Authors Note: I do not own Dethklok. Brandon Small does. I also do not own Maruchan Ramen, though I do eat more than my fair share of it. I make no money off this. Also I went with the idea that Dethklok didn't get Charles as their manager until they got signed with the label company. It makes sense, because in Doomstar Requiem they are confronted by their old manager. Don't worry, I will not leave Charles out!
Chapter One : Ramen and Rhythm Guitarists
Skwisgaar Skiggelf , fastest guitar player on earth, was rummaging around the dilapidated kitchen cupboards looking for something vaguely edible. So far, stacked in sloppy haphazard piles were various flavors of Maruchan Ramen, and saltine crackers. The Swede couldn't stand those cardboard-tasting noodles, and needed something of more substance. He could eat nearly anything right now. Reaching a long arm into the back of the top shelf, he unearthed jars of jalapeno pickles, a tin of mustard powder , and a jar of generic obscure-brand peanut butter. At least the peanut butter had some protein in it, the blond mused as he grabbed the last remaining spoon from the jumbled pile of the silverware drawer.
There wasn't a single slice of bread in the house, and the Swede wasn't about to smear the precious peanut butter on some stale, crumbling saltine crackers. He simply dug in, leaning against the wall opposite of the cupboards. He ate a few spoonful's, sighing as he looked at the water-damaged tile ceiling. He couldn't remember ever being this poor. He had now gone exactly a week without a proper non-ramen meal. The closest thing he had to proper food was some gas station hot dogs, piled high with as much extras as the Swede could stand, but that was three days ago. Hardly a proper meal for the guitarist. He was slowly starving to death, literally. Not the whiney-I'm-going-to-starve-to-death –if-I-don't-get-my-snack starve, but proper starving artist starvation, depths of despair starve. The blond was starting to contemplate selling his sexual favors with the ladies in exchange for some proper food and beer money. It would be so easy, too. Just fuck a few desperate milfs and lonely housewives, in exchange for something warm filling up his shrunken stomach. The others could go a few more days without proper protein enriched foods because of their extra layers of fat, but the Swede had a fast metabolism and felt slightly queasy with hunger. Something had to change, and fast. He was beginning to doubt how much longer he could last without proper nutrients in his body.
Since he joined Dethklok and went to America, he had been in a constant state of near starvation. Now he was living in a filthy split-level house that seemed to be falling down around their ears. Mordhaus was nearly condemned before they even got it. The rent was cheap, considering the state of it, and the neighborhood it was in, and the men were too brutal and broke to get anything else. So, they made the house their own, dubbing it "Mordhaus" and graffiti the outside with various Satanic and metal scribbles. The other band members tried to keep down part time employment to keep the electricity on, and some kind of food in the fridge. Nathan worked as a bouncer at a night club, Pickles worked at a gas station, Murderface worked the graveyard shift as a garbage man. All three men barely brought home enough to pay bills, and any spending money was quickly blown on drugs, and booze. Skwisgaar was a Swedish citizen, and only had a temporary Visa, so he couldn't hold a job, which was frustrating for him, as he had no real money of his own. He had to renew his soon, or he would be forced back home for a while. Their manager, a hardcore drunk with a beer gut by the name of Chuck, wasn't much help in finding the budding band any properly paying gigs. Sure, Chuck would find them a few places to play that paid in "beer tickets", and sometimes a greasy plate of fries, but that did little to fill the cupboards and the fridge.
Snorting, the blond threw the spoon into the sink, clattering loudly against the huge piles of filthy dishes, all in various stages of mold growth. The sink itself was reeking of stale rot-gut beer that the crazy dreadlocked drummer drank, and of the decay of some cheesy substance that the bassist cooked up, greedily eating it all by himself. The bastard would sometimes get extra money from his job as a garbage man and would blow it on food that he would shove in to his fat face without ever offering the rest of his band mates some.
The rest of the band was currently at their part time jobs, leaving the Swede alone to do whatever. Normally, he might walk around the city a bit, looking for a good screw, but right now he just wasn't in the mood to try to pick up some piece of ass. He barely had enough energy to rattle about the Mordhaus, feeling lightheaded and shaky as he moved about. He waded through piles of empty rot-gut beer cans, kicking them out of his way. Debris formed little snow-drift like piles along the edges of the walls, spilling up and creeping around small end tables.
