Cheer Up, Charlie
Originally posted by sabrelioness at Cheer Up, Charlie
Just a little ego-boost for everyone's favorite manager. OC warning, but just a bit of fangirling.
Charles wasn't sure whether to find the job offers insulting or something to keep in mind. After Nathan's announcement that Dethklok was breaking up, it seemed every corporation in the world wanted Charles Offdensen on its payroll.
Of course, Charles had enough money wisely invested to sit on his backside for the rest of his life and still live in unimaginable luxury. Not that he would want to do that. It was so boring. What was the point of everything if you weren't juggling companies like foam balls? That was where the thrill was; running ahead of every disaster and coming out smelling like a rose. It seemed that fate had finally caught up with him. The band was splitting up and for the first time in many, many years Charles Foster Offdensen was going to be unemployed.
No.
No, he refused to acknowledge that. This was just another stupid stunt of the boys'. They'd get ten feet past the door with their bags packed, then panic and run back into Mordhaus. That is what would happen. Dethklok was NOT splitting up.
In the end he had delegated handling the job offers to a few trusted Gears and got on with the business of running Dethklok's empire. Since the disastrous dinner party, he had been cranky, irritable, depressed and he drank much more than usual. The band avoided him (and each other), the Gears tip-toed around him and he ended up feeling more isolated than ever.
When an email titled 'Post-Dethklok Offer for Charles Offdensen' hit his inbox, Charles' first instinct was to call up the Gears responsible and scream at them for bothering him with nonsense, which was strange in and of itself. He really was in a shitty mood. The manager noted all the forwards in the address; this e-mail had crawled up the chain from one the of the fan mail databases. Any company big enough to afford him on the payroll already knew the way around the slush pile.
Against his better judgment, Charles opened the e-mail.
"To Whom It May Concern,
The following outlines an offer for Charles Foster Offdensen after the breakup of Dethklok and/or the end of the world.
Thank you for your time,
Hope Noh,
Music Division of the Society for the Husbandry of Intelligence"
The end of the world? Society for the Husbandry of Intelligence? Husbandry as in 'Animal Husbandry'? So . . . breeding intelligence? Charles was fairly certain no such entity existed. Attached to the e-mail was a video file.
When he opened it, his office was instantly filled with the laughter of women. The video appeared to be from a hand-held camera. The shaky frame focused on three women sitting around a dinner table, eating pie and drinking. Two of them looked like identical twins. The third was a redhead. The redhead and one of the twins were wearing business suits, though their jackets were off and collars loosened.
"Well, here's to the end of society," the blonde in the business suit said, lifting her glass. "Cheers!"
The faintest hint of an English accent touched her words.
"I thought we could do with a new society anyway!" her twin declared.
"At least it's going to fall because of a band rather than oh, say, war or tidal waves or-" the redhead started.
"Nuclear meltdown," supplied the twin in the red shirt. "God, I had so many nightmares when Obaasan took us to the Nagasaki memorial."
"Me, too!" Declared the camerawoman. "I was sure my head was going to melt off every time something bad happened in the world.
"Maybe it won't be so bad," the redhead offered. "Maybe a couple of the band will stay together and make a new band."
"It won't work unless they keep Offdensen on as manager," the twin in the suit declared, taking a sip of her drink.
The twin in red reached forward to freshen her glass. Charles recognized the bottle in the middle of the table as Asbacht Uralt, a brandy that, while nowhere near the quality that he was used to, was a fairly decent brandy nonetheless. One brow rose as he watched her pour hot water from a teapot into a brandy snifter, then poured a second snifter of brandy, and finally placed the brandy on top of the snifter of hot water. Not a drop spilled out of the glass. It was only then that he realized all the women had their glasses in such a configuration. Not only did these ladies drink brandy, but they knew how to serve it right!
"What do you think he's going to do?" the twin in red asked.
"Take a vacation!" The redhead declared. "He has to get sick of juggling flaming torches sometime."
"He might be busy again if the world ends," the camerawoman pointed out.
"Weeeeell, since its Charles Offdensen, I suppose we'll let him into our compound to continue the species," the twin in red sighed. She stretched mightily, and tugged the combs out of her hair. Blonde hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
"You just decided that, did you?" her twin asked. "Without so much as a vote? I mean, if we're picking out foundation stock for the human race we need to discuss this ahead of time."
