Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse or Dethklok, but I do own Mr. "No Cash" Cabrera, and his all his homies. Enjoy.

The Whole World's Watching

Drinking black coffee, black coffee, drinking black coffee, staring at the wall

Black coffee, black coffee, black coffee, staring at the wall...

-Black Flag

Chapter 1: A Not So Regular Jack-Off

Some City, USA

So, there was Duncan Hills. Why he'd chosen this place to retreat was beyond the logic of a very hungover Karson Cabrera, who was already unnerved just being in this neighborhood. Having gone on a rather epic bender the previous night, and passing out and waking up in the park that morning, he felt he was running out of options. Why couldn't it have been the park off of nineteenth and Harris, where the odd junkie would overdose and meet their end covered in errant lawn clippings (or the occasional dog turd)? At least they minded their own business there, and a man like himself could wake up in a half drunken stupor without being stared at. No, he had woken up in a park on the other side of town. The other, other side, where junkies didn't exist in the minds of the people that lived there. This was the nice side of town, where the women looked as if they might come out of catalogs, the men wore neatly pressed suits, and the children were like robotic miniatures of their elders. In fact, the whole place looked as if it were mail-order. The trees, looking every bit as plastic as the people, were neatly spaced four feet away from one another as they struggled to grow within their appointed spaces in the asphalt.

Here, it seemed everyone (and everything) had its own little cubicle designated for it among the towering office buildings, couture storefronts, and five-star eateries. Everyone had their own preordained space, except him, that one lowly stranger that might have just crawled out of a dumpster (or public restroom) and onto the streets where they conducted their everyday, structured lives. To the onlookers, a person like that was not supposed to be in a place like this, and so they stared at the offending stranger. Maybe the filth would go away if they gave it their best looks of disapproval, or a sneer composed almost entirely out of Botox. In any case, the intruder was not to be observed without a distance of at least ten feet between it and themselves. This approach seemed to have worked, as the run-down creature wielding the baseball bat stumbled into the horrible satanic coffee shop, where it most likely belonged.

Once inside, Karson slumped defeatedly against the one of the side walls, and first took in the wafting aroma of roasting coffee beans. This was a relief at first, until he took in the rest of his surroundings, becoming at once both severely alarmed and suddenly nauseated. He first noticed the patrons, which he knew at once, and took an immediate disliking to them. They were the fat, basement-dwelling, Hot Topic-gifcard-toting, maniacal fans of the World's Most Famous Band, Dethklok. They signed away their lives at their shows, lived (well, died, actually) every day according to whatever it was Dethklok did, all on Mommy and Daddy's dime and with no remorse.

He surveyed them further. Yes, more than half of them were balding, overweight, and acne ridden. The rest of them were of the younger variety, that hadn't yet matured into version 2.0, and probably never would. There were ones wearing tattoos of the candy store variety, where one browsed through them on a wall and chose his or her favored design, which also happened to be the favored design of a half a million other mindless drones with a hundred dollars and zero originality. A lot of them were also female, all with the same life-goal of fucking their favorite band member (or maybe all of them). A scarce few of them might grow older and settle for a look-alike, if they managed to dodge the increasingly tempting thoughts of suicide after rejection. None of them would ever reach menopause, however.

Looking at them now, he noticed the entire congregation of them were all reading the rag mags and tabloids littered about the place on various end tables about the band's latest financial exploits, whichever women they were "dating" (fucking) that week, or which band member was seemingly going over the deep-end lately (it changed every week). Most of reading material was probably outdated, but still kept the fans enraptured.

Much to his liking, the patrons didn't pay him any mind, as they were clearly fixated on whatever they were reading or discussing about five celebrities that simply hated them. No amount of hero worship would ever change that, no matter how hard they tried to prove their worth.

