Fic: The King in Metal (7/15)
“The King in Metal”
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Charles/OFC
Beta: wikdsushi
Characters: Charles, Dethklok, OCs
Warnings: Cursing, Drugs, PTSD, off-screen sex
Summary: Charles endures pretty much the worst family reunion ever.
[Back to the beginning]
This chapter is a favorite of mine. I don't know why.
Chapter 7
As the celebratory cheer of a decent amount of alcohol worse off, Charles got down to the work that piled up in his absence. His TV was on, his cell phone was ready and his laptop was open on the desk. First he dug into his emergency travel kit for some alka seltzer tablets and downed a bubbly glass of the stuff; dinner wasn’t sitting well with him.
Minutes later he was deep in a conversation with Roy Cornickelson while checking his email, but trying not to sound like Roy had anything less than his full attention. “No, I don’t think so.” He scanned his emails for scandals, knowing if there was anything really serious, Angela would have left a message on his phone. “Look, my opinion is still the same. I know it would be a lot of fast money, but long-term - Dethklok is not going to go public as a corporation, and it’s not going - I know, I know. It is a lot of money.” This was an old conversation; people on the board of directors at Crystal Mountain wanted to take their company public but it would only work if it was done in conjunction with Dethklok Inc, and Charles was unwilling to let outside investors into Dethklok, much less anyone with some day trading software. “It’s just - you have a very stable business model for a record company. And you know I mean that as a compliment. But Dethklok doesn’t adhere to models.” There was more crankiness on the other end. Roy wasn’t so set on the idea, but he was set on finding an excuse for his board other than ‘Charles Ofdensen told me not to.’
“Yes, we have connections to a lot of companies that are traded publicly, but that’s all merchandise. Our futures aren’t tied to those companies. It’s just not a stable portfolio because Dethklok - well, you know the boys. Yes, they’re going to deliver a record. When? When Nathan stops deleting tracks ... Yes, but last time you said that, we got Dethwater as our album. So it more than worked out in the end, wouldn’t you say? What? Yes, sure. I can send you some numbers. Can it wait a day or two? No, I’m not in Mordhaus. I’m in Denmark.” His eyes shifted briefly to the TV screen as the Dethklok Minute ran, but it was muted. He would replay it on his computer when he had time. “Yes, family. I haven’t mentioned them? I rarely see them. Distant relatives, the European side. Yes, Sarah’s with me. Sure, I’ll tell her you said hello.” He belched, which wasn’t a great thing to do over the phone, but he caught it in time to cover his mouth so Roy didn’t hear it. “No, I’m not going to float the idea to her. She hasn’t been to a Dethklok shareholder meeting in ... ever, come to think of it. If I believed it was a good idea, I would just mention I was doing it in an email and she would OK it.” Sarah was the seventh and final shareholder in the company, with one percent of the corporation, so he had sent her a letter inviting her to the meeting, but it was just a legal formality. “Roy, I have to be honest with you - well, yes, I always try to be honest with you, but I’m putting emphasis on it. I don’t think Crystal Mountain should go public. I won’t say anything against it in the media if you decide to go forward with it, but I won’t support it. Yes, I know people will interpret that as they will. The board? Tell them to think in the long term.”
He leaned over to look more closely at the tiny print of an email but felt a wave of nausea and decided not to do that again. “Really? Warren Buffet said that? What a surprise. Because investing in the stock market is all he ever says to do because he makes his money in stocks. Yes, I’ve met him. He’s trying to get a friendly rivalry thing going since I beat him in the Forbes list in 2007, which is why I don’t trust his advice. And don’t really have time for it, to be honest. I have a band to manage. OK, OK. Yeah. Thanks for seeing my side of it.” He coughed as more air bubbles came up. “Bring you some Danish specialties? Hell no. I think I’m barely going to make it out of here with my stomach intact. I don’t know why, but this place is like Mexico to me. Sure, we’ll do that, when my physical therapy is over. Pebble Beach, yes. Great. Nice talking to you. Bye.”
He was happy to be off the phone, even for a minute. There were more calls to make, with a final call to check in with Angela, but her emails indicated everything was fine. He turned on the remote camera, and the boys were in the recording studio, making a mess of it with food and beer and lacking instruments. Knubbler was nowhere in sight, so they definitely weren’t going to get anything done. Or maybe they would surprise him - they were certainly capable of that, in every possible way.
Charles replayed the Dethklok Minute on his computer, but saw nothing he didn’t expect. Some more coverage of the latest Skwisgaar/Toki fight, just fanning the flames of news at this point. Dethklok didn’t do something interesting every day. Their fans did, but that was not what the Dethklok Minute was about.
He was about to send a text to 82 to run to the store for the Danish equivalent of Pepto-Bismol when he made the very, very sudden decision that it wouldn’t be necessary for the moment, and ran to the bathroom instead. The sherry came up first, which wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t a lot of alcohol, but it didn’t help that he’d been so unsettled in the past day. After the second round, where he got a second look at his dinner, did he move away from the toilet and remove his tie. His mind kept going back to the calls, but he knew he had more because his stomach still felt like it was on fire, and wasn’t he supposed to feel better after he threw up?
Third round. The rest of dinner, probably. How much could possibly be in his stomach? This time he took off his glasses ahead so he didn’t have to hold onto them; this wouldn’t be the first time he fished his glasses out of a toilet. It was all part of the magic of the music industry. He coughed up the rest of it, barely able to catch his breath, and leaned against the wall with the terrible floral wallpaper. The world was blurry and the light too bright, and he focused on keeping whatever else was in him down.
His Dethphone rang. He ignored it, letting it go to voicemail, but the caller hung up and just dialed again. When he focused on the screen, he saw it was Nathan. Shit, he would have to take this. “Yes?”
“It’s me. Nathan.” As if Charles would think it was some other gravely-voiced vocalist calling him on his private line. “I wanted to talk to you about the tour.”
