Fic: The Two of Us are Dying (2/?)
“The Two of Us Are Dying”
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cursing, Drugs, PTSD
Pairings: None
Characters: Charles, Dethklok, Crozier, Selatcia, Stampington, Knubbler
Summary: Charles Ofdensen has a lot of demons to deal with, both figurative and literal.
This chapter gives people a better idea of how this story's going to go than the prologue. It takes place immediately after the concert at the end of season 3, so spoiler alert there.
[ First Chapter]
Chapter 2
Two Months Earlier
Charles Foster Ofdensen was sure of three things: that he was stressed out, that his employees knew it, and that he knew they knew, which only made the feeling in the pit of his stomach worse. It wasn’t real indigestion because he hadn’t eaten anything, but he took alka seltzer with his coffee, which was fantastic, mostly because it wasn’t Duncan Hills. Sure, Mr. Duncan’s total domination of the market and alliance with Dethklok helped pay for his new $200,000 watch (the old one had a cracked frame, no thanks to Murderface and his obsession with keeping blunt medieval weaponry around and not well-secured) In his head at least, Charles could admit he couldn’t stand the swill.
But this was Israel, and thanks to a dispute with the Orthodox Rabbinate, Duncan Hills coffee was not declared kosher even though it technically was, and therefore wasn’t served to him at the hotel in Tel Aviv. He couldn’t read the Hebrew letters on the bag in the suite - he was much better at Sumerian Cuniform - but it was damn good stuff in comparison to some shit that could not possibly be brewed in the hills of Colombia, unless they were the hills where Colombia stored its toxic waste.
The boys were on a week long “we didn’t start World War III” binge in the far more neutral country of Greece, where an army of Klokateers would keep the damage to the archaeological pillars of civilization minimal. Charles, as usual, was left with the clean-up, and not wanting to start any international incidents, he handled the removal of the cross-border stage structure personally, short of pulling the beams out himself. The first thing to be packed up and shipped back to Mordhaus in its own jet was the weather-controller. My brother-in-law is right, he thought as he saw it off himself. I am a supervillain. He had a fucking weather dominator and he’d used it to make the Middle East hotter. That was just plain cruel, but budgets would balance while Dethklok’s fans made short work of the kosher and halal (even though anything kosher was technically halal, it was good to have different labels) snow cones.
Everyone wanted a piece of the structure, it seemed, and the only thing preventing another war was his trump card, that it was all Dethklok’s property, down to the last support beam, and Dethklok cleaned up after their shows. Maybe not the bodies, but certainly the things they owned and could use for scrap. He spent five days in the disputed border town of Ghajar in the Golan Heights watching hoodies work twenty-four hours a day, and Charles was awake for most of it. When he returned to Tel Aviv, the original concert location, he counted the non-consecutive hours of sleep he’d had since the concert - probably six or seven - and passed out on the bed before muttering to the gear waiting for him that he wanted to be woken in six hours. Six hours came and went, and then another six, until he was finally woken by his ringing Dethphone. It took him an extraordinary amount of time to find it. Normally he was more alert. “What is it?”
“The removal of band property is completed, sir,” his assistant, 3201 or some number like that, said on the scratchy line. Or maybe it just sounded that way from the construction sounds in the background.
“And the boys?” He reached for the alarm clock, but couldn’t make out the numbers without his glasses. All he knew was it was light outside.
“At a party hosted by the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Greece,” was the reply. As Charles recalled, Dimitris Droutsas was a rather devoted fan, and used to the band’s proclivities - within limits, of course. The Klokateers would be there to make sure those limits were obeyed, at least in public view. “There are no incidents to report.” Whatever the boys were doing, the Grecian government was handling it. “Prime Minister Netanyahu would like to thank you in person before you depart. I told him you would consider the offer.”
“Private or public?”
“Strictly private, sir.”
He finally got a good luck with the clock, then gave up. “What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
He had to get back to Mordhaus. He’d stayed in the region much longer than initially anticipated. And there was the matter of being bone-tired and wanting to sleep in his own bed, however unexceptional it was compared to the furnishings in the rest of the castle. “When’s my flight and can he meet me beforehand?”
“In six hours. He said he can be in Tel Aviv in twenty minutes, with notice.”
“Fine. If he can’t come to the hotel for whatever reason, find a place near the airport. But preferably the hotel. And not for at least another hour.” He needed to shower, shave, and check his email. The Prime Minister could wait. The alka seltzer was helping his stomach, but not his headache. Was he hung over? No, of course not, he hadn’t touched a drop since the double booking and that was months ago. Even right after the show, when someone put a glass of expensive champagne in his hands - he was pretty sure it was Pickles but the room was pretty smoky - and told him to celebrate, he didn’t drink. He was too wound up, smelling of smoke and sweat and in a few minutes, weed. By the end of the night he could barely see straight. He kept cleaning his glasses, convinced there was something on them. The rest of him ran on autopilot. Make sure the boys were safe and happy, make sure they ended up somewhere safe and happy tomorrow morning even if they weren’t thrilled about it, have some hangover cures and paternity waivers ready, et cetera, et cetera. Looking back on it, Charles remembered the fuzzy feeling in his head as the instructions to his subordinates rolled off his tongue without effort or consideration. He wasn’t a robot, but the speech-center of his brain was on auto-pilot. He stayed at the party until he had a pretty decent contact high and at least two members of Dethklok were passed out, then excused himself to change. He hated sweating out his suits.
