Thin, pale fingers danced across the strings, regardless of whether or not the shining black and white Gibson Explorer was plugged in to an amplifier. The fingers demanded that the frets produce the inhumanly fast melody. The frets, in return, whispered notes and chords up and along the fingers, creeping up the bare arms, climbing up the platinum blonde hair, crawling into the ear canal, and taking up residence in the brain. The pale, icy blue eyes began to shine, life springing into their normally dull depths. The full, pink lips pulled themselves from their usual sneer to curl themselves into a small smile. The owner of all these things was lost in his own world, where cocaine-addicted sluts and their abusive boyfriends faded away, where whiney dildoes could not reach with their sticky fingers or sharp pocket knives, where drugs and alcohol could not bring their abusers and robots could not calculate the distance required to travel there, and where brooding lyricists could never come close to describing. Only music existed here. Only the notes and chords and beautiful riffs comprised this world.
The Ice King was not aware that he was being watched by eyes a paler shade of blue than his own.
These paler, younger eyes watched the fingers of the Swedish guitar god, committing the movements to memory. Stubbier Norwegian fingers itched to copy these movements, to coax the same heavenly sound from the Gibson Flying-V. The young mind told the fingers that later, when all was dark and demons disguised as a reverend and his wife began to creep in to wreak havoc, that this pattern of fingers sliding on strings from fret to fret would be repeated in a slower manner in order to drive the demons away. For now, there was no need for hiding behind melodies. Sunlight still touched this part of the earth and demons never left the sanctity of pitch-black darkness. Now was the time to build models, to play games, to pal around, to eat candy until the diabetic coma set in. Now was the time to be happy. The pale eyes twinkled. The sugar-coated lips pulled themselves into a grin. The well-defined muscles coiled with a new energy. The owner of these things took off in a dead-pan run and, nearing the hot tub, launched himself into a flying chestnut-haired, sugar-hyped ball of Norwegian rhythm guitarist. He cannon-balled into the warmth of the tub, splashing its lone, Swedish occupant and bringing the guitar god back down to earth.
"TOKI, WHATS IN DE FUCKING NAME OF ODIN DOES YOUS T'INK YOUS AMS DOING?!" the lead guitarist thundered, laying the prized extension of his hands aside to wring the water from his golden locks. The rhythm guitarist only looked up at his victim and grinned like a five-year-old who had just received his Christmas wish. "Wells, I ams waitings!" the blonde shot, drying off his guitar. The younger man only burst into a fit of giggles.
At this undue giggle fit, Dethklok's lead guitarist lunged at the rhythm guitarist, using his entire body weight to drive the younger man's head under the water. Skwisgaar held Toki under for a considerable amount of time, until finally Toki began flailing his arms and splashing Skwisgaar even more. He let Toki up for air and glared at him.
"Aw, I's just havings de funs, Skwisgaar! I's started to gets bored watchings yous play," Toki whined. He stuck his bottom lip out and let his eyes go wide and watery. As much as Skwisgaar hated to, he had to admit, even if only to himself, that he absolutely could not ignore a good Norwegian puppy face. He rolled his eyes at the younger man and said, "Pfft. Dildo."
From across the room, a loud belch issued, followed by an, "Aw, schit!" The two guitarists looked in the direction of the arcade games to find one William Murderface standing in front of his favorite game and scratching his bottom. Both Scandinavians made disgusted faces at the sight. The older man turned around in time to see Skwisgaar pretending to gag and Toki losing himself in another giggle fit. He raised both hands and flipped the guitarists off, saying, "Aw, fuck you guysh!" before turning back around to start another round on his game.
"Hey, Murdersface, maybes you shoulds nots looks at de screens. Den maybes you beats yous game. I t'ink yous ams scaringks de littles dildoes mans whats yous ams playingks as," Skwisgaar called to him. The bassist did his best to ignore the lead guitarist, hunching his shoulders and grumbling to himself. The blonde man did not like being ignored, so he silently climbed out of the tub and crept up behind his new target. He leaned his head as far over Murderface's shoulder as he could without the older man taking notice and, without warning, issued an ear-shattering screech. This was followed by a deeper scream from the bassist.
"I'M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU SCHON OF A BITSCH!!!" Murderface bellowed as Skwisgaar took off running. He pulled his large pocket knife from its usual resting place and began to chase the offending Swede. As they ran from the room, they almost trampled a pickled Pickles. Neither man stopped to apologize. Used to this behavior, the drunken drummer walked on towards the hot tub to join Toki.
As the older man climbed in, the Norwegian slid further down into the warm water until only his head was visible. A blush rose on his face. Pickles took note of this and queried, "Why're ya blushin'?" He then followed Toki's gaze, which happened to be directed at his crotch. His very naked crotch. "Well, what're ya gonna do?" he asked himself, shrugging his shoulders and sitting in the tub.
Toki still stared at the redhead, his face growing redder with the unwanted thoughts going through his mind. A bored Norwegian was never a good thing. It generally led to trouble. Today was no different.
Soon, Nathan joined his drummer and his rhythm guitarist in the hot tub, sighing a long, heavy sigh as he sat down. Judging by the cut on the front man's face, Pickles guessed he'd fallen victim to the chase that had ensued between Murderface and Skwisgaar. Toki noticed the small trickle of blood, too, and asked, "What's happens to you face, Nat'ens?"
The dark-haired man just glared at the Norwegian, growling, "Toki, you know the rules. We're not supposed to care about each other." Toki sighed in reply and let his question go unanswered.
The youngest member of Dethklok assessed his current situation: Skwisgaar was busy running for his life; Murderface was chasing after the Swede; Pickles was drunk and naked, which only brought more unwanted thoughts to Toki's mind; and of course, Nathan was being his usual, distant self. Toki resigned himself to the fate of another boring day at Mordhaus.
He made a mental note to talk to the manager later about possibly visiting an amusement park, or maybe even building his own. For now, however, the world's second-fastest guitar player was more than content to sit in the hot tub with his pals and be bored. It was these moments that he could be led to believe he actually had a family. These moments erased all thought of whip-wielding demons who masqueraded as his parents. These moments gave him hope. Toki decided that for now, curing his boredom could wait. For now, he would sit in the hot tub and enjoy the company of his brothers.