“What is it?” There was also no use in asking if it was pressing; everything was pressing to Nathan when it was fresh in his head.
“Snackers. We should take her on tour.”
“We’ll probably lose a lot of employees - wait, you mean on stage? A stage is not a good place - “ He dropped the phone and hugged the toilet bowel with all his might, dragging his body there in record time. Dinner - or it had to be the appetizer, now - did not come up as quickly as he wanted to. He could still hear Nathan on the phone, demanding things, but he couldn’t focus on the voice. And his other line was ringing. He barely had time to wipe his mouth before he returned and saw Murderface was calling him. “Nathan, we can work something out when I get back. I have to take this call.”
“It’s just Murderface. Yeah, douchebag, I said that.” They were all in the same room, no doubt. Ganging up on him at precisely the wrong time. “Go tell Murderface to fuck off.”
“I will use my discretion.” He pushed the touch screen to answer William’s call. “William, what can I do for you?” Bile rose in the back of his throat - not because of Murderface, for once - but he kept it down for the moment.
“I have ideasch!”
“For Planet Piss?”
“It doeschn’t have to be about Planet Pissch all the time, Charlsch. I’m a very complicated artischt.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was now very available when his glasses were off. He already had a headache. “Then what is it about?”
“Acouschtic. I want to do schome acouschtic stuff. For the ladiesch. HEY! SCHTOP LAUGHING AT ME!” There was giggling in the background. “Dildosch.”
“William, can this possibly wait?”
“Hey! I’m important! I’m a member of Dethklok.”
“I can assure you, you are very, urp, important to the band and to me as a client. I always, urp, have you best interests at heart.”
“Dat’s seriously gay, dood,” Pickles said.
“Picklesch thisch isch a private call. Get off the line!”
“I’m right here, ya douchebag!”
“Yeah,” Skwisgaar came on. “We can hears what you’s am sayings abouts your grandpa’s guitars.”
Charles burped again, but it was not just a burp. As if dinner wasn’t gross enough. Now it was all over the hand he was using to cover his mouth. And his shirt was a goner. “Guys - “
“We’s are importants, too’s!” Skwisgaar was adamant about this even as Charles was only half-listening as he got to his feet to wash his face and hands in the sink. “I needs you to talks to da Dethklok guy what’s smashed his face.”
“About what?” Charles said, though it was a little muffled by the towel. He had to answer them or they wouldn’t go away.
“I am nots be sharing da Dethklok minutes with Toki!”
“Fucks you, Skwisgaar! I means it! Fucks you!” Now Toki was on the line, and also in the room back at Mordhaus, shouting so loud it didn’t matter either way; Charles would have heard him.
“Ow! Charles, you makes hims be stopping hittings me!”
“You don’t need Afdensen fer dat. Stand up fer yerself,” Pickles put in for good measure, just to make it worse. “Hit ‘im back.”
“Guys, please do not hit each other. The Klokateers are authorized to hose you down for - “ he swallowed carefully. “ - if you do that. I’ll talk to them now.” And he hung up on them, because he had to, unless they wanted to go on speakerphone and hear him lose the remains of the appetizer and possibly lunch. He was still coughing up the red remains of whatever he’d had - he couldn’t remember now - when he heard it ring. “WHAT?” His voice was hoarse now, and not from shouting.
“Sorry, sir.” It was Angela. “They just all came into the office at once and started demanding to speak to you. I apologize if - “
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but he didn’t know what else to say. “They won’t shut up until they talk to me. Just stall them, all right? Now is not a good time. Hopefully what I said is - “ And this was interrupted by a good round of hacking into the toilet, trying this time to make sure he got it all. It took longer than expected but he gathered his breath to say, “- is um, fine.”
“Sir? Are you all right?”
“Remember how I said I hate Danish food? My opinion is unchanged. I’ll call you later.” Without waiting for an answer, he hung up and sank to the ground by the toilet, unwilling to go more than a few inches from it, and clutched his stomach. Fucking Denmark and its weird alcohol and mashed fish and mashed ham and gelatin and cream. Fuck it all.
************************************************
82 picked up his phone as soon as he heard it ring. The message was from 3201.
Code 11 on 666. Bring fluids.
Fortunately 82 did not drink on the job, and had a little reserve from the corner store because there was no minibar in his room. There were a couple drinks that he assumed were the Danish equivalent of Gatorade (he worked out a lot and didn’t read Danish) and some soda. He knew 677 was in his room, and he knocked on his way to say, “Get your kit, but don’t go anywhere yet. Could be a false alarm.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was only a few feet to Ofdensen’s room. 82 was the only other person with a key, a traditional metal one instead of a key card. This place wasn’t a dump but it was old-fashioned. “Sir?” 82 was still in his plainclothes outfit so he was not technically in uniform, and slipped on a hood on his way in, rather loudly announcing himself so the boss didn’t feel threatened by an intruder.
He found him on the floor of the bathroom, leaning against the wall with both knees close to him. He wasn’t pale - he was gray. His skin had a very unhealthy hue, one that hadn’t been there when he left for dinner.
82 had known the boss was sick in the morning, but not that sick. He was jetlagged, he showed all the signs of being stressed by something other than work, and the food he did eat was mostly things that were either easy to acquire or easy on the stomach. His mood was low, but otherwise stable, and he would probably be fine when he returned to Mordhaus and got away from his creepy relatives.
