Time passed like kidney stones through an inflamed urethra (i.e., slowly and painfully) but progress was made on Dungeons & Ratguts. Somehow. The number of arguments kept the band from making any consistent headway for a while, but after Nathan learned to control his libido by imagining his parents having wild pig sex, he could almost act normal around Toki again. The trade-off was that he threw up a lot more often for no apparent reason, or so the band thought. Actually, between the unprovoked barfing and constant excuses to go take a dump, the other members of Dethklok began to suspect that Nathan Explosion either had a parasite living in his body or was a couple months pregnant…well. That's sort of the same thing, but at least people would feel sorry for you if you had worms.

Two months later and Toki finally got the cast on his arm removed. No sooner was it off than he had another one made so that he could continue to make the special sawing noise on his guitar, the one that would be featured in several of the new songs. This custom cast looked a lot cooler—it was black, everyone's favorite color, had skulls painted on it—and it was removable. Toki liked wearing it just for fun. "It come in handy," he said, "for hitting things. Is like wearing armor, you knows?"

But the casts on his legs wouldn't come off for a while yet. He began to complain about his armpits chafing from using his crutches too much, and the doctor told him that he really shouldn't be walking that much n-e-ways. Toki didn't want to look like a complete invalid by rolling around in a wheelchair all the time, so he had a nice leather executive chair outfitted with a scooter motor and a steering device, and he got to putt all over the house and say "Ciaooo!" to everyone. Never seemed to get tired of it.

Nathan would have gotten really fucking annoyed by this if he didn't find it so damn cute. Cute. God what a disgusting word. He didn't know what was more disgusting; the thought of him thinking that Toki's behavior was cute, or the word itself. Made him want to spit just to get the nastiness out of his mind.

Thankfully Pickles was always around for confidential support whenever Nathan felt himself losing his grip on heterosexuality. Many a night was spent drinking cigarettes and smoking beer with the drummer, who kept reminding Nathan that this was all just a phase and that as soon as he got that horrible love song written the sooner this would be over.

It helped for a little while but Toki was, to put it frankly, irresistible. There was something about the him that just…hell if Nathan knew. Something about him, a whole bunch of tiny likable things that weren't really all that extraordinary, but when put together made something incredible. It was a total accident, an unintentional likeability about Toki. Like the nuclear meltdown that saved the planet. The bright side of a root canal. It was the most goddamn frustrating thing Nathan had ever dealt with emotionally…maybe even the first thing he had dealt with emotionally. But if he was going to do something stupid like fall in love with a busted-up Norwegian kid, he at least wanted to know why. But he didn't know why. And it was driving him fucking. Crazy.

They had to hurry up and get this album finished. Nathan couldn't take this shit anymore. He wanted his life back. He wanted to go 12 hours without getting an erection (from looking at a dude). He wanted to be able to watch blood and gore on TV without thinking of Toki. He wanted to look at pictures of bound, naked Asian women on the internet and jack off happily like every other guy in the world. That was all he wanted. And if he had to humiliate himself by writing a barftastic love song, then so be it. He was ready to get this over it.

"Alright guys, listen up," Nathan muttered at rehearsal one day. "The album's sounding good so far. I think we've some of the best recordings ever on a few of the songs-"

"Likes on Corpse Chains," Toki interrupted with a grin. "I think that ones sound real good."

"Yeah, that one wuzsh pretty metal."

"I didn'ts pops my E string like usuals, dat was nice."

Nathan waited until the peanut gallery had shut up before continuing. "-a few of the songs. Yeah. But I still think the album's missing something."

Pickles said nothing. He knew what was coming and braced himself for the atom bomb that was going to drop itself on the band. And the nuclear holocaust that would follow.

Nathan elaborated. "It needs something different. Something softer."

"What?" Murderface grunted, wrinkling his face into a sneer of disgust.

"Something gentle and slow."

