Random Metalocalypse short fic
Jan. 29th, 2007 06:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Violence and Vocabulary
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Pairing: Pickles and Ofdensen
Word Count: 1747
Notes: Thank you Random Word Generator, whose word will most likely become apparant easily
“Ah, fuckfuckfuck! Shit gaddamnit holy hell in a mother douche bag hand basket!”
Pickles cursed at his blurry reflection and at the two pains currently radiating from his face. His left eye burned as he kept it shut, hoping it would finish tearing up soon and rinse out the hydrogen peroxide that had dripped into it from the OTHER torment he was experiencing. Dethklok had had one of their periodic ‘I think everyone else in this band is a dildo and needs to shut the fuck up and get out of my face before I kill them’ fights and Skwisgaar – goddamn that bastard blond Swede – had managed to halfway rip out one of his eyebrow rings. Well, actually it had gotten stuck somehow in the guitarist’s hair when they were screaming at each other and Pickles had gone in to bite the stupid Scandinavian slut just as Skwisgaar had bent lower to try and headbutt him. There had been an almighty tangle and when they ripped themselves apart, they’d managed to tear a decent chunk of flesh out of each other in the process.
A short time later, everyone had retreated to their respective corners of the room to lick their wounds and shoot nasty glares at one another while Ofdensen surveyed the damage and sighed. Toki and Murderface had gotten the worst of it, both of them taking on Nathan at different times. Toki had actually been faring pretty well but then Murderface had knifed him in the thigh because HE had wanted a go at the singer. Then Nathan had kicked his ass quite thoroughly, and his head too, right into the corner of one of the wrought iron end tables they kept because they were just about the only furniture able to stand up to the band’s abuse. So off the bassist and the rhythm guitarist had been sent, gone to the on-site hospital for stitches and observation just in case Murderface had a concussion. Nathan just looked thunderously at the manager, blood dripping down his forearm from a glancing cut and also from a nose that Toki hadn’t been quite tall enough to hit square on and break, and didn’t say another word as he stalked out in search of booze and a new recorder. That Toki HAD been able to break.
So that left Pickles and Skwisgaar facing off from opposite ends of the couch while Ofdensen cleared his throat and made an attempt at playing parental figure. But before the manager could even begin his half-hearted lecture, Skwisgaar made a rude noise in his throat and wandered off in search of groupies to coo over him and play nursemaid. Pickles directed both middle fingers at the Swede’s retreating back and stuck out his tongue for good measure before he turned back around and offered the frowning man in front of him a lopsided grin.
“Sorry ‘bout that Chuck, but trust me, he had it comin’.”
“As you say. And I suppose you didn’t?”
“Aww, c’mon dood. Ya didn’t hear him raggin’ on me earlier. That guy is SUCH a dildo. Too gaddamn full of himself fer me to swallow down anymore. ‘Sides, we was due fer another blow up. Tension’s been high ‘round here lately. Ya know how these things go. We’ll be copacetic in a few.”
Charles blinked at him, eyes harder to read as he tilted his head and the lenses of his glasses reflected back an opaque wall of light.
“Mmm, noted,” he murmured finally. “You should have someone see to your face. You’re bleeding rather heavily and I think you should take that thing out until it heals.”
“Nah. It’ll be fine and I can bandage m’self. Been doin’ it fer years. ‘Sides, there ain’t no point in going down to th’ hospital fer this. And who else’m I gonna get to do it, some employee?”
“I suppose not,” Charles said, filling in the expectant silence a little too slowly for the drummer’s liking. “Just make sure you disinfect it and any other wounds you might have before you drown yourself in a bottle.”
That last bit struck Pickles as being rather uncalled for and he scowled and hopped up from the couch. “Whatever, Mr. pedant, SIR. It’s m’face and I’ll take care of it however I want.”
He’d left then, Ofdensen staring after him with an expression of surprise, and gone back to his rooms with every intention of just hitting the rather copious bar for all it was worth out of some half-assed idea of spite. But a single glance in one of the mirrors in the hallway told him that, damn it all, Ofdensen had been right yet again. The left side of his face was painted crimson with his own blood, although blessedly the rip seemed to have slowed to merely oozing rather than gushing. His goatee was matted with the stuff and his other eye was blossoming into a lovely purple color, probably from that elbow he’d taken from Toki – that kid was a bony motherfucker. A couple of other scrapes and bruises dotted his arms and his stomach was really aching still from the mule kick he’d received from Nathan. He’d thrown up all over the big guy, though, so at least there had been that.
