Slash, drug/alcohol usage, bad language.
Since I'm back, I'll say it with a new found spirit; if you don't like it, don't read it!

Despite my long brake from fanfic, no, I still am unable to claim any characters that I mention in this story as my own.
Only Gunther/Gunter Bekker, Duncan, Jen, Geoff, and Bree are mine. The story idea is mine, too.

In this story Pickles is a teenager living in his hometown of Tomahawk, Wisconsin.
Toki is a few years younger than him and living in Norway.
Dethklok isn't in existence yet.

Reviews are love.

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I don't mind the sun sometimes the images it shows
I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes
Cinnamon and sugar-y and softly spoken lies
You never know just how you look through other people's eyes

-Pepper, by the Butthole Surfers


Pickles sat in his desk during his last class glaring down at his paper and scribbling a few carefully chosen words. They weren't much to anyone who wasn't him; mostly angry, sloppily written scrawls of 'hate', 'fucking bullshit', and 'fuck the world' covered the scrap of paper. Next to him the other students had pushed their desks together into a few groups and were talking quite loudly. Pickles just let out an angry sigh, balled up the piece of paper, threw it at one of the other kids, and laid his head down in his arms. He should be excited, he knew. He should be just as happy and carefree as any of the other teenagers—it was the last day of his junior year in high school after all, and despite everything he'd managed to scrape by and pass. He wasn't, though. The summer brought on a whole new load of problems that he just wasn't ready to put up with. His parents, his brother, his father's constant nagging him to get a job...

Suddenly the chatter of the other teenagers gave way to silence as the clock ticked its way a few seconds closer to the final, lifesaving bell. Summer, they all lived for that sweet, fulfilling summer, those few months of wonderful freedom without teachers, tests, homework, or the burden of learning. Pickles felt sick as the bell sounded out thru the school. He didn't pick his head up right away; he let everyone else leave before hauling himself to his feet, throwing his book sack over his shoulders, and stalking like an animal out the door. Just before he left, his teacher gave him a nod. Pickles wasn't stupid. Every one of his teachers gave him that same look, that same nod. It was a horrible year and I'm glad you're out of my class—hell, I'm glad you're almost out of high school and I'll never have to see your sorry, trouble-making ass ever again.

Pickles allowed a look of utter disdain come over his face as he pushed his way past all the other stupid students in the hallway. "Get outta my way." he would murmur when they gave him a deadly look. It was no wonder that everyone in the whole school hated the redhead. He came from a well-to-do family, true, but in general he was an absolute asshole to anyone who was unfortunate enough to meet him. The only group of students that remotely tolerated his short temper and constant insults were the stoners, and that was just because the teenager often spent his extra money on drugs. Now that it was the summer, all Pickles had to look forward to were long days spent in overgrown fields with his only real friend, Gunther Bekker.

"Move outta my way, dipshit." he snapped, elbowing an embracing couple to the side, into a wall of old lockers. Just as he began to make his way down stairs to the parking lot Bekker caught up to him, grinning like every other idiot. Pickles rolled his eyes and asked, his voice full of derision, "Whadda want, Gunter?" Gunter. Naturally, his accent got in the way of him pronouncing many things, especially his best friend's name. Then again, it was like that for many of the people in Wisconsin, not just him. Besides, Gunther never bothered to correct him on the mispronunciation.

"It's summer." Bekker said in a breathless, carefree sort of way.

"So what?" the other teenager snapped. " 'Dat don't mean nothin' for me, idiot." he jammed his hands deep down into the pockets of his black jacket and began walking a little faster. Unfortunately for him, Bekker kept up quite easily.

His smile didn't lessen as he shrugged off the redhead's bitterness and continued, "Y'know what we did last year when school was over?"

Pickles shrugged. "I dunno, can't remember."

"That's 'cause we went down to that field, parked my truck, and got drunk."

"Oh yeah, I remember now. We gat Jen Gabardi to come too, huh?" he chuckled to himself at this memory. Jen Gabardi, his Italian princess...

"Yeah," Bekker said, nodding. "and this year we should do the same thing. C'mon, let's-"

"I can't, not today."

Bekker made no attempt to hide his disappointment. "Why not?"

"My stupid mother made Seth come and pick me up today. He's waiting for me."

"You still ain't got a car?"

Pickles glared over at him and spat, "Nah, course I ain't gotta car, 'cause my dad knows that if I did have one I'd never be at home, I'd be getting drunk and screwin' around."

"But you do that anyway even without a ca-"

"Fuck it, Bekker, just shut up." the redhead interrupted. "I already don't like having to ride home with Seth, so don't make it worse."

"Whatever." he said. Whatever was their general way of apologizing to each other, a sort of more prideful way of saying, 'I'm sorry'.

