Crappy Metalocalypse Ficcage
Feb. 6th, 2008 08:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsListened to OPERATION: MINDCRIME yesterday and this more or less is what I was thinking of...some spontaneous and weird ficcage.
Title: Tokyo Disaster Music
Rating: PG
Pairing: Pickles + Charles
Word Count: 4132
A/N: Please excuse the Engrish if you find it offensive. Seeing as this is a Metalocalypse fic and bad accents are the name of the game, I indulged myself. No harm is meant by it.
Charles placed his hands on the smooth table surface, pushing back his chair and rising gratefully to his feet. The meeting had taken longer than he’d anticipated and one of his knees had been twinging at him for the last half hour. Stifling a sigh as his employers equally either remained sitting, sleeping, or made a frantic dash for the door, the lawyer bowed smoothly to the recording industry executives with whom he’d been negotiating. It was to Dethklok’s advantage that he was able to converse in Japanese and had a firm understanding of the demurs and half-acceptances that signified nothing more than consideration but he had forgotten just how long formal language and the dance of politeness and humbling self-directed backhanded compliments could drag on. All he wanted now was to get the band safely back to their hotel and then go to bed. At least he’d secured quite the contract for them, probably one of the best any non-native artist had been able to finagle. As Charles straightened from his incline, Hoshi-san’s stern face broke into a broad grin and he reached out for a Western-style handshake, pumping the lawyer’s arm vigorously.
“You are most tricky, Ofdensen-san. Fujita Records has not conceded so much, ah, artistic ricense in some time. We must crose the contract with good terms. You come, drink and karaoke, yes?”
The executive’s English was actually quite good, only the occasional l-r switch tripping him up, and Charles was only stalling for time when he repeated the offer in Japanese.
“Karaoke and drinks? Would I have to sing, Hoshi-san? I may work for a band but I’m certainly not good enough to be in one.”
The crow’s feet around Hoshi’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and responded once more in Japanese. “That doesn’t matter in karaoke. A few rounds of celebratory saké and we’ll all sound like rock stars. And you can bring –“
Hoshi stopped, looked around the room in surprise, and Charles followed the sweep of his gaze with some trepidation. While they’d been bowing and speaking, nearly all of Dethklok had made good their escape, off to get into who knew what trouble in downtown Shinjuku. Only Pickles was left; the redhead leaning back in his chair and, while blessedly not snoring, sporting a small line of drool across one cheek. The band hadn’t wanted to come to the meeting and Charles would have left them behind but their presence had proven to be quite the source of leverage – Matsuhitsu-san and Sayoka-san were BIG fans – and they had been surprisingly well-behaved, well, at least for them. But now Nathan, Murderface, Skwisgaar and Toki had all vanished, no doubt to traumatize the good citizens of Tokyo with their brutality and lack of cultural understanding.
Charles sighed, excused himself from Hoshi to murmur into the discreet cell phone he carried in one pocket. His charges all had tracking devices embedded in their shoes, dethphones, Skwisgaar’s guitar, Nate’s voice recorder, Murderface’s knife, and Toki’s newly acquired Tomogachi that he’d decided to call ‘baka Swede-kun’ and a few barked orders sent the larger part of the contingent of Klokateers that had accompanied them out to keep an eye on them. Pickles, at least, he could see to himself. And, allowing himself only the slightest upward curl of lip, he could get back at the drummer for sleeping in the middle of an important meeting by making him come along. It would be torture for both of them but at least he wouldn’t be facing karaoke alone.
“Hoshi-san,” Charles said formally as he slipped his phone back into his chinos. “If it is acceptable, myself and Pickles will accompany you. No doubt he will appreciate your wisdom in choosing the appropriate Japanese drinks.”
Hoshi chuckled and nodded. “Pickles-san’s appreciation of fine spirits is well known. We would be honored to have the two of you accompany us. If you would meet me and my associates in the lobby in five minutes, we can get down to the more enjoyable part of negotiating.”
“That would be excellent. We will meet you in the lobby.”
Charles exchanged another round of bows with the Fujita delegation before the Japanese businessmen exited the room, giving him a measure of privacy to wake his charge and explain what was going on. Sighing again, and longing for the promised drinks with an intensity that could only come from a stressful day, the lawyer stepped around the long conference table to stand next to the peacefully snoozing drummer. At least, and he had to give Pickles a small measure of credit, the drummer had only fallen asleep. Toki and Skwisgaar had kicked each other throughout the meeting whenever the rhythm guitarist lost interest in his newest virtual pet or the Swede got bored of noodling on his omnipresent guitar. Nathan had stared blankly out the window, occasionally muttering in a loud voice strange lyrics relating to Godzilla and atomic bombs, and Murderface had ruined the table by carving samurai death scenes into it. Sleeping was rude but it wasn’t disruptive and for that Charles could be thankful.
With that spirit in mind, he reached over to cup one warm, bare shoulder, shaking the drummer and calling his name rather than shouting in his ear like he’d originally thought to do. As the lawyer looked down into the bearded face, green eyes slowly blinked open and gazed up at him uncertainly, a puzzled but strangely soft smile greeting him instead of an annoyed pout.