82 knew the most about Hjalmar Offdensen, because the boss did not encourage dossiers on his relatives, but a bodyguard had to be thorough. He was the only Danish relative the boss liked, which was why 82 knew much of anything about him at all. The boss actually once took a call from him during a concert, ducking out for a few minutes to speak in hushed Danish. A background check was in order, but there wasn’t much to find: Mr. Offdensen was a hard-drinking cardshark, retired for the most part and still banned from casinos in the States and in Russia, especially Russia. Aside from a run-in with the Russian mob ten years before, his personal and public records were clean. He didn’t go anywhere, and he sat on his money, all twelve million Euros of it. His attitude toward his nephew, from some extensive but long-range spying on 82’s part, could be described as ‘paternal.’ Despite his gambling and his drinking, he was never abusive, even to his ex-wife, and especially not to the boss or Dr. Stern. His health was hard to confirm because he hadn’t seen a doctor in over twenty years, but his liver couldn’t be in wonderful condition, especially at his age. He had no suspicious friends to watch; he didn’t even have a cell phone and his landline was unreliable.
The information for Ebba Offdensen, Charles’s paternal grandmother, was even scanter. The records on her were in hardcopy and in Danish, and 82 would get in serious trouble if the boss found him snooping around those without cause. Hell, 82 didn’t even know Ofdensen had a living grandmother until it came up last year, and he avoided asking even the most basic security questions that he otherwise would have gone through without thinking about it because this was, to put it politely, a sensitive issue with the boss.
Speaking of, what was wrong with the boss was obvious enough. Vomit stained his shirt and his sleeves were rolled up. His eyes, more visible without his glasses, were unfocused, and had lost their usual spark.
“3201 wanted me to check up on you,” 82 said. He did not ask how the Commander felt; that was obvious and would just be insulting. Instead he took a hand towel, wet it in the sink, and began to wipe the boss’s face and neck clean so he would be presentable for the medic. There was a gurgling noise in the boss’s stomach. “Sir?” Charles just nodded, and 82 helped him get his head over the toilet. It all came up in hacking coughs for the most part, and 82 wiped his face again. “I think 677 should look at you.”
The boss, who usually detested anyone seeing him in a disheveled state, paused to consider it before nodding weakly. 82 texted the medic, then brought out a bottle of water he had with him. “Just a sip,” he said. He couldn’t imagine what the taste was like in the commander’s mouth, but his throat was probably burning.
Ofdensen took a deep breath to work himself put it, and took the bottle for himself. His hand was shaking, and the other was over his stomach. 82 left his boss’s side only to answer the door and bring 677 and his first aid kid in, which was far more comprehensive than what you kept in the back of your car.
677 looked at Ofdensen, then at the contents of the toilet, then back at the boss. “Sir, do you know how long you’ve been vomiting blood?”
“I had red wine at dinner,” was the boss’s answer.
82 took a look for himself. There was food in there, but there was also definitely blood mixed in. 82 started texting more people, ones who weren’t in Sønderborg.
677 took the boss’s temperature - fortunately he had the ear thermometer - and checked his throat. “You have a mild fever. 99.8.” He checked his neck, looked in his nose and checked his eyes, then listened to his chest and stomach. “What did you have for dinner?”
“The local cuisine.” Ofdensen expected that to explain everything. “And some liquor. Different kinds. Not enough to get me drunk.” His voice was little more than rasp.
“I’m going to draw some blood from you and rush it to the lab in the hospital,” 677 said. “And then you should go. To be on the safe side.”
“I have calls. To make.”
“Do you feel capable of making them?”
The boss scowled.
“Sir, we need to get you hydrated. Intravenously is the best way to do that.” He was already pulling out his kit for drawing blood.
“I’m a hard stick,” the boss warned.
“Yes, sir.” 677 was up to it, of course.
Something was nagging 82 in the back of his mind, and what finally came to fruition when he was done sending out the right codes to send medical Gears in Dethklok Denmark into a panic. He left the boss with the medic and went across the hall to knock on the Stern door.
After several knocks, each louder than the last, Josh Stern answered. “What?” He was wearing a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and he looked stressed.
“I need to talk to Dr. Stern,” 82 said, adding, “about her brother.” As if that wasn’t obvious.
“She’s not really ... she’s what’s the word? Indisposed?”
“Is she ill from dinner?”
The crease in Josh’s forehead loosened slightly. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Are you sick? Is your son sick?”
“I’m fine. And Sam would be in here putting up a huge fuss if he had so much as a scratch in his throat,” Josh said. “But yeah, Sarah is sick.”
“Then I definitely need to see her.”
Josh hesitated, backing up only to call out to his wife, “A big creepy Engineer guy is here.”
“Klokateer,” came Sarah’s week response. “Let him in.”
Her husband finally stepped aside, and 82 headed straight for the bathroom, where he found Sarah in her pajamas and a bathrobe but in a similar position to her brother. 82 removed his hood.
“Andrew!” Sarah brightened a bit in recognition. “What happened to your face?”
He hadn’t thought about it in so long, at first 82 wondered why she asked about the thin red scar that ran from his right eyebrow across his face diagonally, crossing down over the top of his nose into his left cheep and ending near the jaw line. “It’s from a rapier. Long story. How are you feeling?”
“Like I swallowed a bunch of needles,” she said. She, too, was holding her stomach. “Low grade fever. I took Advil but I couldn’t hold it down long enough for it to absorb.”
“Vomiting blood?”
She blanked. “Am I supposed to be?”
“The Commander is very sick. Similar symptoms, plus that. We’re taking him to the hospital. 677 is a physician - he’s going to run some blood tests.” He added after looking her over, “If I don’t take you, too, I’ll never hear the end of it from the boss.”
“I need more fluids, but I can’t hold anything down,” she said. There were bottles around her. She had Josh to help her, and clearly she’d been trying. “It’s a little alarmist, don’t you think? I had my appendix out when I was fifteen, so it’s not appendicitis. Also I would have a higher fever and the abdominal pain would be lower.”
“If I was as sick as you were, would you say I should go to the emergency room?”
She had the same expression as her brother when he was caught - she didn’t care for it. But her response was softer. “Yes.”
