Pickles couldn't believe he'd actually lived to see the day, felt like the whole world was ending and he was walking around in a daze half the time, but whether he believed it or not it was really here. Tonight Dethklok was gonna give the world 'Ultimate Termination' - their last show ever.

When Snakes 'n' Barrels had broken up he hadn't really been surprised; he'd known even in those first heady, coke-fueled days of stardom they were destined to be a flash-in-the-pan footnote to the glam rock scene, but he'd sorta hoped The Klok would keep on ticking until he managed to O.D. for keeps, or his liver finally gave out, or he was felled in some other unforeseen, but certainly drug-related, and hopefully totally metal and brutal way. Sure, he usually made fun of the Gears with their 'die for Dethklok' crap, but he'd always at least half-expected that he was gonna die while he was still in Dethklok.

For dinner tonight Jean-Pierre was laying out a spread of their favorites – all the expensive shit Nathan liked to eat, and that smelly shit Toki and Skwisgaar were forever asking for, and mixed in with it would be piles and piles of the junk food that none of them could get enough of. Pickles was making his way to the kitchen as slowly as he could - unwilling to hasten their last big meal together and make the finality of this thing even more real – when he spotted Charles standing in the hallway, cozied up to some big guy in a suit that looked, if possible, even more boring than the CFO.

Probably making his post-Klok plans, Pickles thought, manage another up and coming band or maybe even go the corporate route, 'course with the amount of money they'd all made for Ofdensen he could retire to one of the islands and spend the rest of his days chasing skirt if he wanted to. The sudden mental image of Charles whiling away the hours in a hammock while he sucked down a Red Stripe and eye-fucked scantily clad lady tourists made Pickles laugh to himself and shake his head - that was never gonna happen to their uptight manager, not even if the man had a million years to spend all his dough.

Normally Charles doing anything business-y would have Pickles clearing out of the vicinity as fast as his feet could carry him, but right now he was willing to take any distraction from the farewell dinner bullshit, so he stumbled towards the two men, ready to throw his, no doubt unwelcome, two cents into the conversation.

"…not anticipated to survive the…ah…transition and, in any case, measures have already been taken to ensure the disposal of any unfortunate leftovers..."

When Charles realized his drummer wasn't going to just stagger past them he let his sentence trail off and looked up at Pickles expectantly. Which was kinda awkward since it was hard to throw in your two cents when you didn't know what the hell was being talked about, but Pickles gave it a shot anyway.

"Eatin' leftovers fuckin' sucks."

There was an uncomfortable pause while the men glanced at one another and waited to see if he had anything else to offer or if he was finished making an ass of himself, then Charles delicately cleared his throat and broke the silence.

"Very true, Pickles, but you're not having leftovers, are you? Now if you'll go on to the kitchen…"

Pickles interrupted with a laugh at Ofdensen's obvious attempt to herd him along. Dethklok wasn't his first rodeo and he knew when he was being managed, even if he let it pass most of the time. Unfortunately for Charles going to the kitchen was exactly what Pickles was trying to avoid and he wasn't quite ready to exit stage left.

**Six hundred and sixty-six weeks ago, at the same location in a different hall**

"Ow, what the fuck! Oh hey, Nate, whatcha doin' out here in the hallway?"

"Working on ideas. Got locked outta my room."

"Howdja get locked out? Ya leave some pissed off groupie in there?"

Pickles grinned at the singer – it'd never happened to him, but Skwisgaar had had that trick pulled on him twice since they moved to the new place.

"Nah, left my keys in there when I locked the door. Hey, listen to this. I got an idea for what we can call our last tour – we'll call it 'Ultimate Termination' 'cause both those words mean the end. Fucking brutal, huh? Extremely brutal. Get it?"

"Sure, yeah, that word means the end, too, but, dude, we get finished with this giant castle so's we can all live together and you're already talkin' bout quittin'?"

"No, no way. I was just looking at all the metal words that mean all the same thing and coming up with ideas."

