Chapter One: A Dark Soul
Jean-Pierre was the only six-star chef in the world, and despite being mutilated almost beyond recognition and then crudely sewn back together by the very band he lived to serve, he was a damn good cook. So when Dethklok gathered around their massive and garish dining table that evening after the call to feast had been sounded and yet each sat there in their own lethargic stupors, not making any noticeable move to touch any of the delicacies laid out before them, the reason was unbeknownst to all.
"Dood, is it jest me, 'r does tanight's dinner not look…y'know…eh, good?" Pickles raised a pierced eyebrow, giving the portly, perfectly basted chicken—set atop an antique silver platter adorned with decorative garnish leaves—in front of him a speculative look before taking a deep pull from his tequila bottle.
"Yeah…it's like…I mean, yeah, Jean-Pierre did a crappy job, I think…did he? I mean, did he not, y'know, cook our food right? 'Cause it doesn't really look that good to me either, Pickles, is what I guess I'm trying to say." Nathan rumbled, picking up the medium-rare steak on his plate and watching the juices drip onto the porcelain before sniffing it experimentally. "I'm just having…I'm havin a really hard time expressing myself."
Murderface planted his hilariously expensive hunting knife into the slippery slab of veal on his own plate, bringing the dismembered chunk of meat up to his mouth and biting it off the tip of the knife. "I zthink it tashes awright," He mumbled approvingly, small flecks of meat and spit flying out from his inhumanly colossal gap as he spoke.
Toki sighed, stroking his Fu Manchu reverently for a moment before grinning and springing to his feet, the sudden momentum knocking his chair backward onto the floor. "Hey, does any a' you guys mind if I mace dis STUPIDS turkey?" He asked, gesturing to the pewter spiked pelvic thrust mace belt buckled around his groin.
"Uh, go ahead." Nathan muttered, resting his chin in one beefy hand and staring moodily down at his cooling steak that would've normally already been devoured had it not been for the odd lack of appetite that night.
"RRRRAHH!" Toki bellowed, thrusting forward with all his might. A thick, yellow stream of mace spurted out and shot the turkey dead-on. The flesh of the dead bird began to rapidly dissolve, bubbling and oozing away in sickening globs, leaving little greyish bones exposed.
Skwisgaar made a face at the Norwegian's antics. "Augh, TOKI, I was goings to eats dat turkey maybes, but now yous to be ruinings it fors me." He complained, fingers never stopping their reflexive dancing across the neck of his ebony X-plorer the whole while.
"'Ey, Skwiss, ken ya please jest…quiet down for a second?" Pickles groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. "I was jest startin ta get my appetite back and yer bitchin' just—"
"Shut up, Pickles." Nathan' s head snapped up, and he glared at the Irish-American drummer for a moment before letting his gaze drift to the Swedish guitarist, who was silently pouting down the table. "You too, Skwisgaar." (around the same time Pickles muttered something like 'bite me')
"Whos are yous to be tellings me to shuts up?" Skwisgaar demanded, arching a blond eyebrow and returning the vocalist's emerald glare with a challenging cerulean stare of his own. "I bes de fastest guitarists in de worlds, and yous are sittings dere tellings me to-"
"Aw, BOF a'ya zshut the hell up!" Murderface roared, stabbing his knife into the table with a resounding THWUNK and rising to his feet. "Eh, pish on thish, let'sch go out to eat."
"Oh, yeah." Nathan uttered excitedly, leaping to his feet with a sudden gracefulness that completely belied his behemoth stature. "I'm kinda feelin' like pizza."
"Oh, dood, pizza, yeah." Pickles agreed wholeheartedly, finishing off the last of his tequila and nonchalantly tossing the bottle across the room, where it landed with the sound of glass shattering against the stone wall. "Let's stop at th'bar 'fore we get back, though."
"Oh, yeah!" The five of them chorused.
- x - x - x -
Nathan parked the Murdercycle so that it awkwardly but blatantly took up five and a half consecutive parking spaces at the local Pizza Hut. Honestly, Stevie Wonder could've parked the damn thing better than the hulking frontman, but let's not start throwing insults yet.
Toki gasped in awe as they entered the restaurant (well, entered would be the politically correct term; the apt term would be more like smashed through into or hulked into, but I digress, let's move on).
"Ohhh, what's DIS place called?" His ever-curious ice blue eyes, still holding all the naïveté of a child, never lingered on one specific item for more than a second before jumping to something else flashy in the pizzeria. Though, Toki wasn't the only one in the establishment who was bugging out like this.
"HOLY SHIT, IT'S DETHKLOK!" Some douchebag wearing a Dethklok band tee about six sizes too big for his scrawny pre-pubescent ass jabbed a finger at the entrance, pizza and marinara sauce spewing out of his mouth during his exclamation.
"LYKE OMG NATHAN EXPLODE MEEEE~!" A skinny blonde with purple streaks in her hair and a labret ring shrieked from a few tables down, wringing her hands under her chin and grinning ecstatically. Stupid bitch.
Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Pffft. Wes been here almost a fulls minute ands I ain't gots no pretty ladys screamings my names yet? Dat's bulls."