He took that as an affirmative for the plan, and found Josh, who was just returning from his son’s room. “Sam’s not sick,” Josh said to Sarah.
“Can you gather up her things? Medication and toiletries. Whatever she might need in the hospital, even if it’s just overnight.” 82 wondered what the shocked expression on Josh’s face was from, then remembered that he was hood-less. Yes, his face was very alarming, now that he thought about it. “The ambulance is on its way. We’re going to take care of everything.”
“He’s very good at what he does,” Sarah said to her husband, who needed some reassuring. Josh agreed to the plan, and 82 returned to the boss’s room, where 677 was finishing up by trying to get Ofdensen to sip cold water. There was a wet towel on his head.
677 rose when he saw 82. “I’m going to run his blood to the hospital in the rental car and get that going. We’re not going to get the local Gear team for another two hours at least. When you get there, ask to speak to someone in poison control.”
82 did not know 677 to be hysterical, so he just nodded, and sent a text back to 3201: Get on a plane NOW.
************************************************
Charles Ofdensen was not a good patient; 82 knew that. The boss didn’t like hospitals, didn’t like people touching him, and didn’t like the bright lights they put in his eyes when he was at his most feeble. 82 collected his things, including the locked briefcase with the boss’s medication, his spare tinted glasses, and his sunglasses for good measure before helping get the boss to the ambulance. “The team’s on their way.” His security team in Sønderborg were sent to check up on Edda and Hjalmar Offdensen. Soon the hospital would be swarming with Gears, medical and non.
The boss put up very little resistance to being herded into the ambulance after he changed his shirt. He wanted to look presentable to the EMTs. He’d stopped vomiting, possibly because there was nothing left in his system, but would occasionally cough and spit up blood. He knew where he was, but he was otherwise a little disoriented from exhaustion and not eager to lie down on the stretcher.
The EMTs, who spoke English for the tourists, peppered him with medical history questions. 82 answered most of them - blood type, medical history, allergies. “Sir,” he nudged Ofdensen gently. “I need you to list your daily medication.” He would have done it, but the briefcase was locked and 82 did not know the combination, nor was he going to ask for it in front of other people.
Charles swallowed and went down the list, though it took him longer than it probably would have in any other situation, especially when it came to remembering the dosage. By the time the EMTs had everything they wanted, they were at the hospital, and he was wheeled into the ER. 82 literally grabbed the doctor by the arm. “Treat this as a possible poisoning case. We’re already running bloodwork.”
“The hospital will want to do its own - “
“Whatever. Just let our guys do their work. This is a very VIP patient.” He added, “And so is the other one coming in. His sister.”
He returned to the boss’s side. They had an IV going and were loading him up on anti-nausea medication. Through his tinted glasses his eyes still were dulled, but he was perking up. “You called 3201?”
“She’s on her way. Along with a medical team from Dethklok Denmark.” He could see his boss was debating second-guessing his decision to jet in one assistant from Canada, but deciding not to do it verbally. “677 is running the blood tests. I don’t think the hospital is going to give us any hassle. Do you need anything?”
“My phone,” Ofdensen said. “And some ice chips.”
82 retrieved both, and the boss played with his messages but didn’t type very much. His color had not returned and from time to time, he had trouble keeping his eyes open. He was still awake when the guys from Dethklok Denmark arrived to swarm him and the ER, demanding all kinds of tests and attention for their beloved Commander, this time in Danish. X-Rays showed nothing but ruled out an unlikely bowel obstruction or appendicitis. Ofdensen couldn’t stand up for them; 82 and a Dethmedic had to hold him up against the machine. The doctors put him NPO - nothing by mouth except ice chips to suck on - in case they wanted to scope him, or something worse. The ER staff did not know that organ donors were already being prepped on the Dethklok end, always prepared for the worst possible situation.
It was three hours before 677 made his way to the ER, where they were debating moving the boss to a regular floor, with the blood test results. His expression was hidden behind black cloth, but his posture and the way he was holding the report for dear life indicated that they could clear some people out. In the end, it was 82, 677, and the chief of the ER with the boss.
“The results are very clear,” 677. “The hospital wanted to run their own, so they’ll find any mistakes there might be. Sir, you have a toxic level of arsenic in your bloodstream. We’re going administer a lot of Dimercaprol and run you through with water to dilute it.”
“Could it have been ingested accidentally?” 82 said, because how it got in the boss’s system was pretty damn clear.
“...Not at these levels, no.” He said more pointedly to the ER doctor. “Time is of the essence here.” That was his cue to scoot and get the requested medicine.
So far, Ofdensen hadn’t really reacted. Visibly, anyway. 82 couldn’t blame him; he’d been close to passing out from exhaustion when 677 arrived to tell him he was poisoned, and his body had gone through too much in the past few hours for his brain to be firing at regular speed.
“The blood tests aren’t back for Dr. Stern yet, but considering the symptoms I don’t expect a difference.”
“What?” Charles picked his head up. The comment was made to 82, not him.
“Your sister is, um, also here,” 82 said, realizing no one had informed him, just assumed he knew or didn’t need to know. “Mr. Stern and your nephew are fine, though.”
“It’s me. And Sarah.”
“Yes.”
Ofdensen closed his eyes, and 82 thought for a moment that he’d simply processed the information like everything else and was now content to get the rest his body needed, but something around him darkened, especially around the eyes. The room went cold, and the lights seemed to flicker as he opened his bloodshot eyes. All the spark that was the worst part of Charles Foster Ofdensen had taken over his body, his every expression and posture and was leaking out of his pores. Hatred was seething from him and if he were any angrier flames would be shooting out his eyes and burning a hole in 82’s skin as he grabbed his arm and held it so hard it would leave bruises.
Neither Gear said anything; they didn’t want to verbally get in front of the oncoming train of fearsome wrath.
“Detain my grandmother, but don’t kill her,” the boss said. “Save her for me.”