“Chuck? Wha- wait. ‘s the meetin’ over? Dood, these chairs are effin’ COMFTERBLE. We gotta get some fer the Haus.”
There was no way they were acquiring any of the ergonomically designed chairs for Mordhaus. The band would only sleep through every single meeting in that case and, while that might have been marginally more productive than their situation now, Charles wasn’t quite ready to stoop that low even if the boys approved. He made a noncommittal sort of noise to brush Pickles off and took a step back.
“Well, Pickles, the meeting is over and then again it’s not.” The blank look he got from the redhead made him mentally roll his eyes at himself. He should have known better than to expect the drummer to understand such a contradictory statement. “You and I have to go to the part where the deal REALLY gets sealed.”
“Wait, ya didn’t do that already? And,” Pickles looked around the empty room. “How come I hafta go along with you?”
What he wanted to say was something along the lines of ‘well, the rest of the boys were able to sneak out when I was busy bowing and so you’re just stuck’ but that was as juvenile as the whining note in the drummer’s voice. Instead Charles just tilted his head so that the fluorescent lighting overhead bounced off the lenses of his glasses just so. “Because we’re going to be going out drinking and I believed that was an aspect of this negotiation in which you had some skill.”
“Dood!” Pickles bounced to his feet. “Why didn’tcha say so, Chuck? Saké can be good shit!”
Indeed it would have made more sense to phrase the situation thusly but for some reason his wits were slower than usual. It was probably the result of the extended talks and because thinking in Japanese sometimes felt convoluted and made his brain fire in different regions than normal. Charles followed Pickles to the door and tried to put the matter aside. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was surviving the rest of the evening and avoiding the karaoke side of things.
Hoshi-san and his fellow Fujita recording execs shepherded Charles and Pickles out into the neon-streaked night. As Tokyo was Japan’s capitol, Shinjuku was Tokyo’s party central. Crowds of dark-suited businessmen and office ladies in their pencil skirts pushed down the broad sidewalks, packed the crosswalks where everyone assiduously obeyed the traffic signals to move with the light in a tightly bunched pack. Younger men and women in far more outlandish clothes, many with streaked, dyed, and spiked hair mingled easily among the swarms or hung out on corners with cigarettes dangling from glossed lips. The noise level was, for Japan, incredible, as at least half of the people on the streets had already begun indulging in the national corporate pastime of employee bonding through booze. Pickles, Matsuhitsu and Sayoka hanging on to his every word, took it all in with a broad smile.
“Reminds me of L.A. back in the day. Or mebbe Times Square ‘fore Juli-what’shisname cleaned it up. Good times.”
Charles nodded absently, not really listening as he eyed the crowds. The members of Dethklok would stick out like sore thumbs but the throngs of people were simply overwhelming outside of a concert setting. He hoped he’d sent enough Klokateers after the other boys. A glimpse down a narrow alley filled with flashing signs – a soapland district – almost tempted him off course. There was a ninety percent probability of Skwisgaar being there or somewhere similar, with a seventy-three percent chance of Nathan being with him. Toki was probably in an arcade or manga café, seeing as he’d talked about doing nothing else since he’d first learned they were going to Japan. As for Murderface….Charles had absolutely no idea and that was a little worrying. A finger jabbed in between his shoulder blades, rudely yanked him from his reflection.
“Relax, Chuck.” Pickles stepped up next to him, patted awkwardly at the spot he’d poked to smooth out the wrinkle he’d put in the otherwise still impeccable jacket. “The guys’ll be fine. It’s Tokyo, no way they can get lost for long. They stick out too much. Besides, you got other things ta worry about.”
The drummer jerked his chin, directed the manager’s gaze upward. Hoshi and company had brought them about five blocks from their headquarters to halt in front of a gleaming modern building that stood about fifteen stories high. Glass panels, some opaquely glazed over or curtained and others wide open and lit from within, covered the sixth through twelfth floors. In some of the lit windows Charles could just make out the silhouettes of people. A giant LCD screen advertised a nightclub on the upper levels and private parlors beneath. At least if Charles had to sing, it would only be in front of a very select few people, all of whom he would make sure were completely inebriated first. And if he had his way, he wouldn’t step up to the microphone at all. Clearly amateur singing filled the elevator as their group shuffled on, Hoshi explaining that it was piped in from various booths anonymously when he saw the confusion on American faces.
“Singin’?” Pickles turned to study his manager. “Chuck, you didn’t say nothin’ about singing.”
“It’s karaoke, Pikuru-san.” Matsuhitsu spoke up, eagerness filling his voice. “For bonding and sturessu omit. We sing. And drink much saké.”
“Lotsa saké, hmm? Well dat’s alright then. I can stomach this kinda karaoke.”
At least one of them could, Charles though, dread knotting in his gut as their retinue emerged on the twelfth floor. A tastefully lit lobby met them and a young, smiling blond woman, as Scandinavian as their guitarists, escorted them to a large, soundproofed room. Plush couches in navy and forest green covered one wall and parts of two more. Tables scattered in between already held saké bottles and cups, with drink menus also waiting. The last wall, actually a deep black curtain blocking the view of the city beyond, held a slightly raised platform with a microphone stand, several speakers, and a teleprompter. A computer screen was set into a console off to one side where song choices were listed.
