By the time Toki finally caught up, Murderface and Skwisgaar were huddled out back behind the barbecue pit and riffling through Nathan's lyric notebook with all the glee of young brats who had just stolen their big sister's diary. Toki, panting like an asthmatic after a 50 yard sprint, approached from behind and would have dearly liked to break his remaining crutch over both their heads, but…it was his only remaining crutch.

Ah, what the hell. You only live once.

It didn't take much to splinter the crutch, seeing as how it wasn't made of big hard stiff woods, so a blow to the skull really wasn't all that bad. Skwisgaar and Murderface let out surprised squawks when they got caned out of the blue, but they were way too excited to let a little thing like a head injury harsh their glee.

"Stops screwing arounds and gets down here before someone seesk you," the Swede snapped irritably, grabbing Toki by one of his belt loops and yanking him into their Super Top Secret Huddle Conference.

"Hey, maybe if we keep thish thing Nathan'll forget the lyricsh to that shitty shong," Murderface thought aloud.

"Are you a joke?" Toki cried. "Remembering lyric are his job—he won't forgets!"

"Toki's is right. Besides, Nathan is goings to knows-tiss dat it's missing. We can'ts keeps it forevers."

"Sho whaddo we do?"

Skwisgaar frowned and flipped through the pages. "We find somethings dat we can use. Den we copies it, returns dis notes-book, and den we starts to coming ups with some musics."

"On our own?" Toki asked, wide-eyed and horrified by the thought of doing anything without 100% band approval.

"Yes. Alls by ourselfs."

"But can't we get somebodies to helps us with de-"

"We can'ts have a lots of peoples involve in dis, Toki. We haves to keep it a secret."

"Yeah, and we're running out of plaches to hide bodiezsh. The lessh people, the better."

"So find a song already," Toki said. "And hurry fast. You both stinks like throw up and is making me sick."

"At leasht I don't shmell like a half-acre of burning hair."

Skwisgaar suddenly turned a page and winced in disdain. "Oh fuck. Talks about smell, guys. Dis page here stinks like a chemical's factories."

"Is de marker," Toki observed, staring down at the bold, bleeding black letters. "Whoo-ee! He musta got real high from writings this."

"Lemme shee it," Murderface commanded, taking the notebook from a watery-eyed Skwisgaar.

there's a monster living in my flesh
a feasting parasite, digest
eats me alive from the inside out
I need a knife to carve the monster out.

The monster crawled into my skin
like maggots burrow deep within
cannot kill it, cannot fight
the monster makes me dream tonight

in my dream you were there
causing chaos everywhere,
flames rolling off your tongue
as you crushed the bones of the Forgotten Ones

Riegn supreme but bow to me
crowned in blood, my unDead King
the monster poisoning my blood
belongs to you-it's name is Love.

"Holy shits," Skwisgaar broke the silence. "Dis is…metal. I guess he's really is dying, just reads dat. Parasites, maggots, beings eaten alifes."

"Izshin't it kinda ironic? The shong that literally shtinksh doeshn't shtink half ash bad ash that other peesha schit."

Toki stared down in silence at the Sharpie scrawls, and felt something stir inside his chest. It wasn't a ribcage-bursting alien either. It was something warm and sad and emotional, as if he could feel what Nathan had felt when he wrote these words. There was a strange sense of honesty behind them, like they'd come from some tortured corner of his bleeding, blackened heavy metal heart. Toki suddenly felt as if they were looking at something very personal and private of Nathan's (like his lucky pair of underwear), and that things would have been better off if they had never seen it in the first place (like his lucky pair of underwear).

"We should returns this, guys," he said softly. "It was wrong of us to steals it."

"We didn't shteal it, we borrowed it."

"But we takes it without us asking him first."

"Don'ts be such a goldie-toe-shoes. It's not likes he's is going to be missings it for de next five minutes," Skwisgaar muttered. "Come on, we needs to goes writes dis down and gets it back."

"I can't walk," Toki mumbled. "I broke my crotch."