Almost a week later, he still felt grimy, a feeling that came more from hanging around a de-construction site than anything else, and the shower was amazing. He could even turn the heat all the way up to scalding, unlike other countries were lawsuits prevented hotels from running anything more than mildly warm. New showerhead in my apartment. The notepad in his brain was never fully discarded. At this particular moment, he wanted to shut it off, and every G-ddamn other voice in his brain reminding him of some duty or another or just the wheels that turned and turned over new ideas like a clock he couldn’t de-wind. He just wanted to breathe and enjoy this shower, and not feel nauseous or like their were drill bits in his skull. Was that so much to ask?
But it all went away and the feeling of power, and the responsibility that came with it, returned when he donned his suit and prepared to meet with a world leader. He hoped he wouldn’t have to put anything in his stomach. Last week at this time he’d almost thrown up on a technician. Socially acceptable if you were Pickles or Toki, inexcusable if you were a colorless executive designed to blend into shadows.
The meeting with the Prime Minister was short. Netanyahu offered Dethklok (and him by association, but the Prime Minister made it more personal-sounding) Israel’s highest honors, already knowing they would decline. “You have an outstanding operation, Mr. Ofdensen.” Even through his accent, the politician pronounced his name correctly. “Incredible organization. And precision. I must say I am impressed.” And it meant a lot, coming from Netanyahu, who had once been a commander in Sayeret Matkal, an elite commando unit that took the worst missions and made them a success. Charles had two former members of Sayeret Matkal in his own commando unit, alongside former SAS soldiers and Foreign Legionaries, but he didn’t disclose that information now. He sensed he didn’t need to.
The Prime Minister didn’t have time for much political small talk and neither did Charles, so the meeting ended there, and rather amicably so. Charles gave him a CD signed by Dethklok for his children. The last thing he said before he was escorted to the limo that would take him to the airport was, “By the way, I love your coffee.” With any luck, he would have twenty pounds of Israeli coffee on his desk before the end of the week.
The trip to Athens to pick up the boys was short. His assistant and crew seemed to avoiding him, maybe because they thought he was angry about being allowed to sleep in when he specifically told them otherwise. He didn’t ask or reassure them. He was a mystery to everyone and he intended to keep it that way. The entirety of his five hours in Greece was spent with the usual hassles of collecting the passed out versions of the boys, making the usual apologies, and convincing some hesitant young women that they really needed to sign that waiver. The damage was minimal, the excuses give for defiling sacred artifacts were brief, and they were back at Mordhaus by dinner, which to their bodies was like a very late lunch given the time change. Between jet lag and indigestion, Charles didn’t feel much like eating anything anyway. Only Toki was enthusiastic about the whole endeavor and passed out Gummi worms while everyone else complained about it still being light out, and why the hell their manager couldn’t block out the sun for fifteen G-ddamn minutes, the G-ddamn robot. Charles briefly estimated the cost of a sun-blocking machine ala the Simpsons, for fun really, and then ordered the drapes closed.
Between the haze of jetlag, over-caffination, his ruined circadian rhythms, and stress in general, Charles didn’t even try to go to sleep. He waited for the boys to retreat to their rooms, the Klokateers to switch to a skeleton shift, and dismissed his employees. It was time for a trip to the basement. The one only he could access.
Edgar Jomfru was not much of a conversationalist. One would think otherwise, given he had precisely one visitor and no other means of communication. It was in the interest of his mental health to take advantage of the presence of another person, but he didn’t. He just did his work and apparently got everything else he needed from Worlds of Warcraft. Charles could live with that. Make every video game known to man available to the paraplegic genius and he would give you what you wanted, and what Charles wanted was all of his information on pentagrams and prophecies. It wasn’t anything Charles hadn’t seen before, but it was good to look over things, and remind himself why he bothered with all of this when it was driving him completely insane. Charles never brought any full files up to the rest of the house, even his very secure office, just some coded blueprints or notes without explanations to them. Everything else was kept on a computer drive that was never connected to the outside lines or even computers in the Mordhaus system. When it came to the Apocalypse, you simply couldn’t be too careful.
The next few days went by in a blur. There were messes to be cleaned up but now that he wasn’t focused on the concert, he could handle them. Murderface found a way to cheat at his diet enough to fulfill his contract. Pickles agreed to re-hang a lot of chandeliers. Some members go to a stern talking to, and for once they seemed to listen to him, if only for the time being. At the same time, he swung by the house doctor and was prescribed Ativan to help him sleep, which didn’t seem to be overly effective but was definitely better than getting sloppy with the boys and passing out in the hot tub like last time.