Skwisgaar, Toki and Murderface stared at their frontman with expressions that began to look more and more alarmed with each passing second. And then it came out:

"This album needs a love song."

No one. Said. A word.

Then Skwisgaar began to laugh. No one else joined him—they all seemed shocked beyond the capacity for speech. After a long dark stare from Nathan, Skwisgaar slowly got a grip and stopped tittering. "You is…not jokings?"

"Nnno."

The Swede gulped and then his fingers began to reflexively do the cancan on his X-plorer. Quiet plinging was the only sound in the whole auditorium.

"What kind of a love shong izsh it?" Murderface growled. "If it'sh something violent and pornographic then I got no problem with it-"

"Loves is not metal," Toki argued. "Love's-"

"Shtupid."

"Lames."

"Disdusking."

"Gay."

"Dildos."

"For kiddies."

"Grossh."

"Painfuls."

"A plaque on mankinds."

"Revol-"

"ENOUGH!" Nathan snarled, and his three bandmates stopped breathing.

"I, uh…I think it's a good idea…?" Pickles offered in support. Weak support. Like tooth floss holding together a suspension bridge weak.

"Well then. That settles it. We're doin' a love song. If anyone has a problem with it…they can talk to me about it later." Nathan paused just long enough to make sure that everyone was nice and intimidated. "Alright. In that case, I got some lyrics written up and I'd like to start putting 'em to music…"

a few hours later

"It'sh okay, buddy. Jusht let it out."

"I don'ts needs for yous mm. To being tellings mmuh…hmmrrauuughho! Ahruuugh! Bleauugh! Ahukk! Ahaugh!"

"There we gohhhh. Now, doezshn't that feel better?"

Murderface was squatting by the toilet and holding Skwisgaar's hair away from his face as the Swede violently filled the bowl with hot, foamy vomit. Toki sat slumped against the bathroom wall nearby, holding a half-spent cigarette in his trembling hand and staring into space. He was trying his best not to let the sound of Skwisgaar's retching make him sick. So was Murderface, but he was not doing nearly as well.

"Jeezshush fucking CHRISHTMUSH," the bassist groaned, turning his head as Skwisgaar continued to heave. "Your barf shmellzsh like rotten caviar and curdled MILK feshtering in shun-baked roadki-huuurgghhhh!" Rich brown puke gushed from his mouth and nose like a river while Skwisgaar lurched all the harder at the colorful description of his own throw-up. Between the two of them they utterly destroyed the third-floor bathroom.

Toki sucked a drag off his cigarette. He never was much of a smoker, but this was a desperate situation: Nathan had presented to the rest of the band what was, in all likelihood, the single most horrific song in the entire universe. A song whose lyrics rhymed at the end of every line. A song that spoke of tenderness and compassion and devotion and all of the warm fuzzy shit that had sent three-fifths of the band into convulsions of nausea. It wasn't metal. It wasn't rock. It wasn't even music—it was banana marshmallow mother moon fucking pies drenched in Pepto-Bismol, topped with Pez and candy corn, and had absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever. It was a steaming crap pile and they all knew it, every last one of them. But Nathan didn't relent; he wanted the song to happen. He wanted it on the album. And there seemed to be no way to change his mind.

The toilet flushed, clogged, and predictably began to overflow on the tiles. Skwisgaar rose weakly to his feet to get away from the putrid flood and slipped in vomit water, clipping the toilet seat with his shoulder on the way down. A fleshy-bony THUD—it sounded painful. Murderface belched blasphemies with every ounce of his hate-filled soul as Toki suddenly broke into dry sobs and Skwisgaar attempted to skate over to the sink. He made it after a few close calls.

The blond cupped his hands under the faucet and drenched his face, gargled, spit, hacked, and stared at his haggard appearance in the mirror. "We cannots lets him do it," he murmured numbly. "I can'ts take it. I cans take punk rock. Broadsway. Fucking country American's music. I cans take a fist ups my ass, but a love's song I will have shitting overs my grave." He grimaced. "My fucking head's is killing me. I t'inks dere's blood in my ears."

