I do not own Metalocalypse.
I do not condone the actions that may or may not take place throughout the course of this story, including but not limited to language, sexual content, drug use, and any illegal activities involving minors.
- Metalocalypse -
Looking over his shoulder to make sure that no one had suddenly come down the lonesome stone corridor behind him, Pickles hastily opened the heavy wood door, stepping into the softly lit room. He glanced around, swinging the door shut behind him, sliding the lock home before turning around to fully gaze at the newly-furnished bedchamber. The room, originally neo-gothic and black, was now slightly more modern and decorated with a more natural lake theme, the circular bed in the shape of a lily-pad, the carpet a midnight blue with undertones of aqua. Not secretly studying home decor, Pickles could have cared less about what the room looked like, though maybe if it had become neon pink and overflowing with stuffed animals, he might have had to reconsider this entire thing. No, what he really cared about was what was waiting for him behind the emerald curtains, draped between the lotus pillows.
Walking to the bed, he brushed aside the gossamer veil, sighing softly to himself as he laid eyes upon the one thing he had been yearning for all day, "Have you been waiting long?"
A girl, no more than seventeen, with false blonde locks that hung well passed her shoulders, smiled up at him, her grey eyes twinkling in the dim light glowing from the paper lanterns hanging above, "Not too long, I suppose. Nothing you can't make up for. With interest."
Grinning, he crawled into the bed, mounting her willing frame with ease, his scarlet dreads falling into her face, but she was used to the feeling now, her lips teasing his neck as she kissed him. He caressed her cheek, thumbing her hair out of his line of sight so he could look into her eyes. They had been doing this long enough by now for him to know when there was something troubling her. He was pretty sure he knew what it was too, having tried to avoid this conversation for as long as he could. It wasn't that he was running from it, it was just that having this talk made it real.
He pulled back, rolling over so that he was on his side, facing her, "You know why I haven't-"
"Pickles, we're leaving tomorrow! We should have had this talk when we first found out about the tour, but I cut you some slack... This can't wait any longer!" She refused to allow him to get away this time, too bothered by the matter to just wait and see what happened, "I have to know what we're going to do about the tour. I won't let you entertain those sluts, not even for a moment, and you can't tell the guys that you have a girlfriend, because they will probably want to know who it is. Who knows what my father will do to you if he finds out about us!"
Sitting up, he shrugged indifferently, "What could he do ta me?"
She rolled her eyes, moving so that her head was in his lap, his fingers running through her hair, "Best case scenario, he would just beat the shit out of you. The worst, he would take me away from you, and we wouldn't get to see each other anymore. He'd probably report you too."
He was tempted to ask her what made her so sure that he would chose her over the band, but he refrained, knowing that she was still in a delicate place from her mother's untimely demise, "So, what can we do?"
She had given it a great amount of thought and had only come up with two options, "We could either bring in another person who could help us fake it, or we could-"
She jumped up, head almost slamming into the drummer's head, hand covering her mouth as she sprinted to the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. The poor thing had gotten the stomach flu from eating at the restaurant her father had taken her to last night, his attempt at spending some alone time with his daughter for the first time since she had moved in. It most have been something in the soup, because he had had a steak sandwich and had been perfectly fine. He was currently in the process of suing the company for serving sub-par food to its customers.
Wiping her face off, still looking a little green around the gills, she came back out after a few minutes, sitting next to Pickles, her head against his shoulder, "Sorry, this flu is totally wiping me out... But that doesn't mean that we're not going to talk about this," She added, seeing the hopeful look on his face, "So, we could ask a friend that we trust to act as your girlfriend, or we could ask someone in the band to cover for us."
He had been following her until she mentioned the band, "You want us to tell one of the guys about this? There's no way they could keep this a secret!"
She frowned, biting back the urge to run back to the toilet, thinking that there might have been one person able to help, "Not even Nathan?"
He considered it for a couple of minutes, deciding that it was a bad idea, "Why don't we just get a lady-friend to help? Don't you know anyone?"
She thought about it, "The only person I know who is old enough would be my old babysitter, but she's a les... actually, she would be perfect for the job! Let me call her, yeah?"
God, he hoped that her old babysitter wasn't a total let down (he did have a reputation for not being Skwisgaar after all)...
