A Cute Little Hat in the Ring (Mythklok, Chapter 68)
Title: A Cute Little Hat in the Ring (Mythklok, Chapter 68)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The campaign begins. And also, french fries. And Latin American soap operas.
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok is a Metalocalypse AU. If you're behind and for some strange reason wanna catch up, the best place is my fic journal,
tikific, where you are welcome to come visit the bits I’ve written and maybe poke them with a pointed stick.
Let's see, it's been a while, huh? I got a new job, so you should all be happy about my self-actualization. So, anyway, last time they all went to Hindu Hell and sorted out Boon's paperwork for his Naming ceremony. Oh, and Nathan's running for president. Also, I sort of have a flashback inside a flashback on this one. As if you guys weren't confused enough.
Several months ago....
So many women.
But, plenty of time.
Skwisgaar yawned. They were all asleep now, and he didn't care to wake them. With a practiced ease he slipped off the bed without disturbing anybody slumbering there, grabbed the guitar, and was out the door to his balcony. He hadn't bothered with clothes other than his jeans, but it was a nice, warm evening. He pulled up one of the patio chairs near the balustrade, sat down, put his feet up, and let his hands wander up and down the neck of his most faithful woman.
He thought he smelled something. Cigarettes. He noticed movement down below, out of the corner of his eye, and without getting up or even slowing down his playing, he looked down. Ganesh was out on the balcony of his and Charles' suite, smoking one of his spicy-smelling thin cigarettes. His terrace was a floor or two down, so he didn't notice Skwisgaar. He looked like he might be halfway ready for bed himself, as he was just clad in an untucked shirt and slacks, but it was difficult to tell, as the guy never bothered with a tie, and liked to slip off his shoes and pad around the Haus barefoot. He always looked like he was getting ready for some big time lady photographer to take his picture for the cover of Vanity Fair, but even moreso, it seemed, when he was out of the public eye like this. Skwisgaar had noticed Ganesh seemed to literally turn the dial down a notch or two on his charisma when he was around humans. Skwisgaar didn't really see the point, but was a bit envious of the ability. He father, Wotan, did a little something like that. Maybe if he'd grown up at Valhalla....
The guitarist figured to leave Ganesh to smoke in peace, and quietly returned his attentions to his practice.
He looked down again to the soft sound of voices. He couldn't make out what was being said, but it was pretty clear what was going on. Charles was now out there, no doubt giving Ganesh a hard time for smoking. It was funny, nowadays: gods and angels squabbled daily in Mordhaus. Skwisgaar had had a lot of dreams of rock stardom, but he didn't think he had ever conjured up anything like this.
Skwisgaar actually stopped playing for a bit to watch. He found couples interesting, and a little exotic, maybe as strange in their way as gods and angels. The fight wasn't terribly serious. Charles was now tossing off his tie. And did the thing he did. Charles didn't just dial it down a notch, he seemed to know how to almost disappear, and turn into just an empty grey suit. But he was letting it out now. You could feel it, even up from where Skwisgaar was sitting.
Like the time that assassin had come after him and Toki. And that other time....
And Charles was all over Ganesh now, but it was just a kiss.
And then he was sitting on the balustrade, kicking his legs, perfectly mindless of the ridiculous drop, contentedly smoking Ganesh's cigarette.
Several years ago....
The club was smoky, of course. All of them were in those days. Pickles' guy was furiously adding to the haze. The grey man, was how Skwisgaar thought of him: grey suit, and framed always by a halo of grey smoke. Pickles' guy. He fixed stuff.
Skwisgaar sat across from grey man at the table in the club, lazily fingering his guitar. Skwisgaar was already getting a reputation around town as an eccentric. All to the good, in his opinion.
He hadn't exactly come to LA looking for stardom. It had been idiotic, really. Death threats? Pffft. That's the kind of thing the stupid Norwegian black metal musicians were up to, too busy whacking each other in the head with hatchets to make decent music. But it had gotten back to Serveta - it was a small town, after all - and that had really been the end of it. His bags were packed, and he was off to America. To seek his fortune. Like some kind of douche.
It hadn't taken him long to hook up with Pickles. In their way, they were the two most reputed musicians in town who weren't really associated with a band. Skwisgaar played with a couple of groups, and did some session work, but he was bored as hell by it all. This was nothing like back home. These clowns.... Well, there was even a band dressed like clowns. That said a lot.
But Pickles' grey man had helped him with the green card and immigration issues, and together, they had managed to lure Nathan Explosion away from his present gig. It was going to happen, a new band of some kind. Since Pickles was pretty determined to switch over to drums, now they needed to fill out a second guitarist who could more or less keep up with Skwisgaar, and someone to pose holding a bass guitar for their live shows.
This evening had been a waste, as far as talent scouting was concerned. Surprisingly, it was Nathan, as usual, casting the veto: “Not brutal enough.” For their part, Pickles and Skwisgaar were getting a little antsy, but the grey man would say, “No, let's do this right,” and that would be that.
Both Nathan and Pickles had managed to find pretty ladies to take home, so they had said their goodbyes. Skwisgaar, as usual, had found six or seven pretty ladies, but was going through one of his occasional bouts of angst, and decided to leave alone. The grey man had cast a curious glance his way, but nodded, and disappeared into the haze.
Skwisgaar ended up leaving by a back door, guitar case in hand. He walked through the dark, grungy West Hollywood alley, humming a new riff. That's what he wanted: he wanted to play. Why was there always bullshit?
So, he didn't hear them. Not until he was surrounded.
“Whats?” he huffed. “I ain't got much money.” And the guitar was pretty old. Still, he would hate losing it to a bunch of assholes. Shit. He clutched the guitar case. Why the fuck hadn't he left with Nathan? That guy looked like he could handle himself. He could probably yell at these motherdildos and send them packing.
“You ams Skwisgaar Skwigelf?”
WHAT? “Ja, I ams, dudes. What ams your problems?”
Oh, fucking Christ. Was that an axe?
“We ams gots da message from da Desecrated Corpses.”
“What? Dems? What ams dems gots against me? Fucksing fuck!” They had hunted him down, from Sweden?
There were four of them, he thought, clutching the guitar case tighter. He didn't wanna fucking die, and he didn't want them to hurt his hands.
“You can runs, but you can not hides,” said the first douche. Oh, fuck, that was an axe.
Skwisgaar did the first thing that came to mind, swing out, hard, with the guitar case. He managed to knock the first guy down, which seemed to confuse the other guys for a second, but then one of them was coming at them, axe in hand. Skwisgaar now swung up the old guitar case like a shield.
There was a scream.
Skwisgaar lowered the guitar case. The axe guy was on the ground, his axe now being waved in his face.
“I don't know who you are,” Charles told him, “but you are fucking with my bread and butter.” There was a glint in his eye, behind the spectacles. Something silver? It wasn't the grey man. It was like he was fucking possessed or something.
The other two attackers now came at Charles. One ended up with an axe in his skull. The other landed underneath the guy who had wielded the axe. Because that's where Charles tossed the big guy with the axe.
The first guy was now struggling to his feet. He righted himself, only to get stuffed into a trash bin. The other two living guys then got tossed, headfirst, into a dumpster. Charles banged the lid closed, and tied it off with a piece of wire.
Charles paused, hardly even out of breath. He appearing to be listening.
The blood from the dead guy's head was leaking out, making a little red trail in the dark dirty alley. Charles whipped out a handkerchief and wiped down the handle of the axe.
“Sirens.” Charles was talking to Skwisgaar now. The guitarist blinked, and then nodded. “As your attorney, I would advise you to follow me.” Skwisgaar nodded dumbly again. Charles grabbed his elbow, and Skwisgaar allowed himself to be led through some back alleys, and then down a main street, far from the melee.
Charles finally stopped. He took out a cigarette, offering one to Skwisgaar, who waved him off. “You knew those guys.” It wasn't a question.
“Did not ams knows dems,” said Skwisgaar, a little surprised to find he was still capable of speech. “But I ams knows who sents dems,” he admitted.
Charles didn't say anything, simply letting the smoke curl.
“Ams black metals guys. From back home. Douches.”
“Why you left Sweden.” Again, it was not a question.
“You ams checked me outs, Ofdensens?”
A nod. “As your attorney, and your business manager, I can help you. Or not. Your choice.”
Skwisgaar stood for a time, feeling his heart beating in his chest. Still beating in his chest. Yes. He was alive. “You helps me?”
Charles nodded, and then flicked the cigarette into the gutter. “You get home OK?”
Skwisgaar nodded. “It ain't too far.” He started to turn away but then paused, and opened his mouth to say something.
“What?”
“Ofdensens. You ain't humans.”
It wasn't a question. Pickles said stuff, sometimes, when he was drunk or high, which was most of the time.
Charles was obviously considering how to answer. “Not entirely,” was what he finally said, hands in pockets. “Is that gonna be OK?” he asked.
Skwisgaar nodded. “Ja. Dat ams fines.” And, with a wave of his hand, he set off for his apartment.
Several months ago...
Skwisgaar shook his head. He had stopped playing his guitar again. He heard music.
Ganesh had set up a couple of little speakers, out on their patio. He was playing funny music, like from some Indian movie you'd see for a few seconds before Nathan yelled at Pickles to change the channel.
Ganesh went over to Charles. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, and flicked it over the balcony. And then he extended a hand.
Charles slipped off his jacket, carelessly tossing it onto a chair. And then he took Ganesh's hands, and they were off dancing.
No, he's not human, Skwisgaar thought. Not entirely.
And neither am I.
The present day...
“Guys, are we ready?” asked Charles, taking his customary seat at the head of the meeting table.
“My fellow Americans!” said Nathan.
“Uh, Nathan, this meeting is about that other thing.”
“What other thing?” asked Nathan, going back to munching his Genuine Imitation Explosion Sauce(TM)-Flavored Potato Snacks.
Charles inclined his head. Suddenly, the table was covered with fast food bags.
“AMS DIMMU BURGER!” squealed Toki, lunging for a bag. He frowned. “Ams nots Dimmu Burger. Charles, what ams dis craps! I ams needs to completes my Amon Amarth Godless Darkness Meal toy collectionses!”
Charles grinned a grin of fresh baked bread and dairy churned butter. “This is our new enterprise: Dick Knubbler Presents, Dethklok HELL FRIES!”
There were stares.
“I ams not likes, it,” concluded Skwisgaar, poking his bag with his guitar.
“And, uh, why is that, Skwisgaar?”
"It ams pfffft," Skwisgaar patiently explained.
"OK, Skwisgaar, that is not helpful feedback,” Charles noted.
“Why ischn't it juscht Dethklok Hell Friesch?” asked Murderface, stabbing his own bag with his hunting knife.
“Business reasons.”
“What buschinessch reasonsch?”
“Dick's face scored better than any of yours' when we focus tested it.”
“Focusch teschted?” asked Murderface.
“But, dooooood! He's gaht dose skeery robot eyes!” Pickles whined.
"Ja, I ams trusts hims!" Toki announced cheerily.
“Well, thank you for that, Toki. He was considered by children to be a friendly presence,” Charles explained.
