"Happy St. Patsy's Day!"
Toki staggered into the meeting room, a pair of green feely-boppers shaped like shamrocks on his head, several green strands of beads around his neck and a pint of green beer in his hand.
"Erin Go Bragh, dood!" Pickles agreed, snagging his bandmate for a drunken hug.
Toki finally collapsed into his chair, spilling beer on his shirt.
"Why are you sho fuckin' happy?" Murderface wanted to know. "Picklesh ish, like, Irish. You're Norwegian; why do you care about Shaint Patty'sh day?"
"Toki gots to celebrate his luck!" the rhythm guitarist announced. "Toki so lucky!"
"Like how?" William demanded.
"Like 'he's in the most metal, awesome, famousest band in history and it's his first band' lucky," Nathan offered. "You're lucky you knew Skwisgaar."
The Swede frowned at the mention of his name.
"I nots knows Toki before hims joinededs Dethklok!" Skwisgaar protested.
"Oh. It musta been Pickles, then," Nathan muttered.
"It wasn't me, dood," the drummer stated.
The frontman cast a questioning look at Murderface, who shook his head. The rest of the band started to frown in puzzlement. Toki guzzled his green beer, oblivious to the confusion he was causing.
"Maybe . . . maybe Ahffdensen hired 'im?" Pickles suggested.
"No! We've got complete creative control and that includes hiring band members. Toki, where the hell did you come from?"
"Lillehammer!"
The rest of Dethklok stared at their youngest member as he emptied his glass and carefully balanced it on top of his head. He seemed to have forgotten his feely-boppers, which made the balancing act quite a challenge.
"This is gonna bug the shit outta me until we figure it out," Pickles muttered.
"Good to see you boys all here on time," Charles announced, striding purposefully into the meeting room. "Ah . . . in body if not spirit," he amended, watching Toki try to balance his glass.
"Who hired Toki?" Nathan demanded shortly.
"You boys did," Offdensen stated. "Against my advice, actually. I didn't really see the sense in replacing Magnus with an unproven kid who had never even been in a band before, but you threatened to kill me. You said it had to be Toki we hired. I must admit, it's worked out pretty well."
"Really?" Murderface stared at Toki as if he'd never seen him before. "I do not remember that."
"We hads to replaces Magnus with somebodies," Skwisgaar reminded the manager. "Ons de accounts of he was dead ands all. Couldn'ts plays guitar for shits nomores."
"Well, ah, you do have a point there, Skwisgaar," Charles allowed. "Dead men do make shitty guitar players."
"It . . . it was actually really weird, him overdosin' like thet," Pickles murmured. "He was always pretty careful."
"Didn't . . . didn't Skwisgaar lose all of his picks?" Nathan asked, forcing the memory back to the surface. "Like, every single one? Which is totally weird, 'cause—"
Without waiting for prompting, Skwisgaar stuck his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, then withdrew them and dumped at least a dozen guitar picks onto the table.
"Dey disdappears worse dan pens," the Swede muttered. "I keeps at leasts a hundreds ins my kit whens we tours. Dey was all gones."
"Yeah, and Toki was practicin' in th' music store we hit t' git more," Pickles recalled. "An' it was like . . . he'd always been there. I thought he knew Skwisgaar!"
"I thoughts he knews Nat'an!"
"I thought he knew Pickles!"
"Toki ams de luckiest!" Toki crowed, throwing his hands up in victory. The pint glass toppled from his head and smashed on the floor. "Oh, shits . . ."
"That's how you met him?" Charles asked. "He was just a kid in a music store?"
"That doesn't sound right, does it?" Nathan asked. "That's like . . . freakishly good luck."
"Shounds shupernatural," Murderface growled.
For the first time since the conversation started, Toki appeared to be listening. In fact, a slightly guilty look crossed his face.
"Toki? Are you a witch?" the bass player asked.
"Whats? No!"
"That'sh jusht what a witch would shay!"
