This is my first time writing for Metalocalypse. So, I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 1: Of God and Death
Every bullet tells a story.
There are all kinds of bullets. Hollow point, armor-piercing, full-metal jacketed, incendiary. All different calibers. And of course, there are all kinds of guns. Shotguns, rifles, pistols, machine guns. Each barrel scores unique rifling-patterns onto the bullets, leaving behind evidence of their origin.
Military-grade sniper rifles are always state-of-the-art. America's covert operations sometimes require the use of weapons small enough to fit in a bag, a purse, a briefcase. For the most important high-profile criminals, Death can come from any angle. A drug-dealer could be sitting in an expensive French café, drinking coffee, and suddenly his brains could exit the back of his head. Theoretically. These weapons were nearly silent and easy to disassemble after the task was complete. Sometimes it could be eight minutes before an absent-minded waitress finally noticed and alerted the world to the death of such a man with a piercing scream and a shattered coffee-cup.
Theoretically.
But such a fate is surely only for America's foes. These guns, prized for their small size and innocuous concealment, are protected, held under lock and key in top-secret government facilities. No one except Navy SEALS and Marine snipers could enter the lockup. But with enough money, and the right influence, such a weapon can be purchased for a few thousand dollars. From an abandoned warehouse in Tulsa. From an old German ex-con with a bad lisp.
Some guns speak to certain people. This one spoke to the right person.
It was not the size that mattered. Not the style. Folding-stock rifles were much cheaper. No, it was the investment. The nickname. This gun, gleaming in the dark like a sacred jewel. So beautiful. So sleek and powerful. Surely such a weapon was Godlike. Deciding who lived and who died. What a romantic thought.
Claude Decreux held a special love for the treasure in the slim black briefcase. Often he found his eyes drawn to the beauty of the smooth leather and the glowing metal. He dreamed of the wonderful gun in bed every night, imagined holding it in his arms, cradling it like a baby, using it to achieve his own ends. The bringer of death, he thought. If it is Godlike, does that make me God? He smiled, but his lips trembled. What blasphemy. I am not God. But I am an angel of Death.
The nickname was the final touch. Claude referred to it as his Darling. The true nickname was somewhat more sinister despite its simple origin. It was named after the group who had invested in its development. The US Army was grateful for the weapon, and grateful for the investment that made the DR1440 series possible. Their nickname for it, and for its investors, was perfect.
To Claude, the irony was intense. If it even existed. Claude wasn't entirely sure what irony was.
-(!)-
It was 5:30 in the evening when the young man entered the mall. He was small, quiet, and well-dressed. He carried a shoulder-bag. The bag attracted no attention from the security guards. The man smiled kindly to a crying little girl, held a door for a pregnant woman, and wandered his way into a café seemingly at random. He ordered a plain cup of Americano and sat at a table in a corner of the food court, taking in the view beyond the rain-splattered windows. He appeared to be searching for something. But no one noticed him. He was too ordinary for notice. He sipped his coffee and waited.
5:45 rolled around, and Claude was still waiting in the food court. He was fifteen minutes early. This was his curse, he supposed. He was always early, and his clients were always late. What a world. He sighed. His heart was heavy. His Darling would not longer be his as of 6:00 PM. A man, a rich one, was coming to take it away. He wished with all his heart that he could keep the DR1440. But two million dollars was worth losing it. Two million dollars could buy him all the firepower in the world. Perhaps even a new Darling.
"Decreux?" Claude jumped, nearly upsetting his coffee cup. A man stood beside the table, wearing a black coat over a cream-colored suit. "Gun." He twitched his slender, gloved fingers. "Hurry up. There isn't much time."
Claude didn't look up into that shadowy face. If he didn't, he could pretend to have no part in what this man was going to do. No one to identify meant no one to testify against if everything went to hell. He handed over the briefcase without a word, eyes trained on the chipped rim of his cup. A similar briefcase was returned to him. Claude didn't bother examining it. He knew all of it was in there. All the cash he could ever need.
"Get out of here," the man said. "Scatter."
Claude scattered. He stood and all but fled from the food court. He made his way to the main doors as quickly as possible, avoiding the eyes of everyone, security and customers alike. At least he drew no stares. I'm not involved, I'm not involved, he thought frantically. The mantra echoed in his head, a talisman of safety. I'm not involved. I'm not involved!
