Fic: Origins
Hey guys, I'm back. One of the great things about this past season is it goes more into early!klok. So this inspired me to come up with how Dethklok found a one Charles Foster Ofdensen.
Title: Origins (1/?)
Rating: G
Characters: Ofdensen, Nathan (for now)
Summary: Dethklok finds a band manager.
Word count: ~4800
Warning: my own meandering ideas on how Dethklok found a manager to herd them into fame.
He hears around the grapevine that no one will touch them. Sitting eating sushi with a has-been manager, he listened to the gossip about the new bands milling through the paperwork circuit, trying to get someone to pick them up. Charles listens mostly out of politeness, always aware that gossip in this industry was invaluable, if not for the actual veracity of the information, but at least for the tone of the climate.
It isn't long before they end up in Charles' office. Or rather, just the frontman, who towered over his desk after slamming the door against the wall. He deposited a creased and rather dirty sheet of tyepwritten paper that someone with demonstrably more experience and years than this hulking mass of aggression wrote. He waited, eyes locked onto Ofdensen, who skimed the paper.
By the time the man in the suits does look up, the frontman is still glowering, but his gaze was darting around the room like a trapped rabbit. He's nervous, Charles noted, and in the same instant realizes he's still pretty much a kid. Maybe mid twenties.
"Take a seat, Mr, uh..." he trailed off, not entirely sure which of the quintet this envoi is.
"Explosion. Nathan Explosion, frontman for Dethklok."
Charles blinked and looks back to the paper. "Right. Dethklok."
"Dethklok."
A pregnant beat of silence. "You sure you're ready for this?" Ofdensen asked, eyes slitted behind thin frames. There's really no reason to beat around the bush with these guys, they've been around the--
"For what?" His vocal chords sound absolutely ruined. Good sound for death metal, bad for just about anything else. Ofdensen made a note to get his throat checked, if he picks this kid up.
Okay. So maybe Charles did need to walk him through it. He felt a shrug pull at his shoulders.
"You know. Going pro. Touring, records--"
"Listen, whatever. I don't care about any of that shit. We just wanna make music. Propogate the word," he growled, clutching the last few words into a gigantic fist held up between them.
"Okay. I can make that happen." He can barely believe the words that are coming out of his mouth. He needs to cover his ass, before his mouth starts signing more checks it can't keep.
"Really?" There's a note of genuine surprise somewhere underneath the rockslide of words. The deep-set green eyes blinked.
"Yes, really. I've been managing bands for over a decade now-"
"Woah, seriously? I had no idea, you were just like. The last guy I had on my list. Holy shit, you are awesome. I mean like, the best I've seen so far." The surprise shifted to an encouraged brand of enthusiasm. Ofdensen was momentarily stung, but wiped it away with the realization that this kid was so new that he had no idea about Ofdensen's reputation. Ofdensen was one of the few in the pro league that still actually scouted the amateur circuit himself for talent, not relegating it to secretaries or assistants. He had made several musicians big.
At that moment, Mr. Explosion's stomach gave a rather alarming, hollowed-out gurgling that made both men frown. The younger man scowled and glared at Ofdensen's raised eyebrows.
"So, uh." Ofdensen hazarded. "You hungry?"
"No." The totality in his tone brooked no opposition, nor did the flat, stony sheen of eyes behind the curtain of black hair.
A beat. Then, quieter, "Yes."
"Uh huh." He lifted the phone handset from the cradle and began to dial as he spoke. "Who wrote up this resume?"
"Magnus."
Magnus Hammersmith. Ofdensen recognized the name from several fringe metal bands. He had to be over 35 by now, and he wondered idly why he was hanging around with kids so yong as he scanned the rest of the names, and recognied two others. The last was pretty fantastic but alien all the same. "William Murderface?"
"Bassist." One of Mr. Explosion's hands was balled into the pit of his stomach, pressing on the muscles. Ofdensen was surprised when he felt a stab of pity for the young man. It was apparent he was still growing, and this brand of hunger unique to young men was particularly painful. Ofdensen remembered it himself.
"Any good?" Ofdensen asked as the cashier at the burger place answered the phone.
