FIC: The CFO’s Apprentice (Charles, Nathan, Pickles, ???; R)
TO: tikistitch
FROM: nugatorytm
Title: The CFO’s Apprentice
Author: A Nonny Mouse
Characters: Nathan, Pickles, Charles and a secret guest star
Timeline: Somewhere between Seasons 3 and 4
Rating: R for language and violence
Summary: Nathan only wants to help.
A/N: Beta’d by seashadows and Packstrap
"Hey Nat'n! I thought Charles told us to stay outta deat book!"
Frosty beer in hand, Pickles wandered over to the couch, where Nathan was sitting and perusing a huge, ancient tome. He plopped himself down next to the front man and glanced over to see what Nathan was doing. Pierced eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "Yer conjuring up a demon?! Dood, deat's awesome, but isn't it dangerous?"
Quickly making shushing noises, Nathan glanced around to see if the pair of them were being noticed. Satisfied that the coast was clear-Klokateers didn't count, they were non-entities in Nathan's opinion-he looked over the tops of his reading glasses at his drummer. "It's not a demon, exactly, more of a...uhh...an assistant. Yeah. Assistant. For Charles."
"Doesn't Charles already have an assistant-dood?" Pickles asked, perplexed.
Nathan made a rude noise. "Charles goes through assistants like Skwisgaar goes through guitar strings! He needs one with a little more...uhh...staying power. And Charles can't seem to find any himself, so I'm gonna help him out a little." Turning a musty-smelling page, Nathan bent his head to study some of the ancient text. "Hey! Hey, this one looks decent. Whaddya think?" he asked Pickles, pointing at the spell in question.
Pickles perused the contents of his beer bottle instead. "Sahrry, dood, naht gettin' involved in dis one. When Charles comes lookin' fer an ass ta kick, it won't be mine, fer once."
"But you know you're gonna get blamed anyway. Right?" Nathan said with a feral grin.
Pickles mulled this statement over in his head while taking another pull of his beer. Charles always did seem to blame the entire band for the screw-ups of one member, even if the others were nowhere near the incident in question. They were all accomplices for each other in Charles's eyes, even if they really weren't. Well, not all the time, anyway.
"Ehh, yer right," Pickles finally admitted. "Since I'm gonna git my ass kicked anyway, might as well know what for." Tossing the empty bottle aside, he reached over to take the large tome from Nathan. "Lessee whatcha gaht dere, Chief..."
Nathan reached over and pointed at the spell again. "This one looks good. All we gotta do is say the spell and destroy something valuable. That's pretty easy, right?"
"Dood, what do we have deat's valuable?" Pickles scratched his goatee in thought. "One of our platinum records?"
"Fuck you, I'm not destroying that! That's my legacy! Go fuck up that gold record you got with your old band!"
"Fuck you, too, Nat'n!" exclaimed Pickles. "I'm takin' deat gold record with me to da grave!"
"Not if you get a Viking funeral," Nathan countered.
"Deat's even better, cuz I'll put it on my face and when it melts from all deat heat, it'll gold-plate my skull!"
"Hey, that's pretty badass," Nathan admitted. "Hey, can I have it to go with my Buddy Hackett skull? They'd make really awesome bookends!"
"Yeah, sure. But we still gahtta think of something valuable, here. What aboat something from Murderface's Civil War memorabilia? Deat shit's valuable, right?"
"One word: Bowie knife. How about one of Skwisgaar's guitars?" the front man offered.
"Ehh, he gets 'em by the truckload." Pickles looked around the room, hoping an idea would come to him. Instead he spotted a familiar brown devil's tail peeking out from underneath a sofa cushion. "Oh, here it is..." Yanking Deddy free, Pickles held the doll up by the tail. "Toki was lookin' for him last night."
"Fucking Murderface," Nathan growled. "Always hiding it from the kid. I swear he gets a nut off from-Hey! How about we destroy that?!"
"Deddy Bear??" Said bear was tucked away behind the drummer's back, away from Nathan's grabby hands. "Why him? He's naht valuable."
The feral grin was back with a vengeance. "He is to Toki. Besides, what's more brutal than the destruction of something innocent?" At Pickles's reticence to give up the bear, Nathan dropped the grin. "Okay, okay, I'll get Toki a new one. Satisfied?"
"Fine." He tossed the doll into Nathan's lap. "You do the honors, Chief, it was yer idea. I'll hold the book."
It took one sweep of the front man's beefy arm to clear the buzzsaw-shaped coffee table of empty booze bottles, candy wrappers and chip bags. Deddy Bear was laid, almost reverently, in the middle of the table before Nathan climbed up and stood up to his full height, towering over the stuffed animal. "Okay, Pickles, read the spell!"
"Okie." Pickles cleared his throat.
"Aski-taski didgeridoo!
Walla-walla kalamazoo!
Oingo-boingo doodily-doo!
Fo' shizzle fo' sho, how 'bout you?
Plop-plop, fizz-fizz;
Oh, what a relief it is!
I can't believe I ate the whooole thing!
ISHKABIBBLE!"
As Pickles uttered the last resounding word in the spell, Nathan brought his foot up and crushed the bear under his size-fourteen boot. Deddy emerged unscathed, much to Nathan's ire. He tried again, grinding the plush toy under his heel for good measure, but with much the same results. The front man screamed in frustration.
"Dood, it's naht a watch. You'll hafta do better'n deat, it looks like he's laughing at you. Try something else."
"Oh, I've got something better for him," snarled Nathan, reaching into his pocket as he stepped off of the coffee table. "I've got something better right here..." Producing a sturdy Zippo lighter, Nathan flicked it to life and used it to set Deddy alight. "Laugh at me, willya? Well, laugh this off!!"
Flames enveloped the stuffed bear, darkening its shiny shoe-button eyes. The plastic eyes exploded from the doll's head with a loud *POP*; one of them embedding itself into the overhanging television screen, the other taking out a helpful Klokateer who was rushing forward with a fire extinguisher.
They watched as the fur of the plush toy crisped and blackened and peeled away from the body in ragged strips, exposing the stuffing within. Suddenly, the flames dimmed and a noxious-smelling cloud of smoke the color of overripe avocados belched forth from Deddy’s innards, making the two of them cough and frantically try to wave the fumes away.
"Is it working?" Pickles asked between bouts of coughing.
"Dunno. Maybe," Nathan answered, his own vision blurred by watery eyes from the smoke. "Either that, or Toki’s jizzed in this bear one too many times."
Pickles shuddered from the thought. "I did naht need to know deat, Nat’n."
The foul-smelling stench left as quickly as it came, the vapors oozing up into the ceiling ventilation shaft while what remained of Deddy’s little body immolated and consumed itself to nothing but ash. The two of them watched as a small breeze came out of nowhere and scattered the tiny pile of ashes to the four corners of the room.
Pickles glanced around the room a few times before poking his nose into the spell book once more. "So, where’s dis helper-dood at? Ain’t he supposed to show up by now?"
Nathan looked around as well. "Fuck if I know." He afforded the drummer one of his trademarked frowns. "You sure you read that spell right?"
"Sure I did! How many ways is there ta pronounce ‘Ishkabibble’ anyway?!" He thrust the tome back into Nathan’s hands. "I toldja Deddy wasn’t valuable enough."
"Hmm..." Nathan re-opened the book, flipping pages to the spell in question. "Maybe...since the spell was meant for Charles...we should have used something that’s valuable to Charles?"
"Makes sense," Pickles agreed. "But what’s valuable to Charles?"
"Uhhhhhhhhhhh...pie?"
"Good answer!" Pickles awarded his bandmate a thumbs-up. "Go for it!"