The Japanese record executives moved easily into the space, likely they either leased or outright owned this particular booth. Pickles followed and Charles too, after a rather unexpected pinch to his rear by the hostess. He was still busy collecting himself as the cup of saké was pressed into his hands and Hoshi-san offered up the first round of ‘Kampai!’ for the night. The saké was of the proper sort, slightly warmer than room temperature, and it slid over his tongue with a sleek whisper of taste that hinted at expense and craftsmanship. Almost as soon as Charles brought the cup back from his lips, Sayoka was at his elbow with one of the small, ceramic carafes to give him a refill. Three more rounds of toasts went by before the lawyer was able to make his way to one of the couches, Hoshi-san settling next to him and the intercom, which he promptly buzzed.
It seemed to be instantaneous; the button was pressed and the door to their booth slid open, the hostess pushing in a cart laden with snacks and plenty of more saké as well as bottles of Kirin beer. Charles gratefully took the cool bottle pressed into his hand by Hoshi-san, deciding to nurse it while the rest of the room’s occupants gleefully continued to down drinks. Pickles alone had guzzled three bottles in the time it had taken Charles to have a few sips of his. And Takamizu-san, having finished off a saké bottle and developed a rosy flush, loosened his tie and stepped up to the computer. In the span of time it took for Hoshi-san to try and press another cup of saké on him and for Pickles to toss off two more beers, Takamizu made his selection and stepped onto the stage as tremulous plucked notes emerged from the speakers.
Enka wasn’t really to Charles’ taste and his beer disappeared faster than he’d intended, gone by the time Takamizu warbled his last notes, and he couldn’t turn down the offered saké or forsake the toasts offered to the first karaoke victim. And when he finally managed to keep Hoshi-san from pouring him another round, Charles was just in time to watch Pickles clink necks with Masuhitsu and finish the last of the beer. It had been a solidarity gesture, at least in part, because Masuhitsu was the next to approach the stage. Charles took up the saké cup again as the opening notes of “Murmaider” boomed out and a reedy Japanese tenor tried to tackle Nathan’s death growl.
Saké went down so easily, too easily, lubricating wheels of social interaction, and soon enough the booth was filled with poor singing – although Sayoka’s redition of some J-Pop song had actually been quite good – and raised voices. Even Charles relaxed enough to loosen his tie, although he kept his suit jacket despite the heat that made sweat gather in his armpits and along his hairline. He and Hoshi-san had been discussing some of the finer points of the merchandising rights when a hush fell on the room. The lawyer looked up in time to see Pickles grin in wicked delight and make his karaoke selection. And then the drummer took the stage.
Microphone in hand, head down, positioned just slightly off center, Pickles was every inch the performer even though his stage was only four feet square and his audience was tiny and very drunk. He waited, still and silent, as the music started. Rhythm guitar first, subdued but ever so slightly discordant, and then the snare and cymbals, the beat catching him and making him sway, the toe of one gray-and-black sneaker tapping gently. The music was familiar, tugged at Charles’ memories without letting him recall anything, and he watched, as ensnared as the Japanese executives, as Pickles put on his show.
Thirty seconds in and the pace picked up, the volume rising and the rhythm guitar crescendoing before it cut out and the lead came screaming in. The drummer, caught up in the music, rolled his hips, nodded his head to the beat. And then his chin came up and his voice, clear and strong and true, washed over the room. He still wasn’t looking at them head-on, gaze focused somewhere over their shoulders as the first disgruntled, musing lyrics spilled from him. Pickles turned on the start of the second verse, swaggered a few steps across the stage as he let more disgusted words come forth, tone firming as he picked up the resolve the lyrics held.
Charles knew the song as soon as Pickles sang the first lyrics. He’d been a different person when he’d first heard this song, not so jaded or bitter, but as angry and determined as the words Pickles was spitting out so ferociously. He’d had the same idea, the same opinions, had wanted to change the world, had even worn the goddamned t-shirt. The lawyer stared as Pickles tossed his head back, microphone above his mouth as he held the higher, longer notes of the third verse and then he couldn’t look away as green eyes pinned him in place, one fist jabbing the air to punctuate the words.
“Revolution calling
Revolution calling
Revolution calling you
[There's a] Revolution calling
Revolution calling
Gotta make a change
Gotta push, gotta push it on through”
Strutting and glaring, owning the space, Charles was reminded with pressing immediacy that Pickles was not just a drunken rhythm expert. His voice soared, the song choice perfect for his range and style of delivery, and damn if he didn’t own it, bring somewhere new with the venom and rage that worked so well in Dethklok. And when the last notes died away, he broke into a grin and bowed to their applause.
The rest of the evening passed in a alcoholic daze, the saké pushed into Charles’ hands downed without much thought as a touch of melancholy settled over him. He’d had such dreams, such grand plans, and sure, he was more or less in control of the people who ruled over a third of the world, but had he REALLY accomplished anything?
