Nathan gave Charles a few minutes to fume. The lead singer went down to the lobby and bought a bag of chips and a soda before he went back up to the manager's suite. He didn't bother knocking, just pushed his way in. Charles was still propped up watching TV, but a growing army of tiny figures surrounded him.
"Are you doin' that origami shit again?" Nathan asked, pulling up a chair.
"According to my doctors, a hobby helps my blood pressure," Charles growled, putting a savage fold on the paper.
Nathan picked up a paper elephant and studied it. Evidently, no one was around to bring the manager proper paper, so he was using money.
"I haven't seen you do it for a while. Does that mean your blood pressure's been good?"
"No," Charles admitted. "A hobby's good, but blowjobs are better."
Nathan snorted.
"Kinda fucked that up, didn't ya?"
"Tell me about it," Charles sighed.
"What's really intriguing about this entire affair is the casualness with which it was announced!" The current reporter stated in amazement. "Dethklok manager Charles Offdensen didn't even bother to make the statement himself; he tagged an outsider!"
"That's a good sign," another talking head protested. "Dethklok is making a statement that someone's sexuality is unimportant."
"I think there'd be no scandal without reporters around to stir it up," an English gentleman on a satellite feed said. "I think 90% of people really don't give a monkey's. They're the ones at home going 'Oh, Toki Wartooth's bisexual; that's nice. Where did I put my keys?'"
"Is that Eddie Izzard?" Nathan wondered.
Charles looked up from folding a kitty out of a fifty dollar bill.
"Um . . . yes, yes I believe it is. I . . . uh . . . I like him; he's funny."
"Something more interesting than one of the band being a pervert happened!" A middle-aged woman on another satellite feed protested. "This is the first time a woman has ever represented Dethklok!"
"That's not true," Charles told the television.
"That's not true," the second talking head protested. "Pickles was represented by a woman before her untimely death last year—"
"I mean the band as a whole; not just one member!" the woman argued. "This could be a new direction for Dethklok!"
"The director for Euro-Dethklok is a woman," the second man continued. "AND Dethklok Oceania. Pickles' brother Seth is in charge of Dethklok Australia, but they say Marcella Balitaan picks up a lot of his slack."
"So, uh, I changed my mind," Nathan announced, eating a chip.
"About . . . uh . . . about what?" Charles asked, setting down the finished cat and picking up another bill.
"I like your chicks; they're cool."
Charles paused in his paper folding to rub his face.
"Last night when you were drunk as fuck we probably would have just dumped you in some bushes somewhere to sleep it off. But they came down to check on you and took care of you and shit. I like that. You need somebody to take care of you. They're good chicks."
"Are you trying to make me feel worse about this?" Charles wondered.
"Are you gonna keep 'em?" Nathan asked. "'Cause the press conference thing wasn't really their fault. I just didn't feel like telling 'em that bullshit story you cooked up."
Charles paused for a minute, then clenched his hands in his hair. The manager gave a long, heartfelt sigh that bordered on a sob, then went back to his paper folding.
"Ah . . . the . . the question at this point isn't . . . ah . . . isn't whether I'm going to keep them, Nathan," he stated.
"Oh. Is it whether or not you'll ever touch more than two boobs at once again? Is that the question?"
"Something like that, Nathan."
"You did fuck more than one at once, right?"
"When I'm lucky," Charles sighed. "Or it's my birthday."
"We can still fix it," Explosion declared. "Where's your phone?"
Seeing Charles' cell on a nearby counter, Nathan snatched it up, scrolled through his contacts and opened a text to Mercy.
"What's her pet name?"
"I'm not telling you!"
"Is it 'Queen of Hearts'? That's what it says on her contact information, you sappy bastard."
"That's her code name," Charles said. "I . . um . . . I . . . ah . . . . I – I call her 'kitten', when we're . . . cuddling."
"Original," Nathan sneered, his fingers flying over the screen.
"What are you typing?"