~~One boot-splattered cherry pie later...~~
"Okie. What else is valuable to Charles?" Pickles asked, picking shards of pie crust out of his dreads.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhh...money?"
The drummer snapped his fingers. "Right! He’s always goin’ awn aboat his bread ‘n butter! Let’s give it a shaht!"
~~One toasted Klokillion later...~~
"FUCK!" Nathan flopped down on the couch in frustration. "Well, unless it’s one of those stupid red ties that he wears, I’m outta ideas!"
"Wait, wait..." Pickles flapped his hand to indicate that Nathan be patient for a moment. "I’m gettin’ an idea... I overheard Charles once, telling someone on the phone about an old Gibson guitar deat he owns. Da way he spoke aboat it, you could tell it means something to him."
"Perfect!" The grin returned once more. "Where is it?"
Pickles shrugged. "Hell if I know, Charles don’t tell me nuttin’."
"FUCK!!!"
"Hmm, if we have our vendors up the price on the merch by ten percent at the next concert, it will offset some of the bill from the last tour." Charles shook his head as he scribbled down figures on a yellow pad. "What were they thinking, booking a concert in Antarctica? Hoodie sales may have skyrocketed, but we lost a perfectly good stage and a helicopter through a crack in the ice. Not to mention the incident Toki caused by trying to ‘adopt’ one of the penguins; he said he wanted to teach it how to dance."
His pen scratched across the paper, crossing out some numbers and adding on others. "I must be getting soft. Ten percent is much too low; I’ll make it twenty-five percent, instead." Satisfied with his results, Charles pressed the button on his desk intercom. "Grace? I need you to bring me the catalog of current merch, both venue-based and what’s available on the web. Thank you."
As Charles sat back in his office chair, absently clicking the top to his pen while studying the tablet of paper on his desk, a small cloud of noxious vapors filtered into the room via the overhead air duct. The dark, roiling mass of smoke floated down to the other side of the mahogany desk and coalesced into a humanoid form, demonic in appearance and stature. Sharp teeth flashed in a rictus-like grin as it loomed over the desk, studying his intended victim. Pointed spikes protruding from heavily-muscled arms gently marred the mirror-like surface of the desktop as the demon brushed aside a Tiffany lamp.
Charles sat up. "You’re, ah, not my 1:30 appointment, are you?"
"Nooo," the creature hissed softly.
"And your business with me is?" Mere milliseconds was all it took for Charles to calculate how much time it would take to pull the gun he kept in his desk drawer and use it, and then to discard the notion because this being definitely wasn’t human and the gun more than likely wouldn’t work anyway. The demon was also blocking his path to the door, which meant that Charles was trapped behind his desk with nowhere to go. Where was the Church of the Black Klok when you needed them?
"I want youuu..." Wisps of dark smoke issued from the demon’s mouth as it spoke.
Brown eyebrows shot above the glasses. "I-I’m sorry?"
The smile got even bigger, if that was possible. "I want your bodyyyy..."
"Ah. Thank you for clarifying that. It sounded like you were propositioning me for sex, which would almost make sense in this kind of a situation." Would flinging himself out the window be an option? Even from this height he was sure he could land safely.
As if reading his very thoughts, the demon reached out with lightning-quick reflexes and pinned Charles to the chair with a double set of sharp talons, making Charles grimace as the flesh of his arms was pierced. Blood-red eyes flashed with flame. "Maybe laterrr..." the demon said, lowering its face to stare Charles right in the eyes. "Perhaps we can find someone to ravish after I possess youuu..."
"Possession...right." Charles swore that he could smell the stench of a thousand rotted souls coming from the demon’s own body and wondered how he was going to get out of this predicament alive. "Ah, this is going to hurt, isn’t it?"
Sepulchral laugher was the only answer he received before the pain overtook him.
"Dood, I’m tellin’ you, he’s naht gonna lend you his guitar!" Pickles huffed at Nathan as he tried to keep up with the front man’s long strides, hell-bent for Offdensen’s office. "What if we used deat fencing trophy Charles gaht when he was in cahllege, deat should work!"
Nathan slowed his pace as he pondered the drummer’s suggestion. "Better than one of his ties, I guess." He stopped in front of the CFO’s door, hand on the brass knob. "All right, I’ll distract him and you make off with the plaque."
"Gahtcha, chief," Pickles nodded.
But when Nathan opened the door to barge in, it was the two musicians who were distracted by the person behind the mahogany desk. It was Charles sitting in the chair, but at the same time, it wasn’t. The perfectly-tailored Armani suit was ruined, hanging in tatters from the CFO’s shoulders and arms. The crisp, white shirt was destroyed as well, displaying a hugely-muscled chest reminiscent of Conan the Barbarian. His skin was not the usual pale-pink of someone in dire need of a tan, but an unnatural gunmetal grey, the scars in his upper body showing stark white in contrast. But the most disturbing change were the odd spikes protruding from various places on Charles’s body, making him resemble a strange, half-formed human porcupine with glasses and a red tie. Charles was absently staring into the middle-distance while raking his claws into the desk top, gouging out long furrows in the polished surface.
Nathan was nudged in the ribs by a sharp elbow. "Dood, I think the spell worked after all," Pickles hissed in his ear. "But instead of helpin’ Charles, it helped itself to Charles! I knew we shouldn’t have messed with deat book, Nat’n, I jest knew it!"
"Okay, fine! You were right, and I was wr-rrr-wrr... I was wrrrrr-rrwrr-" A slap across the head from Pickles knocked loose the word he was trying to say. "-wrong. But now we gotta figure out a way to fix it before anything else happens."
As if on cue, the intercom on Charles’s desk buzzed for attention. "Sir, your 1:30 appointment has arrived," said the tinny voice coming out of the squawk box.
The statement seemed to animate Charles, who excitedly leaned forward and pressed the intercom button with a claw tip. "Excellent!" he crowed with a voice that sounded like grinding metal. "Delicious! Send him in."
"Uh-oh..." chorused Nathan and Pickles, stepping aside as a portly, balding businessman in a tailored suit pushed between them into Offdensen’s office.
"Offdensen, I’d like a word...with...you..." he began, but the startling change in Charles had him rooted to the spot, gaping like a fish out of water.
Sporting a malicious grin that would give Ozzy Osbourne chills, Charles turned to the two musicians in the doorway. "Sorry, boys, but this is a private meeting..." and with a dismissive gesture, the door slammed in their face. Almost immediately the screams began.
Nathan tried the knob, to no avail. "Locked," he said unnecessarily. At Pickles’s suggestion, Nathan raised his boot and tried to kick the door in, with equal results. Before another attempt could be made, a blotch of liquid crimson splattered on the frosted window of the door, painting it dark. The screams faded into pained moans, then stopped altogether as a noise could be heard within the office, eerily sounding like Murderface loudly biting into a piece of fried chicken.
Pickles blanched as white as corpse paint. "Oh, dood, you don’t suppose..."
Grim, Nathan simply nodded. "Fuck. We gotta do something before he gets outta control."
"BEFORE??!" Pickles squeaked. "Nat’n, Charles jest ATE someone! He’s already outta control!"
"Okay, okay!" Nathan admitted. "That means we-" The muffled buzz of Charles’s desk intercom came through the door followed by the voice of Charles’s personal secretary, Grace: "Sir, you asked me to remind you that you have a meeting at Crystal Mountain Records in about an hour."
Charles answered, "I’m almost finished here; I’ll be leaving shortly."
"Crystal Mountain Records?!" Panicked hands flew to Nathan’s tee shirt and latched on, stretching the fabric to the tearing point. "Dood, Charles can’t go there, he’d eat Roy Cornickelson and den we’d be out’f a jahb!"