Nathan furrowed his brow at the building pandemonium. "Uh, guys, maybe we should just like…get a pizza and get outta here? I mean…like, to-go?"
"Yeah, dat sounds good," Pickles' green eyes flickered rapidly across the restaurant, at the customers who were abandoning their food in favor of their metal heroes still standing in the entrance.
"HEY," Nathan shoved past the guy already standing in line waiting for his to-go order. The man looked about ready to protest but, seeming to finally take in the sheer vastness of Nathan, wisely decided to keep his trap shut. Nathan, ever the observant fellow, didn't notice this at all.
"We want, uh…we want…" He glanced over his large shoulder at the rest of the band, who were busy trying to fight off the advancing fans. "Hey, whaddyou guys want?"
"Dood, jest get us each a friggin pepperoniiowah GAD GET TH'HELL OFFA ME!" Pickles flailed, his fist connecting with the side of some overzealous teenager's face. A pair of scissors flew across the room and collided against the wooden partition. The dimwitted bastard had been trying to, apparently, cut off one of Pickles's dreads. Had he succeeded, it would likely have been the last mistake he'd ever make.
"Hellos, ladies," Skwisgaar was the only one who seemed to be comfortable with all the sudden attention. He'd sat down on the worn pleather-upholstered waiting bench near the entrance, stretching his long legs out and allowing a handful of similarly-dressed women—some of which didn't look a day over eighteen—throw themselves upon him. "I'd loves to takes yous all backs to Mordshaus, but uns-fortunatelys dere's only rooms for one of yous in de murder's cycle with me." Figures—the guitarist would love to have beautiful women fight over him. All the more attention he felt he deserved.
"Psszht, fuckin manwhore," Murderface folded his arms and glared with an unconcealed jealousy as one of the women ran her hand up the Swede's denim-sheathed thigh to probe near his crotch. Shame this was a family-oriented restaurant.
Skwisgaar had ended up choosing a very full-bodied brunette beauty to claim the coveted spot next to him in his little Murdercycle side cab. How he managed to fit the FBL and his obscenely tall self in the cab was a mystery in and of itself. But who cares, they both fit in there and the Murdercycle was currently doing eighty-five peeling out of the parking lot, five pepperoni pizzas safely held in place on Pickles's lap. He was the only one who could be trusted not to eat them before they reached Mordhaus.
And reach Mordhaus they did, pizzas unscathed and Skwisgaar's FBL half-sodomized.
"Ah, you guys cans just holds onto my pizza, I's gots business to attends to," He grinned wickedly and ushered the brunette to the spiraling staircase of stone steps and wrought iron handrails, fondling her and mumbling sweet nothings in her ear the whole way. A chorus of feminine giggles and saucy Swedish purrs echoed down the stairwell, much to the rest of the band's annoyance and envy. Well, at least until the lid of the first pizza box was lifted. Then all hell broke loose as the remaining four members of Dethklok practically leapfrog-ed over each other to get to the food.
- x - x - x -
It was 3:22 in the morning. Skwisgaar should be sleeping but he wasn't. His FBL was, though, and that was partly the reason he was up in the first place—she'd stopped moving halfway through their seventh fuck round. At first Skwisgaar had thought she'd collapsed and died of a heart attack, but after hearing her unearthly snore rattle throughout the starkly white confines of his bedroom, quickly figured out that this wasn't the case. So here he was, tired, miffed, and half-hard. He'd never had a groupie fall asleep on him before. Ever. It was as appallingly rude as it was utterly humiliating, even for Skwisgaar's standards.
The other reason Skwisgaar was awake was because he needed to piss, and badly. At first he'd just rolled over and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of his full bladder, but then he'd realized that if he did urinate maybe his half-assed erection would give way and he'd be able to relax and fall asleep. So, with a yawn and a sigh, Skwisgaar rose from his typhoid den of a bed and trudged into his own small bathroom adjoining his bedroom.
Eyes barely open, the Swede neglected to turn on the light as he crossed the threshold and oriented himself in front of what he hoped was the toilet before pissing. If it was the toilet, he needn't worry—the seat was always up. He was the only one who used this bathroom. His groupies never seemed to possess any other bodily functions besides climaxing and occasionally vomiting from too much to drink. In a sick, strange way, Skwisgaar found the latter to be positively endearing—unless it was in his mouth. That was the one thing he didn't like about getting his ladies smashed, so he usually uttered a small prayer to Odin in Swedish while pouring vodka down the throat(s) of whomever he'd chosen to take to bed with him, hoping that they'd have enough wits about them to turn their heads before throwing up all over him. If they did, oh well. Their pussies didn't puke, did they? Nope. Carry on with the thrusting.
Skwisgaar rolled his shoulders back and felt something pop, then let out a sigh of relief. He felt better now that he'd finally pissed. Maybe now he'd be able to get some fucking sleep.
The promiscuous Swede crawled back into bed a bit later, wrapping his discarded end of the rabbit-fur blanket around his naked body and curling up, closing his eyes and willing himself to drift into a faraway state of blissful indifference. Not as difficult as he'd thought it would be, seeing as his usual method of falling asleep was to fuck himself into exhaustion and collapse into unconsciousness from a combination of extreme exertion and an appalling state of inebriation, often waking the next morning with little to no recollection of the previous night save for the snoring body of whomever he'd went to bed with.