To Be Continued...
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Charles/OFC
Beta: wikdsushi
Characters: Charles, Dethklok, OCs
Warnings: Cursing, Drugs, PTSD, off-screen sex
Summary: Charles endures pretty much the worst family reunion ever.
[Back to the beginning]
This chapter is a favorite of mine. I don't know why.
Chapter 7
As the celebratory cheer of a decent amount of alcohol worse off, Charles got down to the work that piled up in his absence. His TV was on, his cell phone was ready and his laptop was open on the desk. First he dug into his emergency travel kit for some alka seltzer tablets and downed a bubbly glass of the stuff; dinner wasn’t sitting well with him.
Minutes later he was deep in a conversation with Roy Cornickelson while checking his email, but trying not to sound like Roy had anything less than his full attention. “No, I don’t think so.” He scanned his emails for scandals, knowing if there was anything really serious, Angela would have left a message on his phone. “Look, my opinion is still the same. I know it would be a lot of fast money, but long-term - Dethklok is not going to go public as a corporation, and it’s not going - I know, I know. It is a lot of money.” This was an old conversation; people on the board of directors at Crystal Mountain wanted to take their company public but it would only work if it was done in conjunction with Dethklok Inc, and Charles was unwilling to let outside investors into Dethklok, much less anyone with some day trading software. “It’s just - you have a very stable business model for a record company. And you know I mean that as a compliment. But Dethklok doesn’t adhere to models.” There was more crankiness on the other end. Roy wasn’t so set on the idea, but he was set on finding an excuse for his board other than ‘Charles Ofdensen told me not to.’
“Yes, we have connections to a lot of companies that are traded publicly, but that’s all merchandise. Our futures aren’t tied to those companies. It’s just not a stable portfolio because Dethklok - well, you know the boys. Yes, they’re going to deliver a record. When? When Nathan stops deleting tracks ... Yes, but last time you said that, we got Dethwater as our album. So it more than worked out in the end, wouldn’t you say? What? Yes, sure. I can send you some numbers. Can it wait a day or two? No, I’m not in Mordhaus. I’m in Denmark.” His eyes shifted briefly to the TV screen as the Dethklok Minute ran, but it was muted. He would replay it on his computer when he had time. “Yes, family. I haven’t mentioned them? I rarely see them. Distant relatives, the European side. Yes, Sarah’s with me. Sure, I’ll tell her you said hello.” He belched, which wasn’t a great thing to do over the phone, but he caught it in time to cover his mouth so Roy didn’t hear it. “No, I’m not going to float the idea to her. She hasn’t been to a Dethklok shareholder meeting in ... ever, come to think of it. If I believed it was a good idea, I would just mention I was doing it in an email and she would OK it.” Sarah was the seventh and final shareholder in the company, with one percent of the corporation, so he had sent her a letter inviting her to the meeting, but it was just a legal formality. “Roy, I have to be honest with you - well, yes, I always try to be honest with you, but I’m putting emphasis on it. I don’t think Crystal Mountain should go public. I won’t say anything against it in the media if you decide to go forward with it, but I won’t support it. Yes, I know people will interpret that as they will. The board? Tell them to think in the long term.”
He leaned over to look more closely at the tiny print of an email but felt a wave of nausea and decided not to do that again. “Really? Warren Buffet said that? What a surprise. Because investing in the stock market is all he ever says to do because he makes his money in stocks. Yes, I’ve met him. He’s trying to get a friendly rivalry thing going since I beat him in the Forbes list in 2007, which is why I don’t trust his advice. And don’t really have time for it, to be honest. I have a band to manage. OK, OK. Yeah. Thanks for seeing my side of it.” He coughed as more air bubbles came up. “Bring you some Danish specialties? Hell no. I think I’m barely going to make it out of here with my stomach intact. I don’t know why, but this place is like Mexico to me. Sure, we’ll do that, when my physical therapy is over. Pebble Beach, yes. Great. Nice talking to you. Bye.”
He was happy to be off the phone, even for a minute. There were more calls to make, with a final call to check in with Angela, but her emails indicated everything was fine. He turned on the remote camera, and the boys were in the recording studio, making a mess of it with food and beer and lacking instruments. Knubbler was nowhere in sight, so they definitely weren’t going to get anything done. Or maybe they would surprise him - they were certainly capable of that, in every possible way.
Charles replayed the Dethklok Minute on his computer, but saw nothing he didn’t expect. Some more coverage of the latest Skwisgaar/Toki fight, just fanning the flames of news at this point. Dethklok didn’t do something interesting every day. Their fans did, but that was not what the Dethklok Minute was about.
He was about to send a text to 82 to run to the store for the Danish equivalent of Pepto-Bismol when he made the very, very sudden decision that it wouldn’t be necessary for the moment, and ran to the bathroom instead. The sherry came up first, which wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t a lot of alcohol, but it didn’t help that he’d been so unsettled in the past day. After the second round, where he got a second look at his dinner, did he move away from the toilet and remove his tie. His mind kept going back to the calls, but he knew he had more because his stomach still felt like it was on fire, and wasn’t he supposed to feel better after he threw up?
Third round. The rest of dinner, probably. How much could possibly be in his stomach? This time he took off his glasses ahead so he didn’t have to hold onto them; this wouldn’t be the first time he fished his glasses out of a toilet. It was all part of the magic of the music industry. He coughed up the rest of it, barely able to catch his breath, and leaned against the wall with the terrible floral wallpaper. The world was blurry and the light too bright, and he focused on keeping whatever else was in him down.
His Dethphone rang. He ignored it, letting it go to voicemail, but the caller hung up and just dialed again. When he focused on the screen, he saw it was Nathan. Shit, he would have to take this. “Yes?”
“It’s me. Nathan.” As if Charles would think it was some other gravely-voiced vocalist calling him on his private line. “I wanted to talk to you about the tour.”