Nathan gently pried the drummer’s hands away from his chest. "Well, what if he eats Damien, instead? That won’t be so bad. Right? Him eating Damien?"
Hands that were clutching at Nathan not two seconds ago were ineffectually slapping at him now. "Charles shouldn’t be eating anyone, Nat’n, deat’s the point! But yeah, I totally wouldn’t give a shit if he ate Damien, he’s an asshole. But we can’t guarantee deat he’d eat only Damien, so there’s deat." Pickles scratched his beard in thought. "Come ta think of it, why didn’t he eat us when he had the chance?"
"Becauuuuuuuuuuse...we summoned him?"
"Maybe," Pickles said with a shrug. "Or maybe he don’t like musicians?"
The door opened, startling the two men. "Or maybe," Charles purred in his sepulchral tones, "I don’t like fucking with my bread and butter; it’s somehow unnatural to me." Fresh stains of blood were evident on Charles’s face and hands, half-hidden by a hasty clean-up job. Charles stepped out into the hallway, closing the office door behind him while straightening up his blood-spattered tie. "Now if you boys will excuse me, I have a meeting to attend." Charles pushed past them, leaving bloodied footprints behind as he strode down the hallway.
"What’re we gonna do, Nat’n?!"
"Do? I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do." Drawing himself up to his full, impressive height, Nathan reached out and gave his bandmate’s shoulders a firm shake. "First, we’re not gonna panic, okay? Second, we’re gonna send this guy packing back to where he came from. We need to reverse that spell somehow. Did you see an anti-spell in that book?"
Pickles shook his head. "Nope. But what if we say the spell backwards? You know, Led Zeppelin kinda stuff?"
"It’s worth a shot." Pointing back at Charles’s office door, Nathan started down the hallway. "Go get that trophy you were talking about and I’ll distract Charles. Somehow."
"Gahtcha!" Thankfully, the office door wasn’t locked so Pickles let himself into the room. Giving the businessman’s eviscerated body a brief glance, Pickles turned his attention to the wall that held all of Charles’s awards, certificates and plaques that he had earned over the years. The college fencing trophy was easy to spot, having a pair of crossed fencing sabres right above it. After ripping the shield-shaped plaque from the wall, Pickles turned to leave but hesitated when he spotted the phone on Charles’s desk. "Ya know," he said to himself, "maybe it would help to call in an expert fer this kinda thing. Worst he could say is ‘no’."
Pickles made a beeline for the desk, carefully tip-toeing around the pools of blood and spilled intestines. As he dialed the little-used number (like his brother, Seth, Pickles was very good with numbers and rarely forgot a telephone, bank account or Social Security number once it was firmly in his head), Pickles glanced down at the body by the desk. The left-front pants pocket was ripped and the drummer could see a leather wallet peeking up from within. "Dood, is deat shark skin?" he pondered out loud as he plucked the wallet up. Rifling through it for cash and credit cards, Pickles confirmed that it was, indeed, shark-skin, and made a mental note to give it to Toki for his next birthday. As he pocketed the wallet, the recipient of his phone call picked up.
"Bahbby? Hey, this is Pickles. Whaddya mean, ‘Pickles who?’ Pickles da drummer. From Dethklahk. Deth-You hooked up with my great aunt Mahrgret once a few years ago. Yeah, deat Pickles! Anyhoo, I need a favor. A really big, special favor. We gaht a demon over here ‘n I think you might know some doods who can help..."
If there was one thing Nathan could thank his parents for, it was for his tall stature. His long strides had him quickly catching up with the CFO in no time. "Charles! Hey! Hey, Charles!"
Offdensen turned, coming to a stop in the hallway. "I’m very busy, Nathan; what is it?"
Nathan strode past Charles to get in front of him, purposely blocking the way. "I, uhh...need you to look at something real quick. Before you go."
Charles frowned, his face spikes quivering in irritation. "Can’t this wait until later? I need to get to this meeting."
"NO!" Nathan exclaimed, reaching out to physically restrain Charles, but pulling his hands back at the last second. Charles may have claimed that eating him would be detrimental to the band, but a singer doesn’t need his hands to sing. "No, it’s real important that you look at this stuff right now. It’s for the, uh, merch...line."
The demonized CFO raised a spiked eyebrow. "Merch?"
"Yeah! This new stuff is great! It’ll fly right off the shelves! We’ll be backlogged for months!"
The eyebrow was lowered, but the frown remained. "All right," Charles said, "but if this is another Time Travel Face Bag type of idea, I’ll be very angry with you." He gestured down the hallway, past Nathan. "Lead on."
"Okay." Nathan spared a glance back down the hallway they came from, but Pickles was nowhere to be seen. He mentally urged the drummer to hurry up, hoping that Charles couldn’t actually read minds.
Nathan led Charles back to the rec room, where this whole business had started. The room had been cleaned since he and Pickles had left it earlier: the dead Klokateer had been hauled away and the decimated cherry pie had been wiped up. Blood stains and burn marks were all that remained of their previous activities. Thankfully, the grimoire was still on the couch where Pickles had left it.
Charles took a quick look around the room, then back at Nathan. "All right, where is this ‘merch idea’ you have to show me?"
Thinking quickly, which was rare for Nathan, he snatched up the ancient tome from the couch, showing it off with a flourish. "This thing. This is our new merch item. Guaranteed best seller."
"That’s a grimoire, Nathan. I believe that would be impossible to mass produce. And didn’t I tell you boys to leave that book alone?"
"Yes. I mean-no! I mean..." Nathan took a deep breath to calm himself. "I mean, yeah, it’ll look like a real grimoire, but it’ll just be a book of...guitar tabs...or something."
Hearing this, Charles actually looked thoughtful. "You know, that’s actually not a bad idea. Fans have been clamoring for a guitar tablature book for some time now. Making a ‘guitar grimoire’ would be just the thing to boost our merchandise sales back up into the black. I’ll get our development team on it right away. Was there anything else you needed to show me?"
Nathan looked back at the doorway; still no Pickles. "Uhh, yeah, but I need your tie."
"My tie? What does my tie have to do with merch?" Skeptical, Charles undid the double Windsor knot and slid his tie off, handing it to Nathan, who promptly slid a Sharpie out of his own pocket. "And just what is the marker for?"
"Hold on, hold on...you’ll see." Seating himself down upon the couch, Nathan set the grimoire on his lap and used it as an impromptu writing desk as he scrawled on the broad area of the tie. A few seconds later, he held the tie up and the initials ‘CFO’ could be seen written on the tie in stylized Gothic lettering, albeit the marker was bleeding badly into the red silk. "Now, you may not know this, but you have tons of fans, too. Why not give ‘em the piece of Charles they’ve always wanted." Nathan looked back at the tie, then over at Charles. "Well, the second piece of Charles they’ve always wanted, anyway."
"I fail to see how a monogrammed tie could be anything but a Christmas present from Toki. As a merch idea, I believe it will be a total-Nathan, why are you lighting my tie on fire?"
Tossing the zippo aside, Nathan picked up the grimoire and opened it. "I found a neat magic trick and I want you to see it; I’ve been practicing all day!"
"I don’t have time for this..." Charles turned to leave. "I’ll look at it when I return, Nathan."
"IT’LL ONLY TAKE A FUCKING MINUTE!" Charles usually caved-in when Nathan got loudly insistent, and he hoped that a demon-possessed Charles would be no different.
"Fine," sighed Charles. "Hurry up, I need to leave ASAP."
"Right, yeah." Flipping to the spell that started all the trouble in the first place, Nathan cleared his throat and intoned in his best stage voice:
"ISHKABIBBLE!"
