Summary: Toki rapes people and has adventures. This story is being reposted; it was recently removed without warning for profanity in the title; an infraction, to be sure, but my "Metalocalypse" stuff has been up on this site for years without any sort of issue, so. Yeah. Anywho, this fanfic serves two purposes: One, as a grudge reaction to/satire of Toki Wartooth being the Dethklok bicycle; and two, as a present - by request - for my wife's 26th birthday. Warning for rape jokes and overall bad taste.
Don't [GUITAR RIFF] With Toki
Toki Wartooth was having a bad day. Someone had drank the last Yoohoo; he'd broken a guitar string while trying to stand on his guitar; and Murderface had shrank one of his shirts in the wash. "Murderface doesn't even dos laundrys," Toki growled to himself. He tried to put the shirt on one of his stuffed toys, but stopped when he realized that the plush animal smelled strongly of urine. It was not his own.
"Fucks," Toki yelled. As usual, no one was paying attention. Angrily, he stalked out to the living room. His favorite show, "Cute and Cuddly Animals of the Great Barrier Reef Wearing Hats" was on, and he had been looking forward to it all week.
He was further dismayed when he found that the living room was already occupied. Nathan Explosion glared at him when he walked in, and shoveled beer nuts into his mouth. His eyes were glassily fixated on some Showtime porn that he'd TiVo'd. "Nat'ans, can I has the TVs remotes? My shows is ams on," Toki queried politely.
Nathan grunted. "Busy," he muttered, and nodded at the television. "Chick's gonna take her top off." He reached into his pants to scratch at his balls, and then shoved his hand back into the food canister propped on his chest, tossing some more beer nuts into his mouth. Then he smirked up at Toki, salt coating his chin. "Wan' some?" he asked, his voice muffled.
Toki lost it. "Gives me the remotes!" he yelled. Nathan frowned and jacked up the volume. "Gives it to me, Nat'ans!" Toki screeched, struggling to be heard over the sound of fake orgasms. Eventually, he began hitting the front man repeatedly with his open palms.
"Ow, OW, quit it, Toki!" Nathan yelled. Then he glanced down at the rhythm guitarist's slacks and raised an eyebrow. "Yo, bro, you might wanna go take care of that," he said, pointing at Toki's boner. "It's, uh. It's starin' at me."
Toki blinked. Part of him was embarrassed about his adrenaline erection; the other part of him had really, really wanted to see some Great Barrier Reef animals in hats. "Yous do not gets to tell me whats to dos, Nat'ans!" he screeched. Then, without warning, he began to undo his belt.
"Whoa." Nathan's attention was now fully focused on Toki. "Dude, don't be a dick, okay? Okay, Toki? Okay?" he began edging towards the other end of the couch. Once there, he tipped the beer nuts canister up over his head, dumping another mouthful into his gaping maw.
Toki's hands clenched into fists. "Yous are a pigs!" he yelled, and then barreled into Nathan. Though considerably larger, Dethklok's lead singer was flabby. Toki wrestled him onto his stomach, wincing when his attempt to pick Nathan up resulted in the front man hitting his head on a low-slung coffee table. "Oh, sorrys," Toki gasped, and then his anger returned in full force. "I'll teach yous to not lets Toki watches TVs!" he screamed. Nathan, only half-conscious, woke up fully, yet still groggy an hour later, pants around his ankles, his face covered in beer nut dust. With a shrug, he ordered a passing Klokateer to bring him more, and settled into the crumb-infested couch cushions anew to watch "90210".
Toki Wartooth was on a rampage. Surprise buttsexing Nathan had done little to assuage the murderous rage inside of him. He needed ... more.
Pickles was in his room. When Toki opened the door, he was immediately assailed with a thick fog of booze haze. "Hehy, Tohkiiii," the drummer slurred. He was wearing only briefs. Toki's eyes gleamed. Even in his drunken stupor, Pickles could sense that something was amiss. "Dood?" he queried, squinting at his band mate, who was once again removing his belt. "What's up, dood?"
"YOUS ARE DRUNKS ALL THE TIMES!" Toki yelled, and then he shoved Pickles onto a stripped mattress, adorned with dried puke.
"Toki! What the fucksh?"
"I'LL TEACHES YOU TO DOS LAUNDRY!"
Charles was the difficult one. On the way to his office, Toki sexually violated two Klokateers, a picture of Skwisgaar's mom, a ham sandwich, one of Dick Knubbler's robotic eyes, and one of Charles' potted plants. Still horny and angry, he barged into the room in the middle of one of the CFO's seemingly eternal conference calls, his chest heaving.
Charles looked up. "Hello, Toki," he said quickly. He motioned towards the receiver currently in his hand. "Give me a minute, okay? Thanks."
Toki gritted his teeth. "NO ONE EVER HAS TIMES FOR TOKI!" he yelled. Charles blinked, let out a barely noticeable sigh, and placed whomever he was talking to on hold. "TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS, MOTHERFUCKER!" Toki seethed.
Charles brandished the phone cord between both hands, making it taut. Furiously, Toki danced around him, affecting several combination dancer and yoga poses with a system known only to him. "Toki, this really isn't the time or the place," Charles sighed. In response, Toki intentionally punched a wine goblet sitting on Charles' desk, spilling the brandy inside of it all over a stack of important-looking papers.
"Okay, well, that was your warning," Charles said grimly. He pulled the tazer out of one of several hidden pockets in his suit, and made to apprehend the antagonistic Norwegian with it. Normally, this plan would have gone swimmingly. Today, however, Toki, running on retard strength, was able to hold his own, grabbing the device out of Charles' hand just before it went off. Charles' hair sizzled a little as he slumped to the ground.
Triumphantly, Toki slid to the floor to straddle him. "Nows you are mines," he started to crow, and then stopped. He sniffed the air, and then peeked inside the CFO's boxer briefs. "Ohs, you shits your pants," he frowned. "Never minds." Then he tiptoed away quickly, and made a mental note to buy Charles a new pair of slacks. And a new potted plant.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf was doing what he did best when Pickles burst into his quarters. "Can'ts you sees I ams busy?" he demanded. Then he minimized the Internet browser on which he'd been trolling a 65+ Web site for a date on Friday night, and crossed his legs politely so that Pickles didn't have to look at his schlong.
"Sahry." The drummer looked around anxiously. "Dood, has Toki been here yet?"
Skwisgaar frowned. "No. Can't says that he has." Then he raised a light-colored eyebrow and stole a glance at a nearby wall calendar. "Is its Toki Rapes Day alreadys?" he asked.
Pickles nodded. "It must be. I mean, I'm too drunk to remehmber what day it is, but that sounds about right."
Skwisgaar fingered a square on the current month, on which he'd drawn a smiley face. "Ja, looks likes today's the day." Pickles left the room to do a head count; Skwisgaar gave a conciliatory salute to his computer and began making the proper preparations for the event.
When Toki huffed into Skwisgaar's room several minutes later, he was holding a raw chicken and a can of whipped cream. A small bag full of balloons hung out of the pocket of his skinny jeans. "Oh, I sees you already has the ball gags," he remarked, and then locked the door.