"And then what happened?" Charles Ofdensen asked coolly.

"Well, after the band came back on stage, the acrobat left. Then the boilers exploded. Things were a bit messy for a while, My Lord."

"So you never found her."

"We searched every piece of equipment that was big enough to hold a human being, Lord. They were all clear," the Klokateer said firmly.

"I see. Have you heard of enterology, Number 46122?" the CFO inquired.

"Ah . . . no, Lord."

"Enterology is a circus act where a contortionist squeezes his or her body into a small box or tight space."

"My Lord, we did check all –"

"I believe the world record was a cube eighteen inches across," Charles continued.

" . . . eighteen inches?"

"Yes. It really should go without saying that this wasn't the most secure show the boys ever played."

"My Lord! What were the odds that a professional circus performer would sneak backstage and put on a free show?" 46122 blurted.

"Well, considering it happened, 100%," Charles answered. "I'm not interested in what happened at the show, I'm interested in finding the acrobat now. Check every drum kit, guitar case, and beer cooler that came from the show to Mordhaus."

Gytha tumbled out of a cooler and bit the back of her hand sharply. After four hours curled up in such a tiny space, everything from the waist down was well and truly asleep. Now that her circulation was restored, she was graced with the not-so-pleasant feeling that her lower half was on fire.

Still, it was better than actually being on fire, which was her other choice before she squeezed herself into the empty cooler.

She hissed curses through her teeth and cried and snotted herself, hoping the whole time that she wouldn't lose anything due to the blood loss.

After a mere ten minutes of excruciating pain, her blood reacquainted itself with her circulatory system and she felt like she could walk without falling. Gytha tottered upright, noting to never wear high heels to a metal concert again.

Okay . . . okay, where was she? What place had such incredibly brutal architecture? Where could she be that her ears would pop leaving, but not arriving?

. . . .

Oh shit.

Gytha stumbled towards a window and looked down and further down and still further down through the clouds. Oh crap on a crap cracker; she was in Mordhaus! Mordhaus! Fuck exponentially! How was she supposed to sneak out of Mordhaus? It was 14,000 feet above ground! Ohgodohgodohgod, she was gonna die . . . .

A cackle of female laughter reached her ears.

Wait . . . there were still groupies about. They had to send them back to terra firma somehow. After all, some of them lived long enough to birth Skwisgaar's eighty bazillion children. Maybe if she just kept her head down until morning when the Gears started shuffling the sluts back down to Earth, she could sneak in among them and get out of this in one piece!

Living was a good thing!

Okay; she had to find the party first so she could hang around the edges.

Gytha pushed open a door and walked in on Nathan Explosion getting a blowjob.

From two women at once.

Oh. Well. That was nice for him. Nobody appeared to be paying attention to her, so maybe she could just creep by to the next door and be gone before any of them noticed she was here. Yes, just quietly, quietly, she really needed to never wear heels again, so quietly—

"Hey."

'He might not be talking to me,' Gytha thought desperately. 'There's several people in the room, after all.'

"Hey, rubber chick!"

Well that narrowed it down a bit. Trying to appear as calm as possible, Gytha turned back towards the hulking front man.

"Um . . . yes?"

"How long did it – Don't stop! – how long did it take you to get that flexible? What did you have to do?"

"Uh . . . I come from a circus family; I have been in training since I was four. I stretch for t'ree hours every day," Gytha answered. "And den, you know, two performances t'ree nights a week on top of dat."

Nathan considered this for a moment, then looked down at the two women servicing him.

"Nah, this is easier," he declared.

Explosion closed his eyes again and tilted his head back, enjoying the attention the groupies were lavishing on his most intimate parts. There didn't seemed to be any more required of Gytha, so she crept out of the far door and closed it behind her.

"Surprise!" Toki Wartooth declared, aiming a gun between her eyes.

There was a loud bang and confetti and glitter showered out of the gun barrel.

"Ha! Gots you! Joo looked so scareds, too!" The guitarist cackled.

"My eyes!" Gytha howled, trying to wipe glitter and confetti out of her eyes.

"Awww, joo's okay!" Toki reassured her, despite all evidence to the contrary. "Hey, joos de acrobat lady what dids de routine on my guitar!"

The vague noise of pain that tumbled from her lips was evidently answer enough for Toki.

"Dat's was real cool! What's circus joo works for? Can we gets free tickets?"

"Tokis, don'ts bot'er de lady, can'ts joos not sees she's whats gots somet'ing in her eyes?" A deeper voice chided.

Through the tears pouring down her cheeks in her body's desperate attempt to flush out the foreign objects, Gytha was aware of a large – very, very large figure – looming over her.

"I nots bot'erinks her! She's de acrobats whats dids de routine on Toki's guitar, not Skwisgaar's! For Toki's solo!"

"Oh, now joos t'inks joos lays claims to her? Little Tokis, dat's sos cute. A professkionals constructionist woulds be totallys wasted on joo."

"Fucks you, Skwisgaar! Toki knows what to do with bendy ladies!"

"W-what?" Gytha squawked, trying to wipe snot and tears from her face.

"Ja, what's joos does with bendy ladies, littles Toki? Tells us," Skwisgaar challenged. "Whats joos gots planned for hers rubbery body?"

Most of the glitter out of her eyes, Gytha looked up in time to see Toki Wartooth blush hotly.

"Er . . ."

"Maybes you could shares de milkshake. Or lickses off de same lillipops. I bets she'd loves to sees joor toy planes," Skwisgaar sneered.

"Fucks you, Skwisgaar! Leasts Tokis won't makes her share bed wit' old ladies an' fatties!"

This argument didn't seem to require her participation either, so Gytha started backing away.