But just as Skwisgaar was about to completely release his grip on reality, he sensed an unfamiliar presence in his room. Apparently, this basic instinct was enough to jerk him from slumber into consciousness with a sudden ferocity. He rolled over and pushed himself up on his elbows, only to see the ethereally glowing form of the most exquisite woman he'd ever laid eyes on take shape a few feet above his bed, hovering like some kind of beautiful apparition.
But before Skwisgaar could open his mouth to scream, to demand what the hell was going on, to do anything, the woman spoke first.
"Skwisgaar, do not fear me," She spoke in Swedish, her voice unlike anything Skwisgaar had ever heard come from the mouth of any other female. (Not surprising, considering that most of his sluts were old whores with chronic smoker's coughs and liquor roughened tongues—not exactly lovely in anybody's definition of the word).
"Wh—who are you?" Skwisgaar replied, blinking in an attempt to discern dream from reality, half-expecting this otherworldly woman to dissolve and vanish at any second. Part of him wished she would—he was tired as fuck-all, and didn't know if he had the capacity to withstand this type of shit right now.
"I hail from the halls of Asgård, in the realm of Vanir. I am Freyja, goddess of fertility, magic, and prophecy, among others."
"Why are you here?" Skwisgaar stared up at the goddess—there was no way she was anything other than such—and waited for an answer. While he did, his eyes trailed over the long tendrils of copper-colored hair, gently flowing with all the ease of being underwater; on the ivory-skinned, sweetly curvaceous body half-hidden beneath gossamer and silk. Suddenly there was nothing in the world Skwisgaar wouldn't trade for a night in bed with her—his eyes flickered automatically to his dearest possession, his Gibson X-plorer propped up against the large Krank amp in the corner of the room.
Freyja tsk-tsked and shook her head sadly, as if she could tap into Skwisgaar's unsurprisingly dirty thoughts. Which she probably could. "I am here to bestow a gift upon you, Skwisgaar—something to help you cross over from this dark world of eternal lust and sin. I can help you see the light, Skwisgaar."
Skwisgaar furrowed his brow. Dark world of eternal lust and sin? See the light? What the hell was this beautiful goddess talking about? "I don't understand," He admitted.
"You have lain with these nameless women on too many an occasion, stealing the innocence of young virgins, further soiling the already tarnished souls of the lost ones, without any regard for the balance of right and wrong, only seeing that your own carnal desires and sins of the flesh were satiated. Now, Skwisgaar Skwigelf, I am here to save your soul from joining those that have already slipped through our fingers. I am offering you salvation."
"Salvation?" Skwisgaar echoed, arching a blond eyebrow and staring up at Freyja speculatively.
"If you bear a child of your own blood, pure as the driven snow and untouched by the filthy blood of your bedmates, you will be able to redeem yourself and gain entrance to Valhalla as a noble warrior."
Skwisgaar was so utterly fucking confused right now it wasn't the slightest bit funny. Well, maybe a little. But still. "So you're saying, if I bear a child of my own blood I won't be damned? What do you mean of my own blood? Untouched by the filthy blood?" He queried.
Freyja nodded solemnly. "You must bear a child, Skwisgaar—you alone."
What. The fuck.
"Me?" Skwisgaar's eyes widened, and his fingers reflexively clutched the blanket tighter—a reaction to stress; had he his X-plorer in his hands, the void of awkward silence in the room would be filled with the quiet metallic plinking of his fingers dancing out various scales, bridges, choruses, solos, etc., anything to keep his hands and mind busy.
"You and you alone." Freyja reiterated. "I'm afraid it is the only way."
Skwisgaar, still half-convinced that this must be a dream and therefore should harbor no long-term repercussions, decided to agree to whatever the hell the goddess was saying, if not for the enjoyment of remembering this dream later and laughing to himself.
"I'll do it."
Freyja smiled for the first time since their conversation began, and lowered down so that she hovered just above Skwisgaar. "A wise choice, my son."
Skwisgaar did not speak. He lay flat on the bed, watching, mesmerized at the way Freyja's pale and perfect hand trailed down his bare torso. Had she been a human woman, Skwisgaar would've immediately become aroused and promptly claimed her for his own, flinging her down onto the bed and pushing himself inside her with an unparalleled ferocity.
However, the Swede's depraved thoughts were interrupted when Freyja's hand stopped its trailing path to rest on his abdomen. Skwisgaar was deeply disappointed—goddess or not, he'd been hoping for a handjob, despite his previous wishes of getting rid of his leftover hard-on so he could fall asleep.
Again, as if she could read his mind, Freyja scowled and frowned up at him, but decided not to comment on it. After all, this was the whole reason she was here, after all—to stop this ridiculous behavior of Skwisgaar's. "Lie still—this will take but a moment."
Skwisgaar reached his arms back and clasped his hands behind his head, staring up at the stone ceiling, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into. Dream or no dream, this was fucked up in the extreme.
