More drama/angst! But it will get better! Thanks to Misty Day for the continued support!
Murderface practically skipped up to the room. His hands were laden with a huge cake topped with bloodied hearts and sparklers. He wasn't sure what exactly what he was celebrating- but there definitely was something to celebrate. He knew it.
The two Klokateers behind him held a smorgasbord of snacks, ranging from Doritos carefully arranged formed into the shape of swan to a sculpture of Murderface's head done entirely in mashed potato. Jean Pierre wasn't just a chef- he was an artist.
He pushed the door open with his butt, and yelled "Shurprise!"
But there was no sign of Regan.
"Hey Charlesh!" he said. The CFO was studying Regan's plans. "Where'sh Regan?"
"She's gone, Murderface," he said, putting them down. "And I hate to break it to you, but she's not coming back."
Murderface threw down the cake and it splattered on the ground, spewing blood-red jelly all over the room.
"Watch it, Murderface," said Charles. "These glasses cost a fortune."
"Wh-what happened to her?" For the first time in his life, Murderface felt a sense of foreboding for someone else. Charles didn't often appear in his room, and when he was here, it usually meant that someone had died, and that, combined with Regan's absence brought a terrible premonition.
Human life outside of the band itself wasn't worth much in Mordhaus- people plummeted to their death or exploded here daily. It wouldn't be such a stretch if she were one of them. His heavy features crumbled.
"What did you do to her?" he growled.
"Murderface," said Charles, obviously alarmed. "She's fine. But she had to go-"
"Go where?" Murderface shuddered. The whole band knew that Charles had methods for getting the information he wanted, but they didn't think about it much.
Charles sighed. "Listen, buddy-" he placed his hand on Murderface's shoulder. Murderface shook it off.
"I'm not going to lishen- not thish time. Regan is a nicsh lady, and she doeshnt desherve whatever the fuck you have planned."
"Will you shut up for once?" Charles' voice was unusually harsh. "She's perfectly safe. I sent her back to her room- she doesn't belong here with you."
"And why not? Becaush I'm fat? Becaush I'm ugly? Becaush I'm the one they alwaysh foregt about me? That doeshn't seem to bother her."
"It's not that Murderface." Charles sighed. "She's just not good enough for you."
"Why the fuck not? She'sh a scientisht for christshake. If any groupie off the streetsh is good enough…"
"Murderface, you're getting it wrong. You have to understand who these Klokateers are. They sold themselves to Metal, to us, making them- now, I hate to use this word- but slaves in a sense."
"Shlaves!" asked Murderface. "What the fuck doesh that mean?"
"Forget I said that, Murderface. But they're cunning. Let them do their jobs, and they're fine. But let them get close to you, become your friend or get in your bed, and you're screwed."
Murderface folded his arms. "That doeshn't make shense."
Charles laughed grimly. "Oh, but it does." He picked the plans up off the bed. "I think I know what these are," he said. "She wants you to make her something- some fancy leg or something?"
"What'sh it to you?" asked Murderface, his jaw jutting out.
"And she came to you because you're best friends?"
"Well, no, not yet, but we're-" Murderface started.
"No, you're not best friends. But she picked you out because she thought she could use you. These girls are cunning, Murderface, real cunning."
Murderface tilted his eyebrow. "What are shaying?"
"She could have gone to any member of Dethklok, but did she? No. She went to you, because she smelled desperation. She knew you were lonely, and horny. She had a goal, and she honed in on it."
"That'sh not true!" screamed Murderface, but his features were trembling with doubt.
"Well guess what? You think you can trust a Klokateers? The girl who sits next her, some pal of her no doubt, just sued you for sexual harassment. She's gonna clean you out, and God know what Regan would have done to you."
Murderface raised up his leg in a fury, and smashed the remainder of the cake. "I fucking knew it," he said in rage and grief. "It wasn't poshible.."
"Now there," said Charles, holding up his hands.
"I alwaysh thought I wash fucking worthless- and you're right, she's messhing with me too." He rushed toward Charles, and Charles ducked. But Murderface just took the papers from his hands, ripped them in two, and crumpled them into a ball. He slid down onto the floor.
"Now get the fuck out of here," he said. His chest was heaving and his eyes were wet, but no tears were coming out.
"It's not worth this, Murderface. You'll be over it in no time." He patted Murderface on the shoulder.
Murderface shoved his hand off. "GET OUT!" he bellowed. Charles looked grimly at his client, and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Murderface groaned. Like a wounded man, he clutched his stomach and dragged himself into bed. He took several hoarse breaths and reached out for the pillow that Regan had used. It still smelled faintly of her, a woman's scent. He held it close for several moments, and then thrust it across the room in a fury. The lamp crashed to the ground, leaving him in darkness.