Author: The Magic Rat.
Warnings: Shockingly high levels of D’OH and WTF?? Total crack. I’m dedicating this to FTW302 just… ‘cause. It’s sort of a literary version of one of her ‘toons.
Disclaimer: Metalocalypse, the members of Dethklok, and lyrics to Dethklok songs belong to Brendon Small, Cartoon Network and Turner Music. Copyright for all stories and original characters such as Badger the Roadie is with the author, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.
Summary: Charles experiences one of those moments in every manager’s life…
Author’s notes: If this fic doesn’t prove I’m disturbed, nothing will. Repost of an old Christmas fic from a couple years back that I never posted here.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Alvin and the Chipmunks, as well as their harried manager (and the real- life voice actor who does all three of the chipmunks) David Seville, I suggest going to YouTube and looking them up. Awesome.
The phone rang, and Charles answered.
“C.F. Offdensen speaking.”
“IS THIS YOUR IDEA OF A JOKE?”
Charles raised an eyebrow. “What did the boys do now?”
At the end of the line, a highly agitated fundraiser organizer spluttered and tried to get the words out.
“I BOOKED DETHKLOK, NOT ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS!!”
Charles felt a headache coming on. He removed his glasses with his free hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. The organizer continued to rant.
“ASSININE, UNPROFESSIONAL, CHILDISH…”
Yeah those were his boys all right.
“DO YOU HONESTLY EVER LET THEM OUT WITHOUT AN ADULT, OR WOULD THEY DRINK BLEACH?!”
“Well I’m sure they would never do it again…
“IF YOU LET THOSE PEOPLE HAVE DINNER TONIGHT YOU’RE CRAZY! YOU’RE NOT A MANAGER! YOU’RE A FUCKING DAYCARE WORKER!”
“Mr. Peters can you please just tell me what the boys did?”
“WHY NOT ASK ME WHAT THEY DIDN’T
DO!? IT’S A MUCH SHORTER LIST!”
“Mr. Peters I can’t help you if you are ranting. I warned you fairly that the boys are a handful, and they’re not fond of Christmas anyway. I realize you wanted them because they would bring in the most money for your cause, but they are a death metal band. Were the lyrics too shocking?”
“I sent you an e-mail.”
Charles consulted his computer. “It’s here.” Charles opened the attachment, and gaped like a fish at what he saw.
Clearly they had done some thinking about what they were going to do, because the canister of helium was right on stage. However it wasn’t his boys that caught his eye and filled him with a sense of horror – it was realizing this was a children’s
benefit concert, and a family event. Charles stood bolt upright, jaw hanging, filled with panic at the very thought of the lawsuits that would be filed by outraged parents whose three-year-olds had come to see Shirley Lewis and Lambchop… and got Dethklok. He could tell by their body language the kids were terrified. Charles was willing to bet most of these kids would have nightmares. They had probably come to see Raffi, who was almost certainly currently sitting in his dressing room and wondering what possessed him to leave Canada.
Charles watched in trepidation as Nathan approached the microphone in full corpse paint, huge, ominous, and terrifying… especially with little sprigs of dead holly in his hair. Charles looked at the rest of the band, noticing they all had dead blackened holly in their hair. It added a certain level of darkness to them, as did the mirrored contacts that made their eyes look dead white. All around the stage were festive reds and greens and golds, as well as trees and bright lights and reindeer. And in the middle of it was death; a black and white stain on the holidays. Then Charles noticed each of them was holding something, and peered at the screen.
What the hell was up with the black balloons they were holding?
“These must be the elves Santa brings when visiting the bad boys and girls,” said Charles. “Mr. Peters with all due respect… are you fucking insane?!”
“They are a DEATH METAL band! You can’t play DEATH METAL to TODDLERS! Even my BOYS understand THAT basic concept, which puts THEIR IQs substantially above YOURS!”
“I had no idea they were a death metal band!”
“And exactly how can you make that claim, Mr. Peters? The name of the band is DEATH-klok. Not CUDDLE-klok, not CARE BEAR-klok, but DEATH-klok. What part of DEATH-klok made you think they’d be a swell band to play for little kids? ESPECIALLY considering the history of strange deaths that surrounds nearly every performance?!”