“Kids? What ams you says about kids?” grumbled Skwisgaar suspiciously.
Charles gestured again, and the door swung open. The three young angel cousins hurtled into the room, Elias eagerly wiggling in to Charles' lap, and Abby running around to be picked up by Uncle Murderface, where she immediately began to play with his hunting knife.
Curly-haired Liam made a toddle-line for his half-brother, Skwisgaar, but was met by a pair of steely blue eyes and an icy Swedish sneer. Liam made a screeching little toddling U-turn, ran all the way back across the room, in back of Charles, and over to scramble into Uncle Nathan's lap.
“What is this?” Nathan demanded. “I'm your SECOND CHOICE LAP?”
Liam innocently batted his blue eyes at the singer. But then he turned and pleaded, “Fwenchie?” at the tempting fast food bag sitting before Nathan.
Charles grinned murderously and opened his own Dethklok Hell Fries bag. He extracted a batch of Hell Fries in an elaborate black cardboard container, and then dug into the bag for something else.
"Dethklok Hell Fries," he said, "featuring FOURTEEN different flavors of ketchup!" He expertly splayed out two hands worth of differently colored condiments like processed tomatoey playing cards.
At least 80% of the present and accounted for death metal musicians merely frowned, but the children squealed in a riotous toddlergasm, "Betchup!" and lunged for the bags.
"Wowee!" agreed Toki, digging into his own bag.
Charles demonstrated by pulling out a large vinyl Facebones placemat from his own bag. Elias immediately began prying into the many little plastic containers of exotic ketchup varieties and started painting, using fries as brushes. With Murderface's assistance, Abby lined up each and every container in neat ranks, and then went through and methodically tested exactly one of every flavor. Liam and Nathan by contrast tried combining various varieties to see if they could come up with more brutal color combinations, or perhaps cause some kind of ignition. The most metal concoctions got fries dipped into them, and thence crammed into ketchup-y mouths.
Toki ran all the flavor combinations by faithful Deddy, who had somehow shown up on the chair next to him. Skwisgaar looked askance at the rhythm guitarist, and appeared no happier when Pickles, wiping his ketchup-stained nose with a wristband, opined, "Dat yellow one wit' da flakes is kinda awesome."
Skwisgaar focused his sneer towards the head of the table. "Ofdensens," he grumbled.
"Skwigelf," rejoindered Charles. They locked eyes for a long moment.
"Pfffft. Where ams da boiger? Ands da chicksen yum-yum? Dis ams not da meal!"
"You don't have kids. I do,” he said, indicating Elias. “All they ever seem to give a shit about are the fries-"
"An fwenchie! An good, an da betchup Dada!" agreed Elias.
"Fries and ketchup."
"Ands da toys!" enthused Toki.
Charles raised an eyebrow at Skwisgaar. "Yes, the DethMeal toy. Bottom of the bag."
Skwisgaar glowered and reached one long-fingered hand down into his Dethklok Hell Fries bag. He extracted a little black polyethylene bag covered with Facebones logos. He regarded it as if one would some kind of dead insect. He produced a metal guitar pick between two fingers, and used it to rip the bag open. He upturned the bag and shook, depositing the small plastic figure on the tabletop.
He blinked in surprise. "I ams knows dis goil!" he remarked.
Suddenly, the other band members were rustling into their own paper bags. Charles, knowing he had just scored the coup de grace, only steepled his own hands and grinned in a most non-angelic manner.
There were more plastic figures on the table, except for Toki, who seemed to be having a terrible time opening the little bag. "Ams cannot opens dis dumb dildos bag," he fumed in frustration. Suddenly, there was a whooshing sound, and the bag had split open where Abby had hurled Murderface's knife into it. “Oh, t'anks Abignails,” he told her, liberating his own plastic toy.
“Dood!” said Pickles, marveling at his own female plastic figurine.
“Can sche be my girlfriend?” marveled Murderface of his.
Nathan was simply holding up his plastic figure in wonder. She did have a wonderful figure. “That one is, uh, number 27, a supermodel,” Charles told him. “The series is, famous DethGroupies.”
Nathan eyed the now equally ketchup-smeared Liam. He inserted his DethGroupie back into the packaging. “I'll save this for LATER,” he commented.
Charles consulted his Vacheron Constantin. “We gotta get rolling to the next meeting. So, if there are no objections. Skwisgaar?”
Skwisgaar tucked his DethGroupie into a pocket and raised a blond eyebrow.
Charles was already at the door, holding Elias by the hand. “Campaign meeting in five, everybody,” he said, handing off Elias to Kam the Tutor, who was already standing at the door. The cheerful cherub gave a high whistle, and Liam and Abby scrambled obediently off their respective laps to follow him off.
“A whistle, Raziel?” he asked the little angel, who was also standing in the corridor.
“Hell, it works with the wolves!” she grinned, giving her brats little kisses before they were marched off. “You wanted to see me before the meeting?”
Charles sighed. “We gotta talk about Boon's Naming.”
“As told you, sweetie, I got this,” she said, putting her sunglasses atop her head.
“And as I told you, don't call me sweetie, and we wanna keep this as low key as possible.” They had arrived in the living room. The sound had been muted, but the television monitor flashed images of Her on the presidential campaign trail.
“Understood,” said Raziel. “Just don't worry your little angelic head about this one. Keep thinking about world domination through french fries,” she grinned.
“I am gonna worry my angelic head! That's what I fucking do!”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I've brought in some consultants. Wotan. Your dad. Even Abby's helping out.” Raziel smiled with not a little bit of motherly pride.
“Getting her into the family business a little early,” noted Charles.
“Kid comes by it honestly. Wotan's her father, and Phanuel is her grandfather.”
“Not to mention her mother,” said Charles, now turning to face Raziel, who merely shrugged.
Charles rooted around on the coffee table for a remote control. He stabbed a few buttons, and finally hit the one to turn on the sound.
“For the future of this country, and our children, the mixing of angel blood and pure blood must be stopped!” There was a terrific cheer.
“Whoa. That is one really tight blouse,” said Charles.
“I'm on that one too,” smiled Raziel. “Wanna get to the campaign meeting?” Charles tossed the remote control back on the couch were it would hopefully be eaten by the couch cushions, and followed Raziel to another meeting room. Nathan and Pickles were wandering in the door as well.
“Where's William?” asked Charles.
“Uhhhhh,” said Nathan.
“He hadda do stuff. An' things,” Pickles informed them.
Charles frowned. “Huh. Well. We'll start without him.” He pushed in the door. Ganesh was already sitting there, poking at an electronic tablet. And there were various other people sitting at the table, viewing a slideshow up on the monitor.
“So, whadda we got?” asked Charles, taking a seat.
“The first item on the agenda is to finalize Nathan's party affiliation,” said Ganesh.
“It's down to these,” said Raziel, clicking on a slide.
Brutal Old Party
Metalcratic Brutalians
American Party of Deth
Awesome Metal Party of Awesome
“Hey, what happened to the Awesome Brutal Metal Party of Brutality?” inquired Nathan.
“Didn't go over well in the Northeast,” explained Raziel.
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” said Nathan.
“And have we chosen a campaign slogan?” asked Charles.
“Once again, we've whittled it down to a few favorites,” said Ganesh.
“Nathan Explosion,” said Raziel, clicking on another slide. “He'll do for American what he did for Florida.”
“WHAT?” said Charles.
“It tested really well,” declared Raziel, clicking on the slide.
“Florida...? REALLY?” Charles pressed.
“Pickles, do you remember what Nathan did in Florida?” Raziel asked.
“Yeh! Dood! Florida!” attested Pickles.
“Uh-huh. And, neither can anyone else in the electorate,” Raziel laughed. “Oh, here's a great one Nathan came up with: “Nathan Explosion: WATCH FOR TRUCKS.'”
“I saw that on A SIGN,” said Nathan. “It's REALLY USEFUL. Those things can back right over you.”
“But what about...?” Charles stuttered. “Can I see how reaction to this broke down?”
“Women loved it!” Raziel enthused. “He is off the charts with female voters.” She clicked on another slide.
“But men...?” began Charles, staring hungrily at the pie charts.
“That's problematic,” said Raziel. “Mostly depends on how tight Her blouse is this week.”
“But Lady Raziel has some interesting ideas in that regard,” Ganesh noted. “We will be implementing them at the next campaign event.”
“OK, one thing I think is important,” Charles said. “We gotta get you guys registered to vote. Are either of you registered?"
Nathan and Pickles looked at each other.
"Wait, are YOU registered to vote, Charles?” Nathan asked suspiciously.
"Of course I am!"
Nathan scowled. "But, you a fucking angel!"
"I am over 21!" Charles responded.
"So, where exactly are you registered to vote?" asked Ganesh.
"Delaware,” said Charles. “I'm a corporation."
"Tax reasons?" asked Raziel.
"Yeah."
"That's why I'm a citizen of Luxembourg!" said Raziel.
"Oh, I don't think I've ever been," said Charles.
"Neither have I. I've heard it's nice."
"Dood, where should we register?" asked Pickles.
"Pickles,” said Ganesh. “We would like you to go to Tomahawk.”
"Wut? No! Ew!" said the drummer with horror.
"And Nathan,” said Ganesh, “Florida has been crucial to the last few elections."
"OK, sure. Hey, wait, wasn't there something about Florida that I should remember?"
"Not really, no,” Ganesh told him.
“OK, then, fine, after I finish my chips.”
Charles left the meeting with Ganesh, in a thoughtful mood.
"So, basically, nothing really matters?" Charles asked as they walked down the corridor.
"Your American presidential elections are not unlike a campaign for, er, prom king and queen," laughed Ganesh.
"A popularity contest?"
"Well, something like that." grinned Ganesh. "Maybe everything like that."
“But, we really don't gotta say a word about, you know, policy? Or what he's gonna do?”
“Not really. No.”
Charles frowned at Ganesh. "Who would have thought you'd be a closet cynic?"
"Who would have thought you'd be a closet idealist?"
"I'm not.... Anyway. Are you going to Santa Dominica with Skwisgaar?”
"Yes! He is to be one of this week's special guest stars on Corazon de Azul, playing a doctor, so Lady Hypnos has invited me along to serve as medical consultant. I am certain I can accomplish many strides in the way the medical profession is portrayed."
"Ganesh. It's a soap opera."
"It is not any soap opera! It is Corazon de Azul!"
"Well. Anyway. I think this will be very important for the latino vote. And since Skwisgaar can't vote...."
"I am sure he will make a contribution!"
Charles emitted what sounded very like a growl.
"There are ... tensions?" Ganesh asked.
"It's always been like that. Since the fucking band started."
"Now, as you so wisely suggested about Pickles, perhaps it is best you let bygones be bygones?”
“No. I hold grudges. I nurture grudges. It's who I am.”
Ganesh simply shook his head.
“By the way, you got any idea where William has got to?” asked Charles.
“Ahem,” said Ganesh, who looked profoundly uncomfortable. “I do, in fact, have some knowledge about the individuals in question....”
“Individuals?”
“Which was relayed to me, in confidence....”