The blood had come off his skin quickly and he’d managed to more or less rinse out his facial hair. Band-Aids dotted his arm, covered up a few of the deeper scratches. And then he’d turned to his eyebrow. Seeing as it had been caught in Skwisgaar’s hair and that the Swede got up to who knows what, Ofdensen’s unwanted advise to disinfect it was probably warranted. He’d been tempted to dump some whiskey on it, just like in the movies, but that would’ve been a waste of perfectly good liquor. Some scrounging around in the cabinet underneath his sink turned up an old bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He didn’t remember buying the damn stuff, but he couldn’t find any expiration date either, so he shrugged and set it on the countertop. There had been cotton balls down there too, and he fished them out and steeled himself.
In spite of being more or less prepared for the stinging, burning sensation, the first touch of cotton ball to his raw eyebrow hurt more than he’d expected. He’d bitten down on his lip, hard, to keep from making a noise and his fingers had squeezed in response to the pain as well. Hydrogen peroxide had gushed out of the cotton ball and ran down around the curve of his eye socket, right into his eye. THAT had really hurt and he’d yelped and started cursing. And that was how Charles had found him, squinting and cursing at his reflection in the mirror, red-stained cotton ball held lightly to his brow.
“You’re impossible. All of you. The whole lot. But you in particular. I’d think you’d know better.”
The drummer managed not to jump at the unexpected words, instead opting ot give his manager an aggrieved look by way of their reflections in the mirror.
“Hell, Chuck. ‘Course I know better. But that ain’t any fun. I got that ol’ Irish temper, ya know.”
“Not really. The stereotypical drinking habit perhaps, but generally it takes more than Skwisgaar being himself to set you off.” Charles shook his head at the sight in front of him and made that irritating tching noise that had always driven Pickles crazy when his mom used it on him as a kid. He wasn’t a child and he COULD take care of himself. But before he could kick Ofdensen out, the man spoke again. “Now sit down before you cause yourself any more damage and let me see it.”
Grudgingly the drummer settled on the toilet seat and let Charles hover over him. A surprisingly gentle hand caught his chin, tilted his head back ‘so he wouldn’t get any more’ in his still-burning eye. And an even gentler hand dabbed carefully at the ripped piercing. It was a heck of a lot easier to let someone else take care of him – even though he was capable of fixing it on his own - and Pickles slumped back against the tank and allowed Ofdensen to work.
“Charles,” he asked quietly when the manager moved away to rummage around beneath the sink for who knew what, his bad mood already dissipated in the face of the concern shown for him. “Why didn’t ya just offer? Coulda saved my eye a lot of trouble.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?” The manager studied him from his crouch, a tube of antibiotic ointment in his hand. “You’re more than capable of that. Or you could have told me to. Don’t play dumb with me when I know you’re actually making use of that word-of-the-day calendar you told me was a waste of time on every count.”
“Heh,” Pickles rubbed absently at the tip of his nose. “I figgered maybe it wouldn’t hurt to know what yer sayin’ sometimes. Speakin’ of which, third time’s the charm, right? So…you really are a pedant sometimes. So there.”
“And you’re, literally, a bloody hooligan.” Ofdensen smiled finally, listened as the drummer laughed and agreed. “What was the first time if I might ask?”
“Oh that? I told Skwisgaar he was a guitar pedant, which he is since he’s a damn anal perfectionist. But I dunno if it’s really an insult. And I KNOW he didn’t get it. But it still counts.”
“I suppose it does at that.”
“Damn right it does!”
Pickles grinned smugly up at him while Ofdensen carefully rubbed the soothing unguent into his brow, tongue flickering out to moisten his lips and catching a taste of the blood there.
“Ya know Chuck,” he drawled slowly. “In spite of my recent education, I’m also a firm b’liever in the ‘kiss it ‘n’ make it better’ school of health care. And I seem to have hurt somethin’ else besides my eyebrow.”
“Oh really? And what might that be?”
Straight-faced and once more completely unreadable behind his glasses, Charles met a pair of green eyes – one rather more bloodshot than the other – and made the drummer ask for it this time.
“Yer as much a bastard as Skwisgaar, ya know that? Now kiss me better, damn it.”
So it wasn’t a request. But Charles decided he wasn’t THAT much of a pedant and that a demand was more than good enough.