"Oh, I'd vote for Charles Offdensen," the redhead said. "He's wickedly intelligent, a financial genius and he's pretty damn easy on the eyes, too."
For the first time in a very long time, Charles felt that warm little flutter someone got when they were honestly complimented.
"And musical! He plays the guitar," the camerawoman said. "He had his own band back in college that almost hit the big time."
Charles really didn't think anyone would remember that.
"Okay, so genius, handsome, artistic," the twin in the suit said, gesturing to the redhead and the camerawoman. She extended her hand to her sister.
The twin in the red shirt gave what could only be described as a lecherous grin.
"They say he's a cunning linguist."
The three other women at the table burst out laughing. Charles' jaw dropped open. When exactly had he garnered THAT reputation?! Not that it was necessarily bad, but . . .
"Where did you hear that?!" the twin in the suit yelped.
"That's what I want to know," Charles murmured to himself.
"Evidently Toki Wartooth tweeted it a couple of weeks ago," the red twin said, still grinning. "And I think that should wrap up the vote and garner Mr. Offdensen 500 points on his vag pass."
Another round of laughter made the speakers buzz. Charles actually put his hands over his face.
"I'm going to kill Toki," He announced. Strangely enough, he was smiling when he said it. "Vag pass . . ."
"Only you, Mercy!" the redhead laughed.
"I didn't think you even had a Twitter account!" her twin gasped.
"I don't; one of my ex-students does and she wanted to know what 'munching carpet' meant," Mercy said, sipping her brandy.
"Oh God, you didn't tell her, did you?" the camerawoman asked.
"Hell yeah! I'm not a teacher anymore; I can tell the little monsters anything I want. 'You see, Jenny, when a man and a lady love each other very much, sometimes they like to put their mouths on each other's privates and go to town. If you get a man who won't do this, kick him to the curb because he's not worth your time.'"
"No wonder you got fired," her twin sighed.
"Downsized, not fired," Mercy stressed. "And it won't matter much if we end up in an armed compound surrounded by Dethzombies with only our rifles and our breeding stallion, Charles Offdensen, for warmth."
"And brandy," the redhead reminded her.
"I should send him this video," the camerawoman giggled.
"You have his email?" the twin in the suit asked.
"I could send it to one of the fan sites. I bet it would get to him eventually!"
The three women on camera rolled their eyes, but the twin in the suit straightened up.
"Mr. Offdensen, if you are interested in pursuing a relationship with four different women based mostly on sex and intelligence worship, please reply to-" She started.
Her twin in red held up an envelope with a phone number scrawled on the back.
"Here is the number to complain to," she announced.
"And now, a reminder about leaving your radio on during the night," the redhead added. "Leave your radio on during the night."
"I am totally sending this in," the camerawoman said. "How often would he get offers from a set of triplets with a redhead thrown in as a free gift?"
"Hey!" The redhead snapped.
"Charles Offdensen? He probably gets about fifty a day," The twin in the suit said.
"Well, I bet we at least make it into his groupie pool," the camerawoman protested.
Suddenly the camera jerked sideways and the camerawoman swore before the video ended. She must have dropped the camera.
Lovely, professional women who drank brandy properly and made Monty Python references. And thought he was sexy and had his own groupie pool. Charles watched the video again, occasionally murmuring things like: 'Vag pass' and 'breeding stallion'.
When it stopped for the second time, Charles looked up the Gear who had sent it and dialed him up.
"Yes, My Lord?" the Klokateer sounded almost timid.
"88856 . . . what the hell?" Charles said simply.
"We . . . thought it would cheer you up, sire," the Gear admitted. "Four pretty ladies saying you were handsome and sexy? It would make me feel better."
Charles considered this for a long moment. That goofy email had marched all the way up the chain to his desk because every Gear who viewed it thought it would cheer him up. Several thousand people wanted him to feel better and were offering this silly thing.
"I . . . . thank you, Gear."
"So . . . . ah . . . are you going to call them, My Lord?" 88856 asked innocently.
"Gear?"
"They did give you a number to complain to."