"Ah don't worry," Murderface said as he and Skwisgaar began to walk back to the house. "We'll shend shomebody out to get ya."

later that night

Toki hadn't really taken the time to look at the stars lately. At least not while sober. He had forgotten how pretty they were, especially in the utter pitch fucking darkness, like he was in now. But it was cool. No problem. He passed the time lying on his back and peacefully looking up at the sky while thinking homicidal thoughts about his good-for-nothing bandmates who'd left him out here, and making up his own constellations since he could never remember any of the real ones. So far he had the Speckled Blob, the Twelve-Sided Square, the Three Stars in a Row, and a couple of long-handled pots.

Then he started to think about Nathan. Poor dying Nathan, dying a slow horrible death due to a dysfunctional digestive system. It was so unfair. Nobody should shit themselves into an early grave—it was humiliating and totally not metal. Unless he shit his major organs out in alphabetical order, starting with his heart. That might be metal.

But Toki didn't want Nathan to die, metal death or no metal death. If Nathan died then who would sing? You couldn't replace a guy like Nathan without changing the entire band. Like when what's-his-face from that other band died, and they never put out any albums ever again. It was the end. Axed. Over. Done with. The truth was, Toki had no idea what he would do without Dethklok. His whole life revolved around them like the chamber of a gatling gun, and as long as the ammo kept coming he had no worries about tomorrow.

But now he was starting to realize just how quickly this wonderful life of his could be taken away. Nathan was dying, and it would only be a matter of time before they'd all be standing around a great big goddamn funeral pyre and watching his blacker-than-the-blackest-black-times-infinity ashes float off into the wind…

Toki let out a choked whimper before his voice cracked and he started to sob—a clear indication that he should probably consider getting his Zoloft prescription refilled. As he lay there out on the lawn behind the barbecue pit all by himself, the stars looked down from their great height, so cold and far away, and winked their glitter-dust eyes at him in silence.

A few moments later orange light suddenly cast its glow upon him and the sound of approaching footsteps reached Toki's ears. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and wiped his eyes as four concerned and vaguely familiar faces appeared above him.

"Toki? Is you alifes?" Skwisgaar asked hesitantly, holding a torch in one hand.

"Yeah."

"The wolves didn't getcha, did they?" said Pickles.

"No."

"Shawrry we forgot about you but…we fffforgot to remember you were out here."

"No problems. Is cool."

Pause.

"Toki…have you been cryin?" Pickles asked, squatting down beside him and cracking open a can of beer concernedly.

"No."

Slurrp. "Why's yer face wet then?"

"I…felled asleeps and my eyes drool."

"Oh. Cuz ya look like you've been cryin. Yer face's all red n' puffy too."

"I'm not been crying. I has…an allergy attack."

"Ya sure? Cuz, I mean…that's okay if yeh were cryin. Tweedle-Dildo an' Tweedle-Dumbass here did a real shitty thing an' I jest-"

"Is okay, I tells you-"

"-cuz if ya want us t' kick their asses we can do it no prob."

Nathan finally spoke up. "Can we just get him inside before the fuckin yard wolves find us?"

"Yeah, I'm gettin' kinda nervoush. Don't wanna pressh our luck."

"Fine with me," Pickles agreed curtly, standing up. "Go on, Nate. Pick 'im up an' let's go."

Nathan glared at the drummer. "Hell no."

"Nate'n."

"Call the damn yard maintenance or something."

"A'right. If ya insist. I guess it would be kinda hard t' lift a little runt like Toki with those big weak useless arms 'a yours…"

"Pickles, I am gonna-"

"Is okay, Nate'ns," Toki interrupted softly, stopping their bickering dead in its tracks. They both gazed down at him—if Precious Moments ever went metal, they'd use Toki as a model for every single teardrop-eyed character in the line. "I can waits for…somebody's else to come get me."

Nathan looked as if he'd just been stabbed through the heart with a stalactite made of dead kittens (sorry, that was kind of abstract and vague—he looked sad is what I'm saying), then he turned to the red-head and gave him an icy, Death-is-Forthcoming-to-Thee sort of stare. Pickles leered smugly in reply.