Hoshi-san’s second, a near-silent man of about Charles’ age, Narishio-san sat down next to the lawyer as the evening began to wind down. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his wallet, carefully smoothing the creases out of the glossy material before he passed it to Charles. In the old magazine clipping, a younger Pickles pouted out at the world, green eyes vivid from the smoky eyeliner and teased red mane almost too vibrant to look at. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, the same one Charles had owned, with the bat-like symbol in bloody scarlet emblazoned on his chest and posed with three other similarly clad young men.
“My wife,” Narishio murmured in perfect, Australian-accented English, “thinks he looked better when he was in that band. But I think he looks happier now.” He glanced over at the laughing Wisconsonite and back at Charles. “Don’t you think?”
Charles didn’t say a word, just looked at the picture and then at the drummer as he tossed back another shot of saké. Narishio patted him on the shoulder and headed over to get the image autographed for his wife.
Shinjuku was much quieter when the two Americans emerged back on the street level. Charles, to his embarrassment, wasn’t as steady on his feet as he’d like and it was with clenched teeth and eyes firmly fixed on the next corner that he made his way the few blocks towards the subway station they’d need to take to get to their hotel. Pickles, on whom saké apparently had about as much affect as everything else in the – for him – limited quantities he’d consumed, was humming under his breath and he kept glancing at the lawyer out of the corner of his eye.
“What?” Charles finally snapped after he tripped up a curb, shaking off the hand that reached out to catch his elbow.
“It’s been a long time since I saw you drunk, Charlie. Long time.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Didn’t remember you as a douche bag drunk but, eh, ‘s been a while.”
The glare was a bad idea. Without a focus, his vision wavered and he stumbled. Pickles’ warm body caught him, shrugged into his personal space with an ease that wasn’t fair. An arm went around his waist, tucked up beneath his jacket to press against the thin cotton of his shirt, and it tightened, wouldn’t let him go when he tried to jerk away.
“Relax, Charlie. No shame in drinkin’ a little more than ya thought. Hell, I do it all the damn time. And you help me out so this one time lemme do the same. ‘Sides, we’re in Tokyo. Everybody around us is in the same boat at this time a night.”
Charles groused a little but didn’t try to pull away and when they made it an entire block, he relaxed, let his weight slump a bit into the drummer. He hadn’t meant to speak but alcohol had a tendency to loosen his tongue against his will and better judgment.
“That was…you sang…I didn’t know you liked Queensryche.”
“Yeah. I mean, I listened to a lotta stuff, all kindsa tapes that probably saw like twenty people before they reached me. Early metal, thrash, psychedelic shit from the 70s. I always hadda thing fer Rush, Neil Peart bein’ a drummer god an’ all, and word on the street was that Operation: Mindcrime was the like evolution of Rush and progressivism. Now, and don’t you tell Nat’an, but progressive metal ain’t all bad. And dat album was, IS, fuckin’ amazing. It came out the year before Snakes ‘n’ Barrels hit it real big and, well, the other guys didn’t go for it so much or we’d had a couple a tracks a bit less glam and more like Mindcrime on the album.”
Pickles scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand, looked anywhere but at Charles as the manager studied him.
“So you liked it for the music.”
“Well YEAH. The whole concept of it too, ya know, and just bein’ fed up with it. Kinda funny, considerin’ how much we were a part of the popular scene, but then again, that was some self destructive hedonist shit, so maybe it’s not so weird.”
“Hmm.”
They walked another block in silence, Charles’ saké-soaked thoughts roiling around. It was incredibly frustrating to be feeling out of sorts and confused when he should have been feeling triumphant instead. The contract negotiations had gone very well and he hadn’t had to sing either. He’d won but for some reason he felt like he’d lost instead.
As they headed down the subway stairs, proceeding slowly and carefully, Charles sighed. “Ever want to change the world?”
Pickles’ grip tightened for a moment but the drummer didn’t speak, only helped the manager down the last few stairs. Abruptly, as soon as his feet were back on level ground, Charles found himself spun and pushed up against a cold, smooth concrete wall, Pickles up in his face and pressed against him. Dizziness washed over the lawyer in waves, the face of the drummer spinning and blurring as he spoke in a heated whisper that Charles could feel against his neck.
“We have. Nat’an’s brutality isn’t what I wanted mebbe, not when I was a kid, but it’s what we got and least it’s real, not the bullshit and the lies and the politics and the broken promises and empty gods. Metal to save the planet or put it out of its misery. And YOU helped, so shut up.”
Lips and teeth crushed against Charles’ mouth, bit his bottom lip until he could absently taste his own blood. He gave in before the onslaught, let the drummer suck on his tongue while he moaned quietly and tried to stay upright. The kiss was good but the fingers working on his belt had to stop although it took more effort than it should have to push Pickles away.
“What do you think you’re-“
Pickles cut him off with another harsh kiss, backed away before the lawyer could get his hands up. “Aww, nobody down here’d notice.”
It was probably true, Charles realized as he took in the slumped bodies, the salaryman puking a few meters away and the one urinating by the tracks. But he wasn’t THAT far gone. Charles took off his glasses, wiped them on a shirt that had somehow gotten untucked when he hadn’t noticed. They glinted, a flash of electric blue neon on them, as he put them back on, eyed the drummer.
“Not here,” Charles said finally, and didn’t say anything more as an arm went again around his waist. Pickles caught the tiny smile, though, and tucked a warm hand into his manager’s back pocket as he steered the pair of them towards the platform that would lead back to their hotel.