Suddenly, Skwisgaar felt a vibrant sensation of warmth surging through his core, radically intensifying and reaching out to seep into every little nook and cranny, no crevasse of his being untouched by this strange new warmth. He lifted his head up, trying to peer up and see what exactly Freyja was doing to him.
Freyja had a serene expression on her face as she lifted her hand from Skwisgaar's abdomen. "You are with child, Skwisgaar."
And then she dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind nothing save for the abrupt temperature drop in the room.
Skwisgaar's FBL snored loudly and rolled over, but did not wake from her obnoxious slumber.
Skwisgaar, too, felt himself to be oddly exhausted, strange considering what he'd just been though. It was probably just a dream, but still…Christ, Freyja was beautiful. And…was that warmth still there? He closed his eyes, callused and talented fingers tentatively grazing his stomach. Yes, yes it was.
Deciding that he'd rather dwell on this later on, after several more hours of sleep, some food, and perhaps a little alcohol, Skwisgaar relaxed and allowed sleep to take him once more, lying on his back with his fingers still pressed to his abdomen.
- x - x - x -
Skwisgaar felt completely the same in the morning, so he automatically dismissed his encounter with the divine goddess of the Vanir as an Absolut-and-exhaustion-induced hallucination.
After the brunette FBL had been escorted out of the 'haus, Skwisgaar joined the rest of the band in the game room, neglecting to send for breakfast, seeing as he wasn't hungry in the least.
"'Ey, look who jest got down from climbin th'mountain," Pickles leered, raising his beer bottle in salutation before taking a swig from it.
Skwisgaar, painfully naïve to English metaphors, disregarded the drummer's crude greeting and instead sat down on the couch beside Murderface, who was nonchalantly reading the newspaper and grumbling under his breath. Nathan was lounging in one of the armchairs, gaze fixated on the massive plasma screen suspended by hooks from the ceiling and flipping through channels with lazy kicks to the stomp box remote. Pickles sat in the other armchair, well on his way to the decent state of intoxication he deemed necessary to make it through the day. Toki was gyrating on the DDR machine across the room, the occasional 'oh wowie, new high's score!' or 'dammit! Stupids game is too hards!' emitting from his mouth. Everyone had a niche in this game room; suddenly Skwisgaar felt awkward, uncomfortable, out-of-place. So he decided to make himself feel better the only other way he knew how—insulting those who were enjoying themselves more than he was.
"Hey, dildo," He called to Toki, who was ignoring him. "Yous looks like yous got de epi…epsilep…el…like you has de seizure, hm?"
Toki, panting and covered in sweat, hopped off of the dance machine and flicked his insanely long and awesome brunette hair over his shoulder before glancing over at Skwisgaar. "Did yous say some'tings, Skwisgaar?"
Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Never minds," He muttered, turning to face the TV. "Hey, Pickle, does you haves any more of de beers?"
"Eh…think I drank 'em all," Pickles smiled lopsidedly, upending the current bottle he held before dropping it on the floor to join the appallingly large pile of other bottles.
"Pffft." Skwisgaar folded his arms and pouted in silence after that.
The day went by slowly, uneventfully, with Dethklok lazing away in the game room for the vast majority of the time. Around seven that evening, Ofdensen stormed in, stack of papers in hand and heated expression on his otherwise glass-smooth badass executive face.
"Boys, why the hell aren't you in the studio?" He demanded. "You haven't been working on the new album at all since the release of the Dethalbum, and your fans are dropping left and right from suicides brought on by your inactivity." He threw the papers—suicide notes, legal documents, court files, etc.—down on the spiked coffee table, folding his arms and scanning the face of each band member for any signs of remorse. Or life, for that matter.
"Huh huh," Nathan chuckled at the episode of Cheaters he was watching on G4. He'd become quite taken by shows about failing relationships ever since he'd broken up with Rebecca Cuntrod—I mean, Nightrod. Aside from that, no one else seemed to take any notice to what Ofdensen had just said.
Ofdensen sighed exasperatedly. "Look, these fans are your primary source of income—if they die, you lose everything," He dumbed his explanation down as best as he could, hoping for a more exuberant reaction from the band.
"WHAT?" Pickles flailed, vodka spilling onto his tank top. "Ya mean we lose all'r money?"
"ZAT'S TERRIBLE!" Murderface screamed, piss-yellow eyes widening in horror at the thought of not being able to frivolously purchase medieval antiques and add to his vastly extensive knife collection whenever he pleased.
"WHHHYYYYYYY?" Skwisgaar wailed dramatically, throwing an arm across his forehead in emphasis.
Ofdensen's face was expressionless. "If you do not want this to happen, I suggest you get in the studio and…you know, start working on that album. Come on, let's go. Let's go. Studio. Now. Let's Go."
Nathan grimaced and uttered a long, guttural sigh. "Dear god, you're a dick." However, he did heave himself out of the chair in which he'd been fused to all day, cracking several joints as he did so. "Come on, guys. We've gotta…y'know…we've gotta start workin on that album or we'll lose money."
With disgruntled but resigned noises of dismay, the four other members of Dethklok trudged behind Nathan as they left the game room and made their way toward the studio.