"Ya sound like ya been readin' the dictionary."

"Wasn't the dictionary, they're all in this dinosaur book Ofdensen got me."

"The dinosaur…oh, you're lookin' at a thesaurus."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Okay, well, stop talkin' all this 'the end' crap. We ain't gonna end – Dethklok 'till we die, dude."

"Yeah. Yeah, Dethklok 'till death, right?"

"That's right. Come on, let's go find one a the servants to let ya back in your room. We gotta find a more metal name for those guys."

He offered a hand to the much larger young man and, barely, helped hoist him up off the floor.

"Yeah, all right," Nathan glanced back at his temporarily abandoned word book, "Still a pretty fucking good idea."

"You guys talkin' some business? Makin' big plans for when you ain't got us in your hair anymore?"

Pickles gave his manager a sly grin to let him know that he knew he was being annoying and just didn't give a shit about it.

Charles huffed in resignation and shot Pickles one of his patent-pending 'irritated CFO' looks, but before he could open his mouth to answer the questions the big guy spoke up and Pickles felt his own mouth fall open in surprise.

The other suit could have been Ofdensen's brother from another mother in their identical nerdiness, but his voice…that voice was the stuff of nightmare fuel. He sounded like Nathan would if he had a southern accent and was having a real bad day - like maybe gotten jacked up on tequila then accidentally swallowed a box of thumbtacks bad.

"Got it in one, Pickles the Drummer. Charles here's been helping me out with a soon-to-be historic piece of real estate that I'm most awfully interested in acquiring."

The guy flashed him a million-watt smile while he proffered his hand and that's when Pickles realized he still hadn't shut his mouth, 'cause if he had of he could be dropping his jaw again right now. He hadn't had this kinda reaction to shaking hands with a man since he met Frankie Switchblade, hell, not even then – he sure as fuck didn't get a boner just from touching Frankie's hand.

Pickles distantly heard Charles introducing the guy as his 'associate, Mr. Morningstar' but he was distracted trying to figure out why he'd been thinking of words like 'nerdy' and 'boring' in connection with this dude. Fuck that shit, Mr. Morningstar was beautiful.

"You can go on and call me Luce, all my closest pals do."

At the word 'pals' Charles let out that combination choke-cough sound that meant he was trying to cover up a laugh, but he was only holding about a third of the drummer's attention and Pickles figured the rest of it must be centered around his crotch area 'cause he really didn't have a better explanation for what he said next.

"Loose? Like what, you're not tight? You're like, the opposite of tight."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Pickles was mentally kicking himself for saying something so fucking stupid to someone so goddamn gorgeous and trying to stutter out an apology and Charles couldn't have looked more dumbstruck if he'd just hauled off and spat a loogie on the guy's tie - that particular look was one Pickles was already familiar with – but Mr. Morningstar didn't look insulted at all, if anything his already monstrous smile grew even larger.

"Short for Lucien. I'm not overly fond of my given name, as I'm sure you'll understand… Pickles."

Glad he hadn't given offence and blown it before he had a chance to…well, blow it, Pickles smiled in return and tried to think of something more impressive to say so he could stop making himself sound like such a fucking douchebag.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's no problem. Hey, did, uh, Charles show you around yet? I mean, he'll tell you all the boring, 'classy' shit," Pickles's tone of voice made it obvious he wasn't using that word in its usual complementary sense," but it's still pretty fucking funny if you can get him to do the dime tour spiel in his Facebones's voice."

To his disappointment Mr. Morningstar - Luce, Pickles mentally reminded himself, Luce to his pals – confirmed that he'd already been shown around, sans the Facebones voice, and was getting ready to take his leave once he and Charles had hammered out the last few details of their business transaction.

Pickles quickly jettisoned the idea of giving Luce one of his special Mordhaus Tours that had its last stop in his own bedroom – after he'd discretely ordered one of the Gears to pick up all the bottles off the floor - and hurriedly cast about for some other excuse to get his new pal to stick around awhile longer.

