Chapter 11
Time slowly passed.
It crawled, really. Charles couldn't understand why. He wasn't waiting for anything. Yet while days still carried on as usual, in the great scheme of things, he felt like he was searching for something always just over the horizon, and he was impatient to get there.
As fall at Mordhaus fell into full swing, things settled back into their daily routine, the way it had always been for almost twenty years. The band eventually returned to talking to Charles, though they had obviously not forgiven him for turning their friend into mental mince meat. Rather, they had just buried their feelings in childish antics, drugs, alcohol, and sex, somehow knowing he was still the one they needed to function as a whole. But those days, they rarely asked him to accompany them on outings, and never asked him to be their drinking buddy anymore. Secretly, it made him a little sad, but he'd survive. Zoe, dividing her time between Charles' office, her room, and the training room, was miraculously still alive, but far from being human.
A teeny hope of Charles' was that, in time, Zoe's wounds would heal, and with it, her personality. But no such phenomenon was to be had. In fact, she had slipped farther and farther into her role as a gear, going so far as to begin to excel at martial arts and swordsmanship, but this was, perhaps, a direct side effect of sleepless nights spent training- a common occurrence, Charles had discovered.
He still found it difficult to train her in these attack arts when she wore the mask, but she refused to take it off. He was finding it hard to remember what she actually looked like under there, easier to evade such thoughts that could lead in other directions.
By the time October was upon them, he had forgotten any and all feelings for Klokateer 3772, and she was just his assistant. His little world remained largely unchanged.
October was always a very busy month for Dethklok, what with Halloween, Mischief Night, and Oktoberfest on their calendars. Charles allowed himself a bit of young-blooded excitement when he thought of the upcoming shows- they would be his best investment yet. Oktoberfest was always a bother to him, however. His boys always got so drunk they were usually in the hospital for a few days, no matter what precautions he installed to prevent their binge drinking. Briefly, face first in a cup of coffee, he mused over what would happen if he had their stomachs temporarily removed. After all, stranger things had occurred.
Before any of that happened, though, the usual trimmings began to adorn Mordhaus for the upcoming "most metal holiday of them all." Toki became obsessed with walking around wearing a sheet for the better part of the month, constantly walking into people and things when his eyeholes slipped out of place, and caused general mayhem wherever he went. Begrudgingly, the rest of the band gave into his childlike ways, and began to get keyed up, as well. Of course, this was after they had witnessed the rhythm guitarist brutally murder six Klokateers by accident in an incident involving a salad fork, an armful of damask pattern bedding, and a pencil sharpener. After the little white ghost had suddenly become blood red, celebration seemed much more appealing to them.
Such cosmic events tended to transpire when involving the young Norwegian, and the day that the entire band waltzed into Charles' office was no exception to the rule. That action would set into motion something none of them could have foreseen, but on that day, such an act was simply average.
Charles looked up from his laptop, Klokateer 3772 letting the clipboard she had been working off of drop to her side when she inclined her mask to her masters.
"Well, you all are, ah, up early. What can I do for you guys?" He waited expectantly while the rest of the band glanced over at what they once knew as Zoe. She still made them slightly uncomfortable. But, as was the new norm, she didn't move or rip the hood off her head and declare it was all a joke, so they focused their attention back on Charles.
"We wanna have a Hallaween party, dood!" Pickles exclaimed, beating Nathan to the punch.
"Yeah, we's wants to haves a party!" The talking white sheet in the group backed Pickles up, waving its endearing appendages next to an annoyed Skwisgaar- it was obviously part of his bedding set.
Charles nodded, taking this in and weighting the pros and cons artfully inside his head. He didn't see the harm in it, so long as it followed some form of guideline.
"Well, ah, okay. Thirty-seven-seventy-two, write this all down." She did as she was told, but at the mention of her number, the entire band visibly flinched. Skwisgaar heard the younger guitarist inhale to protest, but elbowed him in the ribs in an attempt to stop him. He muttered in Norwegian, and again, the blonde shoved him. Toki stumbled, bumping into Nathan, who just glared at them both and pushed the smaller man off.
Pickles, ever the newfound diplomat, saw the chain reaction from this quiet mutiny play out in his head, and decided to take up the conversation once again.
"So, ah…we're gonna need, like, money and stuff to work this out, y'know." He looked from Zoe to Charles, suppressing his deep-seated ill-will in favor of gaining permission for such festivities.
"Well, what, exactly, are you planning for this, ah, party?" Charles noticed his phone was blinking out of the corner of his eye, but didn't move to take the call, seeing as his assistant was already in action, moving to pick it up and scribble down a message. Her quiet voice, once so lilting and gentle, was now cold, and the redhead felt his anger growing. He knew Charles could be a prick, but he hadn't realized he was capable of such acts of cruelty to someone they considered a friend (Dr. Rockzo was the exception to this rule, because Pickles had no problem with seeing the clown get his painful dues). Before he could snap again, however, Nathan broke the staring contest between manager and drummer.
"We were thinking we could have it here at Mordhaus…s'on Halloween…and we could uh, decorate the Rec room."
"Yeah, and everyone's gotta wear cahstumes!" The drummer chimed in, his own façade for the night obviously pre-planned.
"Yeah, and there's gotta be chips. Lots of chips."
"And candies! Don'ts forgets the candies!"
"Ja, and maybe we's ams carve pum-pi-kuns and den we's haves a smashings contests, or release de pum-pi-kuns goo from de ceilings all over everyones."