A bang, a scream. Claude jumped. More screams. The mall erupted into pandemonium. Gates slammed shut over the wide glass doors. He stared, wild-eyed in terror. Caught! his mind wailed. Oh God oh JESUS I'm caught! They're gonna know I provided the gun! I provided the gun that killed . . . Killed who?
Claude forgot entirely about the DR1440's loss. His fear had been replaced by simple, boundless curiosity. Which one did that bullet kill?
When cops came running for him, Claude did not try to escape. He thought again about the nickname of the gun as a policeman ordered him to drop the bag. He obeyed all their commands with dreamy detachment. didn't care when they ordered him away from the door and into a nearby flower shop for later questioning. He no longer found the need to use the DR1440's stupid pet name. Darling. How foolish. It deserved something more morbid. Because for the first time in its entire existence, it had been used to take a life.
A DethRifle to kill a member of Dethklok. How perfectly ironic.
-(!)-
Splattered reddish-pink muck, spreading sluggishly all over the floor.
Toki Wartooth didn't know if it was blood and brains or Swkisgaar's strawberry milkshake.
He stood stunned in the middle of the roaring mall. To his left, his friends Nathan Explosion and Pickles the Drummer lay on their stomachs, surrounded by their servants, shouting loud enough to echo in the cavernous hall. Toki spied his cowering mother behind another group of Gears. A sneer of disgust rippled across his smooth features. For one second, his bright blue eyes glowed with hatred. Then it was gone.
"My Lord, get down," a Gear said sharply. Toki glanced at the deep-voiced, hooded servant. "There may be more shooters."
"Is everyones okays?" he asked. His voice sounded muffled, distant.
"Yes, My Lord. Everyone is fine."
Toki relaxed. He knelt on the floor obediently, covered in all different directions by silent Gears. Between a forest of legs he saw his vain, blonde band-mate stalking in a circle and flipping his hair. He appeared to be sulking. There was strawberry milkshake dripping out of his hand. A Gear dabbed at it with a cloth, but Skwisgaar Swigelf pushed him away. He was swearing in vivid Swedish. At least he didn't seem injured.
Toki knew that Death followed him wherever he went. Thankfully Death had not taken any of his friends this time.
He would have been okay with Death taking his mother though. That would have been fine.
"Is everyone all right?" a voice was bellowing. Toki frowned, trying to concentrate. It sounded like their manager, Charles Foster Ofdensen. But Charles hadn't come to the mall with Dethklok and their mothers. How did he arrive so quickly?
"We're fine!" Nathan called back. He sounded a little less gruff than normal. Perhaps he was as shaken as Toki. He tried to rise, but a Gear gently pushed him back to the floor. He obeyed without complaint.
"What the hell happened?" the voice continued. Toki glanced around. Sure enough, the manager was striding toward the group. His face was ghostly white except for hectic spots of color high on his cheekbones. The worry line between his eyes was more pronounced than ever. His mouth was a razor thin line. "What the hell were you people doing?" he shouted with uncharacteristic rage.
"We were walking with the band, sir," said one of the Gears politely. The young man stood at attention in front of the manager. "The gun . . . appeared out of nowhere. We don't even know where the shot came from."
Charles Ofdensen's furious glare could have lit the young Gear on fire. "You don't know?"
"We do not, sir . . . ."
Toki quit listening. A Gear helped him to his feet and brushed him off. Toki didn't notice. He watched as Nathan and Pickles rose to their feet, looking pale and shocked. They were immediately surrounded by Gears and hustled toward the exits. Another of Toki's friends, William Murderface, followed close behind. He swore at the Gears surrounding him, but the servants ignored him patiently. Murderface was followed by the band's mothers and at least thirty servants. They were swarming everywhere throughout the mall, roughly handling scared shoppers desperate for a view of their favorite band. Toki wondered where they came from. They hadn't accompanied the band on this trip.
A hand touched his elbow. He looked into the hooded face of a Gear. "My Lord, Mr. Ofdensen has asked that Dethklok return to Mordhaus. For security reasons."
"Oh," said Toki, running a hand over his hair, "okies."
Toki followed the crowd of Dethklok servants through the mall, trying to avoid his stern-faced mother. He fell in step with Skwisgaar. The lead guitarist was still swearing under his breath. Toki noticed that he had missed a spot of strawberry smoothie on his elbow. Surrounded on all sides by silent Gears, Toki found himself shunted along through a tunnel of bodies. The line passed Ofdensen, who inspected each member of Dethklok before allowing them out the door. He looked Toki and Skwisgaar up and down and nodded swiftly. "You're all right," he said, satisfied. "You're all right."
