid in almost two months. This was fucking horrifying. He hadn’t been this bad off in the meat department ever since that time he got high on nitrous oxide and dared Murderface to punch him in the nuts. He couldn’t walk right for weeks.

But Pickles—thank fuck for Pickles—Pickles kept Nathan together. Kept him cool and sane and overdosed and tied to the belief that everything would be fine-fine-fine once they kicked off their opening tour for Dungeons & Ratguts. That was one month from today. One more month. Four weeks. Thirty days. But it was okay. It was cool. Just a little bit longer and then no more of this crap. Everything would be back to normal. Toki would never find out. Nathan would never have to humiliate himself by confessing his actions to the rest of the band. They could all just move the hell on and never look back. Not-So-Little Nathan would be cured and back in business, the album would sell off the shelves and life would be FUCKING PEACHY.

Just then Nathan’s lumbering thought processes were interrupted by what sounded like an approaching scooter being driven by a cackling madman. He turned his attention to the open doorway and saw Toki, hooting gleefully in his motor-propelled executive chair, buzz past. A few moments later Skwisgaar trudged by, followed by Murderface and then Pickles, who stopped in the threshold.

“What’s going on?” Nathan muttered. “You havin a funeral procession?”

“Maybe.” The drummer finished off his beer and tossed the bottle somewhere. There was a small shatter as it broke on some point beyond the frame of the readers’ vision bubbles. “We’re takin Toki to the hospital.”

Nathan tried not to cringe at the mention of The Name. “Really. Is he sick?”

“Yeah, pretty bad. Jest yesterday Skwiss noticed a tumour growin on the dude’s backbone an’ it’s probably gonna paralyze him fer the resta his life. Might be spinal lymphoma r’ somethin carcinogenic n’ terminal. The cancer’s probably already spread t’ his other organs so we’re takin’ ‘im in t’ see what kinda euthanasia plans they got.”

Pickles paused for a moment, taking in the speechless, blood-drained face of the lyrical visionary. White as corpse-flesh. Eyes like black holes. Jaw slackened. It was too much. Pickles started to chuckle.

Nathan was stunned for a second, then pissed as hell. “You FUCKHEAD.”

The red-head lol’d so hard he couldn’t stand up straight. “My GAD yer so gullible it’s sick! Ya really do love ‘im, don’tcha?”

“I could fuckin’ kill you for that.”

“Ya shoulda seen the look on yer face! Can’t believe y’ actually fell for it. Christ, Nate, let’s get the hell outta here before ya go shack-wacky; Toki’s gettin his casts taken off n’ today’s chicken finger day at the hospital cafeteria.”

“I can’t believe you’d even fuckin joke about…really?”

“Yeah, why the hell else ya think we’re all taggin along? Fer the scenery?”

Nathan scowled thoughtfully. He really didn’t want to go someplace that put him in unnecessary contact with Toki, but the hospital cafeteria did have the best goddamn chicken fingers on the face of the planet. Perfectly seasoned and hot and tender and juicy on the inside…like Toki…NO! No no no. Bad. BAD. Chicken fingers, Nathan. Chicken meat. Chickens. Chickens and cocks. NO! Cock meat. NOOOO! Hot tender juicy cock-

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Pickles leapt out of the way as Nathan jumped from his chair, knocked it over backwards, and plowed through the doorway. He was off and sprinting again, presumably to a dark, happy place where he could curl up in a fetal position for a few hours. At least all this running was doing him good. He looked like he might have lost a couple pounds.

The drummer picked himself off the floor and went out into the hall, where he saw Nathan round a corner at full speed, hit the wall, ricochet off, and thunder away. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “IF YA DIDN’T WANNA GO ALL YA HAD TA DO WAS SAY SO! Douchebag.”

Dr Romstein was the chief bone expert guy—skeletonologist or something—at Saint En’s, and he was the one who got to cut the blue camo casts off Toki’s shins with a hand-held circular-saw that Murderface immediately fell in love with. The Norwegian was so happy to be freed from those damn things that Pickles and Skwisgaar had to restrain him long enough for Romstein to take follow-up X-rays. The pictures revealed that all the bones had knit just right and Toki was A-OK. Despite everything he’d done that the doctors told him not to do.

“Howeffer,” droned Romstein as his patient bounced excitedly on the examining table, “I muss varn you not to go kwrazy wis de rhunnink arhound, Herr Toki. Das bones ist still nicht-shtrong, und puttink dem unter strain vould be vewwy unwise-”

Romstein hadn’t even punctuated his sentence before Herr Toki exploded off the table and was running like a motherfucker out of the room. Out of the ward. Hooting and cheering the whole way.

The doctor turned his head to glare dully at the three remaining band members, and handed Toki’s left-behind pair of shorts to Skwisgaar. “Goot luck. I vill see you oll again een vunn hour.”

Toki hadn’t gotten all that far before the others caught up to him; he was lying on the linoleum—in nothing save t-shirt and underwear—just past the CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign outside the maternity ward. (Why did they even have one of those in this place? It’s not like they ever used it.) They all sighed heavily in unison and muttered under their breaths about something-or-other related to the adorable little dumbass.

Skwisgaar knelt down and tossed the shorts in said dumbass’s lap. “Dids yous break your fucking legs again, Mister Genius?”

Toki, who looked wide awake and perfectly alright, gave a little shrug. “Nah, I just catch my breath right now. I needs to run more, I all out of shapes.”

“The doc said not to,” Pickles snapped. “Ya wanna be wearin leg casts again fer the next gad-knows-how-many months?”

“No.”

“Well then.” And that was all he said.

“Still,” Toki complained, sitting up and pulling his shorts on, “they shoulda warn peoples about wet floor likes this one.”

“They DO, shtupid,” Murderface kicked the CAUTION sign around so that Toki could see it.

“Oh. I can’t reads that when I run fast.”

“Dat’s why dey puts on de pictures of a guy’s falling down, so dat dumbs retard-” Skwisgaar jabbed his finger onto Toki’s forehead. “-like yous will understands it. Come on, gets off de floor.” He extended his hand and helped the Second Best to his feet again. “Oh yah, and deez is yours.”

A hideous green pair of those cloth/paper hospital shoe covers found their way into Toki’s hands. He wrinkled his nose at them. “What’s de hell are this?”

“Ruby slippers,” Pickles muttered as he walked past, blowing cigarette smoke at a nearby NO SMOKING sign. “The doc wanted ya t’ have ‘em, said they’re magic. They make ya dance like Fred Astaire.”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Who’s Fred of Stares?”

“A dead guy.”

In quiet awe: “Wowww. And wearing these will makes me to dance likes a dead guy too?”

“I dunno, Toki, jest put the fuckin things on so we can get outta here.”

So Toki put the fuckin things on and honestly believed that they made him dance like a dead guy. The other three bandmates danced him down to the hospital cafeteria where they waited in the line that didn’t exist to get the best goddamn chicken fingers on the planet, then they all sat around a small table and dug in.

“Mm,” Pickles murmured, “I fergot how good solid food is.”

Toki stopped committing poultycide with his mouth long enough to comment, “I wish Nate’ns was here now. He’da like de fry chickens. Is his favorite foods.”

“Uh…he wanted t’ come but…eh, he’s busy.”

“Bizzshy dying,” Murderface muttered under his breath, stabbing moodily into a piece of chicken with his Ka-Bar.

“What?” Pickles asked.

“Nothings,” Skwisgaar answered quickly. “We’s just wish dat…never minds.”

“No really. Ya wish what?”

The Swede responded by shoving three chicken fingers into his mouth and saying something. And just in case Pickles might be gifted at understanding Full-Mouthenese, he said that something in Swedish. It didn’t even sound remotely human, let alone intelligible.

“Huh?”

Toki stifled a squeal of surprise as he was elbowed in the ribs. “Don’t does that, Skwisgaar! You coulda makes me choke! …oh. I means…gee. I sure hopes Nathan’s is not working too much. He might needs to take a vacations and…enjoy lifes while he still…” Toki’s bottom lip quivered and he slumped in his chair, his appetite lost faster than virginity at an Alabama middle school.

Pickles arched a studded red eyebrow at this curious behaviour and lit another cigarette. “Why the long face all the sudden?”

“I dunno,” Toki shrugged, head bowed and his brown hair curtaining his eyes. “I thinks I gots it from my ffff…ff-f-father’s side-”

“Nah nah, jeez, not literally, c’mon, I mean…why’re ya so sad?”

But Toki didn’t reply, either lulled into a catatonic state at the mention of his parents or too emotionally fatigued to force air into his voice box. Pickles narrowed his eyes suspiciously and looked over at Skwisgaar and Murderface, who noticed that Pickles had narrowed his eyes suspiciously at them; they both started to perspire chicken-flavored sweat.

“You guys’ve been actin kinda weird lately,” he drawled. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say ya know somethin that I don’t.”

“Nope!” Murderface pasted on a fake smile that was truly terrifying to look at. “We don’t know schit!”

“Never dids, never wills!” Skwisgaar agreed, pulling his face into a taut imitation of a smile and managing to do a scary-accurate impression of Jack Nicholson with Botox injections.

Pickles had to look the other way. It hurt too much. “Uh. Okaaaay.”

Toki pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’m through,” he mumbled and walked out of the cafeteria, the magic of his little green hospital booties just plain gone. It was the saddest damn thing in the world to watch.

Aside from Hollywood Squares.

The hallway to Nathan’s bedroom was dark and quiet, unusual for this hour. Toki crept silently through like a Norwegian ninja, his pale eyes fixed on the dim splash of yellow-orange light escaping from beneath the bedroom door. He stopped in front of it and studied it for a while. This was Nathan’s door. It belonged to Nathan. Soon the room beyond it would be dark and cold and empty, and the door would be locked, never to open again. Everything inside the room would stay the same. Nothing would move ever again. All the things that Nathan owned would sit unused, collecting dust and cobwebs and time. That’s what it’s going to be like soon. All too soon.

Toki raised his hand as if to knock before thinking better of it; instead he laid his open palm upon the wood and thought of the million excuses why he shouldn’t bother Nathan: he was probably tired. He was dying after all. Dying people need rest, don’t they? It didn’t make very much sense. You’d think dying people who knew they were dying would never sleep again. Don’t waste a moment ‘cause it might be your last. And besides, Toki didn’t want to piss him off. Wasn’t it already enough that Toki’s final memory was going to be of Nathan’s hands around his throat, throttling him to death? What a way to go. Toki hoped they wouldn’t press charges, though it’d be kind of useless to put Nathan on death row for murder when he was already dying. He’d probably go tits-up before the verdict was in.

Toki didn’t wanna die. Toki didn’t want Nathan to die. Toki didn’t wanna make Nathan mad. Toki didn’t wanna sing that fucking love song, either fucking version of it. This whole thing was bull’s shit and all he wanted to do right now was spend time with Nathan before he croaked. No tour, no rehearsals, no screaming fans or any of that crap. Just sit somewhere close to him and appreciate the company he had always taken for granted. All he wanted was time. The one damn thing they didn’t have. Life was a real kick in the dick sometimes.

Toki wasn’t an angel, not by a long shot, and this emotional sewage wasn’t his cuppa tea—he was selfish and immature and impatient and vengeful and impulsive and all sorts of horrible little pieces of dysfunctional personalities. But goddammit, he thought that just once he would like to care about someone else even though he would never be rewarded for it. He realized he loved Nathan. Nathan was his friend. He didn’t want him to die. In lives where they all ate, drank, slept, lived, breathed and fucked death, only when it seemed inevitable that one of them must meet the Reaper did it suddenly become real.

Toki came to the conclusion that there were two kinds of death: the fake death that was all cool and brutal and fun and didn’t really mean shit in the long run, the kind of death that everyone wrote songs about and got famous for, and then there was real death. Permanent death. Death that ripped a part of your fucking heart out and ate it. The kind of death that ended things when they weren’t supposed to end and stole your best friends away from you. Real death was horrible. There would never be anything cool about it.

Toki rested his forehead against the door. His face twisted into a look of extreme pain as he fought to keep the screaming, wailing emo agony at bay, but he wasn’t mentally mature enough to know how to restrain himself yet; he started to cry, very quietly so that the room’s occupant would never ever know.

Don’t steals him from me, he thought, making himself cry even harder, which was what he wanted. He needed to get this shit out of him. I wants him here. Lets him suffer. As longs as he’s around we’ll always be togethers. De band will be togethers. Stay, Nate’ns. We falls apart if you don’t, and I’ll hates you forever if you leaves us.

God this hurt so bad. But at the same time letting it out felt so good. He sniffed wetly, achieving a horrendous schlerrrrrk sound. He needed a Kleenex bad. His whole head felt hot and swollen and the back of his eyes ached and his lips felt all puffy and inflamed. He felt ugly as hell.

You bastard. Why you gots to make me cry like this…

Toki wiped his eyes and was suddenly startled by a voice to his right: “Toki?”

He froze, turning his head to see Nathan standing in the hall a few feet away, looking at him expressionlessly. He was wearing pajamas—flannel pants and a black t-shirt that said This Is My Band. There Are Many Like It But This One Is Mine.—and he carried a rolled-up magazine in his hand. Toki tried not to react hysterically at being seen in such a state of repulsive girly-ness, but it was very hard to do.

“N-Nathan!” he hiccupped. “But-! If yours out here, then who’s in there?” He pointed to the bedroom door.

“Uh, nobody?” Nathan grunted. “I was in the bathroom.”

Right. How could Toki forget. Probably just flushed his pancreas down the toilet. How long could a person live without pancreas? Maybe they could live without one—wait, there were two of them, right? What the hell were pancreas anyway? Fuck. It didn’t matter. The important thing was Nathan probably needed it/them and now it’s/they’re gone. No way could the doctors keep replacing organs at this rate. They’d need to start sacrificing people by the dozens and keep a walk-in freezer fully stocked with bowels and bladders. No way, man. Ain’t gonna happen.

These thoughts weren’t helping Toki at all but somehow he managed to stifle his sobs despite the snot and tears and drool leaking out of every orifice in his flushed face. “Oh,” he choked. “Okay. Ha.”

“Toki…?” Nathan said with great difficulty. “Are…why you standing outside my door and crying?”

“Cause I feels like it!” the Norwegian exploded, grateful for a chance to get angry. “What are you, de police? Is you gonna to arrests me for it?”

“I was just wondering…I mean. Since you’re crying and-”

“So I’m crying! BIG DEALS! Why de fuck’s everybody worry about why I cries or not? Do I needs a fucking permit or somethings!?” He was clearly losing it at this point.

Nathan lifted his hand peacefully. “Alright alright, calm down. I just…I didn’t mean to…”

Toki’s bloodshot eyes met Nathan’s and stayed there. Nathan saw grief and desperation burning red hot in those shades of cold blue, and it was unbearable. Like clubbing baby harp seals unbearable. Why was he still standing here? Why hadn’t he left yet? He must want something.

“Toki,” Nathan said very quietly. “What do you want?”

The cracking, hoarse reply was as hollow as an empty coffin: “Nothings you can gives me.”

The words totaled Nathan’s heart before his brain even heard the squealing tires. By then all he could do was watch in stunned silence as Toki bowed his head and sucked in a sob of air, wrapping his arms tight around himself and shadowing his eyes from view with his hand. Standing just out of reach, crying, begging for something that Nathan couldn’t understand. He should leave. Why wasn’t he leaving? Did he actually want…?

Nathan took a step forward and raised his hand to touch him. An inch from Toki’s brown hair he stopped. No. Don’t do it. Loss of control. It’ll go too far. You don’t need this. Nathan almost didn’t care. He could admit to that now. He could admit to wanting it for what it was, and that was bad. This wasn’t right. Toki wanted something that Nathan didn’t have, and that hurt more than a stab wound in the gut. He felt betrayed.

If only. The hand traced the space around Toki’s oblivious form, a sad imitation of touch.

I think I love you more now than all this time I’ve been pretending I don’t.

“Go to bed, Toki. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He shuffled his way past the dejected figure and closed the bedroom door behind him. On the other side Nathan rubbed his wet eyes and snorted hard to clear his sinuses.

Fuckin Toki Wartooth. Thanks for making a grown man cry.

Another super secret midnight rehearsal. The three guitarists were now past the point of “overworked” and were actually looking forward to the nice long relaxation that untimely and gruesome death would provide. Between tying up loose ends with their manager and practicing two versions of the show, the heavy metal string section of Dethklok was hallucinating on a regular basis and suffering from delirium. And Pickles had been watching them like a priest at a playground. For an Irish wino he sure could be observant sometimes. They’d all had to take extra precautions to avoid attracting the drummer’s attention; no doubt he’d ruin everything by ratting to Nathan about their plans for a live, on-stage mutiny. And the only good thing about that would be earlier demises.

They ran through the original love song one more time, practicing the transition into the new version. It was essentially a really good song with a really bad intro. Like starting as Celine Dion and ending as Glen Danzig. Hopefully the fans would forgive them. It was kind of entertaining really, faking them out like that. Fucking with people’s minds was fun.

“Okay, I think we got it,” Murderface said loudly, taking off his guitar before they’d even finished playing the song. “I’m gonna be schitting ghostsh if I don’t get shum shleep shoon.”

The other guitarists gratefully followed suit; even Skwisgaar—who usually had his axe hanging off his shoulder 46% of the time, even during dinner and sleep—untangled himself from his strap and propped his X-plorer against an amp. Then he crouched down beside it and let his head drop. “God I so fuckings tireds,” he mumbled. “I woulds gives up de hottest ladies on de world to gets an hour’s sleeps. Så trött…I thinking. I just sleeps here.” He stretched out on the floor and folded his arms beneath his head. “G’natt, fuckers.”