"Eh," Mr. Explosion deflected, eyes cast shoulderward in the unconscious snobbery of the musical elite. Generally bandmates didn't expostulate on each others' weaknesses, especially not in front of a potential manager.
"Uh, I'll have a burger, fries, no drink. Mr. Explosion?"
"Mr-- Jesus that sounds faggy. What, are you ordering food?"
"Yes." He could see the frontman stiffen, and knew in that instant that Nathan grew up with a strong father in a family that didn't let him coast on free meals, no matter how poor he was. "And also a double cheeseburger, extra bacon, large fries, and a large Coke." He paused, eyes sweeping over Nathan's form. "Make that a double order." He gave his address and hung up.
"So-"
"Wait wait wait, you can't just order foor for me and then act like it's okay." Nathan's nostrils were flaring. Charles was fairly certain he had some amount of Native American blood, noting the solid structure of the face. "And don't call me Mr. Explosion, that's just fucking weird."
"Okay, then-- Nathan?" Ofdensen treated the name like a question, tiptoeing around the hurt feelings by asking permission about the name. "Tell me about the rest of your band."
A beat of silence as Nathan visibly debated whether or not to let go of the food issue. Finally, he growled, "Pickles, he's the drummer. And uh, Skwisgaar, he's the uh, rhythm guitarist."
"They any good?"
"Fuck yeah. Pickles is like some kind of freaky musical genuis, he can play just about anything. Skwisgaar, yeah, Skwisgaar's even better. Better than Magnus, though he'd probably carve out my eyes with a broken beer bottle if I told him that." The grusome imagery seemed to impress the songwriter, because he gruffed to himself, "Huh, good idea for a song," and unearthed a battered, folded section of paper and a leaky pen from one of his pockets and scribbled for a second.
Eccentric, Ofdensen noted. But there was automatic promise in this guy, regardless of his reputation. "Would you happen to have a demo tape or anything?"
"Huh, yeah." A scarred white audio tape was uncerimoniously dropped on his blotter. "We couldn't afford to spring for uh... a new tape," Nathan half apologized, as Charles picked it up and read 'Snakes n' Barrels' on the front.
"Hm." Ofdensen swiveled in his chair and turned to the stereo system behind him, slotting it into the set, and picking up the headset. He prudently twisted the volume down before donning the set and pushing play.
A few bars of "Dragon Lady" warbled into his ears, before cutting, and a heavy bass and rhythm line, underscored by drums, thundered into life. They built until the lead guitar howled over them, finally topped by Nathan's thunderous roar.
For the three minutes and four seconds of played song, Ofdensen was motionless, spellbound. When the lead guitar finally sobbed out its last note, he felt his heart give a little shivering jolt, and swallowed.
And sat back, reluctantly pulling off the headset. That was better than sex, he thought hazily, as looked vaguely into the mid distance.
A thought cohered. If any of those worthless motherfuckers in the paperwork side of the industry had even given Nathan Explosion the most cursory of chances, this monumental fucking break would never have landed in his lap. It was better than striking gold.
He looked finally over at Nathan. "Do you have a contract?"
The black brows beetled, the rest of his face blank. "That's it? You're just gonna sign? Like that?"
"Yes."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously. Nathan, I have rarely encountered a more talented band. And I've been around a lot. And, to be quite frank, I don't think you have the guile to fake this."
"The-" Nathan's mind stumbled over this, still pretty sure he had been insulted.
Ofdensen waved him off. "Nevermind. Look, right now, I know that things are probably tough for you and the rest of the band. You can't pay me a salary. That's fine. When you start touring and making labels, I want twelve percent. Fair?"
Nathan's face was tight in thought. "Probably."
"Just trust me, it's fair. Ask Pickles or Magnus, they'd both tell you that's more than fair." His office door was tapped on, and Ofdensen called the delivery guy in, payed him, and began pulling food from the warm, white bags. Nathan's stomach gurgled again as Ofdensen set the burgers and fries in front of him. Nathan began digging in his back pocket and pulled out a wallet, before Ofdensen lifted a staying hand.
