I have gotten a tiny bit obsessed with "Metalocalypse" on Adult Swim as of late. Please do not be alarmed. Everything I've read/seen as far as fan contributions go has been amazing, and I am trying to give back a little. That said, no animals were harmed in the making of this Dethklok fanfic.
Summary: Murderface gets a new pet. Rated PG-13.
Dethpiggie
It started at dinner, as most of Dethklok's ideas did. Left without the undivided attention of his bandmates and Charles Ofdensen, their manager for more than five seconds, William Murderface stuck his steak knife into the wooden dinner table, which was nonetheless a rare, expensive find that Charles kept regularly polished. Murderface's grandmother had referred to Dethklok as a bunch of "billionaire low-lifes" once. It was kind of true.
Everyone blinked at Murderface for several long seconds, and then at the knife that currently impaled the table top. It was Nathan who spoke first: "What'd you do that for, asshole?" he demanded.
Murderface glared at him. "I want ... a pet," he announced dramatically, lisping and whistling a bit through the gap at the front of his mouth.
Everyone seemed to process this. "Well," Pickles said diplomatically, drumming his hands on the table, more a nervous habit brought on by rare sobriety than his status as Dethklok's drummer, "I think that would be a good idea. It's not like you have friends or anything."
Nathan's eyes glinted as he bared his teeth in a wicked smile. "Yeah, Murderface has no friends," he grunted.
Excitedly, Toki hurried to chime in. "Yah, Murderfaces is alls, he needs a pets 'cause he hates peoples."
"Murderface wants all peoples to be his pets," Skwisgaar, who had brought his guitar to dinner and was mostly occupied with plucking the strings offered.
"I heards this one times," Toki continued, "This one times, Murderfaces cried himselfs to sleep 'cause he's fats and nobody loves hims."
Murderface raised his hand slightly. "Uh, shtill in the room," he offered. Then Charles cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at him.
"I do want to remind you all that you've attempted to keep various pets before," the slight, bespectacled, straightlaced-looking man offered calmly. "It has never gone well."
"That's ridiculoush," Murderface slurred. "We love petsh."
"You love them," Charles responded swiftly, "But they don't love you. Remember those stray kittens that Toki found?"
"It's not our faults that they founds their ways into the microwaves," Skwisgaar offered in a slow, Swedish drawl. Toki, who appeared to have repressed the incident, looked away as his eyes welled up with tears.
"And that dog you ordered off the Internet that you trained to attack Klokateers whenever it heard anyone's Dethphone go off," Charles continued, unphased.
Nathan grinned. "That was awesome," he enthused.
Charles cocked his head. "Then it wouldn't eat dog food because it grew accustomed to the taste of human flesh and I had to have it put down because it was a brutal killing machine." His neck muscles bulged ever so slightly in frustration, but none of the guys seemed to notice. Instead, Murderface tugged a crinkled sheet of paper containing something he'd printed off of the Internet out of one of the pockets on his vest. He smoothed it out and set it down towards the center of the table. Charles peered at it with slight disdain. "A guinea pig?" he queried. "You want a guinea pig?"
"Haw, because, gets it, Murderface is a pigs," Skwisgaar crowed. "Right, Toki?" Toki remained huddled in the corner, mumbling something half in Norwegian about "Fluffy and Oddballs".
Murderface ignored them both. "Yes, I want a guinea pig," he told Charles, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest. "Do they eat raw meat?"
"No," Charles said, his voice hard. "They don't."
"Oh." Murderface seemed to consider this seriously. "Well, I still want one."
Charles sighed and resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. Some days, he just didn't pay himself enough out of Dethklok's exorbitant budget to make this worth it.
They took their five-man motorcycle to a local pet store, Nathan driving. Charles stayed behind at Mordhaus doing, for all the guys knew, a facial treatment. Once there, employees and customers alike kept their distance, mostly because the sight of five, long-haired, fully-grown men decorated in metal spikes and black clothing surrounded by cages of ferrets, birds, and all nature of rodents was unsettling.
Skwisgaar and Toki went to look at the fish - Toki could be heard throughout the store pleading with Skwisgaar not to make him eat one, though nobody came to intervene. Pickles looked appreciatively at a python, while Nathan tried, failed, and quickly gave up calculating how many of the furry chinchillas staring beadily at him it would take to make him a full-length coat.
Murderface, meanwhile, had eyes only for the guinea pigs. "Look at it, guysh," he beckoned to Nathan and Pickles, similarly ignoring the two Scandanavians, one of whom now had the other (poor Toki) in a headlock. He pressed his palms and large, flat nose against the tank containing a white and brown guinea pig, who stared at him innocently with eyes on either side of its head.