Nathan handed his torch to Murderface and kneeled down to the pathetic, crippled Norwegian. "C'mon. Get on my back, I'll carry you."

"Is fine, I can wait."

"I insist. Get on."

"But you just says-"

"GET THE FUCK ON ME NOW, TOKI."

God in heaven what a poor choice of words. But nobody said anything about it, especially not Toki, who scrambled up at the command and latched himself onto Nathan's back like a baby possum. The big man stood up with a grunt and hooked his arms beneath Toki's cast-encased legs, and fell in step behind the others as they all trekked back to the house.

It was hard at first (literally and figuratively) getting used to being so close to one another after weeks of barely being in the same vicinity together, but soon those uncomfortable feelings faded away into something that just felt sort of…natural. Sweet and caring. Like family. Not like Toki's family, shit no, or Nathan's for that matter, but maybe something between the Osbournes and the Mansons. A nice comfortable dysfunctional medium.

Toki wrapped his arms around Nathan's neck and slumped sleepily, resting his chin on the other man's broad shoulder. Ahead of them the other three bandmates talked amongst themselves about doing something with the hedges in the side yard, sculpting a maze out of them or something, like that one from The Shining, except releasing a couple of the yard wolves in it to make it interesting. And planting a lot of huge-ass briars. 'Cause normal hedge mazes were not metal.

Nathan wasn't paying attention to anything except the wakening monster in his pants and the helpless invalid on his back. Helpless…couldn't run away…couldn't fight back. Ow. Ow. Stop thinking that or else your balls are gonna split. Fuck this was torture. Ow. Not much farther now. Just a few more yards. Nathan began to think of a plan for when they got inside, something along the lines of hurling Toki onto the nearest piece of furniture and running in the opposite direction. It sure as hell would beat hurling Toki onto the nearest piece of furniture and then mounting him like a roaring-horny beast. Which was what Nathan really felt like doing. No. No. No no no no no. Toki don't want none of this. Not an option. He wasn't even drunk. No, he'd just drop him off somewhere and then go find a nice dark place to jack off alone and-

Toki gently squeezed his arms and legs around Nathan and said very quietly, "I miss you already."

Huh. That was a weird fuckin thing to say, but whatever. Nathan didn't respond. A few seconds later he became aware of something warm and wet on his neck and just assumed it was Toki slobbering snot on him or something.

The possibility of it being tears didn't enter his mind at all.

Toki almost had to be bodily removed from Nathan's back. Apparently he had gotten nice and comfortable up there and didn't want to let go, and it was only after Nathan threatened to douse him with rubbing alcohol and light him on fire like a tick that the Norwegian was willing to loosen his grip a little. Toki slumped down on the [brand new since the other one was destroyed via "coin toss"] couch and watched Nathan stomp off somewhere. Probably to the B-A-S-T-H-R-O-H-M-N-S-E, BMing his way into the obituaries.

Toki was now severely depressed. His life had turned to shit. He was temporarily paraplegic. (Practically.) Nathan was dying. And ignoring him. And trying to ruin the band with a monstrous love song that had driven Toki to theft and plagiarism and would ultimately end his life. The only bright side to all this was that at least he wouldn't have to worry about what to wear to Nathan's funeral, because Toki was going to be the first of the gang to die backstage when the opening show was over. He just knew it.

Skwisgaar, noting Toki's dreary demeanor, heaved a sigh and sat down beside him, draped his arm on the back of the couch and propped his boots up on the coffee table. That was never used for coffee. The booze table then. "Don'ts be such a crybaby," he muttered. "We gots de song writted downs and return de notes-book to its place. He never misseds it for a second."

Toki didn't say anything. Just sat there all slouchy and glum with terrible posture. Skwisgaar was forced to shift gears; he reached over and tugged lightly on a lock of Toki's hair.

"Hey. What's de matters?"

The rhythm guitarist pretended to be interested in the cigarette burns in his shirt. "I can't beliefs he is dying."

Skwisgaar snorted. "Pfft. We's are alls dying, Toki. It's is betters to die young for peoples likes us. We dies early and is remembereds forever dat way. Dis is why we haves to do dis new song. It's is for Nathan's, so dat he don't die a total pussy."