"It'sh not alwayzsh about you, dipshit," Murderface grunted, unravelling a nearby roll of toilet paper all over Barf Lake. "You think any of ush wanna go through with thish? I just pisshed my pantsh from heaving sho hard."

"I wants to go to sleeps and die," Toki mooed. "How could Nathan…does-doos-doing this to us? Is like he losing his marble."

"Maybe mores den dat."

"Huh?"

"I t'inks Nathan coulds be dying," Skwisgaar said solemnly, turning away from his reflection. "He's is so sick alls de time lately…have you notice dis?"

"A little," Toki sniffled behind his cancer stick.

"He must not wants to tells us yet, dat he's dying."

"And that shunnuva BITZCH iz trying to bring ush all down wif 'im!"

"De captains always goes down with de ship."

"Yeah but de ships isn't sinking, de fucking captains is! Why should we all suffer? Ah dis is bull's shit!" And then Toki began to cry for real. Snot and tears ran into his mustache and his cigarette tumbled from his wobbling lips and burnt a small hole in his shirt. He swatted the fire out and pulled a new cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shorts pocket. He could barely hold the zippo he was shaking so badly. He accidentally lit his hair on fire for a moment, but he swatted that out too.

It now smelled like vomit and urine and burning hair and misery in here. Murderface had run out of toilet paper and was feeling very depressed. He crawled over, drenched in puke and piss and toilet water, to sit next to Toki and stare at nothing. Skwisgaar tottered over to the other side of the Norwegian and slid down the wall to take a seat.

"We's are fucked, guys," he said after a while. "Nathan's is dying. Dis will probably be ours last record ever, and de song he's is wanting us to play we can'ts play."

"Dethklok izsh gonna be ruined after thish," Murderface mumbled, pulling his switchblade from his vest pocket and contemplating the veins in his left arm.

"Why?" Toki repeated, passing his cigarette to Skwisgaar. "I don't understands how Nathan could doos this to us…not tells us he's dying and then makes us play a love's song so that's we can never shows our faces again in public."

"Maybe he don'ts want us to forget him." Skwisgaar sighed smoke through his nostrils. "Dat's a really shitty way of doings it though."

"I don't thinks I could play a love's song, even if Nathan's is dying. My fingers is like…arth…arth's…"

"Art's right ass."

"Ars right as?"

"Arthritish," Muderface corrected.

"Whatever. I can't plays my fucking guitar."

"Nots me also."

"Too bad we can't, y'know, shabotazshe the album and replache that shitty shong with a different one."

No sooner had the words left Murderface's pie hole than you could hear the hamster wheels in the three guitarists' heads begin to turn. The same thought ran through all of their minds—perhaps the first real intelligent thought any of them had had all week—and it was running for its life.

"Burgerface is right," Toki whispered, a rainbow of hope shining in his expression like a well-oiled ocean. "We coulds replace de song with another's before it gets release!"

"Dat woulds be great," Skwisgaar said lowly, "excepts for nine things."

"Nine?"

"One: we don'ts know how to records a song on our owns. Two: we can'ts records a song on our owns because we needs de rest of de band. Three: Nathan woulds kill us. Five: Nathan woulds find out. Six: nones of us can sing. Seven: nones of us can song-writes. Eights: Nathan woulds kill us. Nine: de manager check overs everything and he would tells Nathan what's we did, and den we woulds all die."

"I counts eight things only, Skwisgaar. I thinks you skips a number."

"It's no matter, Toki."

"And we ended up dying in a lotta thozshe optzshions."

"Well dat's what's is important to remember."

"Waits a minute," Toki said, sitting up suddenly. "So we can't records a new song in de studio, right? Why nots on stage?"

"Hu?"

"What?"

"On stage! Like…what's if we was to records de whole album alive? We could pulls it off den! We could re-makes de song and play its at de last minute!"