“What is it?” There was also no use in asking if it was pressing; everything was pressing to Nathan when it was fresh in his head.
“Snackers. We should take her on tour.”
“We’ll probably lose a lot of employees - wait, you mean on stage? A stage is not a good place - “ He dropped the phone and hugged the toilet bowel with all his might, dragging his body there in record time. Dinner - or it had to be the appetizer, now - did not come up as quickly as he wanted to. He could still hear Nathan on the phone, demanding things, but he couldn’t focus on the voice. And his other line was ringing. He barely had time to wipe his mouth before he returned and saw Murderface was calling him. “Nathan, we can work something out when I get back. I have to take this call.”
“It’s just Murderface. Yeah, douchebag, I said that.” They were all in the same room, no doubt. Ganging up on him at precisely the wrong time. “Go tell Murderface to fuck off.”
“I will use my discretion.” He pushed the touch screen to answer William’s call. “William, what can I do for you?” Bile rose in the back of his throat - not because of Murderface, for once - but he kept it down for the moment.
“I have ideasch!”
“For Planet Piss?”
“It doeschn’t have to be about Planet Pissch all the time, Charlsch. I’m a very complicated artischt.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was now very available when his glasses were off. He already had a headache. “Then what is it about?”
“Acouschtic. I want to do schome acouschtic stuff. For the ladiesch. HEY! SCHTOP LAUGHING AT ME!” There was giggling in the background. “Dildosch.”
“William, can this possibly wait?”
“Hey! I’m important! I’m a member of Dethklok.”
“I can assure you, you are very, urp, important to the band and to me as a client. I always, urp, have you best interests at heart.”
“Dat’s seriously gay, dood,” Pickles said.
“Picklesch thisch isch a private call. Get off the line!”
“I’m right here, ya douchebag!”
“Yeah,” Skwisgaar came on. “We can hears what you’s am sayings abouts your grandpa’s guitars.”
Charles burped again, but it was not just a burp. As if dinner wasn’t gross enough. Now it was all over the hand he was using to cover his mouth. And his shirt was a goner. “Guys - “
“We’s are importants, too’s!” Skwisgaar was adamant about this even as Charles was only half-listening as he got to his feet to wash his face and hands in the sink. “I needs you to talks to da Dethklok guy what’s smashed his face.”
“About what?” Charles said, though it was a little muffled by the towel. He had to answer them or they wouldn’t go away.
“I am nots be sharing da Dethklok minutes with Toki!”
“Fucks you, Skwisgaar! I means it! Fucks you!” Now Toki was on the line, and also in the room back at Mordhaus, shouting so loud it didn’t matter either way; Charles would have heard him.
“Ow! Charles, you makes hims be stopping hittings me!”
“You don’t need Afdensen fer dat. Stand up fer yerself,” Pickles put in for good measure, just to make it worse. “Hit ‘im back.”
“Guys, please do not hit each other. The Klokateers are authorized to hose you down for - “ he swallowed carefully. “ - if you do that. I’ll talk to them now.” And he hung up on them, because he had to, unless they wanted to go on speakerphone and hear him lose the remains of the appetizer and possibly lunch. He was still coughing up the red remains of whatever he’d had - he couldn’t remember now - when he heard it ring. “WHAT?” His voice was hoarse now, and not from shouting.
“Sorry, sir.” It was Angela. “They just all came into the office at once and started demanding to speak to you. I apologize if - “
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but he didn’t know what else to say. “They won’t shut up until they talk to me. Just stall them, all right? Now is not a good time. Hopefully what I said is - “ And this was interrupted by a good round of hacking into the toilet, trying this time to make sure he got it all. It took longer than expected but he gathered his breath to say, “- is um, fine.”
“Sir? Are you all right?”
“Remember how I said I hate Danish food? My opinion is unchanged. I’ll call you later.” Without waiting for an answer, he hung up and sank to the ground by the toilet, unwilling to go more than a few inches from it, and clutched his stomach. Fucking Denmark and its weird alcohol and mashed fish and mashed ham and gelatin and cream. Fuck it all.
************************************************
82 picked up his phone as soon as he heard it ring. The message was from 3201.
Code 11 on 666. Bring fluids.
Fortunately 82 did not drink on the job, and had a little reserve from the corner store because there was no minibar in his room. There were a couple drinks that he assumed were the Danish equivalent of Gatorade (he worked out a lot and didn’t read Danish) and some soda. He knew 677 was in his room, and he knocked on his way to say, “Get your kit, but don’t go anywhere yet. Could be a false alarm.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was only a few feet to Ofdensen’s room. 82 was the only other person with a key, a traditional metal one instead of a key card. This place wasn’t a dump but it was old-fashioned. “Sir?” 82 was still in his plainclothes outfit so he was not technically in uniform, and slipped on a hood on his way in, rather loudly announcing himself so the boss didn’t feel threatened by an intruder.
He found him on the floor of the bathroom, leaning against the wall with both knees close to him. He wasn’t pale - he was gray. His skin had a very unhealthy hue, one that hadn’t been there when he left for dinner.
82 had known the boss was sick in the morning, but not that sick. He was jetlagged, he showed all the signs of being stressed by something other than work, and the food he did eat was mostly things that were either easy to acquire or easy on the stomach. His mood was low, but otherwise stable, and he would probably be fine when he returned to Mordhaus and got away from his creepy relatives.