Toki shook his head in some sort of denial and looked like he was on the verge of turning on the waterworks again. "I don't needs this shit right now. I wanna gets drunk or high or somethings. Just…I don't wanna feel anythings." He sighed and turned to look at Skwisgaar imploringly. "Will you go gets my chair for me?"

The blond gave him a nonchalant glare before sighing in defeat. "Yah, okay." He stood up reluctantly.

"Is on de second floors, I think."

"Okay."

Skwisgaar left and then returned about twenty minutes later riding Toki's personal customized executive-chair-slash-scooter, and parked it near the couch. "Dis thing is…pretty cool," he said haltingly, as if ashamed to admit it. "I wants one."

"You can borrow dis one when I gets my cats took off."

"Totally."

"Is still mine, so give it back. I needs to go OD on somethings."

Skwisgaar frowned thoughtfully. "I better comes wis you, for de hospital's trip."

"Okay. I needs a desecrated driver anyway."

a few days later

The conference room was as silent as a swarm of dead insects. Every now and again papers would rustle, but that was it. Dethklok sat in their chairs with the demeanors of men who had just signed their lives over to the circus—not one of those cool Amsterdam circuses that only open after midnight to the 21+ crowd, but the circuses with the clown cars and balloon animals and faggy trapeze men in ungodly-tight spandex. The mortifying un-metal sort of circus.

"Well boys, this is—certainly an unprecedented change of pace," said Manager, shuffling through paperwork that included a typed copy of the World's Worst Love Song. "But if you feel the need to, ah, continue in this direction then I can begin making arrangements for the new tour…"

"Fine with us," Nathan grunted.

"You're sure about this."

"Yes."

"Okay then." Pause. "You're absolutely 100% sure you want to go through with this."

"YES."

"Alright. Okay. Just making certain since, ah, people do have a tendency to change their minds about impulsive ideas…"

Pickles rubbed his forehead gingerly, nursing a Bloody Mary to help him get over his hangover from last night. "Dude. Jest…sign the friggin' papers n' let us worry about regrettin this six months from now. Kay?"

Manager artfully adjusted his glasses in a way that only highly-paid executive businessmen are educated how to do. "If you all insist."

"Oh yeah," Toki sighed airily from the side. He looked and spoke as if had died from the neck up days ago. "We all insists."

"Very well then." Manager nodded crisply, stood and gathered his paperwork. "I suggest we meet again this time next week—I should have the rough estimates in by then. I'll be in touch." And then he left the band alone in the room to numbly stare at the table like overmedicated mental health patients. Luckily no one heard him mutter "Poor bastards," just outside the door.

It was 3:48 in the morning. They should be sleeping, but they weren't. Three of them anyway. They were in the rehearsal auditorium, working on A Monster Named Love, which is what they dubbed the stolen song from Nathan's notebook. It wasn't too hard to work without a drummer, and Toki hadn't fucked up a riff in at least two hours; they were making good progress but they still had one major problem on their hands.

Skwisgaar let the lick he was shredding abruptly die—amplifier buzz filled the silence as Toki and Murderface followed suit.

"What'sh wrong thish time?" the bassist sighed.

"Guys, we are goings to needs a person to sings dis stuff," the Swede admitted. His eyes were purple-ringed, bloodshot holes. "We can'ts just plays music. We needs to finds out where de lyrics goes."

"Why doesn't you sing it?" Toki asked.

"Hah," he scoffed. "No. I concentratings on de guitars. I'm not so goods at multi-ply-taskinks."

Murderface rolled his eyes. "Like doing three girlzsh and a half gallon of Absholut at the shame time izshn't multi-tashking."

"Shut up." Skwisgaar nodded to Toki. "You sings it."

"I can't sings!" the Norwegian replied, almost losing his balance and falling off his stool.

"Fine. Myurderface will does it den."

"Hello? Do we live in the shame world? Have you lishened to me shpeak lately? I don't fuckin think sho, pal."

"It's is you den, Toki."

"Aw man. I don't wants to. I sounds like stupid."