Charles stiffened, red eyes flashing bright with flame.
"Thing whooole the ate I believe can’t I!
Is it relief a what, oh!
Fizz-fizz, plop-plop;"
As Nathan growled out the spell in reverse, Charles stood rooted to the spot as he writhed in pain.
"You ‘bout how, sho fo’ shizzle fo’?
Doo-doodilly boingo-oingo!"
Wisps of black smoke oozed from his mouth and ears as Charles fought the immobility the spell forced upon him, to no avail. Emboldened by his success so far, Nathan decided to crank it up a notch:
"KALAMAZOO WALLA-WALLA!
DIDGERID-"
"I gaht the trophy, Nat’n; here it is!" Pickles practically flew into the room, waving the college plaque around like it was a flag at a parade.
"GODDAMMIT, PICKLES!!!"
"What?? I braht it like you asked!" Perplexed, Pickles approached Nathan. "Oh, sahrry it took so long, I had ta make a phone call real quick."
If there was any time that Nathan wanted to tear his hair out by the roots, it was now. "I ALMOST HAD HIM!" he yelled at the diminutive drummer. "What’d you have to go and fuck up the spell for?!"
"What’re you tahkin’...aboat..." Between the spell book in Nathan’s hands, the last scraps of flaming tie on the coffee table and Charles shaking off the remnants of the spell that held him in place, it didn’t take Pickles very long to figure things out. "Oops, sahrry."
"I’ll take that, gentlemen." With a gesture, the grimoire flew out of Nathan’s arms and into Charles’s taloned hands. "You thought to banish me using this book, hmm?" The flames in Charles’s eyes blazed brightly as he opened his mouth wide to shoot forth a gout of hellfire which quickly consumed the grimoire, turning it to ash within seconds. "There’s that," he said, brushing his hands together to get the remaining ashes off of his claws. "Now, as for you two..."
Without the spell book, Nathan was at a loss as to what to do. "Oh man, are we fucked."
"Wait, you can’t kill us, we’re your bread ‘n butter, right?" said Pickles.
"Oh, I won’t kill you," Charles assured the two, "but I’ll certainly make you wish you were dead."
As Charles approached, eyes shining red and hot, Nathan pushed the drummer behind him. "I’ll hold him off, Pickles; you make a run for it when you get the chance." He turned to face Charles once more. "Come on, Charles, you know you don’t want to hurt us. It’s hard to make an album when you’re laid up in the hospital. It’ll cost us money!"
"Yeah, dood, lahts of money!" Pickles chimed in helpfully.
"I’m sorry, but Charles isn’t available right now," the demonic manager growled, "but I’m certain that he’s hurting over that money comment." He raised a clawed hand, talons gleaming in the light.
Suddenly, a fluttering noise passed through the room, commanding everyone’s attention.
"What the fuck was that?" Nathan asked.
Pickles shrugged his shoulders. "Sounded like some kinda bird flyin’ around, if you ask me."
The demon, however, knew exactly what it was. Breaking off his attack on the two musicians, Charles turned to flee through the door, only to find his way blocked by someone standing in it.
At first glance the stranger resembled one of those detectives that you see on television; the rumpled trenchcoat, short haircut, five o’clock shadow and a suit that looked like it had been slept in, complete with crooked tie. The only thing that set him apart from any TV detective was the powerful aura which radiated outward from the being in waves. The man stood eye-to-eye with Charles and their gazes locked, and somehow Nathan could sense that a great battle of wills was taking place between the two.
The stranger stepped into the room; Charles stepped back, clearly giving ground until he bumped into the couch and could move no further. Like a bird hypnotized by a snake, Charles could only watch as the being approached, arm raised, and placed a palm on the manager’s forehead. Blinding light replaced the red hellfire of Charles’s eyes and mouth, shooting forth with an intensity that caused Nathan and Pickles to shield their eyes or risk retina damage. When the light finally faded, Charles collapsed soundlessly to the floor, the stranger standing over him, looking down at the body with a somber look on his face.
Pickles was first to break the silence. "Is he-?"
"Yes," the man said, his voice sounding like he’d smoked one too many cigarettes in his life. "I’m sorry, but humans don’t seem to survive the smiting process; demons tend to leave them like a hotel room after a rock star’s been in there."
"Yeah, been there done deat, dood. But now what’re we gonna do without a manager?" Pickles yanked on a dread in frustration. "Charles was the only one who could run this place prahperly!"
Nathan stared hate-filled daggers at the stranger in the room. This guy had killed Charles for no reason at all! Well, sure, the demon was gonna curb-stomp him and Pickles something fierce, but Charles wasn’t responsible for that! Who did this guy think he was, anyway? In fact, what was this guy? Nathan could still sense the powerful aura surrounding the man and something primordial in his brain was screaming at him to run away, but Nathan Explosion ran away from no one, not even a-"What the fuck are you?!"
"I’m sorry for not introducing myself." The stranger looked up into Nathan’s face. "I am Castiel, an angel of the L-" he broke off, staring into Nathan’s hate-filled eyes. Nathan was not sure what he saw there, but Castiel started to approach him, arm raised. In Nathan’s eyes, he seemed to shine with light, and was that a set of wings sprouting from his back? Nathan growled; if he was gonna die like Charles did, he’d make sure to take this guy with him when he went.
"STOP!"
Everyone turned to stare at Charles, who was picking himself up off of the floor and brushing off his torn, bloodstained suit. "Please don’t fuck with my bread and butter; I hate that."
Castiel turned, Nathan forgotten for the moment. "Impossible. You should be dead. Humans don’t survive when smited. Smote? Smitten? You should be dead, regardless."
Pickles’s grin lit up the room. "Aw, dood, this ain’t the first time he’s been dead, right Charles?"
"I guess being the Dead Man has its advantages," Charles agreed, attempting to straighten a non-existent tie. But I do thank you for your help in getting rid of that demon that possessed me; that was not fun."
"But what about...?" Castiel pointed over at Nathan, who scowled back.
"I assure you, everything’s under control now. With the grimoire destroyed, Nathan can’t do any more damage; nothing more than the usual shenanigans anyway, which I have a handle on. If your help is ever needed, I’ll be sure to get the number from Pickles."
"Number?" Pickles asked, scratching his head. "You mean Bahbby’s number?"
Castiel turned to stare at Pickles. "You called Bobby Singer? Why would a-"
"I think what Charles is trying to tell you is: ‘Thank you, now get the fuck out.’" Nathan growled.
"Jest more politely," Pickles added, helpfully.
"Yes, well...perhaps a hoodie from our merch line as well?" Charles offered.
Castiel nodded. "Perhaps a hoodie would please Dean. I thank you for the offer."
Charles inclined his body. "If you would follow me, please, I’ll see what we can do for you."
As Castiel left with Charles, Pickles sighed with relief, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Well, we gaht outta deat one by the skin of our teeth, right, Nat’n?"
Nathan was still staring at the door Charles and Castiel went through, eyes narrowed. "I still don’t trust that guy," he growled. Pickles gave him a backhanded slap across his bicep, forcing his attention back toward the drummer.
"Deat’s why Charles said to naht mess with deat book in the first place, Nat’n; it’s nuthin’ but trouble!"
"Okay! All right, I’m sor- I’m sorrr- I’m soraaagghh-!" Nathan threw his hands up in exasperation.
Pickles raised a hand to slap at him again, but thought better of it. "Ehh, jest try sayin’ deat to Toki when he finds out you destroyed his bear."
Somehow, facing an enraged Norwegian seemed a lot more dangerous that going one-on-one with an angel. Maybe he could get that Castiel guy to back him up when he confessed to Toki?