Ofdensen smirked, gathering up the pile of fake suicide notes from the coffee table. "I knew forging these would be a good idea."
- x - x - x -
A little over a month into their recording session, and Dethklok had made minimal, if any, progress on the new album. Nathan had a bad case of writer's block, and when he could manage to think of something of a song idea, it was usually only a sentence or two, so for now they were just devising possible rhythms, hoping it would trigger some form of lyrical epiphany.
"Hey Pickles, d'ya think you could up the tempo on the double bass in that last bridge?" Nathan suggested one afternoon in the studio, pressing the button that enabled the talk-back mic to be activated.
"Dood, are you fuckin outta yer mind? Fer Chrissakes, I'm gonna have a heart attack if I go any faster!" Pickles yelled, flailing his drumsticks about, dreads flying, obviously panicking the thought of attempting to increase his already inhuman drumming speed. Double bass was not to be fucked with. It took a staggering amount of stamina to keep this technique up throughout a show, one of the main reasons Pickles was always so skinny.
Nathan sighed, burying his face in his arms. "Fuuuuucckk…"
"Shtop bein such a wussch, Picklesh," Murderface goaded from the couch. He was bored and annoyed, and therefore in the mood to instigate.
"I'm a wuss? How bout'cha git'chYER fat ass in here an'have at it!" Pickles snarled, throwing his drumsticks down and standing up. "Fuck yer fuckin mother double bitch bass, I'm takin a break. Need sum fuckin booze." And just like that, he left the studio, without any death threats from Nathan or teasing from the guitarists.
"Hey, FUCK YOU, pal!" Murderface hollered after the drummer, only to receive a middle finger in reply. He grumbled and settled back into the couch.
Toki leaned over to Skwisgaar, brow furrowed. "How comes Pickle gets to walk off likes dat? If wes did somethings like dat Nate'ns would kills us!"
"I dunno, Toki." Skwisgaar replied. "Pickle does what he wants, when he wants. Nate'n knows is useless to try and stops him, I's to be guessing."
"Dat's not fair." Toki pouted, folding his arms and pursing his lips, causing his Fu Manchu to jut forward.
"Lives is not fair, Toki. You justs has to get useds to it." Skwisgaar shrugged airily, idly fingering the strings of his X-plorer.
Nathan pivoted around in his chair, eyes set on the remaining members like the target of a sniper rifle. "All right guys, Pickles'll be back soon and we work on the main rhythms then, so for now, we gotta work on the licks. You." He jabbed a black-lacquered finger at Skwisgaar. "Get in there and show me what you got. Try and figure something out to go with the drums. Harmonize, y'know."
Skwisgaar, oddly complaint-free, hoisted himself up and carried his guitar into the recording booth, adjusting the headphones over his ears and plugging his axe into the amp sitting in the corner. The buzz of harnessed electricity filled the small space, eager to be unleashed in the form of PURE FUCKING METAL.
"You ready, Skwigelf?" Nathan settled back into his chair, finger poised and ready over the 'record' button.
"Ja." Skwisgaar replied, his own fingers poised and ready on the neck of his Gibson.
But suddenly, like right fucking just now, he wasn't so sure. He felt the beginnings of unnerving nausea stir within, completely and totally unbidden, and he resisted the urge to groan. He was sure Nathan could see it on his face, because instead of pressing 'record' he paused and did a double-take on the Swede. "You sure? You're not…I mean, you're not, y'know…look like you're gonna puke or somethin."
"Ja, I's fine. Let's just do dis and gets it overs with." Skwisgaar pressed his mouth into a thin line and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hoping the adjustment would help chase away this sudden sensation of feeling his intestines reverse themselves.
"All right," Nathan grunted. "I'm gonna playback what we got of Pickles's drums so far, and you can just, y'know, listen and jump in whenever you feel like it. As long as you do it." And with that, he pressed playback and record at the same time.
Skwisgaar tried to concentrate on the steady, pulsating staccato drumbeat, toes tapping inside his boots, the musician part of his brain meshing and composing, and he found himself playing along on his guitar, the riffs being not so different from the dozens of others he'd played on their last album. Apparently, they were going for the same sound on this one. That should be easy enough.
WHAM! And just like that, the little trickle of nausea exploded into a full-blown surge, and Skwisgaar let the lick he was shredding abruptly die. The buzz of the amplifier filled the sudden void of silence in the studio, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, not even able to take his guitar off before doubling over and throwing up all over the floor of the recording booth.
"Augh, what the fuck, Skwisgaar?" Nathan made a face, jabbing the stop button. "You were doing pretty good until just now. Damn."
"Looksh like shomeone'sh been hittin the bottle," Murderface smirked evilly, his gap blindingly THERE. "Way t'go, Shkwishgaar."
Skwisgaar blinked in disbelief and confusion, staring down at the vomit on the floor. His head reeled in the aftermath. He shrugged his guitar off his shoulders and propped it up against Pickles's drumset, staggering out of the recording booth. "Someone else cans goes in dere," He mumbled before slipping out of the room.