"Nathan, as of now, I'm unofficially your band manager. It's part of a manager's duty to take care of his musicians, including getting them fed. Okay?"
Title: Origins (1/?)
Rating: G
Characters: Ofdensen, Nathan (for now)
Summary: Dethklok finds a band manager.
Word count: ~4800
Warning: my own meandering ideas on how Dethklok found a manager to herd them into fame.
He hears around the grapevine that no one will touch them. Sitting eating sushi with a has-been manager, he listened to the gossip about the new bands milling through the paperwork circuit, trying to get someone to pick them up. Charles listens mostly out of politeness, always aware that gossip in this industry was invaluable, if not for the actual veracity of the information, but at least for the tone of the climate.
It isn't long before they end up in Charles' office. Or rather, just the frontman, who towered over his desk after slamming the door against the wall. He deposited a creased and rather dirty sheet of tyepwritten paper that someone with demonstrably more experience and years than this hulking mass of aggression wrote. He waited, eyes locked onto Ofdensen, who skimed the paper.
By the time the man in the suits does look up, the frontman is still glowering, but his gaze was darting around the room like a trapped rabbit. He's nervous, Charles noted, and in the same instant realizes he's still pretty much a kid. Maybe mid twenties.
"Take a seat, Mr, uh..." he trailed off, not entirely sure which of the quintet this envoi is.
"Explosion. Nathan Explosion, frontman for Dethklok."
Charles blinked and looks back to the paper. "Right. Dethklok."
"Dethklok."
A pregnant beat of silence. "You sure you're ready for this?" Ofdensen asked, eyes slitted behind thin frames. There's really no reason to beat around the bush with these guys, they've been around the--
"For what?" His vocal chords sound absolutely ruined. Good sound for death metal, bad for just about anything else. Ofdensen made a note to get his throat checked, if he picks this kid up.
Okay. So maybe Charles did need to walk him through it. He felt a shrug pull at his shoulders.
"You know. Going pro. Touring, records--"
"Listen, whatever. I don't care about any of that shit. We just wanna make music. Propogate the word," he growled, clutching the last few words into a gigantic fist held up between them.
"Okay. I can make that happen." He can barely believe the words that are coming out of his mouth. He needs to cover his ass, before his mouth starts signing more checks it can't keep.
"Really?" There's a note of genuine surprise somewhere underneath the rockslide of words. The deep-set green eyes blinked.
"Yes, really. I've been managing bands for over a decade now-"
"Woah, seriously? I had no idea, you were just like. The last guy I had on my list. Holy shit, you are awesome. I mean like, the best I've seen so far." The surprise shifted to an encouraged brand of enthusiasm. Ofdensen was momentarily stung, but wiped it away with the realization that this kid was so new that he had no idea about Ofdensen's reputation. Ofdensen was one of the few in the pro league that still actually scouted the amateur circuit himself for talent, not relegating it to secretaries or assistants. He had made several musicians big.
At that moment, Mr. Explosion's stomach gave a rather alarming, hollowed-out gurgling that made both men frown. The younger man scowled and glared at Ofdensen's raised eyebrows.
"So, uh." Ofdensen hazarded. "You hungry?"
"No." The totality in his tone brooked no opposition, nor did the flat, stony sheen of eyes behind the curtain of black hair.
A beat. Then, quieter, "Yes."
"Uh huh." He lifted the phone handset from the cradle and began to dial as he spoke. "Who wrote up this resume?"
"Magnus."
Magnus Hammersmith. Ofdensen recognized the name from several fringe metal bands. He had to be over 35 by now, and he wondered idly why he was hanging around with kids so yong as he scanned the rest of the names, and recognied two others. The last was pretty fantastic but alien all the same. "William Murderface?"
"Bassist." One of Mr. Explosion's hands was balled into the pit of his stomach, pressing on the muscles. Ofdensen was surprised when he felt a stab of pity for the young man. It was apparent he was still growing, and this brand of hunger unique to young men was particularly painful. Ofdensen remembered it himself.
"Any good?" Ofdensen asked as the cashier at the burger place answered the phone.