"Pickles, can I have the number of that Bobby guy? I think I’m gonna need it."
The End?
FROM: nugatorytm
Title: The CFO’s Apprentice
Author: A Nonny Mouse
Characters: Nathan, Pickles, Charles and a secret guest star
Timeline: Somewhere between Seasons 3 and 4
Rating: R for language and violence
Summary: Nathan only wants to help.
A/N: Beta’d by seashadows and Packstrap
"Hey Nat'n! I thought Charles told us to stay outta deat book!"
Frosty beer in hand, Pickles wandered over to the couch, where Nathan was sitting and perusing a huge, ancient tome. He plopped himself down next to the front man and glanced over to see what Nathan was doing. Pierced eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "Yer conjuring up a demon?! Dood, deat's awesome, but isn't it dangerous?"
Quickly making shushing noises, Nathan glanced around to see if the pair of them were being noticed. Satisfied that the coast was clear-Klokateers didn't count, they were non-entities in Nathan's opinion-he looked over the tops of his reading glasses at his drummer. "It's not a demon, exactly, more of a...uhh...an assistant. Yeah. Assistant. For Charles."
"Doesn't Charles already have an assistant-dood?" Pickles asked, perplexed.
Nathan made a rude noise. "Charles goes through assistants like Skwisgaar goes through guitar strings! He needs one with a little more...uhh...staying power. And Charles can't seem to find any himself, so I'm gonna help him out a little." Turning a musty-smelling page, Nathan bent his head to study some of the ancient text. "Hey! Hey, this one looks decent. Whaddya think?" he asked Pickles, pointing at the spell in question.
Pickles perused the contents of his beer bottle instead. "Sahrry, dood, naht gettin' involved in dis one. When Charles comes lookin' fer an ass ta kick, it won't be mine, fer once."
"But you know you're gonna get blamed anyway. Right?" Nathan said with a feral grin.
Pickles mulled this statement over in his head while taking another pull of his beer. Charles always did seem to blame the entire band for the screw-ups of one member, even if the others were nowhere near the incident in question. They were all accomplices for each other in Charles's eyes, even if they really weren't. Well, not all the time, anyway.
"Ehh, yer right," Pickles finally admitted. "Since I'm gonna git my ass kicked anyway, might as well know what for." Tossing the empty bottle aside, he reached over to take the large tome from Nathan. "Lessee whatcha gaht dere, Chief..."
Nathan reached over and pointed at the spell again. "This one looks good. All we gotta do is say the spell and destroy something valuable. That's pretty easy, right?"
"Dood, what do we have deat's valuable?" Pickles scratched his goatee in thought. "One of our platinum records?"
"Fuck you, I'm not destroying that! That's my legacy! Go fuck up that gold record you got with your old band!"
"Fuck you, too, Nat'n!" exclaimed Pickles. "I'm takin' deat gold record with me to da grave!"
"Not if you get a Viking funeral," Nathan countered.
"Deat's even better, cuz I'll put it on my face and when it melts from all deat heat, it'll gold-plate my skull!"
"Hey, that's pretty badass," Nathan admitted. "Hey, can I have it to go with my Buddy Hackett skull? They'd make really awesome bookends!"
"Yeah, sure. But we still gahtta think of something valuable, here. What aboat something from Murderface's Civil War memorabilia? Deat shit's valuable, right?"
"One word: Bowie knife. How about one of Skwisgaar's guitars?" the front man offered.
"Ehh, he gets 'em by the truckload." Pickles looked around the room, hoping an idea would come to him. Instead he spotted a familiar brown devil's tail peeking out from underneath a sofa cushion. "Oh, here it is..." Yanking Deddy free, Pickles held the doll up by the tail. "Toki was lookin' for him last night."
"Fucking Murderface," Nathan growled. "Always hiding it from the kid. I swear he gets a nut off from-Hey! How about we destroy that?!"
"Deddy Bear??" Said bear was tucked away behind the drummer's back, away from Nathan's grabby hands. "Why him? He's naht valuable."
The feral grin was back with a vengeance. "He is to Toki. Besides, what's more brutal than the destruction of something innocent?" At Pickles's reticence to give up the bear, Nathan dropped the grin. "Okay, okay, I'll get Toki a new one. Satisfied?"
"Fine." He tossed the doll into Nathan's lap. "You do the honors, Chief, it was yer idea. I'll hold the book."
It took one sweep of the front man's beefy arm to clear the buzzsaw-shaped coffee table of empty booze bottles, candy wrappers and chip bags. Deddy Bear was laid, almost reverently, in the middle of the table before Nathan climbed up and stood up to his full height, towering over the stuffed animal. "Okay, Pickles, read the spell!"
"Okie." Pickles cleared his throat.
"Aski-taski didgeridoo!
Walla-walla kalamazoo!
Oingo-boingo doodily-doo!
Fo' shizzle fo' sho, how 'bout you?
Plop-plop, fizz-fizz;
Oh, what a relief it is!
I can't believe I ate the whooole thing!
ISHKABIBBLE!"
As Pickles uttered the last resounding word in the spell, Nathan brought his foot up and crushed the bear under his size-fourteen boot. Deddy emerged unscathed, much to Nathan's ire. He tried again, grinding the plush toy under his heel for good measure, but with much the same results. The front man screamed in frustration.
"Dood, it's naht a watch. You'll hafta do better'n deat, it looks like he's laughing at you. Try something else."
"Oh, I've got something better for him," snarled Nathan, reaching into his pocket as he stepped off of the coffee table. "I've got something better right here..." Producing a sturdy Zippo lighter, Nathan flicked it to life and used it to set Deddy alight. "Laugh at me, willya? Well, laugh this off!!"
Flames enveloped the stuffed bear, darkening its shiny shoe-button eyes. The plastic eyes exploded from the doll's head with a loud *POP*; one of them embedding itself into the overhanging television screen, the other taking out a helpful Klokateer who was rushing forward with a fire extinguisher.
They watched as the fur of the plush toy crisped and blackened and peeled away from the body in ragged strips, exposing the stuffing within. Suddenly, the flames dimmed and a noxious-smelling cloud of smoke the color of overripe avocados belched forth from Deddy’s innards, making the two of them cough and frantically try to wave the fumes away.
"Is it working?" Pickles asked between bouts of coughing.
"Dunno. Maybe," Nathan answered, his own vision blurred by watery eyes from the smoke. "Either that, or Toki’s jizzed in this bear one too many times."
Pickles shuddered from the thought. "I did naht need to know deat, Nat’n."
The foul-smelling stench left as quickly as it came, the vapors oozing up into the ceiling ventilation shaft while what remained of Deddy’s little body immolated and consumed itself to nothing but ash. The two of them watched as a small breeze came out of nowhere and scattered the tiny pile of ashes to the four corners of the room.
Pickles glanced around the room a few times before poking his nose into the spell book once more. "So, where’s dis helper-dood at? Ain’t he supposed to show up by now?"
Nathan looked around as well. "Fuck if I know." He afforded the drummer one of his trademarked frowns. "You sure you read that spell right?"
"Sure I did! How many ways is there ta pronounce ‘Ishkabibble’ anyway?!" He thrust the tome back into Nathan’s hands. "I toldja Deddy wasn’t valuable enough."
"Hmm..." Nathan re-opened the book, flipping pages to the spell in question. "Maybe...since the spell was meant for Charles...we should have used something that’s valuable to Charles?"
"Makes sense," Pickles agreed. "But what’s valuable to Charles?"
"Uhhhhhhhhhhh...pie?"
"Good answer!" Pickles awarded his bandmate a thumbs-up. "Go for it!"