Skwisgaar rounded up a small pile of his own clothes, all in various shades of polar white. He was slightly shacking with the effort. The bunch of clothes in his lanky arms felt impossibly heavy and he couldn't help but sigh as he looked down at them.
The last few months of extreme poverty has left the once immaculate, blinding pristine white clothes a depressing shade of dingy gray. He threw the clothes down on the bathroom floor as he started filling the bathtub with the hottest water possible. Tiny floating dots of gold floated in his vison, and he felt dizzy when he leaned back up.
"this ams so fuckings dildos…" he muttered, fetching his tiny bottle of bleach and dollar store laundry detergent that announced cheerfully on the bottle it smelled "Alpine Fresh!". He dumped the entire bottle of bleach into the water, hoping that maybe his clothes wouldn't look so awfully filthy. A capful of alpine fresh went in as well, tingeing the water an attractive shade of sky blue.
He felt hot tears slightly sting at his eyes. This was so depressing. He was the fastest guitarist alive, and here he was, washing his clothing in the bathtub like some kind of dildos peasant. He should have a small army of scantily clad French Maids doing his every whim, washing his laundry, cleaning the house, blow jobs on demand… He would just have to wiggle a finger at them to get them to take off their lacy white aprons so that he could fuck their little French brains out. He would never have to cook again, or have to do laundry. His little French maid army would take care of his every need. It would be wonderful.
He turned his attention back to the task it hand as the hot water turned his ivory hands an angry shade of red as he scrubbed angrily at a spot on his second pair of white jeans.
"Stupids Moidarfaces…. Stupids Pickels…" he muttered "makes me dos womens works.. I amsnest no ladies.. racests bask-tards.. joos Swedishs so joo cans no git propers jobs, ja? Dildos.."
He finished his laundry, wringing it out carefully before hanging his few precious tank tops and pair of jeans up in the bathroom, using the curtain rack to drape them off of. He admired his handiwork as the clothes steamed, looking whiter and cleaner than they had in a long time.
The Swede felt exhausted, slumping off to the distressed and shabby couch. He threw himself down with a grunt, and grabbed the remote controller from the floor. He stretched his full length out, his ankles and feet dangling over the battered armrest on the far side. Flipping channels idly, he found something vaguely interesting-a cooking show featuring old ladies making some kind of pastry dish. The way the one with the steel-grey pin curls handled the rolling pin and the dough was making him bothered and hot. It didn't matter who the person was, if it had a hole, Skwisgaar could fuck it.
He preferred older women to the nubile bodies of the barely-legal teens and twenty-something's. Cougars just had a devil-may-care attitude, and knew what they wanted. They were experienced and yet not overly eager to please, unlike the desperateness that practically radiated off their younger counterparts. He found them softer, more pleasing, and therefore enjoyable. Most of all, he loved making them feel young again as he basked in their attention. He contemplated scratching his itch right in the middle of the living room, but remembered that Pickles was due to come home soon from his shift at the gas station.
Not that the Swede cared who saw his dick, he just didn't want to have the redhead freak out on him. Plus, he needed to be in the drummers good side, because occasionally Pickles got to bring home any of the pizzas or fried food that was getting close to it's pull date. Once and a blue moon, Pickles even got to bring home snack cakes and other treats that were going to be thrown away, so it was invaluable that the blond kept at least in his good graces.
Sure enough, the redhead bounced through the door, dreadlocks swinging wildly. The smell of stale pizza wafted over, grabbing the blond's attention.
"Hey there Swkisgaar.. " the redhead grinned, pulling out a joint from his pocket. He looked around a bit, taking in the state of the house "so.. Just got up eh?"
"Jas… justs wokes up, washed min clothesks like dildos peasants" the blond snorted, pulling his lanky frame up to sit properly as Pickles plopped down, box of greasy pizza on his lap. He grabbed a slice, not caring that it was on the cool shade of lukewarm. Food was food.
"Yah, know what dat goes..ya know, me and Nathan been thinkin' about settin' up an audition to try to get us a new rythim, seein' as yer now the lead and whatnots" the Wisconsin native grinned in between bites of pizza.
"Ja? I stills thinks we ams shoulds be a one guittarrs bands.. I cans do both de rythimns am de leads.." Swkisgaar mumbled as he leaned in for a second slice.