Charles frowned. Oddly enough, as they didn't seem to have a single thing in common, Ganesh had always had a rather cordial relationship with the persnickety bassist. Though, like most everyone else, Ganesh appeared to be sketchy on the details of what exactly was going on between William and....
Oh.
Charles suddenly looked up at Ganesh, startled. “Uh. William and Dick Knubbler...?”
“Whatever was, er, happening....”
“Is not?”
Ganesh nodded. “It's, er, a dispute of a political nature, is my understanding.”
“WHAT?”
“Well,” said Ganesh, “Dick, as you know, is very involved in Nathan's campaign, whereas William....”
“No!”
“Well. She is wearing a terribly tight sweater this week!”
Some time later, Ganesh stood at the edge of a television soundstage in the Latin American country of Santa Dominica, wishing like hell he had a cigarette. Or a martini. Or best of all, both.
"But, Lady Hypnos,” he pleaded, “a surgeon would not enter a surgical suite carrying his guitar!" He gestured towards the soundstage, where Skwisgaar Skwigelf, now clad in green surgical scrubs, was strumming on his Gibson.
"But how else can he serenade Guadalupe the nurse?" laughed the Elder God.
"It violates sterile procedure! And they've cut out the fingers on his surgical gloves!”
“Tsk! How could he finger the strings with gloves?” scoffed the purple-winged goddess. “That would just be silly.”
“And he's pushed his mask down off his mouth and nose to sing!”
"Ganesh," Hypnos told him, patting him on the shoulder. "It's only television."
"But I thought I was intended to be medical consultant!"
"They spelled your name right on the credits, didn't they? Dr. Ganesha Vighneshvara, MD?"
Ganesh sighed, and turned to watch the taping.
"His Q with women viewers is off the charts!" Hypnos told him.
“Hmpf,” said Ganesh.
There was a call for quiet, and Skwisgaar began to strum his non-sterile guitar and sing.
They gave me this song
Yeah, I know it's a good song to sing
But frankly something's wrong
Ain't hard to miss
I got myself a song
And my older fans are pissed
'Cause there's girlie singers backing me!
And my voice has been sweetened
I just know it
And little girls have 8x10s of me up
in their rooms
With lipstick marks
I wish I had my credibility
I want credibility
What can I do to get it all back?
I play along with the bullshit
I gave my lawyer the contract to break
I feel so dirty
When the lyrics are sweet
I'm singing about heartache
Instead of rotting meat
'Cos there's an angel chorus backing me
And a string section
I just know it
And there's a full page spread of me
In Tiger Beat
I wish I had my credibility
I want credibility
What can I do to get it all back?
“An' dat ams how I ams feelingsings for you, lovely ladies,” the guitarist told the actress playing Guadalupe.
“Er,” Ganesh whispered to Hypnos, “about his voice....”
“Well fix it in post. We're gonna dub it. Into a language. Any language,” she grinned.
Charles heaved a heavy sigh and grasped Elias' little hand. He knelt down next to his son and took him by the shoulders. “Now, Boon?”
“Yeah, Dada!”
“Now, I need you to be a good boy, OK?”
“Yeah, Boon an good boy!” Ganesh's lovely brown eyes blinked back at him from the sweet little face.
“Yes you are. So, what do we say?”
“No paintin' an da waw!” Elias told him.
“That's right, no painting on any walls.”
“An not Boonie waw, or da Dadas,” the child elaborated.
“That's right. The walls here don't belong to you or your daddies.”
“Uh-huh!” Boon nodded enthusiastically.
“Uh-huh.”
“Dada! Pwetty bidchures!”
“Yes, your pictures are very pretty, and Daddy likes them very much.”
“Uh-huh!”
“And Daddy loves you very much! All right. So, we'll go here, and then we'll stop and get you some nice french fries. Would you like that?”
'Uh-huh!”
Charles stood up straight and took Elias's hand once again. All in all, it was much easier reasoning with a two year old than a metal band. He crossed the street and led Elias to the Rikki Kixx Kickin' it Center. The musician had become increasingly reclusive since the failed Snakes 'n Barrels reunion, but was still a revered figure among a certain crowd, which was the reason for Charles' visit today.
And Raziel was the reason for dragging Elias along. “Everything the guy does is 'for the children,'” she had told him. “So, bring him a real damn kid!”
“Raziel, people who say that usually hate real damn kids,” Charles had told her. But, much as he loathed to admit it, Raziel actually seemed to have a crazy knack for her job as a Dethklok publicist, so he went along with it. He looked down at his son. She was definitely right about one thing, it was a hell of a lot harder to be a jerk to a guy with a cute kid. As long as Charles could hold off property damage for an hour or so, he thought. He smiled down at Elias, who offered one in return. At least it was nice to have a friendly face along.
He regarded the building for a moment, which to him looked a lot more like some kind of concrete fortress than a rehab center. Word was, Kixx had retreated into some kind of religious cult since his curbstomping by Pickles. Kixx had never pressed charges for assault, an oddity which became less puzzling when you knew, as Charles did, of a suspicious death backstage prior to the reunion concert which had never been conclusively explained.
They entered the lobby, and were directed to one of the upper floors where, indeed, the receptionist cooed over Elias, who for his part, acted appealing. Charles was soon ushered into Kixx's office, where he immediately made muttered excuses about not being able to find a sitter. Well, it was actually sort of true.
“I don't expect to take too much of your time,” he was apologizing to Kixx, making a fuss over getting Elias settled in a chair with his electronic pad. Charles was grateful for the distraction. He had seen plenty of human entertainment figures let themselves go over the years, but it was usual a gradual, like Nathan and Murderface packing it in around the middle. But this was a bit astonishing, as Kixx had rarely been seen in public the last year or so. He had gone from somebody who probably boasted two percent body fat to a guy who, well, Charles was tempted to ask if he wanted to join him and William Murderface on a treadmill some time, only he was literaly afraid of Kixx - who was now quite nearly spherical - breaking the machine.
Kixx settled into his office chair, which creaked under his girth. “So, what can the Kikkin' It Center do for you, Charles?” asked Kixx. “I was surprised by your message. The Kikkin' It Center promotes the healthy, sober lifestyle! And your band is....” he trailed off, scratching his ample belly.
“Ah, well, as you know, Nathan Explosion is making a bid for the presidency, and we've decided to ask for your help as a, ah, an influential person among the straight edge demographic....”
“Can you stop right there?” asked Kixx. “Politics,” he sighed. “We try to keep the Kikkin' It Center away from politics. It's for the people. For the children!”
“Well, I'm talking about the children. Like my kid,” said Charles, waving a hand at Elias and feeling a trifle horrible in the process. “Ah. I don't think this will be a good place for him to grow up if our opponent should....”
“Yes, how will it be tomorrow? For them. For our precious little one?” Kixx pondered. “Every parent wonders this, from the bottom of their hearts.”
“Uh, yeah,” said Charles. “And, uh, I am wondering too.” What he wondered was whether it would be possible to drown in platitudes.
“That's why I treasure inner peace and hog fat! Do you treasure inner peace and hog fat, Charles? What do you think of pork rinds?”
“Well, ah...” Oh, boy, here it comes, thought Charles.
“That is the enlightenment I have found Baconology!” He waved a hand to the corner of the room, where he had displayed the book, Piguretics, in a kind of altar.
“Well, I am very glad for you.”
“After my terrible experience at the hands of Pickles the Drummer, I questioned my life! That is, until I found the truth! The universal truth of Baconology. This universe was settled by an ancient race of space pigs! Even today, they influence our lives and our fortunes with their sacred oinking!”
“Boy, that's, uh, pretty darned profound, Rikki,” sighed Charles, silently praying for a fire alarm to go off.
Thankfully, a side door opened, and Charles looked up to see a very familiar face. “I think you know my, um, associate, Miss Pink Mink?” asked Kixx.
“I've, ah, never had the pleasure,” said Charles, rising and reaching out a hand, which was immediately crushed in a long-fingernailed grip. Pink Mink was, at one point, probably the most storied groupie in rock and roll: definitely more famous than some of the musicians she courted. This, too, left Charles a bit at a loss. He had heard about the relationship, but, unlike Raziel, didn't tend to keep abreast of entertainment gossip. He could have sworn last he heard she was the most recent ex-wife of the television news interviewer Nick Ibsen.
“Charmed,” said Pink Mink, who immediately turned to Elias. “And who is this? Well, aren't we sweet. Isn't he sweet, Rikki-wikki?”
“Uh, Elias,” said Charles.
“Aren't you a cutie-wootie?” Pink Mink asked Elias, who merely blinked his cute eyes in response. “He reminds me of my little Ramblanctious. Doesn't he remind you of my little Rambly-Pambly, Rikki dear?” she asked Kixx, who merely grunted in response. Charles kept his face bland, having no fucking idea what a Ramblanctious might be, and not wanting to find out.
Charles scooped Elias up into his lap to make room for Pink Mink, who delicately positioned her ample bottom into the chair the boy had been sitting in (Charles wondered if she was another follower of Baconology), primly positioning a rather huge and awkward pink furry purse in her lap. “Now, did my Rikki tell you how the Center tries to keep itself above politics? It's all for the children, you understand,” she said, leaning over to bat her heavily mascaraed lashes at Charles.
“Uh, yeah,” said Charles, “We were actually....”
“Yip! Yip! Yip!” Charles instinctively hugged Elias tighter. A very small head had poked itself out of Pink Mink's bag, and was now producing an annoying series of squeaky little bark-like sounds.
Elias looked up in excitement. “Dada! An wat!”
“Yip! Yip!”
Charles cringed. “Uh, yeah, Boon, that's a nice little doggie.”
“No, Dada!” Elias insisted, pointing merrily at the scraggly little animal. “Not an doggie! An wat!”
“Yip! Yip! Yip!”
“Uh,” said Charles. “He, uh, needs his lunch.”
Pink Mink was up on her feet, glowering. “Pwecious. Is not. A rat,” she snapped.
And then she was out of the room in a flurry of magenta and yipping.
“Ah, well,” said Charles. He scooted Elias out of his lap, and rose. “Uh, thanks for meeting....”
“What did you need?” asked Kixx, who was suddenly leaning forward. “An endorsement?”
'Uh, yeah,” said Charles, nodding. “That kinda thing.”
“You got it,” said Kixx, rising, and holding out his hand.
“Uh, OK,” said Charles. He was being pulled closer to Kixx.
“I've always hated that FUCKING DOG,” Kixx whispered. “I'll have my people call your people,” he said, more loudly.
Charles led Elias out of the building and out onto the street, where he finally let himself sigh with relief.
“Fwenchie, Dada? Boon an good boy!”
“Yes, baby,” he said, grabbing Elias up into his arms. “Let's go get frenchie. And then find a nice big wall to draw on. OK?”
“Yeah!”
Skwisgaar Skwigelf, a/k/a Dr. Boa Snake, was once again in the operating suite of the soap opera, Corazon de Azul.
"Oh noes! Dis guy ams gots da bun-yurism!" he said, tossing up his hands and speaking directly into the camera.
"A bunyurism?" repeated a somewhat disbelieving sounding nurse-extra.
"Ja! Calls da famous butt specialist, Dr. Hunkmann! STATS!”