“Don’t starts it,” Toki wheezed. He’d had his vocal cords keel-hauled again earlier that night in an effort to build up his singing stamina. “You going to makes us all…tire...” He interrupted himself by yawning.

“You shuns of bitsches,” Murderface groaned, staggering across the stage to slump down beside Skwisgaar. “I…” He was snoring before he could finish his sentence. He’d fallen asleep sitting against the amp.

Skwisgaar raised a bruised looking eyelid. It took every ounce of energy for him to lift his arm and gesture for Toki to come over. The Norwegian lifted off his guitar, let it drop to the floor, and took a few steps before he stumbled and crash-landed onto Skwisgaar’s legs.

“How many day left?” he croaked against a sharp kneecap.

“Fives,” answered Skwisgaar, clapping his hand on top of Toki’s head and rubbing absentmindedly. “Are you’s scareds?”

“No. I’m Toki.” Pause. “But de snow scare me.”

“What snow?”

“De snow falling…froms de ceiling now.” He closed his eyes. “Is all…fairies. They comes to get me. Bad…snow.” And then he went out like a light.

Skwisgaar was the last to let go. By then the world looked like a winter wonderland—Murderface was the Abominable Snowman, Toki was Walt Disney, and he himself had hair made of double-helix sugar crystals. And somewhere some laughing bastard was calling him a ho.

To Be Continued...

Dethlove, Take 5

2006-11-27T02:43:38Z

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

By the time Toki finally caught up, Murderface and Skwisgaar were huddled out back behind the barbecue pit and riffling through Nathan’s lyric notebook with all the glee of young brats who had just stolen their big sister’s diary. Toki, panting like an asthmatic after a 50 yard sprint, approached from behind and would have dearly liked to break his remaining crutch over both their heads, but…it was his only remaining crutch.

Ah, what the hell. You only live once.

It didn’t take much to splinter the crutch, seeing as how it wasn’t made of big hard stiff woods, so a blow to the skull really wasn’t all that bad. Skwisgaar and Murderface let out surprised squawks when they got caned out of the blue, but they were way too excited to let a little thing like a head injury harsh their glee.

“Stops screwing arounds and gets down here before someone seesk you,” the Swede snapped irritably, grabbing Toki by one of his belt loops and yanking him into their Super Top Secret Huddle Conference.

“Hey, maybe if we keep thish thing Nathan’ll forget the lyricsh to that shitty shong,” Murderface thought aloud.

“Are you a joke?” Toki cried. “Remembering lyric are his job—he won’t forgets!”

“Toki’s is right. Besides, Nathan is goings to knows-tiss dat it’s missing. We can’ts keeps it forevers.”

“Sho whaddo we do?”

Skwisgaar frowned and flipped through the pages. “We find somethings dat we can use. Den we copies it, returns dis notes-book, and den we starts to coming ups with some musics.”

“On our own?” Toki asked, wide-eyed and horrified by the thought of doing anything without 100% band approval.

“Yes. Alls by ourselfs.”

“But can’t we get somebodies to helps us with de-”

“We can’ts have a lots of peoples involve in dis, Toki. We haves to keep it a secret.”

“Yeah, and we’re running out of plaches to hide bodiezsh. The lessh people, the better.”

“So find a song already,” Toki said. “And hurry fast. You both stinks like throw up and is making me sick.”

“At leasht I don’t shmell like a half-acre of burning hair.”

Skwisgaar suddenly turned a page and winced in disdain. “Oh fuck. Talks about smell, guys. Dis page here stinks like a chemical’s factories.”

“Is de marker,” Toki observed, staring down at the bold, bleeding black letters. “Whoo-ee! He musta got real high from writings this.”

“Lemme shee it,” Murderface commanded, taking the notebook from a watery-eyed Skwisgaar.

“Holy shits,” Skwisgaar broke the silence. “Dis is…metal. I guess he’s really is dying, just reads dat. Parasites, maggots, beings eaten alifes.”

“Izshin’t it kinda ironic? The shong that literally shtinksh doeshn’t shtink half ash bad ash that other peesha schit.”

Toki stared down in silence at the Sharpie scrawls, and felt something stir inside his chest. It wasn’t a ribcage-bursting alien either. It was something warm and sad and emotional, as if he could feel what Nathan had felt when he wrote these words. There was a strange sense of honesty behind them, like they’d come from some tortured corner of his bleeding, blackened heavy metal heart. Toki suddenly felt as if they were looking at something very personal and private of Nathan’s (like his lucky pair of underwear), and that things would have been better off if they had never seen it in the first place (like his lucky pair of underwear).

“We should returns this, guys,” he said softly. “It was wrong of us to steals it.”

“We didn’t shteal it, we borrowed it.”

“But we takes it without us asking him first.”

“Don’ts be such a goldie-toe-shoes. It’s not likes he’s is going to be missings it for de next five minutes,” Skwisgaar muttered. “Come on, we needs to goes writes dis down and gets it back.”

“I can’t walk,” Toki mumbled. “I broke my crotch.”

“Ah don’t worry,” Murderface said as he and Skwisgaar began to walk back to the house. “We’ll shend shomebody out to get ya.”

Toki hadn’t really taken the time to look at the stars lately. At least not while sober. He had forgotten how pretty they were, especially in the utter pitch fucking darkness, like he was in now. But it was cool. No problem. He passed the time lying on his back and peacefully looking up at the sky while thinking homicidal thoughts about his good-for-nothing bandmates who’d left him out here, and making up his own constellations since he could never remember any of the real ones. So far he had the Speckled Blob, the Twelve-Sided Square, the Three Stars in a Row, and a couple of long-handled pots.

Then he started to think about Nathan. Poor dying Nathan, dying a slow horrible death due to a dysfunctional digestive system. It was so unfair. Nobody should shit themselves into an early grave—it was humiliating and totally not metal. Unless he shit his major organs out in alphabetical order, starting with his heart. That might be metal.

But Toki didn’t want Nathan to die, metal death or no metal death. If Nathan died then who would sing? You couldn’t replace a guy like Nathan without changing the entire band. Like when what’s-his-face from that other band died, and they never put out any albums ever again. It was the end. Axed. Over. Done with. The truth was, Toki had no idea what he would do without Dethklok. His whole life revolved around them like the chamber of a gatling gun, and as long as the ammo kept coming he had no worries about tomorrow.

But now he was starting to realize just how quickly this wonderful life of his could be taken away. Nathan was dying, and it would only be a matter of time before they’d all be standing around a great big goddamn funeral pyre and watching his blacker-than-the-blackest-black-times-infinity ashes float off into the wind…

Toki let out a choked whimper before his voice cracked and he started to sob—a clear indication that he should probably consider getting his Zoloft prescription refilled. As he lay there out on the lawn behind the barbecue pit all by himself, the stars looked down from their great height, so cold and far away, and winked their glitter-dust eyes at him in silence.

A few moments later orange light suddenly cast its glow upon him and the sound of approaching footsteps reached Toki’s ears. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and wiped his eyes as four concerned and vaguely familiar faces appeared above him.

“Toki? Is you alifes?” Skwisgaar asked hesitantly, holding a torch in one hand.

“Yeah.”

“The wolves didn’t getcha, did they?” said Pickles.

“No.”

“Shawrry we forgot about you but…we fffforgot to remember you were out here.”

“No problems. Is cool.”

Pause.

“Toki…have you been cryin?” Pickles asked, squatting down beside him and cracking open a can of beer concernedly.

“No.”

Slurrp. “Why’s yer face wet then?”

“I…felled asleeps and my eyes drool.”

“Oh. Cuz ya look like you’ve been cryin. Yer face’s all red n’ puffy too.”

“I’m not been crying. I has…an allergy attack.”

“Ya sure? Cuz, I mean…that’s okay if yeh were cryin. Tweedle-Dildo an’ Tweedle-Dumbass here did a real shitty thing an’ I jest-”

“Is okay, I tells you-”

“-cuz if ya want us t’ kick their asses we can do it no prob.”

Nathan finally spoke up. “Can we just get him inside before the fuckin yard wolves find us?”

“Yeah, I’m gettin’ kinda nervoush. Don’t wanna pressh our luck.”

“Fine with me,” Pickles agreed curtly, standing up. “Go on, Nate. Pick ‘im up an’ let’s go.”

Nathan glared at the drummer. “Hell no.”

“Nate’n.”

“Call the damn yard maintenance or something.”

“A’right. If ya insist. I guess it would be kinda hard t’ lift a little runt like Toki with those big weak useless arms ‘a yours…”

“Pickles, I am gonna-”

“Is okay, Nate’ns,” Toki interrupted softly, stopping their bickering dead in its tracks. They both gazed down at him—if Precious Moments ever went metal, they’d use Toki as a model for every single teardrop-eyed character in the line. “I can waits for…somebody’s else to come get me.”

Nathan looked as if he’d just been stabbed through the heart with a stalactite made of dead kittens (sorry, that was kind of abstract and vague—he looked sad is what I’m saying), then he turned to the red-head and gave him an icy, Death-is-Forthcoming-to-Thee sort of stare. Pickles leered smugly in reply.

Nathan handed his torch to Murderface and kneeled down to the pathetic, crippled Norwegian. “C’mon. Get on my back, I’ll carry you.”

“Is fine, I can wait.”

“I insist. Get on.”

“But you just says-”

“GET THE FUCK ON ME NOW, TOKI.”

God in heaven what a poor choice of words. But nobody said anything about it, especially not Toki, who scrambled up at the command and latched himself onto Nathan’s back like a baby possum. The big man stood up with a grunt and hooked his arms beneath Toki’s cast-encased legs, and fell in step behind the others as they all trekked back to the house.

It was hard at first (literally and figuratively) getting used to being so close to one another after weeks of barely being in the same vicinity together, but soon those uncomfortable feelings faded away into something that just felt sort of…natural. Sweet and caring. Like family. Not like Toki’s family, shit no, or Nathan’s for that matter, but maybe something between the Osbournes and the Mansons. A nice comfortable dysfunctional medium.

Toki wrapped his arms around Nathan’s neck and slumped sleepily, resting his chin on the other man’s broad shoulder. Ahead of them the other three bandmates talked amongst themselves about doing something with the hedges in the side yard, sculpting a maze out of them or something, like that one from The Shining, except releasing a couple of the yard wolves in it to make it interesting. And planting a lot of huge-ass briars. ‘Cause normal hedge mazes were not metal.

Nathan wasn’t paying attention to anything except the wakening monster in his pants and the helpless invalid on his back. Helpless…couldn’t run away…couldn’t fight back. Ow. Ow. Stop thinking that or else your balls are gonna split. Fuck this was torture. Ow. Not much farther now. Just a few more yards. Nathan began to think of a plan for when they got inside, something along the lines of hurling Toki onto the nearest piece of furniture and running in the opposite direction. It sure as hell would beat hurling Toki onto the nearest piece of furniture and then mounting him like a roaring-horny beast. Which was what Nathan really felt like doing. No. No. No no no no no. Toki don’t want none of this. Not an option. He wasn’t even drunk. No, he’d just drop him off somewhere and then go find a nice dark place to jack off alone and-

Toki gently squeezed his arms and legs around Nathan and said very quietly, “I miss you already.”

Huh. That was a weird fuckin thing to say, but whatever. Nathan didn’t respond. A few seconds later he became aware of something warm and wet on his neck and just assumed it was Toki slobbering snot on him or something.

The possibility of it being tears didn’t enter his mind at all.

Toki almost had to be bodily removed from Nathan’s back. Apparently he had gotten nice and comfortable up there and didn’t want to let go, and it was only after Nathan threatened to douse him with rubbing alcohol and light him on fire like a tick that the Norwegian was willing to loosen his grip a little. Toki slumped down on the [brand new since the other one was destroyed via “coin toss”] couch and watched Nathan stomp off somewhere. Probably to the B-A-S-T-H-R-O-H-M-N-S-E, BMing his way into the obituaries.

Toki was now severely depressed. His life had turned to shit. He was temporarily paraplegic. (Practically.) Nathan was dying. And ignoring him. And trying to ruin the band with a monstrous love song that had driven Toki to theft and plagiarism and would ultimately end his life. The only bright side to all this was that at least he wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear to Nathan’s funeral, because Toki was going to be the first of the gang to die backstage when the opening show was over. He just knew it.

Skwisgaar, noting Toki’s dreary demeanor, heaved a sigh and sat down beside him, draped his arm on the back of the couch and propped his boots up on the coffee table. That was never used for coffee. The booze table then. “Don’ts be such a crybaby,” he muttered. “We gots de song writted downs and return de notes-book to its place. He never misseds it for a second.”

Toki didn’t say anything. Just sat there all slouchy and glum with terrible posture. Skwisgaar was forced to shift gears; he reached over and tugged lightly on a lock of Toki’s hair.

“Hey. What’s de matters?”

The rhythm guitarist pretended to be interested in the cigarette burns in his shirt. “I can’t beliefs he is dying.”

Skwisgaar snorted. “Pfft. We’s are alls dying, Toki. It’s is betters to die young for peoples likes us. We dies early and is remembereds forever dat way. Dis is why we haves to do dis new song. It’s is for Nathan’s, so dat he don’t die a total pussy.”

Toki shook his head in some sort of denial and looked like he was on the verge of turning on the waterworks again. “I don’t needs this shit right now. I wanna gets drunk or high or somethings. Just…I don’t wanna feel anythings.” He sighed and turned to look at Skwisgaar imploringly. “Will you go gets my chair for me?”

The blond gave him a nonchalant glare before sighing in defeat. “Yah, okay.” He stood up reluctantly.

“Is on de second floors, I think.”

“Okay.”

Skwisgaar left and then returned about twenty minutes later riding Toki’s personal customized executive-chair-slash-scooter, and parked it near the couch. “Dis thing is…pretty cool,” he said haltingly, as if ashamed to admit it. “I wants one.”

“You can borrow dis one when I gets my cats took off.”

“Totally.”

“Is still mine, so give it back. I needs to go OD on somethings.”

Skwisgaar frowned thoughtfully. “I better comes wis you, for de hospital’s trip.”

“Okay. I needs a desecrated driver anyway.”

The conference room was as silent as a swarm of dead insects. Every now and again papers would rustle, but that was it. Dethklok sat in their chairs with the demeanors of men who had just signed their lives over to the circus—not one of those cool Amsterdam circuses that only open after midnight to the 21+ crowd, but the circuses with the clown cars and balloon animals and faggy trapeze men in ungodly-tight spandex. The mortifying un-metal sort of circus.

“Well boys, this is—certainly an unprecedented change of pace,” said Manager, shuffling through paperwork that included a typed copy of the World’s Worst Love Song. “But if you feel the need to, ah, continue in this direction then I can begin making arrangements for the new tour…”

“Fine with us,” Nathan grunted.

“You’re sure about this.”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.” Pause. “You’re absolutely 100% sure you want to go through with this.”

“YES.”

“Alright. Okay. Just making certain since, ah, people do have a tendency to change their minds about impulsive ideas…”

Pickles rubbed his forehead gingerly, nursing a Bloody Mary to help him get over his hangover from last night. “Dude. Jest…sign the friggin’ papers n’ let us worry about regrettin this six months from now. Kay?”

Manager artfully adjusted his glasses in a way that only highly-paid executive businessmen are educated how to do. “If you all insist.”

“Oh yeah,” Toki sighed airily from the side. He looked and spoke as if had died from the neck up days ago. “We all insists.”

“Very well then.” Manager nodded crisply, stood and gathered his paperwork. “I suggest we meet again this time next week—I should have the rough estimates in by then. I’ll be in touch.” And then he left the band alone in the room to numbly stare at the table like overmedicated mental health patients. Luckily no one heard him mutter “Poor bastards,” just outside the door.

It was 3:48 in the morning. They should be sleeping, but they weren’t. Three of them anyway. They were in the rehearsal auditorium, working on A Monster Named Love, which is what they dubbed the stolen song from Nathan’s notebook. It wasn’t too hard to work without a drummer, and Toki hadn’t fucked up a riff in at least two hours; they were making good progress but they still had one major problem on their hands.

Skwisgaar let the lick he was shredding abruptly die—amplifier buzz filled the silence as Toki and Murderface followed suit.

“What’sh wrong thish time?” the bassist sighed.

“Guys, we are goings to needs a person to sings dis stuff,” the Swede admitted. His eyes were purple-ringed, bloodshot holes. “We can’ts just plays music. We needs to finds out where de lyrics goes.”

“Why doesn’t you sing it?” Toki asked.

“Hah,” he scoffed. “No. I concentratings on de guitars. I’m not so goods at multi-ply-taskinks.”

Murderface rolled his eyes. “Like doing three girlzsh and a half gallon of Absholut at the shame time izshn’t multi-tashking.”

“Shut up.” Skwisgaar nodded to Toki. “You sings it.”

“I can’t sings!” the Norwegian replied, almost losing his balance and falling off his stool.

“Fine. Myurderface will does it den.”

“Hello? Do we live in the shame world? Have you lishened to me shpeak lately? I don’t fuckin think sho, pal.”

“It’s is you den, Toki.”

“Aw man. I don’t wants to. I sounds like stupid.”

“You is stupid,” Skwisgaar said, then added, “buts you can sings a lots better den us.”

“I don’t know de lyric.”

“Writes dem on your arm or somethings. Does anyone heres has a pen?”

“I’ve gotta pocket knife,” Murderface said brightly. “That’ll work.”

