"Are you guys sticking around?"
"Nah, we should probably go soon. It's been a long day."
"I'll pay for your drinks, if you do." Nathan took another sip of his beer. "Just chill."
Dethklok had played their biggest gig so far, deep in the heart of Tampa's dingiest clubs. For a hobby band on the side, they didn't do so terribly. Once upon a time they'd aimed to hit it big, those who could sacrificing employment for frenzied song-writing sessions, and floating from one minuscule payday to the next. A lesson that the world didn't want death metal like they wanted boy bands or country singers was a hard pill to eventually swallow.
"Might've got us another gig for next weekend," Nathan mentioned. "Down the street, there. Dildo seemed interested, so if none of you guys have plans. . .?"
"The girls are coming to visit," Skwisgaar reminded him. "I have to drive all the way to Orlando and back on Saturday night to pick them up, since Erika has something. Sorry."
"She can't meet you?"
"Something came up," Skwisgaar repeated with a shrug.
A man about Skwisgaar and Nathan's ages passed by the booth, then doubled back. "Hey, Dethklok."
"Uhh, hi?" Nathan greeted him in kind. They weren't exactly used to people approaching them as a band. "Something we can do for you?"
"Yeah, maybe." The man pulled a chair over from the nearest table and plopped down. "Been watching you a while. You guys got some sick talent, you know that? How come you don't play more seriously? Bet you could really get off the ground, if you did."
That was already attempted and failed. Eyes collectively narrowing in suspicion, everyone figuratively crouched behind Nathan on the assumption that he would do the speaking for them, as their self-proclaimed manager. "Who are you, exactly?"
"Oh, sorry. Here I am, crashing your—whatever, and I haven't even—" He cleared his throat. "Brendon Small."
"Are you from a record label?"
"What? No, I work in TV." Brendon leaned forward onto his elbows, brow raised imploringly. "Of the People, if you're familiar with it at all. I help make the shitty cartoons, late night shows, shit like that."
Toki's eyes lit up. "Oh, that! Home Movies, that was you, right?"
"Yeah, that was my last project. It's all over now, though. I'm moving onto something bigger and more ambitious. Trying, anyway. I've been practicing how the hell I'm going to pitch this to you guys, because it actually has to do with you. Came out tonight, saw you all here, figured I might as well come into it head-first."
"Bro," Murderface piped up with a condescending tone. "Tell us what you want or get out of here. We don't have long until these two are ditching us for bedtime."
"I have this idea, right? It's about the biggest band in the world. A metal band. They're an economic force, they're so big. They live in this Viking citadel called Mordhaus, and every time they play a show, thousands of people die."
"So then why do people even go to the shows?" Skwisgaar asked, feathering where he'd spilled some beer on his band shirt's logo. "If they're just going to die, what's the point?"
"They love this band that much."
"If this band is so dangerous, how do they have any money left from all the lawsuits? People sue them, right?" Working in insurance as he did, Nathan focused on such potential claims.
"I dunno, pain waivers or something. It doesn't matter." Brendon waved it off. "The point is, this band is you."
Silence hung around the table.
"What do you mean, us?" Murderface still slouched back against the booth. "We're just here. We're nothing special. Even if we kick ass, what does it matter? Most people don't like metal."
"You guys are completely missing the point." Rather than frustrated, Brendon grew more excited. With it, he placed a hand on Pickles' shoulder; as nicely as he could, Pickles peeled it off. "The show's more than that. It's about five assholes that are spoiled completely rotten by their servants."
"I'd watch it, I guess," Pickles piped in. "Let's take your word for it that it's an awesome show and for some reason it's about us—dude, why us, again? Did Cannibal Corpse not pick up their phone?"
The other guys laughed, but Brendon couldn't be deterred. He grinned, too. "I didn't want an already-established band, and you guys have character! Like you, your last name is Murderface—"
"Nah, not really," Murderface denied it with a shrug. "It's—"
"That's all fine then, it still can be, on the show. And Pickles, what kind of a name is this?"
"It's a nickname."
"And what's up with this hair? A dread-combover? That's fucking brilliant."
Pickles clapped a hand to his obscured bald spot, frowning. "You could stand to hide your shame, cocksmoker."
"This sounds great and all that, but we've got to go." Toki made to stand, grabbing his jacket off the back. "Nice to meet you, Brendon. See you dudes later."
"Oh my god, you guys are lame," Nathan hollered after them. All he received was twin flip-offs before Toki and Skwisgaar's fingers lazily intertwined between them. "I'm kind of half-interested, though. Go on."