"I's nots a witch! I just—" Toki suddenly broke off sharply. He appeared to think something over for a minute, then leaned towards the center of the table. "I tells you how Is got so luckys, but you can'ts nots never tells no one! Dis ams my deepest, darkest secrets. I onlys tellings you 'cause you all ams too drunks to remember."
The rest of the band exchanged looks, but leaned in towards Toki.
"So . . . how'd you do it?" Nathan asked in a stage whisper.
"It wash witchcraft, washn't it?"
"Toki . . . Toki fucked a leprechaun."
Silence reigned for a full minute.
Then Pickles started laughing hysterically.
"It ams true!" Toki insisted. "I dids such a good job de leprechaun gived me t'ree wishes!"
Now Skwisgaar snorted dismissively.
"Toki wished to be de bestest guitarist in de world, to always be fit an' sexys, and to bes incrediblys rich forevers!"
"Shit, Toki, you had us going for a minute!" Nathan snickered.
"You ams not de best guitarists! I is way more gooders dan you!" Skwisgaar sneered.
"Joo ams faster, but who knows whats joo fucked to gets dat way!" Toki spat.
"Well, that's fascinating, but we really should get down to business now—" Charles started.
"What did . . . what did th' leprechaun look like?" Pickles asked, still giggling. "Short? Red hair, I'm guessin'?"
"Nopes. Curly black hairs and green eyes. He was abouts my height."
Silence washed over the meeting room again. Toki seemed enraptured by the sparkly green beads around his neck. Everyone else seemed frozen in shock.
"It . . . . it was a dude leprechaun?" Nathan hissed.
"'Course it was; leprechauns onlys comes in 'dude'."
Further silence.
Pickles finally chuckled.
"Dis is like – how do you know he was a leprechaun?" the drummer blurted. "Did he have a green suit, Irish accent, anything?"
"He hads de Irish accent," Toki reported. "No green suits, t'ough. Oh! He dids have ones of dems pipes likes a white checks mark! I didn'ts sees it until afters we fucked . . .he lit ups, you knows. . . I just hads a cigarette."
Charles took off his glasses and started rubbing his eyes.
"Oh my God," Nathan wheezed, burying his face in his hands. "How did . . . fuck, I don't even want to know this, but I gotta ask . . . how did he talk you into fucking him? Did he just walk up and say 'Hey, hot ass, I'm a leprechaun and I'll give you three wishes if you fuck me?'"
A scowl started to creep across Toki's face.
"Joo guys ams making fun of me!"
"You fucked a dude who shaid he wash a leprechaun!" Murderface pointed out in an embarrassingly shrill voice. "You fucked a dude!"
"Where did you find this leprechaun?" Nathan asked.
Toki actually looked a bit embarrassed.
"A . . . a men's rooms."
Nathan's forehead slammed into the table with a solid 'thunk!'
"Looks; I knows it sounds dildos, but he was a leprechaun! Toki's life turneds completely arounds nots a week afterwards. I'm de second fastest guitarist alives! I's a trillionare! I gots a body likes a model and I never works out! Toki's wishes camed true!"
"Were you on top?" Murderface asked solemnly.
"Whats difference does dat make?"
"Oh God, you weren't," Nathan moaned, his forehead still against the tabletop.
"We tooked turns, joos happy?"
"'Took turns'? How many times did you screw this guy?" Pickles demanded.
"You knows what? You ams all assholes! Fucks joo! I does whatevers I wants, 'cause Toki's is lucky!" The young Norwegian shoved back his chair and stomped out the door, feely boppers swinging wildly.
"That never leaves this room," Charles stated calmly.
"No fucking shit!" Nathan growled. "Fucking dude leprechauns is not metal!"
"Never leaves the room," Charles repeated. "I'm looking at you, William."
"Like I'm gonna tell anyone I live with a gay guy!"
"Wonders whats dats was likes," Skwisgaar murmured thoughtfully.
"One problem at a time, Skwisgaar," Nathan growled.