But Toki didn’t want to carve his arm up just for the sake of one rehearsal, so what he did was tape a hand-written copy of the song on his mic stand and he was good to go. Unfortunately he still wasn’t very skilled at reading English (especially when written by somebody with godawful handwriting, like Murderface), so he flubbed a lot. Badly. And he sang out of key. Badly. How the guy could be in the least bit musically inclined was just flipping miraculous.

“…cannot kill it, cannot fight,” he warbled, squinting at the paper on his mic while the metallic grinding of guitars filled the auditorium with beautiful noise. “De monster make me dream tonig-”

“Stop stop stop stop stop,” Skwisgaar directed, and everyone did exactly that.

“What’s de hell wrong?” Toki snapped, sleepless irritability not only catching up to him but mowing him down. “We never gonna gets de song done’d if you keeps on stopping us all de time!”

“De song is fine. It’s is de singer dat needs to work. I thinks I knows what’s it is to do abouts it. Myurderface, gets your car’s key. We needs to goes for a ride.”

At a nearby Våfflor Haus, Skwisgaar and Murderface chowed down on some bizarre form of waffles while Toki obediently smoked his way through two packs of cigarettes and drank coffee that was strong enough to induce heart palpitations. The air of the diner itself was already in violation of the EPA’s hazardous emissions standards due to the large number of chain-smoking truckers that frequented the place, and right now it was prime pit stop hour. It looked like a London wharf after midnight in there. It was enough to make you want to move to downtown Los Angeles to get some fresh air.

Toki coughed violently after grinding his cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray. His eyes were watering and his skin was already beginning to yellow. “I think I smoke enough for now,” he said in a rough, raspy voice.

“N’ah enouff,” Skwisgaar replied with his mouth full. “Fmokesf fum more.”

Toki was honestly too fucking tired to care, so he opened up his third pack and set to work.

The trio left Våfflor Haus reeking to all six corners of Hell and then went out to an all-night bar where they practically poured gin down Toki’s throat until he threw up coffee and alcohol all over the pub floor. When he couldn’t swallow any more they made him gargle shots of Flaming Armadillo, during which he nearly caught himself on fire. Three times.

After they got kicked out of the bar for setting off the fire alarm, they rode around town in Murderface’s drop-top and had Toki scream at the top of his lungs until his throat began to bleed. Only then was he allowed to lay down in the back seat and sleep.

When they returned to Mordhaus around 5:51 a.m. and limped Toki into the auditorium, Skwisgaar slapped the Norwegian lightly on each cheek to get his attention before handing him a live mic and a lyric sheet. Skwisgaar and Murderface strapped on their guitars, and then the blond ordered, “Sing.”

Hallucinating, drunk and all kinds of fucked-up-exhausted, Toki opened his mouth and the hammering of guitars joined in: “There’s a monster living…in my flesh,” he rasped in an unholy throaty voice that was hardly his own—metal and deep and sexy enough to be banned in at least 12 countries. “A feasting parasite, digesssst…Eats me alive from de inside out…I need a knife to carve…de monster…out.”

Skwisgaar stopped playing, tossed his pick into the air like a graduation cap, and took Toki’s face in his hands (smooshing his cheeks together in a very unflattering yet endearing way). “Dat,” he said with breathless excitement, “is de voice of a VIKING GOD.”

And then the Swede planted his mouth right on Toki’s, kissing him with all the furious passion of Michael Corleone smacking one to Fredo. When he finally let go, Toki had maxed out the last reserves of his energy and was already asleep before he tumbled to the floor. It was probably for the better, otherwise he would have been sent into a panicked rant about catching VD from the mouth that has undoubtedly seen more pussy than a litter box. But looking on the bright side, at least they had a singer. Now it was only a matter of summoning the balls to defy a dying, dangerous man who had nothing to lose and everything to gain by committing murder.

No doubt about it—this was going to be the tour that would change everything Dethklok had ever known about itself.

To Be Continued...

Dethlove, Step 4

2006-11-19T07:48:52Z

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

Time passed like kidney stones through an enflamed urethra (i.e., slowly and painfully) but progress was made on Dungeons & Ratguts. Somehow. The number of arguments kept the band from making any consistent headway for a while, but after Nathan learned to control his libido by imagining his parents having wild pig sex, he could almost act normal around Toki again. The trade-off was that he threw up a lot more often for no apparent reason, or so the band thought. Actually, between the unprovoked barfing and constant excuses to go take a dump, the other members of Dethklok began to suspect that Nathan Explosion either had a parasite living in his body or was a couple months pregnant…well. That’s sort of the same thing, but at least people would feel sorry for you if you had worms.

Two months later and Toki finally got the cast on his arm removed. No sooner was it off than he had another one made so that he could continue to make the special sawing noise on his guitar, the one that would be featured in several of the new songs. This custom cast looked a lot cooler—it was black, everyone’s favorite color, had skulls painted on it—and it was removable. Toki liked wearing it just for fun. “It come in handy,” he said, “for hitting things. Is like wearing armor, you knows?”

But the casts on his legs wouldn’t come off for a while yet. He began to complain about his armpits chafing from using his crutches too much, and the doctor told him that he really shouldn’t be walking that much n-e-ways. Toki didn’t want to look like a complete invalid by rolling around in a wheelchair all the time, so he had a nice leather executive chair outfitted with a scooter motor and a steering device, and he got to putt all over the house and say “Ciaooo!” to everyone. Never seemed to get tired of it.

Nathan would have gotten really fucking annoyed by this if he didn’t find it so damn cute. Cute. God what a disgusting word. He didn’t know what was more disgusting; the thought of him thinking that Toki’s behavior was cute, or the word itself. Made him want to spit just to get the nastiness out of his mind.

Thankfully Pickles was always around for confidential support whenever Nathan felt himself losing his grip on heterosexuality. Many a night was spent drinking cigarettes and smoking beer with the drummer, who kept reminding Nathan that this was all just a phase and that as soon as he got that horrible love song written the sooner this would be over.

It helped for a little while but Toki was, to put it frankly, irresistible. There was something about the him that just…hell if Nathan knew. Something about him, a whole bunch of tiny likable things that weren’t really all that extraordinary, but when put together made something incredible. It was a total accident, an unintentional likeability about Toki. Like the nuclear meltdown that saved the planet. The bright side of a root canal. It was the most goddamn frustrating thing Nathan had ever dealt with emotionally…maybe even the first thing he had dealt with emotionally. But if he was going to do something stupid like fall in love with a busted-up Norwegian kid, he at least wanted to know why. But he didn’t know why. And it was driving him fucking. Crazy.

They had to hurry up and get this album finished. Nathan couldn’t take this shit anymore. He wanted his life back. He wanted to go 12 hours without getting an erection (from looking at a dude). He wanted to be able to watch blood and gore on TV without thinking of Toki. He wanted to look at pictures of bound, naked Asian women on the internet and jack off happily like every other guy in the world. That was all he wanted. And if he had to humiliate himself by writing a barftastic love song, then so be it. He was ready to get this over it.

“Alright guys, listen up,” Nathan muttered at rehearsal one day. “The album’s sounding good so far. I think we’ve some of the best recordings ever on a few of the songs-”

“Likes on Corpse Chains,” Toki interrupted with a grin. “I think that ones sound real good.”

“Yeah, that one wuzsh pretty metal.”

“I didn’ts pops my E string like usuals, dat was nice.”

Nathan waited until the peanut gallery had shut up before continuing. “-a few of the songs. Yeah. But I still think the album’s missing something.”

Pickles said nothing. He knew what was coming and braced himself for the atom bomb that was going to drop itself on the band. And the nuclear holocaust that would follow.

Nathan elaborated. “It needs something different. Something softer.”

“What?” Murderface grunted, wrinkling his face into a sneer of disgust.

“Something gentle and slow.”

Skwisgaar, Toki and Murderface stared at their frontman with expressions that began to look more and more alarmed with each passing second. And then it came out:

“This album needs a love song.”

No one. Said. A word.

Then Skwisgaar began to laugh. No one else joined him—they all seemed shocked beyond the capacity for speech. After a long dark stare from Nathan, Skwisgaar slowly got a grip and stopped tittering. “You is…not jokings?”

“Nnno.”

The Swede gulped and then his fingers began to reflexively do the cancan on his X-plorer. Quiet plinging was the only sound in the whole auditorium.

“What kind of a love shong izsh it?” Murderface growled. “If it’sh something violent and pornographic then I got no problem with it-”

“Loves is not metal,” Toki argued. “Love’s-”

“Shtupid.”

“Lames.”

“Disdusking.”

“Gay.”

“Dildos.”

“For kiddies.”

“Grossh.”

“Painfuls.”

“A plaque on mankinds.”

“Revol-”

“ENOUGH!” Nathan snarled, and his three bandmates stopped breathing.

“I, uh…I think it’s a good idea…?” Pickles offered in support. Weak support. Like tooth floss holding together a suspension bridge weak.

“Well then. That settles it. We’re doin’ a love song. If anyone has a problem with it…they can talk to me about it later.” Nathan paused just long enough to make sure that everyone was nice and intimidated. “Alright. In that case, I got some lyrics written up and I’d like to start putting ‘em to music…”

“It’sh okay, buddy. Jusht let it out.”

“I don’ts needs for yous mm. To being tellings mmuh…hmmrrauuughho! Ahruuugh! Bleauugh! Ahukk! Ahaugh!”

“There we gohhhh. Now, doezshn’t that feel better?”

Murderface was squatting by the toilet and holding Skwisgaar’s hair away from his face as the Swede violently filled the bowl with hot, foamy vomit. Toki sat slumped against the bathroom wall nearby, holding a half-spent cigarette in his trembling hand and staring into space. He was trying his best not to let the sound of Skwisgaar’s retching make him sick. So was Murderface, but he was not doing nearly as well.

“Jeezshush fucking CHRISHTMUSH,” the bassist groaned, turning his head as Skwisgaar continued to heave. “Your barf shmellzsh like rotten caviar and curdled MILK feshtering in shun-baked roadki-huuurgghhhh!” Rich brown puke gushed from his mouth and nose like a river while Skwisgaar lurched all the harder at the colorful description of his own throw-up. Between the two of them they utterly destroyed the third-floor bathroom.

Toki sucked a drag off his cigarette. He never was much of a smoker, but this was a desperate situation: Nathan had presented to the rest of the band what was, in all likelihood, the single most horrific song in the entire universe. A song whose lyrics rhymed at the end of every line. A song that spoke of tenderness and compassion and devotion and all of the warm fuzzy shit that had sent three-fifths of the band into convulsions of nausea. It wasn’t metal. It wasn’t rock. It wasn’t even music—it was banana marshmallow mother moon fucking pies drenched in Pepto-Bismol, topped with Pez and candy corn, and had absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever. It was a steaming crap pile and they all knew it, every last one of them. But Nathan didn’t relent; he wanted the song to happen. He wanted it on the album. And there seemed to be no way to change his mind.

The toilet flushed, clogged, and predictably began to overflow on the tiles. Skwisgaar rose weakly to his feet to get away from the putrid flood and slipped in vomit water, clipping the toilet seat with his shoulder on the way down. A fleshy-bony THUD—it sounded painful. Murderface belched blasphemies with every ounce of his hate-filled soul as Toki suddenly broke into dry sobs and Skwisgaar attempted to skate over to the sink. He made it after a few close calls.

The blond cupped his hands under the faucet and drenched his face, gargled, spit, hacked, and stared at his haggard appearance in the mirror. “We cannots lets him do it,” he murmured numbly. “I can’ts take it. I cans take punk rock. Broadsway. Fucking country American’s music. I cans take a fist ups my ass, but a love’s song I will have shitting overs my grave.” He grimaced. “My fucking head’s is killing me. I t’inks dere’s blood in my ears.”

“It’sh not alwayzsh about you, dipshit,” Murderface grunted, unravelling a nearby roll of toilet paper all over Barf Lake. “You think any of ush wanna go through with thish? I just pisshed my pantsh from heaving sho hard.”

“I wants to go to sleeps and die,” Toki mooed. “How could Nathan…does-doos-doing this to us? Is like he losing his marble.”

“Maybe mores den dat.”

“Huh?”

“I t’inks Nathan coulds be dying,” Skwisgaar said solemnly, turning away from his reflection. “He’s is so sick alls de time lately…have you notice dis?”

“A little,” Toki sniffled behind his cancer stick.

“He must not wants to tells us yet, dat he’s dying.”

“And that shunnuva BITZCH iz trying to bring ush all down wif ‘im!”

“De captains always goes down with de ship.”

“Yeah but de ships isn’t sinking, de fucking captains is! Why should we all suffer? Ah dis is bull’s shit!” And then Toki began to cry for real. Snot and tears ran into his mustache and his cigarette tumbled from his wobbling lips and burnt a small hole in his shirt. He swatted the fire out and pulled a new cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shorts pocket. He could barely hold the zippo he was shaking so badly. He accidentally lit his hair on fire for a moment, but he swatted that out too.

It now smelled like vomit and urine and burning hair and misery in here. Murderface had run out of toilet paper and was feeling very depressed. He crawled over, drenched in puke and piss and toilet water, to sit next to Toki and stare at nothing. Skwisgaar tottered over to the other side of the Norwegian and slid down the wall to take a seat.

“We’s are fucked, guys,” he said after a while. “Nathan’s is dying. Dis will probably be ours last record ever, and de song he’s is wanting us to play we can’ts play.”

“Dethklok izsh gonna be ruined after thish,” Murderface mumbled, pulling his switchblade from his vest pocket and contemplating the veins in his left arm.

“Why?” Toki repeated, passing his cigarette to Skwisgaar. “I don’t understands how Nathan could doos this to us…not tells us he’s dying and then makes us play a love’s song so that’s we can never shows our faces again in public.”

“Maybe he don’ts want us to forget him.” Skwisgaar sighed smoke through his nostrils. “Dat’s a really shitty way of doings it though.”

“I don’t thinks I could play a love’s song, even if Nathan’s is dying. My fingers is like…arth…arth’s…”

“Art’s right ass.”

“Ars right as?”

“Arthritish,” Muderface corrected.

“Whatever. I can’t plays my fucking guitar.”

“Nots me also.”

“Too bad we can’t, y’know, shabotazshe the album and replache that shitty shong with a different one.”

No sooner had the words left Murderface’s pie hole than you could hear the hamster wheels in the three guitarists’ heads begin to turn. The same thought ran through all of their minds—perhaps the first real intelligent thought any of them had had all week—and it was running for its life.

“Burgerface is right,” Toki whispered, a rainbow of hope shining in his expression like a well-oiled ocean. “We coulds replace de song with another’s before it gets release!”

“Dat woulds be great,” Skwisgaar said lowly, “excepts for nine things.”

“Nine?”

“One: we don’ts know how to records a song on our owns. Two: we can’ts records a song on our owns because we needs de rest of de band. Three: Nathan woulds kill us. Five: Nathan woulds find out. Six: nones of us can sing. Seven: nones of us can song-writes. Eights: Nathan woulds kill us. Nine: de manager check overs everything and he would tells Nathan what’s we did, and den we woulds all die.”

“I counts eight things only, Skwisgaar. I thinks you skips a number.”

“It’s no matter, Toki.”

“And we ended up dying in a lotta thozshe optzshions.”

“Well dat’s what’s is important to remember.”

“Waits a minute,” Toki said, sitting up suddenly. “So we can’t records a new song in de studio, right? Why nots on stage?”

“Hu?”

“What?”

“On stage! Like…what’s if we was to records de whole album alive? We could pulls it off den! We could re-makes de song and play its at de last minute!”

Skwisgaar shook his head and muttered, “I don’ts know about dat. We still can’ts song-writes, and how woulds we con…confinn…gets Nathan to agree to doings it live?”

“I dunno. Bring in a symphony or somethings, that won’t be difficult.”

“We could do a live releashe album firsht,” Murderface mulled, tapping his knife against his wrist, “and tell Nathan it’sh a marketing gimmick. Then we releashe a ‘remazshtered’ verzshion a few monthsh later.”

“Dat’s good.”

“Yeah I likes that idea.”

“Tshank you.”

“But…we still can’ts song-writes.”

Shadows seemed to magically and melodramatically form in the sharp recesses of Murderface’s un-beautiful features as he whispered reverently, “Then one of ush hash to shteal Nathan’sh composhishun book.”

Toki and Skwisgaar gasped in unison, and somewhere the soundtrack to this fanfiction went DUN DUN DUUUUNNN.

“I think it went over pretty well,” Nathan observed as he sat at the conference table and made changes to the lyrics he had written in his...NOTEBOOK (dun dun duuuunnn).

“Yeah,” Pickles said with an extra helping of sarcasm. “Judgin by the bright n’ happy way they all jest skipped off inta the sunset, I think it went over great.” He was on his second tequila of the hour and was feeling pretty sassy by now. “I can’t wait fer the next rehearsal.”

“At least they handled it like men.”

“Get real. They’re prob’ly all huddled t’gether somewhere an’ cuttin themselves up.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.”

“No. It’s worse than bad. I mean…jeez Nathan, I know this’s fer yer own good n’ all but GOD. DAMN.” Pickles took a hearty swig as if trying to wash the mental scars from his brain. “That…was one fuckin piece ‘a song right there. Didn’t know ya had it in ya.”

“Me either. I guess this means I’m GAY.” Nathan put his stocky hands over his face and slumped.

“Aw, hey, c’mon. Ya know this’s only temporary. I mean, really it’s…not so…here, lemme see yer notes a sec.”

