Authors Notes: Do not own Dethklok.
For some stupid reason, I really like Magnus, even if he was a total asshole dickweed that stabbed and tortured the most innocent characters in the whole series. This is just a series of drabbles concerning his spirial into madness and what led him to go to such extremes.
Magnus stared out the window of his new cabin in the woods. As a councilor at the Rock-A-Rooni camp, he had his own quarters now, sparsely furnished by the company. He was allowed to bring his own belongings as well as his cat Gibson, who was content at making bird-chirping noises at a handful of blue jays that were mocking him from their bird feeder safe on the other side of the glass.
The sky overhead was a soft grey, and the landscape was washed with soft pastels of the coming spring. Winter was starting to fade a little with each drop, leaving everything dreary, but Magnus felt a little better for it. Winter was always impossibly hard on the dark haired man. The cheery consumerist holidays only served to worsen his deepening depression, the twinkling lights mocking him. The simpering cheerfulness of it all sickened him to his very core, his only relief was at the very bottle of some cheap vodka. It brought him to the very depths of himself, and he always felt like he was drowning in ink by January's flurries of snow. His whole world seemed so monochromatic-in shades of white, grey and black.
Magnus sighed, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back. His long, wavy brown hair spilled down in a thick waterfall over the edge of the rustic chair, and Magnus brought up a long fingered calloused hand to rub his face. He could feel another migraine coming on, it always did when the weather got like this. The barometric pressure was killing him.
Some days it seemed like the very pressure of the sky above was trying to crumple the towering man to the ground.
He sipped at his piping hot cup of Earl Grey thoughtfully. Earl Grey was simply the best compliment to the rainy season of early spring, he thought with a sad smile. The tea was full bodied, with an almost brooth-y feeling in the mouth, and the bergamot scent was uplifting in the dreary weather. If he had remembered to pick up some milk at the tiny store about a half hour's drive from the camp, he could have fixed himself a nice steaming London Fog, a sweet blend Magnus was fond of. It was a good, strong cup of Earl Grey blended with some vanilla syrup and a splash of milk and sugar. He used to enjoy a cup at the local bohemian café back when he was living in the Northeast coast as a college student in the early seventies. He had made a habit of going to that stupid café every morning , just so he could chat up the cute little cashier with her honey blond hair in that flipped-up little bob of hers.
Gibson stopped his chirping at the birds to crawl into the older man's lap, purring contentedly as he absent-mindedly petted him. His two-toned eyes were unfocused (truth be told, he was nearly blind in his one eye, everything was blurred on that side) as he thought about the last week. Rock-A-Rooni Rock N Roll camp was really a morbid nursing home for over-the-hill rockstars to try to earn their last few dollars before old age finally claimed them. He was sickened by the waste of talent he saw in his fellow counselors. These men, with their soft, flabby stomachs and glistening bald heads, used to be the greatest of the great, gods of rock among men. These were his contemporaries, people that he used to know on the circuit. Hell, he even hauled some of these stupid assholes to the ER when they would overdose at one of their many overblown parties at their mansions. All that talent, all that money, all that fame and glory was now reduced to fallen gods, teaching fat, middle-aged men how to play a few painfully simple songs so that they could feel special when they went home to their saggy-assed wife and asshole children.
This was the ultimate disgrace, but each morning, Magnus had to roll out of bed at six AM. He would then fix himself some porridge and tea, perhaps a crumpet with marmalade on it. He couldn't stand the greasy shit that they served at the mess hall. Bacon and eggs, with greasy hash browns might be alright once and awhile, but every day? Hell no. But it at least explained why his fellow former rock gods got so fat. He was surprised some of them were even functioning with all that cholesterol clogging their arteries. He would have to shower with them all too, in the large communal shower room. He had to admit, for someone in their fifties, he looked fairly good. But then again, he always did take care of himself better than the other rock stars.
He wasn't into the heavy drugs, or drinking nearly as much, and women, well-he had his fair share back in the day, but frankly he wasn't sex-mad like the others. He enjoyed sex, hell, who didn't?, but his type was rarely in the crowd. Fan girls were good for a quick hump, but they always left something wanting. It didn't help very few of them were his type. He adored the sexy librarian type, liked the intellectual girls in their slim fitting pencil skirts and tight fitting sweaters, their cat-eye glasses and hair in a silky bun. He also loved petite women- he was fascinated by tiny hands and feet, enjoying how his long hands could dwarf theirs, and he always loved to soak up their adoration. He used to love smiling down at them, loved how they looked at him, their slender necks having to crane all the way back, exposing the delicate column of their throat. It was such a powerful feeling. But, he hadn't been with a woman in years, hadn't been able to connect decently enough with any. Even if he did find someone, the second they knew he was ex-Dethklok, they turned on their heel and ran. It was frustrating.
Magnus poured himself another cup of tea, adding lots of raw sugar to it before stirring idly as he stared into it's rich brown depths. The scent of bergamot wafted up towards him, soothing him.
He just had to put up with this job, and try to save as much money as he could before this job eventually dried up. Music camps like this rarely lasted more then a year or two, the economy being so shitty that no one could really afford the luxury of being off work for a three day weekend to attend something as frivolous as a rock'n'roll camp.
He downed his cup of tea, and grimaced. A quick look at the clock told him it was time he rounded up this week's group of "campers". He just had to take it one day at a time.