He sat back into the stony outcropping rudely carved millennia ago to be the High Seat of the Church of the Black Klok. Sharp, axe-like edges protruding from either top edge of the back threw a shadow that cut off his chest and face from view. He sat, and he watched. Monks had begun to huddle together, their nervous, flickering eyes darting back and forth, from the men hustling across the floor hauling gear and other ephemera, to the man who now sat in the sacred seat of their leader, Ishnifus Meaddle.
The Cave of the Church of the Black Klok had changed little over its thousands of years of occupation, but it became apparent that this was soon to change. The busy workmen, clothed in tattered black hoods and torn up black sleeveless shirts, worked in a swarm to set up monitors, scanners, antennae, and a seemingly endless other assortment of gear to finally connect the Cave to the rest of the World. The monks had already given up trying to offer directions to the men about where to put down their things, words having fallen on deaf ears until one clumsy soul gashed the corner of a speaker into one of the sacred, ancient cave paintings. This, the monks noted, had gotten the attention of the man now sitting in their beloved leader's chair. The man had stood, eyes shining narrowly at the offender, and without uttering a word, or even moving, two more men with hoods in slightly better repair had marched forward and taken the desecrator away.
That had been hours ago, and now the monks sat dejected at their home being overrun, and the man in the chair sat motionless, speaking to no one. Their wallowing was interrupted as one of Ishnifus's former aides approached the man. Stopping just short of approaching the chair, he spoke in a loud, confident voice. "High Holy Priest! I come bearing news of the efforts up above!"
The man in the chair shifted slightly and dropped his hand to the armrest. "...Speak," he answered back. The aide nodded and continued. "The Chosen Ones, Dethklok, infiltrated an old rehearsal hall they once used several hours ago in pursuit of Toki Wartooth."
The room fell silent. All motion and work ceased as all present fell rapt to the voice of the speaker and the news he was about to reveal. The High Priest's hand tightened visibly around the stony seat. "And?"
The aide bowed. "Your Holiness, they have retrieved the guitarist and the producer, and have already begun their trek back to Mordhaus."
The entire cavern erupted into cheers as the monks of the lower orders and the workmen whooped and hollered, clapping each other on the back, and some even embracing. The higher echelons of the priesthood simply smiled, some shook hands, while the man in the chair slumped back in the High Seat and allowed his hand to slide away from the stone he'd been clutching. After a couple minutes, the crowd had collected themselves and the man rose.
Charles Ofdensen stood, bare-faced and with his scar shining in the bright torchlight, looking out at the people gathered in front of him before pointing out to his left. "You there. Have you finished hooking up the television receptors yet?"
"Yes, sire."
"What about the monitors?"
"Yes, sire."
"And the speakers?"
"...not...yet, sire."
"Hmm," he replied. "Well, get on that. I want satellite television in five."
"As you wish, sire." The men in the ratty hoods swarmed over to the area in question and began working feverishly to fulfill the request. Charles dropped his arm and his vision blurred as his mind wandered, trying to guess the condition of the band. All conclusions led to 'not very good'.
"Your Holiness..." the aide said, quietly now, as he approached Ofdensen closer. He turned to look at him. "Have you no words to add to this momentous occasion? High Priest Ishnifus..."
"I'm-", Charles interrupted. "I'm not Ishnifus. And I can't be Ishnifus." He looked out over the people again as they grew quiet to hear them speak. "And I can't say anything," he said in a louder voice, "to stir you all on after this victory. Besides, this victory- this one- belongs to them. It belongs to the boys. And seeing as how they're not here, I don't have anything else to say on the matter."
Charles sat back down on the edge of the High Seat as the aide did his best to not leave his mouth agape. Awkwardly, he bowed and hurried away quickly out of sight as the new High Priest became engrossed in the progress of his assembly team and his own personal thoughts.
––––––
Dethklok half sat, half slumped, at their kitchen table as nobody but Toki had it in them to eat anything. It was 3pm, and after a successful return show, they'd all gotten wasted until nine in the morning. Except for Toki, who had decided to be a downer and actually listen to the doctor when he told him not to mix his pain meds and antibiotics with booze and drugs.