Pickles dutifully strode over. "It looks like a fuzzy potato," he commented blandly, but Murderface would not be deterred. Soon, a murderous gesture from Nathan had a pet store employee scrambling over. The heavy-set young woman gingerly picked up the guinea pig, and placed it in Murderface's eager hands.
"It'sh ... beautiful," Murderface whispered, and brought the tiny creature up to his face, rubbing its fur with his scruffy cheek. The guinea pig jumped, made a 'wheeking' sound, and then bit Murderface's eyebrow. "Ow!" he yelled, and then grinned widely. "Oh, you," he gushed. Nathan and Pickles exchanged glances, and simultaneously shrugged. As Murderface threw some cash at the unfortunate sap working the night shift at the register, Pickles went to rescue Toki from Skwisgaar. Nathan slipped the chunky employee who had retrieved the guinea pig a crumpled business card, on which he crossed out "Charles Ofdensen, Manager to the Stars" and scrawled his personal cell phone number. The employee blinked at him nervously, but pocketed it nonetheless.
The five members of the most popular metal band in the world crowded around Murderface's new pet. Charles, always the professional, did not even remove his suit jacket as he worked on putting together the creature's new cage. Nobody had remembered to buy the guinea pig a home or food, so naturally, Charles had sent some of his men out for supplies, and also a thick magazine detailing the proper care and feeding of guinea pigs. He strongly doubted whether Murderface would read it, but still wanted to give the damned thing a fighting chance.
Naturally, the collective members of Dethklok were completely oblivious to everything except their immediate interest, which was Murderface's pig. "Whats are you goings to names it?" Toki asked, his eyes red-rimmed from a combination of crying over his dead kittens, being half-strangled by Skwisgaar, and having his face shoved into a pile of Timothy Hay by Nathan that, judging from the welts forming along his arms and neck, he suspected he was allergic to.
Murderface sighed happily. "Guysh, when you have a child of your own, you'll understhand the importanth of every decisthion you make concerning itsh well-being."
The other band members observed the guinea pig thoughtfully. The guinea pig 'wheeked'. "You could call it, like, Metal Mouth or something," Nathan offered. "Or Brutal."
"Aw, ja, 'Brutal the Guinea Pig', that's a very goods names," Skwisgaar said approvingly.
Murderface glared. "I'm not giving it a degrading name like Brutal," he announced sullenly.
"Degrading?" Nathan queried. The two frowned at each other. Pickles cleared his throat.
"So, ahh," he began, scratching his head. "What about like, Brutus, or somethin'? You know, like that guy from 'Julius Caesar'." The rest of the band stared at him. "What?" The red-haired drummer looked vaguely offended. "It's that Shakespeare guy, or whatever."
Silence reigned, save for Charles installing the guinea pig's new water bottle and food trough. "Brutal's better," Nathan muttered. "See? He likes it," he said, pointing at the pig. It 'wheeked'.
Skwisgaar, who was paging apathetically through the guinea pig magazine, looked up. "Are we sures that it's a boys?" he asked suddenly. "Maybe it's a girls."
"It is a girl," Charles chimed in, hoisting the newly-put together cage onto the much-abused dining room table and dusting off his pants. "It says so on the receipt."
"Ja, see, you can'ts names your girls guinea pigs a boy's names, Murderface," Skwisgaar retorted.
Murderface bared his teeth, and the space at the front of his mouth where he no longer had them. "I can name my guinea pig whatever I want!" he yelled, spitle flying everywhere. He swiped said pig off of the table, wincing as it bit his thumb. "Come on, Brutush," he lisped, and chanced petting it. It 'wheeked'. "I won't let anyone hurt you ever again." He left the room, the cage forgotten. Charles rolled his eyes and strode off in the opposite direction. The remaining band members' gazes turned towards the abandoned guinea pig homestead.
"Hey, Toki," Skwisgaar said suddenly. "I bets you five dollars that you can't eat Timothy Hays."
"I don't want to eats Timothy Hays, Skwisgaar," Toki whined, backing away in a show of suppliance. "It makes me breaks outs ..."
Nathan tuned them out as he brooded, ignoring Toki's screeching and babbling in Norwegian as he was advanced upon by Skwisgaar. "Brutus is a stupid name," the lead singer grumbled, and then decided to get drunk and start prank calling people he hated.
Some weeks later, Charles TiVo'd a news report detailing the rise in popularity of guinea pigs around the world, ever since Murderface had been seen rocking out at a Dethklok concert with Brutus on his shoulder. "Pet stores on six continents are depleting their guinea pig supplies as quickly as they get them, though it's unclear whether new owners are purchasing the creatures for pets or for -" Nathan shut the television off.
"Heys, we was watchings thats," Skwisgaar protested.