The only time he was really success in a good, deep sleep, he was interrupted by a call from Oslo to inform him he was being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Not too shabby. They were honoring Dethklok, of course, but he was included on an individual level. It was not an honor he ever expected, or particularly felt he deserved, but what was he supposed to do, turn it down? His job was to convince Dethklok not to do that.
“It’s not very metal,” was Nathan’s not unexpected reaction. “Is this one they send in the mail?”
“No. You have to go to Oslo to accept it. It’s the most prestigious honor in the world, guys. Not exactly something to pass on.” He added, “Also it comes with a solid gold medal with your face on it, a million dollars, and it was started by the guy who invented TNT.”
“The channel? I fuckin’ hate The Shawshank Remption,” Pickles said. “Gahd, how many times are they gonna play that? Can’t they get some other fuckin’ movies?”
“The explosive.” He decided to bring it to their level. “The Coyote uses it to trap the Roadrunner.”
“AWESOME.”
“Dats brutal. Buts he ams never catchings him.”
“So you’ll accept.” He tried not to phrase it like a question and give them a chance to pass on it. “We have to go to Oslo for a special ceremony next month.”
“We? Scho we can pal around in Oschlo?” Murderface asked.
“Ja, you promises!”
“Actually, I’m getting the award, too,” he said in a flat voice. “And I already accepted.”
Murderface was undoubtedly going to say something mean, but Nathan just slapped him before he could open his mouth and said, “Uh... that’s awesome. Because you did work really hard on the concert.”
“Thank you, Nathan.”
“We’ll go, but we totally have to find cool things to do with our million dollars. Guys? No drugs, no booze, no guitars. And, uh, no suits.”
This was going better than expected. “Very well. Anything else?” As usual, he had things to do, and Dethklok had music not to record. When he returned to his office, there was a list waiting for him from his assistant of the missed calls. One was from his sister. It was still very early in California. He could probably still catch her before work.
She did pick up the house line. It was usually Josh. “I have ten minutes.”
“You called me,” he replied. “And I’m a busy guy, too.”
“Congratulations! By the way, you know how we found out? Wikipedia.”
“I was going to call you,” he said. It was true, anyway. “It was on the news.”
“It was on the news that Dethklok won. It was on Wikinews that you won. Sam has you on some kind of alert list. Isn’t that sweet? And also I have no idea how to do it. And I shouldn’t be reliant on a user-generated news site to hear about my brother.”
“I really was going to call. I just had to sort a few things out.” He looked through the emails on his computer building up before his eyes, but didn’t give them any real attention. “Absolutely do not hold me to this, but I’m thinking of making Oslo not entirely a business trip.”
“You hate Denmark.”
“I don’t hate Denmark. I just don’t like their food.” And, with the exception of their Uncle Hjalmar, they’d always gotten a bit of a cold shoulder from their more distant relatives. He had little enough time for the family that did care about him, much the less the ones who didn’t. “And how many Nobel Prize ceremonies are you going to get invited to? Unless you discover something. Or a colleague does.”
“Is Dethklok going to play? Because Sam’s in. Especially if he’ll miss school. You will be his favorite uncle of all time.”
“I’m his only uncle.”
“Rachel might get married,” she said. Josh’s sister and only sibling was a lawyer in New York City. Charles wasn’t entirely sure what type of law she practiced, only that she made partner in her firm two years ago. “But you will still hold the title.”
“I don’t know if Dethklok will play. They usually prefer it over giving a speech, but it’s up to them. But they will be there - doing all the illegal and adult and disgusting things you don’t want Sam to see them doing. But yes, he will probably see them. And then he can go to Denmark and learn all kinds of Scandinavian curses from Uncle Hjalmar.”
“If you’re willing to take the time off, then I can find the time. Sure, we’ll go. Tentatively.”
“You don’t have to immediately check with Josh and his incredibly busy and important schedule?”
“He’s an environmentalist.”
That was what she was calling it now. “So he eats kelp and throws stink bombs on Japanese whaling boats?”
He could hear her shaking her head. Not really, but he could imagine it. “That’s way too much work for him. And I’m not letting him go on a boat for months. Who’s going to make me breakfast?”
As much as he liked taking potshots at his brother-in-law, he knew she might throw something in that he didn’t want to know. He liked to think of Josh as a eunuch, thank you very much. “So you’ll come? The corporation will pay for it.”
“How many Nobel Prizes do you think they’re going to give you? Seriously, I have to go. I have to be in scrubs in twenty minutes. Love you.”
“You, too.” He let her hang up. It was usually the other way around.