Another “doctor” appeared on the set: a tall, dark, and quite handsome fellow.
“I am, er, Dr. Hunkmann, the famous neurologist.” he explained. “I will assist you in this surgery.”
“Ja, da urologists. You operates on da butts, rights?” asked Dr. Boa Snake, fingering his guitar.
“Er, yes, Dr. Snake. Let us see what we may do.”
“I ams serenades you whiles you save da guy's life,” said Dr. Boa Snake, striking a chord.
“Yes, I think that would be a very good idea,” sighed Dr. Hunkmann, who wished for either a cigarette or a martini.
“Do you BELIEVE in hog fat?
Charles didn't succeed in quite hiding his smile from Raziel. They were both backstage at the inaugural Explosion for President rally.
“How did the meeting with Kixx go?” she asked.
“It actually wasn't a disaster,” Charles told her. “And Boon helped,” he said, nodding towards his son.
“Are you our little campaigner? Are you?” Raziel asked the slightly mystified child as she picked him up.
“So, Raziel, you, uh, worked out Nathan's speech.”
“Eh. Won't matter.”
“You people keep saying that!” He paused as he heard quite a lot of excited giggling echoing down the corridor. He turned to see the source.
“Ah, Raziel,” he said as a rather large group of women passed them. “Is that the Female Online Division....”
“Dressed as death metal cheerleaders, yep,” she said, as a couple of them waved cheery black pom-poms at them.
“Those are probably the cheeriest people wearing corpse paint I've ever seen,” Charles remarked.
“They're cheerleaders! They're supposed to be cheery!” said Raziel.
“Uh-huh.”
They then moved to the side to let several workers pushing sporting equipment go by.
“Trampolines?” he asked Raziel. “You have cheerleaders bouncing on trampolines?” Raziel nodded. “Raziel, you are … a profoundly evil being.”
“I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, I gotta go talk to the press,” she said, setting Elias down and walking towards the stage.
“That one's gotten big,” said a very familiar voice.
Charles turned. “Nick,” he said. “You're looking … really good.” It was true. Nick Ibsen's scars, which had marred an entire side of his face when last he had interviewed Charles, had faded to a pale pink.
Ibsen thoughtfully rubbed the side of his face. “Yeah, I need to thank your, uh, 'friend' for that. His treatments are pretty miraculous.”
“I will,” said Charles.
Ibsen had bent over to lift Elias. “You're getting heavy!” he told the child.
“Boon an bid boy!” said Elias.
“Boon?” asked Ibsen.
“It's, uh, sort of a nickname. Uh, I saw your ex,” he mentioned, a bit eager to change the subject. He and Ganesh had never disclosed Elias' parentage to Ibsen, but he was not a stupid guy.
“Mink?”
“Uh, yeah, actually....” said Charles, a bit taken aback. Ibsen had a rather healthy sized stable of ex wives.
“That one. Do you have an ex?”
“Uh, actually, yeah,” Charles confessed. “Took me for everything.”
“I hear that song. And I'm not even completely sure Ramblanctious was mine,” said Ibsen.
Charles blinked. So, Ramblanctious was some kind of kid. “I'm actually completely certain....”
“Ashleigh is not?” asked Ibsen.
“Off the record? No possible chance.”
“Didn't think so. She doesn't look like him in the least,” he said, indicating Elias.
Charles remained silent.
“A boon is a favor, isn't it?”
“Yeah!” said Elias. “Boon an good!'
“He's probably getting antsy. It's been a long day,” said Charles.
“I have heard,” said Ibsen, appearing to ignore him, “through various channels, that someone might be due for some kind of initiation ceremony.”
“What do you want, Nick?”
“Well, you've met my staff,” said Ibsen. “You know I'm sympathetic. I've lived a long time. I'm a news man, so I'm interested in new things. And there aren't a lot of new things out there. This is a kind of thing I've never experienced.”
“Nick. I don't know what to say.”
“Yeah, I know it's rude inviting myself to your kid's bar mitzvah,” Ibsen laughed, setting down Elias.
“It's not that. Really,” said Charles, as Elias ran to clutch him around his leg. “Nick. There's entities … that don't want this to happen. I just think.... For a human to be there....”
“Not welcome?”
“Not safe,” Charles admitted. He put a hand through Elias' tangled hair.
“As I said, Charles,” Ibsen told him. “I've lived a long time.”
“It's that important to you?” asked Charles.
“That it is. Now, if you'll excuse me? I've seen your, uh, 'campaign staff.' I think it's time I introduced myself to the next ex-Mrs. Ibsen.”
By the time Charles and Elias made it up to his residence, Ganesh had returned from Latin America. After he had given Elias his new plush alpaca and he and Charles had seen the yawning child off to bed, it had very quickly become a matter of wresting the clothes from each others' bodies as quickly and efficiently as possible.
“So, you wanna play doctor?” Charles had whispered into Ganesh's ear as he crawled on top of the god.
Charles suddenly found himself pushed back with no less than four arms. “Might we never mention that? Ever, ever again?” asked Ganesh, poking Charles' chest with an insistent finger.
“But Hypnos says you're already getting fan mail! Really twisted fan mail!”
Ganesh sat up on the bed and scowled. “Hmpf.”
“What was the deal with that, anyway?” Charles asked.
Ganesh sighed. “Well, the decision was made to dub Skwisgaar's lines.”
“Into Spanish?”
“Into, well, any kind of recognizable language.”
Charles laughed and rolled off Ganesh. “And it came out,” the god explained, “that I and my family are entertainers, so Lady Hypnos had me do some line readings. And THEN Alejandro Hernando Fernando....”
“The sixth sexiest man in Argentina,” said Charles.
“Er, yes. Who was slated to play a physician on the show....”
“Which had absolutely NOTHING to do with why you decided you needed to go down there.”
“Er. Well. Perhaps. At any rate. He unfortunately experienced a bizarre injury in a football game....”
“What kinda bizarre injury?”
“Well, it was a fairly profound injury to his hair, is my understanding.”
Charles blinked.
“He experienced some terrible split ends, Charles! It's not clear he'll be able to pose for the team postcards, nor the team calendar next year!”
“Alright. And....”
“Well, he had to pull out, so Lady Hypnos asked me if, in addition to the dubbing, I could step in.”
“Wait, you still did some dubbing?”
“Er. You are no doubt aware that there was a song....”
“THAT'S YOUR VOICE?”
“Skwisgaar seems to have a great deal of trouble,” Ganesh explained, “for a musician, with pitch.”
“Yeah, he can't tune a fucking guitar to save his soul. So, you're now a teen idol in Latin America.”
“A rather unwilling one. Might we just agree to never discuss this topic again? Throughout all of eternity?”
“You sure you don't wanna act out your stalker letters?” Charles grinned.
“If you would like to roleplay, please be aware I am most certainly not in the the mood for anything having to do with the medical profession right now.”
Charles grinned and climbed back on top of Ganesh. “I've got it! How about warden and naughty inmate! You could search me for contraband!”
Ganesh raised an eyebrow. He was not one to let peevishness get in the way of boning an angel. “Hrm. I believe a strip search is the first order of business,” he said.
Charles sat in the shower, utterly ridiculous smile on his face.
Why hadn't he known about this centuries ago? It was better than a fucking neck rub.
And what was even better, Ganesh had started thoughtlessly humming as he soaped up Charles' wings. He had such a pleasant voice. It was much different from Nathan's growls or Pickles' howls, of course, but that didn't make it any less enticing. He decided then and there that if Ganesh was going to drag him out dancing in public, he at least deserved Ganesh singing to him.
He blinked, but not from soap in his eyes. “What did you say?”
“Have you always had this dark undercoating? I do not recollect it?”
“What?” said Charles. He splashed around a bit, like an idiot dog trying to catch its own tail, trying to spy his own wings. Ganesh left, and returned with a small hand mirror.
“I do not recall this from when I painted you last,” Ganesh explained as Charles rubbed condensation from the mirror and then squinted his weak eyes into it to scrutinize the underside of his own wings, near where they joined to his back. Patches on both sides had grown dark.
“No,” he said. “I dunno. As far as I know, I've always been all silver.”
“This will sting a bit,” said Ganesh, who had already plucked him.
“Ow!”
“Oh, look! It resembles one of Boonie's!”
Charles stared at the feather. His own feather. Dark, with a silvery tip.
The next day, he sat with Raziel, out in the late summer sun in Valhalla, jacket and shirt balled into the corner, his wings out.
“So, you don't remember this dark undercoat?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said, brushing the underside of his wings with the tips of her fingers. “It's not as if I paid super close attention to your wings. But you've been all silver, since I can remember.”
“That's what I thought.”
“Why are you so overwrought about this? You've never liked how you looked.”
“Yeah, but, at least, it's me. This is weird.”
“What did Ganesh think?”
“Ah, he said I look healthy, and my aura or whatever mystical crap is fine. I don't know what happened.”
“Well, you know, you've been involved with Ganesh for some time now. You've probably gotten your magic mixed up.”
“Mixed up?”
“Remember when your eyes were fucked up?”
“Well, yeah, but.... My fucking wings?”
“But they're your magic. Anyway, they look sorta nice like that, don't you think? Like Boonie's wings.”
“That's what Ganesh said,” Charles sighed, moping.
“Ganesh treated these scars,” Raziel mused, lightly touching his side. “And finally made you stop smoking and eat food once in a while,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Maybe you should be grateful? You've gotten better looking as you aged.”
“We're not supposed to age!” he grumbled. “We're angels.”
“Of course we age. We just don't get all grey and wrinkled. I mean, you're already grey.” She grinned.
“You've changed too?”
“Well, the earth changes you, you know that! I can tap into it for power now. And, you know, I don't really have the old wanderlust. It's fine, 'cause we're both kinda stuck here now.”
“I just thought.... I thought....” He hadn't meant to do it. Not in front of Raziel. He gripped the bench, but the tears came anyway.
He looked up. Raziel was sitting close beside him. “You thought,” she said, “you'd wake up one day, and The Creator would forgive you, and you wouldn't be Fallen any more, and it would all be back to the way it was.”
“How did you know?”
“What would have happened, if I hadn't given the Book of Secrets and Mysteries away? I'd be back at Headquarters, wearing an itchy fucking gown, bored off my ass, chasing him around, writing down all his bullshit. And, yeah, I still think about it.”
He let one wing drape over her shoulders. He looked at her curiously. “But you don't regret it?”
“I love the heck outta my kids, you know. And Wotan wants more of 'em,” she told him.
“He's gotten over the peanut butter on the saddle?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I've told him I wanna wait 'til this batch is at least in college. I mean, you have some idea, raising one.”
Charles nodded. “Reminds me, about the Naming...?”
“We're cool. And I think Ganesh will be pleased.”
“Why will he be pleased?”
“It's a surprise!”
“You know, Nick Ibsen was trying to wrangle an invitation.”
“The news guy? Want me to send him one?”
“Sure. But, I tried to warn him.... He had a funny reaction. He really wanted to go. Literally, if this is the last thing he ever does.”
“Might be the last thing any of us ever do,” she shrugged.