"You is stupid," Skwisgaar said, then added, "buts you can sings a lots better den us."

"I don't know de lyric."

"Writes dem on your arm or somethings. Does anyone heres has a pen?"

"I've gotta pocket knife," Murderface said brightly. "That'll work."

But Toki didn't want to carve his arm up just for the sake of one rehearsal, so what he did was tape a hand-written copy of the song on his mic stand and he was good to go. Unfortunately he still wasn't very skilled at reading English (especially when written by somebody with godawful handwriting, like Murderface), so he flubbed a lot. Badly. And he sang out of key. Badly. How the guy could be in the least bit musically inclined was just flipping miraculous.

"…cannot kill it, cannot fight," he warbled, squinting at the paper on his mic while the metallic grinding of guitars filled the auditorium with beautiful noise. "De monster make me dream tonig-"

"Stop stop stop stop stop," Skwisgaar directed, and everyone did exactly that.

"What's de hell wrong?" Toki snapped, sleepless irritability not only catching up to him but mowing him down. "We never gonna gets de song done'd if you keeps on stopping us all de time!"

"De song is fine. It's is de singer dat needs to work. I thinks I knows what's it is to do abouts it. Myurderface, gets your car's key. We needs to goes for a ride."

At a nearby Våfflor Haus, Skwisgaar and Murderface chowed down on some bizarre form of waffles while Toki obediently smoked his way through two packs of cigarettes and drank coffee that was strong enough to induce heart palpitations. The air of the diner itself was already in violation of the EPA's hazardous emissions standards due to the large number of chain-smoking truckers that frequented the place, and right now it was prime pit stop hour. It looked like a London wharf after midnight in there. It was enough to make you want to move to downtown Los Angeles to get some fresh air.

Toki coughed violently after grinding his cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray. His eyes were watering and his skin was already beginning to yellow. "I think I smoke enough for now," he said in a rough, raspy voice.

"N'ah enouff," Skwisgaar replied with his mouth full. "Fmokesf fum more."

Toki was honestly too fucking tired to care, so he opened up his third pack and set to work.

The trio left Våfflor Haus reeking to all six corners of Hell and then went out to an all-night bar where they practically poured gin down Toki's throat until he threw up coffee and alcohol all over the pub floor. When he couldn't swallow any more they made him gargle shots of Flaming Armadillo, during which he nearly caught himself on fire. Three times.

After they got kicked out of the bar for setting off the fire alarm, they rode around town in Murderface's drop-top and had Toki scream at the top of his lungs until his throat began to bleed. Only then was he allowed to lay down in the back seat and sleep.

When they returned to Mordhaus around 5:51 a.m. and limped Toki into the auditorium, Skwisgaar slapped the Norwegian lightly on each cheek to get his attention before handing him a live mic and a lyric sheet. Skwisgaar and Murderface strapped on their guitars, and then the blond ordered, "Sing."

Hallucinating, drunk and all kinds of fucked-up-exhausted, Toki opened his mouth and the hammering of guitars joined in: "There's a monster living…in my flesh," he rasped in an unholy throaty voice that was hardly his own—metal and deep and sexy enough to be banned in at least 12 countries. "A feasting parasite, digesssst…Eats me alive from de inside out…I need a knife to carve…de monster…out."

Skwisgaar stopped playing, tossed his pick into the air like a graduation cap, and took Toki's face in his hands (smooshing his cheeks together in a very unflattering yet endearing way). "Dat," he said with breathless excitement, "is de voice of a VIKING GOD."

And then the Swede planted his mouth right on Toki's, kissing him with all the furious passion of Michael Corleone smacking one to Fredo. When he finally let go, Toki had maxed out the last reserves of his energy and was already asleep before he tumbled to the floor. It was probably for the better, otherwise he would have been sent into a panicked rant about catching VD from the mouth that has undoubtedly seen more pussy than a litter box. But looking on the bright side, at least they had a singer. Now it was only a matter of summoning the balls to defy a dying, dangerous man who had nothing to lose and everything to gain by committing murder.

No doubt about it—this was going to be the tour that would change everything Dethklok had ever known about itself.