Besides law enforcement, the government, people wearing suits (or uniforms), religious zealots, the rich and the privileged, he hated this type of crowd almost as much. These were people who thought they were hard, thinking that they knew what the world was really like by following a band as clueless about the real world as they were. There was no sleeping under bridges for them, no such thing as an empty wallet, and definitely no respect for a fellow human being. All they knew was cutthroat, backstabbing admiration for a name and sound with five faces attached to it, and getting a piece of it all to themselves. A little more reflecting led him to the realization that this group might as well be lumped into that catagory he loathed better known as "Religion". Yes, the only logical conclusion was that Dethklok had it's own sect of loyal followers that revered them as modern Gods and Duncan Hills was their church and place of holy gathering. These new and groundbreaking revelations were all neatly filed into the rusting cabinet that served as Karson's memory bank, as he meandered over to a far corner away from the crowd and sunk to the floor.

The smell of coffee traversed to his sinuses once again, slightly soothing the dull throbbing in his skull, helping to clear his thoughts a little. He put his beatup Louisville Slugger to the side, a constant companion of his. He then began to rummage through his pockets in a half-hearted attempt to find some sort of clue as to what he had been up to the previous night. The one clue that needed no searching for had been trying to make its way up his esophagus all morning, and that was the remainder of the alcohol that had been left to simmer and rot in his gut. Ribs burning, he swallowed hard, making sure the acidic bile didn't find its way up into his mouth. That could wait for later. That was obvious. He had been drinking copiously the night before, and it was now seeking revenge against his innards and his brain.

"Think. Just fuckin' think, God Dammit," he commanded to the organ that seemed to want to beat its way out of its bony prison with its own minature jackhammer. It took a few seconds to for it to relay a message. "Oh, yeah. Pockets. You were checking your pockets, asshole."

A little more digging and he came across what might have been an answer in the form of crumpled paper. He straightened it out, revealing a five dollar bill and two beer tickets for use at The Tenderloin, his favorite bar. He stared at the bill in disbelief. Money. How did he come across money? He never had money, at least it was never in his possession for longer than twenty four hours. In fact "No Cash" was his middle name among those that knew him. Possiblities began running through what was currently a very damaged mind. Was he panhandling again? Had he sold some fake rock again to that loser on the corner of Fifth street? Had he smoked the real thing? Stolen something expensive and pawned it? Oh, mother of all fucks! Had he sucked some other dude's dick for cash? With the last realization, the nausea hit him with full force, and it took every bit of the energy reserves he had left to contain it. Of course he would never suck a dude's dick, even at his most inebriated. He was homeless, but he was definitely not a crack head and not a junkie. At least not for four years now, and even back then, stooping that low was out of the question for him. He shuddered at the thought and rocked back into the corner, his head hitting the wall. His brain was crying in frustration now. What the fuck did he do?

It didn't matter now. After playing that little game of detective, he knew he had gotten wasted at The Tenderloin, and that the sorry looking five dollar bill was the remainder of whatever sum he had spent on last night's adventure. The reality of it was that it wasn't the first time he'd come across some money and drank it away, nor would it be the last. He took a good look at the mugshot of old Abe Lincoln, wished it were Woodrow Motherfucking Wilson instead, and decided that he needed some coffee.

There was no line as he stepped up to the counter to make his order. He looked behind the pretty barista and up to the menu, but not without checking out her rack first. He noted the breasts were most likely of the silicone variety, which was not surprising considering his current location. His next notation was that all the frappes, expressos, and "Murderchinos" wouldn't satisfy his rather simplistic tastes. Noticing that the rather haggard young man with the padlock in his ear was taking longer at ordering than usual, the girl spoke up.

"Can I make a recommendation for you, sir?", she asked cheerily, ample breasts bouncing as she turned to face the menu behind her. At least they bounced. Mr. Surgeon had done it right.

"Yeah. Coffee."

"Well, sir, we have lots of coffee here. I could suggest one of my favorites, if you're having trouble deciding." She was growing a little irritated, but was covering it up well. Her current patron looked as if he might vomit all over her at any second. Better make it quick. The man on the other side of the counter was taking his dear, sweet time and some of her patience along with it.