He nodded.
And two angels sat together for a time and watched the late summer sun set over the Asgard.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The campaign begins. And also, french fries. And Latin American soap operas.
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok is a Metalocalypse AU. If you're behind and for some strange reason wanna catch up, the best place is my fic journal,
tikific, where you are welcome to come visit the bits I’ve written and maybe poke them with a pointed stick.
Let's see, it's been a while, huh? I got a new job, so you should all be happy about my self-actualization. So, anyway, last time they all went to Hindu Hell and sorted out Boon's paperwork for his Naming ceremony. Oh, and Nathan's running for president. Also, I sort of have a flashback inside a flashback on this one. As if you guys weren't confused enough.
Several months ago....
So many women.
But, plenty of time.
Skwisgaar yawned. They were all asleep now, and he didn't care to wake them. With a practiced ease he slipped off the bed without disturbing anybody slumbering there, grabbed the guitar, and was out the door to his balcony. He hadn't bothered with clothes other than his jeans, but it was a nice, warm evening. He pulled up one of the patio chairs near the balustrade, sat down, put his feet up, and let his hands wander up and down the neck of his most faithful woman.
He thought he smelled something. Cigarettes. He noticed movement down below, out of the corner of his eye, and without getting up or even slowing down his playing, he looked down. Ganesh was out on the balcony of his and Charles' suite, smoking one of his spicy-smelling thin cigarettes. His terrace was a floor or two down, so he didn't notice Skwisgaar. He looked like he might be halfway ready for bed himself, as he was just clad in an untucked shirt and slacks, but it was difficult to tell, as the guy never bothered with a tie, and liked to slip off his shoes and pad around the Haus barefoot. He always looked like he was getting ready for some big time lady photographer to take his picture for the cover of Vanity Fair, but even moreso, it seemed, when he was out of the public eye like this. Skwisgaar had noticed Ganesh seemed to literally turn the dial down a notch or two on his charisma when he was around humans. Skwisgaar didn't really see the point, but was a bit envious of the ability. He father, Wotan, did a little something like that. Maybe if he'd grown up at Valhalla....
The guitarist figured to leave Ganesh to smoke in peace, and quietly returned his attentions to his practice.
He looked down again to the soft sound of voices. He couldn't make out what was being said, but it was pretty clear what was going on. Charles was now out there, no doubt giving Ganesh a hard time for smoking. It was funny, nowadays: gods and angels squabbled daily in Mordhaus. Skwisgaar had had a lot of dreams of rock stardom, but he didn't think he had ever conjured up anything like this.
Skwisgaar actually stopped playing for a bit to watch. He found couples interesting, and a little exotic, maybe as strange in their way as gods and angels. The fight wasn't terribly serious. Charles was now tossing off his tie. And did the thing he did. Charles didn't just dial it down a notch, he seemed to know how to almost disappear, and turn into just an empty grey suit. But he was letting it out now. You could feel it, even up from where Skwisgaar was sitting.
Like the time that assassin had come after him and Toki. And that other time....
And Charles was all over Ganesh now, but it was just a kiss.
And then he was sitting on the balustrade, kicking his legs, perfectly mindless of the ridiculous drop, contentedly smoking Ganesh's cigarette.
Several years ago....
The club was smoky, of course. All of them were in those days. Pickles' guy was furiously adding to the haze. The grey man, was how Skwisgaar thought of him: grey suit, and framed always by a halo of grey smoke. Pickles' guy. He fixed stuff.
Skwisgaar sat across from grey man at the table in the club, lazily fingering his guitar. Skwisgaar was already getting a reputation around town as an eccentric. All to the good, in his opinion.
He hadn't exactly come to LA looking for stardom. It had been idiotic, really. Death threats? Pffft. That's the kind of thing the stupid Norwegian black metal musicians were up to, too busy whacking each other in the head with hatchets to make decent music. But it had gotten back to Serveta - it was a small town, after all - and that had really been the end of it. His bags were packed, and he was off to America. To seek his fortune. Like some kind of douche.
It hadn't taken him long to hook up with Pickles. In their way, they were the two most reputed musicians in town who weren't really associated with a band. Skwisgaar played with a couple of groups, and did some session work, but he was bored as hell by it all. This was nothing like back home. These clowns.... Well, there was even a band dressed like clowns. That said a lot.
But Pickles' grey man had helped him with the green card and immigration issues, and together, they had managed to lure Nathan Explosion away from his present gig. It was going to happen, a new band of some kind. Since Pickles was pretty determined to switch over to drums, now they needed to fill out a second guitarist who could more or less keep up with Skwisgaar, and someone to pose holding a bass guitar for their live shows.
This evening had been a waste, as far as talent scouting was concerned. Surprisingly, it was Nathan, as usual, casting the veto: “Not brutal enough.” For their part, Pickles and Skwisgaar were getting a little antsy, but the grey man would say, “No, let's do this right,” and that would be that.
Both Nathan and Pickles had managed to find pretty ladies to take home, so they had said their goodbyes. Skwisgaar, as usual, had found six or seven pretty ladies, but was going through one of his occasional bouts of angst, and decided to leave alone. The grey man had cast a curious glance his way, but nodded, and disappeared into the haze.
Skwisgaar ended up leaving by a back door, guitar case in hand. He walked through the dark, grungy West Hollywood alley, humming a new riff. That's what he wanted: he wanted to play. Why was there always bullshit?
So, he didn't hear them. Not until he was surrounded.
“Whats?” he huffed. “I ain't got much money.” And the guitar was pretty old. Still, he would hate losing it to a bunch of assholes. Shit. He clutched the guitar case. Why the fuck hadn't he left with Nathan? That guy looked like he could handle himself. He could probably yell at these motherdildos and send them packing.
“You ams Skwisgaar Skwigelf?”
WHAT? “Ja, I ams, dudes. What ams your problems?”
Oh, fucking Christ. Was that an axe?
“We ams gots da message from da Desecrated Corpses.”
“What? Dems? What ams dems gots against me? Fucksing fuck!” They had hunted him down, from Sweden?
There were four of them, he thought, clutching the guitar case tighter. He didn't wanna fucking die, and he didn't want them to hurt his hands.
“You can runs, but you can not hides,” said the first douche. Oh, fuck, that was an axe.
Skwisgaar did the first thing that came to mind, swing out, hard, with the guitar case. He managed to knock the first guy down, which seemed to confuse the other guys for a second, but then one of them was coming at them, axe in hand. Skwisgaar now swung up the old guitar case like a shield.
There was a scream.
Skwisgaar lowered the guitar case. The axe guy was on the ground, his axe now being waved in his face.
“I don't know who you are,” Charles told him, “but you are fucking with my bread and butter.” There was a glint in his eye, behind the spectacles. Something silver? It wasn't the grey man. It was like he was fucking possessed or something.
The other two attackers now came at Charles. One ended up with an axe in his skull. The other landed underneath the guy who had wielded the axe. Because that's where Charles tossed the big guy with the axe.
The first guy was now struggling to his feet. He righted himself, only to get stuffed into a trash bin. The other two living guys then got tossed, headfirst, into a dumpster. Charles banged the lid closed, and tied it off with a piece of wire.
Charles paused, hardly even out of breath. He appearing to be listening.
The blood from the dead guy's head was leaking out, making a little red trail in the dark dirty alley. Charles whipped out a handkerchief and wiped down the handle of the axe.
“Sirens.” Charles was talking to Skwisgaar now. The guitarist blinked, and then nodded. “As your attorney, I would advise you to follow me.” Skwisgaar nodded dumbly again. Charles grabbed his elbow, and Skwisgaar allowed himself to be led through some back alleys, and then down a main street, far from the melee.
Charles finally stopped. He took out a cigarette, offering one to Skwisgaar, who waved him off. “You knew those guys.” It wasn't a question.
“Did not ams knows dems,” said Skwisgaar, a little surprised to find he was still capable of speech. “But I ams knows who sents dems,” he admitted.
Charles didn't say anything, simply letting the smoke curl.
“Ams black metals guys. From back home. Douches.”
“Why you left Sweden.” Again, it was not a question.
“You ams checked me outs, Ofdensens?”
A nod. “As your attorney, and your business manager, I can help you. Or not. Your choice.”
Skwisgaar stood for a time, feeling his heart beating in his chest. Still beating in his chest. Yes. He was alive. “You helps me?”
Charles nodded, and then flicked the cigarette into the gutter. “You get home OK?”
Skwisgaar nodded. “It ain't too far.” He started to turn away but then paused, and opened his mouth to say something.
“What?”
“Ofdensens. You ain't humans.”
It wasn't a question. Pickles said stuff, sometimes, when he was drunk or high, which was most of the time.
Charles was obviously considering how to answer. “Not entirely,” was what he finally said, hands in pockets. “Is that gonna be OK?” he asked.
Skwisgaar nodded. “Ja. Dat ams fines.” And, with a wave of his hand, he set off for his apartment.
Several months ago...
Skwisgaar shook his head. He had stopped playing his guitar again. He heard music.
Ganesh had set up a couple of little speakers, out on their patio. He was playing funny music, like from some Indian movie you'd see for a few seconds before Nathan yelled at Pickles to change the channel.
Ganesh went over to Charles. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, and flicked it over the balcony. And then he extended a hand.
Charles slipped off his jacket, carelessly tossing it onto a chair. And then he took Ganesh's hands, and they were off dancing.
No, he's not human, Skwisgaar thought. Not entirely.
And neither am I.
The present day...
“Guys, are we ready?” asked Charles, taking his customary seat at the head of the meeting table.
“My fellow Americans!” said Nathan.
“Uh, Nathan, this meeting is about that other thing.”
“What other thing?” asked Nathan, going back to munching his Genuine Imitation Explosion Sauce(TM)-Flavored Potato Snacks.
Charles inclined his head. Suddenly, the table was covered with fast food bags.
“AMS DIMMU BURGER!” squealed Toki, lunging for a bag. He frowned. “Ams nots Dimmu Burger. Charles, what ams dis craps! I ams needs to completes my Amon Amarth Godless Darkness Meal toy collectionses!”
Charles grinned a grin of fresh baked bread and dairy churned butter. “This is our new enterprise: Dick Knubbler Presents, Dethklok HELL FRIES!”
There were stares.
“I ams not likes, it,” concluded Skwisgaar, poking his bag with his guitar.
“And, uh, why is that, Skwisgaar?”
"It ams pfffft," Skwisgaar patiently explained.
"OK, Skwisgaar, that is not helpful feedback,” Charles noted.
“Why ischn't it juscht Dethklok Hell Friesch?” asked Murderface, stabbing his own bag with his hunting knife.
“Business reasons.”
“What buschinessch reasonsch?”
“Dick's face scored better than any of yours' when we focus tested it.”
“Focusch teschted?” asked Murderface.
“But, dooooood! He's gaht dose skeery robot eyes!” Pickles whined.
"Ja, I ams trusts hims!" Toki announced cheerily.
“Well, thank you for that, Toki. He was considered by children to be a friendly presence,” Charles explained.
“Kids? What ams you says about kids?” grumbled Skwisgaar suspiciously.