Title: Tokyo Disaster Music
Rating: PG
Pairing: Pickles + Charles
Word Count: 4132
A/N: Please excuse the Engrish if you find it offensive. Seeing as this is a Metalocalypse fic and bad accents are the name of the game, I indulged myself. No harm is meant by it.
Charles placed his hands on the smooth table surface, pushing back his chair and rising gratefully to his feet. The meeting had taken longer than he’d anticipated and one of his knees had been twinging at him for the last half hour. Stifling a sigh as his employers equally either remained sitting, sleeping, or made a frantic dash for the door, the lawyer bowed smoothly to the recording industry executives with whom he’d been negotiating. It was to Dethklok’s advantage that he was able to converse in Japanese and had a firm understanding of the demurs and half-acceptances that signified nothing more than consideration but he had forgotten just how long formal language and the dance of politeness and humbling self-directed backhanded compliments could drag on. All he wanted now was to get the band safely back to their hotel and then go to bed. At least he’d secured quite the contract for them, probably one of the best any non-native artist had been able to finagle. As Charles straightened from his incline, Hoshi-san’s stern face broke into a broad grin and he reached out for a Western-style handshake, pumping the lawyer’s arm vigorously.
“You are most tricky, Ofdensen-san. Fujita Records has not conceded so much, ah, artistic ricense in some time. We must crose the contract with good terms. You come, drink and karaoke, yes?”
The executive’s English was actually quite good, only the occasional l-r switch tripping him up, and Charles was only stalling for time when he repeated the offer in Japanese.
“Karaoke and drinks? Would I have to sing, Hoshi-san? I may work for a band but I’m certainly not good enough to be in one.”
The crow’s feet around Hoshi’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and responded once more in Japanese. “That doesn’t matter in karaoke. A few rounds of celebratory saké and we’ll all sound like rock stars. And you can bring –“
Hoshi stopped, looked around the room in surprise, and Charles followed the sweep of his gaze with some trepidation. While they’d been bowing and speaking, nearly all of Dethklok had made good their escape, off to get into who knew what trouble in downtown Shinjuku. Only Pickles was left; the redhead leaning back in his chair and, while blessedly not snoring, sporting a small line of drool across one cheek. The band hadn’t wanted to come to the meeting and Charles would have left them behind but their presence had proven to be quite the source of leverage – Matsuhitsu-san and Sayoka-san were BIG fans – and they had been surprisingly well-behaved, well, at least for them. But now Nathan, Murderface, Skwisgaar and Toki had all vanished, no doubt to traumatize the good citizens of Tokyo with their brutality and lack of cultural understanding.
Charles sighed, excused himself from Hoshi to murmur into the discreet cell phone he carried in one pocket. His charges all had tracking devices embedded in their shoes, dethphones, Skwisgaar’s guitar, Nate’s voice recorder, Murderface’s knife, and Toki’s newly acquired Tomogachi that he’d decided to call ‘baka Swede-kun’ and a few barked orders sent the larger part of the contingent of Klokateers that had accompanied them out to keep an eye on them. Pickles, at least, he could see to himself. And, allowing himself only the slightest upward curl of lip, he could get back at the drummer for sleeping in the middle of an important meeting by making him come along. It would be torture for both of them but at least he wouldn’t be facing karaoke alone.
“Hoshi-san,” Charles said formally as he slipped his phone back into his chinos. “If it is acceptable, myself and Pickles will accompany you. No doubt he will appreciate your wisdom in choosing the appropriate Japanese drinks.”
Hoshi chuckled and nodded. “Pickles-san’s appreciation of fine spirits is well known. We would be honored to have the two of you accompany us. If you would meet me and my associates in the lobby in five minutes, we can get down to the more enjoyable part of negotiating.”
“That would be excellent. We will meet you in the lobby.”
Charles exchanged another round of bows with the Fujita delegation before the Japanese businessmen exited the room, giving him a measure of privacy to wake his charge and explain what was going on. Sighing again, and longing for the promised drinks with an intensity that could only come from a stressful day, the lawyer stepped around the long conference table to stand next to the peacefully snoozing drummer. At least, and he had to give Pickles a small measure of credit, the drummer had only fallen asleep. Toki and Skwisgaar had kicked each other throughout the meeting whenever the rhythm guitarist lost interest in his newest virtual pet or the Swede got bored of noodling on his omnipresent guitar. Nathan had stared blankly out the window, occasionally muttering in a loud voice strange lyrics relating to Godzilla and atomic bombs, and Murderface had ruined the table by carving samurai death scenes into it. Sleeping was rude but it wasn’t disruptive and for that Charles could be thankful.
With that spirit in mind, he reached over to cup one warm, bare shoulder, shaking the drummer and calling his name rather than shouting in his ear like he’d originally thought to do. As the lawyer looked down into the bearded face, green eyes slowly blinked open and gazed up at him uncertainly, a puzzled but strangely soft smile greeting him instead of an annoyed pout.
“Chuck? Wha- wait. ‘s the meetin’ over? Dood, these chairs are effin’ COMFTERBLE. We gotta get some fer the Haus.”