He usually avoided Denmark and the general vicinity. He didn’t like the food, everyone complained that his accept was terrible and spoke to him in English, and his grandparents hadn’t said a damn word to him the one time he had a chance to meet them. He was seven and Sarah was five, so she didn’t remember the visit that well, but he did. He remembered being perpetually freezing and the cold atmosphere to match it. He remembered sitting at the end of a high table eating unrecognizable dishes while his parents and grandparents spoke Danish too quickly for him to understand. It was a strange trip, a dark memory that gave him shivers for reasons he couldn’t identify. His parents never went back to Denmark again. They were buried in Connecticut.
Despite his nagging concerns, he considered it a good call because she’d agreed, and she hadn’t brought up the neurologist again. Shit, I have to see him before Oslo. He marked it off on his calendar as a reminder and went back to work.
*********************************************
Initially, Charles Ofdensen didn’t trust Richard “Magic Ears” Knubbler as far as he could throw him, even if he was fairly sure he could throw the stick of a man very far. It with the came with the territory of Dick (a) being an employee of Crystal Records, not Dethklok, and (b) Charles not trusting anyone as a general policy agreement with the human race. His main concern after discovering the band not only could tolerate the producer but liked him was that they would say or do something stupid in front of him, or be taking in by his very odd charm, but studying him from afar (mainly through security cameras and bugged phone lines), Charles couldn’t find any reason to think ill of him. Knubbler was devoted to Dethklok and genuinely interested in working with Murderface, who always needed more attention. Charles wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth after, to take the metaphor too far, he had already checked for cavities.
Their actual interaction was minimal. Charles was almost never involved in any aspect of recording except to remind the boys to do it, and even though Murderface was his client, he kept his hands off any disastrous William Murderface side products or projects. Time was money to him, and no reason to send good money after bad. His only involvement in the Christmas special fiasco was to watch it from his office with his feet up on the desk and sip sherry, at least until Toki was hurt, but that was contained. Oh, and to pick up his 15% of Murderface’s check.
Knubbler didn’t live in Mordhaus but earned himself a permanent office there. If he wasn’t there, he was in the studio, working. Again, very few reasons for their paths to cross. There was one exception, and that was when Knubbler fixed up the audio on a live show. Charles couldn’t listen to live shows anymore because he was busy with security. He heard them, but he wasn’t listening. He took the next chance he got, when the recording was ready with the crowd and noise mostly filtered out, and then he had first crack, before the boys could come in and make suggestions for adjustments or try to kill the tape altogether. It was raw Dethklok and he loved it, he just didn’t tell Knubbler that. It was only professional.
The producer was waiting in the studio when he arrived.
“You look like shit.”
The strangest thing was perhaps that Dick had his happy lime eyes when he said it. It wasn’t a judgment so much as an observation. Charles gave himself a mental once-over and adjusted his tie. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
“Have people really not noticed? I guess it’s a gradual thing.” They hadn’t seen each other in person in at least two or three months. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“I don’t have much time for sunbathing.” And you’re one to talk, he thought. Knubbler would already be a shade wrong if it wasn’t for his white hair adding to the mix, driven that way by years of cocaine abuse. “Dick, I have a band meeting at three. Let’s do this.”
Knubbler knew what was good for him, because he dropped it and handed Charles the headphones. Charles spent the next twenty minutes zoned out on the couch, but trying not to show it. He couldn’t full appreciate the concert, not only beceause of the lack of electricity in the air but because he had a pounding headache and for once, Nathan’s voice was doing nothing to alleviate it.
And Knubbler was staring at him. Of that, he was pretty sure. Those eyes were easy to follow. They went in at Dethklok’s expense, of course. The label made sure of that. Considering how supportive Knubbler was of Dethwater, Charles let it fly at the time. Now it was definitely worth it, because the skinny little Phil Spector-wannabe was so damn easy to read. His eyes kept switching colors, meaning he was undecided about something. Charles idly wondered what he saw. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
The music was still playing, but he couldn’t really enjoy it. He moved one earpiece back into his hair. “Tell me or I’ll make your eyes pink. Permanently.”
“You can do that?”
“Give me a TV remote, a radio receiver, and an hour.” He was bluffing a little, but that was also OK. He could definitely make it happen eventually. “What is it?”
“You really do look terrible.” Knubbler’s eyes were red. For what? Anger at being pestered or sadness. “Your clothing is hanging off you.”
“Excuse me for being too busy to jet to Rodeo Drive for the latest fashions,” he snapped back. Now he remembered why they maintained a distance. “You have one fucking job and you do it well, or else you wouldn’t be here. But I have about thirty. So do your job, the boys happy while you do it, and keep your asinine comments to yourself.”
“Woah!” The eyes flipped back to green, even if he didn’t look particularly happy. “I was just trying to be helpful.” And maybe he really was, in his own off-putting way, but Charles decided he didn’t need the attention of Dick Knubbler, and wondered why anyone would. Even Dethklok, still playing in his other ear until he tore the headphones off, couldn’t help him. “Do you want me to - “
“Just send the CD to my office,” he said, and stormed out. Well, not stormed precisely, he liked to think, but maybe that was what he did. Or he wasn’t really sure, because he made it halfway down the hallway before the red walls of Mordhaus turned black.