"Why dontcha stay for dinner with us? We got some good shit…uh…stuff cooked up and Jean-Pierre's the only seven-star chef in the world so…yanno his shit's good. His stuff, really. It's really good."

"My apologies, Pickles, I must regretfully decline," Mr. Morningstar raised an eyebrow as he spoke, letting Pickles know exactly what he regretted declining, "I've grown accustomed to eating my meals with very little preparation, so much so that I find it hard to come by any food that doesn't taste as though it's been overcooked to me. I'm afraid my delicate palate couldn't do justice to all of your chef's hard work."

"So you do that…uh…vegan, whole food thing? Eating everything raw and what not."

Pickles tried to keep the disgusted look off his face when he said the word 'vegan,' he wasn't even sure how people kept alive without meat to eat, but judging from the way Mr. Morningstar's expression had gone from speculative to downright lustful and greedy he must enjoy the hell out of it. He made a pleased noise in the back of his throat that, with his deep voice, came out sounding more like a growl and licked his lips in a generous way that Pickles felt all the way to the root of his cock.

"Oh yes, raw, definitely raw. Whole is…not a requirement."

**Sixty-six months and six days ago, in a very far, far away place**

He'd been here a handful of times before to make the various negotiations, but it never failed to amaze him that such a powerful being worked out of an office that looked like a low-rent replica of Humphrey Bogart's from the fucking Maltese Falcon and that for all appearances the big man himself was an average schmuck you could pass by on any street and never give a second glace to. Except for the horns, but he had a hunch those went away if the big guy ever wanted to go out in public.

They'd finally gotten past the mistrustful, 'please don't kill me, I worship you' phase and today he was ready to ask for exactly what he wanted. What he deserved, really, but where life's circumstances had failed to provide, the willingness to use any form of power available would have to take up the slack.

"This. I want to head up this operation."

He tapped the glossy cover of the magazine he'd thrown on the desk in front of the evil motherfucker to emphasize his point.

"I do believe there's already someone at the head of that operation."

"Then get rid of him."

"No."

"I give you my soul and all you got is 'no' to the one thing I fucking ask for?"

"Allow me to disabuse you of your greatly inflated sense of your bargaining power. What you give me is your soul now, rather than forfeiting it later, as you will most certainly do. Or perhaps you were planning on leaving here today and dedicating your entire life to redeeming yourself from the fate you have earned through your wickedness a thousand times over. Undoubtedly you'll start by climbing off that nasty white horse that you are daily riding straight into an early grave and my open, but not so loving, arms. Hmn?"

"Okay fine, fine, I get you, pal. I see where you're coming from on this. Look, you just put me there and I'll take care of the rest. I'll get rid of him my fucking self."

"You believe you're capable of this?"

"I'm sure of it."

"I find myself at a loss for words to express my confidence in you. So how about this? I'll put you there and we'll both let our actions speak louder than our words, pal."

"Yes! Yes. But don't…don't fuck me on this, I don't wanna be the guy in charge for a day and then it's over. I wanna be running that show until the day I die."

"A very simple request that I'll be more than delighted to grant. Now, I just have a few contracts here for you to sign."

"So what, here's where I prick my finger and write my name in blood?"

"If that's what you prefer, or you could always use one of those handy Bics from the pen caddy there on the edge of the desk."

"Oh."

The monster smiled at him and made himself comfortable; leaning back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk, then, of all the god awful things, started whistling fucking Folsom Prison Blues. He shoulda known this motherfucker would be a C&W fan. The weirdo noticed he'd been noticed and flashed him an unnervingly toothy smile.

"What's the matter, Mr. Fjordslorn? You're not a fan of the man in black?"

Pickles was startled out of his enrapt contemplation of Mr. Morningstar's voice, and facial expressions, and…other stuff when he felt Charles take an iron grip on his hand and start to squeeze. He suddenly realized he hadn't let go of Luce since they'd shaken hands and in fact his own hand had somehow managed to crawl past the other man's wrist and most of the way up to his elbow.