"'Kitten, sorry I yelled. Big Daddy is under a lot of pressure. Blow all the money you want. Hugs and kisses, Charles.'"
" . . . don't send that."
"I already did," Nathan admitted with a grin.
Mercy looked at her phone and narrowed her eyes.
"Hmmmf," she declared.
"Is it Charles? You know he's freaking out; you shouldn't have been so hard on him," Faith said. "You should have just given him the cold shoulder."
"No! We've been yanked around this whole trip and I'm taking advantage of it! See; Charles said it was okay!" Mercy brandished her cell phone in her sister's face.
"Are you sure? 'Kitten'? He calls you 'kitten'?" Faith said, reading the text.
"Anyway, it's not like this island contains enough buyable crap to make the mighty Charles Offdensen notice it."
"You'd have to buy a small country," a warm voice observed. "I hear Monaco's nice."
Faith and Mercy looked towards the front seat. A native woman gave them a gleeful smirk in the rearview mirror.
"Wasn't . . . there a Gear driving?" Mercy murmured to her sister.
"I wasn't paying attention," Faith admitted.
She had simply piled into a limo behind her sister. She'd heard Mercy's snap to 'Drive!' but hadn't bothered looking up to see who was doing it. A thrill of fear skirled through her body as she wondered if that had been a fatal mistake.
"You ladies are in the right place," the native woman announced. "Cozumel is the sacred island of Ixchel, the –"
"The boner goddess; we heard," Mercy sighed.
The driver laughed.
"That's one way to put it," she said. "Ixchel is the goddess of women, fertility, water, and childbirth. She'd give men a boner if they played their cards right. If not, all the action they'd get would be by their own hand. Ixchel is a goddess of uppity women."
"That's funny; most sex goddesses are sluts," Faith stated. "It's the nature of the beast."
"Ixchel isn't most goddesses," the driver said. "Back in the old times, she was married to the K'inich Ajaw, the god of the sun, war, human sacrifice, kingship, and music. He was a fierce warrior, but much older than Ixchel and ol' K'inich got jealous about his young, pretty wife."
JB paused in her storytelling. She knew the old legends of Ixchel from having read them, but this time she was getting memories . . . memories from long before she had ever been born.
She'd taken up the mantle of Ixchel, answered to her name and now it looked as though the dead goddess was creeping back through her.
Johnny Betty should have seen that one coming.
"That doesn't sound like a good start to an uppity woman story," Mercy admitted.
"Oh, no, Ixchel loved K'inich Ajaw. He so big and fierce, but she always felt safe around him. He'd come in covered in blood and gore from a battle and she could only tell it was him by his big, hawk-like nose. Then he'd give her just a hint of a smile so she could see his sharp teeth. Ixchel would take him back to one of her chambers and bathe the blood from his body and take off his armor and ornaments until he was her beautiful poet-king again. K'inich Ajaw would sing to her and praise her above all goddesses. He loved his Rainbow Maiden."
A hint of a blush touched the young goddess's cheeks as memories of the warrior-god came flooding back to her: the breadth of his hands as they roamed over her body, the half-pleasure, half-pain of a nip from his sharp teeth, the power in his form as they made love again and again.
"Where does the jealousy come in?" Faith asked.
" . . . . huh? Oh, oh right! The jealousy." A thundercloud suddenly passed over the young woman's face. "K'inich Ajaw's fucking little brother K'inich Kakmo started running his cock-sucking mouth about how he'd been nailing Ixchel for years even though she'd never even looked sideways at the fucking bastard!"
Faith and Mercy exchanged a look. It seemed like a little too much ferocity for simply reciting an ancient legend.
