They were starting to be hurting for money.
It had gone beyond not being able to eat at fancy restaurants or buy tons of booze. Now they were selling stuff off to keep the power connected. Food was bought in bulk at the cheapest price possible and everyone had officially gone on the poverty diet. Despite appearances, they weren't complete idiots; Nathan had parceled out their remaining cash for their big comeback concert, so no matter how bad they fucked up between now and then, the show would still go forward.
The problem was, that left them on a living expense of about fifty cents a day.
It was so seriously not cool.
It was kinda cool to eat ramen noodles when you didn't have to, but when that's all there was morning, noon, and night it made you want to kill yourself.
Pickles was carefully rationing his stash of drugs and booze or he would have murdered them all in their sleep by now. All Nathan and Murderface could do was yell at each other. Skwisgaar tried to hide in his room, but got pried out to help out with repairs. Nobody mentioned the faint tremors in the Swede's hands. He was skinny, but tall, with a fast metabolism. He didn't have Nathan, Murderface, or even Pickles' fat reserves. The fastest guitarist alive needed more than cardboard noodles to live on.
"We gotta do shomething! I can't live like thish!" Murderface howled.
"We can't! There's no more money!" Nathan bellowed.
"Maybe we kin sell sahmethin' else?" Pickles suggested. "I pretty much cleaned out th' endangered species room."
"I's is so hungries . . ." Skwisgaar stated quietly.
"I know. I know. This is totally brutal and it fucking sucks, but there's no more money coming in!"
"Our CDsh an' shit are shtill shelling, aren't they? Where'sh the money for that?"
"The labels are holding it for . . . for . . . for some kind of legal bullshit! Fuck, how did we make money before?" Nathan demanded of the universe.
"Look; maybe we kin sign autographs or shit? That's like, fifty bucks a pop, ain't it? Maybe Skwisgaar could give lessons? What do you think, Skwisgaar?"
The Swede straightened slightly.
"I t'inks I smells de pizzas."
"Oh God, don't mention food; I'm starving!" Nathan wailed.
"Sherioushly! Go hallucschinate shomewhere elshe!"
"Wait . . . . I smell it, too," Pickles said. "Sahsage and pepperoni."
"Meatlovers'," Nathan growled suddenly.
The door to the meeting room swung open and Toki walked in, a stack of pizza boxes in one arm and a couple of two liter cola bottles tucked under the other.
"Toki? Where'd you—" Pickles began.
"PIZZA!" Nathan snarled.
The frontman and Murderface practically tackled Toki, wrenching the two top pizza boxes away from him and tearing into the contents like mad dogs. Toki put the remaining two boxes and the cola bottles on the table next to Pickles.
"Toki, where'd you get the money for the pizza—oof!"
While Skwisgaar assaulted a box of pepperoni with extra cheese with deadly intent, Toki shoved Pickles forward onto the table and felt around the redhead's backside.
"I dids somet'ings I ain'ts done since I was sixteen years old runaway in Oslo," the young Norwegian sighed, liberating a flask from Pickles' jeans and taking a healthy swig.
"Hey! What the – that's my last vodka, douche . . . . bag . . ." The drummer trailed off as Toki dug into his jeans and produced a roll of bills, which he tossed onto the table.
Pickles dove on the money the way the other three had tackled the pizza. Skwisgaar, having downed four pieces of pizza so fast he nearly choked, opened a cola bottle and chugged.
Toki sighed again and kicked the plastic off a nearby couch, which he then lay down on.
"There's like, a grand here!" the redhead cried.
"It's was ladies night," Toki announced. "Tomorrow nights be better; gay mens spend more."
Silence spread out around that statement like ripples in a pond, only broken by the sounds of chewing and swallowing. After a moment, Skwisgaar got to his feet and approached Toki like he thought the younger guitarist might run from him.
"Oh . . . . . littles Toki . . . joo dancings again?"
"Ja."
"Dancing?" Pickles looked down at the roll of money in his hand and noticed that most of it was in small bills. "Ya mean . . . ya mean you're stripping?"
"Gots to eat," Toki muttered, taking another swig from the flask.
"Oh . . . . . . . . . . oh Toki . . . . ." Nathan muttered.
Skwisgaar stared down at his fellow Scandinavian, who looked more tired and resigned and somehow more horribly adult than Skwisgaar had ever seen him. He had vaguely known that Toki stripped illegally back in Norway; an underage, unskilled runaway trying to eke out a living on the mean streets of Oslo.
He had wondered how the vapid, child-like guitarist had ever survived the experience, but now he wondered if Toki hadn't regressed to his normal silly self once the danger was past. Toki hadn't had the chance to be a child when he actually was a child. Apparently his first years away from home hadn't left room for immaturity either.
Now he was putting his belated childhood on hold again; this time to make sure they all ate something and at least survived until the show. It was taking one for the fucking team. It was . . . it was freaking responsible. Almost parental. As much as it went against every fiber of his being, Skwisgaar was overcome with the urge to say something nice to Toki.