Charles gestured again, and the door swung open. The three young angel cousins hurtled into the room, Elias eagerly wiggling in to Charles' lap, and Abby running around to be picked up by Uncle Murderface, where she immediately began to play with his hunting knife.
Curly-haired Liam made a toddle-line for his half-brother, Skwisgaar, but was met by a pair of steely blue eyes and an icy Swedish sneer. Liam made a screeching little toddling U-turn, ran all the way back across the room, in back of Charles, and over to scramble into Uncle Nathan's lap.
“What is this?” Nathan demanded. “I'm your SECOND CHOICE LAP?”
Liam innocently batted his blue eyes at the singer. But then he turned and pleaded, “Fwenchie?” at the tempting fast food bag sitting before Nathan.
Charles grinned murderously and opened his own Dethklok Hell Fries bag. He extracted a batch of Hell Fries in an elaborate black cardboard container, and then dug into the bag for something else.
"Dethklok Hell Fries," he said, "featuring FOURTEEN different flavors of ketchup!" He expertly splayed out two hands worth of differently colored condiments like processed tomatoey playing cards.
At least 80% of the present and accounted for death metal musicians merely frowned, but the children squealed in a riotous toddlergasm, "Betchup!" and lunged for the bags.
"Wowee!" agreed Toki, digging into his own bag.
Charles demonstrated by pulling out a large vinyl Facebones placemat from his own bag. Elias immediately began prying into the many little plastic containers of exotic ketchup varieties and started painting, using fries as brushes. With Murderface's assistance, Abby lined up each and every container in neat ranks, and then went through and methodically tested exactly one of every flavor. Liam and Nathan by contrast tried combining various varieties to see if they could come up with more brutal color combinations, or perhaps cause some kind of ignition. The most metal concoctions got fries dipped into them, and thence crammed into ketchup-y mouths.
Toki ran all the flavor combinations by faithful Deddy, who had somehow shown up on the chair next to him. Skwisgaar looked askance at the rhythm guitarist, and appeared no happier when Pickles, wiping his ketchup-stained nose with a wristband, opined, "Dat yellow one wit' da flakes is kinda awesome."
Skwisgaar focused his sneer towards the head of the table. "Ofdensens," he grumbled.
"Skwigelf," rejoindered Charles. They locked eyes for a long moment.
"Pfffft. Where ams da boiger? Ands da chicksen yum-yum? Dis ams not da meal!"
"You don't have kids. I do,” he said, indicating Elias. “All they ever seem to give a shit about are the fries-"
"An fwenchie! An good, an da betchup Dada!" agreed Elias.
"Fries and ketchup."
"Ands da toys!" enthused Toki.
Charles raised an eyebrow at Skwisgaar. "Yes, the DethMeal toy. Bottom of the bag."
Skwisgaar glowered and reached one long-fingered hand down into his Dethklok Hell Fries bag. He extracted a little black polyethylene bag covered with Facebones logos. He regarded it as if one would some kind of dead insect. He produced a metal guitar pick between two fingers, and used it to rip the bag open. He upturned the bag and shook, depositing the small plastic figure on the tabletop.
He blinked in surprise. "I ams knows dis goil!" he remarked.
Suddenly, the other band members were rustling into their own paper bags. Charles, knowing he had just scored the coup de grace, only steepled his own hands and grinned in a most non-angelic manner.
There were more plastic figures on the table, except for Toki, who seemed to be having a terrible time opening the little bag. "Ams cannot opens dis dumb dildos bag," he fumed in frustration. Suddenly, there was a whooshing sound, and the bag had split open where Abby had hurled Murderface's knife into it. “Oh, t'anks Abignails,” he told her, liberating his own plastic toy.
“Dood!” said Pickles, marveling at his own female plastic figurine.
“Can sche be my girlfriend?” marveled Murderface of his.
Nathan was simply holding up his plastic figure in wonder. She did have a wonderful figure. “That one is, uh, number 27, a supermodel,” Charles told him. “The series is, famous DethGroupies.”
Nathan eyed the now equally ketchup-smeared Liam. He inserted his DethGroupie back into the packaging. “I'll save this for LATER,” he commented.
Charles consulted his Vacheron Constantin. “We gotta get rolling to the next meeting. So, if there are no objections. Skwisgaar?”
Skwisgaar tucked his DethGroupie into a pocket and raised a blond eyebrow.
Charles was already at the door, holding Elias by the hand. “Campaign meeting in five, everybody,” he said, handing off Elias to Kam the Tutor, who was already standing at the door. The cheerful cherub gave a high whistle, and Liam and Abby scrambled obediently off their respective laps to follow him off.
“A whistle, Raziel?” he asked the little angel, who was also standing in the corridor.
“Hell, it works with the wolves!” she grinned, giving her brats little kisses before they were marched off. “You wanted to see me before the meeting?”
Charles sighed. “We gotta talk about Boon's Naming.”
“As told you, sweetie, I got this,” she said, putting her sunglasses atop her head.
“And as I told you, don't call me sweetie, and we wanna keep this as low key as possible.” They had arrived in the living room. The sound had been muted, but the television monitor flashed images of Her on the presidential campaign trail.
“Understood,” said Raziel. “Just don't worry your little angelic head about this one. Keep thinking about world domination through french fries,” she grinned.
“I am gonna worry my angelic head! That's what I fucking do!”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I've brought in some consultants. Wotan. Your dad. Even Abby's helping out.” Raziel smiled with not a little bit of motherly pride.
“Getting her into the family business a little early,” noted Charles.
“Kid comes by it honestly. Wotan's her father, and Phanuel is her grandfather.”
“Not to mention her mother,” said Charles, now turning to face Raziel, who merely shrugged.
Charles rooted around on the coffee table for a remote control. He stabbed a few buttons, and finally hit the one to turn on the sound.
“For the future of this country, and our children, the mixing of angel blood and pure blood must be stopped!” There was a terrific cheer.
“Whoa. That is one really tight blouse,” said Charles.
“I'm on that one too,” smiled Raziel. “Wanna get to the campaign meeting?” Charles tossed the remote control back on the couch were it would hopefully be eaten by the couch cushions, and followed Raziel to another meeting room. Nathan and Pickles were wandering in the door as well.
“Where's William?” asked Charles.
“Uhhhhh,” said Nathan.
“He hadda do stuff. An' things,” Pickles informed them.
Charles frowned. “Huh. Well. We'll start without him.” He pushed in the door. Ganesh was already sitting there, poking at an electronic tablet. And there were various other people sitting at the table, viewing a slideshow up on the monitor.
“So, whadda we got?” asked Charles, taking a seat.
“The first item on the agenda is to finalize Nathan's party affiliation,” said Ganesh.
“It's down to these,” said Raziel, clicking on a slide.
Brutal Old Party
Metalcratic Brutalians
American Party of Deth
Awesome Metal Party of Awesome
“Hey, what happened to the Awesome Brutal Metal Party of Brutality?” inquired Nathan.
“Didn't go over well in the Northeast,” explained Raziel.
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” said Nathan.
“And have we chosen a campaign slogan?” asked Charles.
“Once again, we've whittled it down to a few favorites,” said Ganesh.
“Nathan Explosion,” said Raziel, clicking on another slide. “He'll do for American what he did for Florida.”
“WHAT?” said Charles.
“It tested really well,” declared Raziel, clicking on the slide.
“Florida...? REALLY?” Charles pressed.
“Pickles, do you remember what Nathan did in Florida?” Raziel asked.
“Yeh! Dood! Florida!” attested Pickles.
“Uh-huh. And, neither can anyone else in the electorate,” Raziel laughed. “Oh, here's a great one Nathan came up with: “Nathan Explosion: WATCH FOR TRUCKS.'”
“I saw that on A SIGN,” said Nathan. “It's REALLY USEFUL. Those things can back right over you.”
“But what about...?” Charles stuttered. “Can I see how reaction to this broke down?”
“Women loved it!” Raziel enthused. “He is off the charts with female voters.” She clicked on another slide.
“But men...?” began Charles, staring hungrily at the pie charts.
“That's problematic,” said Raziel. “Mostly depends on how tight Her blouse is this week.”
“But Lady Raziel has some interesting ideas in that regard,” Ganesh noted. “We will be implementing them at the next campaign event.”
“OK, one thing I think is important,” Charles said. “We gotta get you guys registered to vote. Are either of you registered?"
Nathan and Pickles looked at each other.
"Wait, are YOU registered to vote, Charles?” Nathan asked suspiciously.
"Of course I am!"
Nathan scowled. "But, you a fucking angel!"
"I am over 21!" Charles responded.
"So, where exactly are you registered to vote?" asked Ganesh.
"Delaware,” said Charles. “I'm a corporation."
"Tax reasons?" asked Raziel.
"Yeah."
"That's why I'm a citizen of Luxembourg!" said Raziel.
"Oh, I don't think I've ever been," said Charles.
"Neither have I. I've heard it's nice."
"Dood, where should we register?" asked Pickles.
"Pickles,” said Ganesh. “We would like you to go to Tomahawk.”
"Wut? No! Ew!" said the drummer with horror.
"And Nathan,” said Ganesh, “Florida has been crucial to the last few elections."
"OK, sure. Hey, wait, wasn't there something about Florida that I should remember?"
"Not really, no,” Ganesh told him.
“OK, then, fine, after I finish my chips.”
Charles left the meeting with Ganesh, in a thoughtful mood.
"So, basically, nothing really matters?" Charles asked as they walked down the corridor.
"Your American presidential elections are not unlike a campaign for, er, prom king and queen," laughed Ganesh.
"A popularity contest?"
"Well, something like that." grinned Ganesh. "Maybe everything like that."
“But, we really don't gotta say a word about, you know, policy? Or what he's gonna do?”
“Not really. No.”
Charles frowned at Ganesh. "Who would have thought you'd be a closet cynic?"
"Who would have thought you'd be a closet idealist?"
"I'm not.... Anyway. Are you going to Santa Dominica with Skwisgaar?”
"Yes! He is to be one of this week's special guest stars on Corazon de Azul, playing a doctor, so Lady Hypnos has invited me along to serve as medical consultant. I am certain I can accomplish many strides in the way the medical profession is portrayed."
"Ganesh. It's a soap opera."
"It is not any soap opera! It is Corazon de Azul!"
"Well. Anyway. I think this will be very important for the latino vote. And since Skwisgaar can't vote...."
"I am sure he will make a contribution!"
Charles emitted what sounded very like a growl.
"There are ... tensions?" Ganesh asked.
"It's always been like that. Since the fucking band started."
"Now, as you so wisely suggested about Pickles, perhaps it is best you let bygones be bygones?”
“No. I hold grudges. I nurture grudges. It's who I am.”
Ganesh simply shook his head.
“By the way, you got any idea where William has got to?” asked Charles.
“Ahem,” said Ganesh, who looked profoundly uncomfortable. “I do, in fact, have some knowledge about the individuals in question....”
“Individuals?”
“Which was relayed to me, in confidence....”
Charles frowned. Oddly enough, as they didn't seem to have a single thing in common, Ganesh had always had a rather cordial relationship with the persnickety bassist. Though, like most everyone else, Ganesh appeared to be sketchy on the details of what exactly was going on between William and....
