Author's Note: I don't own Metalocalypse. This story is rated M for pervasive swearing, some brutality and possible sexuality. Because, hey, it's Metalocalypse.
Mordhaus: January, 2010
The elevator doors opened with a bell. The woman stepped out into a huge atrium lined with honey-colored marble, red leather chairs and tasteful ferns. The design aesthetic was different here from the blood red and black spires around most of the impressive fortress, Mordhaus. Etchings on the marble floor led the eye to a central feature, an elegant mahogany door sporting a golden plaque that merely read CFO.
"May I help you?" a voice asked. The visiting woman noticed a receptionist's desk off to the right of the elevator exit. The receptionist seemed to be an older, heavy-set woman in a peach pantsuit and what looked like a black hood over her head.
The visiting woman stared at the black hood for a moment, speechless, so the receptionist kindly probed, "Are you Dr. Parsons for 4 o'clock?"
"Yes," replied Dr. Parsons, snapping out of her stupor. She carried a laptop briefcase in her left hand.
"I will inform Mr. Offdensen of your arrival. One moment, please." She lifted the phone and dialed.
The elevator pinged again, and the doors slid open to reveal hulking man with long black hair and a blank look in his eyes. He took a moment to realize that he should disembark and stepped out. His gaze rested on Dr. Parsons.
"Uhhh...," he growled, crushing his black eyebrows together. "Who the hell are you?"
Dr. Parsons drew herself upright and remained silent, sending out a chilly aura. Nathan dropped his eyes to the floor with a growly sigh, impatiently waiting for the receptionist to finish her call. He checked out the strange woman's ass for a moment. Not bad. She looked about thirty five or forty, but was in pretty good shape. Her face was pale and drawn, and there was a permanent worry crease in her brow. She had ashy blonde hair tied in a low, messy bun. She wasn't ugly, but she was pretty boring looking. Nathan gave her an 8, though, because her tan suit with the knee-length skirt and those high heels gave off a sexy librarian vibe. Her dour, unsmiling face only added to that appeal.
"Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir." The receptionist hung up the phone. "Go on in, Dr. Parsons. Mr. Offdensen is expecting you. Lord Explosion, I am sorry, but Mr. Offdensen has requested not to be disturbed for the time being. I can summon your personal servants to assist you, if you like."
Nathan blinked. "No. Whatever, it's fine. It's not a fucking emergency or anything."
"Very well."
"Yeah, so I'm just gonna, like, ride this shit back down." He thumbed to the elevator.
"Very good, sire."
Nathan scowled once more at Dr. Parsons as the elevator doors closed over his face. She stared back, emotionless. Her severe face softened a bit when she thanked the receptionist for her time and headed into the CFO's office.
Charles pushed his glasses up his nose, trying not to fidget, as he tended to do when he felt like he didn't have control of a situation. He stood at the gigantic window behind his desk, glaring out into the sky, with his back to his guest. He held a glass of brandy in one hand and listened to Dr. Parsons quietly open her laptop briefcase and start setting it up on his desk.
She should know better, coming here. No one in Mordhaus knew anything about his life, and he wanted to make sure it stayed that way. Had anyone seen her come up to the office? Charles had been running through excuses for her presence here in his mind ever since she had contacted him for a meeting. His first instinct had been to refuse her, but when had she ever requested to meet him like this? Logically, he knew she had always respected the unspoken rules between the two of them, but his need to maintain control fueled a desire to punish her.
Make her wait a little bit longer.
It did not seem to bother Dr. Parsons at all. She patiently indulged Charles as she logged onto her computer and click-clacked away on the keyboard. She had known him long enough to know what was going on.
Finally, he turned to face the blonde woman, as though he had just noticed her. "Grace," he said, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "You do realize it's exceedingly dangerous for you to, uh, come here, right?"
She glanced up from her computer, unfazed, and kept typing. "Hang on. I'm checking my email. I got bored waiting." Her voice was dry and level.