Nathan slid his composition book across the table and Pickles thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for:

Pickles was suddenly gripped with the overwhelming urge to throw up, and he quickly shut the notebook. “Jeezez Christ, Nate’n, it’s even worse seein it on paper. This’s beyond putrid. This’s like…gag a maggot, Valentine’s Day Hallmark card putrid. I wouldn’t wipe my ass with this.”

“You told me to write a love song and I did. Stop fuckin whining about it.”

“A’right, a’right, fine. But at least…y’know. Be a little sympathetic with the rest ‘a the guys. It’s gonna take ‘em a while t’ get used to this level of…shit.”

Nathan nodded tiredly. “This is the last song we have to do. Then the album’s gonna be done.”

Pickles raised a bottle in a half-hearted toast. “At this point I’d ask God fer mercy, but I don’t think we’ll be goin’ t’ Hell anytime soon. M’ pretty sure Satan hates love songs too.”

The two men were suddenly joined by the rest of the band—the three guitarists entered the conference room (two walking, one crutching) but made no move to sit down at the table. They remained standing, allowing Nathan and Pickles to wonder what in the hell had happened to them in just a few short hours: Murderface had piss stains on the front of his shorts and his shirt was covered in dried puke; Toki had burn holes in his shirt, he smelled like smoke, and he hadn’t achieved that shade of skin tone since his last diabetic episode; Skwisgaar’s clothes were drenched with water and he had the beginnings of the mother-of-all bruises on his right shoulder. And all three of them stunk worse than the morning after.

“Hey…guys...” Pickles said warily. “So, uh…whatcha been…up to?”

“We was just talkings about…de love’s song?” Skwisgaar mumbled.

Nathan cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.

“We really likes it,” Toki lied. Lied lied lied. But lied with a fake smile plastered on his face. “And we was just thinkings…”

“How musche better it would be if we played it in conshert firsht,” finished Murderface.

“In concert, huh,” Nathan mused.

“Maybe we can does a, a lives recording?” Toki offered. “We could haves some violin or somethings in de back-”

“-dat woulds really works better with de love’s song-”

“-sheeing azsh how theshe two can’t really play shlow anyway-”

“-and then we’s releases that albums first-”

Pickles suddenly motioned for Nathan to lean across the table, and they both put their heads together in the middle. “Nate’n,” said the drummer in a low whisper, “this could work. First exposure. Live audience. Nothin says rejection like a million dyin fans, and I’m tellin ya, that song’ll have ‘em shovin chopsticks through their eardrums.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. N’ all it takes is one concert. Ya get yer cure. Ya get the song over with. Bam. All done. Case closed. A one time mistake, the song gets scratched from the album, we release Dungeons & Ratguts minus the love, problem solved.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“We should agree with ‘em then.”

“Right.” Nathan drew back and looked at his three bedraggled bandmates. “We like it. You guys can tell the manager about the idea at the next meeting.”

Toki let out a gigantic sigh of relief just before one of his crutches cracked and he tumbled to the floor. “Fucks!” he yelled.

Boy was that a déjà vu. Images of guts and carnage danced through Nathan’s memory like absinthe fairies, and suddenly he was hornier than a ten-year convict on parole. He sprang up from his chair without waiting to push it back and smashed his johnson right into the table.

The only wood that was in pain was the table.

“Gotta go,” Nathan snapped, and then he did exactly that. Pickles shook his head sadly and finished the last of his tequila, then reached over and adopted the half-full (he was an optimist, especially when it came to booze) bottle that Nathan had left behind.

Murderface and Skwisgaar took Toki by each arm and helped him back on his feet again. “Stupid crotches,” the Norwegian naively complained, steadying himself on his remaining crutch. “Damn woods is not thick enoughs—I needs some big, hard stiff woods under me.”

Pickles rubbed a hand over his face and thanked the Powers That Be that Nathan was not around to hear this, otherwise the guy would be filling his boxers with man jam right about now. That poor, bent son of a bitch. He probably needed a good plastering. Maybe later Pickles could have Jean-Pierre whip up some Chex Mix and 20 gallons of Hunch Punch, help cheer Nathan up a bit. The red-head staggered from the conference room in search of a place to pee, leaving Murderface, Toki and Skwisgaar alone.

“When is you goings to gets doze dumb dildos off your legs?” Skwisgaar muttered in irritation. “I’m getting tires of pickings your clumsy ass offs de floor all de times.”

“Oh I real sorry to bothers you,” Toki snapped peevishly. “Maybes you wouldn’t minds me using your ugly guitar for a crotches till de next three week!”

“My guitars is not ugly, yours is!”

“Is not!”

“Is yes!”

“Shut the fuck up guyzsh,” Murderface croaked so oddly that the bickering Scandinavians immediately hushed themselves. The vomit-encrusted bassist raised his arm and pointed to the table. Two pairs of eyes followed his finger until they rested upon…THE FORGOTTEN COMPOSITION NOTEBOOK. (You all can do your own dun dun duuuunnns, I’m tired of writing them.)

“Oh my god,” Skwisgaar skwhispered.

“Is that…? Is it…?” Toki trembled, eyes bugging out like Tori Spelling’s.

“Thiszh is highly convenient,” Murderface noted.

“Who de fucks care?” Toki cried. “Go get it!”

The Swede darted forward and snatched the notebook from the table before breaking into a run. BAM through the doors. Murderface followed in hot pursuit and left a cursing, pissed off Toki limping after them like Long John Silver.

If Long John Silver had two peg legs.

To Be Continued...

Dethlove, Strike 3

2006-11-11T20:17:13Z

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

“So,” Pickles muttered, lighting up a cigarette and sitting on the edge of his mattress, “yer havin a sexual identity crisis, eh?”

“I thi…yeah,” said Nathan gruffly, slumping down on the floor and leaning against the bed. “You got another one of those?”

The drummer handed down his own cigarette and lighted another. Nathan took a grateful drag.

“So who’s the lucky gal?”

“Don’t fuckin joke about this, asshole.”

“I’m not jokin. Do I know ‘im?”

“Better than you think.”

“Oh shit. It’s not one ‘a the guys, is it?” He took the silence for a yes. “Jeezes Christ on a pogo stick, Nate…”

“It’s not like I planned this!” Nathan growled. “It just-”

“Sorta happened? Yeah. That’s how it works. Friggin sneaks up on ya like a mangy hyena in the dead ‘a night, next thing ya know yer bein’ dragged across the plains by a whole pack ‘a the snarlin’ fuckers and-”

“Wait. So you’re sayin’…a bunch of fags are gonna kidnap me and drag me outta bed in the-”

“Nate’n. Quit while yer ahead.” Pickles puffed smoke like a chimney. “Okay, listen. Yer insecure about yer manhood.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. And ya wanna reestablish yer dominance with the opposite sex.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. An’ the best way to do that is ta get married.” Pause. “To a woman.”

“I’m not getting married. Marriage is totally lame and not metal.”

“It’s brutal.”

“I don’t think that would exactly solve my problem.”

“So fuckin what?”

“You really want some bitch queen from Hell lording over Mordhaus? ‘Cause that’s the kinda woman she’d be.”

“Ah, just keep ‘er in a pen outside. She’ll be fine.”

“I’m not getting married, Pickles.”

“D’ya not like girls ‘r somethin’?”

“Yeah I like girls. I like ‘em a lot.”

“Got references?”

Nathan flicked ashes all over the floor. “Do the words ‘high school cheerleading squad’ mean anything to you?”

“Hm. I see. But ya like guys too?”

“I DON’T KNOW, MOTHERFUCKER. THAT’S WHY I’M HERE.”

“Alright alright, jeez. Take a chill pill, Nate’n, Gad.” Pickles wedged his cigarette between his lips and reached down to steal his pal’s composition notebook out from under his arm. Nathan was too angsty to care, letting Pickles flip nonchalantly through the pages.

“Hm,” he muttered. “This stuff looks pretty heavy. Y’on anything there, ol’ buddy?”

“Actually yeah.”

“I can tell. Last time ya wrote somethin this brutal you was trippin so bad it took us an hour t’ get ya down from the chandelier.”

“You’d be freakin out too if an ocean of blood wanted to drink you.”

“Did we ever find out how ya got up there?”

“Never did.”

Silence. Smoke wafted through the stale air. (Why does it smell like cat pee in here?) Papers rustled. “So. Have ya said anything t’ Skwisgaar yet?”

“Huh.”

“Ya haven’t told ‘im?”

“Told him what?”

“…he is the one ya gotta crush on, right?”

“FUCK NO. How could-”

“Really? Wow. I thought fer sure-”

“-say that kinda shit, I’d have to wait in line to fuck his stupid-”

“Oh. Gad…damn, Nate, I thought Skwiss was bad, but Murderface?”

“IT’S NOT MURDERFACE EITHER, DICKHOLE.”

Pickles was absolutely still. “Toki. Toki? Ya think yer fallin in love with-”

Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please just. Shut up now. Thanks.”

“Wow. I jest…wow. I totally did not see that comin.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Seriously?”

“Pickles, if you make me say it I am gonna punch your teeth right down your throat, and you will be shitting fillings for-”

“Okay okay, I believe ya. Jest. A little surprised is all. So uh…how’d it happen?”

“When we went to feed the rats on Saturday.”

“Ya mean when he fell down an’ creamed ‘em all?”

“Yeah.”

“When he broke like every friggin bone in his body?”

“Yeah. I can’t get that image outta my mind.”

“Details?”

“Blood. Gore. Rat innards. The way he was screaming at me. Pissed as hell. Fuckin bone sticking out of his arm.” Nathan put a hand to his forehead. “I think it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“WOW. That is interesting.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean it. So when Toki was bein’ all gross-lookin, that’s when ya was most attracted to ‘im?”

“Yeah. But see, it’s not just that.”

“Yeah?”

“He came to my room tonight.”

“Aw hell.”

“Came in, sat on my bed.”

“Aw hell.”

“Raided my stash, got into my whiskey.”

“Aw hell.”

“No blood, no gore, no rat shit. Just that little bastard…getting drunk on my bed.”

Pickles tapped his ashes and said without blinking, “Ya shoulda fucked ‘im.”

“…eat shit and die, Pickles.”

“I’m serious. He’da never remembered. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“He’s foreign, you idiot. Not mentally retarded.”

“Jeezes. Yer defendin him already. This is worser ‘n I thought. This might actually be love.”

“…………………………FUCK.”

“It ain’t nothin’ t’ worry about, every guy has a gay moment in ‘is life.”

“When’s yours gonna end?”

Pickles' expression slid off his face. “That’s right, Nate. Go ahead n’ push me. I jest can’t wait t’ hear what the rest ‘a the band has t’ say about yer little case ‘a Toki Fever-”

“Alright. I take it back.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Silence fell again.

“The fuck am I gonna do, Pickles? I can’t go on like this. I can’t even fuckin look at him anymore.”

“Ya need t’ get ‘im off.” Smirk. “Yer mind, that is.”

Nathan growled under his breath.

“Write a song about ‘im. A love song.”

“Wouldn’t that just make it worse?”

“Not if it was the shittiest song in the whole world, the stinkin’est piece ‘a crap that Dethklok ever produced. Put alla yer love n’queer little mushy feelings inta that song, we’ll play it, fans’ll be pukin’ their intestines out through their noses, an’ that’ll be the enda that. When ya learn t’ associate negativity with that song—a song about yer love fer Toki—ya won’t wanna think ‘a him that way no more.”

It took a while for all this information to sink through Nathan’s dense, thick and practically impervious skull, but it did. After a while. “Wow,” he said flatly. “That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know you were so smart, Pickles.”

“I’m not,” said the red head modestly. “I’m jest really drunk.”

And so it came to pass that Nathan Explosion would write a love song, the shittiest metal love song of all time. He thanked the Cucumbrian Wisconsinite of Inebriated Wisdom for his advice, and crawled into the Mordhaus lobby elevator to sleep off the drugs coursing through his bloodstream.

The very next evening he arose, fully refreshed after a nice high, and spent two hours in the shower heaving bile out through his nostrils. When he was at last back to his usual borderline-functional condition, he returned to his bedroom and did a quick scan of the premises. No Toki. Good. But the bad part was that that son of a bitch had drunk his entire stash of personal liquor. Not good. So Nathan decided to go find the rest of the band and mooch some booze off of them.

The other members were discussing dinner plans, and the current argument appeared to be between those in favor of ordering take-out Chinese and those in favor of buying a Chinese restaurant. All parties involved decided that it would be most fair to flip on it. Unfortunately, Skwisgaar was the one being flipped.

“If he comesh down tailzsh we buy a Chineezsh reshtaurant,” Murderface stated to Pickles as they stood on the balcony overlooking the grand Mordhaus foyer.

“That ain’t fair,” the drummer argued. “Skwiss’s bottom-heavy.”

“I wouldn’t know, sheeing azsh how I don’t shtare at hizsh fat assh all the time.”

“Hey, shuts up about my ass,” Skwisgaar snapped, climbing up onto the rail and wobbling unsteadily. It could obviously be assumed that he was not in a rational state of mind.

“Pickle is right,” commented Toki, standing by on his crutches. “You does have a fat ass, Skwisgaar.”

“Shuts up your face, cripples.”

“Count of three?” Murderface offered.

“Sure. Eh, ya think he’ll be able to hit the couch down there? I mean, it’s kind of a long fall. An’ the couch is sorta narrow.” Pause. “An’ he’s drunk.”

“He’ll be fine,” the bassist assured. “If he can find the vazshina on a 400-pound whore while shmashed, he can find a couzsh from zshirty feet up.”

Skwisgaar tottered angrily. “Fucks you, Myurdol-” And then he slipped. One leg went one way, one leg went the other, and the rail smashed into his groin when he came down.

“Oooh,” winced Toki, Pickles and Murderface in unison, cringing.

The Swede was motionless. Then he made a sound like a rusty door hinge opening, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he gracefully tipped over the rail, plummeting off the balcony. One second later a resounding and almighty CRACK came from below, and the three instigators cautiously peeked over the rail. Skwisgaar had successfully struck the couch. He had also flattened it. Apparently the whole thing had split apart when he landed, the impact being strong enough to dismantle its entire structure. Skwisgaar was alive, rolling in the cushions and clutching his aching nuts in both hands and groaning.

Pickles turned to Murderface. “Uh, was that heads r’ tails? I didn’t see.”

“I dunno.” Murderface looked over the rail once more. “You know, I think I want pizzsha.”

“Yeah, pizza sound better!” Toki agreed.

“A’ight then, let’s get pizza,” said Pickles.

On their way towards the stairs they met Nathan, who looked a lot worse than most of them remembered seeing him in a long time.

“Hey dude, what’s goin’ on?” Pickles greeted, aware that he was the only thing standing between Nathan and Toki and perhaps a suicide attempt.

“Nothin,” the black-haired man muttered, deliberately not looking at the object of his affliction. “I was just kinda wondering…have any of you seen the couch?”

“Uhhhh…” said Pickles and Toki.

“Ashk Shkwishgaar,” Murderface shrugged, walking by. “I think he uzshed it lasht. We’re ordering pizzsha, whaddo you want?”

“I don’t know. Surprise me.”

They got him a pepperoni with cheese.

As they all sat around their massive and hilariously expensive dining table and ate cheap, pseudo-Italian food out of cardboard boxes, Nathan began to talk business.

“There’s gonna be a meeting with the manager this Thursday about announcing the new album, so if any of you’ve got something to say before we start all this, I suggest you do it now.”

Murderface belched.

Pickles asked Skwisgaar to pass him a beer from the icebox that was temporarily located in the crotch of the Swede’s pants.

Toki chewed on a chunk of his own hair that had accidentally ended up in his mouth along with his pizza.

But there were no objections.

“Good,” Nathan grunted. “Next order of business. I’m working on some lyrics now, got…a coupla songs already finished, and I wanna hear what the rest of you’ve got lined up for music. But seeing as how two of our three guitarists are temporarily out of commission, I suggest that we just talk ideas for now.”

“Skwisgaar’ll be fine in a few days,” Pickles commented, “but Toki’ll be at least eight t’ twelve weeks before he’s ready t’ start playin’ again.”

“And wisouts practice all doze times he is goings to sound like shit,” Skwisgaar muttered.

“Screw you!” Toki exclaimed in his own defence. “I can still plays…a little. My cats rub on de strings, but my left hands is still okay. I thinks.”

“Maybe he can shing inshtead.”

“Toki can’t sings, we already knows dat,” Skwisgaar muttered.

Pickles mused. “Well if we get ‘im drunk enough…”

But Toki shook his head. “I’m not singing. I hates it. Is totally stupid and not cool…no offends to you, Nathan.”

Nathan shielded his eyes with a hand to his forehead and slumped down in his chair.

Toki’s eyebrows came together in a worried arch. “You okay, Nate’ns? You hasn’t said one words to me since last night.”

Oh god shut up, Toki.

“What happened lasht night?” Murderface then smirked evilly with his evil gap of evilness gaping in his front teeth. “Shumething we should knowww?”

“Nothing happened,” Nathan snarled, putting on a carnivorous face. “Just…talking about the new album.”

“Really? I don’ts remember that. I was just so much drunk, is all blurs to me. I thinks I falls asleep, ‘cause all I remembers is waking up in your bed-”

GOD. KILL ME.

The four bandmates stared at Nathan, who suddenly realized that he had ~~said~~ shouted that aloud. He then began to sweat barbecue sauce. “Huh. Ha…ha.”

Pickles had no blood left in his face. At that moment he resembled a terrified version of Raggedy Ann. Blank eyes and everything.