"Oh god...," Nathan murmured into his arm.
"Nnnng," added Skwiskgaar from across the table.
"Last night...last night..." Pickles began, staring wide-eyed into nothingness. "Last night was fucking awesome."
"It was pretty badass," piped Murderface, poking a bowl of Murder O's, his own personal cereal brand, with a fork, causing the now soggy rings to ooze red and make the milk a perpetually embarrassing shade of pink. Murderface grimaced quietly to himself and slammed the fork down.
"But what the hell are we supposed to do now, you guys? We got back Toki, we had an admittedly incredible show, but whadda we do from here, huh?"
Everybody but Toki winced at the level of Murderface's voice. "Charles is gone, I mean he's totally abandoned us this time, and-"
"Waits," Toki said, putting down his triple-decker turkey sandwich. "Charles's gone? Gones wheres?"
"Uhhhh, something about a contract and he couldn't put us in danger or some bullshit," replied Nathan, scratching the side of his face groggily. "So, uhhh... he quit."
"He QUIT?!" Toki screeched. Pickles and Skwisgaar moaned loudly. "He can'ts quits! He ams likes a fathers to us! A bigs brother! He can'ts leaves us now!"
Murderface scowled at the guitarist. "Well if you'd let me finish, Toki," he began pleasantly, "you would have known that's what I was TRYING TO SAY!" he yelled finally.
"What? Like, that he was a father...brother, or whatever?" squinted Pickles.
"More or less," Murderface mumbled, taking up his fork again.
"Yeah, I dunno, guys. I mean obviously we can't be our own managers again. That was...that was just bad," conceded Nathan. Agreement echoed across the table.
"Memmmmphtmmmmfmmmamfnnnnn," came a noise from beneath the lead guitarist's tangled arms.
"Whats you says, Skwisgaar?"
"Hmmmmphtmmmmmfmmmammfmmmnnnn."
"No," Nathan said uncertainly, "Nah, we still can't hear you."
"I SAID," Skwisgaar shouted, sitting straight up in his seat. His hair was a tangled mess, half matted in drool stuck to the side of his face, as his bloodshot eyes darted to and from each of his bandmates. "We's gots to finds us a new manager. That's...We's don'ts gots a choice anymore."
They all looked at one another. "We just don'ts gots a choice anymore," he repeated quietly. Worry was apparent, but they knew they had to find a replacement, and soon.
––––––
"Dethklok's on the hunt for a new manager! After the resignation of managerial genius, Charles Ofdensen, the band has been holding auditions for the vacant position. Many have speculated that the key to Dethklok's financial success really had to do with their former manager. How will this play out? In the mean time, the band's been seen with a new manager for every day of the week.
"We decided the best way to find a new manager was to just try them out, you know? Give them a test run."
"And Mr. Murderface, how has that been going exactly?"
"Pretty well, I guess."
Haha! After the interview, William Murderface was seen giving an unknown man back stage a hearty thumbs-up. The man was later identified as Crystal Mountain-sponsored managerial candidate, Travis Sldokefjes. Oh-ho boy, it'll be interesting to see how THIS one works out. And that's the Dethklok Minute!"
Charles hit the power button on the remote and folded his hands in front of him. The equipment was nearly finished setting up, expedited by his recovery of AWOL Klokateers from the last time he'd been absent as manager. He went out of his way to secure his own equipment with his own funds- no one could accuse him of stealing from the band even though he was having to redevelop much of the technology he'd had access to in Mordhaus again here. The process was time-consuming, but the monks had slowly gotten more accustomed to the modernization of the place.
"Your Holiness, is all this really necessary?"
"I know the Church has its own means of watching over the boys, and I respect that- really I do- but this is important as well. Dethklok is an incredibly
hard entity to keep track of. This equipment is indispensable in that effort.
The monk had nodded slowly.
"Plus you don't even have any electricity down here. No offense, but I think you guys are gonna love the new stove we're putting in," he had added
quickly.
The food had definitely improved since the installation of that stove. It opened up a whole new range of foods, for starters- plus one of the klokateers had, in an amazing stroke of luck, been one of the kitchen assistants.