"What do you want?" he asked in a clipped voice.
"Jessup is dead," she said plainly, as though she had just told him the sky was blue. Then to herself she muttered, "There we go. Damn spam filters."
Charles cleared his throat. "Huh. When?"
Grace's brow furrowed. "There's something you should see. I have it here." She indicated for him to come around to see the screen. Reluctantly, he obliged, walking to the other side of his desk.
"We found him Saturday," Grace continued, "about three miles from his house. There was evidence of a massive struggle. Blood everywhere. His body had been mutilated and decapitated. Looks like whoever did it had a hard time killing him." A hint of pleasure tinged her voice.
"Of course," murmured Charles. He leaned in close to her as he read the screen. She stared coolly at the side of his face as he realized their close proximity. Their eyes met for a brief second and she raised an eyebrow. Annoyed at her coy attitude, he leaned ever so slightly away from her and peered at the screen through his glasses. There was an anonymous email addressed to "Eric Jessup":
I know who you are. I know who you all are. I will hunt you down like the rats you are until your guts are splattered over the streets. I am coming to kill you just like I killed that fucking rat bastard CFO. I enjoyed breaking his fucking face and tasting his blood on my fists. I am coming for you.
Charles snapped upright. He swallowed hard, but otherwise his expression remained stoic.
"He had been getting vague, threatening emails for two weeks. He told none of us about them. But this final one, well, it mentions you. We're pretty sure, anyway." Grace frowned, carefully raising her eyes to Charles to gauge his reaction.
"Yes. I know who this is." Charles had circled back around his desk and sat heavily in his chair. They now faced each other across the desk. He took a long sip of brandy.
"So this is the guy who…" She trailed off. "I didn't want to come here like this, but I had no choice. I'm sorry, Charles."
"Are you sure," he said, lowering his voice a bit, "that Jessup's dead? He's one of us, and, uh, we don't die that easily."
Grace managed a small smile. "No, we don't, do we?"
"I fail to see what's funny about it."
"No, it's not—never mind." She bit her lip and banished her mirth. "Anyway, yeah, he's pretty dead. He was decapitated. I mean, Jesus. Even we can't survive that."
"Did you see the body?"
Grace let out a little laugh. "Always suspect the conspiracy, don't you?"
"You're, uh, talking to a guy who faked his own death."
"Like hell you did. You're so full of shit, Charles. Always think you're in such control. It was only because you were in one piece and we got to you in time. I got to you in time." She crossed her arms.
Charles stared impassively at her, raising one eyebrow. "Well. At any rate, my would-be murderer is targeting all of you now." His face softened a bit. "Have, uh, you received any of these messages?"
"No," she replied quietly. "I also think you should know that there's been talk…about you. Mainly Dean. He's been rallying against you, saying you've leaked our secrets and put us all in danger."
"I'm not surprised. Dean's been looking for a way to take me down for over 20 years." He poured himself another glass of brandy and offered the doctor some as well. She accepted with a nod of the head.
"It gets worse, though," said Grace. "He's talking about revealing that you're alive to the public. Thinks if the murderer gets wind of it, he'll resume chasing you and leave us alone."
Charles shook his head and sighed. "If we –all of us- plan an assault against this guy, I'm sure we can eliminate him. Leave it to Dean to take the cowardly way out while throwing me under the bus. Just proof that he's more interested in settling the old score between us than actually protecting the organization."
Grace smirked and tapped his brandy glass with her own. "My thoughts exactly. I mean, that was the promise we had made all those years ago, right? That we'd always look out for each other? Us against the world, and all that?"
"That's correct."
Meanwhile, down in the game room, Nathan Explosion sauntered in to find Pickles in the hot tub, surrounded by empty bottles. His red dreadlocks floated in the water, and he whined a drawling song to himself through a lopsided grin. Skwisgaar sat in the bubbling hot water as well, far from his drunken band mate, furiously fingering his guitar and glaring sideways at Pickles like an aggravated cat.
