Pivotal moments have been known to change the minds of powerful men. For Charles Foster Ofdensen, the manager and CFO of Dethklok, this was one such moment. The brunette man lie on his back, his face battered, bloodied, and bruised. The boys would find this brutal, I bet, he thought with a pained smirk. A large figure loomed over him, grumbling something about wanting him to live. The figure pressed the end of a sharp blade to the bespectacled man's cheek and slid the cold steel down the bruised flesh, leaving a fresh trail of blood.
Suddenly, the figure was jerked off of Ofdensen's small frame. "That's my bread and butter you're fucking with," a deep, dark voice rumbled. The manager knew that voice. It was Nathan. He lifted his head slightly and squinted through the smoke. He could barely make out five figures. The large one in the middle was surely Nathan. The tallest one had to be Skwisgaar. There was one who seemed to have snakes coming from his head. Snakes? Oh, no, those were dreadlocks, and the man was Pickles. There was one who was slightly swaying. It must have been Toki. The Norwegian had been consuming quite an impressive amount of alcohol these past few days. That left the last figure to be Murderface. His boys had come for him. Amidst the burning wreckage of Mördhaus, they had come to save him.
Nathan slung the smaller man over his shoulder. As the group made their way to safety, memories flooded Ofdensen's foggy mind. The one word reverberating through his mind stung him to the core: robot. If the most brutal band in the world could drop their metal image and show some form of compassion to what they perceived to be a robot, why couldn't he drop his professional image occasionally to show some form of compassion to what he perceived to be his sons?
Before passing out from the blood loss, the most powerful man in the world made a mental note to prove to his boys that he wasn't just a robot.