Onto the next chapter...
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cursing, Drugs, PTSD
Pairings: None
Characters: Charles, Dethklok, Crozier, Selatcia, Stampington, Knubbler
Summary: Charles Ofdensen has a lot of demons to deal with, both figurative and literal.
This chapter gives people a better idea of how this story's going to go than the prologue. It takes place immediately after the concert at the end of season 3, so spoiler alert there.
[ First Chapter]
Chapter 2
Two Months Earlier
Charles Foster Ofdensen was sure of three things: that he was stressed out, that his employees knew it, and that he knew they knew, which only made the feeling in the pit of his stomach worse. It wasn’t real indigestion because he hadn’t eaten anything, but he took alka seltzer with his coffee, which was fantastic, mostly because it wasn’t Duncan Hills. Sure, Mr. Duncan’s total domination of the market and alliance with Dethklok helped pay for his new $200,000 watch (the old one had a cracked frame, no thanks to Murderface and his obsession with keeping blunt medieval weaponry around and not well-secured) In his head at least, Charles could admit he couldn’t stand the swill.
But this was Israel, and thanks to a dispute with the Orthodox Rabbinate, Duncan Hills coffee was not declared kosher even though it technically was, and therefore wasn’t served to him at the hotel in Tel Aviv. He couldn’t read the Hebrew letters on the bag in the suite - he was much better at Sumerian Cuniform - but it was damn good stuff in comparison to some shit that could not possibly be brewed in the hills of Colombia, unless they were the hills where Colombia stored its toxic waste.
The boys were on a week long “we didn’t start World War III” binge in the far more neutral country of Greece, where an army of Klokateers would keep the damage to the archaeological pillars of civilization minimal. Charles, as usual, was left with the clean-up, and not wanting to start any international incidents, he handled the removal of the cross-border stage structure personally, short of pulling the beams out himself. The first thing to be packed up and shipped back to Mordhaus in its own jet was the weather-controller. My brother-in-law is right, he thought as he saw it off himself. I am a supervillain. He had a fucking weather dominator and he’d used it to make the Middle East hotter. That was just plain cruel, but budgets would balance while Dethklok’s fans made short work of the kosher and halal (even though anything kosher was technically halal, it was good to have different labels) snow cones.
Everyone wanted a piece of the structure, it seemed, and the only thing preventing another war was his trump card, that it was all Dethklok’s property, down to the last support beam, and Dethklok cleaned up after their shows. Maybe not the bodies, but certainly the things they owned and could use for scrap. He spent five days in the disputed border town of Ghajar in the Golan Heights watching hoodies work twenty-four hours a day, and Charles was awake for most of it. When he returned to Tel Aviv, the original concert location, he counted the non-consecutive hours of sleep he’d had since the concert - probably six or seven - and passed out on the bed before muttering to the gear waiting for him that he wanted to be woken in six hours. Six hours came and went, and then another six, until he was finally woken by his ringing Dethphone. It took him an extraordinary amount of time to find it. Normally he was more alert. “What is it?”
“The removal of band property is completed, sir,” his assistant, 3201 or some number like that, said on the scratchy line. Or maybe it just sounded that way from the construction sounds in the background.
“And the boys?” He reached for the alarm clock, but couldn’t make out the numbers without his glasses. All he knew was it was light outside.
“At a party hosted by the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Greece,” was the reply. As Charles recalled, Dimitris Droutsas was a rather devoted fan, and used to the band’s proclivities - within limits, of course. The Klokateers would be there to make sure those limits were obeyed, at least in public view. “There are no incidents to report.” Whatever the boys were doing, the Grecian government was handling it. “Prime Minister Netanyahu would like to thank you in person before you depart. I told him you would consider the offer.”
“Private or public?”
“Strictly private, sir.”
He finally got a good luck with the clock, then gave up. “What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
He had to get back to Mordhaus. He’d stayed in the region much longer than initially anticipated. And there was the matter of being bone-tired and wanting to sleep in his own bed, however unexceptional it was compared to the furnishings in the rest of the castle. “When’s my flight and can he meet me beforehand?”
“In six hours. He said he can be in Tel Aviv in twenty minutes, with notice.”
“Fine. If he can’t come to the hotel for whatever reason, find a place near the airport. But preferably the hotel. And not for at least another hour.” He needed to shower, shave, and check his email. The Prime Minister could wait. The alka seltzer was helping his stomach, but not his headache. Was he hung over? No, of course not, he hadn’t touched a drop since the double booking and that was months ago. Even right after the show, when someone put a glass of expensive champagne in his hands - he was pretty sure it was Pickles but the room was pretty smoky - and told him to celebrate, he didn’t drink. He was too wound up, smelling of smoke and sweat and in a few minutes, weed. By the end of the night he could barely see straight. He kept cleaning his glasses, convinced there was something on them. The rest of him ran on autopilot. Make sure the boys were safe and happy, make sure they ended up somewhere safe and happy tomorrow morning even if they weren’t thrilled about it, have some hangover cures and paternity waivers ready, et cetera, et cetera. Looking back on it, Charles remembered the fuzzy feeling in his head as the instructions to his subordinates rolled off his tongue without effort or consideration. He wasn’t a robot, but the speech-center of his brain was on auto-pilot. He stayed at the party until he had a pretty decent contact high and at least two members of Dethklok were passed out, then excused himself to change. He hated sweating out his suits.
