More Metalocalypse Fanfic
Jan. 29th, 2007 07:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Ars Longa, Vita Brevis
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen. Fic
Word Count: 1160
Beeps and a low, white-noise hiss of static washed over Charles Foster Ofdensen’s ears as he stood looking down on the still figure bathed in the sterile fluorescent glow of hospital lights, tinged faintly green from the steady, reassuring glow of the heart monitor. Here, unconscious and pale and tucked up underneath plain white sheets, Nathan Explosion looked smaller somehow, human and vulnerable. He was on his third liver for the year, going through them at a rate that looked likely to break the previous year’s record-setting pace of five. The lead singer had been drinking at an incredible rate and Dethklok’s manager couldn’t remember seeing him without a bottle or a can in his hand at any given moment for the past several months. It was no wonder he needed another liver. More surprising was that he didn’t need new kidneys or work done on his stomach for all the rotgut he was chugging down. But for the meantime, Nathan would be up and back to work in a day or four and Ofdensen could leave him in the capably loyal hands of Mordhaus’ surgery team.
He still had the rest of his nightly rounds to make and he trudged slowly back from the hospital wing towards the first floor of the main building. William’s door was open, as it usually was to help air out some of the stench the man seemed to enjoy inflicting on himself and everyone around him. Ofdensen took a deep breath and reminded himself not to breath through his nose as he poked his head around the doorframe. Murderface was cursing at one of the hooded employees, bitching even as the man in question deftly stitched up an open wound on the bassist’s forearm. Every so often the tirade would stop while the ranting man took a swig from the bottle in front of him, but it started up again as soon as he swallowed, punctuated here and there with the solid thunk of his knife imbedding in the table he sat at and once stabbing into his thigh. A better tableau of masochism, Ofdensen mused, would be hard to find. William seemed to be doing all right and the manager nodded once to the beleaguered employee before he moved on.
The next stop was in front of a door that was could be open or closed, the occupant of the room not caring one whit about who did or did not see his nightly activities. They were always the same anyway. Tonight the door was closed but that didn’t provide much of a barrier for the noises within. Ofdensen stopped and cocked an ear, played his usual game of trying to pick out just how many people were inside. Three, he decided after a minute of listening to the moans and shouts and obvious noises of sex. Skwisgaar was being ambitious, two women and what sounded like a man but was probably another woman, all of them going at it at once. Sex and speed metal, those were the kingdoms of the world’s fastest guitarist, and he reveled in them almost to the exclusion of anything else. From the pitch and rising pace of the swearing and the near constant panting whine from a feminine throat, one of what would likely be many climaxes of the evening was swiftly approaching. And Ofdensen didn’t particularly fancy standing around to hear it. Bad enough that just listening to make sure the Swede was okay in there made him feel like a voyeur, he didn’t have to make it true.
Two more band members to see to and two rooms that turned out to be empty. Ofdensen was unsurprised. Those two were more sociable than their band mates and he headed to the main game room. As he’d suspected, Pickles and Toki were both there, busy having one of their weed evenings as he’d come to think of them. The drummer was sprawled across the couch, one foot hanging off to click through channels on the big screen as the mood took him. Various cans and bottles of beer and harder alcohol were scattered around him and he was chugging vodka like it was water and he’d just run a marathon. A small pipe and several baggies of marijuana were on the end table by his head along with a mess of face down playing cards and another handful of playing cards rested on his stomach. Even as Ofdensen watched, Pickles lazily shuffled through those cards and called over his shoulder.
“Got’ne threes?”
Toki, busy on the DDR machine, finished his song and then shoved a fistful of candy from a bowl by the machine into his mouth. There was a small pile of cards on top of the next game console and the rhythm guitarist studied them and then ambled over towards the couch.
“Here yous go, Pickle.”
The cards were handed over and, as if it were some sort of ritual, picked up the pipe and dug a lighter out of his pocket. He sucked in the smoke, let it out slowly, and handed it over to the drummer. Pickles followed suit, the smoke entering and leaving his lungs as naturally as if it were air. Then Toki flipped through his hand.
“Does you have any jacks?”
Pickles took another hit, passed the pipe back over to the Norwegian so he could glance at his hand.
“Nope. Go fish, kid.”
Toki groped through the pile of cards on the end table, settled on one resting beneath a bag of the weed. He popped it into his hand without even looking at it and returned to his DDR while Pickles flipped back and forth between soft-core on Cinemax and reruns of Scooby Doo.
And so it would go for half the night until they either passed out right there on the couch or made it back to their beds. Ofdensen’s money was on the couch. His nightly work done and his charges all still alive and more or less in one piece, he could finally seek his own bed and his pace quickened as he went towards his well-earned rest. There was a cd waiting in the in-box he kept beside his door, unlabeled, and he popped it into his stereo as he went through the motions of getting ready for bed. It was rough, not yet refined and as cohesive as the boys were capable of, but the lyrics and music had him halfway headbanging before he caught himself. Climbing in between his clean sheets, he considered switching to the collection of Bach piano suites he usually listened to but decided to leave it on Dethklok’s new work. This would, if what he was hearing ultimately made it onto the final album, be a real classic in their catalogue, one for the ages. Charles Foster Ofdensen slept easily in Mordhaus that night, carried off to dreamland by the raw, brutal power of metal.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen. Fic
Word Count: 1160
Beeps and a low, white-noise hiss of static washed over Charles Foster Ofdensen’s ears as he stood looking down on the still figure bathed in the sterile fluorescent glow of hospital lights, tinged faintly green from the steady, reassuring glow of the heart monitor. Here, unconscious and pale and tucked up underneath plain white sheets, Nathan Explosion looked smaller somehow, human and vulnerable. He was on his third liver for the year, going through them at a rate that looked likely to break the previous year’s record-setting pace of five. The lead singer had been drinking at an incredible rate and Dethklok’s manager couldn’t remember seeing him without a bottle or a can in his hand at any given moment for the past several months. It was no wonder he needed another liver. More surprising was that he didn’t need new kidneys or work done on his stomach for all the rotgut he was chugging down. But for the meantime, Nathan would be up and back to work in a day or four and Ofdensen could leave him in the capably loyal hands of Mordhaus’ surgery team.