"Pickles, if you would please excuse us, we do have business to conduct and I'm positive you are…ah…expected in the kitchen. Run along now and I'll join you as soon as I'm finished here."

His tone of voice, and more importantly the way his grip kept tightening as he forcibly removed Pickles's hand from Mr. Morningstar's arm, let Pickles know that even with a 'please' Charles wasn't making a request of him. Pickles was kinda surprised Charles was acting like such a dick about this, did his manager really think he was gonna spend too much time yapping about boring financial shit?

"Yeah sure, chief. I'll see ya there in a minute."

As soon as he ambled away Pickles heard the guy with the weird voice pick up the conversation he'd been having with Charles.

"As to the disposition of the servants?"

"The, ah…serfs come with the castle, as they say."

"Then I'll just grab a bite to eat after…"

The two men's voices faded as Pickles entered the kitchen, drowned out by the dull roar of Dethklok's latest album and the rest of the band, with a bevy of their favorite groupies, having the most morose dinner party ever and trying to pretend they were all having a good time.

"Hey, Pickle, you come looks at my new pet!"

Pickles did a double take at the skinny, half-bald critter sitting on Toki's lap. It was either the ugliest cat in existence or he'd gotten ahold of one of the rats that frequented the dumpsters behind the kitchen again.

"Yeah, Toki, I can see 'em just fine from over here. That's a real awesome…guy you got there."

Toki frowned at him in annoyance, "Scampers ams a lady."

Yep, it was a rat; the last one had been named Scampers, too. Pickles just rolled his eyes and headed off in the opposite direction toward where the buffet was set up. That had the added bonus of taking him out of Skwisgaar's general vicinity, not that he minded being around the Swede but he had his new favorite sisters sitting on his lap – he noticed they looked none too pleased to be sitting next to Toki and Scampers, either - and Pickles was determined to avoid them if he could.

One of them was called Trinity and Pickles could handle that just fine, but the other one had some long fucking name that started with a 'Q' and sounded a lot like 'quadriplegic,' which was what he kept calling her the first time they came to hang out. He'd been so trashed out he'd never noticed the dark looks the sisters and the other guys had been shooting his way or that she was an amputee missing her right leg below the knee.

Skwisgaar had finally put everyone out of their collective misery by bopping him over the head with his guitar – he told Pickles about it the next morning when he came to inform him what a douchebag he'd been the night before - and since then Pickles had made himself scarce whenever they were at the 'haus. He figured that was best for everybody 'cause he still couldn't remember her fucking name.

He bypassed Murderface, who was sporting a set of fresh bandages on his arms and had stationed himself in front of the buffet tables like some kinda wounded guard dog, and started filling up a plate. Just because he could, he caught the bassist's eye and deliberately double dipped a corn chip into the duck liver paté.

"That'sh scho discushting. It'sh fucking grosch. You're grosch."

"An' if it didn't piss you off I wouldn't do it. What happened to you?"

Pickles already knew what'd happened, they all knew what Murderface got up to when he was depressed and frustrated, he wasn't sure if he'd asked the question 'cause he wanted to be a dick and needle at Murderface some or be a dude and show a little concern for a pal, but either way he got the answer he expected.

"Nothing, had an accshident."

He almost told Murderface he should be more careful before he thought better of it. Even if he said it sarcastically like he'd intended the other man would probably accuse him of caring, and at this late date Pickles was kinda getting tired of having to deny that he did.

"Well why don't you go sit down before you accidentally slobber all over the food?" Yeah, that one was just being a dick, maybe he was still conflicted about this caring thing.

Murderface stomped off in a huff, grumbling to himself and self-consciously swiping at his mouth. Pickles would bet his entire wad that Knubbler was gonna get an earful later about how mistreated and unappreciated the bassist was. He'd probably have to let him borrow some more money next time he asked, not that Murderface would think that made up for it, but at least it'd sooth his own guilty conscience.