Oh.
Charles suddenly looked up at Ganesh, startled. “Uh. William and Dick Knubbler...?”
“Whatever was, er, happening....”
“Is not?”
Ganesh nodded. “It's, er, a dispute of a political nature, is my understanding.”
“WHAT?”
“Well,” said Ganesh, “Dick, as you know, is very involved in Nathan's campaign, whereas William....”
“No!”
“Well. She is wearing a terribly tight sweater this week!”
Some time later, Ganesh stood at the edge of a television soundstage in the Latin American country of Santa Dominica, wishing like hell he had a cigarette. Or a martini. Or best of all, both.
"But, Lady Hypnos,” he pleaded, “a surgeon would not enter a surgical suite carrying his guitar!" He gestured towards the soundstage, where Skwisgaar Skwigelf, now clad in green surgical scrubs, was strumming on his Gibson.
"But how else can he serenade Guadalupe the nurse?" laughed the Elder God.
"It violates sterile procedure! And they've cut out the fingers on his surgical gloves!”
“Tsk! How could he finger the strings with gloves?” scoffed the purple-winged goddess. “That would just be silly.”
“And he's pushed his mask down off his mouth and nose to sing!”
"Ganesh," Hypnos told him, patting him on the shoulder. "It's only television."
"But I thought I was intended to be medical consultant!"
"They spelled your name right on the credits, didn't they? Dr. Ganesha Vighneshvara, MD?"
Ganesh sighed, and turned to watch the taping.
"His Q with women viewers is off the charts!" Hypnos told him.
“Hmpf,” said Ganesh.
There was a call for quiet, and Skwisgaar began to strum his non-sterile guitar and sing.
They gave me this song
Yeah, I know it's a good song to sing
But frankly something's wrong
Ain't hard to miss
I got myself a song
And my older fans are pissed
'Cause there's girlie singers backing me!
And my voice has been sweetened
I just know it
And little girls have 8x10s of me up
in their rooms
With lipstick marks
I wish I had my credibility
I want credibility
What can I do to get it all back?
I play along with the bullshit
I gave my lawyer the contract to break
I feel so dirty
When the lyrics are sweet
I'm singing about heartache
Instead of rotting meat
'Cos there's an angel chorus backing me
And a string section
I just know it
And there's a full page spread of me
In Tiger Beat
I wish I had my credibility
I want credibility
What can I do to get it all back?
“An' dat ams how I ams feelingsings for you, lovely ladies,” the guitarist told the actress playing Guadalupe.
“Er,” Ganesh whispered to Hypnos, “about his voice....”
“Well fix it in post. We're gonna dub it. Into a language. Any language,” she grinned.
Charles heaved a heavy sigh and grasped Elias' little hand. He knelt down next to his son and took him by the shoulders. “Now, Boon?”
“Yeah, Dada!”
“Now, I need you to be a good boy, OK?”
“Yeah, Boon an good boy!” Ganesh's lovely brown eyes blinked back at him from the sweet little face.
“Yes you are. So, what do we say?”
“No paintin' an da waw!” Elias told him.
“That's right, no painting on any walls.”
“An not Boonie waw, or da Dadas,” the child elaborated.
“That's right. The walls here don't belong to you or your daddies.”
“Uh-huh!” Boon nodded enthusiastically.
“Uh-huh.”
“Dada! Pwetty bidchures!”
“Yes, your pictures are very pretty, and Daddy likes them very much.”
“Uh-huh!”
“And Daddy loves you very much! All right. So, we'll go here, and then we'll stop and get you some nice french fries. Would you like that?”
'Uh-huh!”
Charles stood up straight and took Elias's hand once again. All in all, it was much easier reasoning with a two year old than a metal band. He crossed the street and led Elias to the Rikki Kixx Kickin' it Center. The musician had become increasingly reclusive since the failed Snakes 'n Barrels reunion, but was still a revered figure among a certain crowd, which was the reason for Charles' visit today.
And Raziel was the reason for dragging Elias along. “Everything the guy does is 'for the children,'” she had told him. “So, bring him a real damn kid!”
“Raziel, people who say that usually hate real damn kids,” Charles had told her. But, much as he loathed to admit it, Raziel actually seemed to have a crazy knack for her job as a Dethklok publicist, so he went along with it. He looked down at his son. She was definitely right about one thing, it was a hell of a lot harder to be a jerk to a guy with a cute kid. As long as Charles could hold off property damage for an hour or so, he thought. He smiled down at Elias, who offered one in return. At least it was nice to have a friendly face along.
He regarded the building for a moment, which to him looked a lot more like some kind of concrete fortress than a rehab center. Word was, Kixx had retreated into some kind of religious cult since his curbstomping by Pickles. Kixx had never pressed charges for assault, an oddity which became less puzzling when you knew, as Charles did, of a suspicious death backstage prior to the reunion concert which had never been conclusively explained.
They entered the lobby, and were directed to one of the upper floors where, indeed, the receptionist cooed over Elias, who for his part, acted appealing. Charles was soon ushered into Kixx's office, where he immediately made muttered excuses about not being able to find a sitter. Well, it was actually sort of true.
“I don't expect to take too much of your time,” he was apologizing to Kixx, making a fuss over getting Elias settled in a chair with his electronic pad. Charles was grateful for the distraction. He had seen plenty of human entertainment figures let themselves go over the years, but it was usual a gradual, like Nathan and Murderface packing it in around the middle. But this was a bit astonishing, as Kixx had rarely been seen in public the last year or so. He had gone from somebody who probably boasted two percent body fat to a guy who, well, Charles was tempted to ask if he wanted to join him and William Murderface on a treadmill some time, only he was literaly afraid of Kixx - who was now quite nearly spherical - breaking the machine.
Kixx settled into his office chair, which creaked under his girth. “So, what can the Kikkin' It Center do for you, Charles?” asked Kixx. “I was surprised by your message. The Kikkin' It Center promotes the healthy, sober lifestyle! And your band is....” he trailed off, scratching his ample belly.
“Ah, well, as you know, Nathan Explosion is making a bid for the presidency, and we've decided to ask for your help as a, ah, an influential person among the straight edge demographic....”
“Can you stop right there?” asked Kixx. “Politics,” he sighed. “We try to keep the Kikkin' It Center away from politics. It's for the people. For the children!”
“Well, I'm talking about the children. Like my kid,” said Charles, waving a hand at Elias and feeling a trifle horrible in the process. “Ah. I don't think this will be a good place for him to grow up if our opponent should....”
“Yes, how will it be tomorrow? For them. For our precious little one?” Kixx pondered. “Every parent wonders this, from the bottom of their hearts.”
“Uh, yeah,” said Charles. “And, uh, I am wondering too.” What he wondered was whether it would be possible to drown in platitudes.
“That's why I treasure inner peace and hog fat! Do you treasure inner peace and hog fat, Charles? What do you think of pork rinds?”
“Well, ah...” Oh, boy, here it comes, thought Charles.
“That is the enlightenment I have found Baconology!” He waved a hand to the corner of the room, where he had displayed the book, Piguretics, in a kind of altar.
“Well, I am very glad for you.”
“After my terrible experience at the hands of Pickles the Drummer, I questioned my life! That is, until I found the truth! The universal truth of Baconology. This universe was settled by an ancient race of space pigs! Even today, they influence our lives and our fortunes with their sacred oinking!”
“Boy, that's, uh, pretty darned profound, Rikki,” sighed Charles, silently praying for a fire alarm to go off.
Thankfully, a side door opened, and Charles looked up to see a very familiar face. “I think you know my, um, associate, Miss Pink Mink?” asked Kixx.
“I've, ah, never had the pleasure,” said Charles, rising and reaching out a hand, which was immediately crushed in a long-fingernailed grip. Pink Mink was, at one point, probably the most storied groupie in rock and roll: definitely more famous than some of the musicians she courted. This, too, left Charles a bit at a loss. He had heard about the relationship, but, unlike Raziel, didn't tend to keep abreast of entertainment gossip. He could have sworn last he heard she was the most recent ex-wife of the television news interviewer Nick Ibsen.
“Charmed,” said Pink Mink, who immediately turned to Elias. “And who is this? Well, aren't we sweet. Isn't he sweet, Rikki-wikki?”
“Uh, Elias,” said Charles.
“Aren't you a cutie-wootie?” Pink Mink asked Elias, who merely blinked his cute eyes in response. “He reminds me of my little Ramblanctious. Doesn't he remind you of my little Rambly-Pambly, Rikki dear?” she asked Kixx, who merely grunted in response. Charles kept his face bland, having no fucking idea what a Ramblanctious might be, and not wanting to find out.
Charles scooped Elias up into his lap to make room for Pink Mink, who delicately positioned her ample bottom into the chair the boy had been sitting in (Charles wondered if she was another follower of Baconology), primly positioning a rather huge and awkward pink furry purse in her lap. “Now, did my Rikki tell you how the Center tries to keep itself above politics? It's all for the children, you understand,” she said, leaning over to bat her heavily mascaraed lashes at Charles.
“Uh, yeah,” said Charles, “We were actually....”
“Yip! Yip! Yip!” Charles instinctively hugged Elias tighter. A very small head had poked itself out of Pink Mink's bag, and was now producing an annoying series of squeaky little bark-like sounds.
Elias looked up in excitement. “Dada! An wat!”
“Yip! Yip!”
Charles cringed. “Uh, yeah, Boon, that's a nice little doggie.”
“No, Dada!” Elias insisted, pointing merrily at the scraggly little animal. “Not an doggie! An wat!”
“Yip! Yip! Yip!”
“Uh,” said Charles. “He, uh, needs his lunch.”
Pink Mink was up on her feet, glowering. “Pwecious. Is not. A rat,” she snapped.
And then she was out of the room in a flurry of magenta and yipping.
“Ah, well,” said Charles. He scooted Elias out of his lap, and rose. “Uh, thanks for meeting....”
“What did you need?” asked Kixx, who was suddenly leaning forward. “An endorsement?”
'Uh, yeah,” said Charles, nodding. “That kinda thing.”
“You got it,” said Kixx, rising, and holding out his hand.
“Uh, OK,” said Charles. He was being pulled closer to Kixx.
“I've always hated that FUCKING DOG,” Kixx whispered. “I'll have my people call your people,” he said, more loudly.
Charles led Elias out of the building and out onto the street, where he finally let himself sigh with relief.
“Fwenchie, Dada? Boon an good boy!”
“Yes, baby,” he said, grabbing Elias up into his arms. “Let's go get frenchie. And then find a nice big wall to draw on. OK?”
“Yeah!”
Skwisgaar Skwigelf, a/k/a Dr. Boa Snake, was once again in the operating suite of the soap opera, Corazon de Azul.
"Oh noes! Dis guy ams gots da bun-yurism!" he said, tossing up his hands and speaking directly into the camera.
"A bunyurism?" repeated a somewhat disbelieving sounding nurse-extra.
"Ja! Calls da famous butt specialist, Dr. Hunkmann! STATS!”
Another “doctor” appeared on the set: a tall, dark, and quite handsome fellow.
