"You think we'd be incompetent?" Faith asked coolly. "You think organizing the building of a massive Pagan temple complex in a predominantly Catholic country would be beyond our capabilities?"
"Never," Charles lied.
"We should have Dethklok play the grand opening," Hope said, studying the plans of ancient Mayan temples. "So acoustics should be considered."
"Nathan said it should be something women would like; any chance that they'd play naked?" Mercy wondered.
The other two sisters, Charles, and the waiter bringing drinks up to their suite all stopped and stared at her.
"It's just a thought!" she said quickly.
Faith shook her head and took a drink from the tray. When Charles leaned in to do the same, she gave him an unexpectedly warm smile.
"Thank you for giving us this chance, Charles," she said. "It's nice to know you think of us as something more than your devoted little harem of love slaves."
Guilt writhed deep inside the manager. He hadn't given them that opportunity, Nathan had. The only thing that stopped him from vetoing the idea entirely was the fact that if he implied that the triplets were, in fact, only his harem of devoted love slaves he'd likely find himself with one empty seraglio.
Ditto on assuring them that most ideas that Dethklok came up with were total disasters so they shouldn't feel bad when they failed spectacularly.
When Charles cornered his assistant for an opinion on the project, Conway had stated it would be a very nice thank you present for his so far unnamed friend who had rescued Nathan and Toki. Conway had never mentioned the fact that his friend was a down-on-her luck goddess, but then, he didn't make a big deal of his own divinity either. And if this Goddess of Sex truly did exist, it wasn't a good idea to anger her. Sure, the triplets loved him for more than his bedroom skills, but still . . .
Charles was forced to ride this one out.
He took a deep draught of his drink and sighed. The triplets were actually off to a decent enough start. Faith had a list of government officials and was systematically setting up meetings with them. If she had just given them her name they would have hung up instantly, but the words 'representing Dethklok's interests' were magic.
Hope and Mercy were sharing research duties, with Mercy looking up ancient Mayan temple particulars and Hope studying how they'd have to be modified for modern practices.
They were actually a lot happier than he'd seen them so far this trip. Well, maybe they needed a project to make them feel useful.
Leaving the triplets working diligently in the main suite, Charles wandered towards the door, passing through the living area where someone had left the TV on. He planned to go check on the boys, but the words 'Anti-Dethklok' from the television stopped him in his tracks.
Charles snatched up the remote and turned up the volume.
"'Anti-Dethklok'? We ain't anti-Dethklok," a man with shaggy black curls and a thick Irish accent said.
"We aren't anti-anybody," said a young man with short cropped black curls and a similar accent agreed.
"Life's too short for tha' shite," a third man agreed. Like the first two, he had curly black hair and green eyes.
The camera pulled back to show six men of similar coloring and build squeezed onto a couch. Charles recognized the set up for a music program that specialized in metal and punk rock.
"No, I said you guys are 'The Anti-Dethklok'," the host repeated. "You know, like the 'Anti-Christ'? Only 'Anti-Dethklok'; you're happy all the freaking time even when you're singing about hell and poverty and STDs. You love your fans . . . or at least you act like you do."
"O' course we love our fans; they pay us!" A fourth man said.
The very young man folded his hands in supplication and turned towards the camera.
"Please buy our CDs!" he pleaded. "I don't want t' go back t' waiting tables! We're on iTunes an' Amazon, too!"
The audience laughed at his outright begging.
"You guys must be making pretty good money now," the host – Chris Something, that was his name – protested.
The six men in the band snorted rudely.
"Someone's makin' money off of us," one of them said. "I'm lucky t' make it from one show t' th' next."
"I've got . . . . . twenty-three pounds on me," one stated, turning out his pockets.
"So if you don' buy Th' Bograts records, we'll be forced t' send Phooka int' gay porn again," the man who declared them not Anti-Dethklok said, throwing his arm over the shoulder of the man next to him. The man – apparently Phooka – was the one who declared life too short for shite. "An' we don' want him t' catch th' menopause."
The audience rocked with laughter at this declaration.
Charles didn't laugh. Mostly because the boys said stupider things more times a day than he could count but also he was getting a feeling. He'd always kept a close eye on Dethklok's competitors even though it had been years since anyone could directly threaten their popularity.
Though there was more than a small amount of anti-Dethklok sentiment out there, fans of heavy music had little choice than to listen to the heaviest band in the world or bands trying to sound like them. Sure, you could listen to country or pop or whatever, but that made you officially lame.