Nobody made a sound. Finally Murderface cleared his throat, which sounded like somebody dropping a load of Jell-O down a garbage disposal. “Yyyyeah. Sho, anyway…”

“Um. Right.” Nathan tried not to panic, but his eyes wouldn’t listen to his brain and he ended up staring at Toki, who still had a few strands of hair dangling out of the corner of his mouth. For a moment he seemed almost relieved to have Nathan’s attention, but suddenly the Lyrical Visionary suffered another acute attack of nerves.

He stood up and declared, “I think I’ve got food poisoning. This pizza’s giving me the shits.” And then he was gone.

Toki frowned dubiously. “That’s the second times he’s done that. I thinks he got somethings wrong with his gusto-in-terrestrial track.”

“Hoo boy,” Pickles muttered under his breath. “Way t’ go, Nate’n.”

There was a showdown that night at Mordhaus. A mighty man, overcome with guilt and frustration and afraid of his own misguided emotions, faced off with his bed. He stood like a mountain, glaring down at the crumpled sheets that had hugged the broken body of his oblivious beloved, and fought the urge to throw himself into their vile, homoerotic embrace.

For like three seconds.

Uttering a ragged growl of surrender, Nathan fell face-first onto his bed and snorted up the smells in the sheets like free blow at Studio 54. And then he was there—Toki was. The noxious model paints that he loved to huff, the still-fresh fiberglass-resin casts, the L’Oréal Metalhead shampoo, the liquor, the steel, the armpits that smelled better than roses just because they were Toki’s. All the scents were there, and all the sense was not.

I wanna die, thought Nathan dully. I feel like shit. I don’t wanna leave this room. I wanna kill something. I hate everything and everybody in the world. I wanna go to sleep and never wake up. I wish someone would just set me on fire and put me out of my misery.

Yeah. This was love alright, in its most disgusting, abhorrent emo-ness. And because emo is known to be the number one cure for writer’s block (or depending on your view, the number one curse for anything), Nathan suddenly felt the urge to write down all his horrible feelings.

So he grabbed his composition notebook, dug a Sharpie out of his bedside table, and started to write. He got really high in the process, and by the time he was starting to wonder how Sharpie markers could smell like half-rotten bananas, he had finished. The whole notebook stunk to high heaven now, and if the crap Nathan had written wasn’t enough to make himself sick then the marker fumes would be the thing do it. He tossed the notebook to the floor and rolled over, trying to get that nauseating odor out of his nostrils.

Mm. Soft sheets. Toki smells. Much better.

Apparently it was a little too much better, because Not-So-Li’l-Nathan had gleefully sprung into a full salute. But, looking on the bright side, at least it hadn’t happened in public. Like usual.

For the third time in less than a week Nathan found himself with a fistful of dick and a mind full of Toki. “Ya shoulda fucked ‘im,” said Pickles. It echoed a billion times in Nathan’s head, and when he spurted cum into the sheets he wished—for just a moment—that he had followed Pickles’ advice.

He fell asleep still wanting to die, sprawled out in the rapidly-crustifying Toki-scented covers.

In the Mordhaus rehearsal auditorium someone was shredding a live guinea pig with an amplified cheese grater. Oh wait, that’s only Toki playing his guitar. Never mind.

Skwisgaar was in a state of physical agony. Even the earmuffs and industrial-strength earplugs weren’t enough to keep the noise out. “My god he’s is killing me. I t’inks I’m goings to be throwing up he’s sounding so terrible.”

Pickles tried to be nice. “This’s our first session since his accident, douchebag. Have a little compassion fer Chrissakes.”

“What?”

“I SAID THIS’S ONLY OUR FIRST ah fuck it.”

Thankfully the horrendous cacophony stopped and the rest of Dethklok breathed a sigh of relief. Skwisgaar gratefully removed his auditory protection, flipping his blond hair over his shoulder with typical arrogance.

Toki looked noticeably worried as he sat awkwardly in a chair with both of his cast-encased shins sticking straight out, gazing down at the guitar in his lap. “I thinks it need some works, guys.”

“No shit,” Murderface mumbled, upending another bottle of Aleve.

“You’s would sound betters if you plays wis a fucking stump-of-an-arms. Pfft.” Skwisgaar fingered his guitar silently. “My mom can plays better dan yous.”

“Your mom can do lots of thing better than me,” Toki agreed, then added maliciously: “Like sucks cock.”

Seventy years from now historians would agree that this was how the Second Great Scandinavian War started. Skwisgaar had hoisted his guitar above his head like an axe, shouting death-threats in Swedish while Toki egged him on with the two pointed ends of his Flying V aimed right at the other guitarist’s still-tender testicles.

(Kids, this is why making fun of somebody else’s slutty, slattern whore-of-a-mom isn’t a good idea, no matter how tempting it may be.)

But Skwisgaar was aware that he had a slutty, slattern whore-of-a-mom anyway and was only arguing for the sake of his own pride. Luckily Nathan stepped in and saved him from a humiliating defeat by calling a truce.

“Alright guys. Shut up and take five.”

Skwisgaar, forever alien to English idioms, asked, “Five whats?”

“Minutes.”

“Oh.”

Toki’s depression was apparent. “I think I needs five personal days.”

“You don’t need five personal days,” Nathan muttered, avoiding all eye contact. “You’re practically getting five months’ vacation so-”

“This is not vacations! This is…broken bones hell. Sick days.”

“You’re not sick, Toki.”

“Okay, then I’m broken.”

Nathan tried to keep his cool and not overreact. Both were slightly impossible. “Look. If you’re healthy enough to play wheelchair polo up and down the halls at 3 a.m. then you’re healthy enough to play the guitar. Now fuckin play that riff so we can make some goddamn progress.”

Toki wasn’t used to anything aside from the typical harshness from Nathan, but that was just brutal. He tried to mask his surprise with an angry face, but his bottom lip was trembling.

“Jeezsh Nathan,” Murderface drawled, “that wuzsh a little mean don’tcha think?”

“No. Alright, taking it from the top: Skwisgaar, don’t worry about the licks so much for now. If Toki can’t grind out a decent sound then just take over for him. I wanna see how this thing comes together. Everyone got it?”

Pickles sighed and poised his sticks at his drum set as the others readied themselves. A count to three later and the metal that millions of people paid to go deaf to roared through the auditorium. No lyrics yet, just getting the feel. Nice and heavy, good solid rhythms, definitely less melodic than their usual style. Still, it just didn’t sound right without Toki in there…but wait, the stubborn little guy finally came in at the end of that first refrain, and some kind of fantastic noise issued from his amps.

The fiberglass resin of his cast scratched against the steel strings and created a sound like that of a thousand lumberjacks revving their chainsaws in a series of alternating chords. They went twice more through the refrains before they all just stopped playing and stared in awe at the crippled Norwegian.

Nathan: “Holy fuckin hell.”

“Toki, that was the most awesome shit I’ve ever heard,” Pickles gaped. “How’dja do that?”

Toki shrugged with one shoulder. “I just plays likes usual, you knows, not worry about my cats on de strings.”

“Well whatever the hell it izsh you’re doing, keep doing it,” Murderface said. “It’sh brutal.”

Skwisgaar pouted off to the side while Pickles cracked a wide grin at Nathan. “Sounds like somebody owes somebody an apology,” he hinted with a wink-wink-nudge-nudge-say-no-more look.

Nathan replied with a glare that doubled as a threat for bodily harm. The drummer opted not to say another word for the sake of his own mortality, and wondered how in the hell they were all going to get through this album with so many secrets threatening to destroy the lovely murderous camaraderie they shared with one another.

To Be Continued...

Dethlove, Round 2

2006-11-06T04:01:27Z

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

The members of Dethklok were involved in enough savage accidents on a daily basis to warrant a small hospital being built within the Mordhaus grounds—its name was Saint En’s. (Yeah I know, it’s a terrible pun but they were all stoned when they came up with it.) Having an emergency room practically next-door comes in pretty handy for those normal, everyday injuries like severed digits or alcohol poisoning or skin grafts. Just the usual playground boo-boos.

By the time the band arrived Toki’s ulna had already been set (much to Muderface’s dishappointment) and he now sported a blue camouflage cast on his right forearm. He had matching knee-high casts on both legs, too. He looked bright and chipper when they entered his room: he was sitting up and coloring in a Gummi Bears activity book with a black crayon that was down to the last few centimetres of wax; of course, this might have just been the morphine they were seeing.

He glanced up when they shuffled in. “Hi guys!” he greeted with a glazed grin and a little wave.

Yeah. Definitely the morphine.

“We heards what happen,” Skwisgaar murmured, walking over to the hospital bed and tapping at the bloody bandage around Toki’s forehead. “I hopes you is not retarded now. We sorts of needs you.”

“Fer the new album,” Murderface amended grimly, then went back to searching the room for something fragile to break and/or stab, and mumbling about the beauty of medical-assisted suicide.

The Norwegian looked at his bandmates with a face of horror. “You is makings a new one already? But we just-”

“Yeah yeah,” Pickles interrupted, “I know it’s sooner n’ we planned, but Nate’n says it’s gonna be real kick ass compared to the last one, and we all thought that it’d be-”

Toki flipped. It brought back horrific memories of endorsement-candy-induced mania for everybody. “YOU CAN’T MAKES ANOTHER ALBUM NOW!” he ranted, sending crayons spraying into the air when he reached up and grabbed Skwisgaar by the shirt collar. “MY BONES IS BROKEN IN MY ARM! I CAN’TS PLAY DE GUITAR WITS A FUCKING CATS ON ME!” His voice was cracking hilariously. “ARE YOU TELLINGS ME IT’S OVERS!? YOU IS GOING TO PUTS ME TO SLEEPS!? I NOT DEAD YET, YOU FUCKING SON OF BITCHES!” Then he proceeded to shake Skwisgaar to the point of dislocating every disc in his spinal column. Whatever pain killers Toki was on, it wasn’t enough. He needed tranquilizers…or possibly a prescription for a good anti-psychotic.

“Jeezez Christ!” Pickles screamed, watching the attempted homicide take place from a safe distance away. He would never be out of his mind enough to get involved in a long-haired Scandinavian bitch-brawl.

“This was your ideas, wasn’t it!?” Toki shrilled, wrenching the Swede around. “You is trying to gets rids of me! No competencetitions anymore! I goings to KILLS YOU! JÆVLA SVENSKE!”

“Togrrukiyu diyerghkildohhrgh-!” replied Skwisgaar.

“HOSHPITAL FIIIGHT!” Murderface declared, hurling a visitor’s chair through the door and kicking over an IV pole. Skwisgaar was screaming. Toki was screaming. Pickles was screaming. It was a three part harmony of screaming—tenor, alto and soprano respectively—and it actually sounded quite good. Too bad they could never do this on stage, otherwise they’d be the first heavy metal barber shop triplet in the history of music.

Nathan stood by and glared silently at everyone as the situation quickly deteriorated into pandemonium. Only when he realized that Toki just might be capable of shaking Skwisgaar into full-body traction did he decide to jump in.

“EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UUUUP.”

Utter silence descended. Seismographs in the surrounding region picked up a 2.5 on their Richter scales. The four other members of Dethklok froze.

Nathan wiped a bit of bloody spittle from his jaw and brushed back a strand of hair. “Thank you. Now that I…that I’ve got your attention. Murderface. Bedpans are not helmets. Toki. Let go of Skwisgaar before you both choke to death on each other’s hair. And for the love of Rhoads, everyone STOP THE DAMN SCREAMING.”

Skwisgaar let out a wheeze like folding accordion bellows and slipped from his assailant’s grasp, crumpling to the floor. Toki had passed from the anger stage and into the acceptance stage: he laid down with a soft moan and drew the covers over his head like a corpse. He pronounced himself dead to all in the room.

“Would you calm the hell down, Toki,” Nathan muttered, stalking over to the bed and throwing back the sheets. “We’re not getting rid of you.”

“Yeah,” Pickles added with a nervous laugh. “Wouldn’t be right, y’know, cannin’ the guy who inspired it all.”

Toki looked adorably stupid. “What?”

“You tell ‘im, Nate’n, it was yer vision.”

Nate’n stared down at Toki with no facial expression whatsoever. All he saw in his mind were blood buckets and rat guts and the F-word spoken on cute little mustachioed-framed lips and protruding bones and oh fucking sweet holy shit he was not getting turned on again, not in the goddamned hospital in front of everyone…but he was. And he was quite certain he could hear the stitches in his jeans starting to pop.

“Nate’n?” Pickled inquired, one red eyebrow arched. “You okay? Yer face looks weird.”

“Uh. I gotta…crap.” Pause. “Be right back.” And he left the room, just like that.

“Well that wazsh peculiar,” Murderface noted, crossing his arms.

Pickles nudged Skwisgaar’s body with his foot. “Hey uh, guys. I think Skwiss might need some medical attention…er a mortician.”

“Forgets about him, what’s about me!?” Toki cried. “How is I goings to play? Ahhh-haaaa-rhhhhh!” And then he made the mistake of throwing an arm to his forehead in dismay, and ended up giving himself a really awesome blowjob. Flat out on the bed again. Snot and bloody chiclets everywhere.

“Kid’zsh gettin’ pretty good at that,” said Murderface appreciatively.

That was looking on the bright side of things. Toki earned his 2^nd concussion of the day and another 24 hours at Saint En’s Hospital.

Nathan wasn’t at the point of panicking yet. It was no secret that he got off on blood and gore and extreme violence, and if his dick was as stupid or stupider than he was, then he had nothing to worry about. Just a natural reaction to what turned him on. It wasn’t about the person, it was all about the context. ‘Cause Toki Wartooth was not a sex symbol.

Throb. Ache. Swell.

Nathan’s note to self: Never use that name with that description ever, ever again.

The Dethklok frontman was sitting in bed at some ungodly hour, properly smashed for the night and bearing his trusty voice recorder in hand, scribbling lyrics in a composition notebook carved all to hell and illustrated with skulls, knives and dead bleeding daisies. Perhaps he was a little too smashed—his thoughts kept returning to a Norwegian brunette with ice-blue eyes and a poor grasp of English and…

“-something…uh, something heavy with the, the, the…the bass in that last, uh, bridge, like a…goddammit.” Nathan clicked off the recorder and stabbed his pen in the center of the page he was writing on. “I can’t fuckin concentrate.”

Of course, he was far too wasted to realize that it might just be the fact that he was far too wasted to realize that it might not have been Toki Wartooth alone disrupting his thoughts, but rather the volatile cocktail of illegal substances that was his customary nightcap.

But let’s not get all technical. The big issue here was that Nathan was extremely worried that he might be becoming attracted to Toki, and the band was too young to have its members coming out of the closet just yet. Maybe 25 years from now, sure, but right now would be awesomely sucky timing. Of course, pretty much everyone was prepared for the day when Skwisgaar would show up wearing his hair in braided buns and a dress right out of his mother’s Miss Sweden wardrobe, sequins and all. Nope, no surprises there. But if mother Nathan fucking Explosion was at all suspected of being a prancing, weepy little Bryan Adams-squealing fairy…

“I’m not gay.” There. He said it. Sounded good enough, and he never had a problem believing his own words before. He clicked the recorder back on again. “Okay…where was I. Oh yeah. So the bass line’ll be-”

A knock on Nathan’s bedroom door cut his sentence short. Who the FUCK was knocking on his door at this fucking hour of the night.

“Nate’ns?”

Oh hell no it wasn’t.

“Are you sleepings?”

Go away go away go away goddammit just go away please fuckin go away.

“I knows you awake because I heards you talking before.”

What the hell is he doing out there? How the hell is he doing out there? Didn’t the doctors banish him to crutches for the next two months or something? He doesn’t need to be hobbling all over the house with both of his frigging ankles broken, the dumbass. What could that idiot possibly want? A spinal injury? Partial paralysis? Nathan didn’t wanna fuck a goddamn cripple—OH NO GOD, NO. HE DID NOT JUST THINK THAT. Nathan didn’t wanna fuck anything or anyone (not right now anyway), especially not the cripple outside his bedroom door. Thought gone. Deleted. Erased. Eradicated. Destroyed-

“Nathan? I wants to talk to you.” Informalities gone. Playful accent overridden. He was getting annoyed. This was serious.

Nathan Explosion was most definitely at the point of panicking right now. And when Nathan Explosion panicked, he did stupid shit that he always regretted later. And this is exactly why he sprang out of bed, stomped to his door, threw it open hard enough to splinter the wood, and snarled, “What the fuck do you wanna talk about right now, Toki, I’m kinda busy.”

The world’s second-fastest guitarist, posed awkwardly on a pair of crutches, tried to mask his initial terror at seeing Mr Ultimate Darkness pissed off and in his skivvies, and somehow managed to look aggravated in spite of this pants-shittingly frightening image. “De new albums.”

“…that’s all? Can’t you just wait till tomorrow, when I don’t feel like breaking whatever isn’t already broken in your frickin body?”

Toki raised his right arm, displaying his cast. “You says I inspires it all. Nobody’s else is telling me anythings, when I thinks I needs to have at de leasts a good reason. Why you such mean bitch to me all de suddens?”

Wow. That hurt, especially coming from such a sweet guy like- NO. No, nonono. Fuckin ay no, Nate, just slam that goddamn door RIGHT NOW and dude you’re panicking like a teenage girl who just got dumped the night before prom, for the love of Christ calm down before you—

“I’m sorry.”

Where the shit did that come from?

Nathan looked anywhere but Toki’s face. “I’ve been avoiding you ‘cause I feel really bad about you getting hurt. I mean, it was sorta my fault anyway…kinda. The guilt’s just been real bad.”