"Ja," grumbled Skwisgaar. "What does it matters to you?"
Ofdensen ignored this. "The limo is waiting outside for all of you." He pulled them along through the large glass doors and out into the main courtyard, toward the parking lot. The six men and four mothers (plus one grandmother) boarded the limo in silence. The two groups sat close together, vacant stares fixed on an uncomfortable Ofdensen. The silence continued for ten minutes. The limo pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road bound for Mordhaus.
It was Pickles who spoke up first, of course. He blinked once, twice, and then said, "So dat was fun."
The others exploded into conversation simultaneously. Ofdensen winced. Murderface and Skwisgaar were shouting obscenities at the top of their voices. Nathan's mother was shrieking, her voice a toneless siren wailing above every other in the crowded limo. The others were bellowing questions.
"Holy FUCK! What happened?"
"There's strawberry shit on my shirt!"
"Oh my God, William! What's going on?"
"Mam! Stop screamin'!"
"EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Nathan roared.
Instantly, there was silence.
Ofdensen stared at Nathan. The singer glared back with deadly calm from behind a sheaf of ebony hair. "Thank you, Nathan."
"Speak," the man ordered. Then he folded his hands in his lap and stretched out his long legs. His eyes dared Ofdensen to disobey.
Charles coughed delicately. "There isn't much to say. We don't know anything. But I felt it would be best to bring you back to the safety of Mordhaus."
"What about us?" demanded Mrs. Explosion. She gestured to the other mothers. They watched the manager in stony silence. Toki's mother Anja had a particularly fierce evil-eye. She unnerved him. Of course, that could simply be his hidden hatred for her lurking at the edge of his conscious. Her expressionless face inspired only loathing in him. How to deal with the problem of five annoying maternal figures? His mind whirled furiously.
Finally, he decided a lie was best. He invented a plan on the fly. "You five are being sent home with a guard," he said. "We do not believe you were the assassin's target, so you should go home." And stay out of my hair. PLEASE.
"Their targets was my milkshakes," said Skwisgaar morosely. Toki clapped him on the back. His expression was sympathetic. Skwisgaar offered him an appreciative half-smile. Sure, appreciation wasn't brutal, but in times like these, who gave a fuck?
"Anything else?" demanded Mrs. Murderface. Her voice was high and shrill with fear.
"Well, the gun was definitely a DR1440." Charles's mouth twitched. "The bullets are distinctive. Even mashed to pieces, we could figure out where it came from. And besides, a DethRifle is the perfect size to hide in a briefcase or a purse."
"A DethRifle?" inquired Mrs. Explosion. Her eyes widened in comprehension and horror. She rounded on her son. "You financed a gun?"
Nathan shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, we were drunk, Mom," he muttered. "Like, really drunk. And the military was cool about it. Gave us, uh, a bunch of flare guns and explosives. Made a badass show."
"Charles let ya do this?" shrieked Pickles's mother, Molly.
"Mam," whined Pickles, "it was a publicity stunt." Molly slapped him. "Ow! Mam!" He rubbed his stinging cheek.
Ofdensen massaged the bridge of his nose. A headache throbbed in his temples. He resisted the urge to shout. "The five of you are going home," he said through clenched teeth. "Immediately."
"Thank God," muttered Murderface. His grandmother slapped him. "OW! Gramma!"
The limo erupted into shouts again. Ofdensen buried his head in his hands. This was going to be a long, long night.
-(!)-
Dethklok and their mothers argued the entirety of the two-hour trip back to Mordhaus. Ofdensen tried his best to tune them out, but it was no good. Five Dethklok members was bad enough; five Dethklok members plus their overbearing, irritating mothers was hell on earth. Charles was the first person out of the limo. He helped The mothers out, then all but raced towards the main doors. He wanted a glass of brandy more than anything in the world. He excused himself from dinner and locked himself in his private office.
The silence in his office was a welcome blessing. He crossed the room in three eager strides, reached into a drawer, and pulled out an enormous bottle of Aspirin along with a bottle of water. Thank God, he thought. He settled himself at the desk. Now, to think.