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Pairing: Pickles and Ofdensen
Word Count: 1747
Notes: Thank you Random Word Generator, whose word will most likely become apparant easily
“Ah, fuckfuckfuck! Shit gaddamnit holy hell in a mother douche bag hand basket!”
Pickles cursed at his blurry reflection and at the two pains currently radiating from his face. His left eye burned as he kept it shut, hoping it would finish tearing up soon and rinse out the hydrogen peroxide that had dripped into it from the OTHER torment he was experiencing. Dethklok had had one of their periodic ‘I think everyone else in this band is a dildo and needs to shut the fuck up and get out of my face before I kill them’ fights and Skwisgaar – goddamn that bastard blond Swede – had managed to halfway rip out one of his eyebrow rings. Well, actually it had gotten stuck somehow in the guitarist’s hair when they were screaming at each other and Pickles had gone in to bite the stupid Scandinavian slut just as Skwisgaar had bent lower to try and headbutt him. There had been an almighty tangle and when they ripped themselves apart, they’d managed to tear a decent chunk of flesh out of each other in the process.
A short time later, everyone had retreated to their respective corners of the room to lick their wounds and shoot nasty glares at one another while Ofdensen surveyed the damage and sighed. Toki and Murderface had gotten the worst of it, both of them taking on Nathan at different times. Toki had actually been faring pretty well but then Murderface had knifed him in the thigh because HE had wanted a go at the singer. Then Nathan had kicked his ass quite thoroughly, and his head too, right into the corner of one of the wrought iron end tables they kept because they were just about the only furniture able to stand up to the band’s abuse. So off the bassist and the rhythm guitarist had been sent, gone to the on-site hospital for stitches and observation just in case Murderface had a concussion. Nathan just looked thunderously at the manager, blood dripping down his forearm from a glancing cut and also from a nose that Toki hadn’t been quite tall enough to hit square on and break, and didn’t say another word as he stalked out in search of booze and a new recorder. That Toki HAD been able to break.
So that left Pickles and Skwisgaar facing off from opposite ends of the couch while Ofdensen cleared his throat and made an attempt at playing parental figure. But before the manager could even begin his half-hearted lecture, Skwisgaar made a rude noise in his throat and wandered off in search of groupies to coo over him and play nursemaid. Pickles directed both middle fingers at the Swede’s retreating back and stuck out his tongue for good measure before he turned back around and offered the frowning man in front of him a lopsided grin.
“Sorry ‘bout that Chuck, but trust me, he had it comin’.”
“As you say. And I suppose you didn’t?”
“Aww, c’mon dood. Ya didn’t hear him raggin’ on me earlier. That guy is SUCH a dildo. Too gaddamn full of himself fer me to swallow down anymore. ‘Sides, we was due fer another blow up. Tension’s been high ‘round here lately. Ya know how these things go. We’ll be copacetic in a few.”
Charles blinked at him, eyes harder to read as he tilted his head and the lenses of his glasses reflected back an opaque wall of light.
“Mmm, noted,” he murmured finally. “You should have someone see to your face. You’re bleeding rather heavily and I think you should take that thing out until it heals.”
“Nah. It’ll be fine and I can bandage m’self. Been doin’ it fer years. ‘Sides, there ain’t no point in going down to th’ hospital fer this. And who else’m I gonna get to do it, some employee?”
“I suppose not,” Charles said, filling in the expectant silence a little too slowly for the drummer’s liking. “Just make sure you disinfect it and any other wounds you might have before you drown yourself in a bottle.”
That last bit struck Pickles as being rather uncalled for and he scowled and hopped up from the couch. “Whatever, Mr. pedant, SIR. It’s m’face and I’ll take care of it however I want.”
He’d left then, Ofdensen staring after him with an expression of surprise, and gone back to his rooms with every intention of just hitting the rather copious bar for all it was worth out of some half-assed idea of spite. But a single glance in one of the mirrors in the hallway told him that, damn it all, Ofdensen had been right yet again. The left side of his face was painted crimson with his own blood, although blessedly the rip seemed to have slowed to merely oozing rather than gushing. His goatee was matted with the stuff and his other eye was blossoming into a lovely purple color, probably from that elbow he’d taken from Toki – that kid was a bony motherfucker. A couple of other scrapes and bruises dotted his arms and his stomach was really aching still from the mule kick he’d received from Nathan. He’d thrown up all over the big guy, though, so at least there had been that.