"That is all well and good, but wot aboot da show, eh? Can't play both live, ya no?"
"Hmmmmnn.. wells, ifs we gets a rythimsks guitarists, den he no ammnest as goods as mes, ja? He has to do whats I says, and he cans no have de solos. Or de same guitars. " the blond said thoughtfully, reclinging back into the sofa. He never wanted to go through the shit he had to put up with that bastard Magnus.
"Makes sense, ya know.. don' wan' another Magnus doo we?"
"Jas… and I writes des musiks for de rythimks and de leads..so dis ways he no cans takes my places"
Pickels thought that was a good idea as he lit up his joint and inhaled deeply before offering the blond a joint. Soon the room became hazy with the smoke as the guitarist contemplated the celling stains.
A few days later
Chuck had rented a rehearsal space for Dethlok in a old, rundown building that was a converted warehouse. The band had printed off cheap flyers on tacky blood red paper, stapling them to every available telephone pole and gas station bulletin board. The flyer itself was simple "Death Metal band seeks brutal guitarist.. Auditions from noon til six. "
The group set themselves up at eleven, lugging the amps from Mordhaus to Nathan's pathetic pickup truck, all the way to the stage area. Pickles was clutching a cup of coffee with a generous dose of whiskey in it, and Nathan kept slamming down his small pile of dollar store brand energy drinks. Murderface was happily stabbing the stage with his knife in between sips of gas station fountain soda that looked like urine. The only one that didn't seem nearly hung over or miserable was the Swede, who was simply irritated.
The blond paced the stage a few times before settling down on a amp, fitfully playing his guitar. He thought that the best way to try people's true skills out was to play something original on the spot and see if they could keep up.
By noon, there was a large gathering of various guitarists. Skwisgaar looked down his slightly hooked nose at them all, sneering. Did they really think they had what it would take to defeat him? That they could be as good as he was? These pathetic fleshy balls of humanity ranged from grungy grease-balls with pizza-face acne to hardened, grizzled guitar veterans. Scrawny crack-whore guitarists ( some of who the blond may or may not have fucked into a semen soaked mattress a time or two) stood next to tiny teeny-bopper Emo boys who looked about as brutal as a marshmallow. They tried looking fierce as they flipped their black-eyed Justin Beaver bangs out of their face, making Skwisgaar want to bash their prepubescent faces in with the blunt end of his Explorer. He couldn't help it, he hated pampered little shits who tried being "metal" with their mommies credit cards and a trip to the local Hot Topic.
Skwisgaar seethed inwardly, taking in the looks from the wanna-bes in the crowd. Most of the guitarists looked cocky, too sure of themselves. Bullshit, he was going to change that.
He clenched his all-white Explorer, and started shredding, fast and furious. He took all his hatred and anger out in a complicated, shrill melody that left the crowd gasping. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed some of the crowd simply pick up their guitars and leave. Good, the dildos know better.
One by one, he out-dueled them, taking hardly any time to even give them a chance. He was determined to be the only guitarist of Dethklok. Some opponents crumpled in pathetic heaps, others ranted and raved like idiots at not being "fair"-who the fuck said metal was fair? Dildos Americans can suck my cocks. Fucks them, ja? He was the bestest, he was the fucking master of the guitar. A god damn guitar god. They could bow down and suck his guitar god cock for all he cared.
After the area was finally cleared of the guitar vermin, Skwisgaar relaxed his body tense and aching. His fingers were sore, and he felt lightheaded as he headed towards the darkest part of the staging area. The stupid gold floating spots were back with vengeance, and he felt like he head might actually explode. It didn't help he was faint with hunger.
He looked up from the safety of his dark corner, and noticed from the tall windows against the celling that the sun was beginning to set in shades of orange and red. The warehouse-turned-stage was taking on a redish hue. How long had he been dueling against these American Dildos?
"Someone keeps on knocking!" Nathan growled "Someone is at the door..or whatever"
A young boy appeared at the doorway, before haltingly coming closer. Skwisgaar could see that the boy was trembling ever so slightly as he edged his way to the stage. He raked his eyes over the boy, taking in his shabby state of dress. He was skinny to the point of nearly skeletal, his high cheekbones jutting out sharply, and his jawline was set. His eyes were slightly sunken in, but it was the color and emotion that they betrayed that nearly took the Swede's breath away. The boy's eyes were a stormy shade of blue-grey, and wide. Untold depths, months of hunger and pain flickered under its stormy seas, eyes that had witnessed unbelievable brutality despite the boy's young age.
