Title: Bad Impression
Author: Black Fire (weird_katharine)
Rating: R for swearing, PG for content.
Summery: While out drinking with the band, Charles shows them his Melmord impression.
Disclaimer: I don't own any recognizable characters or ideas.
It was after one in the morning and they had stopped in at a bar with an all-night kitchen. Because, they all assured Charles, it was important to have something to throw up in the morning. Now, an hour or two later, the counter was scattered with half-eaten burgers, mutilated napkins, broken glass, pickles (the garnish, not the drummer) stabbed to death on the grounds of being too phallic, and coleslaw dumped in a puddles on the grounds of being fucking repulsive.
Charles felt like he was reeling around slightly detached from reality, even though all he was doing was sitting on a bar stool. Like an astronaut floating around and only occasionally bouncing off a solid object. He didn't mind, though. All in all, he was having a wonderful time. At this point in the evening, nothing could have really upset him.
That didn't mean he was exactly thrilled to be listening to Murderface going on and on about how funny Melmord had been. There were a lot of things more pleasant than watching Murderface, so drunk he was nearly incomprehensible, spewing spit and crumbs, doing a bad impression of someone else doing a bad impression of you. Charles took a long drink of his beer, slumped comfortably against Toki, and tried fairly successfully to just ricochet away from the conversation.
"I wish you could have been there, man. It wash fucking hilarioush." Murderface snickered to himself, a wide genuine grin on his face. Charles had an idea that for once he had absolutely no idea what an ass he was being. He'd probably be disgusted with himself when he sobered up.
Charles looked up at him. Another ricochet, and once again, his thoughts were something he could watch, but wasn't really connected to.
"Well for the record . . . I think, I think I could do a pretty good impression of Melmord."
"No fucking way!" Nathan yelled from the other end of the bar.
"Yeah, you kin hardly do an impression of you." Pickles added, whatever that meant.
"No! Everyone watch this!" Charles scooped up a stray ketchup packet in one hand, closed his eyes, and frowned in epic concentration.
"Okay," He said, then, a few seconds later, "Okay,"
They, in a voice that sounded pretty much like Charles Ofdensen with a sore throat, "I'm Melmord, I dress business casual and like to lure children into my van! I'm smug, stupid Euro-trash, with dumb-ass chunky highlight, and a Aiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee! Slam!"
He dropped the ketchup packet and creamed it with his heavy, half-full beer stein the second it hit the bar. Ketchup and beer sprayed everywhere. Dethklok stared in silence. Charles collapsed into a fit of hysterical giggling.
Murderface narrowed his eyes in confusion. "This has been some fun shit and all tonight, but you have the weirdest fucking sense of humor."