“I am, er, Dr. Hunkmann, the famous neurologist.” he explained. “I will assist you in this surgery.”
“Ja, da urologists. You operates on da butts, rights?” asked Dr. Boa Snake, fingering his guitar.
“Er, yes, Dr. Snake. Let us see what we may do.”
“I ams serenades you whiles you save da guy's life,” said Dr. Boa Snake, striking a chord.
“Yes, I think that would be a very good idea,” sighed Dr. Hunkmann, who wished for either a cigarette or a martini.
“Do you BELIEVE in hog fat?
Charles didn't succeed in quite hiding his smile from Raziel. They were both backstage at the inaugural Explosion for President rally.
“How did the meeting with Kixx go?” she asked.
“It actually wasn't a disaster,” Charles told her. “And Boon helped,” he said, nodding towards his son.
“Are you our little campaigner? Are you?” Raziel asked the slightly mystified child as she picked him up.
“So, Raziel, you, uh, worked out Nathan's speech.”
“Eh. Won't matter.”
“You people keep saying that!” He paused as he heard quite a lot of excited giggling echoing down the corridor. He turned to see the source.
“Ah, Raziel,” he said as a rather large group of women passed them. “Is that the Female Online Division....”
“Dressed as death metal cheerleaders, yep,” she said, as a couple of them waved cheery black pom-poms at them.
“Those are probably the cheeriest people wearing corpse paint I've ever seen,” Charles remarked.
“They're cheerleaders! They're supposed to be cheery!” said Raziel.
“Uh-huh.”
They then moved to the side to let several workers pushing sporting equipment go by.
“Trampolines?” he asked Raziel. “You have cheerleaders bouncing on trampolines?” Raziel nodded. “Raziel, you are … a profoundly evil being.”
“I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, I gotta go talk to the press,” she said, setting Elias down and walking towards the stage.
“That one's gotten big,” said a very familiar voice.
Charles turned. “Nick,” he said. “You're looking … really good.” It was true. Nick Ibsen's scars, which had marred an entire side of his face when last he had interviewed Charles, had faded to a pale pink.
Ibsen thoughtfully rubbed the side of his face. “Yeah, I need to thank your, uh, 'friend' for that. His treatments are pretty miraculous.”
“I will,” said Charles.
Ibsen had bent over to lift Elias. “You're getting heavy!” he told the child.
“Boon an bid boy!” said Elias.
“Boon?” asked Ibsen.
“It's, uh, sort of a nickname. Uh, I saw your ex,” he mentioned, a bit eager to change the subject. He and Ganesh had never disclosed Elias' parentage to Ibsen, but he was not a stupid guy.
“Mink?”
“Uh, yeah, actually....” said Charles, a bit taken aback. Ibsen had a rather healthy sized stable of ex wives.
“That one. Do you have an ex?”
“Uh, actually, yeah,” Charles confessed. “Took me for everything.”
“I hear that song. And I'm not even completely sure Ramblanctious was mine,” said Ibsen.
Charles blinked. So, Ramblanctious was some kind of kid. “I'm actually completely certain....”
“Ashleigh is not?” asked Ibsen.
“Off the record? No possible chance.”
“Didn't think so. She doesn't look like him in the least,” he said, indicating Elias.
Charles remained silent.
“A boon is a favor, isn't it?”
“Yeah!” said Elias. “Boon an good!'
“He's probably getting antsy. It's been a long day,” said Charles.
“I have heard,” said Ibsen, appearing to ignore him, “through various channels, that someone might be due for some kind of initiation ceremony.”
“What do you want, Nick?”
“Well, you've met my staff,” said Ibsen. “You know I'm sympathetic. I've lived a long time. I'm a news man, so I'm interested in new things. And there aren't a lot of new things out there. This is a kind of thing I've never experienced.”
“Nick. I don't know what to say.”
“Yeah, I know it's rude inviting myself to your kid's bar mitzvah,” Ibsen laughed, setting down Elias.
“It's not that. Really,” said Charles, as Elias ran to clutch him around his leg. “Nick. There's entities … that don't want this to happen. I just think.... For a human to be there....”
“Not welcome?”
“Not safe,” Charles admitted. He put a hand through Elias' tangled hair.
“As I said, Charles,” Ibsen told him. “I've lived a long time.”
“It's that important to you?” asked Charles.
“That it is. Now, if you'll excuse me? I've seen your, uh, 'campaign staff.' I think it's time I introduced myself to the next ex-Mrs. Ibsen.”
By the time Charles and Elias made it up to his residence, Ganesh had returned from Latin America. After he had given Elias his new plush alpaca and he and Charles had seen the yawning child off to bed, it had very quickly become a matter of wresting the clothes from each others' bodies as quickly and efficiently as possible.
“So, you wanna play doctor?” Charles had whispered into Ganesh's ear as he crawled on top of the god.
Charles suddenly found himself pushed back with no less than four arms. “Might we never mention that? Ever, ever again?” asked Ganesh, poking Charles' chest with an insistent finger.
“But Hypnos says you're already getting fan mail! Really twisted fan mail!”
Ganesh sat up on the bed and scowled. “Hmpf.”
“What was the deal with that, anyway?” Charles asked.
Ganesh sighed. “Well, the decision was made to dub Skwisgaar's lines.”
“Into Spanish?”
“Into, well, any kind of recognizable language.”
Charles laughed and rolled off Ganesh. “And it came out,” the god explained, “that I and my family are entertainers, so Lady Hypnos had me do some line readings. And THEN Alejandro Hernando Fernando....”
“The sixth sexiest man in Argentina,” said Charles.
“Er, yes. Who was slated to play a physician on the show....”
“Which had absolutely NOTHING to do with why you decided you needed to go down there.”
“Er. Well. Perhaps. At any rate. He unfortunately experienced a bizarre injury in a football game....”
“What kinda bizarre injury?”
“Well, it was a fairly profound injury to his hair, is my understanding.”
Charles blinked.
“He experienced some terrible split ends, Charles! It's not clear he'll be able to pose for the team postcards, nor the team calendar next year!”
“Alright. And....”
“Well, he had to pull out, so Lady Hypnos asked me if, in addition to the dubbing, I could step in.”
“Wait, you still did some dubbing?”
“Er. You are no doubt aware that there was a song....”
“THAT'S YOUR VOICE?”
“Skwisgaar seems to have a great deal of trouble,” Ganesh explained, “for a musician, with pitch.”
“Yeah, he can't tune a fucking guitar to save his soul. So, you're now a teen idol in Latin America.”
“A rather unwilling one. Might we just agree to never discuss this topic again? Throughout all of eternity?”
“You sure you don't wanna act out your stalker letters?” Charles grinned.
“If you would like to roleplay, please be aware I am most certainly not in the the mood for anything having to do with the medical profession right now.”
Charles grinned and climbed back on top of Ganesh. “I've got it! How about warden and naughty inmate! You could search me for contraband!”
Ganesh raised an eyebrow. He was not one to let peevishness get in the way of boning an angel. “Hrm. I believe a strip search is the first order of business,” he said.
Charles sat in the shower, utterly ridiculous smile on his face.
Why hadn't he known about this centuries ago? It was better than a fucking neck rub.
And what was even better, Ganesh had started thoughtlessly humming as he soaped up Charles' wings. He had such a pleasant voice. It was much different from Nathan's growls or Pickles' howls, of course, but that didn't make it any less enticing. He decided then and there that if Ganesh was going to drag him out dancing in public, he at least deserved Ganesh singing to him.
He blinked, but not from soap in his eyes. “What did you say?”
“Have you always had this dark undercoating? I do not recollect it?”
“What?” said Charles. He splashed around a bit, like an idiot dog trying to catch its own tail, trying to spy his own wings. Ganesh left, and returned with a small hand mirror.
“I do not recall this from when I painted you last,” Ganesh explained as Charles rubbed condensation from the mirror and then squinted his weak eyes into it to scrutinize the underside of his own wings, near where they joined to his back. Patches on both sides had grown dark.
“No,” he said. “I dunno. As far as I know, I've always been all silver.”
“This will sting a bit,” said Ganesh, who had already plucked him.
“Ow!”
“Oh, look! It resembles one of Boonie's!”
Charles stared at the feather. His own feather. Dark, with a silvery tip.
The next day, he sat with Raziel, out in the late summer sun in Valhalla, jacket and shirt balled into the corner, his wings out.
“So, you don't remember this dark undercoat?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said, brushing the underside of his wings with the tips of her fingers. “It's not as if I paid super close attention to your wings. But you've been all silver, since I can remember.”
“That's what I thought.”
“Why are you so overwrought about this? You've never liked how you looked.”
“Yeah, but, at least, it's me. This is weird.”
“What did Ganesh think?”
“Ah, he said I look healthy, and my aura or whatever mystical crap is fine. I don't know what happened.”
“Well, you know, you've been involved with Ganesh for some time now. You've probably gotten your magic mixed up.”
“Mixed up?”
“Remember when your eyes were fucked up?”
“Well, yeah, but.... My fucking wings?”
“But they're your magic. Anyway, they look sorta nice like that, don't you think? Like Boonie's wings.”
“That's what Ganesh said,” Charles sighed, moping.
“Ganesh treated these scars,” Raziel mused, lightly touching his side. “And finally made you stop smoking and eat food once in a while,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Maybe you should be grateful? You've gotten better looking as you aged.”
“We're not supposed to age!” he grumbled. “We're angels.”
“Of course we age. We just don't get all grey and wrinkled. I mean, you're already grey.” She grinned.
“You've changed too?”
“Well, the earth changes you, you know that! I can tap into it for power now. And, you know, I don't really have the old wanderlust. It's fine, 'cause we're both kinda stuck here now.”
“I just thought.... I thought....” He hadn't meant to do it. Not in front of Raziel. He gripped the bench, but the tears came anyway.
He looked up. Raziel was sitting close beside him. “You thought,” she said, “you'd wake up one day, and The Creator would forgive you, and you wouldn't be Fallen any more, and it would all be back to the way it was.”
“How did you know?”
“What would have happened, if I hadn't given the Book of Secrets and Mysteries away? I'd be back at Headquarters, wearing an itchy fucking gown, bored off my ass, chasing him around, writing down all his bullshit. And, yeah, I still think about it.”
He let one wing drape over her shoulders. He looked at her curiously. “But you don't regret it?”
“I love the heck outta my kids, you know. And Wotan wants more of 'em,” she told him.
“He's gotten over the peanut butter on the saddle?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I've told him I wanna wait 'til this batch is at least in college. I mean, you have some idea, raising one.”
Charles nodded. “Reminds me, about the Naming...?”
“We're cool. And I think Ganesh will be pleased.”
“Why will he be pleased?”
“It's a surprise!”
“You know, Nick Ibsen was trying to wrangle an invitation.”
“The news guy? Want me to send him one?”
“Sure. But, I tried to warn him.... He had a funny reaction. He really wanted to go. Literally, if this is the last thing he ever does.”
“Might be the last thing any of us ever do,” she shrugged.
He nodded.
And two angels sat together for a time and watched the late summer sun set over the Asgard.