Author's Note: I'm back with another Ofdensen-centered story! Well the finale really kind of warranted one. What a great episode! But I won't gush. I didn't want to do just another Ofdensen-wakes-up-after-beating story, I wanted to create a whole new twist. So here it is! I hope it translates well, if it doesn't make sense, please don't hesitate to say so.
I hope you enjoy!
I don't own these people and the places are pretty much all made up.
"Welcome to the national news at 6, I'm Emily Nakahara with breaking news regarding the highly anticipated release of the latest Dethklok album." The television blared through voice-altering static, flashing images of flames and burning bodies. "It has been confirmed that there has been a massive fire at the Dethklok manor. Authorities suspect it was a case of arson committed by unruly fans late last night, but Channel Nine has an exclusive story tonight on the recent arrest of Dethklok manager, Charles Foster Ofdensen. Authorities will not confirm whether this arrest is related to the arson, nor will they verify the rumor that the Dethklok record was destroyed in the fire. Stay tuned, because after the break Channel Nine's own Don Pope will be sitting down with a former Dethklok janitor who says he once saw Mr. Ofdensen, walking down a hall. Should be enlightening, stick around."
Charles Foster Ofdensen was once again surprised at what he saw when he woke up. He was accustomed to opening his eyes to the profits of his difficult line of work, manifested in nice things around him. Satin drapes, Persian rugs, gold plated mirrors, these were luxuries that were painfully absent from his new residence. Instead, what he saw when he put on his glasses was a stark concrete wall, and to his right, an uncomfortable bed identical to the one he lay in, occupied by a truly massive man known only as Tonto. It had been three painful days and four restless nights he had spent in North Texas high security prison, and he still had only a vague theory as to what he was doing there.
The memories of the release night were blurry for Ofdensen. He only knew that he had passed out just after Nathan had arrived, his savior, and then woken up alone in a hospital room. The place had seemed far too sterile, even for an emergency room, and it had given him a chill down his spine, a sensation he thought he'd outgrown since the second year as Dethklok's manager. He had not felt good in that room. It was obvious that whoever had tended to him did not finish the job. Though his arrow wound was bandaged and his broken ribs bound, the numerous cuts on his arms and chest were left untouched, as was the more noticeable gash on his left cheek. He was still covered in bruises and the slightest movements virtually paralyzed him with pain. He had lain in that bed for a few hours before someone had come in, to inform him that he was to be discharged from the facilities and was being transported to a federal prison.
The lawyer in Ofdensen protested. As he was roughly moved from hospital bed to prison transport, he forcefully cited all the court cases he could think of that would make his arrest unjust. But no one was listening, and it was maddening. They only told him, as he was dumped into a small prison cell, that he would be called for interrogation in a week. That was seven days ago. Ofdensen could only assume, as he painfully removed himself from bed, that the interrogation would commence today.
He took a minute to breath before trying to stand up. Moving at all had been a necessary chore all week. His ribs screamed in pain every time he breathed. In the crowded prison, his battered body was jostled about like a rag doll. Almost every man in the place had at least one hundred pounds on Ofdensen, and the ones that didn't were generally the rapists, whom he would rather avoid. He would prefer to avoid just about everyone in fact. On the first day in the prison he had been shoved against a wall by a gruff looking man covered in tattoos.
"You dat Ofdensen guy?" The man was chewing some very pungent tobacco, and he flecked dark colored spit on Ofdensen's bruised face. Another man standing behind Ofdensen's assailant chimed in, "Yeah dat's him Mikey, he's da one what made the Dethklok album late."
Ofdensen's mind had then removed itself from the present danger he was in, and onto a more managerial line of thought. Why was the album late? This wasn't good at all, there would be wide-scale riots, the media would be all over the boys, and he wasn't there to tell them what to – A sudden punch in the stomach had brought an end to his worrying.
Since then, the entire prison (Dethklok fans all) had been giving him death threats. He received the occasional beating, quickly broken up by guards, but frequent enough to ensure that he ended the week in worse health than he had begun it. He could only hope, as he sat on the edge of his rock hard bed, that the interrogation would go well, this would turn out to all be a huge misunderstanding, and he would be sent back home, to Dethklok, without a fuss.
Then he would sue the whole fucking system for all it was worth.