Title: Murderface's Letter
Characters: Charles, Murderface
Ratings: R for language and…Murderface-ness
Warnings: Um, mostly just the above
Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse or The Bloodhound Gang
Summary: Murderface doesn't understand rejection
A/N: This plot-bunny found me in math class when "The Ballad of Chasey Lain" by The Bloodhound Gang came on my ipod
"Dear Jenna Jameschon,
I'm writing to tell you that I think itsch really cruddy that you won't acschept my proposchal. I'm the richescht basschist in the universe, and I have amazching cock control, which a schlut like you schould apprechiate. I'm still inschulted that you wouldn't schuck my cock that one time, and even though I wasch really drunk I was inschulted that you would puke like that. But I'll juscht chalk that up to you being in awe of my schex schepter. My lawyer informs me-"
"Ah, Murderface?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep me out of this."
"Fine. Keep typing. Asch much asch I'd like you to schow me you titsch, I realizshe that you might want a little schomething in return for a night with the most eligible bachelor in Dethklok."
"William-"
"Don't interrupt Robot!"
Charles rolled his eyes.
" 'I know that being a schlut means you muscht love coke, and I've got my own personal. stasch of high grade Columbian coke from a…friend to schatisfy all your needs. Jenna, thisch is the lascht time I'm gonna come to you. I know you're playing hard to get, but thisch is fucking annoying.
Schinscherely, William, Pusschy Punischer, Murderface.
P.S., heresch a pic of what you're missing.' Then sche sees the picture. You did get my e-mail, with the picture in it, didn't you?"
"Uh, I think I must have missed it…"
"Thatchs fine, I brought a hard-copy."
"Murderface, I don't think that's-uhhh….."
"Intimidating, huh?"
"…I think I threw up in my mouth…"
"What wasch that?"
"Let's turn this over. Yes William, I'm significantly…ah…there are no words to express how I feel right now."
"Well, that's kind of a compliment I guess. Anyway don't forget to schend that okay?
"Sure thing Murderface."
Charles counted backwards from ten. Then he pressed the intercom.
"Yes sir?"
"Send a gear in here please."
"You need something sir?"
He slid the picture across his desk towards the gear. "Put this in the furnace. Right. Now."
"As you wish, sir."
He waited for the gear to retreat and walked over to his book case, and removed the 1927 lawyer's encyclopedia (by far the most boring looking book on the shelf). He reached into the newly opened panel above it, for his strongest brandy and accompanying shot glass. Nothing wrong with a little self-medication. A little down the hall he heard "Oh…God!", followed by the unmistakable sound of the mans lunch hitting the floor. He smiled to himself as he walked back to his desk, brandy in hand, to buzz another gear for damage control.