Metalocalypse Short Fic
Dec. 22nd, 2006 06:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Valve
Rating: PG for language
Pairing: Faint Charles/Pickles
Word Count: 1266
Sometimes he thought he had the worst job in the world. At other times he knew he had one of the best. But it was ALWAYS a job. It was damage control night and he walked calmly through the dark, very expensively lit by faux torch flames, halls of Mordhaus in his leather wingtips and absently considered how much his dry cleaning bill would be if they didn’t have a facility on the premises. After a rather scathing, and for once he had to admit an UNWARRENTED, review in a sanctimonious music magazine (one of the last few holdouts against the metal revolution), the band had reacted much as he’d predicted.
He’d dealt with Murderface first. Masochism and self-hatred was all well and good but last time he’d seen the bassist so equally enraged and full of loathing, they’d had to delay the start of a tour until the stitches in his arms had come out and he wouldn’t risk ripping them open on stage. He’d protested but in spite of how cool they’d all agreed such a happening would be, his band mates had overridden him. Showing up with Prozac, a sedative-laced bottle of absinthe, and the latest few episodes of Rome had done the trick. Murderface had a few nasty scratches and would need new furniture again but he was all right. Thankfully Skwisgaar’s own obsessive-compulsive need for perfection would take the Swede through the next few days. His fingers were beyond tough from his constant practicing, wouldn’t be harmed by even greater stretches of time against the strings, and they might even get some new riffs out of the stress. Toki, the last of the guitar section, was another matter. Between the article and Skwisgaar’s usual harsh brand of teasing, the Norwegian needed his own dose of anti-depressants and he’d even gone so far as to unbend and bring the man some candy too. And a copy of Return to Oz because it was just the right combination of trippy and childish and would keep Toki occupied until he fell asleep early like he always did.
Nathan had been more difficult. The vocalist took poor reviews of Dethklok as intensely personal attacks, elevatoring between growing heights of rage and the depths of disgust and, admittedly brutal, angst that fueled so much of writing. Some motivational tapes, a few rounds in the ring with some of the tougher of the Mordhaus employees, and a gallon or two of whiskey and Nathan would be back to normal. He hoped. It was sometimes hard to tell with the frontman. So that left the drummer, who was probably a drunken mess already and just needed to be checked on to make sure nothing bad had happened to him. Pickles was almost as easy to deal with as Skwisgaar, just more self-destructive. So it was with great surprise that a relatively clear voice responded to the knock on the door.
“C’mon in. ‘S open.”
Warily, steeling himself with a long beat of slow inhale and exhale, he turned the knob and stepped into the room. The drummer was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a profusion of magazines scattered around him instead of the usual collection of empty beer and liquor bottles, and sucking on the end of a pen as he studied the particular publication that had been the cause of his most recent headaches. Pickles glanced up as he took a hesitant step forward, grinning slightly as he pulled the pen out of his mouth in favor of tucking it behind an ear.
“Hey chief. Checkin’ up on me?”
The smile on the percussionist’s face was sardonically knowing, wry, and he wished, not for the first time, that Pickles didn’t spend quite so much of his time trying to find peace at the bottom of a bottle. Sober, he could almost be worth talking to. Almost. He nodded in response to the question, chewed on the inside of his cheek while he debated whether it would be worth it to ask.
“What are you doing?”
Facial muscles shifted ever so slightly, a wicked gleam brightening green and the tips of canines slipping into view. Predatory. Magazine pages flapped at him, gestured in the direction of a chair next to the prodigiously sized liquor cabinet.
“Grab a seat an’ yer choice of booze an’ I’ll tell ya.”
He didn’t really want a drink but a murderously cheerful voice had added “No drinky, no telly,” and he didn’t think he had any other choice if he wanted to keep a lid on whatever the drummer was up to. Beer in hand, he waited expectantly while Pickles dug around in the piles of glossy pages, came up with a particularly tattered magazine. A splotched image of a very young Ratt adorned the cover and dated it to way before the beginning of Dethklok.