Nathan's brow was low. "Guys," he said, motioning to the two Scandanavians and Pickles - as per usual as of late, Murderface was secured elsewhere, cooing at Brutus and masturbating over gay amputee porn on his P.C. "It has come to my attention that Murderface's guinea pig is a giant pain in the ass." He gestured around the dining room, where the table and floor alike were littered with the creature's droppings. "It shits everywhere, and Murderface doesn't clean it up."
"Ja, it gots in my foods the other days," Skwisgaar complained. He gestured to Toki. "And Toki's foods."
"You puts the guinea pig poops in my foods, Skwisgaar," Toki frowned, crossing his arms.
"Irregardless," Nathan rumbled, "It's also ruining our image. Guinea pigs just aren't brutal. They're just not."
"Hello, family," Murderface called as he entered the room, Brutus on his shoulder, now sporting a tiny, studded leather collar. Underneath his usual vest, Murderface wore a shirt emblazoned with a blown-up image of the guinea pig and the band's logo.
Nathan scowled. "See what I mean?"
Months passed. Murderface gradually lost interest in Brutus and stopped bringing her with him on stage. The creature lived nominally in its (albeit, large) cage, and when the time came for the band to go on a 25-city tour for the fall, Brutus was left back at Mordhaus, under the care of Charles, who quickly pawned responsibility off on a gangly Klokateer, who had once mentioned that he'd owned a guinea pig as a kid.
When the tour was over, the band gathered around the table, which Charles had had re-sanded and re-stained in their absence. With great care, their live-in cook wheeled out a welcome-home feast, including trays of meat, several side dishes, and plenty of alcohol (each band member had his own booze preference, and the cook knew them all). Nobody helped the cook as he struggled to dispense the food all around the long table - ever since he'd been ripped limb from limb and had had to be pieced together again by some of the world's top scientists, his efficiency just hadn't been the same. Nonetheless, he could still make food, and hadn't poisoned anyone yet, so the band kept him on, albeit sighing impatiently as the cook struggled with clunky bottles of beer and wine that his thumb, which had been re-sewn on backwards, kept him from pouring without shaking a little.
When dinner was finally served, the cook bowed graciously. "Here you are, masters," he told them. "A feast, prepared for your homecoming." Then he took his cart and wheeled it back into the kitchen.
The band dug in. Murderface went right to the meat, slicing large chunks off of a nearby filet and shoveling it into his mouth. "Mmm, juicy," he murmured, his mouth full. The other members nodded and/or made affirmative sounds.
Halfway through their meal, Charles popped in, immaculate as ever. "Glad you're all home," he greeted them. "I've had your individual mail delivered to your rooms."
"Hey, thanks," Pickles nodded at him, waving a fork in the air. "You're like, the best butler ever."
Charles just harrumphed. "Oh, by the way, Murderface, your guinea pig got out of its cage when one of the employees was changing its bedding. Nobody's seen it for a couple of days." He left the room.
Murderface looked down at his plate. "Et tu, Brutush?" he murmured. Everybody ignored him.
Eventually, the cook reappeared to refill glasses and collect dishes. "This is really good stuffs," Toki complimented, pointing at the meat. "What is its?"
The cook's patchwork face appeared to take on an expression of mirth. "It is only the freshest, most succulent meat ever known to man, masters," he revealed. "Imported from South America." He picked up the television remote and flipped through some programs saved on the TiVo. "Here," he said, and clicked on a news report. Curiously, the band members tuned in.
"As quickly as it began, the world-wide rise in guinea pig popularity is down dramatically," the reporter offered with well-practiced neutrality. "However, a rising trend of consuming the guinea pigs, a practice long popularized by South Americans, has several animal rights groups up in arms -" The cook paused the report. "This is guinea pig that you are eating, masters," he offered, looking pleased with himself. "It is a delicacy."
"Aw man," Nathan said, pushing his plate away and burping. "Is that what that was? That was totally brutal!"
"Ja, I was all, 'this tastes like chickens', but I guess it wasn'ts," Skwisgaar enthused. He looked at Murderface. "Whats do you thinks, Murderface?"
The bassist was peering at his remaining food closely. Suddenly, he speared something with his fork and held it up for everybody to see: A tiny, studded collar.
Everyone was silent, shocked, though not terribly respectful. "Oh wow," Nathan finally crowed, "You ate it. You ate your own pet."
"Wowee," Toki reiterated sadly. "That's roughs, Murderface."
Murderface seemed to be considering whether he would throw a tantrum or run out of the room. Eventually, he settled for shoving his fork into the table. "Shut up, Toki," he snarled. "Why don't you go find some more abandoned kittensh and eat those?"
Toki ran out of the room, crying. Pickles concentrated on his fourth glass of whiskey, and Skwisgaar fiddled with his guitar. "Brutal," Nathan breathed appreciatively.