Morale in the Church was starting to go up. Charles knew that was good. What wasn't good were these 'manager auditions'. Charles sighed and moved a finger to slide up the bridge of his nose glasses that were no longer there. So he rested his fingertip between his brows and closed his eyes. Travis Sldokefjes. Travis Sldokefjes. He knew that name from somewhere.
"Your Holiness!"
Charles squeezed his eyes shut. The disruptions were starting to wear thin on him. Even when he worked for Dethklok he at least had his office to go to. Charles pushed those thoughts out of his head.
"Yes, what is it?" he said without moving. The monk flailed wildly in front of his closed eyes.
"Your Holiness, the construction men are making a mess of the nourishment room. I am sure they have broken into fights by now! Ohhh, this is unbelievable! I have never seen such a thing since coming down here, really I haven't!" The monk prattled on.
"Yes, alright, I'll be down there in a minute," he responded. As the monk walked away, still mumbling to himself, The High Holy Priest resisted the urge to shift the tip of the middle finger pressed up against his brow into a one fingered salute. The boys would've been incredibly disappointed with his self-control.
––––––
The evening jacuzzi drink-off was in full swing save for Toki who was more interested in shooting ghosts in their newly acquired arcade game "Deathinator", where not only did you have to kill people, but then you had to track down their ghosts and kill them, too. Toki had been addicted to it for days- those damn ghosts always got the better of him with their ability to walk through walls. He missed another one and nearly threw the gun at the 3D screen.
"Hey, uhhh, Toki? Why don't you give it a rest there and come join us?" suggested Pickles, picking up a fresh bottle of vodka.
"Nos I can'ts- nots until I beats dis levels," he said in between bursts of arcade gunfire. Pickles shrugged and poured a quarter of the bottle into the jacuzzi- he swore having it in the water made him drunker. He would have a jacuzzi of nothing but booze if it wasn't for the guys' disapproval and, well, the burning sensation of bathing in hard liquor.
"So, ahhhhhhhh," Nathan began, looking side to side. "What do we think of these managers so far."
"They're alright."
"It's fines, I supposs."
"Murderface?" Nathan queried.
"Yeah, man, we can totally do that! It's a great idea! ...yeah, dude! Yeah, yeah!" Murderface enthusiastically said into his dethphone.
"Uhhhhhh, Murderface, I'm trying to ask your opinion here."
"Yeah, yeah! Uh-huh!" Murderface continued. Nathan looked into the bubbling water and became momentarily transfixed by the pulsating jets before shaking himself to.
"HEY MURDERFACE!" he shouted. The bass player pulled the phone away from is face and fixed his bandmate with an annoyed look.
"Can't you see I'm on the phone right now? God."
"I'm tryina- We're tryina- ask you what you think about the new managers. You wanna get in on that at all?"
Murderface paused, staring.
"I mean, you don't have to," Nathan quickly added.
"No, I-" Murderface began.
"You really don't have to, you know, I mean, I'm sure we can-"
"No, no, I want in on it, just...just let me get off this call, ok?"
Nathan stared at him.
"Geez," Murderface mumbled, picking his phone back up. "Hey Travis, I'm gonna have to call you back latter. Got, ahh...got a little band business to attend to, ya know? Yeah..."
"Whats? Travis?" Skwisgaar said loudly.
"Yeah...yeah...uh-huh, yeah?" Murderface continued.
"Whats is he's talkings to Travis for? It's not even the days what's he's supposed to works with us!"
"That's a-a real good question, Skwisgaar," Pickles said, adding a bit more vodka to the jacuzzi water.
"Yep..." Murderface said again into the phone.
"GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE!" Nathan screamed into his ear.
"OK BYE," he said suddenly, hanging up the phone.
"TELL US WHAT YOU FUCKING THINK OF THE FUCKING MANAGERS OR WE'RE NOT ASKING YOU ANYMORE!" Nathan shouted again.
"OK, goddamn! You don't have to be so fuckin' loud."
"Yes, and whats abouts thats Travis whats was ons the phones withs yous just now?" added Skwisgaar.
"It's nothin', man! We just like hanging out, that's all. Why? Are you jealous?" he smirked.