Skwisgaar shook his head and muttered, "I don'ts know about dat. We still can'ts song-writes, and how woulds we con…confinn…gets Nathan to agree to doings it live?"

"I dunno. Bring in a symphony or somethings, that won't be difficult."

"We could do a live releashe album firsht," Murderface mulled, tapping his knife against his wrist, "and tell Nathan it'sh a marketing gimmick. Then we releashe a 'remazshtered' verzshion a few monthsh later."

"Dat's good."

"Yeah I likes that idea."

"Tshank you."

"But…we still can'ts song-writes."

Shadows seemed to magically and melodramatically form in the sharp recesses of Murderface's un-beautiful features as he whispered reverently, "Then one of ush hash to shteal Nathan'sh composhishun book."

Toki and Skwisgaar gasped in unison, and somewhere the soundtrack to this fanfiction went DUN DUN DUUUUNNN.

"I think it went over pretty well," Nathan observed as he sat at the conference table and made changes to the lyrics he had written in his...NOTEBOOK (dun dun duuuunnn).

"Yeah," Pickles said with an extra helping of sarcasm. "Judgin by the bright n' happy way they all jest skipped off inta the sunset, I think it went over great." He was on his second tequila of the hour and was feeling pretty sassy by now. "I can't wait fer the next rehearsal."

"At least they handled it like men."

"Get real. They're prob'ly all huddled t'gether somewhere an' cuttin themselves up."

"C'mon, it's not that bad."

"No. It's worse than bad. I mean…jeez Nathan, I know this's fer yer own good n' all but GOD. DAMN." Pickles took a hearty swig as if trying to wash the mental scars from his brain. "That…was one fuckin piece 'a song right there. Didn't know ya had it in ya."

"Me either. I guess this means I'm GAY." Nathan put his stocky hands over his face and slumped.

"Aw, hey, c'mon. Ya know this's only temporary. I mean, really it's…not so…here, lemme see yer notes a sec."

Nathan slid his composition book across the table and Pickles thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for:

I love you more than words can say
i need your love both night & day
i cannot live without you there
to hold me close with warmth & care.

I need you now my dearest one
your light shines on me like the sun
take my hand, we'll travel far
and go to where the rainbows are

love love love, i love you so
more than you will ever know
so kiss me now and smile bright
and you'll be in my dreams tonite

and if we never meet again
my love for you will never end
you'll always be here in my heart
though we might be so far apart.

Pickles was suddenly gripped with the overwhelming urge to throw up, and he quickly shut the notebook. "Jeezez Christ, Nate'n, it's even worse seein it on paper. This's beyond putrid. This's like…gag a maggot, Valentine's Day Hallmark card putrid. I wouldn't wipe my ass with this."

"You told me to write a love song and I did. Stop fuckin whining about it."

"A'right, a'right, fine. But at least…y'know. Be a little sympathetic with the rest 'a the guys. It's gonna take 'em a while t' get used to this level of…shit."

Nathan nodded tiredly. "This is the last song we have to do. Then the album's gonna be done."

Pickles raised a bottle in a half-hearted toast. "At this point I'd ask God fer mercy, but I don't think we'll be goin' t' Hell anytime soon. M' pretty sure Satan hates love songs too."

The two men were suddenly joined by the rest of the band—the three guitarists entered the conference room (two walking, one crutching) but made no move to sit down at the table. They remained standing, allowing Nathan and Pickles to wonder what in the hell had happened to them in just a few short hours: Murderface had piss stains on the front of his shorts and his shirt was covered in dried puke; Toki had burn holes in his shirt, he smelled like smoke, and he hadn't achieved that shade of skin tone since his last diabetic episode; Skwisgaar's clothes were drenched with water and he had the beginnings of the mother-of-all bruises on his right shoulder. And all three of them stunk worse than the morning after.

"Hey…guys..." Pickles said warily. "So, uh…whatcha been…up to?"