What the hell is this? Some kind of gay-ass emotional heavy metal soap opera? Get a hold of yourself, Nathan! Don’t puss out like this!

But Toki. Was just. Too damn cute when he smiled like that.

“Reallys?” Smiling like his day had just been made. “That’s not too much bad. Why didn’t you just tells me before?”

~~Because I think I’ve got the hots for you.~~

~~Because you make me hard enough to break a brick on my dick.~~

Because I’d rather saw my skull open and eat my own brains with a fondue fork than say anything to you. Yeah. Go with that one.

“Because I’d rather saw my sk-”

“So tells me about de new albums!” Toki cheerfully invited himself into Nathan’s room, stumbling hilariously on those crutches. Nathan would have been holding back snarls of laughter at any other time, but he was too horrified by the fact that Toki seemed to be making right for the bed and—oh dear God he just sat down on it. He didn’t seem at all fazed, putting his crutches aside and picking up Nathan’s composition book.

“So you already startings on de lyric? Vomit on My Boots, that sound like real cool titles. Was that whens I throwed up all over your shoes? Ha ha! That’s kinda fun-”

Nathan marched over and swiped his notebook from Toki’s hand.

“Ah! Hey, what’s de hell, man?”

“I don’t like people seeing my work in progress.”

“Why not?”

“I. Because I…because.”

Toki rolled his eyes and pffted in a perfect Skwisgaar imitation. Nathan was slightly offended. Toki never imitated him…wait wait WAIT. Just shut up. Jesus Christ, this was going to be impossible. Nathan just needed to toss that little bastard out of the room right now, before something really bad happened.

“You gots anythings to drink?” Toki asked, rolling over on his stomach and beginning to dig around under the mattress. “I wants to see what is happen whens alcohol meet de pain pills de doctors give me.”

“Heyheyhey HEY. The hell do you think you’re doing? That’s my stash!”

“I know. Is where I keeps mine too, but I ain’t gots nothings good left. Oh boy, I thinks I find somethings…whiskey, wowie!”

Nathan paled when he saw his special flask with the skull and crossbones on it. “Woah. Wait a minute, Toki, that’s uh, that’s some really powerful stuff right there. I’m not kidding, it’ll fuck you up after-”

But Toki had already unscrewed the cap and taken a hearty swig. Ohhh good. The situation had just gone from bad to worse to having diarrhea at a public library where you swear to God everyone can hear you in the bathroom taking the most violent shit of your life. This was a fucking nightmare.

“Ahh!” Toki sighed, wiping his mouth and wincing. “No kidding, I thinks my tongue is sizzles!”

I really don’t wanna hear about your stupid tongue right now, Toki.

Another huge gulp. “So tells me more abouts de songs of…boy, is heating up in here.”

I really, really don’t wanna hear about your stupid body temperature right now, Toki.

“Are you gonna writes a song about de rats I kills? I thinks that be nice. I kills a lot of them, so it can be likes a funeral song for-”

And then Nathan just couldn’t stand it anymore—he turned on his heel and pounded out of his room, slamming the door closed on his way out. There. Nathan heaved a sigh of relief once he was out in the hallway. Crisis averted. It felt better knowing that there was now a big thick piece of wood between him and Toki…OH GOD. OH MY GOD. No no no no no no not wood, not wood, knock wood NO don’t knock wood, don’t knock wood, don’t cock wood OH JESUS NO not cock knock wood would knock cock FUCK COCK KNOCK TOCK TOKI’S COCK—

Nathan Explosion wasn’t much for sprinting, not ever since high school football, but he quickly found that complete and utter terror lent him surprising swiftness; he was suddenly barreling down the corridor in his underwear, bellowing like a birthing rhinoceros and fighting back the million Norwegian penises with Fu Manchus that were chasing after him.

This was also the last night that Nathan would ever drop acid before bedtime.

I’m sure there’s something deeply psychological about the way that Nathan ran straight to Pickles’ room. But hang on, I think we’re about to find out why:

BANG BANG BANG BANG. “Let me in, Pickles. Hey! Pickles! You hear me? Wake up in there, you dick!” BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG-

The door flew open and Nathan accidentally punched the Irish-American drummer right in the forehead.

“Oh Jesus, Pickles! Get out of the way next time! …uh, are you okay?”

The redhead looked as if he had just woken up from an alcohol-induced coma, and from his position sprawled out on the floor he rubbed his forehead and answered, “Gee. Let me think…um, NO.”

“Huh?”

“Ya fuckin wake me up in the middle ‘a the fuckin night, fuckin beatin my door off its fuckin hinges and then fuckin nail me right in the fuckin skull…are you havin a midnight panic attack ‘r somethin?”

“I need your help,” Nathan confessed (but brutally).

“What? Why run to me?”

“Because I’m going crazy.”

“But why run to me?”

“Because I think I’m falling in love.”

“…but why run to me?”

“Because it’s another guy.”

“BUT WHY RUN TO ME?”

“Snakes n’ Barrels.”

Silence. Enough said.

Pickles sighed and crawled off the floor. “Alright. Get in here, I’ll see what I can do.”

To Be Continued...

Dethlove - Metalocalypse

2006-10-30T03:33:33Z

My first Metalocalypse fanfic. Or the start of one at least. (It's not a habit--I can quit any time...really!)

Dethlove

Author: H.J. Bender

Rating: MA for brutal language, gory situations, and slashing. (And not the knife kind, either.)

Summary: It’s a secret. Just read.

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

It was the second Saturday of the month, which meant that somebody had to go down into the dungeon and feed the rats. But not literally, like with themselves being the walking rat buffet. No, these rats ate peanut butter sandwiches and crickets—or peanut butter and cricket sandwiches—and six gallons of skim milk, because Toki said that theys would all chokes on de peanuts butter and cricket legs if they didn’t have somethings to drink.

The rats were part of a long-forgotten side project started after Dethklok’s first world tour, an attempt to breed an army of corpse-eating vermin. It quickly became apparent that the rats didn’t want to eat corpses, so the band finally gave up and let them run wild and breed like crazy down in the dungeon-slash-basement. And because none of the Mordhaus employees were suicidal enough to feed the rats (some of which were the size of small dogs) no matter how much money was shoved into their orifices, the members of Dethklok usually ended up doing it themselves. They drew slips of paper from a Chinese-bone salad bowl (not bone china—there is a difference) twice a month. There were two names on each slip of paper, since it was always safer to do things in pairs or threes. Like sex and recreational drugs.

Pickles, slightly hungover from last night’s booze binge and shamelessly scratching his balls in front of everyone at the ~~breakfast~~ lunch table, squinted blearily at the slip of paper he had pulled from the bowl. “Pull an’ Muffin. What the hell dude, did somebody screw around with the bowl again?”

Skwisgaar leaned over to see for himself. “Its says Toki and Nathan, dummy. Do you needs glasses or somethings?”

“Yer gonna need glasses to see t’ru the black eyes’m about ta give ya.”

“Fine, be a mister crankys.” Skwisgaar retreated and rolled his eyes. “Somebodys must have wakes up on de wrong sides of tracks.”

Nathan finished his fourth cup of coffee and set his empty skull mug on the table with a heavy thunk. “I fed the rats last month with Murderface already. I shouldn’t have to do it two times in a row.”

Murderface was reading the obituaries and chuckling through his gap like a leaking air mattress. Totally ignoring everyone else. This was one of the few moments of happiness he allowed himself.

“What about Skwisgaar?” Nathan grunted. “He hasn’t had rat duty since August.”

“Sorry, man.” Pickles half-shrugged. “That’s jest the way it goes. Chance, y’know. Ratio an’ likelihood an’ all that crap. Everyone’s names’re on these papers.”

“I thinks Skwisgaar may be taking his names out on purpose,” Toki muttered conspiratorially, munching his grilled cheese sandwich. “He never gets picks.”

“Shut up, Turkey,” the tall Swede snapped.

“You shuts up, cheater…” Toki fumbled. “Cheater-eats a pumpkin’s peter!”

“Oh my Gad the both of yeh shut the hell up,” Pickles moaned, hand over his eyes. “I’m gonna barf piss if ya keep talkin’ about food.”

Murderface lifted his head. “Shumbody shay pish?”

“I did.”

“Oh.”

Toki was intrigued. “You is gonna to barfs piss? Or barfs first, then piss?”

“I wonder if it’s posshible to pish barf?” Murderface pondered. “You can pish when you barf, but barfing pish might be-”

Pickles promptly barfed on the table. Whether it was piss or not, nobody knew, but it sure smelled enough like piss that everybody took his word for it.

Nathan stood from his chair while Pickles continued to heave an incredible amount of partially-digested alcohol all over the tabletop. “Uh…okay. Rats it is. C’mon, Toki.”

“But I haffen’t finish my grills cheesy san-”

“NOW, TOKI.”

“Okays. I’ll just brings it down with me.”

Halfway down to the dungeon, Toki and his grilled cheese sandwich had become the biggest thing to hit the rat race since the Bubonic Plague, and the Norwegian guitarist was shooing them off of his pants and boots by the dozen. They were crowding worse than Dethklok fans on speed, but at least Toki didn’t feel bad about kicking people in the eye. He liked rats. But that fucking sandwich was his, and he was going to eat it before the rats did, so help him Judas Priest.

Nathan was starting to get annoyed by Toki’s squealing and complaining, and he was trying hard to remember just how he had ended up being the one carrying all the rat food down the impossibly steep, slippery, moldering, crumbling, potentially-life-ending stone staircase. They really needed an elevator down here.

“Toki, keep the damn light still,” Nathan growled over his shoulder. “I can’t see with you thrashing all over the place.”

Many many stairs behind him, Toki held high over his head a battery-powered Dethlantern in one hand and his grilled cheese sandwich in the other. He shook his legs with each step to dislodge the rats crawling up his pants, but it wasn’t doing him any good.

“Damn rats!” he cried, sending two dozen of the large, red-eyed rodents scattering. “How many times I got to tells yous, this is not your foods! This is Toki foods, not yours! Stops crawlings on me and gets out of de ways before I steps on-”

Just then he lost his balance and accidentally stepped on a rat. Toki wasn’t a heavy guy, but his boots were at least ⅓ his entire body weight, so that rat didn’t stand a chance; it let out a shriek as both its eyeballs popped out of its head like champagne corks, and its ribcage snapped like toothpicks, and guts and blood burst from its ass.

This took about .73 seconds. The slippery mess that was once a rat had lubed the stairs better than buttery-spread K-Y jelly, and Toki had just enough time to scream “OH M-” before his foot went sailing out from underneath him and he began to roll ass-over-tit down the stairs like a barrel, squishing rats by the pound and leaving a trail of slimy red smears in his wake.

Nathan looked behind him when he heard the noise and saw Toki doing a screaming slalom at 45 mph right towards him, and he bellowed in horror “MOTHERF-” before the world’s second-fastest guitarist plowed right into him.

You’d think that Toki and Nathan would both tumble down the stairs together and then end up at the bottom together in a breathless tangle of limbs, with Nathan crushing the bejesus out of Toki and the both of them covered in blood and snot and spit, and then they’d start mashing tongues after passionately declaring their love for each other, right? Well it didn’t fucking happen, you sleazebags. Nathan was just too big, and Toki didn’t have enough momentum to knock him over anyway.

The rats were fleeing the scene of massacre as Nathan dropped the supplies and stooped down to inspect Toki, who was covered in rat blood and rat shit and itty bitty rat bowels. “Holy crap, man. That was brutal,” he muttered, trying to find Toki’s face in the knot of legs and hair. “Are you, uh…you hurt?”

The young Norwegian’s face came into view. His right cheekbone was bruised, his temple was pouring blood, and he had melted cheese in his Fu Manchu. And apparently he had broken his arm…if the ulna jutting out of his flesh were any indication. But Toki was a tough little krumkake and had the capacity of being a blunt, insensitive bastard sometimes, even if he was considered the “most normal” of the band. So when he started to cry it didn’t surprise Nathan at all.

“Hey Toki, don’t…uh, cry,” he said in his best ‘comforting’ voice, and only succeeded in sounding like Full House era Bob Saget if Full House era Bob Saget gargled gasoline and threw a lighted match down his throat. “It’s okay. Just don’t think about the pain. Hey, the bone looks really neat, sticking out of your arm like that…you, uh-”

“You stupids hardon!” Toki wailed, waving his bloodied limbs about. “I not crying about de pains—I kills de poor rats! I KILLS THEM, NATHAN! I shoulda just share my grills cheesy sandswich with thems, buts I didn’t! And now they dead! They’s just wants some foods, and I KILLS thems!”

“Toki…are you high? I know it’s a stupid question, but I just had to ask, ‘cause...”

Toki responded by throwing up grilled cheese sandwich all over Nathan’s boots. It smelled like lunch. “I can’t feels my foots,” he moaned when he was done, wiping the puke off his chin with his good arm.

“That’s probably because they’re folded up under your shins,” said Nathan. “You know…fuck these goddamn rats. They can just fuckin eat each other. C’mon.” He picked Toki up in his arms and began to carry him up the stairs.

There was positively nothing romantic about this at all.

As he hefted the injured little guy up the stairs—boy those boots weighed a fucking ton—Nathan thought about stuff. He wasn’t used to doing that, at least not the real deep important things, but something had made him think. He was thinking about Toki, and the way he had crushed the life right out of that rat and then fell-the-fuck-down the stairs, and had gushing blood wounds and a splintered bone sticking out of his blood-drenched arm, and he was covered in stinking, still-warm rat guts, and had violently thrown up on Nathan’s boots to end it all. And even then Toki was more concerned about the mangy little flea-bitten hell-spawns he had mowed down than his own grotesque injuries. And that, Nathan thought with admiration, that was fucking metal right there. Toki was more awesomely brutal than he looked.

What a rush of inspiration; suddenly Dethklok’s next album was right in Nathan’s mind—Dungeons & Ratguts—with songs like Bathed in Bile, Compound Fracture, and Vermin Genocide, set to that same rhythmic tempo that Toki had made when he crashed down the stairs like a body bag…without the bag part. It would be heavy and brutal and holy goddamn he needed to write this down, it was golden.

But these happy fuzzy thoughts didn’t last long, because an uncomfortable feeling in the crotch of Nathan’s jeans alerted him to the horrifying fact that he had just popped a huge boner. Thinking about Toki doing all that horrendous, wonderful shit and the ideas for their next album must have gone straight to his dick, and now Nathan stopped in his tracks and uttered, “Oh my fucking LORD.”

“What’s de matters?” Toki mumbled, arm dangling limply by his side. “Something’s wrong?”

Oh, Toki. You don’t even know.

Yet.

After delivering Toki to the in-house emergency staff and after 12 minutes in the john with the latest issue of Valkyrie Vixens, Nathan called a band meeting that evening to discuss plans for the new album.

“But we jest released the DethCyclone ‘Live in Chernobyl Hammer-Sickle-Homicide Russian Remix’ eight months ago!” Pickles complained, tossing back six Advil with a rum and cola chaser.

“Yeah,” Skwisgaar griped, “I thought we’s plans to takes de year off.”

“We can’t shtart another album!” Murderface roared, planting his Bowie into the already mangled table in the conference room. “I jusht shtarted my bonshai-trimming lesshons lasht week! I’ve got the makingsh of a mashter trimmer, Shenshei Yakamura shaid sho!” Spit was flying everywhere. Skwisgaar was actually wearing a rain poncho designed for exactly this sort of thing.

“Look, I know you all have plans and side projects you wanna do,” Nathan explained gutturally, “but I’m telling you, this thing will fuckin blow the balls off of DethCyclone. We could even use those damn rats in our concerts, sell them as pets or something. Have a whole vermin franchise, maybe even a movie based off the music video for the single…”

The others seemed to be digesting the possibility of becoming even more filthy stinking rich and famous when finally somebody noticed the obvious: “Hey, where’sh Toki?”

“The hospital.”

“What de hells he is doings dere?” Skwisgaar demanded. “He’s not been eatings de free candies again, has he?”

“He fell down the dungeon stairs and killed a whole shitloada rats,” the lead singer said with a facial expression that just might have been a smile…or the sign of an upset bowel. “You guys shoulda seen it. It was brutal. Like…blood n’ guts on a slip n’ slide.”

“That’sh a good shong title.”

“Toki killed rats? No way, he loves those things,” Pickles pshhted. “If it weren’t fer him, we’da left those sons a bitches to die down there.”

“He likes animals,” Skwisgaar said, for once getting all his S’s in the right place.

“It was an accident,” Nathan grumbled softly. “He broke his arm and I think both his ankles, too. And he threw up. Think he mighta hit his head. It was bleeding pretty bad.”

“Wowwww,” said everyone else, sincerely impressed. No, really. This is Toki we’re talking about here.

“Sho Toki’s the inshpiration for the new album?” Murderface asked, cheerfully chipping chunks out of the table.

“Uh…nuh-yeah…um, kinda.”

“I think it sounds great,” Pickles admitted. “The whole rat thing. Maybe we can give ‘im his own song, y’know, since he’s in the hospital now an’ whatever. Or he can do a solo-open at the concert, an’ we can get a rat god outfit for ‘im or-”

“A rat’s costumes?” Skwisgaar inquired with delighted disgust in his voice. “Huh huh, I thinks he would likes dat a lot. Little rat playings de guitars, with ears and-”

“No, no. Like the rat god—there’s a rat god, ain’t there? Don’t the Hindus got one ‘a those? With the temples n’ all where the rats live an’ people feed ‘em-”

“You mean Mordhaush?”

“Yeah, we’s already does dat in de basefloors.”