"Murderface, you know each of the managers gets an assigned day, so you really shouldn't be, you know, talking to any of them outside of those days, you know? It's for security reasons," Pickles said matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, security," echoed Nathan.
"Ok, listen," Murderface sighed. "If we have to pick a new manager, my vote's for Travis. He's such a great guy, you know? And he really appreciates me as a musician and my musical contributions to the band."
"Your...what?" Pickles asked with irritation, trying hard not to slur his words now that the vodka was really kicking in. Toki laughed from the other side of the room.
"Hey! You shut the fuck up over there! You're not even in this conversation!" Murderface bellowed, reaching around to point an accusatory finger at Toki supposedly engrossed in his game.
"Whats, mans? I ams justs playings dis games, I can'ts even hears you..." he called back, nailing a ghost in the back of the head with a muffled giggle.
"I don't know, man..." Pickles continued.
"No. Nos Travis," Skwisgaar declared.
"Why not?" Murderface whined.
"I's gots a bads feelings abouts him," he replied. Nathan frowned. "Yeah, I think I'm with Skwisgaar on this one. Travis is a bit of a creep, which explains why you probably like him so much."
"Hey!" Murderface shouted. "He is not a creep! He's really great, and..." Murderface rambled on about the several promising qualities of his managerial favorite as Nathan became hypnotized again by the jacuzzi bubbles and Pickles' head lulled back in a half-hearted snore.
"Whatevers, mans..." Skwisgaar mumbled to himself, and, taking the bottle from Pickles' unconscious hand, took an annoyed swig.
––––––
Charles Ofdensen looked at his watch. It was midnight, and the cavern was clear save for a few straggling former Klokateers. The hum and red glow of the newly completed equipment installation was a balm for what had formally been a deafening silence in the cave, occasionally interrupted by an irritating drip-drip that no one seemed to be able to locate the source of. The electromagnetic field emanating off of the equipment was a familiar friend to Charles, but it was a pleasure that was short lived. After days of intense thought, he had finally remembered.
On the day he had come back into the world and stopped Dethklok from a terrible contract deal written up by Damien Cornickelson, the record company founder's spoiled son, that chat he'd promised he would have was more like a death sentence. When the band had left to finish their show, Charles had made it clear in exquisite detail how he would literally tear their entire world down around their heads if the band's former contract, with some generous rewrites made by Ofdensen himself, was not reinstated in the next twelve hours. Shattered, literally and figuratively, Damien had agreed, especially after a generous urging by his female assistant. His male assistant, however, had said nothing. His face had been an eerie mask almost completely devoid of emotion. That, he now recalled, had been Travis Sldokefjes. Somehow this assistant had worked his way up in a few short years into the label's managerial pool and was now vying for Dethklok, undoubtedly through William Murderface. Would the bassist's ego always be a major weakness in the band's defenses? Yes, of course it would. You didn't even need to ask yourself that question.
Charles sighed. If Travis Sldokefjes was trying to become manager of Dethklok, Damien Cornickelson had to undoubtedly be behind it. Now that his father was actually dead, the label still passed to him. Despite his son's massive screw-ups during his illness, Roy always believed his son would come around some day. That day probably never came before his own death did.
This had become a major annoyance. Without Charles' guidance, the band's infantile decision-making skills almost always threatened their safety, and definitely made them hemorrhage cash. Charles shuddered. If Travis Sldokefjes got control of Dethklok, it meant Damien Corknickelson was in control. If that happened...
"...the band would be doomed," he finished aloud.
A snoozing ex-Klokateer twitched in its sleep, slumped against a nearby wall. Charles stood and made his way to the entrance of the cavern.
"There has to be a solution to this..." he said, gazing at the massive red pentacle etched into the ancient stone. "...a solution that everybody would find agreeable. And above all, that would help Dethklok."
Stepping into the circle, he approached the center, raised his arms, and allowed wispy tendrils of fiery light to wrap themselves around him.
––––––
"Heys, Murdersface," Toki sang, slapping either side of the man's unconscious face. Their car had swerved off the road after the bassist had driven them out into the middle of nowhere, mumbling incoherently to himself. Toki didn't think much of it at the time- all of it seemed pretty run of the mill for the guy. Even crashing the car. But not passing out- at least not to the point where Toki couldn't wake him up again.