"Seriouskly, you ams littersing the water, some peoples is trying to enjoy a nice hot soaks."
Behind them, Toki let out a childish cry of happiness. "I get top scores! Hey, Natans, checks dis out!" Toki had been playing Dance Dance Revolution like a fiend lately. Truthfully, he was the only one of them in good enough shape to excel at it.
"Yeah, that's great. Hey, listen, you guys," rumbled Nathan, staring at the floor. "I just saw some strange business chick go up to his office. For a meeting. A chick…in his office." Seldom did any member of Dethklok refer to Charles by his name, but there was only one guy in Mordhaus with an 'office'.
Murderface had been lounging on the sofa in the back, his boots up on a black leather ottoman. He held a small, dark red, velour notebook and pen. "Scho what? What're you, jealousch, you gay piece of shit?"
Nathan scowled. "Are you…writing in a journal right now?"
"I need to exchpress my thoughtsch! I'm a deep individual. But none of you fuckersch would know that." He kicked the ottoman with a growl of rage. Then, he cast a withering look at Nathan and started to write in the book. "'Today, Nathan wasch a dick! He'sch alwaysch a dick because he'sch a motherfucking cockschucker! And, he'sch a fag! He isch a dick, therefore he lovesch a dick.' Ah, that'sch a good one."
"Dood! You guys!" Pickles exclaimed, "Maybe she's a booty call, yanno? Heh heh, can you imagine Affdensen wit a woman?"
"Ja," Skwisgaar chuckled through a sneer, "he's is probably havings her signs the waivers, because he is bad in beds. Does not gives her the, the organasms."
"Gahd, dat is sooo feckin' funny!" Pickles finished the bottle of vodka he was holding and grabbed a nearby bong, pulling it closer. "He prob-prob'ly keeps 'is socks on!"
"It's like when you're a kid," said Nathan, "and you, like, see your teacher at the grocery store. Or taking a piss, or fucking, they don't do that!" His green eyes bugged out at the thought.
"Dids, ah, yous ever see your teachers fucking, Natans?" Toki asked in a low, serious voice.
"No, what I'm saying is, it would be weird."
"I fucks my teachers, back in Sweden," said Skwisgaar offhandedly. "Must haves had, maybe likes a hundred of dems."
Toki jutted out his chin petulantly. "You did not has a hundred teachers, Skwisgaar. No ones has a hundred teachers! What, you go to schools for a million billions years?"
"Sure, Tokis, whatever you say," Skwisgaar replied in his most condescending voice.
As the two guitarists started arguing, Nathan delved into his own thoughts. Things had been a little unusual since Offdensen's return. After their biggest, most expensive concert ever, the boys had partied like never before. Offdensen had joined them, and after many drinks, each member of Dethklok had had his turn to express his happiness at the manager's return. They laughed, toasted, and the evening ended up with everyone except Charles passed out. The whole affair had been relatively drama-free. Nathan had felt like maybe he should be angry with Charles, but when it came down to it he couldn't bring himself to feel anything other than monumental relief. Now, maybe things would get back to fucking normal around here.
Only, things hadn't. On the surface, yes, it was almost like the last nine months never happened. The guys still got their crazy, drunken ideas and Charles still tried to talk them out of them. There had been some concerts in the meantime, with things running like usual. The klokateers all came back to work with renewed vigor, having tasted life without their lords Dethklok and found it lacking. And Charles had made sure to make Mordhaus renovations his priority, and repairs were finally completed in record time. But the manager himself had changed, becoming more reserved than he had been before, if that was even possible. More reclusive. And, Nathan couldn't help but intuit, pissed off.
Charles was angry. In true Offdensen fashion, it was not an explosive, expressive anger, but more a cold rage that roiled below his calm exterior. Nathan was pretty sure the anger was not due to Dethklok, but he wished he knew more about what the hell had happened to the manager these nine months. Charles had made it very clear, however, that the subject was not open to discussion at this time.