"Hey," the blond guitarist gestured with the coke bottle he held in one hand. "Skol."*
Toki stared at him blankly for a minute, then lifted the flask of vodka.
"Skol," he agreed, knocking the flask against the coke bottle.
"What does that mean?" Nathan asked Pickles. "Is it like Swedish 'cheers' or something?"
"YOU'RE GONNA TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHESH FOR OTHER DUDESH?"
"Joo cuts him somes fucksings slack! He makes money for de foods!" Skwisgaar bellowed.
"Yeah, dood, it's called bein' gay for pay! He's just gonna fake it for the cash!"
"GAY for pay?" Murderface shrilled.
Toki rolled off of the couch and started for his bedroom.
"I gonna go takes a fucking nap."
"Hey, dood, like . . . . skol or whatever," Pickles said, patting Toki on the arm as he passed.
"Yeah, skol, man," Nathan agreed, lifting a half-eaten piece of pizza in salute.
Toki nodded in acknowledgement and left the room.
"I alwaysh thought he wash kinda funny," Murderface muttered. The bassist yowled a second later when Nathan punched him hard enough to knock him back a few steps.
"What a dick," the lead singer growled.
* Skol is indeed the Scandinavian version of 'cheers'. It's actually 'skal' with the small circle diacritic over the 'a', but I wrote this at work and could not think of an excuse to download Scandinavian accent fonts, so it's transliterated as close as possible in plain old English, so it would actually sound like 'skol'.
( Author's note: That was a bit depressing, but I actually wrote that drabble so that this next drabble would make sense. There's a lot more laughs in the second one, don't worry.)
" . . . and laundry detergent, and beer," Nathan recited.
Miles away, parked in front of a run-down grocery store, William Murderface scribbled down the items on an impromptu list.
"I only got like, forty bucksh on me, Nathan. That'sh not gonna be enough. We'll shkip the laundry detergent, shoap, deodorant, toilet paper—"
"No! Dude, just no! Go get a couple of hundred bucks from Toki! That'll cover it."
"But – Toki'sh at work," Murderface said.
"Yeah, I know; go to the club and get some money from him."
"I'm not going there! It'sh full of gay guysh! What if one of 'em hitsh on me?"
"Murderface, you will not ever have to worry about that anywhere. Ever. Go get some money!"
"What'sh the plashce called?"
"It's . . . . HEY PICKLES! WHAT'S THE NAME OF THE CLUB TOKI WORKS AT? . . . It's called Hardbodies."
"Fuck that; I'm not going."
"You are going; we need groceries! Just ask for . . . . hang on. HEY PICKLES! WHAT'S TOKI'S STRIPPER NAME? . . . Ya gotta ask for Thor."
"Thor?"
"He can't dance under his real name! Would you? Geez – WHAT? . . . WHAT? You gotta . . HE'S GOTTA WHAT? . . . Here's Pickles."
"Okay, dood, Toki's boss is like, sick of us showin' up t' get money offa him, so like, ya gotta ask for a lap dance. Toki'll slip ya some money while he does it."
" . . . . you have to be fucking with me," Murderface growled.
"Well, ya could do what Skwisgaar does an' pretend t' be Toki's boyfriend. But – what? Oh, Nate's right; anybody who's got a boyfriend thet looks like Skwisgaar ain't gonna cheat on him with somebody thet looks like you. I mean, th' only reason he'd do thet . . . Toki works for a classy place; we don't want him t' get fired for turnin' tricks."
"F-fuck you, Picklesh! I'm not doin' thish at all!"
"Oh yeah, it's naht fair t' ask you t' get a lapdance from Toki when you're so insecure about yer sexuality an' shit. Nat'an's like, a hundred percent straight, so he ain't scared of bein' close to anot'er dood. He kin—"
"Fuck that!" Nathan cried. "Gas is expensive! Tell him to get the fuck over his issues and go get some money! Sit there and not get turned on like a man!"
"I'm a hundred perschent shtraight!" Murderface howled. "I can do thish! I could shit through TEN gay lap dancshesh! You'll shee! I'm going right now!"
Fifteen minutes later, Murderface was not feeling so confident.
He had stomped up to the bartender and proclaimed that he wanted a lap dance from 'Thor'. The bartender had given him a politely horrified look but showed him back to a semi-private booth where he sat down and waited.
Geez, these guys were all so pretty. Like, seriously Skwisgaar-level pretty. Wait, was that a gay thought? No! No, it was just acknowledging a fact. He wasn't attracted to any of them! He was attracted to chicks! These guys just looked like chicks, so – wait. Fuck; he hated thinking!
Luckily he was saved from having to do it too much longer.
Toki came around the corner with a warm, welcoming smile on his face. The second he saw Murderface, it twisted into something closer to a death rictus. They stayed frozen for a few seconds before the bass player cleared his throat.
"Hello there, attractive shtranger who I have never met before. I am here for a gay lap dancshe which I will behave myshelf completely for. If ya know what I'm shayin'," Murderface added a few winks to his statement.
