Dethklok

Rating: PG
Category: AU
Pairing(s): None
Warnings: Mention of drug use.
Summary: When opportunity knocks…
Notes: First of two ficlets for ftw302! Sorry it’s a bit late… okay a lot late. Meep.

They had the beginnings of a band. In fact as far as band beginnings went, they were off to a good start. A guy couldn’t ask for a bigger gift than to walk into a random bar and just happen to find Pickles, former lead vocalist of Snakes ‘n’ Barrels, drowning his sorrows in a dark corner at the far end of the bar.

Nathan would never admit it out loud, but he had been a huge SnB fan. He went to every concert he could, had all the albums, read all the articles, and followed the band from the beginning. So he wasn’t surprised in the least that Pickles seemed to be more or less hiding in the bar. When Nathan saw him, his glory days were all a distant memory. It had been four years since the band broke up. The money was gone, the albums were gathering dust in second hand record shops, and the trademark cascade of flaming red hair was thinning on top. Pickles was twenty-six and a has-been. It didn’t get much more brutal than that.

Nathan didn’t know why he walked over to him, other than the guy looked so despondent and lost. He sat at the table, handing him a friendship offering of one of those goofy froufrou drinks he knew Pickles loved. Pickles looked at the drink, then at Nathan, the expression in the green eyes one of mild suspicion. After a moment, Pickles accepted the drink.

“I saw you at Max’s Kansas City,” Nathan said.

Pickles smiled faintly. “Wow. That was a long time ago. We were just starting. I think we were one of the last bands to play there before it closed in ’81.”

“Yeah that was where I first saw you.” He grinned. “My friend tried to pick you up.”

Pickles snorted. “Yeah a lot of guys tried to pick me up back then. Lotta guys, lotta girls… a few indeterminates…” He sighed. “Naht looking forward to going back to grim reality.”

“Why would you?” said Nathan. “I mean… hell… you’re Pickles.”

“Lotta former rock stars selling real estate and flipping burgers,” said Pickles. “And my education only goes up to ninth grade.”

“Well can’t you start another band?”

Pickles shrugged. “I could but I don’t want the bullshit of being the front-man anymore. If the Music Fairy dropped out of the sky I think I’d ask to be the drummer in a metal band.”

Nathan had a swallow of his beer. “What would you call it?”

Pickles snorted. “Snakes and Dildos.”

Nathan grinned. “No, seriously.”

“Seriously? You’ll laugh.”

“No I won’t.”

“You ever hear of those mortality clocks people wear on their wrists? You factor in things like smoking and drinking, drug use, lifestyle, and it tells you how long you’ll live. I was thinking ‘Mortality Clock’.”

Nathan pondered, then shrugged. “Bit… unwieldy. Might be better if it was shorter and snappier. Mortal Clock?”

“Dood, sounds like a failed super villain. How about Zombie Clock?”

“Oh yeah that’s great. The first album cover can show a Timex rising from the dead.”

Nathan had another drink of beer, then raised an eyebrow. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sharpie and wrote on a napkin:

He showed it to Pickles, who grinned and borrowed Nathan’s pen, crossing out certain letters:

Then he replaced the first ‘C’ with a ‘K’.

“What do you think?” Pickles asked Nathan.

“Dethklok. Well… kinda lame. We can always change it later if we can’t think of anything better.”

***---***

So they were a band. Sort of. Nathan and Pickles moved into a loft to save on dwindling funds, and Nathan brought with him an obnoxious bus station busker named William Murderface, who hailed from parts unknown. He was rude, nasty and smelly, but he could play a mean bass, even if he did dress like a reject from an AC/DC look-alike contest. Better still, he was as aggressive as a pit-bull, and had a real talent for keeping away bill collectors. Few people wished to mess with a man who began conversations by urinating on them and went downhill from there.

So they had a drummer, a bass player, and a singer/songwriter. There was just one more thing they needed. A guitar player. But not just any guitar player. Nathan was very specific about what he wanted.

“Scandinavian,” said Nathan. “From the land of Black Metal. He’s gotta be Scandinavian.”

Pickles and Murderface exchanged glances. “Oh sure that’s great, Nathan,” said Pickles. “Like there are dozens of Scandinavian metal guitarists just roaming freely around the streets looking for work.”

“He has to be Scandinavian,” insisted Nathan.

“Nathan be reasonable!” said Pickles. “Look I’ve been all over the States with Snakes ‘n’ Barrels, I never once met a Scandinavian guitar player. They’re rare!”

“No. He must be Scandinavian.”

Pickles shook his head. “You’re on a unicorn hunt. You’re naht gonna find one. And by the time you do, we’ll be playing metal at talent night in the old folks home.”

Nathan pouted as if he had been just told the pet shop was out of the kind of puppy he wanted. Sighing heavily, he stood up and grabbed his coat. “Okay, if we don’t find a Scandinavian guitar player in, like, say… a year, then… we’ll get… a different kind. I’m going for a walk.”

“A walk?!” said Pickles. “At this hour in this neighbourhood? You’ll get raped.”

“Or mugged,” said Murderface.

“Mugged and raped,” said Pickles.