82 knew the most about Hjalmar Offdensen, because the boss did not encourage dossiers on his relatives, but a bodyguard had to be thorough. He was the only Danish relative the boss liked, which was why 82 knew much of anything about him at all. The boss actually once took a call from him during a concert, ducking out for a few minutes to speak in hushed Danish. A background check was in order, but there wasn’t much to find: Mr. Offdensen was a hard-drinking cardshark, retired for the most part and still banned from casinos in the States and in Russia, especially Russia. Aside from a run-in with the Russian mob ten years before, his personal and public records were clean. He didn’t go anywhere, and he sat on his money, all twelve million Euros of it. His attitude toward his nephew, from some extensive but long-range spying on 82’s part, could be described as ‘paternal.’ Despite his gambling and his drinking, he was never abusive, even to his ex-wife, and especially not to the boss or Dr. Stern. His health was hard to confirm because he hadn’t seen a doctor in over twenty years, but his liver couldn’t be in wonderful condition, especially at his age. He had no suspicious friends to watch; he didn’t even have a cell phone and his landline was unreliable.
The information for Ebba Offdensen, Charles’s paternal grandmother, was even scanter. The records on her were in hardcopy and in Danish, and 82 would get in serious trouble if the boss found him snooping around those without cause. Hell, 82 didn’t even know Ofdensen had a living grandmother until it came up last year, and he avoided asking even the most basic security questions that he otherwise would have gone through without thinking about it because this was, to put it politely, a sensitive issue with the boss.
Speaking of, what was wrong with the boss was obvious enough. Vomit stained his shirt and his sleeves were rolled up. His eyes, more visible without his glasses, were unfocused, and had lost their usual spark.
“3201 wanted me to check up on you,” 82 said. He did not ask how the Commander felt; that was obvious and would just be insulting. Instead he took a hand towel, wet it in the sink, and began to wipe the boss’s face and neck clean so he would be presentable for the medic. There was a gurgling noise in the boss’s stomach. “Sir?” Charles just nodded, and 82 helped him get his head over the toilet. It all came up in hacking coughs for the most part, and 82 wiped his face again. “I think 677 should look at you.”
The boss, who usually detested anyone seeing him in a disheveled state, paused to consider it before nodding weakly. 82 texted the medic, then brought out a bottle of water he had with him. “Just a sip,” he said. He couldn’t imagine what the taste was like in the commander’s mouth, but his throat was probably burning.
Ofdensen took a deep breath to work himself put it, and took the bottle for himself. His hand was shaking, and the other was over his stomach. 82 left his boss’s side only to answer the door and bring 677 and his first aid kid in, which was far more comprehensive than what you kept in the back of your car.
677 looked at Ofdensen, then at the contents of the toilet, then back at the boss. “Sir, do you know how long you’ve been vomiting blood?”
“I had red wine at dinner,” was the boss’s answer.
82 took a look for himself. There was food in there, but there was also definitely blood mixed in. 82 started texting more people, ones who weren’t in Sønderborg.
677 took the boss’s temperature - fortunately he had the ear thermometer - and checked his throat. “You have a mild fever. 99.8.” He checked his neck, looked in his nose and checked his eyes, then listened to his chest and stomach. “What did you have for dinner?”
“The local cuisine.” Ofdensen expected that to explain everything. “And some liquor. Different kinds. Not enough to get me drunk.” His voice was little more than rasp.
“I’m going to draw some blood from you and rush it to the lab in the hospital,” 677 said. “And then you should go. To be on the safe side.”
“I have calls. To make.”
“Do you feel capable of making them?”
The boss scowled.
“Sir, we need to get you hydrated. Intravenously is the best way to do that.” He was already pulling out his kit for drawing blood.
“I’m a hard stick,” the boss warned.
“Yes, sir.” 677 was up to it, of course.
Something was nagging 82 in the back of his mind, and what finally came to fruition when he was done sending out the right codes to send medical Gears in Dethklok Denmark into a panic. He left the boss with the medic and went across the hall to knock on the Stern door.
After several knocks, each louder than the last, Josh Stern answered. “What?” He was wearing a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and he looked stressed.
“I need to talk to Dr. Stern,” 82 said, adding, “about her brother.” As if that wasn’t obvious.
“She’s not really ... she’s what’s the word? Indisposed?”
“Is she ill from dinner?”
The crease in Josh’s forehead loosened slightly. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Are you sick? Is your son sick?”
“I’m fine. And Sam would be in here putting up a huge fuss if he had so much as a scratch in his throat,” Josh said. “But yeah, Sarah is sick.”
“Then I definitely need to see her.”
Josh hesitated, backing up only to call out to his wife, “A big creepy Engineer guy is here.”
“Klokateer,” came Sarah’s week response. “Let him in.”
Her husband finally stepped aside, and 82 headed straight for the bathroom, where he found Sarah in her pajamas and a bathrobe but in a similar position to her brother. 82 removed his hood.
“Andrew!” Sarah brightened a bit in recognition. “What happened to your face?”
He hadn’t thought about it in so long, at first 82 wondered why she asked about the thin red scar that ran from his right eyebrow across his face diagonally, crossing down over the top of his nose into his left cheep and ending near the jaw line. “It’s from a rapier. Long story. How are you feeling?”
“Like I swallowed a bunch of needles,” she said. She, too, was holding her stomach. “Low grade fever. I took Advil but I couldn’t hold it down long enough for it to absorb.”
“Vomiting blood?”
She blanked. “Am I supposed to be?”
“The Commander is very sick. Similar symptoms, plus that. We’re taking him to the hospital. 677 is a physician - he’s going to run some blood tests.” He added after looking her over, “If I don’t take you, too, I’ll never hear the end of it from the boss.”
“I need more fluids, but I can’t hold anything down,” she said. There were bottles around her. She had Josh to help her, and clearly she’d been trying. “It’s a little alarmist, don’t you think? I had my appendix out when I was fifteen, so it’s not appendicitis. Also I would have a higher fever and the abdominal pain would be lower.”
“If I was as sick as you were, would you say I should go to the emergency room?”
She had the same expression as her brother when he was caught - she didn’t care for it. But her response was softer. “Yes.”
He took that as an affirmative for the plan, and found Josh, who was just returning from his son’s room. “Sam’s not sick,” Josh said to Sarah.