The strange woman and the secret meeting troubled Nathan greatly. Charles had an open door policy. No matter how loud or drunk or stupid his boys got, any one of them could always see him, whenever they wanted. And, now, he tells his secretary to turn the band away? Also, for as long as Charles had been working for Dethklok, he had never conducted business meetings of any kind at Mordhaus. Nathan knew Charles had business meetings to attend and lawyer shit to deal with, of course, and candy-ass douche bags with whom he golfed, but it was always off Mordhaus grounds.
Nathan remembered about five years ago, he had asked Charles why he never invited any of his "business jack-off friends" to Mordhaus, and he hadn't thought about Charles's answer until now.
"Well, Nathan, when I'm here, I am 100% focused on Dethklok. I like to keep Dethklok separate from my other dealings."
Most alarmingly, Offdensen had not yet revealed to the world that he is alive. He had been back for two months now, discreetly managing behind the scenes. It struck Nathan as very weird. Keeping the fact that he was alive a secret was the last barrier to things returning completely to normal, and Charles was refusing to do it. Something was definitely different, and it was driving the lead singer insane.
Nathan hated being so fucking empathetic. It was definitely not metal. He wished he could be oblivious like the other guys.
The front man surfaced from his thoughts just in time to catch a debate about whether Offdensen was a virgin, and bets being placed on the answer. Unfortunately, this was also the time the manager walked into the game room. Conversation halted abruptly, with Pickles stifling drunken laughter.
"So, uh…what're you guys talkin' about?" asked Charles, in that too-casual way he often did when he knew more than he was letting on.
Nathan was about to say "nothing", when Pickles blurted out, "Ay, we got a bet! Toki ov'r there says yer a virgin. Are ya a virgin?"
Charles's mouth fell open a bit. "Excuse me?"
Toki turned bright red. "Pickle you asshole! Pins the blames only ons me, but Skwisgaar said it too!"
The handsome blond rolled his eyes. "Yowza."
"Weel, I tink you aren't, yanno? I'm on yer side, Affdensen. But seriously, I do have twen'y bucks ridin' on it, so come on."
"I don't think this is a productive area of discussion"- Charles began, until he was interrupted by Murderface.
"Juscht answer the question, numbnuts. I wanna win twenty dollars and buy a Crisco handjob from your mom."
Charles closed his eyes, summoning his patience. "I may not, uh, get around as much as you boys, but I am forty four years old. I've been around the block more than once."
The band fell silent, and Charles swore he could hear the gears in their heads turning, trying to glean the meaning of his words. At length, Pickles said, "Sooo, that's a….no?"
"That's right, Pickles. No. I am not a…virgin."
Mixed cheers and disappointed groans erupted from the band as half of them rifled through pockets and fished for wadded up cash, grudgingly thrown at the winners. Charles didn't even want to see who had lost that bet and pretended to study the wall.
"So, uh, guys. Meeting time, let's go. We have to discuss insurance renewals"-
"Ugh! This is bullshit!" Nathan hollered. His band mates agreed loudly, in unison, and all began to assault Charles with arguments as to why they shouldn't attend the meeting.
Charles worked his usual magic with the guys, appearing on the surface to bow to their demands, while in reality, they did exactly as he wanted in the end. Slowly, they began to migrate to the conference room, still arguing along the way.
"This is dildos!" Skwisgaar spat. He and Toki lead the crew, followed closely by Pickles and Murderface. Their rants echoed down the hallway.
Charles lingered behind, walking slowly and making sure the band made it to their destination. He noticed that Nathan was trying to hang back with him. The gigantic man hemmed and hawed, glancing sideways at Charles and making little growls under his breath.
Charles tilted his head to the side. "Is there a problem, Nathan?"
"Where's that chick?" he blurted accusingly.
"Uh, 'chick'?"
"Don't play dumb, that chick I saw go up to your office this afternoon."