He passed Pickles in the hallway. The drummer was looking considerably more cheerful, probably had something to do with his eyes being considerably more glazed. He smirked and raised his bottle in greeting. "'Ey, Skwisgaar!" Then he squinted, and apparently got a better look at the guitarist. "Dood, ya look worser'n I do! You 'n Nate'n get'n a fight'r somethin?"
Skwisgaar shook his head, only half-hearing the drummer's words. He needed to get the taste of puke out of his mouth, and seeing Pickles's tequila had only reaffirmed this fact. He eyed it fervently.
"Pickle, I could maybes have a sips of dat?" He gestured to the tequila, a hopeful expression on his face.
Pickles looked back and forth between his booze and the Swede, then burst into guffaws. "Yeah, not fuckin likely! Go find yer own, dood." He was feeling pretty sassy by now, and ready to go confront Nate'n. Skwisgaar was getting in the way.
Normally, Skwisgaar would've just pfft'ed and called the drummer a name before stalking off to the kitchen to raid the liquor stash by himself, but these weren't normal circumstances. Completely abnormal, even. So, bearing this in mind, Skwisgaar put a hand on Pickles's shoulder as he was walking away and said: "Please?"
Even in his appalling state of intoxication, Pickles could realize that Skwisgaar was serious—he really fucking needed a drink. "Ah, jeezez. Jest fuckin take it." He shoved the tequila at the Swede and sighed.
Skwisgaar snatched it up, unscrewed the cap and finished off the already half-empty bottle before handing it back to the vexed drummer. "T'ank you, Pickle. I was really needings dat—" His eyes widened, and he pivoted and hauled ass down the hallway to the nearest bathroom.
Pickles blinked unsteadily, then cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, "DOOD! IF YA CAN'T HOLD YER LIQUOR'N DON'T FUCKIN ASK FOR IT! Douchebag…"
- x - x - x -
Skwisgaar was alone in his room that night. He hadn't the energy to entertain any groupies, but he still couldn't just go to sleep without playing a little guitar first. So there he sat on the edge of his bed, clad in nothing at all, X-plorer resting on his lap as he fingered along to the rhythm ticking out from his metronome, set to a ridiculously high-speed tempo. Around 250 beats per minute, give or take, depending on how much thinking Skwisgaar needed to get done.
He was in the middle of the solo to "Thunderhorse", the one that would normally be accompanied by Toki's galloping rhythm, when there was a knock at the door.
Brow furrowing, Skwisgaar yelled 'comes in' to whoever was standing outside his room, all the while not deviating from the riff or stopping the metronome.
Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear; Toki edged open the heavy wooden door to Skwisgaar's bedroom and stood there for a moment before offering a casual, "Hellos."
"Hellos, dildo." Skwisgaar replied, still not looking up at his visitor. "Whys you to be knockings on my door dis late, hm? Shouldn't little dildos like you bes in beds by now?"
Toki didn't seem offended by this suggestion; he knew it was simply Skwisgaar's way of showing curiosity and possibly concern for the Norwegian. "Ah, I just comes to tell you dat we's playings de Scrabbles downstairs. You shoulds joins us, Skwisgaar!" He smiled expectantly, watching the Swede for any sort of reaction.
Skwisgaar sighed, stopping the metronome and turning to face the exuberant Toki. "I don'ts really feels like it," he responded, looking down at his guitar.
Toki's face fell a bit, but he quickly recovered. "Suits yourselves, Skwisgaar." He turned and bounded down the hallway, leaving the bedroom door ajar.
Skwisgaar frowned at this; he propped his X-plorer against his bed and stood, crossing the room in two strides and slamming the door shut. He then sighed wearily and slid down with his back against the wood, as if this act had maxed out his the last of his energy reserves. "Stupids dildo-head, barging in my bed's room and leaving de doors open…stupids rude…Toki."
Everything in his room took on a strange fuzzy haze; the edges of what little furniture there was in the small room were blurred, dissolving; shadows diluted into a disconcerting grey tweed. Skwisgaar slumped over onto the cold stone floor and closed his eyes, feeling sleep overtake him with all the sweet asphyxiation of a drug-induced coma.
He dreamt of Freyja again that night. He woke from the sudden change in the air—it was warmer, heavier, but not uncomfortable as it would be under any other circumstances.
Bleary, unfocused, Skwisgaar raised his head and stared groggily at the goddess of Vanir in all her divine glory, not hovering above him as she'd been last time, but now casually perched on the end of his bed, one long slim leg thrown over the other, watching him with an expression that might've been mild amusement. "We meet again," She smiled and tilted her head, as if the slight change in perception would enable her a whole new angle by which to observe him.
Skwisgaar rubbed at one sleep-filled cerulean eye, positively certain he was dreaming, and sat up so that he leaned against the heavy wooden door, knees brought up to his chest and arms wrapped around his shins. "Ja. Why are you here?"
Freyja arched her neck, her brilliant copper waves of hair undulating over her ivory shoulder, exposed by the loose-fitting white gossamer gown she wore. "Aren't we the demanding one? Oh, well; I suppose I shouldn't be bothered by your hasty inquiry—I'm here to check in on the pureblood, Skwisgaar. I mean you no harm."
Skwisgaar thumped his head against the door, eyes rolling back in his head. Not this shit again. "I don't know what you're talking about—I don't have any pureblood around here, sorry."