“Can you gather up her things? Medication and toiletries. Whatever she might need in the hospital, even if it’s just overnight.” 82 wondered what the shocked expression on Josh’s face was from, then remembered that he was hood-less. Yes, his face was very alarming, now that he thought about it. “The ambulance is on its way. We’re going to take care of everything.”
“He’s very good at what he does,” Sarah said to her husband, who needed some reassuring. Josh agreed to the plan, and 82 returned to the boss’s room, where 677 was finishing up by trying to get Ofdensen to sip cold water. There was a wet towel on his head.
677 rose when he saw 82. “I’m going to run his blood to the hospital in the rental car and get that going. We’re not going to get the local Gear team for another two hours at least. When you get there, ask to speak to someone in poison control.”
82 did not know 677 to be hysterical, so he just nodded, and sent a text back to 3201: Get on a plane NOW.
************************************************
Charles Ofdensen was not a good patient; 82 knew that. The boss didn’t like hospitals, didn’t like people touching him, and didn’t like the bright lights they put in his eyes when he was at his most feeble. 82 collected his things, including the locked briefcase with the boss’s medication, his spare tinted glasses, and his sunglasses for good measure before helping get the boss to the ambulance. “The team’s on their way.” His security team in Sønderborg were sent to check up on Edda and Hjalmar Offdensen. Soon the hospital would be swarming with Gears, medical and non.
The boss put up very little resistance to being herded into the ambulance after he changed his shirt. He wanted to look presentable to the EMTs. He’d stopped vomiting, possibly because there was nothing left in his system, but would occasionally cough and spit up blood. He knew where he was, but he was otherwise a little disoriented from exhaustion and not eager to lie down on the stretcher.
The EMTs, who spoke English for the tourists, peppered him with medical history questions. 82 answered most of them - blood type, medical history, allergies. “Sir,” he nudged Ofdensen gently. “I need you to list your daily medication.” He would have done it, but the briefcase was locked and 82 did not know the combination, nor was he going to ask for it in front of other people.
Charles swallowed and went down the list, though it took him longer than it probably would have in any other situation, especially when it came to remembering the dosage. By the time the EMTs had everything they wanted, they were at the hospital, and he was wheeled into the ER. 82 literally grabbed the doctor by the arm. “Treat this as a possible poisoning case. We’re already running bloodwork.”
“The hospital will want to do its own - “
“Whatever. Just let our guys do their work. This is a very VIP patient.” He added, “And so is the other one coming in. His sister.”
He returned to the boss’s side. They had an IV going and were loading him up on anti-nausea medication. Through his tinted glasses his eyes still were dulled, but he was perking up. “You called 3201?”
“She’s on her way. Along with a medical team from Dethklok Denmark.” He could see his boss was debating second-guessing his decision to jet in one assistant from Canada, but deciding not to do it verbally. “677 is running the blood tests. I don’t think the hospital is going to give us any hassle. Do you need anything?”
“My phone,” Ofdensen said. “And some ice chips.”
82 retrieved both, and the boss played with his messages but didn’t type very much. His color had not returned and from time to time, he had trouble keeping his eyes open. He was still awake when the guys from Dethklok Denmark arrived to swarm him and the ER, demanding all kinds of tests and attention for their beloved Commander, this time in Danish. X-Rays showed nothing but ruled out an unlikely bowel obstruction or appendicitis. Ofdensen couldn’t stand up for them; 82 and a Dethmedic had to hold him up against the machine. The doctors put him NPO - nothing by mouth except ice chips to suck on - in case they wanted to scope him, or something worse. The ER staff did not know that organ donors were already being prepped on the Dethklok end, always prepared for the worst possible situation.
It was three hours before 677 made his way to the ER, where they were debating moving the boss to a regular floor, with the blood test results. His expression was hidden behind black cloth, but his posture and the way he was holding the report for dear life indicated that they could clear some people out. In the end, it was 82, 677, and the chief of the ER with the boss.
“The results are very clear,” 677. “The hospital wanted to run their own, so they’ll find any mistakes there might be. Sir, you have a toxic level of arsenic in your bloodstream. We’re going administer a lot of Dimercaprol and run you through with water to dilute it.”
“Could it have been ingested accidentally?” 82 said, because how it got in the boss’s system was pretty damn clear.
“...Not at these levels, no.” He said more pointedly to the ER doctor. “Time is of the essence here.” That was his cue to scoot and get the requested medicine.
So far, Ofdensen hadn’t really reacted. Visibly, anyway. 82 couldn’t blame him; he’d been close to passing out from exhaustion when 677 arrived to tell him he was poisoned, and his body had gone through too much in the past few hours for his brain to be firing at regular speed.
“The blood tests aren’t back for Dr. Stern yet, but considering the symptoms I don’t expect a difference.”
“What?” Charles picked his head up. The comment was made to 82, not him.
“Your sister is, um, also here,” 82 said, realizing no one had informed him, just assumed he knew or didn’t need to know. “Mr. Stern and your nephew are fine, though.”
“It’s me. And Sarah.”
“Yes.”
Ofdensen closed his eyes, and 82 thought for a moment that he’d simply processed the information like everything else and was now content to get the rest his body needed, but something around him darkened, especially around the eyes. The room went cold, and the lights seemed to flicker as he opened his bloodshot eyes. All the spark that was the worst part of Charles Foster Ofdensen had taken over his body, his every expression and posture and was leaking out of his pores. Hatred was seething from him and if he were any angrier flames would be shooting out his eyes and burning a hole in 82’s skin as he grabbed his arm and held it so hard it would leave bruises.
Neither Gear said anything; they didn’t want to verbally get in front of the oncoming train of fearsome wrath.
“Detain my grandmother, but don’t kill her,” the boss said. “Save her for me.”
To Be Continued...