- Metalocalypse -
End of Prologue
The first concert would be in London, where they would stay for two nights before heading on to Paris, Madrid, Tripoli, Lagos, Zanzibar, Sri Lanka, Sydney, Tokyo, Beijing, Nepal, Moscow, Helsinki, Stockholm, and a few secret shows between. It was slated to be their biggest, most brutal tour ever, with laser light shows, vats of coffee, cream, blood, guts, and kitties, criminal beheadings, fireworks, and even a salute to the "biggest, baddest mother fucker who ever lived". It was an insanely expensive affair, global pre-ticket sales the highest in world history and growing...
Setting up for the gig, Klokateers everywhere you looked, Charles stood with Nathan on the wings, reminding him of everything they stood to make after the tour was over. Skwisgaar, Toki, and Murderface weren't far away, making sure that their instruments were in tune and ready for the show. Pickles was nowhere to be seen, a roadie testing his drum kit, the drummer hidden away in the costume racks, arms around his woman, a thin cute-but-mousy brown-eyed brunette keeping watch on the other side.
"Scout, I gotta get out there..." His voice lacked conviction, hands cupped around her breasts, jiggling them for luck, "Your tits are so sexy... I just want to take them and rub one out to them..."
"After you do what you do second best, I'm all yours." She whispered in his ear, doing her best not to wince at the pain in her swollen bosom.
He looked at her, ceasing the bouncing, a hurt expression crossing over his face, "What do you mean second best?"
"Trust me, that's a compliment," She smiled, kissing him chastely.
"What do you mean second best?" He repeated himself urgently, their time over at any second, "Scout?"
He was so adorable when he was frightened, but she hated to see him worry, "I mean that you do me best."
"So we could run away together and become porn stars?" He grinned, eyebrows raised, only half-joking.
"Guys." Their look-out coughed, alerting the two that their time was up.
"I wouldn't quit my day-job if I were you." Scout returned the grin, climbing out of the mobile closet, leaving him standing there for a few seconds while he waited to follow after her.
Watching her walk away to stand next to her father, arms crossed and a small smile on her face, Pickles went out on stage, joining the guys for the sound-check, Nathan currently going over the sets with Skwisgaar. They were engaged in a heated debate over which song to start with, the front man leaning towards "Bloodrocuted", and the guitarist fighting for "Murmaider". Time to get to work...
"Guys, guys," Pickles stepped in between the two, "I know what we can do. We'll start the set with 'Hatredcopter', then we'll ease into bloodrocuted and Murmaider from there."
"Pft, whatsevers." Skwisgaar walked away before another word could be said, taking his place on the stage.
The blonde was damn prideful!
"Does that happen often?" Scout looked at Charles, wondering how often Pickles had to act as the middleman and mediate these face-offs, "I mean, it looks like he's so used to it."
He pushed his glasses up his nose, "Pickles, uh, handles this frequently, though admittedly, he usually doesn't pick that song."
Under the assumption that he had chosen that particular song for her, she curled in her lips so she couldn't grin, "Interesting."
"Scout, about the tour, are you sure that you want to be here? I would imagine that the hotel will be an inconvenient place for you to study after the show." It was clear that her had other reasons for not wanting her here.
Frowning, she put her hands on her hips, "What are you saying? You don't want me here?"
"I'm saying," he spoke calmly, "That you're going to be exposed to things that I, as your father, don't want you around."
It was the first time he had spoken to her as a father, and while she appreciated the gesture, she wanted to be with Pickles, limited as that would now be, "I want to respect your wishes, but I'm here already, and besides, I think living in Mordhaus has already contradicted your expectations. But thank you for the concern, father."
He nodded, glad to hear that he had not fallen on deaf ears, his cellphone choosing that exact moment to go off, "Then excuse me, I have important business to attend to."
Watching his retreating back, she cried out before he had left the stage altogether, "Wait!" She ran up to him, quickly hugging him, "I'll see you later."
He hugged her back, continuing on his way...
- Metalocalypse -
Screams filled the night sky, millions upon millions of people flocking around the stage as Dethklok began the show. The bass trembled, hair spun, and the drums pounded. Groupies wailed out their unrequited love songs, howling with lament that half of them would not be touched by the objects of their lust, the fans chanting their undying support. It was insanity, and she got to watch it from backstage, got to watch him. Maybe she was wrong, maybe there was no second best for him after all, Pickles skilled with his craft, a natural in the arts of personal pursuit, a gifted genius at his chosen trade. He was truly amazing at what he did, they all were.
But her enjoyment was cut short, her body woozy still from the flu, the heat radiating from the stage, the wires and effects, finishing off her remaining resilience...