Freyja laughed at that; the sound was so achingly beautiful Skwisgaar swore he'd never be able to listen to any groupie's girlish giggle ever again. "Don't lie to me, Skwisgaar—I always remember my chosen ones. If my calculations are correct, you're around two months along, ja?" When Skwisgaar didn't reply, she continued. "Ah, yes. Your lust-tainted soul is well on its way to redemption. This child will be born a saint, revered greatly by all in the great hall of Asgård."
Skwisgaar realized he wasn't going to get anywhere insisting that this was all a big, fucked-up joke and there was no child, no redemption for him—it was only a dream, after all. He decided to play along. "Of course it will—it's my kid, after all."
"I would normally chide you for being so readily standoffish, but your pride is quite welcome in this context, Skwisgaar." Freyja rose from the bed, gossamer folds of her gown billowing to the floor with such a gentle grace as to put fine-spun silk to shame. She glided over to Skwisgaar and knelt down next to him so that their faces were almost touching. "If I may…"
Skwisgaar felt his heart skip a few beats as the goddess slid her hand down his thigh; he immediately lowered his legs, looking down at his crotch expectantly, feeling somewhat disheartened when he felt her hand on the taut muscles of his stomach. "What are you doing?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Freyja's face darkened, and without drawing her hand away, looked up at Skwisgaar, her gaze stern. "You've been drinking the poison of mortals, haven't you?"
Poison of mortals…drinking…oh. "Ja, mostly tequila and vodka. Why? That's the good stuff, you know-"
"It is not good for the pureblood, Skwisgaar. You ought to avoid such discrepancies in the future."
"Are you telling me I'm not allowed to DRINK?" Skwisgaar's voice rose in incredulous outrage—at this moment he didn't give a rat's ass if Freyja was a goddess; there was no way in fucking HELL he was cutting himself off from booze. Besides, alcohol made him feel good, so why the hell would it be bad for this 'child' of his?
"If you continue on your path down this road of sin and self-destruction, the pureblood will die, and the realm of Vanir will forever weep the loss of their beloved child." Freyja proclaimed. She snatched her hand away and stood in the same fluid motion, glaring silently down at Skwisgaar.
"Pffft." Skwisgaar folded his arms, his only other defense mechanism kicking in as he stared down at the floor and sulked like a petulant child.
Freyja's expression cooled, and she leaned over slightly, gently tilting Skwisgaar's chin up so that he might face her. "You will grow to love this child, Skwisgaar. I can feel it in the pulses of the Norns, and they never lie." Her accompanying smile to this declaration was almost maternal. "Fate has something magnificent planned for you, and for your child. Once this trial has come to pass, you will be hailed as worthy to enter the halls of Valhalla as a noble warrior."
Skwisgaar did not smile; however, he didn't pout or glare, either. "I don't see why," He mumbled.
Freyja chuckled and withdrew her hand. "In time, my dear."
And, like in Skwisgaar's last dream, she faded away with no sound, no sudden extravagance; albeit, he could feel the warmth unfurling inside of him like a furred serpent where Freyja's hand had been. He looked down to see if anything had changed, and while he looked the same externally, he knew something radical was going on in there.
For being a dream, it sure felt real as fuck.
- x - x - x -
For the next couple of weeks, Skwisgaar wouldn't have been able to disobey Freyja's commands even if he wanted to. He was sober at all hours now, and yet he was throwing up enough to compensate for this thrice over, possibly more. Alcohol of any sort was certainly out of the question.
This, of course, meant one less member for Dethklok's mandatory all-night boözefests. The first time Skwisgaar declined the offer to join, the others were astounded—the Swede refusing to drink? Laughable. Pickles tried needling him into it, Murderface attempted getting a rise out of derogatory insults, Toki even made a go at coaxing, with no avail. After Skwisgaar had walked away, they'd all just shrugged and turned back to their motley assortments of bottles, thinking nothing of it after that.
Except that it persisted. And it wasn't just the boözefests where Skwisgaar's performance was lacking—he often showed up late for rehearsals, looking visibly exhausted and wan, and other times he wouldn't even show up at all. Most of the band passed it off as lack of sleep or just being a dickbrain in general, but Toki could sense something more sinister brewing underneath the surface.
It all started when Skwisgaar missed a note during practice one day. Skwisgaar Skwigelf, fastest guitarist alive, the best of the best, an almighty god among metalheads, actually fucked up a riff.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to gape shamelessly at the Swede.
"Dood, did you jest do what I think ya did?"
"Holy schit, Shkwishgaar mished a note!"
"Whoa….you feelin all right?"
Toki was the only one who said nothing. His reaction was perhaps the worst—ice blue eyes wide, stricken, staring; mouth pressed into a thin line. At that point he knew it was something more than just lack of sleep. Something was seriously wrong with the Swede, and he made it his solemn duty to find out what.
Skwisgaar's fingers trembled; he looked down at his hands with incredulous disgust, as if blaming them solely for his mistake. "I ams…sorry, I don'ts…ah, I don'ts know what's has gotten into me." He mumbled, awestruck.