"Stupid fuckin' Toki," Pickles sighed. "Dude had an Irish accent and he thought he was a fucking leprechaun! Jesus . . . he didn't even have red hair!"
Half a world away, five men relaxed around a small table. The table was littered with empty beers bottles, peanut shells, and bottle caps.
"Okay, I got one," a middle-aged man with an eyepatch on growled. "What's the worst lie you ever told to get laid?"
"I once told a lady I'd call her later even though I had no intention of doin' so," a big blond drawled. His shaggy hair hung down over one eyes while the rest captured in a short ponytail.
He was immediately pelted with peanut shells and bottle caps.
"Fuckin' Boy Scout!" the one-eyed man spat.
"You can't play!" A younger, much scarred man cried.
"I once kidnapped my little cousin because I told a chick he was my son who I had responsibly taken charge of, 'cause I was responsible like that. She came over unexpectedly and I had to run over to my aunt's house and drag him back to my place. He didn't even want to come!" This came from an enormous young man with short black hair parted neatly down the middle.
"How'd that work out for ya?" the scarred man asked.
"Uh, well, my cousin spilled the beans, the chick dumped me, then my aunt showed up and kicked my ass. So I wouldn't recommend it."
"I've got one."
This was spoken in a light Irish brogue by a man with curling black hair pulled back into a ponytail and eyes as green as poison.
"I was in Norway – long story – and I was fucking gagging for a shag; blue balls doesn't even begin t' describe it. I was at a bus stop men's room and I found this sweeeeeet little farm boy with angel eyes –"
"I don't like this story already," the big blond announced.
"When you say 'little boy' . . ." the one-eyed man began.
"He was seventeen, eighteen maybe. Anyway, I told him I was a leprechaun—" the black haired man paused for the outburst of hilarity that rocked the dimly lit room. "—And that I would grant him three wishes if he'd fuck me. We spent the night together. He was a farm boy, a preacher's son, and he was a virgin."
"Awww, that's . . . man . . ."
"That's a little too much, Phooka," the blond said, grimacing.
"A leprechaun? Really? And he believed you?" the one-eyed man asked.
"Aye. I felt kind of like an asshole for takin' advantage of the little eedjit."
"You should have," the scarred man said with reproach.
A metal bucket filled with ice and beer seemed to materialize in the middle of the table, knocking aside empties. It wobbled for a minute, then a blue skinned man only six inches high wiggled out from under it. He had flaming red hair and wore a black T-shirt with a Dropkick Murphys patch sewn on the front of it and a ragged kilt.
"Oi! 'Nudder roun' fer yehs bigjobs!"
The men didn't seem to mind this.
"T'anks very much, Not-As-Big-As-Big-Jock-But-Bigger-Than-Medium-Jock-Jock," Phooka said.
The Pictsie nodded his acknowledgement and disappeared in a streak of blue and red.
"Tell me you at least granted his wishes," the scarred man said, reaching for a beer bottle.
"Yeah, ratchet our opinion of you up a notch," the one eyed man ordered.
A cold one appeared in his hand at the same time one disappeared from the bucket, even though he didn't appear to have moved in any way.
"Well of course," Phooka spat. A tentacle crept out from underneath the Irishman's T-shirt, slithered across the table and pulled a beer from the bucket. A second tentacle curled around the top and twisted it off.
"I may be an asshole, but I'm not a fucking asshole."
"What did he want?" The enormous black-haired man asked.
"The Rock Star package," Phooka announced, finally transferring the beer to his hand. "I had to kill somebody, round up a herd of Guitar Pick gnomes and set them loose in Mordhaus, do an instant talent charm, throw a Glamour over the rest of Dethklok, and cobble a spell to throw the extra fat and calories he consumes off onto his bandmates."
"Shit! Toki Wartooth? Damn, he must have been a hell of a lay," the scarred man observed.
The shit-eating grin Phooka gave was answer enough.
"I did feel bad about the leprechaun thing, though," he announced, snagging a pretzel with one of his tentacles. "Stupid lad . . . . everyone knows leprechauns have red hair."