~~One boot-splattered cherry pie later...~~
"Okie. What else is valuable to Charles?" Pickles asked, picking shards of pie crust out of his dreads.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhh...money?"
The drummer snapped his fingers. "Right! He’s always goin’ awn aboat his bread ‘n butter! Let’s give it a shaht!"
~~One toasted Klokillion later...~~
"FUCK!" Nathan flopped down on the couch in frustration. "Well, unless it’s one of those stupid red ties that he wears, I’m outta ideas!"
"Wait, wait..." Pickles flapped his hand to indicate that Nathan be patient for a moment. "I’m gettin’ an idea... I overheard Charles once, telling someone on the phone about an old Gibson guitar deat he owns. Da way he spoke aboat it, you could tell it means something to him."
"Perfect!" The grin returned once more. "Where is it?"
Pickles shrugged. "Hell if I know, Charles don’t tell me nuttin’."
"FUCK!!!"
"Hmm, if we have our vendors up the price on the merch by ten percent at the next concert, it will offset some of the bill from the last tour." Charles shook his head as he scribbled down figures on a yellow pad. "What were they thinking, booking a concert in Antarctica? Hoodie sales may have skyrocketed, but we lost a perfectly good stage and a helicopter through a crack in the ice. Not to mention the incident Toki caused by trying to ‘adopt’ one of the penguins; he said he wanted to teach it how to dance."
His pen scratched across the paper, crossing out some numbers and adding on others. "I must be getting soft. Ten percent is much too low; I’ll make it twenty-five percent, instead." Satisfied with his results, Charles pressed the button on his desk intercom. "Grace? I need you to bring me the catalog of current merch, both venue-based and what’s available on the web. Thank you."
As Charles sat back in his office chair, absently clicking the top to his pen while studying the tablet of paper on his desk, a small cloud of noxious vapors filtered into the room via the overhead air duct. The dark, roiling mass of smoke floated down to the other side of the mahogany desk and coalesced into a humanoid form, demonic in appearance and stature. Sharp teeth flashed in a rictus-like grin as it loomed over the desk, studying his intended victim. Pointed spikes protruding from heavily-muscled arms gently marred the mirror-like surface of the desktop as the demon brushed aside a Tiffany lamp.
Charles sat up. "You’re, ah, not my 1:30 appointment, are you?"
"Nooo," the creature hissed softly.
"And your business with me is?" Mere milliseconds was all it took for Charles to calculate how much time it would take to pull the gun he kept in his desk drawer and use it, and then to discard the notion because this being definitely wasn’t human and the gun more than likely wouldn’t work anyway. The demon was also blocking his path to the door, which meant that Charles was trapped behind his desk with nowhere to go. Where was the Church of the Black Klok when you needed them?
"I want youuu..." Wisps of dark smoke issued from the demon’s mouth as it spoke.
Brown eyebrows shot above the glasses. "I-I’m sorry?"
The smile got even bigger, if that was possible. "I want your bodyyyy..."
"Ah. Thank you for clarifying that. It sounded like you were propositioning me for sex, which would almost make sense in this kind of a situation." Would flinging himself out the window be an option? Even from this height he was sure he could land safely.
As if reading his very thoughts, the demon reached out with lightning-quick reflexes and pinned Charles to the chair with a double set of sharp talons, making Charles grimace as the flesh of his arms was pierced. Blood-red eyes flashed with flame. "Maybe laterrr..." the demon said, lowering its face to stare Charles right in the eyes. "Perhaps we can find someone to ravish after I possess youuu..."
"Possession...right." Charles swore that he could smell the stench of a thousand rotted souls coming from the demon’s own body and wondered how he was going to get out of this predicament alive. "Ah, this is going to hurt, isn’t it?"
Sepulchral laugher was the only answer he received before the pain overtook him.
"Dood, I’m tellin’ you, he’s naht gonna lend you his guitar!" Pickles huffed at Nathan as he tried to keep up with the front man’s long strides, hell-bent for Offdensen’s office. "What if we used deat fencing trophy Charles gaht when he was in cahllege, deat should work!"
Nathan slowed his pace as he pondered the drummer’s suggestion. "Better than one of his ties, I guess." He stopped in front of the CFO’s door, hand on the brass knob. "All right, I’ll distract him and you make off with the plaque."
"Gahtcha, chief," Pickles nodded.
But when Nathan opened the door to barge in, it was the two musicians who were distracted by the person behind the mahogany desk. It was Charles sitting in the chair, but at the same time, it wasn’t. The perfectly-tailored Armani suit was ruined, hanging in tatters from the CFO’s shoulders and arms. The crisp, white shirt was destroyed as well, displaying a hugely-muscled chest reminiscent of Conan the Barbarian. His skin was not the usual pale-pink of someone in dire need of a tan, but an unnatural gunmetal grey, the scars in his upper body showing stark white in contrast. But the most disturbing change were the odd spikes protruding from various places on Charles’s body, making him resemble a strange, half-formed human porcupine with glasses and a red tie. Charles was absently staring into the middle-distance while raking his claws into the desk top, gouging out long furrows in the polished surface.
Nathan was nudged in the ribs by a sharp elbow. "Dood, I think the spell worked after all," Pickles hissed in his ear. "But instead of helpin’ Charles, it helped itself to Charles! I knew we shouldn’t have messed with deat book, Nat’n, I jest knew it!"
"Okay, fine! You were right, and I was wr-rrr-wrr... I was wrrrrr-rrwrr-" A slap across the head from Pickles knocked loose the word he was trying to say. "-wrong. But now we gotta figure out a way to fix it before anything else happens."
As if on cue, the intercom on Charles’s desk buzzed for attention. "Sir, your 1:30 appointment has arrived," said the tinny voice coming out of the squawk box.
The statement seemed to animate Charles, who excitedly leaned forward and pressed the intercom button with a claw tip. "Excellent!" he crowed with a voice that sounded like grinding metal. "Delicious! Send him in."
"Uh-oh..." chorused Nathan and Pickles, stepping aside as a portly, balding businessman in a tailored suit pushed between them into Offdensen’s office.
"Offdensen, I’d like a word...with...you..." he began, but the startling change in Charles had him rooted to the spot, gaping like a fish out of water.
Sporting a malicious grin that would give Ozzy Osbourne chills, Charles turned to the two musicians in the doorway. "Sorry, boys, but this is a private meeting..." and with a dismissive gesture, the door slammed in their face. Almost immediately the screams began.
Nathan tried the knob, to no avail. "Locked," he said unnecessarily. At Pickles’s suggestion, Nathan raised his boot and tried to kick the door in, with equal results. Before another attempt could be made, a blotch of liquid crimson splattered on the frosted window of the door, painting it dark. The screams faded into pained moans, then stopped altogether as a noise could be heard within the office, eerily sounding like Murderface loudly biting into a piece of fried chicken.
Pickles blanched as white as corpse paint. "Oh, dood, you don’t suppose..."
Grim, Nathan simply nodded. "Fuck. We gotta do something before he gets outta control."
"BEFORE??!" Pickles squeaked. "Nat’n, Charles jest ATE someone! He’s already outta control!"
"Okay, okay!" Nathan admitted. "That means we-" The muffled buzz of Charles’s desk intercom came through the door followed by the voice of Charles’s personal secretary, Grace: "Sir, you asked me to remind you that you have a meeting at Crystal Mountain Records in about an hour."
Charles answered, "I’m almost finished here; I’ll be leaving shortly."
"Crystal Mountain Records?!" Panicked hands flew to Nathan’s tee shirt and latched on, stretching the fabric to the tearing point. "Dood, Charles can’t go there, he’d eat Roy Cornickelson and den we’d be out’f a jahb!"