What the hell had happened today? Death threats came all the time, but it had been awhile since anyone attempted to carry out their threat. The last disgruntled fan who had attempted to assassinate Dethklok had been killed by a Klokateer within five minutes. Charles wondered if the local police had found anything. They would have to report to him first. If they didn't, Charles vowed to personally tear out their spleens. It was a hobby of his, imagining violent fates inflicted upon local law enforcement. Over the last few years they had certainly proved to be useless. Charles loathed them even more than Toki's "mother."
Another thing on his hate list was the Klokateers. They had had failed him today. They had risked the lives of his meal ticket. They would be punished for it, starting with the head of security and working down to the personal Dethklok bodyguards. Charles Ofdensen would see to it.
Now, perhaps . . . Perhaps I should find someone to help. I can't do this on my own.
Charles picked up the phone. He pressed 001, the personal pager number for the security head. It rang only once. "Get in here," he ordered, not waiting for a greeting. No time for kindness.
"Yes, My Lord," responded a curt voice. The call ended.
Charles laid his head on his desk. Pinpoints of reddish light glowed like embers in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. Finally, some blessed silence. Slowly, his breathing calmed. He had exactly five minutes of peace before a swift knock on the door drew him out of his reverie. At his command, a short Klokateer entered the room. She bowed her head slightly. "You called, sir?"
"What would you say is the greatest flaw in our security?" No pretense. No politeness. Charles had no time for charisma and politic inquiries. This problem needed a solution immediately. His eyes bored holes in the rough cloth of the security head's hood. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Viktoriya Belyakov was not used to being treated this way. Typically she did not need to think, only to react. She had lived half her life in this way, living by her wits on frozen Russian streets. When she had been picked up by Dethklok after a concert, she did not expect much more than life and eventual death. The gear branded onto her shoulder was her highest expected honor. The emblem of the Head of Security was an unimaginable bonus. The Klokateers had been so small then. Easy to teach. She could train them single-handed. But now, their ranks had grown exponentially. She lost sight of them. Often they vanished into the depths of Mordhaus without a soldier's basic training. That worried Viktoriya. Had she grown old and incompetent already?
"There are too many," she began, fumbling for the right words. Speaking to Ofdensen always filled her with dread. She clenched her sweating hands, assuming a mask of indifference. "They do not like to learn."
"They need to be trained?"
"We do not like to be trained. We die, or fall through the cracks. So many employees in so many places, so many countries . . . Those assigned to protect my Lords this morning will be punished, Sir, I promise you."
"That is of no concern." Charles tapped a pen on his desk blotter. There was a moment of silence as he pondered. Viktoriya stood at attention, waiting and sweating, biting her lips. Finally, he looked up at her, thoughtful. "If I were to bring you help . . . ."
Viktoriya felt her cheeks heat up. "I need no help, Sir."
"Obviously, you do," responded Charles scathingly, temper finally overwhelming self-control. "Otherwise your people would not have endangered the lives of the band, eh? Miss Belyakov, I don't tolerate bullshit. You were slow to react today, and slower to contain the situation. Your people should have seen that shooter a full ten minutes before he started aiming down his sights. You're damn lucky Skwisgaar's milkshake was the only casualty. Because if one of the band had been injured or killed, I would have strewn your guts across the floor."
"Mister Ofdensen, Sir, I was not at the mall . . . ."
"Why not? Was anyone you trusted helping with the security?"
"I trust no one," growled Viktoriya.
"Miss Belyakov, I don't care who you trust." When she tried to protest, Charles raised his hands. "I'm hiring someone. That's the end of it. If you and your people cannot train the incoming Gears, then you are of little use to me. Your career here is only safe due to your excellent service over the years, though I'm beginning to reconsider how much you've actually done for us. We're getting someone to tend to this . . . Disaster. Immediately."
Viktoriya glared at him through her hood. Her eyes blazed hate. Humiliation made her cheeks glow redder than Pickles's hair. She bowed deeply. "Very well, Sir."
"Dismissed." Ofdensen didn't even look at her. Viktoriya made sure to knock over a cheap Ikea lamp on her way out the door.
Before the shattered glass had even settled, Charles Ofdensen picked up the phone.
-(!)-
Pickles was stoned.
This was not unusual of course. He had taken a couple bowls of some incredibly good stuff, and now little green-and-red devils crawled along the ceiling. He grinned, amused. They were waving at him. One of them was holding a woman's severed head. Like, fuckin brutal, dude.