Before he could get his plate situated he saw Nathan barreling towards him, it was obvious he had something on his mind, but instead of bellowing out whatever he wanted to say like usual he grabbed at Pickles and pulled him in close then started muttering in his ear - or at least he tried to, Nathan wasn't very good at muttering.

"Hey, have you seen Charles?"

"Yeah, just saw 'em in the hallway talkin' to some guy."

"What guy?" Nathan narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

With the upmost of efforts, Pickles kept from laughing in Nathan's face. Now he knew what the problem was; he wanted to make sure Charles wasn't gonna skip out on their dinner because of something business related coming up, but he didn't he want the other guys to know he cared whether their manager was there or not.

"I dunno, Nathan, just some guy. Nightingale or somethin'. You know a…Charles-type guy."

"A suit. Boring."

"Yeah, exactly."

"But he is coming, right? It's our last big…thing. He can't blow this off for some fucking financial bullshit. It's not allowed."

Pickles actually thought it was kinda cute how protective the big guy had gotten over their manager ever since he'd…come back, but he was a hundred percent certain that if he ever told Nathan that, or even let on he thought it, they wouldn't be able to be friends any more. They'd been allowed to care when he was dead, but giving a shit about a guy who wore a suit and crunched numbers all day was not fucking metal if the guy turned up alive again.

"Jeezy, he said he be here in a minute, don't get your fucking panties in a bunch."

"My panti…I don't…I…I'm not…you know what? Fuck you, Pickles. And stop hogging all the fucking paté, I saw you double dip, motherfucker."

Pickles coulda pointed out that Nathan didn't have a lot of room to talk on that score, the words 'big fat hypocrite' and 'clam dip' sprang to mind, but he decided to let it go. Fuck it, he knew they were all on edge about the concert tonight. Even though they'd all sworn up and down that they wanted to quit, then talked it into the ground, and finally ended up re-re-re-agreeing that it was over, none of them was ready to play their last show yet.

He woulda faked some kinda illness as an excuse to cancel if he thought he'd be able to get away with it, but after seeing him play while he was drunk off his ass, short one of his sticks, and riding an out of control hoover-drum kit they already knew there was nothing short of death that could keep him from turning in a performance. As it was, all he could do was wish death and destruction on Toki's new pet and hope it sent the kid into a panic attack. Pickles guessed that from the hate-filled glares Skwisgaar kept casting in Scampers's direction he was thinking along those same lines, too.

He was a hair's breath away from having talked himself into sneaking up behind the young guitarist and yelling as loud as he fucking could to see if that might cause anything to happen – Pickles was pretty sure the name for that was 'plausible deniability' – but then Charles walked into the kitchen and he knew without a doubt that he'd be able to see straight through what would've been an impenetrable ruse to the other band members and the groupies that were in the room.

Of course their manager wanted to get straight down to business and even though no one but the hairless rat was having a very good time they all had to grouse and moan like he was throwing a wet blanket over the blowout bash of the century.

"Come on, everybody, I'd like to do this while you're all still…ah…less intoxicated and there's a chance you'll remember at least a few of the more important points. Guys? Come on, let's gather in, come on. We'll get this security briefing out of the way and then you can drink as much as you'd like and…ah…we can all have a par-tay."

"Dear God, don't schay that."

"Yeah, that's…uh…no, just don't. Don't say that anymore."

Pickles didn't know why Murderface and Nathan even bothered, Charles was a nerd and that's all there was to it. What was the point in trying to correct him when he'd only come out with something else nerdy to say the next time he opened his mouth? Hell, he was so far gone he didn't even know which word he said was the nerd word. He was staring back and forth between Nathan and Murderface in genuine confusion.

"Don't say what?"

"Well, I'm not gonna schay it. It'sch fucking dumb; it'sch a dumb word. That word wasch scho fucking bad I'm not even gonna repeat it back to you."