As Pickles walked past the lines of filling buses he thought aloud, "Y'know, I should've failed three classes this year. The only reason they passed me is 'cause they want me gone."

"You had shitty teachers."

"It ain't the teachers fault, dude." he muttered, biting his lower lip in thought. "S'mine, and when my stupid dad gets my report card, he'll beat the hell outta me."

Bekker arched a brow. "Why? You passed, right?"

"Barley—a 'D' in Algebra and in English...they just gave me a free pass, 'dat's it."

"Oh." he distractedly smacked on the wad of gum he'd been chewing—Bekker was never without gum—and suggested, "You could come to my house."

Pickles laughed openly at this idea and shook his head as they reached the parking lot. "Your parents hate me, dude. Everyonehates me." He saw Seth waiting for him, impatiently smoking a cigarette inside of his car. The smoke drifted out of a slightly opened window. He hesitated, stopped, and swallowed. "Meet me tomorrow?"

"What time?"

"Early—nine. I don't wanna be stuck at my house all day."

" 'Kay, whatever." and Bekker glanced over at Seth's car and turned to leave. "See ya then, I guess."

"Yeah." Pickles said before pulling an unlit cigarette out of his own pocket. From his shoe he brought out an old lighter; without a second thought he lit up in the school parking lot and then made his way over to his older brother's car. As soon as he had thrown his book sack into the back seat, Seth let out a curse of disapproval.

"Fuck no, little bro. Put it out."

"Fuck you, asshole." he spat, plopping down into the seat next to Seth. He slammed the car door shut and stuck the cigarette between his lips. His brother glared at him and tried to pluck the cigarette out of his mouth, but Pickles punched him hard in the stomach and let out a breath of smoky air. "Just drive home and don't be a bitch about it."

"Not in my car, you little prick."

He tried to take the cigarette away from Pickles again, and this earned him another punch. The redhead just laughed at his brother and mocked, "Not in your life, jackass. Now drive."

"Little piece of shit..." Seth said to himself as he pulled the car out of the parking lot and proceeded to drive home. There was a long, heavy period of silence before Seth dared to say anything else. As they came to the first red light he stared at his younger brother and thought aloud, "I guess I don't blame them..."

"Huh?" Pickles let out another breath of smoky air and flicked his cigarette out the window. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"Oh, yeah, you don't know." a malicious, almost evil grin came upon Seth's face. "They haven't told you yet..."

"What the hell are you talkin' about, dick?"

"Ma and dad, you pissed them off one to many times, little bro."

The redhead scoffed. "Like I care. They don't give a fuck about me, so why should I try to make their lives easier?"

"They do own you, y'know."

He laughed at this. "No they don't. I'm nineteen, nobody owns me."

Seth merely focused his attention on the road in front of him and said knowingly, "Whatever you say, prick."

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That night dinner was a solemn occasion. Pickles' father sat at the table drinking from his glass of brandy, staring at his youngest son with a look of contempt on his face. His wife tried to keep up a pleasant conversation, but this was proven to be a difficult task. "Seth," she said earnestly, "how'd school go today?"

"Good, really good," he answered, chewing on a mouthful of food. Pickles rolled his eyes at this. Seth was in college, though he mostly just skipped class and went to run around bars with his friends and girls. When he said that his day had been 'good, really good,' then that meant all he'd done that day was smoke a little crack in the back room of a club and fuck a few girls. His parents, of course, believed their oldest son's every word and were proud of him. In fact, they often bragged of their son's 'college education'.

"What about you, Pickles?" his mother asked, taking a small sip of wine from her glass. "Good day today?"

"Huh?" he was jolted out of a daydream that he'd been having of one of his ex-girlfriends, Jen. His face reddened as he shoveled some food into his mouth in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. "Yeah," he said thru his mouthful of food. "fine, it was good." And Jen came back to his mind. Jen, lovely, sexy, insane Jen, the girl that was still desperately calling him, writing him notes, sending him delicious, naked pictures of her-

"That's good." his mother said offhandedly. She glanced almost uneasily over to her husband, who was still glaring at Pickles. "Well, your father-"

But the boy wasn't listening, he was remembering just how Jen had smelled—like the sweet little honeysuckles that grew along a fence in the field where he and Gunther usuall hung out...Her kiss, her lips, so shimmering as she coated them with that damn gloss that came from that pink tube, like cotton candy that melted but never went away. He'd wanted so many times to just devour her, to absolutely fucking-

"Pickles! Pickles, are you listening to your mother?" his father suddenly snapped. The redhead jumped and let out a little gasp of surprise. His father glared at him from across the table and inquired coldly, "Well, are you listening or not?"


