"Is that really acceptable attire?"
"Yes," Dixie growled through gritted teeth. "It ain't 1865 anymore."
If anything, her outfit was more conservative than what she'd worn yesterday; she had the same cutoff jeans with a scoop neck top. 'Who's got the red shoes NOW, bitch?' the shirt taunted.
"I know; I shall buy you a nice long frock. How does that sound?" Ben inquired.
"I don't like long skirts. They make me look fat. Fatter," Dixie corrected. "Why th' sudden interest in my wardrobe? You never said anythin' about th' way I dress before."
"It's a bit different seeing you around the house in . . . something like this," Ben gestured at his companion. "And being surrounded by strangers. At home I was slaved to my portrait. You very rarely take one of the nameplate screws with you."
"That's because you never shut up when I'm tryin' t' talk t' people," Dixie said. "I don't mind people thinkin' I'm a bitch, but not a crazy bitch."
"Ahhh, Dixie . . . always so deliciously vulgar," Ben sighed, shaking his head. "Now is not the time to quibble over bygones. Now we should celebrate. Some shopping for the lady, an elegant dinner, perhaps some dancing . . ."
Dixie squealed under her breath. She wanted to truly let go and enjoy herself without a care in the world. However, a side effect of dealing in the supernatural meant that she thought in more directions than most. While others might think 'Ben is in Murderface's body; we did it! Hooray!' Dixie's thought process ran more towards 'Ben is in Murderface's body, but he isn't locked in. Right now he's like a ship sitting at the dock, but not tied to it. A good enough wave could knock him back out to sea. And he's crap at acting like William Murderface. I have to keep reminding him to lisp and he only remembers for a few minutes. This isn't going to fool anybody. And I'd really like to know what happened to Murderface's soul. I suppose he could have crossed over, but sudden deaths usually linger around the body for at least a few days until it sinks in. Can Ben even play the guitar? Probably not. We are so fucked.'
But she was in a tropical paradise with the man she loved, even if she was used to him being insubstantial. Maybe she should stop worrying.
Ben hired a carriage to take them into town and the pair relaxed against plush red seats. Ben tilted his head back and reveled in the feel of the sun on his face.
"I don't believe I'll ever get tired of feeling that," he announced.
"You'd better not," Dixie said teasingly.
He was about to ask her what she meant by that when Ben realized his left hand was groping her breast. Much to his chagrin, the sinister appendage appeared to have a mind of it's own and was in no hurry to stop. While he loved reveling in Dixie's ample charms, in public in an open carriage was no place to do it!
"You have been practicin' bein' naughty, ain'tcha?" she purred, leaning up to kiss him.
Ben tried to return the kiss as nonchalantly as he could. He gripped his left wrist with his right hand and forcibly restrained it. Why on Earth was the oaf's left arm so strong? When William had been back in charge of his body last night, Ben had easily taken control of his right hand. It was as if . . .oh damn and blast. William was left handed. Benjamin was right handed. By virtue of their reversed symmetry, even when one soul was controlling the body, the other soul could break through by use of his dominant hand.
Ben forced his left hand down towards the seats, where it busied itself fondling Dixie's rump.
"You're insatiable!" the women in question observed. "Will musta had oysters for dinner last night."
"How could I not be ready to ravish you senseless?" Ben teased gently.
The couple grappled gently in the back of the carriage until they reached town. William finally seemed to calm down as they alit. Ben gripped Dixie's waist with his right hand and kept her safely out of range of his left hand. The pair browsed through many shops and stalls. Except for a few instances of Ben having to pry the credit card out of his left hand to pay for purchases, it was a pleasant afternoon.
Tourists threw confused looks in their direction. It certainly looked like William Murderface, but he was dallying with a woman. He was well-groomed and dressed in something other than a dirty T-shirt and vest. It might have been Murderface, or it could have been a look-alike.
"Titian, look! I told you there would be a swordsmith," Ben stated, pointing at a shop.
Sure enough, a shop showed off sabers, foils, and broadswords.
"They probably ain't actually for fightin;, sugar," Dixie protested, getting dragged along by her much larger lover. "Just for people t' hang on walls an' shit."
"There he is!"
The redhead turned towards the shout, her blue eyes widening as she saw Dethklok bearing down on them.