There was no way they were acquiring any of the ergonomically designed chairs for Mordhaus. The band would only sleep through every single meeting in that case and, while that might have been marginally more productive than their situation now, Charles wasn’t quite ready to stoop that low even if the boys approved. He made a noncommittal sort of noise to brush Pickles off and took a step back.
“Well, Pickles, the meeting is over and then again it’s not.” The blank look he got from the redhead made him mentally roll his eyes at himself. He should have known better than to expect the drummer to understand such a contradictory statement. “You and I have to go to the part where the deal REALLY gets sealed.”
“Wait, ya didn’t do that already? And,” Pickles looked around the empty room. “How come I hafta go along with you?”
What he wanted to say was something along the lines of ‘well, the rest of the boys were able to sneak out when I was busy bowing and so you’re just stuck’ but that was as juvenile as the whining note in the drummer’s voice. Instead Charles just tilted his head so that the fluorescent lighting overhead bounced off the lenses of his glasses just so. “Because we’re going to be going out drinking and I believed that was an aspect of this negotiation in which you had some skill.”
“Dood!” Pickles bounced to his feet. “Why didn’tcha say so, Chuck? Saké can be good shit!”
Indeed it would have made more sense to phrase the situation thusly but for some reason his wits were slower than usual. It was probably the result of the extended talks and because thinking in Japanese sometimes felt convoluted and made his brain fire in different regions than normal. Charles followed Pickles to the door and tried to put the matter aside. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was surviving the rest of the evening and avoiding the karaoke side of things.
Hoshi-san and his fellow Fujita recording execs shepherded Charles and Pickles out into the neon-streaked night. As Tokyo was Japan’s capitol, Shinjuku was Tokyo’s party central. Crowds of dark-suited businessmen and office ladies in their pencil skirts pushed down the broad sidewalks, packed the crosswalks where everyone assiduously obeyed the traffic signals to move with the light in a tightly bunched pack. Younger men and women in far more outlandish clothes, many with streaked, dyed, and spiked hair mingled easily among the swarms or hung out on corners with cigarettes dangling from glossed lips. The noise level was, for Japan, incredible, as at least half of the people on the streets had already begun indulging in the national corporate pastime of employee bonding through booze. Pickles, Matsuhitsu and Sayoka hanging on to his every word, took it all in with a broad smile.
“Reminds me of L.A. back in the day. Or mebbe Times Square ‘fore Juli-what’shisname cleaned it up. Good times.”
Charles nodded absently, not really listening as he eyed the crowds. The members of Dethklok would stick out like sore thumbs but the throngs of people were simply overwhelming outside of a concert setting. He hoped he’d sent enough Klokateers after the other boys. A glimpse down a narrow alley filled with flashing signs – a soapland district – almost tempted him off course. There was a ninety percent probability of Skwisgaar being there or somewhere similar, with a seventy-three percent chance of Nathan being with him. Toki was probably in an arcade or manga café, seeing as he’d talked about doing nothing else since he’d first learned they were going to Japan. As for Murderface….Charles had absolutely no idea and that was a little worrying. A finger jabbed in between his shoulder blades, rudely yanked him from his reflection.
“Relax, Chuck.” Pickles stepped up next to him, patted awkwardly at the spot he’d poked to smooth out the wrinkle he’d put in the otherwise still impeccable jacket. “The guys’ll be fine. It’s Tokyo, no way they can get lost for long. They stick out too much. Besides, you got other things ta worry about.”
The drummer jerked his chin, directed the manager’s gaze upward. Hoshi and company had brought them about five blocks from their headquarters to halt in front of a gleaming modern building that stood about fifteen stories high. Glass panels, some opaquely glazed over or curtained and others wide open and lit from within, covered the sixth through twelfth floors. In some of the lit windows Charles could just make out the silhouettes of people. A giant LCD screen advertised a nightclub on the upper levels and private parlors beneath. At least if Charles had to sing, it would only be in front of a very select few people, all of whom he would make sure were completely inebriated first. And if he had his way, he wouldn’t step up to the microphone at all. Clearly amateur singing filled the elevator as their group shuffled on, Hoshi explaining that it was piped in from various booths anonymously when he saw the confusion on American faces.
“Singin’?” Pickles turned to study his manager. “Chuck, you didn’t say nothin’ about singing.”
“It’s karaoke, Pikuru-san.” Matsuhitsu spoke up, eagerness filling his voice. “For bonding and sturessu omit. We sing. And drink much saké.”
“Lotsa saké, hmm? Well dat’s alright then. I can stomach this kinda karaoke.”
At least one of them could, Charles though, dread knotting in his gut as their retinue emerged on the twelfth floor. A tastefully lit lobby met them and a young, smiling blond woman, as Scandinavian as their guitarists, escorted them to a large, soundproofed room. Plush couches in navy and forest green covered one wall and parts of two more. Tables scattered in between already held saké bottles and cups, with drink menus also waiting. The last wall, actually a deep black curtain blocking the view of the city beyond, held a slightly raised platform with a microphone stand, several speakers, and a teleprompter. A computer screen was set into a console off to one side where song choices were listed.