"h-hellos.. m-mys names ams Tokis.. " the young boy softly murmered, the accent oddly birdlike and musical. His stormy blue eyes darted about nervously, trying to seek something from one of the band members. "I ams from Norways….I-I'ms so sads.. I gots losts alongs de ways heres.. so, um.. I thinks I misseds my auditiok-tions appo-tuneitments todays..I'ms va-rey sorries " He looked down shyly, his chestnut hair falling in a curtain over his face as he nervously pulled off his floppy hat. The boy's battered, and scarred looking hands twisted the felt fabric of the hat as he waited for a response from one of the men.
"B-buts I thinks that's yous shoulds gives me a chances an-ee-howss.. " he whispered, almost to himself. The boy got down on his knees, pleading to at least let him try to play for him.
The Swede felt a stab somewhere in his heart. Something about this poor mangy kid was hitting a cord on some very non-metal emotions. What was it? Pity, symptathy? Something akin to lust? The boy was pretty, with kitten-fine bone structure, and had a nice sounding soft little voice. Maybe it was those long fingers of his clenching at that silly looking hat.
Pickles' double-peirced eyebrow arched up as he stared at the kid, then to Skwisgaar reclinging on an amp in the shadows. The Wisconsin native felt bad for the kid, he really did. He hoped the Swede would at least allow the poor kid to try out.
"Alrights.. joos seems so nices. … " the blond's velvety baritone answered from the shadows. "buts it's a shames that joo must goes downs this ways"
He stood, cracking his back in a few places, before picking up his weapon of choice, the Explorer. He pulled the strap on, then started in with a long shred before delving into some complicated, break-neck paced notes.
The boy flinched slightly, before pulling his battered Flying V out. He answered and complimented the melody from the blond. It added a richness to his notes, a complexity, grounding his higher notes with heavier beats. Skwisgaar was flying through notes as fast as he could, each time being answered by the Flying V. Note for note, his guitar was balanced and complimented by the boy, who was playing in harmony with him like it was the most natural thing in the entire world. Skwisgaar was pushed to his very limits until the boy faltered, collapsing into his hands and knees.
The boys hair covered his face as he looked down at the floor. Skwisgaar had never seen anything so pathetic looking then this half-starved to death teen with battered hands and… bruised arms? The blond noticed a large bruise creeping down under one of the boy's shirt sleeves, and a few deeply embedded scars on the backs of the arms.
"Oh… you were so very close!" Pickles said, frowning a bit. He felt bad, but the kid blew the last part of the melody.
"Yeah.. but you blew the last part" Nathan glowered before the bassist said harshly "Itssh timesh for yoush to goesh nows"
Skwisgaar, god of guitar and sex, was now having an internal battle with himself. Yes, he wanted to be the only guitar player of Dethklok, but this shabby little kid made him sound better, play better. The kid grounded his fast pace playing, gave it body, and depth. He would have to be retarded to let that walk out the door. Besides… a small part of him, the tiny kernel of human decency that he had, knew that this kid had nowhere else to go. It was obvious with the sizes-to-big stained shirt, and the torn, ripped jeans and those horribly ugly moccasin shoes. The kid didn't even have a proper backpack, from what he could see. Just a pathetic 90's fanny pack that was held together with some black duct tape.
Maybe the kid was still impressionable. Yeah, that's right… trainable, like a young colt. He seemed like he was eager to please. Maybe..maybe Swkisgaar could train him just enough, but not too much so that the kid got any big ideas. And if the kid tried to overcome his superior, Skwisgaar could always point out that everything the kid had was thanks to him.
Deeper still, as he looked at the kid, warmth flared in him. He wanted to protect this poor idiot kid, and maybe help him in some way. He didn't think that anyone was actually nice to the boy, and he needed a hand. He, of all people, knew what it was like being a kid on the streets after he ran away from home.
"Befores joo leaves.. joo musts understands… dat no-bodies evers mades me plays dis wells. Theres-fours I wants joo in the band." Skwisgaar found himself saying