-1Chapter One: Business is DETH, Part One

Charles Ofdensen, CFO of Dethklok, sat at the front of the conference table, waiting with his hands in his lap for whatever his charges called the unexpected meeting for; as he looked around at the metal band, he made a to-do list in his head, inwardly cursing himself for not carrying some of the piles of paperwork with him to the bathroom.

"…Crystal Mountain."

"Hmm? What was that?" Charles questioned since he was not paying attention, something he rarely did.

Nathan Explosion's eyebrow knitted together even more so than usual either out of annoyance or confusion, "I said, 'We want to split from the label.'"

"Hmm!" This was interesting. "I'm not sure we could do that--you did sign a twenty CD contract just two years ago and you've only--"

"Yeah, yeah, we don't care," the lead singer interrupted, crossing his arms across his chest and tipping his chair back with one leg. "We know you're like, uh, legal wizard in these kinda…situations." Nathan's tilting became particularly precarious as he stretched his booted leg out from the table. "So, you know, tear up the contract or something."

"Is there any particular reason that you want to terminate your contract?" Charles asked, having a vague idea why they would.

Toki Wartooth decided to chirp up at the question. "Wes don't wants whats was happens whens yous gone, wit all the no-monies and shows turning-offings."

"Ah." Charles thought as much. "So, you wish to 'split' because of the concert. Understandable." He desperately wish to twiddle his fingers, but he kept control, keeping his arms at his sides. "But the contracts are very iron-clad. It could take years to break them--I suggest you just get the seventeen records done. It would take less time."

"Wes don'ts wants tos makes monies for dem dildos," Skwisgaar Skwigelf said, his nimble fingers playing scales on his unplugged guitar. "Wes wants our owns come-pan-knees unds stuffs."

"That Cor-Nickehl-Shit, Junior is a grade-A ahsshole," Pickles commented between sips of his morning Screwdriver. "None of us wahnts ta work fer thaht turd."

"Do you think you could do it?" Nathan asked, still flirting with tipping himself over.

"Well, boys…" Charles looked around. "It would be months before I make any headwa--"

"We don't care about you getting head." William Murderface tried to drive his signature dagger into the table top, but since it was recently changed to metal, it just bounced off and made annoying clickstabclack noise. "We jusht want you to get ush a record company!"

"…I suppose I could try harder," Charles exhaled.

"Go. Do that," Nathan eloquently said, stretching out his legs fully.

"Ah, Nathan," Ofdensen gave a polite cough. "I suggest you don't do that."

"Fucking robot," the singer snarled, pushing himself even further, somehow, "think he can tell--RARGH!" Nathan made a shloofph noise as he hit the ground, the air pushing out from beneath his wide shoulders and girth. "FUCKSHIT! MY BAAAAAACK!"

Charles sighed as the rest of Dethklok ridiculed Explosion. "For the record, I tried."

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Senator Stampington stood in front of the new, thirteen billion dollar screen stack, staring at the rest pf the Tribunal. Mr. Selectia nodded to him, igniting the start of the meeting. "Inside sources," he began, "have reported that Dethklok is trying to form their own record company."

General Crozier interjected. "How would this effect us? What would having their own company do?"

"Other than a complete control over whatever they put out? Complete destruction of the music industry as we know it.

"Yes, Dethklok under Crystal Mountain has already radically changed the music industry, but with Damien Cornickelson's intervention, we've been able to place a cap on death metal spread." A map filled the screen behind him of the world. Most of Northern American, Europe, and parts of Asia were covered in little Facebone-like skulls. "As you can see, the most effected DethFan sites are in densely populated areas with high industry production. Pop, jazz, and more wholesome music is still much more popular in less populated areas than Dethklok, especially among Christian fundamentalist towns." The Senator extended a hand to an Asian man in a black suit and a crew cut. "For a better sense of the matter, here's Dr. Hans Jefferjohnrichardtomifflicalrechitinalson."

The Tribunal had a collective look of astonishment, their mouths open wide enough for a horse to take a shit in.

"Heh, just kidding. 'Cause, you know, most of our experts have ridiculous names? Get it?" the Senator gave a toothy grin, waiting to see if anyone laughed.

No one did.

"Well, okay then," his mouth became frowny again, "it's not that funny--anyway, this is Dr. Jo Li, an expert on the ramifications of people who have had limited creative control over their work and what happens when they gain complete control over said work."

The doctor coughed into his hand. "Thank you, Senator Stampington.

"Dethklok has always had limited control over what they could indefinably put out, though not to their acknowledgement. Some CDs, before being ship out, had tracks altered or removed completely from the record because of their violence or message. The products have also only been shipped to certain stores in specific cities for years." The map on the screen changed to a picture of a rundown store in a seedy neighborhood. "Mostly in dirty, ghetto-like areas. Companies usually do this to produce a major failure for the band." The picture changed once again to Damien Cornickleson exchanging money with a package company employee. "Cornickelson Junior has been controlling this since the band signed to Crystal Mountain. Though, this method has had limited success with Dethklok.