The Japanese record executives moved easily into the space, likely they either leased or outright owned this particular booth. Pickles followed and Charles too, after a rather unexpected pinch to his rear by the hostess. He was still busy collecting himself as the cup of saké was pressed into his hands and Hoshi-san offered up the first round of ‘Kampai!’ for the night. The saké was of the proper sort, slightly warmer than room temperature, and it slid over his tongue with a sleek whisper of taste that hinted at expense and craftsmanship. Almost as soon as Charles brought the cup back from his lips, Sayoka was at his elbow with one of the small, ceramic carafes to give him a refill. Three more rounds of toasts went by before the lawyer was able to make his way to one of the couches, Hoshi-san settling next to him and the intercom, which he promptly buzzed.
It seemed to be instantaneous; the button was pressed and the door to their booth slid open, the hostess pushing in a cart laden with snacks and plenty of more saké as well as bottles of Kirin beer. Charles gratefully took the cool bottle pressed into his hand by Hoshi-san, deciding to nurse it while the rest of the room’s occupants gleefully continued to down drinks. Pickles alone had guzzled three bottles in the time it had taken Charles to have a few sips of his. And Takamizu-san, having finished off a saké bottle and developed a rosy flush, loosened his tie and stepped up to the computer. In the span of time it took for Hoshi-san to try and press another cup of saké on him and for Pickles to toss off two more beers, Takamizu made his selection and stepped onto the stage as tremulous plucked notes emerged from the speakers.
Enka wasn’t really to Charles’ taste and his beer disappeared faster than he’d intended, gone by the time Takamizu warbled his last notes, and he couldn’t turn down the offered saké or forsake the toasts offered to the first karaoke victim. And when he finally managed to keep Hoshi-san from pouring him another round, Charles was just in time to watch Pickles clink necks with Masuhitsu and finish the last of the beer. It had been a solidarity gesture, at least in part, because Masuhitsu was the next to approach the stage. Charles took up the saké cup again as the opening notes of “Murmaider” boomed out and a reedy Japanese tenor tried to tackle Nathan’s death growl.
Saké went down so easily, too easily, lubricating wheels of social interaction, and soon enough the booth was filled with poor singing – although Sayoka’s redition of some J-Pop song had actually been quite good – and raised voices. Even Charles relaxed enough to loosen his tie, although he kept his suit jacket despite the heat that made sweat gather in his armpits and along his hairline. He and Hoshi-san had been discussing some of the finer points of the merchandising rights when a hush fell on the room. The lawyer looked up in time to see Pickles grin in wicked delight and make his karaoke selection. And then the drummer took the stage.
Microphone in hand, head down, positioned just slightly off center, Pickles was every inch the performer even though his stage was only four feet square and his audience was tiny and very drunk. He waited, still and silent, as the music started. Rhythm guitar first, subdued but ever so slightly discordant, and then the snare and cymbals, the beat catching him and making him sway, the toe of one gray-and-black sneaker tapping gently. The music was familiar, tugged at Charles’ memories without letting him recall anything, and he watched, as ensnared as the Japanese executives, as Pickles put on his show.
Thirty seconds in and the pace picked up, the volume rising and the rhythm guitar crescendoing before it cut out and the lead came screaming in. The drummer, caught up in the music, rolled his hips, nodded his head to the beat. And then his chin came up and his voice, clear and strong and true, washed over the room. He still wasn’t looking at them head-on, gaze focused somewhere over their shoulders as the first disgruntled, musing lyrics spilled from him. Pickles turned on the start of the second verse, swaggered a few steps across the stage as he let more disgusted words come forth, tone firming as he picked up the resolve the lyrics held.
Charles knew the song as soon as Pickles sang the first lyrics. He’d been a different person when he’d first heard this song, not so jaded or bitter, but as angry and determined as the words Pickles was spitting out so ferociously. He’d had the same idea, the same opinions, had wanted to change the world, had even worn the goddamned t-shirt. The lawyer stared as Pickles tossed his head back, microphone above his mouth as he held the higher, longer notes of the third verse and then he couldn’t look away as green eyes pinned him in place, one fist jabbing the air to punctuate the words.
“Revolution calling
Revolution calling
Revolution calling you
[There's a] Revolution calling
Revolution calling
Gotta make a change
Gotta push, gotta push it on through”
Strutting and glaring, owning the space, Charles was reminded with pressing immediacy that Pickles was not just a drunken rhythm expert. His voice soared, the song choice perfect for his range and style of delivery, and damn if he didn’t own it, bring somewhere new with the venom and rage that worked so well in Dethklok. And when the last notes died away, he broke into a grin and bowed to their applause.
The rest of the evening passed in a alcoholic daze, the saké pushed into Charles’ hands downed without much thought as a touch of melancholy settled over him. He’d had such dreams, such grand plans, and sure, he was more or less in control of the people who ruled over a third of the world, but had he REALLY accomplished anything?
Hoshi-san’s second, a near-silent man of about Charles’ age, Narishio-san sat down next to the lawyer as the evening began to wind down. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his wallet, carefully smoothing the creases out of the glossy material before he passed it to Charles. In the old magazine clipping, a younger Pickles pouted out at the world, green eyes vivid from the smoky eyeliner and teased red mane almost too vibrant to look at. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, the same one Charles had owned, with the bat-like symbol in bloody scarlet emblazoned on his chest and posed with three other similarly clad young men.