"Mmm. I'll think about it," Charles declared.
Just a little ego-boost for everyone's favorite manager. OC warning, but just a bit of fangirling.
Charles wasn't sure whether to find the job offers insulting or something to keep in mind. After Nathan's announcement that Dethklok was breaking up, it seemed every corporation in the world wanted Charles Offdensen on its payroll.
Of course, Charles had enough money wisely invested to sit on his backside for the rest of his life and still live in unimaginable luxury. Not that he would want to do that. It was so boring. What was the point of everything if you weren't juggling companies like foam balls? That was where the thrill was; running ahead of every disaster and coming out smelling like a rose. It seemed that fate had finally caught up with him. The band was splitting up and for the first time in many, many years Charles Foster Offdensen was going to be unemployed.
No.
No, he refused to acknowledge that. This was just another stupid stunt of the boys'. They'd get ten feet past the door with their bags packed, then panic and run back into Mordhaus. That is what would happen. Dethklok was NOT splitting up.
In the end he had delegated handling the job offers to a few trusted Gears and got on with the business of running Dethklok's empire. Since the disastrous dinner party, he had been cranky, irritable, depressed and he drank much more than usual. The band avoided him (and each other), the Gears tip-toed around him and he ended up feeling more isolated than ever.
When an email titled 'Post-Dethklok Offer for Charles Offdensen' hit his inbox, Charles' first instinct was to call up the Gears responsible and scream at them for bothering him with nonsense, which was strange in and of itself. He really was in a shitty mood. The manager noted all the forwards in the address; this e-mail had crawled up the chain from one the of the fan mail databases. Any company big enough to afford him on the payroll already knew the way around the slush pile.
Against his better judgment, Charles opened the e-mail.
"To Whom It May Concern,
The following outlines an offer for Charles Foster Offdensen after the breakup of Dethklok and/or the end of the world.
Thank you for your time,
Hope Noh,
Music Division of the Society for the Husbandry of Intelligence"
The end of the world? Society for the Husbandry of Intelligence? Husbandry as in 'Animal Husbandry'? So . . . breeding intelligence? Charles was fairly certain no such entity existed. Attached to the e-mail was a video file.
When he opened it, his office was instantly filled with the laughter of women. The video appeared to be from a hand-held camera. The shaky frame focused on three women sitting around a dinner table, eating pie and drinking. Two of them looked like identical twins. The third was a redhead. The redhead and one of the twins were wearing business suits, though their jackets were off and collars loosened.
"Well, here's to the end of society," the blonde in the business suit said, lifting her glass. "Cheers!"
The faintest hint of an English accent touched her words.
"I thought we could do with a new society anyway!" her twin declared.
"At least it's going to fall because of a band rather than oh, say, war or tidal waves or-" the redhead started.
"Nuclear meltdown," supplied the twin in the red shirt. "God, I had so many nightmares when Obaasan took us to the Nagasaki memorial."
"Me, too!" Declared the camerawoman. "I was sure my head was going to melt off every time something bad happened in the world.
"Maybe it won't be so bad," the redhead offered. "Maybe a couple of the band will stay together and make a new band."
"It won't work unless they keep Offdensen on as manager," the twin in the suit declared, taking a sip of her drink.
The twin in red reached forward to freshen her glass. Charles recognized the bottle in the middle of the table as Asbacht Uralt, a brandy that, while nowhere near the quality that he was used to, was a fairly decent brandy nonetheless. One brow rose as he watched her pour hot water from a teapot into a brandy snifter, then poured a second snifter of brandy, and finally placed the brandy on top of the snifter of hot water. Not a drop spilled out of the glass. It was only then that he realized all the women had their glasses in such a configuration. Not only did these ladies drink brandy, but they knew how to serve it right!
"What do you think he's going to do?" the twin in red asked.
"Take a vacation!" The redhead declared. "He has to get sick of juggling flaming torches sometime."
"He might be busy again if the world ends," the camerawoman pointed out.
"Weeeeell, since its Charles Offdensen, I suppose we'll let him into our compound to continue the species," the twin in red sighed. She stretched mightily, and tugged the combs out of her hair. Blonde hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
"You just decided that, did you?" her twin asked. "Without so much as a vote? I mean, if we're picking out foundation stock for the human race we need to discuss this ahead of time."