"And we schould fill the hot tub with sacrifischal pig'sch blood and pissch, and then make hot chickhs fight in it!" Murderface's wide-eyed tirade stopped the party fantasy cold in its tracks. Nathan looked uncomfortable, and tapped the toe of his boot against Charles' desk a couple times. The only sound was Zoe's pen scratching against the paper.
"Murderface."
"Yeah?" The bassist crossed his arms and sneered at Nathan.
"No piss. Okay? No piss in the hot tub. We've gone over this. Piss of any kind in the hot tub is not metal."
"Well, fine, then. 'Scushe me for wanting to fuckin' liven up a shtupid party. But pissch ish metal!" He whined.
"It is not." Nathan's tone was growing dangerously assertive. He'd had this conversation too many times to be dealing with it now. He was just too drunk. Or, maybe, just not drunk enough. That was more likely it.
"Ja, piss ams not metal, Murderface."
"Well, maybe you're not metal!" The urine-obsessed bassist screamed, trying to protect himself. Charles felt his ears pop, but was powerless to resolve the problem.
The sheet wobbled around, struggling to find a way to look imposing and failing miserably.
"Takes that backs, Murderface! Skwisgaar ams totallies metal!" The little ghost shrieked, defending the taller guitarist.
"Juscht shaddup, Toki! What do you know! He alwaysch picksh on you! And yet you're telling me to takshe it back? Geeshz, you and Skwisgaar are a total schaushage-feshtival."
Toki flailed in his makeshift ghost outfit, one foot tangled in the hem that dragged on the ground.
"For the lasts times, I's ams not haves beens to Vienna withs Skwisgaar!"
"Ja, and I's gets more womens in one hour dens you gets your whole lifes, dildos!" The Swede's curling lip put Billy Idols' trademark sneer to shame.
"Toki's naht gay, dood. Yer the one who won't even eat a hatdahg. What, afraid someone might see you swaller a footlong all in one bite?" Pickles smirked, watching Murderface flounder for a retort, spittle flying from his lips as he lisped uncontrollably.
"Heh, Pickles, looks like you hit a sore spot there. Might also explain why Murderface's room's closet is bigger than the rest of ours." The corner of Nathan's lips turned up into a rare smile.
That was all it took for all Hell to break loose in the middle of Charles' office on a sunny October morning.
Everyone began to yell at once. If Charles had listened closely, he would have deciphered three teams: Skwisgaar and Toki defending their masculinity, Murderface trying to assert his manhood and his prowess in the band, and Nathan and Pickles trying to shut everyone up with as little bloodshed as possible. Murderface raged savagely, screaming almost incoherent expletives as loud as he could while backing up towards the coffee table beyond the couch. Nathan was growing more and more angered by the moment, and Pickles was egging him on. By then, Skwisgaar and Toki had parted ways as allies, bouncing between yelling at the rest of their bandmates and squabbling amongst themselves in a jumbled mixture of English, Norwegian, and Swedish.
Murderface's searching arms finally found was he was looking for father back in the office, and hefted the lamp in his right hand, bouncing it in his palm for a moment, as if to gain a feel for his new weapon. Nathan, in response, yanked the cord out of Charles' desk phone and lifted it like he was intent on pie-ing a clown in the circus.
The bassist was about to charge over the back of the couch and smash the lamp over the larger man's head when they all suddenly stopped, dumbfounded.
"Put. The lamp. Down."
In a rare moment of headache-fueled fury, Charles had stood, removed his glasses, and slammed his hand down on the desk as hard as he could without breaking something (probably the desk). But it hadn't just been one voice that had said it- it had been two. Surprised, he glanced over at Klokateer 3772, who seemed to be fighting the urge to join the fray.
"And the phone." Zoe sounded almost agitated. Almost.
Charles' hazel gaze wavered, and moved from Murderface, who dropped the lamp on the couch, to Nathan pointedly. The hulking frontman stared him down for a second before letting the abused office tool clatter to the desk. Without waiting for instructions, the Klokateer began to shuffle them towards the door.
Toki bristled beneath the wrinkled sheet.
"Hey, yous can't makes us leave."
"But I can."
Charles aided his assistant in shepherding the band out the door.
"Thank you for stopping by, gentlemen. I'll, ah, think about the party and get back to you later, alright?"
Without waiting for a reply, he shut and locked the door, exhaling slowly. He heard Zoe moving about behind him, and turned, suddenly remembering she used to be human, and wondering if she was about to make a comment on what had just happened.
But she was only cleaning up the mess they had left behind. She righted the lamp and plugged it back in, and then repeated the task for the phone, placing the receiver back in its designated divots. After that, she regained command of her clipboard, standing at attention by the side of Charles' desk.
He let out a heavy sigh, knowing it was barely even afternoon, but needing a drink anyway. Moving towards the brandy he kept in his coveted liquor cabinet, he poured himself a glass, shuddering.
"Is there anything I can do for you, sire?"
Charles gripped the cabinet door, coolly reining in his anger.
"Yes. Go down to the control center. Keep an eye on them- make sure they don't start this up again and kill each other. Also, make sure they don't leave. Toki's apt to go out joyriding, and in their condition, it would end, ah, badly."
"Yes sire."
And she was gone, leaving him to wallow in his drink and wonder how not even the Great October Office Wars could faze her, when he felt his own well-formulated staidness become frayed.