Almost a week later, he still felt grimy, a feeling that came more from hanging around a de-construction site than anything else, and the shower was amazing. He could even turn the heat all the way up to scalding, unlike other countries were lawsuits prevented hotels from running anything more than mildly warm. New showerhead in my apartment. The notepad in his brain was never fully discarded. At this particular moment, he wanted to shut it off, and every G-ddamn other voice in his brain reminding him of some duty or another or just the wheels that turned and turned over new ideas like a clock he couldn’t de-wind. He just wanted to breathe and enjoy this shower, and not feel nauseous or like their were drill bits in his skull. Was that so much to ask?
But it all went away and the feeling of power, and the responsibility that came with it, returned when he donned his suit and prepared to meet with a world leader. He hoped he wouldn’t have to put anything in his stomach. Last week at this time he’d almost thrown up on a technician. Socially acceptable if you were Pickles or Toki, inexcusable if you were a colorless executive designed to blend into shadows.
The meeting with the Prime Minister was short. Netanyahu offered Dethklok (and him by association, but the Prime Minister made it more personal-sounding) Israel’s highest honors, already knowing they would decline. “You have an outstanding operation, Mr. Ofdensen.” Even through his accent, the politician pronounced his name correctly. “Incredible organization. And precision. I must say I am impressed.” And it meant a lot, coming from Netanyahu, who had once been a commander in Sayeret Matkal, an elite commando unit that took the worst missions and made them a success. Charles had two former members of Sayeret Matkal in his own commando unit, alongside former SAS soldiers and Foreign Legionaries, but he didn’t disclose that information now. He sensed he didn’t need to.
The Prime Minister didn’t have time for much political small talk and neither did Charles, so the meeting ended there, and rather amicably so. Charles gave him a CD signed by Dethklok for his children. The last thing he said before he was escorted to the limo that would take him to the airport was, “By the way, I love your coffee.” With any luck, he would have twenty pounds of Israeli coffee on his desk before the end of the week.
The trip to Athens to pick up the boys was short. His assistant and crew seemed to avoiding him, maybe because they thought he was angry about being allowed to sleep in when he specifically told them otherwise. He didn’t ask or reassure them. He was a mystery to everyone and he intended to keep it that way. The entirety of his five hours in Greece was spent with the usual hassles of collecting the passed out versions of the boys, making the usual apologies, and convincing some hesitant young women that they really needed to sign that waiver. The damage was minimal, the excuses give for defiling sacred artifacts were brief, and they were back at Mordhaus by dinner, which to their bodies was like a very late lunch given the time change. Between jet lag and indigestion, Charles didn’t feel much like eating anything anyway. Only Toki was enthusiastic about the whole endeavor and passed out Gummi worms while everyone else complained about it still being light out, and why the hell their manager couldn’t block out the sun for fifteen G-ddamn minutes, the G-ddamn robot. Charles briefly estimated the cost of a sun-blocking machine ala the Simpsons, for fun really, and then ordered the drapes closed.
Between the haze of jetlag, over-caffination, his ruined circadian rhythms, and stress in general, Charles didn’t even try to go to sleep. He waited for the boys to retreat to their rooms, the Klokateers to switch to a skeleton shift, and dismissed his employees. It was time for a trip to the basement. The one only he could access.
Edgar Jomfru was not much of a conversationalist. One would think otherwise, given he had precisely one visitor and no other means of communication. It was in the interest of his mental health to take advantage of the presence of another person, but he didn’t. He just did his work and apparently got everything else he needed from Worlds of Warcraft. Charles could live with that. Make every video game known to man available to the paraplegic genius and he would give you what you wanted, and what Charles wanted was all of his information on pentagrams and prophecies. It wasn’t anything Charles hadn’t seen before, but it was good to look over things, and remind himself why he bothered with all of this when it was driving him completely insane. Charles never brought any full files up to the rest of the house, even his very secure office, just some coded blueprints or notes without explanations to them. Everything else was kept on a computer drive that was never connected to the outside lines or even computers in the Mordhaus system. When it came to the Apocalypse, you simply couldn’t be too careful.
The next few days went by in a blur. There were messes to be cleaned up but now that he wasn’t focused on the concert, he could handle them. Murderface found a way to cheat at his diet enough to fulfill his contract. Pickles agreed to re-hang a lot of chandeliers. Some members go to a stern talking to, and for once they seemed to listen to him, if only for the time being. At the same time, he swung by the house doctor and was prescribed Ativan to help him sleep, which didn’t seem to be overly effective but was definitely better than getting sloppy with the boys and passing out in the hot tub like last time.