“Nah you have to pay exshtra for that,” said Murderface.

“I’m going down to the docks,” said Nathan.

“Oh, good thinking there, Nathan, maybe a Shcandinavian guitar player will fall off a ship and bite you,” said Murderface.

“Why don’t you bite me?” grumbled Nathan.

“It’s dangerous!” said Pickles, trying to get Nathan to see reason.

Nathan left anyway, annoyed and dispirited. Nothing was working out. It was taking too long to find a guitarist, even with Pickles contacting every friend he had in the music industry. Guitar players of the calibre they had in mind were not to be had. Pickles had even tried to contact Tony DiMarco from his first band, but Tony was not to be found. He was lost on the streets somewhere, his fortune and talent squandered on addiction.

Nathan walked down to the piers in the pre-dawn dark. True it wasn’t the safest area in town, but at his size he wasn’t much concerned. He was well over six feet tall, and looked like he ate small children for breakfast. They didn’t have to know about the pair of kittens he had rescued from a crate the other day, or the fact that he had been known to take in baby birds. He looked mean. And, if he had to, he could defend himself.

He strolled along the docks, watching the transition from night to day, moving through the mist that rose from the cold ocean water. Soon the men who worked here would be showing up, and the human animals that hunted for weak and easy prey would slink back into their holes. For now the docks were in a strange sort of limbo, and the world seemed to be waiting…

He practically ran Nathan over, hurtling around a corner and smack into his chest. Nathan caught the slightly smaller man, holding him as he struggled and squiggled, fighting him, long wild brown hair flying.

“Calm down! What’s the matter?”

The man stopped fighting and looked at him with huge, terrified blue eyes. He was trembling in terror, and, now that Nathan could get a look at him, probably not old enough to vote. He was bruised and bloody, new injuries layered over old, and his clothing was dirty and tattered.

“Calm down,” said Nathan. “I’m not gonna hurt you. What’s the matter?”

“He went over here!” called a voice, and there came the sound of running feet. Nathan moved in front of the kid, narrowing his eyes as five guys ran into view. They slowed to a stop when they saw Nathan. They were typical dock toughs; smelly, ragged, and mangy. Human rats out for whatever they could get. Nathan wasn’t intimidated.

“Give us the kid,” said one of them, dressed in the usual fake ‘bling’ and shitcatcher pants. Cripes when did showing your fucking underwear to the world become a fashion statement? Nathan glanced at the kid, who was hiding behind him, shivering, blue eyes enormous.

“I don’t think he wants to go with you,” said Nathan.

“Yeah well I don’t really give a fuck what he wants,” said the dock rat, and pulled out the inevitable handgun. “Now get out of the w…”

Nathan didn’t know the language the blonde was screaming when he came tearing around the corner. Before the group of toughs had a chance to react, almost seven feet of enraged immigrant had the first one by the throat, hurling him to the ground before slamming his fist again and again into the man’s face. Nathan charged into the group as well, scattering the rest of their attackers, who didn’t want to fight now that the odds were no longer in their favour. The young fellow with the long brown hair ran over to the blonde, catching his wrist and stopping him from striking the man again. Nathan had a funny feeling it was not out of consideration for the bleeding victim. The blonde let his injured captive go, then rose to his feet to check over his friend. They spoke to each other in a tongue Nathan did not know, then turned to look at him.

“T’anks for savings me,” said the brown-haired kid. His accent was extremely heavy. It was difficult to understand him.

“S’okay,” said Nathan. “But… y’know… you have to be careful down here. What’s your name?”

“Oh I’s Toki. Dis here Skwisgaar. His English nots so goods. We just arrives t’ree days ago. We been livings ons da docks.”

“Living on the docks? Don’t you have someplace to go?”

“Ja, well… we t’oughts we did. Is complis-dated.”

“Where are you from?” asked Nathan.

“I froms Lillehammer, Norway. Skwisgaar froms Sweden. We comes to America lookings to gets into band.”

Nathan felt his heart do something strange in his chest. It would be too much to ask for. Dare he pray? Oh wouldn’t it be fucking awesome if…

“We guitars players.”

Oh man. Oh thank the metal gods. Oh please let them…

“We plays da black metal. I play rhythm, Skwisgaar play lead. He real famous in Sweden, he been in likes a million bands.”

Praise be to Odin! “You’re staying with me,” said Nathan. “Come on. This is no place for you guys. I’ll take you to my place, you can be warm. It’ll be a little crowded, but… you’ll be a lot safer. I’m Nathan.”

He could tell Toki and Skwisgaar were a bit wary about the situation, but they really had no choice. The toughs would be back, and they would be lusting for blood. Finally, they agreed to come with him. They gathered up their scant few belongings and followed Nathan back to his loft, up the rickety iron stairs to the metal door. Nathan unlocked it and went inside, grinning. Pickles and Murderface were drinking beer on the couch, watching TV.

“Hey how did you get the Discovery Channel?” asked Nathan.

“Ah, we’re just… borrowing some cable from the neighbours,” said Pickles. “How was your walk?”

Nathan grinned. “Guess what I found down on the pier?”