“I know this douche bag. Gave a bunch o’ crappy reviews to th’ old band, even interviewed me once. Still don’t know why they picked him ta do it. Guy was a jack-off…BUT…he ain’t the only one that learned somethin’ that day.”
The light that shown in Pickles’ eyes was positively unholy and it sparked an answering spot of warmth in his chest as he finally took a sip of the German brew. “Ya wanna ruin this guy’s life? All legit the way yer always harpin’ on about?”
That was quite possibly the smartest question he’d been asked in months. He liked revenge, especially this sort, with its promise of blackmail and public humiliation and disgrace. As Pickles gathered up a few more magazines and a notebook, he could feel the pressure that had been building behind his eyes slowly begin to dissipate and his anger starting to flow into new, more productive, channels. The scribbled memories the drummer lay before him on the smooth wooden cabinet top were a decent start and the words muttered into his ear as he added his own notations worked wonders in conjunction with another beer or three. Bottles kept appearing at his elbow, unasked, and he couldn’t bring himself to protest when Pickles was being so helpful. And it didn’t hurt that strong, trained fingers had found their way onto his shoulders, digging in and rubbing just right so that the tension he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying around drained away.
It was late when he finally stood up on knees that weren’t quite as steady as he preferred. The room lurched and a warm hand caught his elbow and left it again, leaving it oddly bereft, before he could protest. Pickles busied himself with digging for a particular brand of liquor as he composed himself, came back up with yet another variation on the smile and a smoky-gold bottle in his grasp.
“Do whatcha do best, dood. Bring this dildo down to grovel in th’ dirt where ‘e belongs.”
A few quick toe taps to the pedals and switches that littered the floor along with the drummer’s usual clutter and the sound of mid-80s hair metal came pouring through the hidden speakers. The drummer flopped back on his bed, eyes closed and bottle already at his lips, and he knew a dismissal when he saw one. He swept up his notes, grabbed the battered old magazine that had the interview Pickles had mentioned as an afterthought. Light reading before bed was what he needed now that he was feeling so drowsy. And it was while contemplating what would be a much more interesting expenditure than dry cleaning that he made his way at last to his own rooms.
Rating: PG for language
Pairing: Faint Charles/Pickles
Word Count: 1266
Sometimes he thought he had the worst job in the world. At other times he knew he had one of the best. But it was ALWAYS a job. It was damage control night and he walked calmly through the dark, very expensively lit by faux torch flames, halls of Mordhaus in his leather wingtips and absently considered how much his dry cleaning bill would be if they didn’t have a facility on the premises. After a rather scathing, and for once he had to admit an UNWARRENTED, review in a sanctimonious music magazine (one of the last few holdouts against the metal revolution), the band had reacted much as he’d predicted.
He’d dealt with Murderface first. Masochism and self-hatred was all well and good but last time he’d seen the bassist so equally enraged and full of loathing, they’d had to delay the start of a tour until the stitches in his arms had come out and he wouldn’t risk ripping them open on stage. He’d protested but in spite of how cool they’d all agreed such a happening would be, his band mates had overridden him. Showing up with Prozac, a sedative-laced bottle of absinthe, and the latest few episodes of Rome had done the trick. Murderface had a few nasty scratches and would need new furniture again but he was all right. Thankfully Skwisgaar’s own obsessive-compulsive need for perfection would take the Swede through the next few days. His fingers were beyond tough from his constant practicing, wouldn’t be harmed by even greater stretches of time against the strings, and they might even get some new riffs out of the stress. Toki, the last of the guitar section, was another matter. Between the article and Skwisgaar’s usual harsh brand of teasing, the Norwegian needed his own dose of anti-depressants and he’d even gone so far as to unbend and bring the man some candy too. And a copy of Return to Oz because it was just the right combination of trippy and childish and would keep Toki occupied until he fell asleep early like he always did.