Toki was sitting to his left, clutching Deddy Bear (which for some reason Pickles visualized as a bowtie-wearing dragon) to his chest. Pickles had hidden his stash (and booby-trapped the hiding spot with a large Victory mousetrap) in his room before coming out to the game room. It left more for him and less for any other asshole that tried to steal it.
"Pickle?"
Pickles turned his head. "Dood," he said, giggling, "yer face . . . ."
Toki's Fu Manchu was purple, and he had cat-whiskers. He smiled uncertainly at Pickles, who could only cackle like a fool. Pickles rocked back and forth on the couch, holding his sides. "Pickle?" Toki asked again. "What ams goings to happen to us?"
"Whaddya mean dood? We're fahn . . . ."
"They trieds to shoots us!" exclaimed Toki, holding Deddy Bear close. In Pickles's vision, the dragon's drooping neck jerked upright, and its mouth opened, releasing a column of bright red smoke. "Will they comes here and kills us?"
"Nah, th' Klokateers'll keep us safe."
"But . . . Whats if the Gear don't takes care of us?"
Pickles was too interested in the creatures on the ceiling to pay attention. "Wat? Why're ya asking me so many damn questions? I dunno all right? Now shaddup."
Toki said nothing. He hunched down in his seat. "I ams glad our mom went homes."
Pickles chuckled hollowly. "Me too dood." Dear God, talking to this kid was absolutely killing his high. The devils lost all interest in him and crawled off out a widow. Pickles waved to them. He'd see them again after some more of that delicious stuff . . . .
"Pickle?"
"What?" demanded the drummer. A hectic light shone in his bloodshot eyes. "Fack! What d'ya wahnt?"
Toki lifted his chin defiantly. "You ams asshole," he said bluntly.
"Man, fuck off."
"Why ams you so pissed? Dids I do somethings wrong?"
"No," responded Pickles in clumsy Norwegian. "You didn't. Now go away."
Toki raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you spoke my language. And by the way, your accent is terrible."
"Man, shaddup," groaned Pickles. Attempting to communicate in Norwegian was giving him one bitch of a headache. "I'm naht in the mood. The devils wanna play dood."
"Why ams you so fucked ups right nows?"
"Because-a my mudder," Pickles muttered. "She's all mahd 'cause I don't ever tak tah her."
Interesting. One of those little devil imps had settled on the coffee table. Pickles was slightly discomfited when he noticed that the severed head it carried was that of Molly, his mother. Her bulging eyes stared sightlessly out at him. A tear of blood slid down her cheek. Fucking not brutal dude. Not brutal at all. For the first time in years, Pickles wanted to be sober. Satisfied, Toki went back to his video game.
It hadn't been the talking. Molly and Calvert were used to their son not communicating with them. He'd gone sixteen years without even sending a Christmas card or making a phone call to his estranged parents. It was the smooth, seamless way that Molly had once again tried to establish domination over her son nearly the instant she arrived at Mordhaus. The subtle clues, the greedy way her eyes lit up whenever she saw evidence of his wealth, the disapproving stares when he picked up a bottle. Pickles understood that his mother was unhappy with who he was, but he found himself not giving a shit. The stares and the expressions he could handle. The arguments however he found intolerable.
First, she had suggested he buy Seth an expensive Christmas present to welcome him into the business. Duty-bound, Pickles had obeyed his mother, and shipped off the Rolex to Australia. But Molly's demands had become stranger. The previous night over a glass of post-dinner wine, Molly had mentioned repayment to the family for their shelter and legal aid in the first sixteen years of his life. Angered (and admittedly a little drunk), Pickles had retorted that he had never needed her help.
Molly smiled at him with that icy smile of hers, the one that flooded his heart with blazing fury. God curse him for being Irish. He controlled his temper for all of five minutes. Then Molly asked him, casually, if there was any woman in his life. He had denied any serious involvement with a woman. This made his mother sniff. Suddenly he could not tolerate her snide shit anymore. He said something that he knew would horrify her. "I fuck 'em an' run, Mam," he said, gloating at the look of shock and revulsion that crossed her face. "Fuckin' and runnin' is good nuff fer me."
"Watch yer language!" his mother had snapped. Her mouth tightened. "Maybe if ya had a decent woman, yer life wouldn't be such a gutter."
"I'm fahn, Mam, I'm rich."
"With no one tah take care of ya," responded Molly coolly. "What do ya have here 'sides a clan of drunks?"
"Mam, don't knock my friends," he growled.
"Friends? Friends that leave ya too drunk tah get off the floor?"
