TEN: CFO

Charles straightened his tie as he stepped into his office. The teenaged boy sitting opposite his desk visibly shook, blood trickling from his nose. "You, uh, sure you don't want to call your parents?"

"I keep trying, but your phone doesn't work!"

"Shame." Charles folded his hands behind his back. "I'm satisfied with how this went, anyway. If you've got nothing else to say, then perhaps we should wrap things up."

"I w-wanna go home. . ." the boy sniffled. Warm urine pooled on his seat. "I'm sorry."

"So you're never going to come back here, right?"

"No."

"And you know what happens if I see that you haven't kept your word?"

He sobbed in response.

"All right then. . .Kevin." Charles adjusted his glasses as he read the name on the identification provided. "Here's your things back, plus a five dollar gift card for Hot Topic. Although this entire circumstance is unfortunate, I encourage you to shop the proper way. See where it gets you."

"Th-thank you." Kevin limped away.

Charles followed him out to make sure he found the exit all right. A couple shoppers watched boredly, one of them a child with a lollipop the size of his head. He looked away quickly when his gaze met Charles'.

"Bit harsh, wasn't it?" One of the cashiers asked.

"The ends justify the means. You watch: we'll never have another kid in here trying to steal merchandise. By the end of the day, every wayward teenager in the area will know this isn't a place to fuck around."

"You don't think you'll get sued, or something?"

"That limp'll clear up before he leaves the mall, and it'll wind up his word against mine. I've got security footage, he's got nothing but a presumed juvenile record." Charles restored his suit jacket and adjusted the collar. "I'm going for lunch."

The lunch rush hit Therion Mall worst at the food court, where Charles wound up. Not many businesses remained in the aging building, which diverted shoppers elsewhere. Regardless, the Baltimore branch of Mötley Shües did all right by the books. It was a far cry from the life Charles used to lead, a waste for a degree from Georgetown, but it paid the bills until better came along. His pre-law study at NYU had to be worth something.

Not a day went by that he didn't think about his dismissal from the CIA. He had it all: a job he enjoyed, opportunities, and benefits. Now what? He slipped into a routine of waking up, dealing with traffic, hanging out at this horrendous place, going through the motions of accounting needs, and then eventually going home to his empty apartment and the most expensive bottle of brandy his budget allowed. A kid trying to sneak a pair of Converse into his jacket broke the monotony nicely, at least. Not to mention, it contributed to his reputation as a well-dressed man in a slummy neighbourhood not meant to be messed with. Local desperadoes only ever attempted one mugging on him, and they more than likely still regretted that hare-brained decision.

He collected a sandwich and salad from the Iron Butterfly Garden Deli and returned to his office. A weaving individual on the security cameras caught his attention, as well as the unmistakeable liquor bottle being toted around. Hm. Maybe he ought to help out his already overwhelmed employees, and make sure nothing wound up broken.

"You got. . .lots'a. . ." The dreadlocked redhead trailed off when he saw Charles. "Heey, chief. Yer the boss? Thet was quick."

"He was asking for you." The cashier busied himself elsewhere in the store, now that Charles had it under control.

"What can I help you with?"

"I'm looking fer. . .new shoes."

"That's what we sell."

"No shit! I was jest lookin' around and woooow." He stumbled sideways and caught himself. "Whet's yer name? I'm Piiiickles the Druuummeeeer, doodily whetever."

"Charles." He cleared his throat. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"I need new shoes like sneakers 'cause these ain't so good fer playin'." Pickles pointed at the cowboy boots poking out from the bottom of his jeans. "I keep buyin' shoes but I keep losin' em. . ."

"Maybe you wouldn't if you tied them to your feet."

"Heh! Yer funny."

The drunk seemed harmless enough, at least. Charles waved the cashier over and stood back while he found his size and started bringing shoes over to the planted drummer. Pickles emitted a near constant reedy note, sometimes attempting to make comprehensible words but for the most part making no sense whatsoever.

A familiar voice Charles hadn't heard in nearly three years caught his attention. Sure enough, Nathan Explosion stood in his store. He somehow managed to bulk up even more since their afternoon together in the Gulf, and he'd grown his hair long. Although Charles casually watched Nathan's band on the news, he never thought he'd see him in real life again. William Murderface crossed his arms while Magnus tucked a hand into his pocket.

"Hey, you. Yeah, you there." Nathan placed a hand palm-down on the counter. "Seen a drunk guy 'bout this tall? Dreadlocks, slurry?"

"Over heeere, Nate'n!" Pickles hollered across the store. "I'm buyin' shooooes!"