“No, douchebags. I mean like the…ah, fuck it.” Pickles downed another alcoholic beverage and gave up.

Nathan was oddly quiet.

“So,” Skwisgaar said after a while, “what’s does Toki says abouts all dis?”

“He doesn’t know,” muttered Nathan.

“Well hell!” Pickles slapped both hands on the table and stood up. “We need t’ tell ‘im. C’mon, dudes. Let’s go t’ the hospital.”

“Yeah! I wanna shnap hish bonesh back into plache! I hope they haven’t done that already. I’ll be dishappointed.”

To Be Continued...

Father, Ch. X

2006-10-15T16:33:18Z

Father

Author: H.J. Bender

Pairing: --

Rating: T

Summary: A Christmas Eve celebration at Valerious Manor ends painfully for Victor Frankenstein, who is beginning to discover the truth behind the mysterious Count Dracula...

Disclaimer: Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.

A/N: I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally.

I love you...

I love you no more.

I love you no more or less than you loved me,

When it was still me that you loved.

-Rammstein, Wo Bist Du

X. Unnatural Properties

Snow fell with gentle silence upon the blackened, weathered stone of the Frankenstein castle. From the outside it almost appeared benign, nestled in the white crowns of mountainous rock like a sleeping bird. The light of day was sallow and overcast, typical of the Romanian winters; the thunderstorms would not come until spring, leaving more time to be spent on piecing together the dead components of human bodies. It was a despicable task to be doing on any given day, let alone on Christmas Eve.

Victor attempted to nurse his guilty conscience, repeating to himself for the thousandth time “the ends justify the means” until it seemed to become the mantra of the entire project. Surely he would be pardoned of any misdemeanor when he instilled life in an organism that had never lived before. Surely the scientific community would be too busy praising his success to take notice of a few broken laws. All is well that ends well. Fortune favours the bold. Necessary evil for the greater good of mankind.

It wasn’t so bad, he thought to himself as he meticulously tied the suture that connected two rubbery pieces of muscle. The worst crime would be to have such knowledge of science and not use it to help the world. He was, by all odds, doing humanity a great favour by taking the matter into his own hands; the bodies he had stolen would have otherwise gone to waste, but now they are to come together to form something spectacular, something that would go down in the annals of history as perhaps the greatest achievement of modern medicine since the discovery of bacteria. In fact, the relatives of the deceased ought to feel honoured that their dearly departed are to play such an important role in what is to be a milestone in the intellectual evolution of Man. Wouldn’t they rather their loved ones be immortalised by science instead of left to feed the worms? Any discerning person would, naturally!

Victor kept reassuring himself until he was nearly cheerful again. Soon he would no longer require excuses, he thought, washing the dried blood from his hands and picking up his log book. Soon the only thing he would have to worry about is becoming accustomed to seeing his portrait on book covers and surgical manuscripts all over the world. All of those narrow-minded buffoons who had ridiculed him at Goldstadf would be tripping over one another to apologise to him, begging his forgiveness for ever doubting his vision. His skeptical colleagues would be beside themselves with envy, his unimaginative professors appropriately silenced and their archaic practises forced into the shadows of obscurity.

The glory of fame appealed to Victor far more than wealth and riches: to be accepted by the academic community once more; to be hailed as a genius for his work; to be able to instruct a new generation of surgeons and doctors as he grew old with his beloved Elizabeth at his side. This he desired above all else. Failure was simply not an option.

“And it will work,” Victor said quietly to himself, thumbing through the myriad papers that were the fruit of his brilliant, virile mind. “I have not missed a single detail. My research is flawless, and my abilities want for nothing. I have dreamt it and planned it to its end, and now only remains to do it.”

He laughed suddenly, delighted beyond further words at the realisation that it would not be long ere his experiment reached its zenith, and his greatest wishes would at last come true. It was like a fairy-tale, he thought. A fantastic, incredible story in which the long-suffering hero overcomes adversity and triumphs to the tune of “happily ever after”.

“Igor!” called Victor, and from high up in the labouratory’s network of scaffolding and bridgework the hunchback waddled into view.

“Yes, doctor,” he grunted.

“The hour grows late—we have completed enough for the day, I believe; we are ahead of schedule as it is, and it would be a sore loss if we were to err in our haste.”

“Very well, doctor. Shall I put the…” He gazed warily down at the corpse Victor had been assembling. “…experiment into the cellar again?”

“That would be very good, Igor. Thank you.”

The disfigured little man mumbled something and then disappeared into the shadows with his customary limp.

Victor scribbled something in his logbook and then shut it with a relieved sigh. He glanced at the clock on his workbench and quickly left the room. He had an appointment with the Valerious family, and it would not be polite to keep royalty waiting.

† † †

The doctor’s arrival had been anticipated, for a man was waiting outside the main entrance to the manor. He relieved Victor of his horse and bade him to proceed on his own, which he did tentatively, shaking the snow from his coat as he entered the foyer. Almost immediately he spotted Anna at the other end of the broad hall, and was glad to see that the princess was not dressed to the nines for the occasion. Victor himself had been forced to sacrifice a number of the few good suits he had brought with him, and he certainly had not anticipated being invited to a Christmas party by gypsy nobility. It was to his dismay that the only decent outfit he had set aside was now too big for him—apparently his feverish work ethic was beginning to take a noticeable toll on his body. Had Victor been more concerned with his appearance he would have noticed how thin and tired his face had grown, but he was far too preoccupied with his progress to worry about looking his best.

He hung his coat on an ornate peg and regarded Anna from a distance: her long curls were pinned back and she wore a white blouse sprinkled with festive red patterns, dangling thin tassels of crimson, and trimmed with lace. A large crucifix hung about her neck, swinging like a silver pendulum as she bent forward to adjust a strand of decorations at the base of the grand staircase. The red skirt she wore with its layered flounces came to the heels of her black shoes, and Victor was surprised at how feminine she appeared when she was not wearing trousers. Truly now she looked like a proper gypsy princess, and she was incredibly beautiful.

“Mistress Valerious,” he called in a friendly tone, and Anna smiled fleetingly when she recognised him. “I hope I am not too late?”

“You are early if anything,” she answered. “Come in.”

Victor made his way through the great hall, this time able to appreciate its size and splendour now that he did not have to worry about saving the life of a wounded prince. A fire crackled warmly in a massive hearth at one end of the room, and the oblong table in its centre was bare but for a few interesting ornaments.

“I have never celebrated Christmas in a foreign country before,” confessed Victor as he approached Anna, who was busily attending a crisp-smelling pine garland at the base of the stairs. “Are your customs much different from ours?”

“That depends upon whom you speak,” she asked, not lifting her gaze from the garland she was fastening. “Are you familiar with the Catholic Christmas?”

Victor fidgeted. “Er, well, my family was Lutheran…”

“I don’t know the difference. My father would understand—he is more familiar with the religions than I.” She finished tying the red ribbon and finally looked at Victor directly, blessing him with one of her rare, radiant smiles. “Velkan has been looking forward to your arrival.”

“Has he? Is he here?”

“I think he is still upstairs. He and Papa-” She stopped herself before she could say anything more, and a sad shadow passed briefly over her face. She changed the subject. “Would you like a drink?”

She began to walk towards the bar before Victor had a chance to answer, thus he hastily followed after her. His curiosity pecked away at his better judgment, causing him to jump to conclusions—it was a difficult thing to avoid when presented with such an interesting family as this.

“Velkan…” he ventured, “does he not get along with your father?”

Fortunately Anna was not offended by the doctor’s query, though she certainly did not seem eager to talk. “They have their differences. All families do,” she stated bluntly, removing two glasses from a lacquered cupboard and placing a heavy bottle of whiskey on the bar. For a moment Anna appeared as if she wanted to elaborate on the topic, but then thought better of it and poured a short glass of whiskey for herself and her guest.

“În cinstea dumitale,” she said, raising her glass.

Victor echoed the toast and took a modest sip. When he lowered his glass he noticed that Anna had drained hers in a single gulp. Not only did the princess dress and fight like a man, but she drank like one, too. Not wishing to seem inferiour, Victor haltingly tilted his glass back and swallowed the rest of the fiery liquid. The fumes alone singed his tongue and brought tears to his eyes, which he blinked back with some difficulty.

“Strong,” he wheezed, forcing a smile onto his face.

Anna had not even batted an eyelash. “Another?” she dared, raising the bottle.

The last thing Victor wanted was to faint from over-intoxication in front of his hosts, and was just about to decline as politely as he could when there came the sound of footfalls on the stairs. Anna poured herself another glass as Velkan appeared from behind a column.

Unlike the bright, festive attire of his sibling, the young prince wore a simple white shirt with flowing sleeves beneath a vest of black velveteen, studded with gleaming silver buttons. A grey satin cravat was knotted at his collar, and his habitually tousled hair was neatly combed back. His trousers were similarly black, and though he had traded his customary boots for gentlemen’s shoes, he looked as if he could be ready to jump bridges and hurdle horses at a moment’s notice.

“I see you’ve already begun without me,” he said teasingly to his sister, who smiled wryly at him from behind her glass. He turned his gaze to Victor and gave a shallow bow. “Dr Frankenstein. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Master Valerious,” the doctor assured, nodding his head respectfully and lifting his empty glass. “Perhaps you would like to take my place here at the bar—I am afraid your sister will drink me under my chair if I stay for much longer.”

Anna laughed lightly at what was to her a flattering comment, and beckoned her brother to join them. “Yes, come along, Velkan. I need to drink with a man who can hold the Transylvanian whiskey better than our foreign friend here.”

Velkan obligingly nodded his head and smiled. “Perhaps that is something that can wait until after dinner. I was hoping to borrow Dr Frankenstein for a few moments.” He looked directly at Victor. “Would that be too inconvenient?”

“N-no,” replied the doctor, quite certain that he would never cease to be perturbed by the prince’s powerful gaze. “I can accommodate.”

“What do you need to discuss?” Anna asked flatly, obviously unhappy with the prospect of being discounted from their conversation.

“I just have a few questions regarding my surgery,” said Velkan as he took Victor by the arm and began to lead him away. “We will not be long. If father asks for us, we shall be in the library.”

Anna said nothing in reply, instead taking a swill from her glass and purposely avoiding Velkan’s questing gaze—he took it as a sign that she grudgingly consented, and walked Victor out into the hall once more.

“She certainly is strong-willed,” he commented as he and the prince ascended the stairs.

“That is her definition,” Velkan answered, easily hopping the steps with that energy typical of youth. “If she were anything but strong-willed and stubborn, she would not be my sister.”

“It is nice to see siblings who are so close,” Victor continued, not wishing to bear the burden of an awkward lull in conversation. “In other parts of the world, brothers and sisters regard each other so trivially, perhaps even less than family.”

“When you live in a place like this, family is all that you have,” murmured Velkan as they reached the top of the staircase. “Friends are few and far between.”

Victor followed him down a dark corridor, looking about with uncertainty. “I feel somewhat honoured by that…” He trailed off as Velkan pushed open a door and bade the doctor inside; he entered hesitantly and Victor heard the door close behind him. Almost immediately he noticed that something was wrong.

The room was cold and dim, lit only by a single paraffin lantern burning low on a sconce. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, and Victor felt as if he were standing in a tomb, a place of acute suffering and misery—the epicentre of all the unspoken anguish that poured from Vaseria’s heart. A dishevelled bed rested against one wall, its covers unmade and strewn about as if its occupant had suffered violent, restless nightmares the night before and had abandoned it upon waking. The large, gaudily-framed mirror that hung on the opposite wall bore a circular cluster of splinters in the centre, as if it had been struck with a fist; thin lines of cracked glass spread out like the delicate silk of a spider’s web, distorting the reflections it cast. Books were strewn hither and thither, pages folded or otherwise marked to preserve the reader’s place—they cluttered bureau-tops and bedside tables as thickly as dust, and Victor’s eyes caught a few of the titles: Ancient Royalty of Wallachia; Demonology: Myths & Lore; Vampyres & Their Kin.

“This is not the library,” he said quietly, straining to keep his voice steady.

“No. It is my room,” said Velkan, stepping forward to stand before Victor. “I need to ask a favour of you, doctor.”

“Favour?” Victor’s voice momentarily broke in his anxiety, making him all the more conscious of the situation. “What sort of favour?”

With a soft, relenting sigh, the prince slid his vest from his shoulders, loosened his cravat, and began to unbutton his shirt.

A thousand thoughts suddenly screamed through Victor’s mind from every corner, crashing together in the centre of his head and all but disengaging his senses completely. He lost the faculty to speak, and though he knew he should look askance, he could not tear his eyes from the bare skin that was emerging in front of him.

With the last button unfastened, Velkan stood silently with his face turned away, and when he spoke his voice was hushed with something that could have been shame: “Can you remove them?”

Victor was unable to answer for a moment, too astonished by Velkan’s odd behaviour to notice that the lacerations on the prince’s abdomen—the same ones Victor had only last week sewn shut—were almost fully healed. When finally the doctor reckoned the barely-visible scars, his reaction was alarmingly calm.

“You want me to… remove the sutures,” he reiterated quietly. “But, how did…?”

Unable to resist the urge, Victor moved forward to touch the wounds for himself, just to be certain that it wasn’t the dim light playing with his eyes. No; Velkan’s skin was surprisingly cool to the touch, and the scars were indeed real, even if they looked to be years old.

He raised his eyes and found Velkan staring at him knowingly, pleadingly, as if the phenomenon of his recovery was a dark thing of which he could not bring himself to speak; as if it were causing him more pain than the actual wounds he had received.

Victor saw this deep inner turmoil and kept his mouth shut, nodding once in affirmation. He knew better than to question what was obviously a profound and personal subject to the prince, and bade with clinical coolness, “Very well. I will need a pair of forceps, and it would be best if you were to lie down…”

Velkan had smuggled the old medical bag from the armoury into his room, and he gave it to the doctor before tidying his bed in preparation; he laid down near the middle while Victor took a seat on the edge and leaned over to do his work. No words were spoken between them as the stitches were quietly removed with a “snip-snip” from Victor’s scissors—perhaps the gravity of the prince’s words had robbed all point of idle conversation.

There was something disturbingly intimate about this moment, Victor wondered as he coaxed the thread from the miraculous flesh it had held together so briefly. Velkan had entrusted him to keep a secret, one that he had obviously not disclosed to his family. What reasons did he have to deny them of this knowledge? What could have frightened him into silence? Was it that perhaps his family’s superstitions would lead to false assumptions? Surely it was thus, for no ordinary human could have healed so quickly, not unless they possessed an extraordinary ability to regenerate.

Victor had to force himself to abstain from inquiring further and found it nearly impossible. If Velkan were indeed experiencing some unique physical anomaly, perhaps it would aid in the doctor’s experiments… no. No, he would not even consider it. He could not consider it. Velkan was a living person, and to use him as a test subject would not only be unethical, it would be unspeakably cruel. However, the desire for knowledge was strong in Victor; surely there was an untapped spring of scientific phenomena stored within this incredible body, though he doubted that Velkan would embrace the thought of offering himself to the operating table alongside a dozen stolen corpses. If only he knew of the things the doctor had done…

“Why do you trust me, Velkan?” he asked softly, not lifting his eyes from the thread.

The prince did not reply at first, but silence persisted as the question waited for its answer. “Because I know you are a good man, Frankenstein,” he said, “even if you feel that you are at odds with your own conscience.”

Victor abruptly paused as Velkan’s words echoed through the walls of his mind, and he felt his throat tighten as everything became suddenly clear to him. “You are very special, Velkan. I have only met one other man who seemed capable of reading the thoughts of others.”

The young man’s breath suddenly hitched, and when Victor lifted his head to see his reaction, he found Velkan staring at him fretfully.

“You know this man, don’t you?”

“As do we both, it seems,” Velkan said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

After a lengthy silence Victor returned his focus to the final thread. They did not speak for the remainder of the procedure, although their thoughts seemed to exchange as easily as spoken words. When at last the task was finished, Velkan sat up gingerly while Victor cleaned the instruments and returned them to their leather case.

“Thank you, doctor,” he said softly as he began to button his shirt.

Victor nodded in acknowledgement and allowed a brief smile to flicker across his face. “It was no trouble.”

Velkan swallowed nervously. “You… won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Never did Victor expect to hear a note of fear in the young man’s voice; however, he found that Velkan seemed to possess limitless means of surprising him.

“I never planned to in the first place,” he replied, placing a warm hand of reassurance on Velkan’s shoulder. And when he forced himself to stare directly into the prince’s eyes, their familiar hollowness confirmed the truth that he had suspected all along. “Do not fear, Velkan. Your secrets shall die with me.”

† † †

They found Anna loitering impatiently at the bottom of the stairs. “I was tempted to call a search party when I didn’t find you in the library,” she quipped indignantly. “Where have you been all this time? Dinner is ready.”

“My apologies, Anna,” said Victor quickly. “I am finding your home most fascinating, and your brother was kind enough to give me a brief tour.”

If Velkan was impressed by the doctor’s quick thinking, he showed no signs of it. “We must have lost track of the time,” he added without missing a beat, moving close to hook his arm around his sister’s. “I’m certain that father will excuse us.”

“Your confidence in what father will or will not abide by has been terribly inaccurate lately,” Anna glowered in a hushed voice; Victor imagined that she was speaking of the argument between Velkan and Boris that had occurred earlier that evening.

The prince leaned close to Anna’s ear and whispered in Romanian, “Can we not speak of this now? Or perhaps you’ve taken a fancy to ridiculing me as well?”

