Better Than Sex on Fire
By: CrystallicSky
Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse or any of its characters, nor do I make any profit or attempt to with the writing of this or any of my other pieces. Warnings: Blood/gore, Mary Sue death, homosexual implications.
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Charles Foster Ofdensen was not one to mince words.
He never had been; a cool, calculating and, as his boys would often tease him, near-robotic man to the core. It simply didn't make sense to him to say something in twenty some words that could just as easily and far more concisely be said in about nine.
Consequently, it was only logical that he address the unexpected and unwanted visitor to Mordhaus that now stood in his office with the question, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
The woman before him looked inexplicably offended at his words. "How could you ask me that, Charlie?" she pleaded tearily, ignoring the wince she received at the nickname. "Don't you remember me?"
Charles was fairly sure he'd never met this person in his entire life, for he had a rather good memory for faces and hers was not ringing any bells. Still, in the interest of fairness and giving her the benefit of the doubt, he looked her over carefully with scrutinizing hazel eyes.
She was a lovely woman, to be certain: a cherubic, heart-shaped face with flawless porcelain skin, long and silky-looking auburn locks, and currently watery blue eyes; bluer than the bluest blue times infinity.
She was physically attractive, too, with a nice, voluptuous body. Oh, but of course, her curves were flawless, as well, and her breasts were neither too big nor too small and were just perfect. The tube-top and skimpy miniskirt did much to show off her charms, but oddly enough, they didn't make her look like a hooker or anything of that nature as they would on anyone else.
In short, Charles had a visually stunning woman in his office, calling him a nickname he hated and let no one use, and claiming to know him somehow.
Nope, the manager thought to himself coolly, that was not ringing any bells.
"I'm sorry," he said unapologetically, "but I can't say as I recall you, Miss…?"
"Angelina!" the woman cried, tears finally escaping her eyes and somehow managing not to track her eyeliner down her cheeks. "My name is Angelina Marissa Fairchild-Ofdensen, your estranged wife!"
The band manager blinked at that. He had a wife, did he? Well, that was a new one.
"Ms. Fairchild, I hate to be contrary," not really, but this woman was obviously a bit delusional and should likely be handled gently, "but I am not nor was I ever married."
"How can you say that?!" Angelina sobbed at him. "We were high school sweethearts! We went to college together! I was in the Fencing Club with you!"
If Charles had had any doubts whatsoever that she was crazy, that statement dispelled it: not only were there no 'Angelina's that stood out in his memory, there had never been any women in the Fencing Club while he was in it.
"Ms. Fairchild," he said firmly, "I-"
"We got married right out of college," the unbalanced female ranted. "We were on the verge of having a family before I had a miscarriage due to stress and we drifted apart after you took this job, and I was clinically depressed and tried to kill myself for years before I got my life back together and became a successful singer/actress/musician/photographer/attorney, and now that I'm back on track, I came to find you and reconcile our marriage!" Angelina's deep blue eyes had something inherently disturbing in them as she stared at the bespectacled man at his desk without blinking. "Don't you want to be happy again, Charlie?"
Charles was the manager of Dethklok, the most brutal Metal band in the world. He dealt with natural-disaster scale death, lawsuits, assassination attempts, and supernatural hijinks daily, and killed and tortured men, women, and children with his own two hands just as often.
He had never been quite as frightened as he felt right now with this obviously crazy woman staring him down and talking about being 'happy' together.
His hand automatically reached for the button beneath his desk, the one that would send a dozen hand-picked, highly-trained, and well-armed Klokateers into his office to beat this unwelcome intruder into submission and torture her until Charles himself was ready to end her life personally at his own convenience.
As it turned out, he didn't have to.
"What the hell's your problem, you crazy bitch?" a deep, gruff voice demanded all of a sudden, and Charles nearly allowed the sigh of relief that escaped his lips to be audible at the sight of frontman Nathan Explosion standing in his open office door.
Somehow, being in the presence of a crazy person that had questionable motives towards you felt less horrifying when there was a large man with crystal clear motives towards you in equal proximity.
Angelina stopped crying abruptly and the madness in her eyes was gone as she turned to face the dark-haired man. "Nathan Explosion," she gasped before once more turning her attention to the band manager with an apologetic look on her face. "Oh, Charlie," she sighed, "you know I've always had a weakness for Nathan's dashing good looks and morbid charisma! This will surely put a strain on our already strained relationship!"
Before Charles could say a word in response to that (or even think of a few, actually), a thunderous expression crashed across the lead singer's face. Silently, the dark-haired man plodded the few steps towards the desk and plucked a random object from the mahogany surface.
Nathan looked over the object for a moment, identifying it as a letter opener. "This'll work," he muttered before grabbing the brunette woman and embedding the small knife in her neck.
Angelina fell to the floor immediately, her eyes wide with horror and pain as she struggled to breathe through the letter opener.
Charles helped her with that, standing from his desk and plucking the 24-karat gold-plated blade out of her throat and wiping it clean on his tie as blood began spurting from the now open hole in her neck.
It was a Faberge enamel letter opener that had cost about $40 on its own: he wasn't about to let a crazy dying woman just keep it, after all.
"Thank you, Nathan," he spoke gratefully as Ms. Fairchild convulsed wildly on the floor, spewing blood from both her mouth and her neck now. He would have to send the cleaning staff in here soon to keep the carpet from staining. "She was becoming quite the nuisance."
The frontman grunted. "She was annoying," he said. "And, uh…she was coming on to you. That's, y'know…bad."
Charles gave a wry grin despite himself. "Bad because only you can come on to me, Nathan?"
It really was cute how such a big and intimidating man, known throughout the world as a leading force in brutality could be reduced to an awkward schoolboy shyly scuffing his feet, especially with the woman he'd just murdered in cold blood lying on the ground mere feet away. "I, uh…well…yeah, maybe," he admitted.
"That was very sweet of you," the manager thanked, idly removing his bloodied tie.
Nathan, of course, took it as a sign. "You wanna do it?" he blurted out.
Charles considered it for a brief second, glancing over to the finally-still and completely dead body of Angelina Marissa Fairchild. Then, without a second thought, he caught the frontman with his sullied silk tie; pulling the younger and taller man in and down so they were nose-to-nose as he suggested, "On top of her?"
Green eyes flew wide.
Whoa…sex on top of a dead chick? A crazy, bitchy, annoying dead chick? There was probably a song idea in there somewhere, but it could wait. For now…
Nathan's big hands clumsily tore open his manager's suit jacket, tossing it over the woman's head and upper-torso so as not to have to look at her. His grin was a predatory one as he decided, "Brutal."
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A/N: Hey, look: my first foray into the Metalocalypse fandom, and it's for a Mary Sue Must Die contest being held over on the mord_haus community on LJ. XD Anyways...I know this isn't my usual pairing (not Chack?! LE GASP!), but I do happen to enjoy Nathan/Charles, as well, and so I hope some of my fans like this regardless. :D