"Oh, I'd vote for Charles Offdensen," the redhead said. "He's wickedly intelligent, a financial genius and he's pretty damn easy on the eyes, too."
For the first time in a very long time, Charles felt that warm little flutter someone got when they were honestly complimented.
"And musical! He plays the guitar," the camerawoman said. "He had his own band back in college that almost hit the big time."
Charles really didn't think anyone would remember that.
"Okay, so genius, handsome, artistic," the twin in the suit said, gesturing to the redhead and the camerawoman. She extended her hand to her sister.
The twin in the red shirt gave what could only be described as a lecherous grin.
"They say he's a cunning linguist."
The three other women at the table burst out laughing. Charles' jaw dropped open. When exactly had he garnered THAT reputation?! Not that it was necessarily bad, but . . .
"Where did you hear that?!" the twin in the suit yelped.
"That's what I want to know," Charles murmured to himself.
"Evidently Toki Wartooth tweeted it a couple of weeks ago," the red twin said, still grinning. "And I think that should wrap up the vote and garner Mr. Offdensen 500 points on his vag pass."
Another round of laughter made the speakers buzz. Charles actually put his hands over his face.
"I'm going to kill Toki," He announced. Strangely enough, he was smiling when he said it. "Vag pass . . ."
"Only you, Mercy!" the redhead laughed.
"I didn't think you even had a Twitter account!" her twin gasped.
"I don't; one of my ex-students does and she wanted to know what 'munching carpet' meant," Mercy said, sipping her brandy.
"Oh God, you didn't tell her, did you?" the camerawoman asked.
"Hell yeah! I'm not a teacher anymore; I can tell the little monsters anything I want. 'You see, Jenny, when a man and a lady love each other very much, sometimes they like to put their mouths on each other's privates and go to town. If you get a man who won't do this, kick him to the curb because he's not worth your time.'"
"No wonder you got fired," her twin sighed.
"Downsized, not fired," Mercy stressed. "And it won't matter much if we end up in an armed compound surrounded by Dethzombies with only our rifles and our breeding stallion, Charles Offdensen, for warmth."
"And brandy," the redhead reminded her.
"I should send him this video," the camerawoman giggled.
"You have his email?" the twin in the suit asked.
"I could send it to one of the fan sites. I bet it would get to him eventually!"
The three women on camera rolled their eyes, but the twin in the suit straightened up.
"Mr. Offdensen, if you are interested in pursuing a relationship with four different women based mostly on sex and intelligence worship, please reply to-" She started.
Her twin in red held up an envelope with a phone number scrawled on the back.
"Here is the number to complain to," she announced.
"And now, a reminder about leaving your radio on during the night," the redhead added. "Leave your radio on during the night."
"I am totally sending this in," the camerawoman said. "How often would he get offers from a set of triplets with a redhead thrown in as a free gift?"
"Hey!" The redhead snapped.
"Charles Offdensen? He probably gets about fifty a day," The twin in the suit said.
"Well, I bet we at least make it into his groupie pool," the camerawoman protested.
Suddenly the camera jerked sideways and the camerawoman swore before the video ended. She must have dropped the camera.
Lovely, professional women who drank brandy properly and made Monty Python references. And thought he was sexy and had his own groupie pool. Charles watched the video again, occasionally murmuring things like: 'Vag pass' and 'breeding stallion'.
When it stopped for the second time, Charles looked up the Gear who had sent it and dialed him up.
"Yes, My Lord?" the Klokateer sounded almost timid.
"88856 . . . what the hell?" Charles said simply.
"We . . . thought it would cheer you up, sire," the Gear admitted. "Four pretty ladies saying you were handsome and sexy? It would make me feel better."
Charles considered this for a long moment. That goofy email had marched all the way up the chain to his desk because every Gear who viewed it thought it would cheer him up. Several thousand people wanted him to feel better and were offering this silly thing.
"I . . . . thank you, Gear."
"So . . . . ah . . . are you going to call them, My Lord?" 88856 asked innocently.
"Gear?"
"They did give you a number to complain to."
"Mmm. I'll think about it," Charles declared.