“You know that is untrue, Velkan. Father is only concerned for you-”

“He of all people should know that I-”

“Goodness me,” declared Victor suddenly, “I hope we are not keeping anyone waiting…?”

There was a pause, and then Anna relented with a nod of her head. “Yes, we should hurry along before the food gets cold.” Her arm still looped with Velkan’s, she pulled him gently past the staircase and Victor followed closely behind.

The large table in the great hall seemed to be reserved for grander occasions, Victor observed as he was led into the dining room where sat a relatively smaller table. Apparently this room was used by family only. He was quite honoured when he was offered a seat beside the king; Boris sat at the head of the table, his children to his left and the doctor to his right. He gave an unusually sombre prayer at the beginning of the meal, followed by an equally sombre toast. Victor felt as if this were dinner in the wake of a funeral instead of a cheerful holiday feast. No one seemed to be in the mood to talk, and if not for Velkan’s single attempt at conversation the whole meal would have been spent in complete silence.

“Tell us, doctor,” said the prince lightly as he poked uninterestedly at his food, “what other lands have you seen in your travels?”

“Quite a few, actually,” replied Victor with an almost grateful air. “I’ve studied at several international universities over the past few years, most of them only for a few months, and I’ve given several lectures in countries where a translator has been required.”

“Go on,” Velkan urged, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward. Though his manner seemed earnest, his expression was melancholy. “It must be quite adventurous, travelling the world.”

“Some of the time it is, yes,” said Victor, picking up his wine glass. “There are people who are better suited for travel and foreign living, and I must confess there were times that I thought if I had to leave home one more time I would rather become a tailor instead.”

Velkan smiled. Anna took interest in the conversation at that point, and listened readily.

Victor continued, “I’ve spent quite a lot of time in Austria-Hungary, it being quite close to my mother land, and Vienna is famous for its association with the sciences. Every doctor and physicist in the world dreams of going to Vienna…” He trailed off.

“Any other countries?” prompted Velkan hopefully.

“Goodness, yes. Quite a few: England, France, Italy, Belgium, Sweden, practically every major European city. The profession of medical research is one of endless treasure hunting and travel. It can be most tiresome, and unfortunately I’m quite susceptible to sea-sickness so I try to-”

“Sea?” Anna interrupted, suddenly intrigued. “You have travelled the sea?”

“It’s quite difficult to avoid it, especially when one must reach England,” Victor jested lightly.

“What does it look like? The sea, I mean?” she asked reverently, and the doctor immediately got the notion that the girl had yet to visit the shore—in fact, she had probably never left this dismal town for more than a day, perhaps her brother as well. No wonder these poor children were so starved for visions of the outside world; they were practically prisoners in this horrible, dreary place. The doctor could not imagine living in Vaseria for so long—the very idea made his heart weak.

Victor cleared his throat and his voice took on a more tender tone. “The sea… the sea is never the same two days in a row, my dear. Always is it changing. Sometimes the surface is as still as a looking-glass, and sometimes it churns enormous waves like… like a steam engine, so powerful can it be. It can sink a ship in a single wave or float it in the same place for weeks. Sailors have a saying, ‘a red sky at night is a sailor’s delight—a red sky in the morning and sailors take warning’. They are correct most of the time, such unusual accuracy…”

Anna appeared so enraptured that Victor wanted to keep talking, just to see the light twinkle in her eyes. “And the colours… sometimes the water is a pale green, other times such a dark shade of blue that it almost looks black. When you stand on the deck of a ship and look down into that… that depth, you could almost imagine that it goes on for ever, straight through to the other side of the world. And the shore is-”

“Come now, doctor,” Boris interrupted with vague annoyance, “surely you must have more of which to speak besides the colour of water?”

Anna became suddenly defencive of Victor, and said sharply, “I happen to find Dr Frankenstein’s words quite interesting. Wouldn’t you agree, Velkan?” She glanced expectantly at her brother, but the prince sat back in his chair and said nothing, although he raised his eyes to cast a mournful look at Victor.

Boris harrumphed with his customary gruffness and muttered, “Children are bedazzled by such trivial things.”

“I do not think that the rest of the world is so meaningless, father,” Anna snapped with unexpected vehemence. “Who are you to judge the worth of things? You have never left Vaseria-”

“Anna,” Velkan whispered warningly, placing his hand on his sister’s arm in an attempt to calm her.

“True, I may never have gone beyond the forests of Transylvania,” the king said sternly as he stared at his daughter, “but I know what purpose it is that I must serve, and I need not traipse over land and sea in search of my heart’s fancy when I know I am needed here.”

Silence descended. Anna pinched her lips together and looked as if she could either burst into tears or begin shouting fit to start a war, but she held her tongue and turned her head, glaring down at her plate without another word. Velkan gave her arm a gentle squeeze and then placed his napkin upon the table, likewise cowed into silence.

Victor released the breath he had been holding and hoped his hands were not shaking as badly as he felt they were. “Well spoken,” he said unsteadily, raising his glass in a small toast. “To purpose. May we all find ours as easily.”

† † †

After dinner Anna announced to Victor that she and her father were going to attend Mass as was the custom of the villagers on Christmas Eve. The doctor declined the invitation to join them, excusing himself due to the late hour and the work that was waiting for him at the castle. He thanked his hosts for dinner and prepared himself for departure as Boris and Anna took their leave into the snowy, star-lit night.

Victor was pulling on his coat as Velkan bade farewell to his family from the front door, and he could not help but to inquire, “Are you not joining your family at Mass?”

The prince smiled in such a doleful way that Victor felt his heart suddenly ache for the boy. “I keep watch over the manor,” he spoke hesitantly, looking away and fiddling with something in his trousers pocket.

“Ah.” Victor nodded once, and decided not to comment on his observation that Velkan wore no crucifix about his neck as did the rest of his family—and the rest of the villagers, for that matter. But he likely had his reasons, and debating religious customs was something the doctor cared not to do at this hour.

Velkan lifted his head. “How kind of you,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

The young man shook his head dismissively. “Never mind. Doctor, I…” He struggled to find his tongue. “I am afraid I must ask another favour of you.”

“Anything you wish.”

Velkan acknowledged the doctor’s answer and then turned, beginning a brisk walk towards his father’s study. Victor, uncertain of whether to wait or to follow, decided the latter and hurried after the prince.

When finally he entered Boris’ study, he found Velkan hovering over the writing desk in the corner, scribbling hastily onto a piece of paper with an ink pen. Upon finishing, he returned the pen to its well and gently blew on the paper to make certain that the ink had properly dried. Then he folded it neatly, slipped it into a letter envelope, and then reached into his pocket, producing a small object that Victor could not identify. Velkan tucked it into the envelope, lifted a nearby letter opener and, to Victor’s horror, pressed the tip into his thumb, piercing his flesh until a bead of rich red blood formed.

“Be careful!” cried the doctor, rushing forward to offer his aid, but Velkan halted him with a single glance.

“It is nothing serious,” he said in a low tone, squeezing his thumb so that his blood dripped upon the back of the envelope. “I do this frequently enough.”

Victor could only helplessly watch as the prince poured a small pool of blood onto the paper; then when he had collected enough he took up a wooden stamp bearing the Valerious family crest and pressed it into the blood. The stickiness formed a natural sealer and the envelope was effectively closed, bearing the Valerious mark.

Velkan brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked away the remaining blood as he handed the envelope to Victor, who received it carefully. “Give that to him,” the prince instructed, turning away.

“Him? You mean… Dra-”

“Do not speak his name. Not here. Now take the letter and leave. Bring him this last message and then leave Vaseria for ever.”

“Leave? What are you saying? Velkan, please, I don’t understand why I-”

“Go,” he ordered sharply, and then apologetically softened his voice. “Please, doctor. Just go.”

Victor found it difficult to swallow for the sudden lump in his throat, unable to comprehend the prince’s drastic change in behaviour. Had he in some way offended him? What of their friendship? Was it truly destined to be so brief? Victor silenced his questions and decided that perhaps these matters were best left untouched. “Thank you, Master Valerious,” he said in a painfully formal tone. “I hope we shall soon meet again.”

He waited until Velkan had given an answering nod of his head, then Victor turned with newly-acquired glumness and left the room. A few moments later the echo of the heavy wooden doors reverberated throughout the manor with grim finality, and the doctor was gone.

Velkan, still standing motionless in the study, allowed himself the luxury of letting a single sob escape his throat and a few tears shed themselves down his cheeks before resuming his hardened façade; he wiped the tears from his face and sniffed, collecting himself once more.

“I’m sorry, Dr Frankenstein,” he whispered, gazing down at the crimson smear of blood on his thumb. “I have done all that I can.”

But in his heart, Velkan knew that his efforts had not been enough—and he was correct.

December 24, 1886, would be the last time Victor Frankenstein was ever seen by living eyes.

† † †

The cold, drafty castle was even more dreary in spirit than Valerious Manor, Victor thought sullenly as he entered by way of the front gate. Though the gathering had obviously been to commemorate a happy occasion, it had unintentionally ended on a chilling note—especially after his strange dismissal by Velkan, and the prince’s foreboding instructions to deliver the letter he had written to Count Dracula. What could it possibly say? And what was the object sitting in the bottom of the envelope? Victor had been tempted—but only once—to open the parcel before thinking better of it; the Count would surely detect any tampering, and although Victor had yet to see his benefactor lose his temper, he could imagine that Dracula was a man given over to anger as passionate as his interest in science.

As Victor made his way into the bleak and poorly-lighted parlour of the castle, he wondered how he was to take the letter to the Count, or if he should simply keep it with him until the next time Dracula came to the castle to observe his progress. Victor did not have long to wonder further, for a voice came from the shadowy corner of the room: “I trust you were not exhuming graves this evening, were you, Victor?”

The doctor had long since grown accustomed to the usual sensation of terror that burst through his veins upon being startled by his mentor, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Dracula, dressed in his familiar black apparel, standing by the window and staring meditatively through the grimy glass with his hands clasped behind his back.

“N-no, Count,” spoke Victor when he regained his ability to speak once more. “I was… invited to dinner by some of the villagers.”

“How generous of them,” said Vlad, turning away from the window and striding slowly towards the doctor. “You seem to be making friends quite quickly. Need I remind you that you first and foremost have an obligation to fulfill? Or have you lost interest in the project, hm?”

“Never!” exclaimed Victor whole-heartedly. “Igor and I have been making excellent progress and the machine should be ready in a few short months. Right now I need only concern myself with piecing together the body’s components, and the work is coming along quickly.”

The Count smiled thinly. “That is fortunate news. I would hate to think that my generous charities are being spoiled by procrastination.” He stopped within a few paces of Victor, and the doctor saw a strange expression pass over his associate’s features as he took several deep breaths. “It is the eve of Christmas again, isn’t it? I had all but forgotten that wretched holiday. Do tell me, how is the Valerious family? Depressed and quarrelsome, I wager?”

Victor looked astonished. “How did… you…?”

Vlad grinned, but beneath the shallow gesture of mirth lurked an ominous, threatening core. “I find that people often have a difficult time keeping their secrets from me—one way or another they are always… revealed.” He approached the doctor, and any aloofness he that had been present about his demeanor was abruptly replaced with something sharp and dangerous. “So,” he murmured lowly, transfixing the man with his hollow stare, “perhaps now you would prefer to tell me what intimate affairs you have been keeping with Prince Velkan.”

Victor was so shocked that this supposedly-confident information had been disclosed that he instinctively took a step back to distance himself from the Count, but Vlad had been anticipating such a reaction; he placed his hand heavily upon the doctor’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“Don’t be so alarmed by my knowledge,” Dracula breathed, his face uncomfortably close to Victor’s. “I can smell him on your clothes.”

There was something sinister which gripped the doctor at this very moment, and suddenly he felt that he had every reason to fear for his life. Fortunately his panic lasted but briefly, for his thoughts suddenly returned to the blood-stained envelope that he carried in his coat pocket.

“I-I bring a m-message for you, Count,” Victor stammered uncontrollably, reaching within the breast of his coat and producing the letter. The red seal of Valerious was facing upwards as the doctor delivered it into Vlad’s hand.

Abruptly he released his hold on the doctor and stepped away, staring at the envelope with a chilling quality of light illuminating his once-dark eyes. He uttered an unintelligible whisper before turning his back to Victor—where, out of sight, he brought the envelope to his face and licked the dried blood with barely-restrained ecstasy. “Velkan,” he whispered again, and then proceeded to tear open the envelope, unfolding the single piece of paper within it:

“Count…?” Victor inquired gently after a lengthy silence had persisted. He was presently startled by the sound of paper being torn, and when Dracula turned about, Victor’s breath caught in his throat. Two lines of tears streamed down Vlad’s angry face, though his eyes betrayed his true emotions: empty, forlorn, destitute of all things but agony.

However, the thing which caught the doctor’s attention was the small object clutched in the Count’s trembling hand—a slender ornament, most likely a pin for the hair, carved from black onyx; the large end was fashioned into the shape of a roosting bat, and two tiny gems gleamed from its eyes. Victor knew not the significance of the item, but he knew that this was surely a state of distress in which he had never before seen his mentor.

Tossing the shredded remains of the letter into the glowing hearth, the Count strode purposefully past Victor without another word, his dark cloak billowing behind him like a wrathful storm-cloud. Moments later the front door was thrown open as if with great force, and then silence fell within the castle.

The room seemed to grow suddenly brighter with Dracula gone, and Victor—still shaken from the frightful ordeal—turned to gaze after the departed Count, aware of the furious, frustrated wake that continued to linger in the atmosphere.

“So,” said the doctor softly, staring into the shadows, “you are his father after all.”

† † †

Alone at Valerious Manor, Velkan was lying despondently upon the chaise in the parlour, drowsy and dwelling upon woeful thoughts, when a sudden rush of cold air swept against his back, causing him to shiver. Immediately he sat up and noticed one of the windows across the room had come unlatched, and he left his comfortable position to investigate.

The shutters were opened wide, and no breeze blew in the snowy night beyond the glow of the candlelight; Velkan cautiously shut the window and secured the latch tightly.

“You cannot frighten me as you used to,” he declared suddenly, and then turned around to behold Vladislaus Dracula standing in his midst, looking oddly at ease within the lamps’ light.

“No,” the Count smiled coldly, allowing his cloak to fall to the floor. “You are too much like me now.”

Velkan tensed suddenly, anticipating Vlad’s next move; however, he was not yet fast enough to evade an attack from his immortal father. The Count’s hand wrapped about Velkan’s throat as he was slammed into the wall, but the prince was remarkably undaunted and did not even attempt to fight the arm which held him pinned in place.

“I take it you received my message?” he asked calmly, staring directly into Dracula’s eyes.

“That I did,” Vlad confirmed, “and it warms my dead heart to see how greatly you care for a man even more corrupted than yourself.”

“Wh-what?”

The Count smiled sweetly at Velkan. “Silly little prince, did you honestly believe that your dear Victor is a good man? You have not seen what he is building for me, nor are you aware of the crimes he has committed against his God and his fellow man.”

“I know that he is faulted,” Velkan snapped angrily, “but he is not blinded by evil intentions! I saw it in his heart-”

Dracula drew close to his son’s face, uttering, “And still I see him in yours.”

Velkan shut his mouth and turned his eyes away, unwilling to bear the weight of Vlad’s smouldering gaze.

“Never forget, Velkan,” he murmured, placing his free hand to the prince’s pounding breast, “that this belongs to me, and me alone.” He paused, allowing his hand to trail down Velkan’s open vest, coming to rest upon the tender wounds still scarring his abdomen. “I apologise for these,” he said softly, with unusual sentiment. “Know that I would have had the beast put to death were it not already destroyed.”

“There is not much to regret,” Velkan muttered, “considering that Dr Frankenstein was there for me when I needed him.”

The fingers at the prince’s throat tightened a little, reminding him of his place. “You will not see that man again,” said Vlad, darkness dripping from his every word. “I have gone to great lengths to secure him into my keeping, and I cannot allow you to meddle in my affairs. He is here to serve me, and when he has outlived his usefulness I intend to dispose of him. Save your precious tears for one who matters, Velkan. All others are worthless of your affections.”

Blue eyes returned to hollow ones, defiant and at the same time wretchedly loving. “I hate you,” whispered Velkan as the tears began to build in his eyes.

“No more or no less than I love you,” answered Vlad, and squeezed his hand about the prince’s throat until he began to sputter for air, sinking to the floor as his senses left him. The Count collected Velkan’s limp body in his arms and carried it to the chaise, where he laid the unconscious young man and checked to see that his pulse was normal—yes, he would only be senseless for a little while. Perhaps when he awoke he will have forgotten all about Victor Frankenstein.

“The things you would do to gain my confidence,” sighed Vlad, lifting Velkan’s limp hand and examining the swollen wound still on his thumb. “Unnecessary, but nevertheless endearing.” He brought the thumb to his mouth and reopened the puncture with his tongue, savouring the brilliantly warm blood that he had not tasted for many years.

“Still you are sweet inside, despite all the bitterness that shows on the surface,” the Count murmured, brushing the auburn hair from Velkan’s forehead and giving a final lick to the prince’s thumb, effectively healing the injury; he laid the hand back upon the young man’s chest, but not before wrapping the warm fingers about the cold pin of onyx, the very same pin which Velkan himself had taken from Dracula when they first had met, sixteen long years ago.

“Keep this. You have paid more than what it is worth,” said Vlad hoarsely, rising to his feet, gazing down at the peaceful-looking prince. “Sleep well.”

A few moments later the curtains were catching the tiny snowflakes as they drifted in through the open window, and a dark shadow soared north across the starry skies.

To Be Continued...