Nathan gently pried the drummer’s hands away from his chest. "Well, what if he eats Damien, instead? That won’t be so bad. Right? Him eating Damien?"
Hands that were clutching at Nathan not two seconds ago were ineffectually slapping at him now. "Charles shouldn’t be eating anyone, Nat’n, deat’s the point! But yeah, I totally wouldn’t give a shit if he ate Damien, he’s an asshole. But we can’t guarantee deat he’d eat only Damien, so there’s deat." Pickles scratched his beard in thought. "Come ta think of it, why didn’t he eat us when he had the chance?"
"Becauuuuuuuuuuse...we summoned him?"
"Maybe," Pickles said with a shrug. "Or maybe he don’t like musicians?"
The door opened, startling the two men. "Or maybe," Charles purred in his sepulchral tones, "I don’t like fucking with my bread and butter; it’s somehow unnatural to me." Fresh stains of blood were evident on Charles’s face and hands, half-hidden by a hasty clean-up job. Charles stepped out into the hallway, closing the office door behind him while straightening up his blood-spattered tie. "Now if you boys will excuse me, I have a meeting to attend." Charles pushed past them, leaving bloodied footprints behind as he strode down the hallway.
"What’re we gonna do, Nat’n?!"
"Do? I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do." Drawing himself up to his full, impressive height, Nathan reached out and gave his bandmate’s shoulders a firm shake. "First, we’re not gonna panic, okay? Second, we’re gonna send this guy packing back to where he came from. We need to reverse that spell somehow. Did you see an anti-spell in that book?"
Pickles shook his head. "Nope. But what if we say the spell backwards? You know, Led Zeppelin kinda stuff?"
"It’s worth a shot." Pointing back at Charles’s office door, Nathan started down the hallway. "Go get that trophy you were talking about and I’ll distract Charles. Somehow."
"Gahtcha!" Thankfully, the office door wasn’t locked so Pickles let himself into the room. Giving the businessman’s eviscerated body a brief glance, Pickles turned his attention to the wall that held all of Charles’s awards, certificates and plaques that he had earned over the years. The college fencing trophy was easy to spot, having a pair of crossed fencing sabres right above it. After ripping the shield-shaped plaque from the wall, Pickles turned to leave but hesitated when he spotted the phone on Charles’s desk. "Ya know," he said to himself, "maybe it would help to call in an expert fer this kinda thing. Worst he could say is ‘no’."
Pickles made a beeline for the desk, carefully tip-toeing around the pools of blood and spilled intestines. As he dialed the little-used number (like his brother, Seth, Pickles was very good with numbers and rarely forgot a telephone, bank account or Social Security number once it was firmly in his head), Pickles glanced down at the body by the desk. The left-front pants pocket was ripped and the drummer could see a leather wallet peeking up from within. "Dood, is deat shark skin?" he pondered out loud as he plucked the wallet up. Rifling through it for cash and credit cards, Pickles confirmed that it was, indeed, shark-skin, and made a mental note to give it to Toki for his next birthday. As he pocketed the wallet, the recipient of his phone call picked up.
"Bahbby? Hey, this is Pickles. Whaddya mean, ‘Pickles who?’ Pickles da drummer. From Dethklahk. Deth-You hooked up with my great aunt Mahrgret once a few years ago. Yeah, deat Pickles! Anyhoo, I need a favor. A really big, special favor. We gaht a demon over here ‘n I think you might know some doods who can help..."
If there was one thing Nathan could thank his parents for, it was for his tall stature. His long strides had him quickly catching up with the CFO in no time. "Charles! Hey! Hey, Charles!"
Offdensen turned, coming to a stop in the hallway. "I’m very busy, Nathan; what is it?"
Nathan strode past Charles to get in front of him, purposely blocking the way. "I, uhh...need you to look at something real quick. Before you go."
Charles frowned, his face spikes quivering in irritation. "Can’t this wait until later? I need to get to this meeting."
"NO!" Nathan exclaimed, reaching out to physically restrain Charles, but pulling his hands back at the last second. Charles may have claimed that eating him would be detrimental to the band, but a singer doesn’t need his hands to sing. "No, it’s real important that you look at this stuff right now. It’s for the, uh, merch...line."
The demonized CFO raised a spiked eyebrow. "Merch?"
"Yeah! This new stuff is great! It’ll fly right off the shelves! We’ll be backlogged for months!"
The eyebrow was lowered, but the frown remained. "All right," Charles said, "but if this is another Time Travel Face Bag type of idea, I’ll be very angry with you." He gestured down the hallway, past Nathan. "Lead on."
"Okay." Nathan spared a glance back down the hallway they came from, but Pickles was nowhere to be seen. He mentally urged the drummer to hurry up, hoping that Charles couldn’t actually read minds.
Nathan led Charles back to the rec room, where this whole business had started. The room had been cleaned since he and Pickles had left it earlier: the dead Klokateer had been hauled away and the decimated cherry pie had been wiped up. Blood stains and burn marks were all that remained of their previous activities. Thankfully, the grimoire was still on the couch where Pickles had left it.
Charles took a quick look around the room, then back at Nathan. "All right, where is this ‘merch idea’ you have to show me?"
Thinking quickly, which was rare for Nathan, he snatched up the ancient tome from the couch, showing it off with a flourish. "This thing. This is our new merch item. Guaranteed best seller."
"That’s a grimoire, Nathan. I believe that would be impossible to mass produce. And didn’t I tell you boys to leave that book alone?"
"Yes. I mean-no! I mean..." Nathan took a deep breath to calm himself. "I mean, yeah, it’ll look like a real grimoire, but it’ll just be a book of...guitar tabs...or something."
Hearing this, Charles actually looked thoughtful. "You know, that’s actually not a bad idea. Fans have been clamoring for a guitar tablature book for some time now. Making a ‘guitar grimoire’ would be just the thing to boost our merchandise sales back up into the black. I’ll get our development team on it right away. Was there anything else you needed to show me?"
Nathan looked back at the doorway; still no Pickles. "Uhh, yeah, but I need your tie."
"My tie? What does my tie have to do with merch?" Skeptical, Charles undid the double Windsor knot and slid his tie off, handing it to Nathan, who promptly slid a Sharpie out of his own pocket. "And just what is the marker for?"
"Hold on, hold on...you’ll see." Seating himself down upon the couch, Nathan set the grimoire on his lap and used it as an impromptu writing desk as he scrawled on the broad area of the tie. A few seconds later, he held the tie up and the initials ‘CFO’ could be seen written on the tie in stylized Gothic lettering, albeit the marker was bleeding badly into the red silk. "Now, you may not know this, but you have tons of fans, too. Why not give ‘em the piece of Charles they’ve always wanted." Nathan looked back at the tie, then over at Charles. "Well, the second piece of Charles they’ve always wanted, anyway."
"I fail to see how a monogrammed tie could be anything but a Christmas present from Toki. As a merch idea, I believe it will be a total-Nathan, why are you lighting my tie on fire?"
Tossing the zippo aside, Nathan picked up the grimoire and opened it. "I found a neat magic trick and I want you to see it; I’ve been practicing all day!"
"I don’t have time for this..." Charles turned to leave. "I’ll look at it when I return, Nathan."
"IT’LL ONLY TAKE A FUCKING MINUTE!" Charles usually caved-in when Nathan got loudly insistent, and he hoped that a demon-possessed Charles would be no different.
"Fine," sighed Charles. "Hurry up, I need to leave ASAP."
"Right, yeah." Flipping to the spell that started all the trouble in the first place, Nathan cleared his throat and intoned in his best stage voice:
"ISHKABIBBLE!"
Charles stiffened, red eyes flashing bright with flame.