“My wife,” Narishio murmured in perfect, Australian-accented English, “thinks he looked better when he was in that band. But I think he looks happier now.” He glanced over at the laughing Wisconsonite and back at Charles. “Don’t you think?”
Charles didn’t say a word, just looked at the picture and then at the drummer as he tossed back another shot of saké. Narishio patted him on the shoulder and headed over to get the image autographed for his wife.
Shinjuku was much quieter when the two Americans emerged back on the street level. Charles, to his embarrassment, wasn’t as steady on his feet as he’d like and it was with clenched teeth and eyes firmly fixed on the next corner that he made his way the few blocks towards the subway station they’d need to take to get to their hotel. Pickles, on whom saké apparently had about as much affect as everything else in the – for him – limited quantities he’d consumed, was humming under his breath and he kept glancing at the lawyer out of the corner of his eye.
“What?” Charles finally snapped after he tripped up a curb, shaking off the hand that reached out to catch his elbow.
“It’s been a long time since I saw you drunk, Charlie. Long time.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Didn’t remember you as a douche bag drunk but, eh, ‘s been a while.”
The glare was a bad idea. Without a focus, his vision wavered and he stumbled. Pickles’ warm body caught him, shrugged into his personal space with an ease that wasn’t fair. An arm went around his waist, tucked up beneath his jacket to press against the thin cotton of his shirt, and it tightened, wouldn’t let him go when he tried to jerk away.
“Relax, Charlie. No shame in drinkin’ a little more than ya thought. Hell, I do it all the damn time. And you help me out so this one time lemme do the same. ‘Sides, we’re in Tokyo. Everybody around us is in the same boat at this time a night.”
Charles groused a little but didn’t try to pull away and when they made it an entire block, he relaxed, let his weight slump a bit into the drummer. He hadn’t meant to speak but alcohol had a tendency to loosen his tongue against his will and better judgment.
“That was…you sang…I didn’t know you liked Queensryche.”
“Yeah. I mean, I listened to a lotta stuff, all kindsa tapes that probably saw like twenty people before they reached me. Early metal, thrash, psychedelic shit from the 70s. I always hadda thing fer Rush, Neil Peart bein’ a drummer god an’ all, and word on the street was that Operation: Mindcrime was the like evolution of Rush and progressivism. Now, and don’t you tell Nat’an, but progressive metal ain’t all bad. And dat album was, IS, fuckin’ amazing. It came out the year before Snakes ‘n’ Barrels hit it real big and, well, the other guys didn’t go for it so much or we’d had a couple a tracks a bit less glam and more like Mindcrime on the album.”
Pickles scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand, looked anywhere but at Charles as the manager studied him.
“So you liked it for the music.”
“Well YEAH. The whole concept of it too, ya know, and just bein’ fed up with it. Kinda funny, considerin’ how much we were a part of the popular scene, but then again, that was some self destructive hedonist shit, so maybe it’s not so weird.”
“Hmm.”
They walked another block in silence, Charles’ saké-soaked thoughts roiling around. It was incredibly frustrating to be feeling out of sorts and confused when he should have been feeling triumphant instead. The contract negotiations had gone very well and he hadn’t had to sing either. He’d won but for some reason he felt like he’d lost instead.
As they headed down the subway stairs, proceeding slowly and carefully, Charles sighed. “Ever want to change the world?”
Pickles’ grip tightened for a moment but the drummer didn’t speak, only helped the manager down the last few stairs. Abruptly, as soon as his feet were back on level ground, Charles found himself spun and pushed up against a cold, smooth concrete wall, Pickles up in his face and pressed against him. Dizziness washed over the lawyer in waves, the face of the drummer spinning and blurring as he spoke in a heated whisper that Charles could feel against his neck.
“We have. Nat’an’s brutality isn’t what I wanted mebbe, not when I was a kid, but it’s what we got and least it’s real, not the bullshit and the lies and the politics and the broken promises and empty gods. Metal to save the planet or put it out of its misery. And YOU helped, so shut up.”
Lips and teeth crushed against Charles’ mouth, bit his bottom lip until he could absently taste his own blood. He gave in before the onslaught, let the drummer suck on his tongue while he moaned quietly and tried to stay upright. The kiss was good but the fingers working on his belt had to stop although it took more effort than it should have to push Pickles away.
“What do you think you’re-“
Pickles cut him off with another harsh kiss, backed away before the lawyer could get his hands up. “Aww, nobody down here’d notice.”
It was probably true, Charles realized as he took in the slumped bodies, the salaryman puking a few meters away and the one urinating by the tracks. But he wasn’t THAT far gone. Charles took off his glasses, wiped them on a shirt that had somehow gotten untucked when he hadn’t noticed. They glinted, a flash of electric blue neon on them, as he put them back on, eyed the drummer.
“Not here,” Charles said finally, and didn’t say anything more as an arm went again around his waist. Pickles caught the tiny smile, though, and tucked a warm hand into his manager’s back pocket as he steered the pair of them towards the platform that would lead back to their hotel.