"Murderfaaaace!" he continued. He tried to smack the top of his head instead but the blow was beaten back by an impenetrable shield of hair. Toki grimaced and gingerly wiped his hand off on his shirt. Nothing seemed to be working. Pulling out his Dethphone, he called his bandmates.
"So he's not waking up at all, huh?" Nathan asked. "Alright then. We'll...we'll come and get you, or something. We'll...where the hell are you anyway?"
Nathan listened patiently. "So in other words you don't fucking know. Alright, just...we'll figure something out, ok? Stay where you are." He hung up.
"Sos, ahhhhh...one of thems cuts offs an arms or a legs or somethings?" Skwisgaar asked, rapidly fingering his guitar.
"No. Murderface crashed another car and now he won't wake up. We have to go get them."
"Well where are they?" Pickles whined testily.
"Uhhhhhh, Toki said something about a lot of sand and a cactus with three flowers on it, or some other bullshit like that. Basically he doesn't fucking know. So we have to go track them down."
"Well how are we supposed to do that? I mean, we're not Charles for chrissake!" As soon as he had said it, Pickles regretted it. The room grew silent.
"Look!" Nathan exclaimed. "We may not be Charles, but all of Charles' stuff is still here. All we have to do is just find his stuff and figure out how he did all those things like rescue us...and shit like that. Ok?!"
"Yeah, but how?" Pickles insisted.
"I don't know how!" he yelled back. "One thing at a time, god."
"If I may dare a word, my Lords," a nearby Klokateer muttered, clearing his throat.
"Yeah? What is it?" Nathan asked.
"If you are in need of the tracking control room, I would not be worthy of guiding you there..."
"Tracking control what?" said Pickles.
"What, likes we's don'ts knows where all the rooms in our owns houses is! I means we designs the Mordhaus for fuck's sakes..."
Nathan turned to stare at Skwisgaar who promptly ceased his guitar fiddling. After a moment, Nathan turned back to the Klokateer. "Alright, take us to this control whatever. "
"As you wish, my Lords."
When Pickles, Nathan, and Skwisgaar entered the tracking control room, their jaws nearly hit the floor. Massive screens lined the walls, and smaller screens lined those screens for all the Klokateers stationed around the area. The monitors showed news stories about the band from all over the globe, as well as rooms within Mordhaus itself. In the center stood a large chair. It was empty.
A Klokateer finally noticed their presence, and like dominoes, all activity stopped one by one as all eyes turned to stare at them. One of them who appeared to be trying to keep the room on task hurried over to them. "M-M-My Lords! It is an honor! H-H-How did you even find your way in here, I-"
"Uhh, we were led here by-" As Nathan turned to point out the Klokateer in question, he was met instead with a wall of Klokateers, all almost indistinguishable from one another. "Ahhh, I guess he left."
Silence stole over the room again as the nervous control manager did his best not to shuffle in front of his bosses.
"Uhhhh," Nathan said, nervously looking around. "We need to find Toki. Murderface got them lost in a desert or something. You can find them, though, right?"
The control manager quickly snapped into action, relishing in finally having something real to do. "Snap to it, everyone! Pull up Toki Wartooth's Dethphone and track its GPS! Bring up William Murderface's as well!"
"What is this place?" asked Pickles, walking up to the empty chair.
"Do not touch that chair!" the manager squealed. Pickles jumped back.
"Hey man, it's cool! I won't touch the chair! What the hell is up with this place?"
"This," he began proudly, "is the Track and Control Room. This room is the very heart of Mordhaus and Dethklok's operational systems."
"Sos, whats is ups with that chairs thens?" Skwisgaar asked skeptically.
"This chair?!" the control manager cried shrilly. "This is the Manager's chair. From this chair Charles Ofdensen directed and controlled much of Dethklok's business and security procedures. This chair..." he paused, caressing the back of it. "is the sacred seat of the Manager of Dethklok. No one may sit here but the One!"