"Look lady, I just want some coffee. Ya know, the kind you get from a pot, and not that shit that you gotta steam 'n' shit. Ya know, like the shit people make at home. I don't want any of that fancy shit. Regular. Fuckin'. Coffee." For no reason, other than feeling completely torn up from the inside out, he'd decided his first victim of the day would be this yuppie girl with plastic tits working in an overpriced coffee joint.

She was taken aback by the man's hositility at first. She was used to the language in this place, but none of it had really been directed at her before. She was just about to suggest that he could go home and make his own damned coffee, but he looked like he might not have a home, much less a coffee maker. "Okay, well, what size would you like? We have medium, tall, and the Explosion size."

"Do ya have a regular fuckin' size?"

Regaining her confidence and trying to maintain her dignity, the barista slammed three differently sized cups on the counter for the guy to inspect. One was pretty small, the second was average, and the third was absolutely gigantic. In fact, it was likely to have drowned a whale, if whales were to drink coffee at Duncan Hills. He took a little more time than usual as he looked over each one thoughtfully, trying to piss off the poor girl even more. He then took each cup, weighed it in his hand, imagining how it would feel being carried around full of scalding-hot liquid.

"I want this one", he declared, after picking up the second, medium-sized cup.

"That's our tall cup, sir. You want one tall coffee, is that right?"

"Fuck yeah, it is."

Sighing heavily, she took the cup, filled it, and rung up his total.

"That'll be $4.50, please."

He took the drink and fisted over the crumpled, half torn five dollar bill he had weaseled from his back pocket, feeling quite a bit of remorse. She handed him his change, silently praying that she'd never see this angry bum of a guy again. He really was quite rough looking, like one of those old school punks, only less flamboyantly dressed. She could see tufts of faded blue hair underneath a beanie that had definitely seen better days.

Instead of pocketing the extra fifty cents, he slid them back to the girl at the counter.

"Here's a tip. Ain't got much to give ya, I'm afraid, but sorry for being an asshole. Hangovers, ya know."

Cautiously, she took her "tip", and nodded. She really didn't want to see this dickhead again. Ever. "Thanks."

"Anytime. I'm sure you don't get paid enough for this shit anyway," he said, glancing over at a gaggle of regulars decked out in merchandise. God forbid they run into him later, because he'd bust their teeth in, steal their lunch money, and threaten to fuck their moms.

He had surprised her with this sudden attempt at kindness, and she replied "No, no. I really don't", and tried to suppress a laugh. The regular patrons here were pretty low on the scale of intellgence and came in by the droves. It was refreshing to see someone who didn't seem to be one of them.

"You have a real nice fuckin' day, Marissa the Barista."

She had noticed him looking at her chest, but didn't think he'd actually looked at her name tag.

"Thanks, and you too, uhm... Hey what's your name?"

He knew hers after all, there was probably no harm in asking.

"KC. S'been a pleasure doing business with you, fine-ass lady as you are." This was a lie (except for his name), of course, as she resembled every other blonde stick-lady in the area with unproportionally large breasts.

KC staggered out the door, off to do whatever it was that bums do on Saturday mornings. She had always thought they slept during this hour under overpasses, with their shopping carts and meager possessions, but obviously not.

KC snatched up the drink that raped him of his last bit of money as he left, at once bracing himself for the onslaught of eyeballs that would be fixated in his general direction. There they were, again. This time he returned the favor, making sure these people knew the feeling was mutual. He took a gulp of his coffee, instantly noting he had forgotten to sweeten it. The swig of coffee had been the last straw for his ailing stomach, which took offense to the hot sugarless liquid its master had offered it. It propelled its contents forward with gusto and onto a passing womans Gucci pumps. The stares became looks of pure disgust and were accompanied by gasps of horror and surprise. The nerve of it all!

Stomach cleared, nerves shot and fuming, KC slammed his the tip of his bat to the ground with a resounding thwack.

"WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN' AT?!?"

***