"Dood, Skwiss, ya look like hell. Go get sum fuckin sleep, will ya?" Pickles raised his pierced eyebrows to add emphasis to this statement.
"Pickles is right," Nathan added, turning around fully to face the lead guitarist. "You look like you're dying slowly of some…I mean, like some…life-sucking parasite or something." The singer's eyes widened then, and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "That is so fuckin metal. I gotta write that down!" He proclaimed, voice raising an octave in excitement, and thundered out of the rehearsal auditorium to go retrieve his notebook.
"If I may interzchect for a moment," Murderface piped up, clearing his throat. "Shkwishgaar, to be perfectly honesht, your guitar playingsh been shounding…nnnnnoott ash good ash it could be. It jusht, it lacks…zazz." He paused to gauge the Swede's reaction, the continued. "Your lack of shleep obviouzhly shuggeztsh you've got shome problemsh weighin' you down. I jusht wanna let you know…I'm alwaysh here to lishen. You're welcome to come and talk to me anytime you want, buddy."
Pickles, Toki, and Skwisgaar all gave the obviously fucked-up bassist a long look. And then Skwisgaar slid his X-plorer from his shoulders, turning back to the drummer and rhythm guitarist. "I be t'inkings…I's needing sleeps." And with that, he left the auditorium just as Nathan was skipping back in, face holding all the blinding joy of any lyricist who's just discovered a way to beat his writer's block. Too bad Skwisgaar was too sick and tired to stick around and see the end results unfurl themselves—it would undoubtably be epic.
As soon as rehearsal ended, Toki immediately headed for Skwisgaar's room with the fast, straightforward strides of a man with a purpose.
"Skwisgaar?" He knocked at the Swede's bedroom door, tentatively at first, but when there was no answer he began banging on the the wood. "Skwisgaar, I know you's in dere! Opens up, I wants to has a talk with you!"
Finally, after what seemed like several minutes but was really only a couple, Skwisgaar flung the door open—and Toki gasped. The Swede's long blond hair was in disarray, sticking to his shockingly sallow face by way of a thin layer of sweat; he had circles under his eyes so dark they put his onstage corpse-and-black-eyepaint makeup to shame; he appeared to be so weak that he needed to lean against the doorframe to support himself. "Whats de fucks you want, Toki?" He rasped.
"Talks," He repeated. "About why yous so sick all de times lately."
There was silence for a moment before Skwisgaar realized that no amount of cajoling would deter Toki—the hardened worried expression on the Norwegian's face said he wasn't going any-fucking-where until he got some answers. With a weary sigh, Skwisgaar stepped aside and gestured inward to his room with an extended arm. "Comes on, dildos."
They sat on the edge of the bed, the blanket rumpled where the Swede had thrown it aside after hearing Toki banging on the door. He hadn't really intended to fall asleep as per Pickles's suggestion, but after reaching his room and setting eyes on his bed, the urge was immediate and violent—he hadn't even bothered to strip his clothes off before lying down, drawing the fur blanket over himself, and slipping into a deep and blissful nap before being so rudely awakened.
Stupid dildo Toki, being such a barbaric, intrusive asshole. Honestly, he really had no right barging into Skwisgaar's personal business, and the Swede was just about to vocalize this fact when Toki opened his mouth first: "Boy, you really looks terrible, Skwisgaar."
"I knows," Skwisgaar sighed, clasping his hands together and looking down at them, twiddling his thumbs absently. "Is just froms not sleepings, I ams guessing."
"No, no, Skwisgaar, is not just dat," Toki persisted. "You is not been joins-ing us in de festivals of drinkings, either. Why is dat?"
Skwisgaar pursed his lips and stared straight ahead, down at the floor, to his left, anywhere but to his right, where the overly curious Norwegian sat next to him. What could he say, that he was carrying the 'pureblood' child belonging to himself and the realm of Vanir? That this 'blessed miracle' had resulted from a late-night encounter with a goddess of Asgård? Not fuckin likely. "Is none of your business, dildos. Why is you here, anysways? Shouldn't yous be in de re-hoars-al halls?"
"Practicionings is over, Skwisgaar. I comes to checks in on yous." Toki replied. "You is sick, aren't yous? What is to be de matter's with you, Skwisgaar?"
"IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, TOKI." Skwsigaar shouted, suddenly angry and not quite sure why. However, the anger quickly dissipated when he saw the hurt expression on Toki's face. He sighed and ran a hand through his already-tousled hair. "I don't knows whats is de matters wis me, Toki. Is not really anyt'ings for yous to be worry-inkgs about, though."
"But I is worrieds about you, Skwisgaar," Toki persisted. "You is big sluts-bastard, but you is also my friends. I don't wants to be seeings you sick like dis!"
Skwisgaar said nothing for a moment, letting Toki's words sink in before he closed his eyes and pointed to the door. "Just leaves me alones, Toki."
And then, without any comments or protests, amazingly enough, the Norwegian stood and made his way across the room, opening the door and making as if to leave, but before he acutally did so he glanced over his shoulder and said to Skwisgaar: "Fine. Stays in here and dies, you stupids selves-fish asshole."
The door swung shut behind him.