"And it was like: 'Don't listen to your wife, who's been with you for years and borne your children, no listen to your fucking little brother, who wouldn't know the truth if it crawled up his ass!' They fought for days and K'inich Ajaw gave in to his anger and beat his wife." JB absentmindedly rubbed her cheek. "Some say he killed her in his rage. But Ixchel was a goddess. And they just don't stay dead. So she went back up to the moon and stayed there. She sent floods to wash away K'inich Ajaw's temples and ruin his battles, but she kept the rains to herself, so whoever wasn't drowning in floods was dying of thirst. And absolutely nobody got laid! Not gods, not men; nobody! Ixchel's grandfather tried to order her to make the rain, but fuck him! He was a man! Fucking K'inich Kakmo tried to sweet-talk her out of the moon, but fuck him sideways! All the gods came with their orders and pleas; everyone but K'inich Ajaw. Ixchel only made the moon rise at night so she wouldn't have to run into him."
"But one day K'inich Ajaw slowed down the sun so that the moon caught up with it. He opened his palace and invited Ixchel in. He gave her his throne and sword and admitted his guilt. Ixchel forgave her husband and made the rains come again. She stayed faithful to K'inich Ajaw. And the other gods made sure they never got on her bad side again!"
"That is a pretty good story," Faith admitted.
"I think it was mostly in the telling," Mercy said with a grin. "So you're saying we should channel Ixchel a little and wait for Charles to crawl?"
"Just a leeeeeeetle bit," JB said with a grin, holding her fingers close together. "It keeps them interested."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"My Lord, Lord Murderface is acting . . . . strange," the Gear announced.
"How can you tell?" Nathan inquired.
"Nathan, be nice," Charles said.
Finally freed from the infirmary, the CFO of Dethklok had showered, changed, and emerged to gather up his flock of head bangers. Gears lined up to give reports.
"His Lordship is acting like a civilized human being," the Gear stated, as if this said everything.
The Gear behind him made a frustrated noise.
"Lord Murderface is just trying to impress his new lady friend," the second Gear protested. "Cut him some fucking slack, 639."
"Lady friend?" Charles echoed. "William's . . . ah . . . found a lady friend?"
"That is weird!" Nathan announced.
"Oh hey, Affdensen; yer alive!" Pickles approached the group, a teenaged boy drifting along behind him.
"Yeah, his chicks took care of him," Nathan reported.
"Awwwwwww . . ."
"Hello, Pickles," Charles said. "Where is William now?"
"He took his . . . . companion into town to shop," 639 reported.
"Cahmpanion?" Pickles said, raising an eyebrow.
"Murderface has a girlfriend!" Nathan reported gleefully. "How long do you think it'll last?"
"Dood, no fuckin' way they make it t' th' end of the week!" the drummer chortled.
Charles didn't comment, because he caught sight of Hope lurking behind a few Gears, giving him a look so sad it would send the average kicked puppy slinking back to its kennel in defeat. The manager held out his arms for her. Hope immediately charged for him and nearly knocked Charles over in a hug.
"What happened?" she asked.
"I'm in trouble, but I deserve it for . . . ah . . . blowing up at the wrong person," Charles sighed, casting a dark look at Nathan. "Mercy's taking it out on my credit card."
"That's okay?"
"That's fine."
"You guys are just so fuckin' cute I could shit!" Pickles announced.
Charles chose to ignore this. Hope muffled a giggle in his shirt.
"Ah . . . who is that?" Charles asked, looking at the teenaged boy standing by Pickles.
"Oh, dis is Aiden; he's th' guitarist for th' Bograts. Aiden dis is Nat'an Explosion, Charles Affdensen and Hope . . . uh . . . Hope . . . well, just think of her as Mrs. Charles #1, I guess."
Aiden nodded to the group.
"How are ye then?" he said with a nod.
Charles eyed the boy for a minute. It was a little on the weird side that Pickles was hanging out with a teenage boy, but he was a fellow musician. Maybe he reminded Pickles of when he was a teenage runaway playing guitar in bands throughout L.A. At any rate, a young boy did not possess the capability to cause a large financial or emotional loss to a band member.
A girlfriend, however, did.
"Pull a car around; we're . . . ah . . . going to find William."