Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse, but if I did....*cackles madly*. Oh, and those two lines of lyrics are from 'Briefcase Full of Guts', by Dethklok.
Author Notes: Brutalbusiness' Nathan/Charles month has been the inspiration I needed to finally write this story that's been swirling around in my head for a while now.
I'd love to hear your opinions and crit on it, I'm not too fabulous at the various dialects and other sundry things. I had waaay too much fun writing this, really. Every time I spellcheck my computer does an epic 'NO.' Oh Metalocalypse, how you love the English language.


Not surprisingly, Dethklok, the world's most brutal band, had many enemies, most of which the five musicians were completely unaware of. Sobriety, however, was a well-known foe, and valiantly fought in an epic struggle which had left an extensive trail of property damage, paternity suits and general carnage over the years. Continuing the tradition, Nathan took a deep swig of tequila before heading back out for the final song. It was a stinking hot night and it felt as if they'd been touring forever. But as much as he hated the pathetic jackoffs crawling over each other to get closer, their enthusiasm was like an electrifying current in his blood, waking him up, setting him on edge, giving him a buzz better than anything else. Well, almost anything. A sudden thought of glasses and suits intruded. He shook his head; it must've been the tequila talking. This was definitely not the time for that shit again. He caught Pickles giving him an odd look as he passed by the drum kit, perhaps picking up on his moment of unease. He wished he'd finished the bottle.

The lights dimmed and the crowd worked themselves into a frenzy as the band launched into the booming introduction to their finale. They were five men disguised as the dead, feeling more alive than ever as they screamed and thrashed and beat the music out of their instruments. Not that Dethklok currently had the time or ability to admire that irony. Behind them a gigantic fibreglass Facebones hung from the roof and the amps shook the whole stage in time to the beat. He almost grinned as he took a breath, this was the real shit.

"Kill outside the box, Hold you as you—"

Nathan had the momentary impression of a black and white panther lunging directly at him, roaring something he couldn't hear over the drums. It hit his knees with surprising force, sending him toppling over and effectively trapping the attacker under his bulk. Only once before had anything dared to interrupt Nathan Explosion mid-song, and he'd rewarded that asshole label executive with a wired jaw. Needless to say, he planned something extremely unpleasant for the unwise individual who had brought them crashing into a very unmetal heap onstage. He slowly registered that it was their manager he was now face-to-face with. However, further consideration of this point was drowned out by the tremendous noise of half a tonne of metal hitting the stage. A thick cable snapped, lashing out whip-like where his head had been not thirty seconds before. Half his band disappeared in a thundering crash of twisted metal, equipment and canvas. The enormous skull that had hung above them smashed onto the pile, sending sharp fragments of fibreglass and steel showering over the audience with a demonic leer.

The world seemed to grind to a temporary halt, as if expecting this to be some elaborate stunt. For the first time ever at a Dethklok gig, there was silence. And then the screaming started. The last of the equipment collapsed in on itself. A swarm of Klokateers tore across the stage. A tattered drum rolled by. Someone in the audience burst out crying.

Remembering that he was currently sitting atop his manager, he jumped to his feet, trying to make sense of what just happened.

"Schit, schit, schit!"

Murderface was on his left, his fingers still on the frets of the guitar, mouth hanging open. To their right Swissgar surged upward through a layer of canvas, Explorer in one hand and a shell-shocked Toki clutched in the other. They appeared unhurt, but the Norwegian seemed to be holding his arm oddly. A familiar voice barked orders over the din as the Klokateers worked, ant-like, pulling apart the stage and assessing the band. To everyone's relief, their missing drummer appeared shortly after, slung unconscious over the broad shoulders of a senior Gear. Nobody seemed to be screaming anymore at least. Thank fuck, Nathan thought, almost tripping over the discarded microphone as their manager appeared at his elbow, his bent glasses the only indicator he'd just been fallen on by a man twice his size.

"The audience is going to riot, it's time to go. Everyone's going to be alright, but we have to go now." "But –"

Just for once he wanted to see that robot panic like the rest of them. Did he realise what had just—

"Now." Ofdensen ordered.

Those left standing followed the retreating back of their manager, surrounded by their personal guard. Around them Klokateers lunged at desperate fans. Dazed and shaken, they barely heard the crowd howling. The band had performed with all sorts of dangerous and insane props, but the thought they'd almost been squashed by a giant cartoon skull was a bit much for Nathan. Not to mention their manager had just thrown himself at him in front of ten thousand people and the band to prevent him from being brutally decapitated. He wasn't sure what to think about that.

"Oh schit. Schit. Schit. Schit."

The faint noise of Murderface's mantra and the sound of someone plucking at a guitar were just audible over the howls of the crowd as they reached the Dethcopter. Three minutes later, the riot broke out into the streets.

#

Close calls were nothing new to Dethklok, however terrifyingly oblivious they may have been to them. But then, that was his job; Keep the band safe, keep them playing and protect them from the real world. And Charles Foster Ofdensen was damn good at his job. Swissgar had come out miraculously unscathed and Toki and Pickles had suffered reasonably minor injuries. Still, the boys were coping poorly. Sitting in the crowded hospital waiting room, he was painfully aware of the other patients staring at them as Murderface treated him to a furious and slightly incoherent monologue, assisted by the occasional comment from Swissgar. The words 'Hamburger Time' and 'pisch' seemed to be coming up with an impressive frequency and volume, but he thought he and every other person within the building was getting the gist.

"I, uh, understand your concern, William, and I am making... enquiries... regarding the staff involved in maintaining and testing the stage equipment" he assured them. Fifty-eight people had already lost their jobs today, and he was just getting started.