"William, your friends are here!" Dixie hissed, trying to keep Ben between herself and the band.
"What friends? Oh yes, the band. Don't get your knickers in a twist, babe."
"W-what?"
"Being an oaf. Told you I'd been practicing," Ben said smugly.
He turned away from the redhead to face the oncoming rush of Dethklok.
"Oh, we're so fucked," Dixie moaned. "Lisp!"
"Is that her?" Nathan demanded, pointing at Dixie. "Isn't that the chick you thought stole your wallet? How'd you talk her into fucking you again?"
Ben started, clearly not expecting such an incredibly blunt question in such a rude format. He rallied quickly, stuck out his chin and placed his hands on his hips.
"'Give me ten minutes to talk away my ugly face and I'll bed the queen of France,'" he announced.
Dixie had to struggle not to slap her hand over her face. Nathan blinked.
"Dude . . . what?"
"Awww, she's cute!" Pickles declared, peeking at Dixie. "Y'know, fer a fat chick."
Dixie gave the drummer a lopsided grin and slipped her arm around Ben/Murderface's waist.
"Hey, I ain't overweight, I'm underheight!" she announced, holding her hand over her head. She was already short and looked tiny next to Murderface's six foot frame.
Pickles chuckled.
"An' she's gotta sense a' humor! Dat's good; not a lotta chicks have one."
"William," Charles said, nodding. "It's ah . . . nice to meet your . . . companion. Again."
There couldn't be two generously figured redheads on the island that he couldn't look at. He could see the woman's body; she had an overabundance of curves just where William liked them and still wore the large yellow and orange ring on her right hand. However, when Charles tried to look at her face, his eyes slid away.
"You must be Charles Offdensen!" She blurted, holding out her hand. "I'm Dixie Dunlap! But folks call me Double D."
Charles returned the handshake, but didn't take the bait. Skwisgaar did.
"I t'inks I knows whys!"
"Hmmf," Ben declared, turning and heading into the sword shop.
Charles watched him go. There was something wrong. William was acting strangely. Not what most people would consider strange, but strange for Murderface. He seemed far too . . . confident. Too self-assured. He also usually wasn't enough of a prick to leave his date alone with the rest of the band. Though, to be fair, that might have more to do with Murderface being afraid Skwisgaar would steal his woman than any kind of manners.
"Ah . . . Miss Dunlap, nice to meet you," Charles said, following William.
"Seriously, though, why the fuck would you give Murderface another chance?" Nathan asked Dixie.
"Hmmm, why would I give a billionaire with a dick so hard he can play th' damn guitar with it a second chance? Not real sure, but I think I just answered m'own question!"
"But he ams fats and uglies," Toki protested.
"I like guys with a li'l chub," Dixie said. "They give th' best hugs."
"Still uglies," Skwisgaar pointed out.
"Ya'll look the same in the dark!" She said with a grin.
"William, is ah . . . anything bothering you?" Charles asked.
William looked up from the saber he was inspecting.
"Whyever should anything be the matter, Charlesth?"
Offdensen stared for a long moment. Then he sighed. They had the wrong man. This must be the lookalike he had seen in the smoke of the first hotel. The resemblance was quite striking; this man even had a gap between his front teeth. And William was hardly an unusual name. It was a bit of a coincidence, but not outside the realm of possibility. William Murderface was probably sleeping it off on a beach somewhere. However, this incredible doppelganger was quite a find.
"Ah . . . I'm sorry, I think there's been a misunderstanding. I ah . . . I believe I saw you at the fire at the . . . Hotel . . . . Cozu-meeeel."
Charles usually spoke with a lot of hesitation and stutter. Now he trailed off entirely. As the man before him leaned forward in a practice lunge – which took years to learn and his form was perfect – his sleeve rode up and revealed a white scar on the back of his arm. William Murderface had that scar. Charles remembered when he got it; during his 'cutting' phase. William had a particularly bad day and slashed open his own forearm. He had cut too deep, panicked, the rest of the band had panicked and Charles had sacrificed a tie and his suit jacket to form a makeshift bandage and tourniquet. After that, they had agreed there would be no more cutting.
Looking like William Murderface was one thing; having the same first name wasn't that much of a stretch. But having the exact same scar?