"But if Dethklok has their own company, they will have complete control over the content and shipping." The map appeared again, a swarm of skulls taking over the world. "With Dethklok in total control, the DethFan syndrome will spread twelve-hundred percent faster than now.

"But there is hope.

"Since Dethklok's records have been altered, their full brutality might turn off their fans with an estimated twenty percent decrease a day. And with the absolute certainty of protest of conservatives and religious nut jobs, Dethklok's CD sales will surely suffer."

"Is there any way we can prevent this atrocity from happening?" General Crozier asked.

Dr. Jo Li nodded. "We are currently trying to get more information on the band manager, Charles Foster Ofdensen, but his past is murky."

"Yes, the my operatives have tried to get the stink on him before, but all the leads were dead ends."

"My team have deducted that his name might be a pseudonym, since his initials spell out 'CFO', his title."

"Yes," the general nodded, "my team also."

"We also have reason to believe his entire existence is fabrication! Though all his paper work checks out, it's always suspicious, like how his birth certificate says he was born in Daletone General Hospital, but the hospital, along with the library and city hall, were mysteriously burnt down, leaving no trace of the hospital, which evidently a small shopping center was built upon."

"Perhaps," the general began, raising one eyebrow, "we should look into this Ofdensen further."

"No," Mr. Selectia soft voice spread in the room. "Concentrate on Dethklok only."

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After a quick trip to the chiropractor with a masseuse and a "happy ending", Dethklok was gathered in their indoor hot tub, discussing their new record company.

"I think we should, you know, name it after one of our songs," Nathan said, enjoying the hot water on his slightly sore back. "Like Thunderhorse or, like…uh…uh….What's another good title that could sound like a company or something?"

"Hahtredcahpta?" Pickle suggested as he sipped on a colorful, rum-filled fruit drink.

"…No."

"Hows 'bouts Dethk-harmonicks?" Skwisgaar suggested. "Doesn'tk harmonicks have to dos wit de musicks?"

"Hey, yeah!" the lead singer chirped as good as someone with a gruff, gravelly, deep-ass voice could chirp.

"Whats ifs wes names it afters de Gears?" submitted Toki, wanting to have his own two-cents put in. "I tinks they woulds really ap-pre-ciates it."

"Hmmm…." Nathan rubbed his square jaw with his blacknailed hand. "Gear Records…hey, Murderface. Get my laptop and, uh, Google that shit."

"What the fuck would I want to Google that schit?"

"So we know if it's taken or not, duh."

"Okay," Murderface inflected a snarl in his voice, "I'll Google 'that schit'."

"No, Murderface, Google 'Gear Records'."

"Fine," the gapped tooth bass player spat. "'G-e-e-r spashe r-e-k-c-o-r-d-e-s."

Pickles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, no, thaht's naht how yoo spehll thaht, Murderfahce."

"How would YOU know, ashhole? Are you fucking Webshter or Wagnall? 'Caushe I don't shee some dictionariesh's ballsh in your mouth!"

"…Murderface, thaht made no sense at ahll. It made so leetle sehnse that we should commehmerahte todahy to cehlibrahte how leetle sehnse it mahde."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Nathan yelled, successfully shutting up both Pickles and Murderface. "Gimme the computer."

Murderface grumbled, but still handed the computer over with no complaints.

Nathan settled the laptop in front of him, the yellow buoys rocking the computer in a constant wave action from the jet stream bubbles. "…'Deer Records'? Yeah, Shitface's search came up with Deer Records, do we still want to do Gear? It sounds a lot alike."

"Wehll, we're obviouslee moore fahmous--I nehvar heard of a Deehr Rehcoreds, so who has?"

"Good point." Nathan typed in "gear records" into the search bar. "Meh, nothing came up Gear Records."

"So, weh're good?"

"Yeah, I think so. I looked up 'g-e-e-r' and 'g-e-r-e' and nothing came up, so, we're good."

"Sos wes is usings my ideas?" Toki practically squealed with excitement. "Wowee!"

"Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft." Skwisgaar's fingers flew faster on his guitar. "Wes uses my ideas all de times--whats dos yous tinks dat make yous spekilleds? Usekins ones of yous's ideas? Pffffft."

Toki, with an adorable-not-at-all-metal pout on his face, sunk into the waters of the hot tub, making Skwisgaar smile and increase his fingers' speed.

"Wehll," Pickles smiled, raising his half-empty (or in this cause, half-full) drink in a semi-toast, "I guess we're now Gear Records. Cheers." He poured the rest of the drink down his throat, draining around ten fluid ounces into his esophagus in less than a second.

His band mates looked at him, surprised. "Uh, Pickles," Nathan coughed, "how--how'didja do that?"

"…I rahther discuss it, ehvar…wait…I rahther nehvar discuss it. Yeah, yeah, thaht works. Nehvar-ehvar-ehvar--wehll, maybe if I gaht REALLY druhnk, if yoo ahsk 'whaht's the most disgusting thing yoo ehvar either stuhck into or had stuhck en yoo'. Maybe."

There was a very long, awkward pause.