The man sighed and said to his wife, "See, darling? This is why we have to do it! This is why we should send him away."

Now Pickles was listening. He perked up a little and sat a tad bit straighter in his seat. "Send me away? What are you..." his voice trailed off as he thought back to what Seth had said in the car. He looked over to his older brother, who was grinning to himself and staring at his parents as they whispered amongst themselves.

All thoughts of Jen were pushed from the teenager's mind as he swallowed and listened to his mother say, "Yes, I know, but it's so far away...couldn't we just ground him for the summer and take away his cell phone?"

"We could, but it didn't make much of a difference last time we did it." he drank down the rest of his brandy and added, "Who knows, maybe this could be a good change for him. Maybe he'll come back totally-"

"Where am I gonna be comin' back from?" Pickles exclaimed, pounding his fists on the table in a sudden rage. His mother and father slowly met his angry gaze; his mother looked away, but his father's look of resentment didn't waver.

He said to his son coolly, "Well, your mother and I have been talking, and we're very disappointed in your attitude towards school, your teachers, us, your brother..."

"So what?" he demanded, cracking his knuckles. "You're sendin' me away to Aunt Mary's again to get baptized in that damn river?"

"There is a special school for children like you," his father said, giving his son a devious little smile. "For children who have no other way of getting an education because they're so troublesome."

"Troublesome? I'm-"

"Yes, it's quite a distance away," he continued, pouring himself another drink. His wife watched him with wide eyes, fearful of how her son might react to what he was about to hear. Just as Pickles lost it, just as he bolted up out of his seat, flung his plate of food at the wall, and prepared to yell his damn head off, his father said, "It's in a small little city in Norway."

The look of shock that came across Pickles' face was priceless. Seth couldn't help but to repeat, "Norway, it's in Norway! All the way in God damn-"

"Seth," his mother said, quickly rising to her feet. "come on and be a good boy. Help me clean up the dishes." she took a handful of empty plates and hurried out of the room, her oldest son following close behind. Once they had left Pickles fell back into his chair; he felt the strength and anger leave his body.

"I...I don't get it." was all he had the nerve left to say.

His father, that smile still on his face, said hatefully, "I was the one who suggested it to your mother. It's not a long-term thing yet, but if you don't shape up there, then we'll enroll you in that school permanently." and he thought for a moment then said, "I believe the place is called—well I can't really pronounce it. Here-" he pulled out a folded brochure and passed it over to his son. "-you'd better learn the name of the place before we send you there." as he rose to his feet and went to exit the room, he added, "You leave in two days, but I want your shit packed by tomorrow afternoon; you're not to leave this house until you go to the airport. No friends or any of that crap." just like that, he left.

Pickles, pale with shock, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open, peered down and read, Vestborg Vidaregåande Skule.

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After dinner Pickles went straight to his room. He fell down onto his bed and immediately took his cell phone out of his pocket. He didn't know what to do, but he did understand two things—one being that he had to begin packing for this stupid school, and another being that he had to tell someone about this. Without knowing who else to call, he punched in Bekker's number. One ring, then another and a surprised, "Yeah?" sounded out on the other end of the line.

"Dude, s'me."

"Okay, so?"

"I...uh..." the redhead swallowed and before he could have a chance of stopping himself, he began to openly sob. Bekker reacted to this with a mixture of fear and confusion.

"What's wrong? Are you crying? Oh God, man, what happened? Are you about to die or something?"

"I can't..." he sniffled and raced to silence this pitiful display of emotion. He removed the phone from his ear, buried it under a pillow, and wiped off his tearing eyes on his bedsheets. After blowing his nose and taking a deep breath, he dug out his phone and continued. "Dude, you won't believe this—they're sendin' me away."

Bekker wasn't surprised in the least. "Yeah, I know. We all do, everyone in Tomahawk."

Pickles frowned. "What? It gat around that fast? I just found out, so how do you-"

"Seth." was his simple response. "Seth called Geoff-" Geoff was, of course, Bekker's older brother, "-and then Geoff called Bree-"

Pickles became sidetracked by this information. "Wait, hold up—he's still goin' out with Bree? I thought he dumped her ass."

A pause then, "Nah, they're still together. Anyways, and Bree has a big mouth, so she called all her friends..." Bekker took a moment to think before completing, "C'mon, you know there isn't a such thing as privacy in Tomahawk."

"Yeah, I know." and he laid his head down on the cool, soft mattress and mumbled, "I don't know what I'm gonna do; a whole fuckin' summer in school? And it's in Europe..."

Bekker let out a gasp. "Europe? Your parents don't even wanna spend the money to buy you a fucking car, but they'll send you to Europe for the whole God damn summer? Shit..."