He still had the rest of his nightly rounds to make and he trudged slowly back from the hospital wing towards the first floor of the main building. William’s door was open, as it usually was to help air out some of the stench the man seemed to enjoy inflicting on himself and everyone around him. Ofdensen took a deep breath and reminded himself not to breath through his nose as he poked his head around the doorframe. Murderface was cursing at one of the hooded employees, bitching even as the man in question deftly stitched up an open wound on the bassist’s forearm. Every so often the tirade would stop while the ranting man took a swig from the bottle in front of him, but it started up again as soon as he swallowed, punctuated here and there with the solid thunk of his knife imbedding in the table he sat at and once stabbing into his thigh. A better tableau of masochism, Ofdensen mused, would be hard to find. William seemed to be doing all right and the manager nodded once to the beleaguered employee before he moved on.
The next stop was in front of a door that was could be open or closed, the occupant of the room not caring one whit about who did or did not see his nightly activities. They were always the same anyway. Tonight the door was closed but that didn’t provide much of a barrier for the noises within. Ofdensen stopped and cocked an ear, played his usual game of trying to pick out just how many people were inside. Three, he decided after a minute of listening to the moans and shouts and obvious noises of sex. Skwisgaar was being ambitious, two women and what sounded like a man but was probably another woman, all of them going at it at once. Sex and speed metal, those were the kingdoms of the world’s fastest guitarist, and he reveled in them almost to the exclusion of anything else. From the pitch and rising pace of the swearing and the near constant panting whine from a feminine throat, one of what would likely be many climaxes of the evening was swiftly approaching. And Ofdensen didn’t particularly fancy standing around to hear it. Bad enough that just listening to make sure the Swede was okay in there made him feel like a voyeur, he didn’t have to make it true.
Two more band members to see to and two rooms that turned out to be empty. Ofdensen was unsurprised. Those two were more sociable than their band mates and he headed to the main game room. As he’d suspected, Pickles and Toki were both there, busy having one of their weed evenings as he’d come to think of them. The drummer was sprawled across the couch, one foot hanging off to click through channels on the big screen as the mood took him. Various cans and bottles of beer and harder alcohol were scattered around him and he was chugging vodka like it was water and he’d just run a marathon. A small pipe and several baggies of marijuana were on the end table by his head along with a mess of face down playing cards and another handful of playing cards rested on his stomach. Even as Ofdensen watched, Pickles lazily shuffled through those cards and called over his shoulder.
“Got’ne threes?”
Toki, busy on the DDR machine, finished his song and then shoved a fistful of candy from a bowl by the machine into his mouth. There was a small pile of cards on top of the next game console and the rhythm guitarist studied them and then ambled over towards the couch.
“Here yous go, Pickle.”
The cards were handed over and, as if it were some sort of ritual, picked up the pipe and dug a lighter out of his pocket. He sucked in the smoke, let it out slowly, and handed it over to the drummer. Pickles followed suit, the smoke entering and leaving his lungs as naturally as if it were air. Then Toki flipped through his hand.
“Does you have any jacks?”
Pickles took another hit, passed the pipe back over to the Norwegian so he could glance at his hand.
“Nope. Go fish, kid.”
Toki groped through the pile of cards on the end table, settled on one resting beneath a bag of the weed. He popped it into his hand without even looking at it and returned to his DDR while Pickles flipped back and forth between soft-core on Cinemax and reruns of Scooby Doo.
And so it would go for half the night until they either passed out right there on the couch or made it back to their beds. Ofdensen’s money was on the couch. His nightly work done and his charges all still alive and more or less in one piece, he could finally seek his own bed and his pace quickened as he went towards his well-earned rest. There was a cd waiting in the in-box he kept beside his door, unlabeled, and he popped it into his stereo as he went through the motions of getting ready for bed. It was rough, not yet refined and as cohesive as the boys were capable of, but the lyrics and music had him halfway headbanging before he caught himself. Climbing in between his clean sheets, he considered switching to the collection of Bach piano suites he usually listened to but decided to leave it on Dethklok’s new work. This would, if what he was hearing ultimately made it onto the final album, be a real classic in their catalogue, one for the ages. Charles Foster Ofdensen slept easily in Mordhaus that night, carried off to dreamland by the raw, brutal power of metal.
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-30 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 05:25 am (UTC)I liked the image of him looking in at Nathan, and Pickles and Toki's weed night sounds so incredibly happily chill. "The drummer was sprawled across the couch, one foot hanging off to click through channels on the big screen as the mood took him." So Pickles, so awesome.