Nathan had been more difficult. The vocalist took poor reviews of Dethklok as intensely personal attacks, elevatoring between growing heights of rage and the depths of disgust and, admittedly brutal, angst that fueled so much of writing. Some motivational tapes, a few rounds in the ring with some of the tougher of the Mordhaus employees, and a gallon or two of whiskey and Nathan would be back to normal. He hoped. It was sometimes hard to tell with the frontman. So that left the drummer, who was probably a drunken mess already and just needed to be checked on to make sure nothing bad had happened to him. Pickles was almost as easy to deal with as Skwisgaar, just more self-destructive. So it was with great surprise that a relatively clear voice responded to the knock on the door.
“C’mon in. ‘S open.”
Warily, steeling himself with a long beat of slow inhale and exhale, he turned the knob and stepped into the room. The drummer was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a profusion of magazines scattered around him instead of the usual collection of empty beer and liquor bottles, and sucking on the end of a pen as he studied the particular publication that had been the cause of his most recent headaches. Pickles glanced up as he took a hesitant step forward, grinning slightly as he pulled the pen out of his mouth in favor of tucking it behind an ear.
“Hey chief. Checkin’ up on me?”
The smile on the percussionist’s face was sardonically knowing, wry, and he wished, not for the first time, that Pickles didn’t spend quite so much of his time trying to find peace at the bottom of a bottle. Sober, he could almost be worth talking to. Almost. He nodded in response to the question, chewed on the inside of his cheek while he debated whether it would be worth it to ask.
“What are you doing?”
Facial muscles shifted ever so slightly, a wicked gleam brightening green and the tips of canines slipping into view. Predatory. Magazine pages flapped at him, gestured in the direction of a chair next to the prodigiously sized liquor cabinet.
“Grab a seat an’ yer choice of booze an’ I’ll tell ya.”
He didn’t really want a drink but a murderously cheerful voice had added “No drinky, no telly,” and he didn’t think he had any other choice if he wanted to keep a lid on whatever the drummer was up to. Beer in hand, he waited expectantly while Pickles dug around in the piles of glossy pages, came up with a particularly tattered magazine. A splotched image of a very young Ratt adorned the cover and dated it to way before the beginning of Dethklok.
“I know this douche bag. Gave a bunch o’ crappy reviews to th’ old band, even interviewed me once. Still don’t know why they picked him ta do it. Guy was a jack-off…BUT…he ain’t the only one that learned somethin’ that day.”
The light that shown in Pickles’ eyes was positively unholy and it sparked an answering spot of warmth in his chest as he finally took a sip of the German brew. “Ya wanna ruin this guy’s life? All legit the way yer always harpin’ on about?”
That was quite possibly the smartest question he’d been asked in months. He liked revenge, especially this sort, with its promise of blackmail and public humiliation and disgrace. As Pickles gathered up a few more magazines and a notebook, he could feel the pressure that had been building behind his eyes slowly begin to dissipate and his anger starting to flow into new, more productive, channels. The scribbled memories the drummer lay before him on the smooth wooden cabinet top were a decent start and the words muttered into his ear as he added his own notations worked wonders in conjunction with another beer or three. Bottles kept appearing at his elbow, unasked, and he couldn’t bring himself to protest when Pickles was being so helpful. And it didn’t hurt that strong, trained fingers had found their way onto his shoulders, digging in and rubbing just right so that the tension he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying around drained away.
It was late when he finally stood up on knees that weren’t quite as steady as he preferred. The room lurched and a warm hand caught his elbow and left it again, leaving it oddly bereft, before he could protest. Pickles busied himself with digging for a particular brand of liquor as he composed himself, came back up with yet another variation on the smile and a smoky-gold bottle in his grasp.
“Do whatcha do best, dood. Bring this dildo down to grovel in th’ dirt where ‘e belongs.”
A few quick toe taps to the pedals and switches that littered the floor along with the drummer’s usual clutter and the sound of mid-80s hair metal came pouring through the hidden speakers. The drummer flopped back on his bed, eyes closed and bottle already at his lips, and he knew a dismissal when he saw one. He swept up his notes, grabbed the battered old magazine that had the interview Pickles had mentioned as an afterthought. Light reading before bed was what he needed now that he was feeling so drowsy. And it was while contemplating what would be a much more interesting expenditure than dry cleaning that he made his way at last to his own rooms.