"Idiot, I don't wanna go! It's school, for fuck's sake." Pickles' sorrow and confusion melted into anger. "Fuck them, I just won't go. I'll go over to your place like you said earlier and-"

"No way, dude. Now that your parents are trying to send you to Europe, my folks think that you got a serious problem."

Pickles shrugged, though he knew Bekker couldn't actually see him do this. "Yeah, so what? Everyone's gat problems."

Bekker insisted, "No way, my parent's will never let you come over again. It's like they think you're a murderer or something."

"I'm about to murder my parents if they really think that they can send me away...I mean who the fuck does 'dat to their kid? Who the fu-" he was interrupted as the door to his bedroom flung open. His father glared at him from outside in the hall.

"Give me the phone." he instructed, holding out his hand. Pickles made a move to shake his head, but when his father raised a fist he abruptly hung up with Bekker and surrendered the phone. "Not good enough, boy," his father hissed. "Not good enough at all."

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Pickles prepared to leave home two days later with a black eye and an aching body. His father had a short temper and no restraint when it came to beating his youngest son; it took all the redhead's strength to just haul himself out of bed and into the shower that morning. He had spent the majority of the days before sleeping off the pain and sneaking some beer from his parent's fridge downstairs. Now, however, he was forced to pack what little clothes he had into a suitcase. Just before his parents pushed him out of the door he managed to get a hold of the house phone and call Bekker.

"Hey, Gunter, I'm about to leave." he didn't even know why he'd called the other boy, but something inside of him had just sort of told him that it's what he should do.

On the other end of the line a solemn, quietly sorrowful voice spoke. "You gonna call when you get there? Where is this fucking school, anyway?"



"Nor—forget it. I guess I'll try to call if I can. I...uh..." he cleared his throat, took an awkward pause, and found himself at a loss for words. It was Gunther who spoke next.

"Me and Duncan went drinking yesterday, out in that field with the cows and stuff...he stole some of his dad's beer."

"Uh-huh." this didn't make Pickles feel better at all. "Duncan Hansen, that fag down the road?"

"Yeah, he's a fag, but really-"

"Then you two should get along great." Pickles said, smiling to himself.

There was a slight hiss of breath from the other end of the line then Bekker said in an undertone, "Shut up! I told you not to tell, I told you!"

"I didn't tell anyone," the redhead promised. "I swear, it's still a secret."

" 'Cause you know what my parents would do? Especially my dad if he found out..."

"I said I didn't tell nobody, now stap talkin' about it!" Pickles growled. He didn't need any more reminders of that day two summers ago when he'd found out that Gunther was queer. It still played over and over in his brain every time he hung around with the kid, so why did they ever have to bring it up? "Look," he said, trying to change the subject, "I just wanted to call you to tell you that I'm leavin' now, so-"

"I'll miss you, dude."

"Yeah," he sneered. Suddenly he felt disgusted with himself for ever having called Bekker at all. "right. Whatever."

"Yeah, whatever." Sorry, he meant to say. Sorry I said I'll miss you.

"Yep." Pickles sighed and glanced over to the front door where his father was waiting anxiously. Normally he'd get a few punches in the face for being so disobedient and not following his parents right out the door immediately, but the teenager knew that if he would be going out in public, there was nothing his father could do—not only did he bruise easier than most, but if he went out with yet another black eye, someone might notice. It was a carefully kept family secret that Pickles was hit around by his old man, so if one person at all found out...

"Hope your dad didn't fuck you up too bad last night when he found you on the phone."

"He hates you."

"He does?" Bekker inquired. "Why?"

Pickles grinned. "He can see thru you, dude. He says alla time what a fag you are. He-"

"Pickles!" his father called from over by the door.

The redhead glanced over at him and nodded. Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. "Look, Beck, I gatta go, alright? I'll find a way to call you, though. I'll find a way to-" just before he could complete his final goodbyes, his father had walked over, snatched the phone, and hung up.

He smiled wickedly at his son, slapped him scoldingly on the cheek, and said in a quiet, deadly voice, "Good sons do what their fathers tell them."

Pickles glared up at the man, his face red from the hit and embarrassment. "So what?"

"Get in the car."

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No, my punishment has not been officially ended, but I don't care. This is a new story idea that I'm working on because the other fic I was writing got boring. I will finish it, so don't worry. This one and a few more may just come first. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this story and yes, I promise that Pickles will meet Toki soon. [teenage Pickles/Toki love is so cute!] And in case you were wondering, yes, Vestborg Vidaregåande Skule is a real school in Norway, and it's conveniently close to Lillehammer, Toki's hometown. Anyways, remember that reviews are appreciated.

[it's good to be back]