"Without 'em, Mam, I wouldn't be rich."
"Maybe if ya were wit a respectable girl . . . ."
"What does dat have anything tah do with it?"
"Because a woman might teach yah ta control yerself!" Pickles had ended this conversation by hurling his half-full beer bottle across the room and storming off to find Murderface. His last sight of his mother before the mall trip was of her fussily cleaning up the broken shards of his bottle, glass and foam glistening at her feet.
Pickles didn't hate his mother. He hated the idea of her controlling his life through all these years. Hadn't he escaped at sixteen to avoid her bullshit? Hadn't he left home to avoid his father's rampant alcoholism and continual verbal abuse? With Snakes N' Barrels he had made a name for himself, found his calling, and now with Dethklok he had something even better. He was rich, women loved him, and he got all sorts of no-strings-attached sex. These people were more his family than Molly or Calvert (whose name Pickles had managed to forget), and certainly even Ofdensen was more of a family member than Seth. Pickles loved them a little, as any child may love his family, but the affection was deeply buried beneath decades of loathing. Nathan, Charles, Skwisgaar, Toki, and even Murderface meant more to him than his mother and father.
Perhaps his mother simply wanted him to marry and have children like Seth planned to do. Perhaps her heart was in the right place, her dreams for her youngest son as innocent as any mother's'. A wife and children were just not in the cards for the Dethklok drummer. Booze and crazy-ass parties seemed more likely. The thought of a woman he had to sleep with exclusively and grow old with . . . Dear God. Fuck that bullshit. What if she turned out to be just like his mom? What if he turned out like Calvert?
Pickles shuddered and opened a fresh bottle of beer. Less thinking, more drinking.
"Hey guys? Where the hell is Ofdensen?" Murderface entered the game-room. His bright green eyes were narrowed with frustration. "I Want my damn mace."
"You ordered a mace?" inquired Pickles.
"It's a weapon, I like weapons, what's it to ya, asshole?"
"Nothin'," retorted the drummer. "Fuck you."
"Ofdensen ams in his offices," Toki informed Murderface. "I thinks he ams in a bad moods."
"Ofdensen in a bad mood?" Murderface snorted. "Robots don't have moods Toki." He drifted back out of the room, leaving Pickles to his booze and Toki to his game.
-(!)-
William Murderface was not a trusting man by nature, But Toki seemed to be the most honest out of all his bandmates. Sometimes William wondered if Toki understood the nature of deception. But then he dismissed the idea. The rhythm guitarist could probably lie just as much as anybody else. Either way, Ofdensen was probably in his office. That's where he usually holed up after dinner.
Murderface wandered the hall idly for a few minutes, glaring at Klokateers and making them feel uncomfortable. It amused him. Behind their hoods he could almost picture their faces, an expression of fear and nervousness brought on by the ferocity of his stare. William had a rather vivid imagination. He hoped no one else knew that. Imaginations were pretty non-brutal. But nobody knew, because nobody could see into his mind. Well, maybe Skwisgaar. That blonde's eyes could stare into anyone's soul. It would be no surprise to Murderface if Skwisgaar could read his mind.
When the oak doors of the CFO's office came into view, Murderface squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his fullest height. He marched up to the door and, finding it locked, and knocked insistently.
"Yes?"
"Lemme in, Ofdensen."
"I'm sorry Murderface, I'm rather busy." The man's voice sounded strained. "What do you need?"
"I want my mace!" he yelled through the door. "When the hell is it gonna be delivered?"
"Check back with me in later."
Murderface pouted. "Come on Charlie . . . ."
"Murderface, I'm sorry! I'm busy right now. Please, check back with me later. Two days. Give me two days and I'll have your mace. And all the rest of your weapons. And Kennedy's shoes. Okay?" His voice had risen to a frantic pitch with this last, and Murderface was instantly wary. A tone like that screamed desperation.
"What the hell are you doing Charlie? What's more important than my weaponry? Let me in!"
"Murderface, later!"
"Aw, fuck you," Murderface mumbled. He stalked off down the hall with his hands shoved in his pockets, wondering what the hell Charles was doing behind closed doors. Maybe coke. Hell, meth even. Those were the only two things Murderface could even imagine as being more important. Well, women were pretty important too, but Murderface was certain Charles was some kind of gay-robot virgin. It would suit him.
Unsatisfied, the Dethklok bassist wandered down the hall to find some more booze.
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