With nowhere to hide, Charles turned his back and pretended to be interested in ties. His suit stuck out like a sore thumb, though. When he glanced around to see if he had a clear shot at his office and abandoned lunch therein, he mentally cursed as Nathan's bright green eyes drilled into his face. Damn it.

"Hey, I know you." Nathan pointed at him. "You're that guy."

"Yes. . .that guy."

"Hey guys. Hey." Nathan chuckled. "Murderface, it's Mulder."

"Mulder?"

"Muuuulder. Like the X-Files."

"I don't get it."

Nathan punched Murderface in the shoulder and got one back, although apparently didn't feel it for all his reaction. "Sorry, What's-Your-Name. Couldn't resist."

"I should point out to you that Mulder belongs to the FBI, while I worked for the CIA. I'm afraid your. . .joke was incorrectly placed."

"Ohhhhh!" Murderface's face lit up with comprehension. "Becausche he'sch a fed!

"Hey, Schuit." The bassist put an arm around Charles' shoulders, exposing him to repulsive body odour. Charles kept a straight face. "When you go back to Congressch, why don't you take a little messchage for usch?"

"I, uh, don't belong to Congress. And would you mind? You're spitting on my suit."

"So what're you doing here anyway?" Nathan asked. "Oh no, no wait, let me guess. Are you following someone? Can we help, because that would be totally fucking awesome, I always wanted to tackle someone in a mall."

"Nathan, don't! He'sch probably watching usch, if he worksch for the government."

Nathan's grin slipped away. "That true?"

"No. I don't work for the CIA anymore." Charles really didn't want to admit how far he'd fallen since then. "My superiors blamed me for all those ships that blew up in the Gulf, so I was, uh. . .let go."

"Well, you did tell them it was safe, so. . ."

"No I didn't, that's the point."

"But you were going to, whether or not you put your report in."

"And how was I to know—why are you arguing with me, anyway?"

"Juscht to let you know," Murderface interjected. "I don't think you're that bad a guy. Schorry about the whole fed thing. That's pretty cool, that you blew all thosche schipsch up. And you didn't even go to jail. Aweschome."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd almost rather have gone to jail than engage in this banal conversation.

"So what're you doing now, then? This place doesn't really look like your scene."

To spare himself the embarrassment, Charles lied quietly enough for his employees to not hear. "Day off, so I thought I might come buy. . .a new tie, or rather."

"Hm."

"And yourself? I've seen your band on the news, of course."

"Yeah. We're playing a gig tonight down the street. Trying to find some fucking accountant that told us her office was around here, but now I'm starting to think she lied. Fucking figures."

"What for, if I may ask?" Shouldn't Nathan have someone closer to home that took care of that?

Our manager wasn't very good about keeping track of our expenses. We just fired his ass. Need to get a professional opinion."

"We're broke!" Murderface loudly supplied. "What'sch with all the questionsch? We don't even know you."

Charles decided then and there to ignore anything and everything Murderface ever said to him. "I believe there's an office further down the mall, but if you'd rather not pay for her services, I'll go over everything for you."

"For free?"

"Sure."

"Sounds good to me." Nathan shrugged. "Can't really sit down with you, though. We gotta go start getting ready."

"Of course. I'll get everything back to you after your show tonight."

"That soon, huh?" Nathan crossed his arms. "Don't really know what to say. Thank you."

Charles followed them out to the parking lot and took a box crammed full of receipts and pay stubs from Nathan. Why exactly did he volunteer so easily for this? Dethklok lacked any hint of manners beyond the basics, so he more than likely wouldn't receive any more thanks for his work. Going over their finances from as far back as the band's birth would overwhelm anyone less than himself, and would be damn near impossible for them to organize within ten hours. But Charles was a master at sniffing out opportunity, and he caught a whiff here. Despite the growing storm beating the east coast as Dethklok breached Florida's borders, they'd neither landed a record deal (thanks to Nathan passing up every offer) and they didn't have a contracted manager. Even from a distance, Charles could see that they struggled to keep up to their fame. They did fine musically, but music meant nothing when they couldn't keep their bank accounts straight.

Charles disassembled the mess in his office, and soon piles of paper covered his desk. He divided first into fiscal periods, then whittled down to weeks. One of his employees came by at five to tell him they were off, so Charles boxed everything up again and took it home. A glass of brandy helped expedite the process, so by ten o'clock, he had a strong idea of where Dethklok stood financially and how he could explain it to Nathan in terms he might understand.

Road blocks surrounding their gig forced Charles to park and carry his box the rest of the way to their meeting place. He hadn't visited such a slummy place since his college days, and even that was an accident. Dethklok drew Charles in as the loudest table in the place, sweaty, stinky, and celebrating yet another killer night.