Before Pickles or Murderface could venture a guess, Toki stepped into the room, followed by the lean tall form of Skwisgaar. Pickles and Murderface stared, jaws hanging.

“No way,” said Murderface.

Nathan continued to grin. “This is Toki, he’s from Norway and he plays rhythm, and this is Skwisgaar from Sweden. He plays lead.”

“No fucking way,” said Pickles. He rose from the couch and walked over to them. Skwisgaar regarded Pickles disdainfully from his superior height. Toki gently pushed Pickles back.

“I wouldn’t gets too close. He spits like a llama dis guy.”

Pickles diligently backed up a step. “He’s taller than a fucking tree!”

Murderface stood up and strolled over to stand beside Pickles, crossing his arms as he looked at Skwisgaar. “Yeah well that’s all fine and dandy if we were looking for a new lamp, but we need guitar playersh. Are you two any good?”

Skwisgaar leaned forward, staring down into the cold yellow-green eyes. He spoke in a very heavy Swedish accent. “I fastest guitars players ins da world.”

Murderface was not daunted. “That’s not what I ashked you, is it? I ashked if you were any good.”

“Yeah besides,” said Pickles. “You can’t be the fastest guitar player in the world because… like… Yngwie Malmsteen is.”

Skwisgaar snorted. “I mops floor wit’s him.”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

Skwisgaar tossed his mane of gold hair, beautiful and arrogant. “I don’ts has to be provings myself to balds has-been.”

The fight was immediate and spectacular. Nathan pulled Toki out of the way as Skwisgaar and Pickles went at it like a pair of alley cats. Murderface stood on the couch and shouted encouragement, while the neighbours banged on the ceiling below to get them to stop the noise. Nathan released Toki and waded into the middle of the battle, separating the combatants, grabbing handfuls of red and gold hair.

“Enough!” he bellowed in his deep rough voice. “We’re finally a band now, let’s save the fighting for when we can afford to break shit.”

Pickles gave up the fight, yanking his red hair out of Nathan’s grasp, whimpering as he noticed the collection of long scarlet strands left in his fist. “We’re not a band yet,” said Pickles. “We need a manager, someone to… you know… help us get gigs and make sure we don’t get screwed and stuff.”

Nathan let the red hairs fall from his hand. “Where we gonna find that?”

There was a knock at the door. The five people in the room froze, blinking at each other, each feeling the eerie sensation of the hair standing up all over their bodies.

“No way,” said Pickles. “No way, it just can’t…”

For no reason any of them could think of, the radio clicked on, and out came the sound of ‘Opportunities’ by the Pet Shop Boys.

You can tell I’m educated, I studied at the Sorbonne,
Doctored in mathematics, I could have been a don.
I can program a computer, choose the perfect time,
If you’ve got the inclination, I have got the crime.

Oh, there’s a lot of opportunities
If you know when to take them, you know?
There’s a lot of opportunities,
If there aren’t, you can make them,
Make or break them…

Nathan turned off the radio. Silence filled the room like a smothering weight. After a moment there came that knock again. Slowly Skwisgaar turned the knob and opened the door, stepping back. There before them was a small man in a grey Armani suit.

“Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you but my car seems to be having engine trouble and I was wondering if you might have a phone I could use? If that’s… not a problem…?”

“No, that’s not a problem,” said Pickles, rather subdued and a little frightened. “Phone’s right here.”

The man stepped into the room, and gave him a look of curiosity. “You’re Pickles, aren’t you? You were the lead singer for Snakes ‘n’ Barrels.”

“Yeah that’s me,” said Pickles.

“I should thank you for keeping me company through university.”

“Where did you study?” asked Nathan, exchanging quick glances with Pickles.

“At the Sorbonne, in Paris. They have a wonderful economics and management course.” The small man gave Pickles a speculative look. “You ah… wouldn’t happen to be looking for a manger, would you?”

“Actually,” said Pickles. “Yeah we are.”

“Well, I’m available. Here is my card.” He handed Pickles a business card that read ‘CF Offdensen ~ Corporate Law, Management, Financial Advisor.’ Pickles read it then handed it to Nathan. Offdensen had a small device in his hand, which he was consulting. “I can have you playing The Cavern this Friday, or if you need a little more time I can have you at The Pit next Saturday.”

“No, The Cavern will be just fine,” said Pickles in a quiet voice.

“Very good. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must run. I’ll be in touch.”

Offdensen left. The five in the loft stood in silence for a time.

“Did… anybody notice that… he didn’t use the phone?” said Nathan.

“And didn’ts ask to hears us befores he agrees to manage?” said Skwisgaar.

Murderface looked out the window to the street below. He watched for a long time, but he never saw Offdensen emerge, nor did he see a car. Pickles turned towards the TV, intending to turn it off, but paused as he saw a small stack of money wrapped in a slip of paper on the packing crate they were using for a coffee table. He reached out to pick it up, half afraid to touch it as he unwrapped the note from around the bills and read it.

“There will be more where this came from, boys. Enjoy,” read Pickles aloud.

It wasn’t easy to jam the five of themselves into Nathan’s bed, but they managed…