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Charles Ofdensen had spent the last thirty-one hours bent over his desk, searching through Dethklok's contract on an half-hour nap and several pots of coffee with just a little bit of "sugar" courtesy of Pickles to, you know, get that little boost.

Charles Ofdensen does not abuse drugs…that…often.

He sipped on his latest cup of coffee, stone-cold from it not being touched for an hour. He had a splitting headache, his hair was frizzy from rubbing and scratching his skull, and the air-conditioning turned off five hours ago, making big, sweaty patches under his armpits and around his neck. He was too absorbed in his work to turn the air on again.

When Nathan had suggested that Dethklok terminate their contract from Crystal Mountain, he knew--hell, he told them that it would take months and months to figure out how. But, even if the band was a bunch of inconsiderate, narcissistic, assholes, Charles had to do it; Dethklok was after all his boys.

The small, wooden clock on the side of his deck began to chime exactly eight times; Charles had been officially working on breaking the contract for thirty-two hours. Three days….

He was going to give up. He was exhausted, stank, needed a shave, take a dump, the works. He pushed his tiredtiredtired body back from the desk, oh so wanting to soak his stiff back awa--

Oh. My. God. THERE IT IS! The LOOPHOLE! RIGHT THERE PLAINSIGHTOHMYGODHOWDIDHENOTSEEITHKGJFGLASDHASJKDKAHSDFKSHADFJH!!!???

Charles collapsed onto the desk, slipping onto the paper and almost ripping it in two (it wouldn't have mattered, anyway, since there were multiple copies). He snatched a highlighter from his penholder, knocking down the metal bin and scattering other writing utensils onto his floor. His hand made quick, precise strokes into the paper two times, exactly on the sentence. He step back, smiling on his discovery he stumbled upon, realizing then that the highlighter was blood red.

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Charles was showered, rested, and coiffured with a smile on his face. He waited until three, doing some unimportant paperwork until the band woke up and dealt with their respected handovers--or in Skwisgaar's case, wash off the smell of pie, Avon perfume, and living decay from sleeping in a pile of fat, old ladies.

The CFO walked into the living room, seeing Pickles passed out on the couch in his tighty-whities. The redhead was making gurgling, snoring sounds, drooling yellowish liquid out of the side of his mouth. Charles eyebrows rose as he noticed the thin trail of dribble snaked down to his underwear. There was a buttered popcorn yellow stain developing on his waistband and fabric.

Soon Nathan, Murderface, Toki, and Skwisgaar walked into the living room, all looking tired, grey, and in pain. All had bags under their eyes, Skwisgaar's looking almost black against his shallow skin.

"Ick," rasped Skwisgaar, "Ams feelingks sicks."

Charles looked at the boys. "Nathan, would you mind waking Pickles up? I have news."

Nathan's eyes, red and droopy like when he had that summer cold, seemed to creak to the drummer, dripping spit like a broken faucet. His nostrils flared. "WAKE UP!"

Pickles' body locked, popping himself from the couch; he screamed all the while, hitting the floor in front of the couch splayed, his leg caught on the cushion. "WHAHT THE FUCK!?"

"Boys, calm down--you could have done that, ah, nicer, Nathan."

"No. I am feeling like a fucked-up whore with syphilis." The lead singer sounded congested.

"Okay, well, first off, what did you do last night?"

"Wells…." Skwisgaar paused to move his shoulder. His bones creaked and popped. "Wes cames ups wit de names fors ours companinks; wes gonna calls its Gears Reckords unds wes justs wanteds to cel-lee-braht."

"Wes mades alls sortsa drinks ands ates candies alllllllll nights longs!" Toki's blue eyes shined slightly from the dull slate they were. "Its was metals."

"I have to schit," Murderface said.

"Ah, good," Charles nodded. "You can go do that after what I have to say, Murderface."

"Well, what ish it?"

"I have found a loophole in your contract. We can make a clean break, keep the band name, and all Dethklok related copyrights, merchandise, and such."

"Oh, wow, you did your job!" Nathan snarked.

"Buts wes gets our owns companies and everythings!"

"Shuts ups, Tokis. It too earlies."

"I should have the paperwork processed by next week."

"Wehll, thaht's great Afdehnsehn, really." Pickles waved his hand. A nameless Klokateer scurried over with a large tray filled with all sorts of colorful drinks. He took a Tequila Sunrise and shooed the servant away. "Where are we gunna live?"

"Live?" Charles didn't quite understand.

"Wehll, this place is, like, Crystahl Mountain's property. We cahn't be here, right?"

The CFO would have blanched, but he had way more self control than the average bear. "Of course, any place you would like to relocate to?"

"Hows abouts de Floreeda?"

"How about no?"

"Awes! Nat'ans!"

"NO!"

"Maybes wes cans gets that Alli-traz Islands? The ones wit the prisons? That's woulds be brutals."

Nathan looked at Toki. "WHOA! Toki! Two awesome ideas in two days? We may have to give you more candy."

"Candies be de dandies," Skwisgaar chortled, "buts de quickers ams des liquors."

"Can we get Alli-traz Island, Robot?"

Charles shrugged. "Well, you are Dethklok. I'm sure California would gladly give over Alcatraz."