"Sit down, have a beer with us!" Nathan pushed Murderface off the seat beside him to the floor, where the bassist grumbled. Rather than take the spot, Charles pulled a chair over.

"So I managed to organize your band finances as well as your personal finances, as far as I can fathom since you guys, uh, took the road." Nathan blinked slowly, Magnus had his sights on some lady up by the bar, and Pickles grinned crookedly. "Would you rather do this in the morning, when you four are sober?"

"I think we can handle it," Nathan said. "But just band stuff. I'm embarrassed about the state of my wallet. Just putting that out there."

"Yeah, me too," Murderface agreed.

"I'd rather discuss that in private."

"I'm cool wid it. . ." Pickles' chin slumped against his chest and he promptly fell asleep.

"Right. So for Dethklok. . ." Charles unloaded the largest file from the top of the box. "Do you want me to go into specifics, or just a general idea?"

"Very general."

"To put it most simply, you are irresponsible spenders. I'm actually surprised that you somehow manage to scrounge up money for food and gas."

Murderface plunged a knife into the table. "How dare you. We're muschischians. We schouldn't worry about money."

"It has the power to stop you, William."

"We make money at our gigsch."

"And then you spend it. . .and some. Honestly, I think the only reason you're staying afloat right now is because money has been coming out of Pickles' account." Charles nodded at the lightly snoring drummer.

"He likesch it!"

"Yeah!" Nathan agreed. "You know, so long as he doesn't know about it."

"You've. . .been stealing from your bandmate." Charles sighed. "And have you considered the repercussions? What if he does find out?"

"Hm. . .I guess that might be bad."

"Yes, Nathan. It would be. He may quit."

Nathan bowed his head in thought, eyes darting, then he slammed a fist down onto the table. "Goddamn it! Why does this have to be so hard?"

"Now that you have achieved a reasonable level of success, you have more money coming in and out than you can be bothered to track. Plus, you need to practice, organize gigs, write songs—"

"Dear God, it's so much!" Nathan's head fell into his hands. Dramatics past, he pointed at Charles. "You. You get this shit. You need to help us!"

"Yeah, help usch! We're too fucking schtupid!"

"Yeah!"

Pickles' head snapped up. "Yeeuh, whetever yer yelling about!"

"It's probably for the best," Magnus spoke up. "Like I've been saying, we need a new manager."

"Guess we shouldn't have expected so much from a hitchhiker. But I was the real manager. Me. I did all the work. Uh. . .hm. Guess I really didn't." Nathan shrugged. "I like it better when you don't talk."

"Yeeuh, you just play that little widdle guitar." Pickles strummed a tiny, imaginary guitar. "Thet's whet yer here fer, right? Heh."

"I've been in the band longer than you!"

"Yeah, but Picklesch killed a—oh. . ." Murderface trailed off with a glance at Charles.

"It might interest you to know I studied law briefly, along with business. I never attended a proper law school or wrote a bar exam, but—"

"That'sch good enough for me."

"Whoa. Guys. We have a lawyer." Nathan nudged Murderface. "Hey, Lawyer—"

"Call me Charles, Nathan."

"The first thing I command you to do is get sloppy fucking drunk with us."

"I would rather not. I have a busy day tomorrow, getting my affairs in order. I assume I'm uprooting, so—"

"You're no fun!" Murderface hollered.

"Nathan, when you have a moment, we should draw up my contract—"

"Ischn't that your job, now?"

"I suppose, but I would assume that since you're hiring me you at least will want to glance it over, maybe have some input before we all sign?"

"Hm. I guess so. Why don't you draft it up and then we'll do that. Tomorrow, or something."

"I'll get in contact with you. Where are you staying?"

"Honestly we'll probably still be here."

"I see. Well, have a good night and don't get too wasted. You have a show in Philadelphia to consider."

"He'sch definitely our manager," Murderface muttered under his breath to Nathan. "Already schitting all over our fun."

". . .Right. Goodbye."

Charles packed the box back toward his car. Part of him panicked that he'd taken on such a risky job—both in its security and nature—and yet, he like so many other people had a very good feeling about this band. It wasn't very common for an unsigned group with no merchandise or recorded material to cause such a stir. If they kept on this path of destruction, then they needed someone like him. Already, Charles drew up the notion of a pain waiver, so that Dethklok couldn't be held responsible for any unfortunate occurrences during their shows.

Yes, tomorrow would be a whirlwind of a day. Although he had Dethklok's financial records organized, the real challenge began in keeping it on their minds and convincing them to keep receipts. He himself needed to wrap his mind around the fact that he would be moving to Florida. . .and in the meantime, going on the road with four reckless rock stars.