The Bograts were either metal or punk since they were on this particular program but they were cheerful, upbeat, and hamming it up for the audience. Charles realized that hating your fans was cool, but there was only so much a person could take violent rejection from their idols before they got sick of it and found another one. Also, and this was the more important point, they made a point of showing how broke they were.
With the economy in its current state, a lot of the anti-Dethklok sentiment came from the fact that the boys lived in unimaginable luxury while sneering at the people who put money in their pockets.
A happy, working-class band might be a big draw. Obviously, they weren't any real competition, but it might be a good idea to keep an eye on them. Maybe he'd luck out and they'd be pacifists, too. That would make them lame and Charles could forget them entirely.
"Oengus, what happened to your arm, man?" Chris asked.
The man promising to sell Phooka into porn looked at the bandage on his forearm as if he'd never seen it before.
"Oh. I . . . uh . . . I got int' an argument," Oengus said.
"Oh. I hope you won," Chris offered.
"I did; yeah," Oengus said with a grin. "Mind you, I've had worse than tha'."
The Bograt stood, turned around and wrenched his pants around his knees.
"Would you believe me old Da did that t' me?" he asked cheerfully as the audience howled over his digitally-blurred behind. "Don't it look like a face?"
"Oengus! Stop actin' de maggot, ye ory shite!" One of the other band members yelled.
"What are you watching?" Mercy asked, peeking into the room.
"Oh . . . nothing. A music program. Did you need something?"
"Faith wants to know at what level you don't want to be bothered with this," Mercy asked.
"Ah . . . . anything that doesn't require the cooperation of a member of the Senate or Congress."
"Okay."
Mercy went back to the bedroom to deliver the message. Despite himself, Charles' eyebrows rose. Okay, that was it? No plea for closer supervision or help? If they could really pull this off, Charles might have to give them projects more often.
Taking another sip of his drink, he headed down to the courtyard where the band was clustered around the pool.
Well, they were all there physically. Skwisgaar finally managed to wear himself out and slept soundly on a lounge chair, a pair of very dark sunglasses protecting his eyes. Occasionally he'd smile in his sleep. Pickles was face-down on a plastic table, a mostly empty bottle of rum clutched in one hand. The Gears had moved a few beach umbrellas over him to protect his fair skin from the tropical sun. The drummer was still incredibly freckled just from casual exposure to the sun.
Nathan, Toki, and Murderface were sitting around a second table, drinking and arguing.
"How . . . . ah . . . how are we doing, boys?" Charles asked.
"Charles, tell Toki there's such a thing as a Boner Goddess!" Nathan ordered.
"Ah . . . . excuse me?"
"Dey ain't nos such things as God!" Toki spat with unexpected venom.
"Oh. Ah. Well . . ." Charles stammered.
What exactly was he supposed to say to that? The manager didn't believe in God, either, but he was forced to believe in gods. Hell, the American Cupid was his personal assistant. He nearly threw the cherubic young man out of his office when he'd appeared literally out of nowhere asking for work.
Then Conway had dropped his human guise and revealed his divinity.
It was hard to explain the feeling of meeting a god. Charles was never a pious man, so the concept of religious ecstasy was foreign to him. Nevertheless, when Cupid had revealed himself, Charles found tears pouring down his cheeks. He was filled with euphoria and joy even though he couldn't say why. Offdensen had never even looked at another guy before, but in that moment would have spent the rest of his life serving that divine flesh.
Then Conway put his human suit back on and Charles was very, very embarrassed.
But . . . well, if Cupid and Ixchel existed, that meant the Christian God had to exist in some form or another, right?
"Shit, Toki, you believe in gay leprechauns! Why not sex goddesses?" Nathan roared.
A hot blush flashed across the Norwegian's cheeks.
"Is totally different!"
"Nuh-uh!" Nathan spat back.
"God don't does shit!" Toki yelled. "Gay leprechauns does whats dey promises! Dats ams de difference!"
"Yeah, maybe like God God doesn't do crap, but that doesn't mean other gods are useless. It's like the government!" the frontman continued.
Now really curious as to where this allegory was headed, Charles pulled up a chair and sat down.