"William? Ah . . . when did you learn to fence?"
"West Point, 1840," 'William' answered smoothly. "Fancy a match?"
"A match? . . . 1840 . . . oh. Ah." Great; he really needed another band member with a split personality complex. Toki had his child persona; now William had decided he had better luck being a Civil War officer. Could this trip get any more strange?
"Ah. . . sure. Why not? Let me . . . ah . . . see that epee," Charles instructed.
"What's that big one on top?" Nathan thundered, stomping in the door.
The shop manager looked up at the wall. At the very top, a long wooden shaft sprouted obsidian blades from either side. The wood was shaped somewhat like a giant baseball bat with black jagged blades like shark teeth.
"That is a maquahuitl, señor: an Aztec broadsword," the shopkeeper announced, handing Charles an epee.
"I want that, please!"
"Try not to hit people with it," Charles reminded his frontman.
"I'm not the one starting sword fights with Murderface," Nathan pointed out. "Try not to kill him."
Murderface paced out into the square and warmed up with his saber.
"I . . . uh . . . think William has . . . ah . . . developed another personality," Charles admitted.
Nathan Explosion considered this.
"Yeah. I can see that."
Charles sighed again and stepped out the door into the square. One of the men from the shop followed them to make sure the merchandise wasn't damaged.
"Will, what are ya doin'?" Dixie drawled, hanging on one of Murderface's sleeves. "Why th' hell would ya pick a fight with your boss?"
"He isn't my employer and it's just a friendly match between chums. A woman wouldn't understand," William returned coolly. "Stand out of the way and watch, titian."
"Will," Dixie hissed.
"Stand back, woman," William growled.
He smacked her on the ass with his left hand and seemed surprised when his hand grabbed onto her shorts. The redhead gave him a bewildered look and yanked her Daisy Dukes out of his grip.
"Charles, I found Mercy and Faith!" Hope called, waving.
Sure enough, the other two sisters trailed behind Hope. Faith looked relieved to see him, but Mercy looked grumpy. An incredibly tall woman in a chauffer's uniform followed after them, bags and boxes in her arms. Faith and Mercy must have drafted their driver into carrying their shopping That was all right; they needed some 'girl time'. Hope would let them know how sorry he was about the whole ordeal. Hopefully, in a day or two he might be able to talk his way back into Mercy's good graces.
"Are we going to fence or are you going to stare at the ladies all day?" Murderface inquired.
"The saber's an . . . ah . . . interesting choice," Charles observed, sliding into an opening stance.
"I could say the same for an epee," 'William' returned. "It's more of a . . . . sporting blade."
"Sporting? What . . ah . . . practical use are you getting out of – oh right. Eighteen forty . . . Civil War and all that."
"And the Mexican War. And dueling. There's quite a lot of use to be gotten out of a blade."
William took his own opening stance. Charles had to admire his form. Perhaps William had been taking fencing lessons. He was into Civil War reenactment and had a collection of medieval weaponry. At some point he had to have come across someone willing to teach him how to use all the blades in his possession. However, the boys were notoriously secretive about anything that could be construed as self-improvement. Only Toki was willing to admit when he took classes or learned new things. William – regular William – could have known how to fence for a while but never brought it up for fear of appearing sophisticated. And now psychotic break William was showing off the skill.
Charles wasn't sure why he was using his right hand, though.
"Wait! We are missing something," Will declared.
"We're sober?" Nathan guessed, coming out of the shop cradling his maquahuitl.
"What's ams goings on?" Toki asked.
"Dood, Murderface; why th' fuck are yeh gonna try t' fight Charles?" Pickles queried.
"It's . . . ah . . . just a friendly match," Charles protested.
The triplets arrived and quickly observed the situation.
"Go Charles!" Hope called. "Booo, Murderface! Sorry."
"A little ambiance!" 'William' suddenly declared. "Music!" He stabbed a finger at a nearby mariachi band who were looking for tourists to serenade. "A waltz, gentlemen!"
The musicians exchanged a look, but shrugged and started a sweeping waltz for the two men. Charles felt his jaw drop. Ordering musicians to play for their match? That . . . that was *WAY* too stylish for Murderface.
"En guarde . . ." William breathed.