Peters was silent. Charles sighed and watched the attachment, awaiting the inevitable disaster. Then out on stage came a female performer by the name of Jenny McPenny, and Charles began having images of the infamous Bing Crosby/David Bowie Christmas special. Not far behind was Jimi Hendrix opening for The Monkees. Some people just should not be allowed to organize events, and Peters was shaping up to be one of them. Miss McPenny seated herself on stage with her acoustic guitar, dressed in a spectacular flowing gown of yellow lace that matched her beautiful crown of long golden-blonde hair.
Almost reflexively, Skwisgaar started to nuzzle up to her. She pointed a warning finger, and he backed up. Charles prayed for this to not be a shocking disaster, and that at least one of the other performers there had some idea of what to do in this mess. At least the kids seemed amused by Miss McPenny’s ability to handle the situation. She smiled and addressed the audience.
“We found these fellows outside. I think they’re all related to the Ghost of Christmas Future. I don’t think they’re part of the show, but we talked them into doing a few songs anyway.”
There were screams of approval from the hoards of Dethklok fans near the back of the event, which couldn’t be making the kids near the stage any happier as black-clad strangers threw up the horns. Miss McPenny adjusted her guitar, pausing as once more the Swedish God of Death and Rampant Sex began edging closer. Charles doubted Skwisgaar was doing anything more than acting like Skwisgaar, but it was serving to break the tension. She turned her head to look at him.
“Behave, or I’ll make you wear the Frosty the Snowman suit.”
He backed up; in fact he made a point of putting Pickles between himself and her. She smiled and tuned her guitar. The kids were looking more curious and less panic-stricken, which was good. Charles couldn’t imagine what the fallout would be if Nathan cut loose with a selection of Dethklok tunes. The F-word count alone would be staggering.
Well at least Mr. Peters couldn’t get them for breach of contract; the boys were performing. Just what
remained to be seen.
“Ready fellahs?” asked Miss McPenny.
Charles watched in utter horror as his multi-billion dollar assets each took a large hit off a helium balloon. He then dropped the phone at what happened next. Every time he thought they couldn’t possibly do anything else to either shock him, horrify him, or make him fall flat on his ass and laugh like a hyena on crack, they proved him wrong. He didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself as they busted out with “Christmas Don’t be Late” by Alvin and the Chipmunks, and in brilliant five part harmony no less. Charles would have sworn on a stack of Satanic Bibles the boys couldn’t harmonize to save their own butts. It was a full two minutes before he remembered the phone and picked it up.
“Now what exactly do you call that?!” demanded Peters.
Charles fought to compose himself. “Well I don’t know what you call it, but personally I call it meeting their contractual obligation under difficult circumstances. And Jenny deserves a damned medal for finding a way to work them in!”
“No one asked her to! I booked Dethklok! Not this!”
“Well she saved your fundraiser.”
“She should mind her own business!”
Charles raised an eyebrow as a thought came to him. “Mr. Peters… you were not by any chance hoping Dethklok would breach their contract so you could sue us, were you?”
There was a very long silence. Charles narrowed his eyes.
“Mr. Peters might I suggest that in the future you not call here again. I take a very dim view of unscrupulous business practices, and rest assured I will be looking into the finances of this fundraiser, as well as calling the heads of the charity.”
Mr. Peters said nothing further, he simply quietly hung up. Charles saved the clip to his personal files, and returned to work.
It was late when Charles was awakened by the familiar sinking of the bed that meant Nathan was home. He smiled as he felt the large, powerful body press close, spooning him, and an arm slipped around him.
“How was the show?” asked Charles.
“Ugh. Brutal. And not a fun kinda brutal. Just… brutal.”
“I saw the broadcast this evening. You guys were terrific.”
Nathan grumbled. “We were humiliated. Buncha four-year-olds staring at us, scared outta their diapers. What’s metal about freaking out little kids who came to see Santa?”
“Nothing,” said Charles, rolling over to face Nathan. “But you guys handled it beautifully.”
“Wasn’t us. It was Jenny McPenny. Talking about brutal – that’s her real name.”
“Yeouch. I thought it was a stage name. Anyway you made the best of a rotten situation. And I’m proud of you.”
Nathan grinned. “Oh yeah? How proud?”
Charles moved closer, kissing Nathan. “What would you say if I told you that right now I am wearing leather motorcycle chaps and nothing else?”
“Just don’t dress up like David Seville and call me Alvin.”
“That’s great Nathan, thank you for that image. You have killed my libido for possibly all time.”
“I’ll see if I can revive it.” Nathan sat up and drew the covers down, grinning. “Oh fuck yeah momma. Leather pants and a black t-shirt. Well I guess Santa came early. Now let’s hope I don’t.”