"Say like, you've got a government contract to like . . . . pay for your school," Nathan posed. "You gotta fill out bullshit forms and pay fees and wait and fucking wait and they never give you the fucking money and when you ask about it it's 'cause they came up with another fucking form that you'd never heard of but now you're past the due date. But, like, if you just go to a bank and say 'Hey, can I have a loan?' they're like 'Sure. Here's when you gotta pay it back. This is your interest.'"
Toki blinked at his bandmate.
"So's . . . ?"
"So like God God is the government. You have to jump through bullshit hoops and like, be nice to everybody and if he doesn't come through it's your fucking fault. But Ixchel is the bank and I go up to her and say 'Here's some jewelry; can I have sex for three days straight?' and she's like 'Sure. You want to upgrade your points package? I'm running a special.'"
Toki considered this carefully.
Charles was forced to admit, it made a kind of sense.
"I can shay from personal experienshe that Ixschel deliversh," Murderface announced proudly. "There'sh a red-headed redneck wandering around here that can vouch for her too, if ya know what I'm shaying."
Toki fixed him with a level look.
"You sayings it takes an acts of a goddess to getses you laids?"
"That's exactly what – wait. No it'sh not! I mean –"
"Maybe she was overwhelmed by your charm," Nathan offered.
"Joo checks and makeses sure she didn't steals your wallet?" Toki asked.
"Fuck you, Toki! She didn't shteal my fucking wallet!" Murderface snarled.
One hand went to his back pocket just to check. Then he felt his other back pocket. A scowl starting to crease his features, the bassist felt frantically through the other pockets on his shorts.
Nathan started to laugh at the look on his bass player's face.
"Oh shits, she dids!" Toki giggled. "You gotses rolled!"
Murderface cast a look at Charles. The manager sighed and snapped his fingers for a Gear.
"What's her name?" At the look he received, the CFO moderated his question. "How . . um . . how about a vague description?"
"Damn it all, I wished I'd got more blood," Dixie sighed, rubbing a tiny scrap of skin along an expanse of leather. "I tried scratchin' pretty deep, but he's got skin like an elephant."
Viewed from above, the leather revealed scrawls of runes and symbols that seemed to move under scrutiny. While the main symbol was more of a mandala than a pentagram, the casual observer probably wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. Fragrant roots were tied into place with tiny scraps of leather alongside colored stones and small bones of indeterminate origin.
"Oh don't be so damn jealous! You act like I enjoyed that," Dixie said, even though no one had spoken. "I've had better sex in prison."
The redhead pulled a tuft of curly brown hair through her fingers and tied it down in three places with the little thongs.
"And that's why you had to stay in your screw," she answered, looking at the bedside table.
A tiny, rusted old screw sat beside the telephone and did not answer.
"Patience, baby doll," Dixie drawled. "Looks like we may have to go to Plan B for the blood and we gotta wait a while for that. Damn it, I didn't think I'd get enough this way."
Double D sat back and sighed, looking down at her creation. She waved a hand over it vaguely as if testing it for heat.
"Naw, there just ain't enough power. I suppose I could send Javed after more, but he's kinda . . . . messy. We don't want Murderface tore up. Oh, oh, I know, Ben, but you can wait a li'l longer, can't you?"
The screw sat on the table and did nothing.
"Honey, I ain't goin' nowhere," Dixie promised. "Now how about you come outta that thing an' help me enjoy th' rest a' this vacation?"
The screw rocked slightly.
"What?"
Dixie rolled the leather up quickly and hurled it under the bed just in time to hide it from the Gears that burst through the door.
"Freeze!" They ordered, leveling automatic weapons at her head.
She screamed and curled up on the floor.
"Alls I said was I didn't want t' fuck him again!" She shrilled.
Since it was a vacation and all, the Gears felt like they could go without a black hood over the kidnapee's head. They were just taking her to the pool, after all.
Dixie Dunlap was dumped unceremoniously in front of 3/5ths of Dethklok. Well, 3/5ths of Dethklok plus Charles Offdensen, which didn't help matters any at all.
"Whatdya do with my wallet?" Murderface demanded.
"What – your wallet?" Dixie echoed dumbly.
"Yeah, didn't you roll Murderface for his wallet?" Nathan Explosion asked, still snickering.
The redhead stared at Nathan for a second, then turned her bewildered gaze to William Murderface.
"You didn't have your fuckin' wallet when you came t' my room!" She yelled. "You just had swim trunks on!"
"I didn't? Oh. Yeah, I did go to the bar shtraight from the pool, didn't I?"