The look of complete horror did not leave Toki's face.
"Ah . . . . . joo hangs on a second," he squeaked.
The young Norwegian fled back the bar and had a hurried, frantic conversation with the bartender. Evidently the guy must have also been the manager, for he sent Toki slinking back with nothing more than a few sharp words.
Toki came back to the booth with the look of a man approaching the gallows. He went to a small stereo in the corner and queued up a song. It was something foreign, but pumping and quick. Murderface probably wouldn't have felt any better knowing it was called 'Hold Me Now'.
"Uh . . . ish there something I could do to make thish eashier?" Murderface offered with uncharacteristic generosity.
"You cans not says anything," Toki whimpered.
The young Norwegian cast a wary glance at his manager, then moved quickly to straddle Murderface's chair.
After about ten seconds, the bass player realized he was in trouble.
Toki was very good at his side job.
Maybe the rest of the band should have wondered how one stripper who mostly catered to the homosexual minority was supporting five grown men in the middle of a crippling recession. Toki did this by snagging customers and keeping them coming back for more. He had three more lap dances lined up after Murderface and they were all willing to wait for him specifically.
Toki, in his simplistic way, had decided that the best way to make people happy was to act like he was genuinely glad to see them and turned on by their presence. Sure, he had a great body, but he was also friendly. He smiled a lot. He listened. He wore underwear when he gave lap dances; not 'who-really-wears-these' thongs, but boxer briefs or jockey shorts. It made his customers feel not like they had stripper grinding on their lap, but like they had a trophy boyfriend who was surprising them with a little treat. Breathy little moans and gasps escaped his lips as he twisted and writhed.
Toki wasn't that comfortable on the pole, but in a lap he could charm.
Of course, once a performer gets a rote performance down, it's very hard to not play the role they have memorized even if they don't particularly feel like it.
So Murderface's lap dance was . . . . well, one time the band discovered that if you tickled Toki long enough, he'd pee himself. They had ended up in a writhing, wriggling pile of stoned dudes and one hysterical Norwegian. That time hadn't been sexual because there was nothing sexual about it; just a bunch of full-grown boys rough housing. Murderface expected a non-turned on lap dance to be like that; less 'oh, baby, that's hot' and more 'ow, you're kneeling on my thigh, asshole!'
He was wrong.
From the start, the level of heat rolling off of Toki's body was shocking. Did the rhythm guitarist always run this hot or just when he was rolling around mostly naked for strangers? Murderface tried to fixate on something innocent; something he didn't have to worry about finding attractive . . . . Toki's bellybutton! There ya go! Nothing to find sexually attractive there! Plus it was only about an inch from his nose, so it wasn't hard to follow.
Yeah . . . yeah, there was safety in bellybuttons. Even one that was perfectly smooth and hairless and perched neatly on a bed of rolling muscle this wasn't working. Toki was too close and too warm and –
A curtain of silky brown cascaded down around Murderface's neck and shoulders, smelling slightly of coconut.
"Murderface . . ." Toki breathed.
A fine sheen of sweat broke out on the bass player's forehead.
"Y-yeah?"
"What de fucks joos doing here?"
"Uh –"
Toki arched up to shake his head slowly, letting his long, pretty-smelling hair dance and slither around his naked shoulders.
"I . . . I . . . I came to get shome money for grocsheriesh," Murderface squeaked. Did Toki really have to put on the bedroom eyes like that? Or talk in those breathy little moans? Was he trying to turn people gay?
"Okays . . ." The musician-turned-dancer executed a gentle undulation that rubbed his well-muscled torso along his band-mate's own flabby stomach. "But whys you ask for a lap dance? Why you nots just ask de bartender to gives me message?"
"Wh—but Picklesh and Nathan shaid—"
Realization bloomed like a cherry bomb dropped into a tub of warm Jell-O; sudden, violent, and messy.
Murderface let out a sound that could only be described as a primal scream and flung Toki off of his lap. In the next breath he was pelting for the door. Behind him, someone cried that he had stomped on 'Thor' in his hurry to flee. This was quickly followed by a screech of 'Stop him! He didn't pay for his lap dance!'
Horror made a man fast and strong. Murderface was piling into his car and peeling out of the parking lot while the bouncers were just coming out of the front doors. The custom Cadillac left smoking trails of rubber as it screamed off into the night.
Pickles stared through the bathroom door, listening to the hysterical sobs coming from within. Nathan joined him. For a few minutes, they both stood in silence, listening to Murderface weep and wail.
"I never thought he'd fall for that so easy," Nathan rumbled.
"Me either," Pickles declared. "But, y'know, maybe he really wanted to or sumthin'. He does think about dick a lot."
"Huh. Maybe."
The pair stared through the crack in the door at their full-clothed bass player, curled up in the corner of the shower stall rocking and crying.
"You know . . . . he is using up all the hot water," Nathan observed.
"Oh, I turned ahff the hot water heater an hour ago," Pickles informed him.