"Uh, yeeeeeeeeah, okay..." said Pickles, slightly confused. "But we don't have a manager anymore. Charles is gone."
The control manager seemed to choke back a sob. "Indeed he is. And your daily managerial candidate of the day is Travis Sldokefjes. Shall I call him to update him on the status of Toki Wartooth and William Murderface?"
"Well where is he now?" asked Nathan.
The control manager hit a button and took a look at a nearby screen. "Currently, he is...passed out with two hookers in the lower level of sector five. If I may be candid, my Lords, he really has spiraled into, ah, decadence, since becoming a managerial candidate."
"Yeah, just leave it for now," agreed Nathan. "Just tell me- have you found them yet?"
"I have found them, sires!" cried a Klokateer from across the room.
"Splendid!" yelped the control manager. "We are setting course there now."
––––––
"Awww, man, look at him, man!" Nathan moaned. Toki, Pickles, Nathan, and Skwisgaar all stood around Murderface's purple, pulsating form after having gotten him to bed. Their Manager-of-the-day was nowhere to be found.
"What the hell, dudes? What the fuck is going on? I mean, what the fuck are we supposed to do about this, man?" Pickles whined.
"We shoulds gets hims to the doctors," offered Skwisgaar.
"Guys, I thinks he's toos fars gones for thats," said Toki. "I don'ts thinks it's a doctors wes needs."
"Then who do you suggest we take him to?" asked Nathan.
"We could just leave him," mumbled Pickles.
"We can'ts leaves hims, Pickle!" Toki protested. Pickles shrugged, and Nathan growled quietly at the foot of Murderface's bed.
"I know what we have to do, guys."
"What's thats?" Skwisgaar asked.
"We have to go to the Church of the Black Klok," he proclaimed. "We have to find Ofdensen."
––––––
Charles had spent the last two days personally tweaking and calibrating the communication and tracking equipment in the cavern, much to the dismay of the monks and his fellow priests.
"You must attend the ritual, your Holiness!"
It was a nuisance, but attend he did. At first he felt bad about making it so difficult for them, knowing intimately well how frustrating it can be to need someone at something important on time. But as these thoughts crossed his mind, the image of Damien Cornickelson and his puppet Dethklok manager drowned all the superfluous feelings out. He needed this equipment up and running. He needed to be able to track the band outside of ritual times. Maybe, he could even find a way to warn them. He had explained the situation to the other priests, but they assured him that his powers would develop soon enough to allow him to speak to them himself- so long as he continued to attend the rituals. Since joining Dethklok's staff, Charles Ofdensen didn't like to sit around and wait. He wanted results, and he wanted them quickly, with or without the powers promised him according to his station of High Holy Priest.
These thoughts occupied his every waking moment, and even several of his moments asleep as well. Time had become a blur- work on the equipment, train the staff, attend the rituals, work on the equipment, train the staff...the wires fumbled in his hands as he lay on his back under the console to adjust them.
"Just a little lack of circulation," he said to himself aloud. "Just...just give them a second to let the blood flow back..."
Within moments, Charles was asleep.
––––––
In a swirl of red and a darkness blacker than black, an octopus, an owl, a rabbit, an alligator, and a tiger burst forth from the Void. They lept and dived and entangled themselves in the streams of red light, which quickly became streams of crimson blood. The creatures continued to play, oblivious to their now soaked features, until the alligator began flicking its head to and fro, as if to fling the blood away. A hand reached out- Charles' own hand- and the alligator calmed. With a thumb, he wiped away the blood from the reptile's face- icily cold to his touch. The alligator seemed to smile- do alligators smile?- and bounded back to play with the others. Charles rubbed his fingers together. "Baptism by blood," he heard himself say, and a massive whale appeared on the horizon. It seemed to say something he couldn't understand. He tried to lean in further but it was impossible. As the whale grew larger and larger, he watched the animals, now drenched, in the blood of the red streams. "Baptism by blood," he murmured again. "But I was able to wipe it away..." Then, the whale's size grew exponentially as the octopus suddenly turned around and shouted, "CHARLES!"
He jolted awake. Clutching to the front of his cloak was Pickles, and as he looked up he saw the faces of Nathan, Skwisgaar, and Toki. "Boys," he said, quickly pulling himself together. "What are you doing here?"