Dixie rolled her eyes and started to climb to her feet. The attendant Gears seized her arms and forced her back to her knees. The redhead hazarded a look at Charles Offdensen. If rumors were to be believed, he was the one to worry about.
Dixie had to hide a smile when she noted how the manager's gaze seemed to slip and slide off of her, as if he couldn't focus on the woman in front of him.
At least that spell was working like it should.
The CFO squinted, took off his glasses, cleaned them on a napkin, put them back on and tried to get a clear look at the woman in front of him. If pressed, he could probably say she had red hair and a generous figure. After that, everything was a blur. He forced himself to find a focal point and latched onto a bright ring on her right hand. It was silver with a large yellow-orange stone that sparkled and glittered in the strong sunlight.
Charles tried to follow her arm up to her face, but again his gaze slipped and slid away from her.
"Sire?" Conway inquired, appearing behind Charles. "We have activity on one of Lord Murderface's credit cards. Someone's making a cash withdrawal in Brazil."
"Have you dispatched teams to the city yet?"
"Yes, Lord Offdensen. ETA to intercept is five minutes."
"Very good. William, you . . . ah . . . you should be more careful."
"Can I go?" Dixie squeaked.
"Yes," Charles said. Something about trying to look directly at Dixie Dunlap was giving him a headache.
"Wait!" Nathan called as the Gears reluctantly let go of Double D. "Did you feel the hand of a goddess guiding you when you fucked Murderface last night?"
"What?"
"No, I'm serious! Did you like, feel the pull towards him like something supernatural was guiding you?" the frontman asked.
"I think th' only one guidin' my choice last night was Mr. Jack Daniels," Dixie admitted.
Toki and Nathan roared with laughter at this.
"Oh fuck you, you fat shkank!" Murderface snarled. "You were all shet to go again thish morning until I pisshed on your wall!"
"Whats ams alls dis noises about?" Skwisgaar asked, stretching as he woke up from his impromptu nap. His gaze fell on Dixie. "Oh hellos, beautiful lady. Murderface, you shouldn'ts yells at gorgeous ladies."
The lead guitarist leaned down and kissed Dixie on the cheek.
Then the hotel restaurant exploded.
For a while, the area was in chaos as patrons and employees alike streamed out of the stricken hotel. A few brave souls, realizing their belongings were on the other side of the building from the damage, tried to go back in for their things, but police and firemen blocked them.
No one noticed a bedraggled redhead standing in the woods behind the hotel, snarling:
"Subtle, Ben; real fucking subtle! . . . . Yeah, I think that would be a good idea, don't you? . . . . . I just need the mandala and your screw. . . . . yes, be careful, you jealous bastard!"
On the other side of the compound, Charles Offdensen was leaving his suite with his briefcase. A few Gears carried his and the triplets' luggage on ahead. Charles insisted that the girls stay safe outside. He wasn't in any immediate danger; the fire was on the other side of the building. As the CFO exited the rooms, he saw that the smoke was starting to filter through the halls, creating a dim haze.
The Gears practically disappeared into the smog. Charles picked up the pace to catch up with them. A figure loomed out of the smoke towards them. For an instant Charles was on the defensive. Then he recognized the man.
"William, you're supposed to be waiting outside with the band," the manager chided. "Send the Gears for whatever you need. You . . . ah . . . you look very nice."
William gave no sign that he even heard Charles and strode past the manager back into the hotel.
Charles trailed off. Exactly when did Murderface have the time to change into a light gray suit? Not only that, but the bassist's frizzy, unkempt triangle hair was parted neatly to one side, the frizz treated with some kind of product that tamed it into rich brown curls. It was a very old fashioned look, but it suited William perfectly.
Only . . . . even cleaned up, there was a certain purpose and determination to this man's stride that didn't fit Murderface at all. His expression stated that everything would go the way he wanted or else. It was the expression of a man who had just decided to drive his head through a brick wall and was preparing to do movement exuded confidence.
This wasn't William Murderface.
Charles turned to look at the man again. They could use another double, especially such a dead ringer as that!
The corridor was empty of everything but smoke.
Offdensen paused for a long moment, then coughed. After the events of this trip, he wasn't even going to attempt to find an explanation for that. He trotted to catch up with the Gears and emerged into the light of day.
"Well, ah . . . I guess this vacation is over," he told the band. "Let's go home."