The blood had come off his skin quickly and he’d managed to more or less rinse out his facial hair. Band-Aids dotted his arm, covered up a few of the deeper scratches. And then he’d turned to his eyebrow. Seeing as it had been caught in Skwisgaar’s hair and that the Swede got up to who knows what, Ofdensen’s unwanted advise to disinfect it was probably warranted. He’d been tempted to dump some whiskey on it, just like in the movies, but that would’ve been a waste of perfectly good liquor. Some scrounging around in the cabinet underneath his sink turned up an old bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He didn’t remember buying the damn stuff, but he couldn’t find any expiration date either, so he shrugged and set it on the countertop. There had been cotton balls down there too, and he fished them out and steeled himself.
In spite of being more or less prepared for the stinging, burning sensation, the first touch of cotton ball to his raw eyebrow hurt more than he’d expected. He’d bitten down on his lip, hard, to keep from making a noise and his fingers had squeezed in response to the pain as well. Hydrogen peroxide had gushed out of the cotton ball and ran down around the curve of his eye socket, right into his eye. THAT had really hurt and he’d yelped and started cursing. And that was how Charles had found him, squinting and cursing at his reflection in the mirror, red-stained cotton ball held lightly to his brow.
“You’re impossible. All of you. The whole lot. But you in particular. I’d think you’d know better.”
The drummer managed not to jump at the unexpected words, instead opting ot give his manager an aggrieved look by way of their reflections in the mirror.
“Hell, Chuck. ‘Course I know better. But that ain’t any fun. I got that ol’ Irish temper, ya know.”
“Not really. The stereotypical drinking habit perhaps, but generally it takes more than Skwisgaar being himself to set you off.” Charles shook his head at the sight in front of him and made that irritating tching noise that had always driven Pickles crazy when his mom used it on him as a kid. He wasn’t a child and he COULD take care of himself. But before he could kick Ofdensen out, the man spoke again. “Now sit down before you cause yourself any more damage and let me see it.”
Grudgingly the drummer settled on the toilet seat and let Charles hover over him. A surprisingly gentle hand caught his chin, tilted his head back ‘so he wouldn’t get any more’ in his still-burning eye. And an even gentler hand dabbed carefully at the ripped piercing. It was a heck of a lot easier to let someone else take care of him – even though he was capable of fixing it on his own - and Pickles slumped back against the tank and allowed Ofdensen to work.
“Charles,” he asked quietly when the manager moved away to rummage around beneath the sink for who knew what, his bad mood already dissipated in the face of the concern shown for him. “Why didn’t ya just offer? Coulda saved my eye a lot of trouble.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?” The manager studied him from his crouch, a tube of antibiotic ointment in his hand. “You’re more than capable of that. Or you could have told me to. Don’t play dumb with me when I know you’re actually making use of that word-of-the-day calendar you told me was a waste of time on every count.”
“Heh,” Pickles rubbed absently at the tip of his nose. “I figgered maybe it wouldn’t hurt to know what yer sayin’ sometimes. Speakin’ of which, third time’s the charm, right? So…you really are a pedant sometimes. So there.”
“And you’re, literally, a bloody hooligan.” Ofdensen smiled finally, listened as the drummer laughed and agreed. “What was the first time if I might ask?”
“Oh that? I told Skwisgaar he was a guitar pedant, which he is since he’s a damn anal perfectionist. But I dunno if it’s really an insult. And I KNOW he didn’t get it. But it still counts.”
“I suppose it does at that.”
“Damn right it does!”
Pickles grinned smugly up at him while Ofdensen carefully rubbed the soothing unguent into his brow, tongue flickering out to moisten his lips and catching a taste of the blood there.
“Ya know Chuck,” he drawled slowly. “In spite of my recent education, I’m also a firm b’liever in the ‘kiss it ‘n’ make it better’ school of health care. And I seem to have hurt somethin’ else besides my eyebrow.”
“Oh really? And what might that be?”
Straight-faced and once more completely unreadable behind his glasses, Charles met a pair of green eyes – one rather more bloodshot than the other – and made the drummer ask for it this time.
“Yer as much a bastard as Skwisgaar, ya know that? Now kiss me better, damn it.”
So it wasn’t a request. But Charles decided he wasn’t THAT much of a pedant and that a demand was more than good enough.