"Eh," Mr. Explosion deflected, eyes cast shoulderward in the unconscious snobbery of the musical elite. Generally bandmates didn't expostulate on each others' weaknesses, especially not in front of a potential manager.
"Uh, I'll have a burger, fries, no drink. Mr. Explosion?"
"Mr-- Jesus that sounds faggy. What, are you ordering food?"
"Yes." He could see the frontman stiffen, and knew in that instant that Nathan grew up with a strong father in a family that didn't let him coast on free meals, no matter how poor he was. "And also a double cheeseburger, extra bacon, large fries, and a large Coke." He paused, eyes sweeping over Nathan's form. "Make that a double order." He gave his address and hung up.
"So-"
"Wait wait wait, you can't just order foor for me and then act like it's okay." Nathan's nostrils were flaring. Charles was fairly certain he had some amount of Native American blood, noting the solid structure of the face. "And don't call me Mr. Explosion, that's just fucking weird."
"Okay, then-- Nathan?" Ofdensen treated the name like a question, tiptoeing around the hurt feelings by asking permission about the name. "Tell me about the rest of your band."
A beat of silence as Nathan visibly debated whether or not to let go of the food issue. Finally, he growled, "Pickles, he's the drummer. And uh, Skwisgaar, he's the uh, rhythm guitarist."
"They any good?"
"Fuck yeah. Pickles is like some kind of freaky musical genuis, he can play just about anything. Skwisgaar, yeah, Skwisgaar's even better. Better than Magnus, though he'd probably carve out my eyes with a broken beer bottle if I told him that." The grusome imagery seemed to impress the songwriter, because he gruffed to himself, "Huh, good idea for a song," and unearthed a battered, folded section of paper and a leaky pen from one of his pockets and scribbled for a second.
Eccentric, Ofdensen noted. But there was automatic promise in this guy, regardless of his reputation. "Would you happen to have a demo tape or anything?"
"Huh, yeah." A scarred white audio tape was uncerimoniously dropped on his blotter. "We couldn't afford to spring for uh... a new tape," Nathan half apologized, as Charles picked it up and read 'Snakes n' Barrels' on the front.
"Hm." Ofdensen swiveled in his chair and turned to the stereo system behind him, slotting it into the set, and picking up the headset. He prudently twisted the volume down before donning the set and pushing play.
A few bars of "Dragon Lady" warbled into his ears, before cutting, and a heavy bass and rhythm line, underscored by drums, thundered into life. They built until the lead guitar howled over them, finally topped by Nathan's thunderous roar.
For the three minutes and four seconds of played song, Ofdensen was motionless, spellbound. When the lead guitar finally sobbed out its last note, he felt his heart give a little shivering jolt, and swallowed.
And sat back, reluctantly pulling off the headset. That was better than sex, he thought hazily, as looked vaguely into the mid distance.
A thought cohered. If any of those worthless motherfuckers in the paperwork side of the industry had even given Nathan Explosion the most cursory of chances, this monumental fucking break would never have landed in his lap. It was better than striking gold.
He looked finally over at Nathan. "Do you have a contract?"
The black brows beetled, the rest of his face blank. "That's it? You're just gonna sign? Like that?"
"Yes."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously. Nathan, I have rarely encountered a more talented band. And I've been around a lot. And, to be quite frank, I don't think you have the guile to fake this."
"The-" Nathan's mind stumbled over this, still pretty sure he had been insulted.
Ofdensen waved him off. "Nevermind. Look, right now, I know that things are probably tough for you and the rest of the band. You can't pay me a salary. That's fine. When you start touring and making labels, I want twelve percent. Fair?"
Nathan's face was tight in thought. "Probably."
"Just trust me, it's fair. Ask Pickles or Magnus, they'd both tell you that's more than fair." His office door was tapped on, and Ofdensen called the delivery guy in, payed him, and began pulling food from the warm, white bags. Nathan's stomach gurgled again as Ofdensen set the burgers and fries in front of him. Nathan began digging in his back pocket and pulled out a wallet, before Ofdensen lifted a staying hand.
"Nathan, as of now, I'm unofficially your band manager. It's part of a manager's duty to take care of his musicians, including getting them fed. Okay?"