Nathan sat beside him, glaring a hole in the wall. He was glad the singer had said nothing about before. Maybe he'd forgotten already. The whole subject would be awkward. It had been instinct, no time to think, and it was natural he'd try to save the lead singer. It was just logical.

The smell of hospital disinfectant was bringing back unpleasant memories- days and nights of staring at the ceiling, the guilt almost as blinding as the pain. But it had all been necessary, worth it, even. He'd arrived in time to save the band. He'd had no real choice. He didn't notice as his fingers brushed the hidden scar, joining Nathan in his quest to remove the wall by deathstares alone.

"You can see them now."

The attending nurse had appeared before the group, a stout woman in her early sixties, apparently unaware she was talking to five of the most famous people on the planet. She looked them up and down, clearly unimpressed by the corpse paint and dark clothing.

She glared fearlessly up at Nathan, "You need a haircut, boy."

He couldn't help but admire her abruptness. Intervening before a reply could be made or Swissgar decided to make a move, their manager quickly thanked her and navigated the labyrinth of rooms and wards to where Toki and Pickles were staying. The incident had almost caught him offguard, he'd decided to risk a local hospital rather than move the two very far. He had no intentions of the continuing the tour, but Mordhaus' own facilities were still somewhat lacking since the attack.

The band's insane luck had been the only thing between them and death tonight. He shuddered to think what could have happened if some sudden instinct hadn't told him to look up, if he hadn't noticed the odd angle of the scaffold, the rapidly fraying cable. There were a thousand infuriating little 'if's there, and he was in no particular hurry to lose any band members. He knew, as unlikely as it may seem to others, and despite his own best efforts, Dethklok had grown on him, they were like that. His shirt rubbed against the bruises, he was going to feel that tomorrow. Hell, he was feeling it now.

He suddenly became aware of Nathan's presence behind him, fluorescent lights casting a shadow that filled the narrow corridor. The large man was almost breathing down his neck and it was making Charles feel most ... uncomfortable. He chanced a backward glance.

"Urrrgh... why'd we have to come here?"

"I'm sure Pickles and Toki will appreciate it, Nathan."

This reply seemed to do nothing to satisfy him, and an intern doctor whimpered and dropped his armful of folders as the singer focused his glare on him. Swissgar too, seemed more irritable than usual, only half-heartedly debating with Murderface whether one could be cooked alive by x-rays.

"I hate hospitals."

"Me too."

It was out before he could stop himself. As a rule he never said anything personal to the band, that was just... Well, he was busy enough keeping them out of trouble already, and he liked that arrangement, it was simple. He should know by now it never paid to get emotionally involved with a project.

The Klokateers guarding the door straightened up as they caught sight of their Masters rounding the corner. Charles smiled to himself; the automatic rifles they cradled seemed redundant compared to the old battleaxe manning the front desk.

"Hey Pickle! We gots visigtors!"

Toki was at the foot of his bandmate's bed, practically jumping up and down with excitement, a lollipop sticking out of the corner of his sunny smile. His arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, but Ofdensen suspected this was more for the Norwegian's amusement than is health.

"Hey guys! They turnsed me into a mummyies, like on TVs!" he proudly announced, waving his arm around.

Murderface snorted. "Well, if you're anything like Schwischgar's you'll—"

Pickles mellow regard to the impromptu hospital brawl breaking out suggested he'd been dosed up pretty heavily. Charles ducked as a chair sailed by. Of all the band, the redhead appeared to have come off worst. From the reports he'd received, Pickles had only narrowly avoided being impaled by one of Facebone's horns, coming away with just a nasty cut on his back. The morphine seemed to be kicking in.

"Heeeeey Doooood!" Pickles laughed at no one in particular, "They reckon I wahs like five seconds from prahably beein' a sheeshkebahb! Feckin' luck of the Irish or somethin' ,eeeeeh?"

That was one was of putting it. Charles looked up from the doctor's charts which Toki had drawn all over, to see Nathan give the drummer a rare smile.

"Would 'a been a fucking brutal way to go though... Killed by our own, ah, skull.... thing."

Pickles laughed hysterically. "Hell yeah! And they have this nurse here, she's like Hiiiiitler or somethin', maaan! No joke, I saw her full-on belt this guy."

"Really?" Swissgar suddenly looked thoughtful,, "I likes dems with a bit ofs the fires..."

An envelope nestled under a half-eaten tray of food caught Charles's attention. Mail and extravagant gifts had already begun pouring in from the four corners of the globe, but that was to be expected. He'd left the guards strict instructions to allow nothing in or out of the private room without his direct authorisation. However, this plain little envelope had managed to defy him. He frowned; there was no name, no address, nothing.

"Toki, Pickles", he said slowly, making sure his message was getting across to two minds saturated with morphine and sugar, "Did either one of you seen who brought this in?"

Pickles appeared to be having a hard time understanding the question, "I Duuuunno... I mean, I seen a few people come an' go, but ah'm pretty sure that shit wahrn't real. Hey! I swear I saw Bowie, and he was doing this thing wereeee.."

The secret of exactly what David Bowie was doing in the ward was lost to the world as the drummer happily passed out.

Time to take the initiative. Slitting open the envelope, Charles was careful to control his expression. This could be a... difficult situation, no need to spook the boys. It might have just been an unpleasant, poorly-timed coincidence. He examined the single leaf of paper for any trace of its origin. Letters cut clumsily from a magazine tumbled over the page like a child's collage, forming a single sentence;

'pREpArE YouRSeLf FoR thE rEcKOniNG.'

Somewhere deep in his mind a tiny alarm flickered on for a second, leaving some vague, uneasy sense of familiarity or... He was so absorbed, he hadn't even noticed Nathan until he felt a low rumble almost in his ear, his glasses slipping down his nose as he jumped.

"What the fuck is going on?"


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