The only time he was really success in a good, deep sleep, he was interrupted by a call from Oslo to inform him he was being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Not too shabby. They were honoring Dethklok, of course, but he was included on an individual level. It was not an honor he ever expected, or particularly felt he deserved, but what was he supposed to do, turn it down? His job was to convince Dethklok not to do that.
“It’s not very metal,” was Nathan’s not unexpected reaction. “Is this one they send in the mail?”
“No. You have to go to Oslo to accept it. It’s the most prestigious honor in the world, guys. Not exactly something to pass on.” He added, “Also it comes with a solid gold medal with your face on it, a million dollars, and it was started by the guy who invented TNT.”
“The channel? I fuckin’ hate The Shawshank Remption,” Pickles said. “Gahd, how many times are they gonna play that? Can’t they get some other fuckin’ movies?”
“The explosive.” He decided to bring it to their level. “The Coyote uses it to trap the Roadrunner.”
“AWESOME.”
“Dats brutal. Buts he ams never catchings him.”
“So you’ll accept.” He tried not to phrase it like a question and give them a chance to pass on it. “We have to go to Oslo for a special ceremony next month.”
“We? Scho we can pal around in Oschlo?” Murderface asked.
“Ja, you promises!”
“Actually, I’m getting the award, too,” he said in a flat voice. “And I already accepted.”
Murderface was undoubtedly going to say something mean, but Nathan just slapped him before he could open his mouth and said, “Uh... that’s awesome. Because you did work really hard on the concert.”
“Thank you, Nathan.”
“We’ll go, but we totally have to find cool things to do with our million dollars. Guys? No drugs, no booze, no guitars. And, uh, no suits.”
This was going better than expected. “Very well. Anything else?” As usual, he had things to do, and Dethklok had music not to record. When he returned to his office, there was a list waiting for him from his assistant of the missed calls. One was from his sister. It was still very early in California. He could probably still catch her before work.
She did pick up the house line. It was usually Josh. “I have ten minutes.”
“You called me,” he replied. “And I’m a busy guy, too.”
“Congratulations! By the way, you know how we found out? Wikipedia.”
“I was going to call you,” he said. It was true, anyway. “It was on the news.”
“It was on the news that Dethklok won. It was on Wikinews that you won. Sam has you on some kind of alert list. Isn’t that sweet? And also I have no idea how to do it. And I shouldn’t be reliant on a user-generated news site to hear about my brother.”
“I really was going to call. I just had to sort a few things out.” He looked through the emails on his computer building up before his eyes, but didn’t give them any real attention. “Absolutely do not hold me to this, but I’m thinking of making Oslo not entirely a business trip.”
“You hate Denmark.”
“I don’t hate Denmark. I just don’t like their food.” And, with the exception of their Uncle Hjalmar, they’d always gotten a bit of a cold shoulder from their more distant relatives. He had little enough time for the family that did care about him, much the less the ones who didn’t. “And how many Nobel Prize ceremonies are you going to get invited to? Unless you discover something. Or a colleague does.”
“Is Dethklok going to play? Because Sam’s in. Especially if he’ll miss school. You will be his favorite uncle of all time.”
“I’m his only uncle.”
“Rachel might get married,” she said. Josh’s sister and only sibling was a lawyer in New York City. Charles wasn’t entirely sure what type of law she practiced, only that she made partner in her firm two years ago. “But you will still hold the title.”
“I don’t know if Dethklok will play. They usually prefer it over giving a speech, but it’s up to them. But they will be there - doing all the illegal and adult and disgusting things you don’t want Sam to see them doing. But yes, he will probably see them. And then he can go to Denmark and learn all kinds of Scandinavian curses from Uncle Hjalmar.”
“If you’re willing to take the time off, then I can find the time. Sure, we’ll go. Tentatively.”
“You don’t have to immediately check with Josh and his incredibly busy and important schedule?”
“He’s an environmentalist.”
That was what she was calling it now. “So he eats kelp and throws stink bombs on Japanese whaling boats?”
He could hear her shaking her head. Not really, but he could imagine it. “That’s way too much work for him. And I’m not letting him go on a boat for months. Who’s going to make me breakfast?”
As much as he liked taking potshots at his brother-in-law, he knew she might throw something in that he didn’t want to know. He liked to think of Josh as a eunuch, thank you very much. “So you’ll come? The corporation will pay for it.”
“How many Nobel Prizes do you think they’re going to give you? Seriously, I have to go. I have to be in scrubs in twenty minutes. Love you.”
“You, too.” He let her hang up. It was usually the other way around.
He usually avoided Denmark and the general vicinity. He didn’t like the food, everyone complained that his accept was terrible and spoke to him in English, and his grandparents hadn’t said a damn word to him the one time he had a chance to meet them. He was seven and Sarah was five, so she didn’t remember the visit that well, but he did. He remembered being perpetually freezing and the cold atmosphere to match it. He remembered sitting at the end of a high table eating unrecognizable dishes while his parents and grandparents spoke Danish too quickly for him to understand. It was a strange trip, a dark memory that gave him shivers for reasons he couldn’t identify. His parents never went back to Denmark again. They were buried in Connecticut.