"Ppffffft; she wantses alone time, shes could probably gets Murderface to marries her. She don'ts wants to wastes times on uglies!"

"She don'ts wants to waste time on skinny Swede, neit'ers!" Toki wrenched up his shirt and slapped his defined abs. "Ladies likes Norwegian beefcake!"

Klokateers were starting to push into the large room, evidently trained to do so at the sound of Scandinavian accents raised in anger. Gytha squeaked and ducked under a coffee table, commando-crawling along the floor. She needed a hiding place!

"Oh, yeah? Bendy Lady, which joo rather has: Norwegian fishcakes or sexy – where she goes?"

"Hah, she gets bored listens to stuck up Skwisgaar! She afraid joo sneeze and she gets pregnant with kid joo never goes to see!"

"Fuckses joo, Toki!"

Gears rushed forward to break up the half-hearted scrap between the two guitarists. They weren't very serious, but there were a lot more of them lately. Ever since the Norwegian's very brief stint as lead guitarist, Toki and Skwisgaar seemed to be picking fights with each other over nothing.

The fact that the acrobat had buggered off after 'old ladies and fatties' had little impact on the squabble, as did the fact that she was currently hiding behind a couch nearby.

Jammed tightly between the black leather seat and the wall, Gytha reflected that this might be the best place to spend the night. Yeah; sure she was in a tight space, but no one was likely to look here and she could shift enough to keep blood flowing to all the pertinent places. She would have to check her toes later to make sure none of them had turned black while she was jammed in that cooler.

Someone sat down on the couch hard enough to slam it against the wall, nearly crushing Gytha in the process.

"Fine! Motherfucking fine! It'sh becaushe I'm the bassh player!" Murderface grumbled.

Gytha tried to wheeze as quietly as possible while the bass player muttered and whined about some slight to his dignity. Minor squishing aside, it was still a good hiding place. Wait . . . what time did the party-goers start to go home?

There were men here as well as women, so they couldn't all stay the whole night. Or maybe they could; rock star's parties were supposed to go until the participants dropped from exhaustion. But . . . . maybe there would be transport back to the ground soon. Maybe she could leave in an hour or two and claim that none of the band had wanted a scrawny runt like her.

That was entirely believable; men didn't really pay her any attention until they knew she could put her feet behind her head.

A long, rippling noise reached Gytha's ears. It took her a minute to realize that Murderface had just farted. Lovely. Well; it was still a good hiding place. Murderface's flatulence couldn't be worse than the sulfuric smell of hot springs or the no-holds-barred stench of hakarl.

So, she would definitely wait until the guitarists stopped brawling. They were screaming at each other in their native tongues now. Gytha's Norwegian wasn't the greatest but now they seemed to be fighting over who ate the last jar of fermented herring.

Anyway, she would wait until things quieted a bit, then sneak out and go find a shuttle or a . . . . . oh God. Oh God.

Gytha slapped her hand over her nose and mouth. What was that smell? Surely that couldn't have come from a human! That was – Oh God, it smelled like someone burning a chicken house that hadn't been cleaned in a decade! Tears sprang to her eyes and she tried desperately to inhale without gagging.

Murderface shifted and let out another fart.

The smell served to diffuse the situation between Toki and Skwisgaar. The two Scandinavians fled the room holding their noses. The Gears followed them, ostensibly to make sure they didn't fight again, but actually to escape the raw stench.

"Oh Geezsh, it'sh not that bad!" Murderface yelled after them. "Fucking prisshy little weeniesh!"

There was a shuffling noise behind him and a small woman slithered out from behind the couch and collapsed on the seat next to Dethklok's bass player.

"Hey there, little mama," he purred.

Gytha dry heaved and staggered for the door as quickly as she could, given her footwear.

"Picky shkank!"

The little Icelander ducked out into the hall, then darted in the opposite direction as the large group of Klokateers.

'Don't run, don't run!' she chided herself. 'Grandpa always said the cops would chase a running man just on principle! You walk and be polite and most of the time you could bluff your way through anything. Jesus, Grandpa, what were you doing when you were my age?'

"Hey, Pretzel Chick!"

Pickles the Drummer was trying to crawl down the cleavage of a leggy blonde, but paused to point at Gytha.

"I kin do what you do! I kin bend up an' git all twisty! I kin . . . I kin do dat," he announced.

"Oh. Dat's cool," Gytha said politely.

"I kin . . . I kin suck my own dick," the drummer continued.

The groupies gathered around the redhead gasped and giggled at this news.

"Dat's . . . . male contortionists do dat a lot," Gytha said with a wry grin. "Even if dey don't admit it."

"Can you suck your own dick?" Pickles asked.

" . . . I don't have a dick."

"Oh. Oh yeah."

"Um, Mr. . . . Pickles, do you know where de shuttle takes us back down to eart'?"

"Uh . . . yeah. Go reight down dat hall an' take a left and dere's a helicopter pad at de end of it. Dere should be a little transport dere now takin' people up an down."

"T'ank – Thank you so very, very much," Gytha said sincerely.

"Sure; whatever," Pickles turned his attention back to the blonde's breasts.

Gytha casually made her way down the hall and turned left to the large French doors at the end, brutally decorated in wrought iron. A small helicopter capable of carrying eight to ten people was waiting on the helipad. There were about six people inside.

The Klokateer in the cockpit saw her head towards the pad and started making preparations to start it up. He didn't recognize her; he'd take her back down to safety and she could get off at the first stop.

She was literally twenty feet away from a clean getaway. Ten feet. Five. . . Gytha put her hand on the passenger door.

"Mr. Ofdensen would like a word with you," a deep voice behind her growled.

That was the last thing she heard before a black bag descended over her.