"Thing whooole the ate I believe can’t I!
Is it relief a what, oh!
Fizz-fizz, plop-plop;"
As Nathan growled out the spell in reverse, Charles stood rooted to the spot as he writhed in pain.
"You ‘bout how, sho fo’ shizzle fo’?
Doo-doodilly boingo-oingo!"
Wisps of black smoke oozed from his mouth and ears as Charles fought the immobility the spell forced upon him, to no avail. Emboldened by his success so far, Nathan decided to crank it up a notch:
"KALAMAZOO WALLA-WALLA!
DIDGERID-"
"I gaht the trophy, Nat’n; here it is!" Pickles practically flew into the room, waving the college plaque around like it was a flag at a parade.
"GODDAMMIT, PICKLES!!!"
"What?? I braht it like you asked!" Perplexed, Pickles approached Nathan. "Oh, sahrry it took so long, I had ta make a phone call real quick."
If there was any time that Nathan wanted to tear his hair out by the roots, it was now. "I ALMOST HAD HIM!" he yelled at the diminutive drummer. "What’d you have to go and fuck up the spell for?!"
"What’re you tahkin’...aboat..." Between the spell book in Nathan’s hands, the last scraps of flaming tie on the coffee table and Charles shaking off the remnants of the spell that held him in place, it didn’t take Pickles very long to figure things out. "Oops, sahrry."
"I’ll take that, gentlemen." With a gesture, the grimoire flew out of Nathan’s arms and into Charles’s taloned hands. "You thought to banish me using this book, hmm?" The flames in Charles’s eyes blazed brightly as he opened his mouth wide to shoot forth a gout of hellfire which quickly consumed the grimoire, turning it to ash within seconds. "There’s that," he said, brushing his hands together to get the remaining ashes off of his claws. "Now, as for you two..."
Without the spell book, Nathan was at a loss as to what to do. "Oh man, are we fucked."
"Wait, you can’t kill us, we’re your bread ‘n butter, right?" said Pickles.
"Oh, I won’t kill you," Charles assured the two, "but I’ll certainly make you wish you were dead."
As Charles approached, eyes shining red and hot, Nathan pushed the drummer behind him. "I’ll hold him off, Pickles; you make a run for it when you get the chance." He turned to face Charles once more. "Come on, Charles, you know you don’t want to hurt us. It’s hard to make an album when you’re laid up in the hospital. It’ll cost us money!"
"Yeah, dood, lahts of money!" Pickles chimed in helpfully.
"I’m sorry, but Charles isn’t available right now," the demonic manager growled, "but I’m certain that he’s hurting over that money comment." He raised a clawed hand, talons gleaming in the light.
Suddenly, a fluttering noise passed through the room, commanding everyone’s attention.
"What the fuck was that?" Nathan asked.
Pickles shrugged his shoulders. "Sounded like some kinda bird flyin’ around, if you ask me."
The demon, however, knew exactly what it was. Breaking off his attack on the two musicians, Charles turned to flee through the door, only to find his way blocked by someone standing in it.
At first glance the stranger resembled one of those detectives that you see on television; the rumpled trenchcoat, short haircut, five o’clock shadow and a suit that looked like it had been slept in, complete with crooked tie. The only thing that set him apart from any TV detective was the powerful aura which radiated outward from the being in waves. The man stood eye-to-eye with Charles and their gazes locked, and somehow Nathan could sense that a great battle of wills was taking place between the two.
The stranger stepped into the room; Charles stepped back, clearly giving ground until he bumped into the couch and could move no further. Like a bird hypnotized by a snake, Charles could only watch as the being approached, arm raised, and placed a palm on the manager’s forehead. Blinding light replaced the red hellfire of Charles’s eyes and mouth, shooting forth with an intensity that caused Nathan and Pickles to shield their eyes or risk retina damage. When the light finally faded, Charles collapsed soundlessly to the floor, the stranger standing over him, looking down at the body with a somber look on his face.
Pickles was first to break the silence. "Is he-?"
"Yes," the man said, his voice sounding like he’d smoked one too many cigarettes in his life. "I’m sorry, but humans don’t seem to survive the smiting process; demons tend to leave them like a hotel room after a rock star’s been in there."
"Yeah, been there done deat, dood. But now what’re we gonna do without a manager?" Pickles yanked on a dread in frustration. "Charles was the only one who could run this place prahperly!"
Nathan stared hate-filled daggers at the stranger in the room. This guy had killed Charles for no reason at all! Well, sure, the demon was gonna curb-stomp him and Pickles something fierce, but Charles wasn’t responsible for that! Who did this guy think he was, anyway? In fact, what was this guy? Nathan could still sense the powerful aura surrounding the man and something primordial in his brain was screaming at him to run away, but Nathan Explosion ran away from no one, not even a-"What the fuck are you?!"
"I’m sorry for not introducing myself." The stranger looked up into Nathan’s face. "I am Castiel, an angel of the L-" he broke off, staring into Nathan’s hate-filled eyes. Nathan was not sure what he saw there, but Castiel started to approach him, arm raised. In Nathan’s eyes, he seemed to shine with light, and was that a set of wings sprouting from his back? Nathan growled; if he was gonna die like Charles did, he’d make sure to take this guy with him when he went.
"STOP!"
Everyone turned to stare at Charles, who was picking himself up off of the floor and brushing off his torn, bloodstained suit. "Please don’t fuck with my bread and butter; I hate that."
Castiel turned, Nathan forgotten for the moment. "Impossible. You should be dead. Humans don’t survive when smited. Smote? Smitten? You should be dead, regardless."
Pickles’s grin lit up the room. "Aw, dood, this ain’t the first time he’s been dead, right Charles?"
"I guess being the Dead Man has its advantages," Charles agreed, attempting to straighten a non-existent tie. But I do thank you for your help in getting rid of that demon that possessed me; that was not fun."
"But what about...?" Castiel pointed over at Nathan, who scowled back.
"I assure you, everything’s under control now. With the grimoire destroyed, Nathan can’t do any more damage; nothing more than the usual shenanigans anyway, which I have a handle on. If your help is ever needed, I’ll be sure to get the number from Pickles."
"Number?" Pickles asked, scratching his head. "You mean Bahbby’s number?"
Castiel turned to stare at Pickles. "You called Bobby Singer? Why would a-"
"I think what Charles is trying to tell you is: ‘Thank you, now get the fuck out.’" Nathan growled.
"Jest more politely," Pickles added, helpfully.
"Yes, well...perhaps a hoodie from our merch line as well?" Charles offered.
Castiel nodded. "Perhaps a hoodie would please Dean. I thank you for the offer."
Charles inclined his body. "If you would follow me, please, I’ll see what we can do for you."
As Castiel left with Charles, Pickles sighed with relief, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Well, we gaht outta deat one by the skin of our teeth, right, Nat’n?"
Nathan was still staring at the door Charles and Castiel went through, eyes narrowed. "I still don’t trust that guy," he growled. Pickles gave him a backhanded slap across his bicep, forcing his attention back toward the drummer.
"Deat’s why Charles said to naht mess with deat book in the first place, Nat’n; it’s nuthin’ but trouble!"
"Okay! All right, I’m sor- I’m sorrr- I’m soraaagghh-!" Nathan threw his hands up in exasperation.
Pickles raised a hand to slap at him again, but thought better of it. "Ehh, jest try sayin’ deat to Toki when he finds out you destroyed his bear."
Somehow, facing an enraged Norwegian seemed a lot more dangerous that going one-on-one with an angel. Maybe he could get that Castiel guy to back him up when he confessed to Toki?
"Pickles, can I have the number of that Bobby guy? I think I’m gonna need it."
The End?