Despite his nagging concerns, he considered it a good call because she’d agreed, and she hadn’t brought up the neurologist again. Shit, I have to see him before Oslo. He marked it off on his calendar as a reminder and went back to work.
*********************************************
Initially, Charles Ofdensen didn’t trust Richard “Magic Ears” Knubbler as far as he could throw him, even if he was fairly sure he could throw the stick of a man very far. It with the came with the territory of Dick (a) being an employee of Crystal Records, not Dethklok, and (b) Charles not trusting anyone as a general policy agreement with the human race. His main concern after discovering the band not only could tolerate the producer but liked him was that they would say or do something stupid in front of him, or be taking in by his very odd charm, but studying him from afar (mainly through security cameras and bugged phone lines), Charles couldn’t find any reason to think ill of him. Knubbler was devoted to Dethklok and genuinely interested in working with Murderface, who always needed more attention. Charles wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth after, to take the metaphor too far, he had already checked for cavities.
Their actual interaction was minimal. Charles was almost never involved in any aspect of recording except to remind the boys to do it, and even though Murderface was his client, he kept his hands off any disastrous William Murderface side products or projects. Time was money to him, and no reason to send good money after bad. His only involvement in the Christmas special fiasco was to watch it from his office with his feet up on the desk and sip sherry, at least until Toki was hurt, but that was contained. Oh, and to pick up his 15% of Murderface’s check.
Knubbler didn’t live in Mordhaus but earned himself a permanent office there. If he wasn’t there, he was in the studio, working. Again, very few reasons for their paths to cross. There was one exception, and that was when Knubbler fixed up the audio on a live show. Charles couldn’t listen to live shows anymore because he was busy with security. He heard them, but he wasn’t listening. He took the next chance he got, when the recording was ready with the crowd and noise mostly filtered out, and then he had first crack, before the boys could come in and make suggestions for adjustments or try to kill the tape altogether. It was raw Dethklok and he loved it, he just didn’t tell Knubbler that. It was only professional.
The producer was waiting in the studio when he arrived.
“You look like shit.”
The strangest thing was perhaps that Dick had his happy lime eyes when he said it. It wasn’t a judgment so much as an observation. Charles gave himself a mental once-over and adjusted his tie. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
“Have people really not noticed? I guess it’s a gradual thing.” They hadn’t seen each other in person in at least two or three months. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“I don’t have much time for sunbathing.” And you’re one to talk, he thought. Knubbler would already be a shade wrong if it wasn’t for his white hair adding to the mix, driven that way by years of cocaine abuse. “Dick, I have a band meeting at three. Let’s do this.”
Knubbler knew what was good for him, because he dropped it and handed Charles the headphones. Charles spent the next twenty minutes zoned out on the couch, but trying not to show it. He couldn’t full appreciate the concert, not only beceause of the lack of electricity in the air but because he had a pounding headache and for once, Nathan’s voice was doing nothing to alleviate it.
And Knubbler was staring at him. Of that, he was pretty sure. Those eyes were easy to follow. They went in at Dethklok’s expense, of course. The label made sure of that. Considering how supportive Knubbler was of Dethwater, Charles let it fly at the time. Now it was definitely worth it, because the skinny little Phil Spector-wannabe was so damn easy to read. His eyes kept switching colors, meaning he was undecided about something. Charles idly wondered what he saw. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
The music was still playing, but he couldn’t really enjoy it. He moved one earpiece back into his hair. “Tell me or I’ll make your eyes pink. Permanently.”
“You can do that?”
“Give me a TV remote, a radio receiver, and an hour.” He was bluffing a little, but that was also OK. He could definitely make it happen eventually. “What is it?”
“You really do look terrible.” Knubbler’s eyes were red. For what? Anger at being pestered or sadness. “Your clothing is hanging off you.”
“Excuse me for being too busy to jet to Rodeo Drive for the latest fashions,” he snapped back. Now he remembered why they maintained a distance. “You have one fucking job and you do it well, or else you wouldn’t be here. But I have about thirty. So do your job, the boys happy while you do it, and keep your asinine comments to yourself.”
“Woah!” The eyes flipped back to green, even if he didn’t look particularly happy. “I was just trying to be helpful.” And maybe he really was, in his own off-putting way, but Charles decided he didn’t need the attention of Dick Knubbler, and wondered why anyone would. Even Dethklok, still playing in his other ear until he tore the headphones off, couldn’t help him. “Do you want me to - “
“Just send the CD to my office,” he said, and stormed out. Well, not stormed precisely, he liked to think, but maybe that was what he did. Or he wasn’t really sure, because he made it halfway down the hallway before the red walls of Mordhaus turned black.
Onto the next chapter...