Nathan offered him a hand, which Charles took, and hauled himself to his feet. "It's Murderface."
"What a surprise," he stated, resisting the urge to push up glasses that were no longer there.
"No, I mean there's something wrong with him," insisted Nathan.
"Oh? Did you, ah, take him to a doctor first before, you know, bringing him all the way out here to tell me about it?" he asked, dusting off the front of his cloak.
"Weeell, he's kinda glowing purple so we figured a doctor couldn't do much about that," Pickles said.
"Yeahs, it was toos weirds even fors us," added Skwisgaar.
"Yous gots to helps him, Charles! Yous knows abouts these things! Yous always knows..." Toki began to pout as Charles sighed.
"Alright, alright, where is he?"
"He's right here," Nathan said, pointing to a purple glowing heap on the floor. Nervous monks had begun to form a ring around the six of them, eyeing the bassist with suspicion and disdain.
"Wow," Charles said emphatically. "Yeah...yeah, I can see how that would be a problem. Although I'm not your manager anymore, you all did a good job coming to me about something like this," he continued. He paused. "Even though it's...several years too late."
The band began to murmur uncomfortably. "Yeahs, sorrys abouts thats...," Skwisgar conceded. Charles nodded.
"Well, never mind about that now," he stated, pushing technicalities aside. As he looked around the circle of monks, he spotted a collection of priests and motioned for them to come forward. "Is there anything you think you can do about this?" he asked, motioning to the now pulsating Murderface.
The priests gathered around the bass player and began to slowly lift him off the ground. "We shall see," said one, turning to Charles, and they carried him off with the help of a few extra monks.
The ring around them began to disband, and soon everyone was back to their assigned tasks.
"Ohs wows, Charles!" exclaimed Toki. "Yous tooks our Klokateers when yous lefts?" The four remaining band members looked around themselves at the tattered men and women at work.
"Of course not, Toki," Charles chided. "A couple years ago when you all were led to believe that I was dead and your spending couldn't pay the Klokateers, many of them abandoned Mordhaus. Only some of them were able to be retrieved afterwards, leaving many of them still out in society. When I left, I tracked down several more of them and brought them here. They were no longer on payroll anyway."
Toki nodded to himself as his gaze swept up in fascination of the stalactites protruding from the cavern ceiling. Charles raised a brow at the sudden loss of attention and focused back on the other three. "Never mind all that, though. How did you manage to find me?"
"Oooh, ooh, I know this one!" cried Pickles, grinning inanely. Nathan and Skwiskgaar stared back at him in abject disapproval. Pickles began to falter but pulled himself back together. "The Tracking and Control Room. We went there and talked to a guy and the guy got us here. It was pretty cool, actually."
Nathan raised his brows. "Yeah, it was."
Skwisgaar conceded as well. "Yeah, it was prettys cools."
"Well," Charles began. "It's been a long time coming, but it seems you all are growing up..."
The three of them stared back at him.
"...as artists," he quickly added. He cleared his throat and went to push up his glasses that weren't there again when he remembered half-way through the motion and smoothly pushed back his hair instead. Nathan raised a brow.
"Tell me, have you boys found a new manager yet?" he asked.
"Naaaah, we really can't decide on anybody," Pickles drawled.
There was a large bang of metal slamming into metal as an unsteady Travis Sldokefjes emerged from the submarine. "What the...what the fuck is this place? Where are we? Nathan? Skwisgaar?"
Skwisgaar winced at the mispronunciation of his name. "I fuckings hates thats guy," he mumbled. Charles's eyes narrowed.
"Oh heys, Travis!" yelled Toki, waving. "Overs heres!"
Travis Sldokefjes stumbled over, nearly bowling into Nathan when the vocalist grabbed him by the shoulders and stood him before Charles. Travis giggled and looked up at the man standing before him. When he did, sobriety came rushing back to him and the color began to flee from his face.
"Hello, Travis," Charles said evenly. "Long time no see."
"Wait, you know this douchebag?" growled Nathan.
"Yes, and so do you," he replied. "Travis was at your contract renewal. Weren't you, Travis?"