"We was just talkings about…de love's song?" Skwisgaar mumbled.

Nathan cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.

"We really likes it," Toki lied. Lied lied lied. But lied with a fake smile plastered on his face. "And we was just thinkings…"

"How musche better it would be if we played it in conshert firsht," finished Murderface.

"In concert, huh," Nathan mused.

"Maybe we can does a, a lives recording?" Toki offered. "We could haves some violin or somethings in de back-"

"-dat woulds really works better with de love's song-"

"-sheeing azsh how theshe two can't really play shlow anyway-"

"-and then we's releases that albums first-"

Pickles suddenly motioned for Nathan to lean across the table, and they both put their heads together in the middle. "Nate'n," said the drummer in a low whisper, "this could work. First exposure. Live audience. Nothin says rejection like a million dyin fans, and I'm tellin ya, that song'll have 'em shovin chopsticks through their eardrums."

"You really think so?"

"Absolutely. N' all it takes is one concert. Ya get yer cure. Ya get the song over with. Bam. All done. Case closed. A one time mistake, the song gets scratched from the album, we release Dungeons & Ratguts minus the love, problem solved."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

"That's a good idea."

"We should agree with 'em then."

"Right." Nathan drew back and looked at his three bedraggled bandmates. "We like it. You guys can tell the manager about the idea at the next meeting."

Toki let out a gigantic sigh of relief just before one of his crutches cracked and he tumbled to the floor. "Fucks!" he yelled.

Boy was that a déjà vu. Images of guts and carnage danced through Nathan's memory like absinthe fairies, and suddenly he was hornier than a ten-year convict on parole. He sprang up from his chair without waiting to push it back and smashed his johnson right into the table.

The only wood that was in pain was the table.

"Gotta go," Nathan snapped, and then he did exactly that. Pickles shook his head sadly and finished the last of his tequila, then reached over and adopted the half-full (he was an optimist, especially when it came to booze) bottle that Nathan had left behind.

Murderface and Skwisgaar took Toki by each arm and helped him back on his feet again. "Stupid crotches," the Norwegian naively complained, steadying himself on his remaining crutch. "Damn woods is not thick enoughs—I needs some big, hard stiff woods under me."

Pickles rubbed a hand over his face and thanked the Powers That Be that Nathan was not around to hear this, otherwise the guy would be filling his boxers with man jam right about now. That poor, bent son of a bitch. He probably needed a good plastering. Maybe later Pickles could have Jean-Pierre whip up some Chex Mix and 20 gallons of Hunch Punch, help cheer Nathan up a bit. The red-head staggered from the conference room in search of a place to pee, leaving Murderface, Toki and Skwisgaar alone.

"When is you goings to gets doze dumb dildos off your legs?" Skwisgaar muttered in irritation. "I'm getting tires of pickings your clumsy ass offs de floor all de times."

"Oh I real sorry to bothers you," Toki snapped peevishly. "Maybes you wouldn't minds me using your ugly guitar for a crotches till de next three week!"

"My guitars is not ugly, yours is!"

"Is not!"

"Is yes!"

"Shut the fuck up guyzsh," Murderface croaked so oddly that the bickering Scandinavians immediately hushed themselves. The vomit-encrusted bassist raised his arm and pointed to the table. Two pairs of eyes followed his finger until they rested upon…THE FORGOTTEN COMPOSITION NOTEBOOK. (You all can do your own dun dun duuuunnns, I'm tired of writing them.)

"Oh my god," Skwisgaar skwhispered.

"Is that…? Is it…?" Toki trembled, eyes bugging out like Tori Spelling's.

"Thiszh is highly convenient," Murderface noted.

"Who de fucks care?" Toki cried. "Go get it!"

The Swede darted forward and snatched the notebook from the table before breaking into a run. BAM through the doors. Murderface followed in hot pursuit and left a cursing, pissed off Toki limping after them like Long John Silver.

If Long John Silver had two peg legs.