The Way They Were
Sometimes, he wishes that Dethklok had never formed.
Sure, it's nice to have more money than they know what to do with. It's nice to have servants to cater to their every whim. It's nice to go out on stage to millions of screaming fans, and know that they would do anything for you - even literally die for you.
But sometimes he misses the way it used to be. When it was just him and Nate in a crappy one bedroom apartment with no prospects and no money, sleeping in the same bed which totally wasn't gay because they had to share body heat because it wasn't their they'd spent the utility bill money on booze and weed. (Okay, maybe that was their fault. But it still wasn't gay.)
He misses the days where he called him 'Nate' and Nate called him 'Will' and they could honestly call themselves friends, none of this no-caring bullshit. He misses the nights spent watching shitty horror movies on basic cable. He misses being at yet another shitty gig to try to pull in some income so they won't get evicted again, and looking out into the audience and seeing his face there, no matter how un-brutal the music was.
He misses the days before the others.
Toki is all right; he's just a kid, and not too bright at that. He's fun to pal around with, but it isn't the same, and he can't pretend it is. Palling around with Toki is more like being a babysitter. He supposes he feels a certain kinship with the rhythm guitarist; they're both marginalized and ignored and second-class citizens in their own band. But Toki deserves that treatment; he's a replacement. Magnus might have been a dildo-licking jackoff, but he had more talent that Toki will ever have.
He's been in Dethklok since before there was a Dethklok. He doesn't deserve this treatment.
If he has to put his finger on where everything went wrong musically, it would be when Skwisgaar joined up. The Swede was arrogant enough to believe that anything not written by himself could only be dildoes, and so insisted on writing every part by himself - even the bass lines.
He stands there, day after day, week after week as the Swede shows him new basslines, and day after day, week after week, he plays them poorly, forcing Knubbler to mix him out; drawing the ire from his bandmates. He doesn't care; it's his own form of silent protest.
He knows he could write basslines that are ten times better than Skwisgaar's. They just don't give him the chance anymore.
He stopped caring about the music after that.
He misses the days before Pickles.
He hadn't trusted the drummer right off the bat. There was something about the way that Nate looked at him, that just turned his stomach. It began slowly - they wrote lyrics together. He knows he's not a writer; it makes sense that Nate and Pickles would do that. Then they began palling around. Drinking together, the way that he and Nate had done, in the early days, the days when everything was hard but so real, the days he cherishes, if he's ever cherished anything, and will never stop wishing to go back to.
The day he realized that Pickles was taking his place in Nathan's life, he swore a private little war.
If there's anything he knows about, it's war.
He's hated many people before in his life. But he's never hated anyone as much as he hates Pickles.