The man began to tremble in Nathan's grip. "Now there," Charles said in a sad attempt at faux comfort. "You seem a lot less stoic after getting into the boys' drug stash. It's, ahh...some pretty serious stuff they've got in there, isn't it?"
Sldokefjes's knees gave out completely and he was left standing up only by the singer's death grip digging into his shoulder blades. "How is Damien, Travis?" Charles asked.
He whimpered. "He's fine!" Travis cried.
"Wait, this asshole is working for Damien? I mean, I knew he was from the label but dude!" Pickles yelled, jabbing a finger into the managerial candidate's arm.
"Yes he is, Pickles," Charles replied, narrowing his eyes menacingly. "And if you had allowed him to stay on as manager, Dethklok would've been under the direct control of the new label head."
"Dude! Fucking fuck, man!" Pickles cried, punching the terrified pawn in the shoulder.
"Awws, Travis, whys? Whys woulds yous dos thats?" Toki asked plaintively. Travis didn't answer. His eyes were locked onto Ofdensen's, and as Ofdensens's grew narrower, his seemed to grow wider.
"Hey man, is it getting hot in here to anyone else?" Nathan asked. The guys looked around themselves. "Oh shit!" he yelled, dropping Travis. The ex-managerial candidate began to scream and glow a bright red before tendrils of flame licked out from his nostrils and he burst into flames. The boys flung themselves backwards, staring in shock at the wall of fire engulfing the screaming man, until soon the screaming stopped. The fire burned on, and standing next to it, never having moved, was Charles.
He wasn't sure how that had just happened, but it had. His own seething anger, and the anger of that of Dethklok, seemed to momentarily overwhelm him and shoot forth to start the fire. His uncertainty fell away the more he thought about it, and as the fire died out, his confidence had seeped back into him.
"Uhhh, what the fuck actually happened just now?" Nathan asked.
As the fire died down to a smouldering mass, a group of monks came forward, collected the majority of the remains, and took them away. An aide approached Charles, bowing deeply as he spoke. "Your Holiness! We have news of William Murderface. Will you and Dethklok come to the healing chambers?"
"Yes," he replied, still staring at the dark sooted mark left behind by the ashes. "We'll be right there."
Charles began rifling through his cloak, patting himself down, as if to search for something.
"Charles!"
"Yes, Toki?"
"Yous gots to comes backs with us!"
"Yeah," chimed in Nathan, still trying to recover himself. "I don't know what the fuck just happened, but the truth is we need you."
"Fucks whatsevers that was!" yelled Skwisgaar. "Peoples explodes alls the times arounds us. Who gives a fucks anymores? Charles, yous gots to comes backs."
"We've already wasted so much time trying to look for a replacement and failing," added Pickles. "We haven't had any gigs, no real appearances, and no time to work on music. You gotta find a way to come back with us, you know?"
"Fuck the contract," Nathan shouted. "You think that was the first time you led us into danger? What about all the other times? All those times we've almost died. WHAT'S THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE?"
The three other band members called out in agreement as Charles's hand disappeared inside his sleeve. He sighed. Fumbling inside his cloak, he looked at his newly assembled track and control station and then out over at the monks of the Church of the Black Klok. He noticed for the first time that some of them weren't avoiding the ex-Klokateers anymore, and that some were even actively talking to them, asking them questions about the gear. He looked up at the cave ceiling, and then back at the boys. They stared back, watching him with silent hope.
Finally, Charles pulled his hand out of his cloak. Opening his hand, he unfolded his glasses and slid them smoothly up the bridge of his nose.
"First, let's go check on your bandmate. We have to save Murderface. Once we've taken care of that, we'll work out the details of all this at home," he said carefully, the red glare of the equipment shining off the lenses.
"Ats homes? Reallys?" cried Toki. He jumped up and down as the others smiled.
"This way," Charles offered, and led them himself, the High Holy Priest, into the black depths of the Church of the Black Klok.
A/N: I wrote this under extremely sleepy conditions. Thanks for reading, and I hope it wasn't too much of a mess. If you liked it, please R&R- it's always cool to read what you guys have to say. Thanks!