Charles looked helplessly at Nathan, who sighed and made a face like he was steeling himself for some gruesome and painful ordeal.

"It's par-tay. Ugh! God, I can't believe I said it. Fuck, somebody give me a beer, I feel fucking sick to my stomach now."

After only one more freak out, quite a bit of cajoling, some judicious use of repetition and a lot more beer, they were finally convinced to send the groupies out to the living room and settle down for their last pre-preshow security briefing.

Following a longstanding Dethklok tradition as soon as Charles started talking the band tuned him out utterly and completely. Pickles knew Skwisgaar would probably start napping soon and Murderface would pull out one of his spare knives – he'd be using a spare 'cause Twinkletits always kept his favorite one for a couple of months after an 'incident' - and then he'd be carving up the table if Nathan didn't catch him in time.

It looked like Toki was checking his Facebook status and if he didn't put a closer eye on that rat of his it was gonna be chewing on Skwisgaar's guitar…ah, there it went. Pickles spent a few minutes considering the dilemma of whether it would be more fun to nudge Skwisgaar now and get to watch him throw a fit right away or if he should wait 'till later and let Scampers do the maximum amount of damage. He decided on later, mostly so he wouldn't have to break out of his boredom-induced lethargy.

Pickles often thought that Charles could've skipped most of the speeches he'd given them over the years and said 'blah, blah, blah' instead of actual words and they'd all be none the wiser. The drummer had sometimes considered tuning back in, just to see if Charles was doing something like that, but he'd always decided it wasn't worth the risk. Look at where knowing things had gotten Charles – a gigantic dork who didn't even get why you couldn't say par-tay out loud. Still, Charles was more like family to him than the shitty fuckers who shared their last name and their DNA with him. He was family, they all were - the only family he had that counted, anyway.

**Precisely 66.6 seconds before Pickles walks down this exact same hallway**

"It is quite aesthetically pleasing."

"I thought it might appeal to someone of your somewhat…unique tastes."

"Charles…you flatter me. I'm sure the unique asking price had something to do with your thoughts of me as well."

"I'll admit I…ah…hope to set aside a substantial nest egg for the coming…unrest. You know I've always promised myself an early retirement on St. Bart's."

"And why let a little thing like Hell on Earth stop you?"

"Why indeed? In the interests of full disclosure, there are some structural problems that would never pose a threat to you or to the property itself, but could be a danger to any of the…humans you'll have on staff."

"Well, Charles, while I do certainly love the pretty little things of the flesh they almost never survive my personal attentions and even close proximity to me seems to sap the life right out of them. They're so frail – I believe that I'm far more likely to be hazardous to their health than anything else here."

"My apologies for bringing up something so negative."

"Not at all, better to discuss these things before there are any unpleasant surprises. Speaking of…you're quite sure there'll be no problems regarding the current owners?"

"I'm positive…"

"Okay, guys, I think that wraps it up. Do any of you have questions about what we've gone over?"

"Yeah, where'sch our schend off?"

"Ah…pardon me?"

"You know, you gotta schay schome dork-tashtic thing you thinksch really cool to get usch motivated or schomething."

Pickles was tempted to point out to Murderface that saying 'dork-tastic' was dork-tastic and Nathan was giving the bassist a death glare, but then he turned to Charles with a hopeful gleam in his eyes and Pickles realized that they were all kinda hoping for him to say something, even if it was dork-tastic. It was just that Murderface didn't know how to say it without being a dick.

As always, their manager let Murderface's rudeness roll right off of him. It seemed like he was seriously considering what would be the most appropriate send off he could give them and Pickles thought his expression must be like how a father looks at his son when he's made the old man proud by going out into the world and making something of himself. Charles gave them a little grin when he'd finally settled on something that he felt was befitting to the occasion and then gave Dethklok their final send off.

"Give 'em hell tonight, boys. Give them Hell."