"Oh. You, uh, saw her, did you?" The manager looked puzzled. "She left. Are you upset or something?"
Nathan set his jaw in a grim frown and folded his arms across his chest. Charles was inwardly amused; Nathan was so often like a little boy who had been denied his favorite dessert.
"You had Debbie turn me away," fumed Nathan. "I mean, what the hell? Private secrets and shit? You never did that before."
Charles knew the emphasis on that last word referred to the time before he had "died". Emotional comfort had never been something he was good at, but even he had sensed the tension from Nathan. Charles knew it was his fault, but he just wasn't prepared to let Dethklok into this area of his life. He wished the guys, and especially Nathan, wouldn't take it so personally.
"Rest assured, Nathan, it's really nothing you need to be concerned with. If it helps, the next time I have a meeting like that I'll be sure to inform you all well ahead of time. Okay?" Charles looked over at Nathan's grim profile. "Was there some reason you, uh, needed to see me?"
Nathan sighed. "No. It was just an idea I had about the next concert. Whatever, it's not the end of the world. So who the hell is she, anyway?"
Charles rolled his eyes slightly. Why was Nathan so stuck on this? He thought about dodging the question, but Nathan would only get pissed off and keep pestering him. So he answered vaguely, "She's an associate."
Nathan started to feel angry. Damn Charles, he never did give straight answers. But before he could further pry, they arrived at the conference room and had their meeting. The meeting had taken over an hour and was filled with the usual tangents. Charles had used the opportunity to excuse himself quietly in the end and retire to his room for the night. Nathan made a mental note to continue the conversation later. There was no way in hell he'd let Offdensen squirm out of this one. He didn't really give a shit about that woman, but he had a feeling that the more he learned about her, the more he would learn about those nine, mysterious months.
In the sanctuary of his living quarters, Charles cupped his third goblet of brandy he'd had tonight. His head swam a bit; he felt pleasantly buzzed. He had been hitting the brandy more often lately, and more often to the point of drunkenness. He wasn't proud of it, but nor did he care much to stop.
He took a quick peek at the clock: 12:37 AM. The guys would be up for a few hours more, easily. They were night owls who loved to party all night and sleep all day. But Charles normally went to bed before 11 PM most nights, and he usually awoke at 4:30 AM for his morning workout routine. He had always been the type to not require lots of sleep. On nights like tonight, marred by insomnia, his well-trained body would still get him up early, despite fatigue. Luckily, he never experienced hangovers.
Slightly wobbly, he walked to a plush recliner and sat. A stack of papers sat piled on the floor at the foot of the chair. Charles had pulled them from a hidden safe he had behind a lovely framed copy of La tour Eiffel peinte par Henri Rousseau he had hanging on the posh mahogany-accented walls. Obsessively, he had leafed through them several times already, putting them down and picking them back up. He took them in his hands once more, along with a swig of brandy. The yellowed newspaper fragments felt brittle between his fingers, making him feel just as old and brittle and liable to crumble at any moment. Several headlines stood out from the rest.
Largest Crime Syndicate in History Taken Down; Rescued Child Soldiers Dubbed the Detroit 12; US Army Remains Mum About Future of Detroit 12
They were dated between 1979 and 1980. There were other, unrelated articles, along with pictures, one of which showed an unsmiling, mousy teenage boy with glasses flanked by some friends: a big, yellow-haired, ruddy-faced boy with a crew cut; a lanky, blonde, pale-faced girl; an olive-skinned boy with a toothy grin and dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail.
Damn it all, he thought. Seeing Grace today caused all sorts of unpleasant emotions to surface. Over the years, he had maintained a nice, clean divide between Dethklok and his life before. It seemed forces outside his control were bringing the two worlds together.
Charles's eyes settled on the dark-haired boy, his lifeless smile frozen in time forever. He lifted his glass in a silent toast and downed its contents in one burning swallow.
"Rest in peace, Eric."
