Art of Vengeance
Author: The Magic Rat
Pairing: MF/P, C/P, T/S
Warnings: Boots used in unexpected ways.
Summary: Charles tutors Pickles in the Ways of True Evil. </b>
As a rule, Charles didn’t pay much attention to the groupies. They came, they went, they were invisible to him. They had nothing to do with him or his duties. But every band had its collection of favourites, and the Deth-Sluts were the ones that got preferential treatment from Dethklok. Frankly, Charles feared them because they were not terribly different from his boys, except with more cleavage and shorter skirts. Mostly he feared they might accidentally breed with his boys, and the ensuing offspring would have to be destroyed for the good of mankind. But… he grudgingly admitted to having something of a soft spot for them. It was the same soft spot he had for his boys… that big round patch on the top of his skull that was surely a gateway to the hole in his head.
He really should have accepted that job at the Smithsonian. Oh well. He would have just been bored.
Charles lay on his back in his hotel room bed and tried to sleep, while out in the hallway the Deth-Sluts and Dethklok chased an irate security guard with a fire extinguisher, accompanied by the annoying screech of Dr. Rockzo’s voice.
“I DO COCAINE!”
He could always go back to being an accountant for the mob. But then he’d have to take a pay cut…
He felt something creep slowly onto his chest, then hunker down and grow still. He reached up one hand to raise the edge of his sleeping mask and stare at the thing. It was an enormous King Baboon tarantula, contentedly cleaning its feet. He sighed.
He picked the beast up and perched it on the bedside table. He’d met Fluffy before. Fluffy belonged to Vickie, the lead Deth-Slut. She went everywhere with her, and somehow always ended up in his bed. Charles had the creepy feeling the gigantic and decidedly unattractive arachnid had a thing for him. Certainly he ran into it far more often than the law of averages allowed. In the hallway the security guard had managed to escape, and Vickie could be heard drunkenly calling her tarantula in a loud stage whisper.
“Fluffy! Dammit Fluffy, where are you?”
The next voice was Murderface’s. “Did ya try Ofdenshen’s room? She always sheems to end up there.”
And another theory confirmed. The hairy little brute did have a thing for him. Great.
“Hey well here’s a thought,” said Pickles. “Ya ever thought about leaving that thing at home?”
“She would miss me!”
“Lady, she’s a bug,” said Rockzo. “Just step on it.”
“Eat shit, Rockzo.”
Once more Charles raised the edge of the mask to eye Fluffy. She was still cleaning her feet. Briefly thanking the powers that controlled the universe that he did not A – have eight feet, and B – have to clean them by sticking them into his mouth one at a time, he lowered the mask, rolled onto his side, and eventually fell asleep.
He was awakened a few hours later by the poking of a long, scarlet fingernail, and the scent of chewing gum. He felt someone pull up his mask, and he stared irritably at the trio before him. It was the Deth-Sluts, all three of them, Vickie, Tanya and Courtney. How nice. They were packed into tank tops and tight leather minis, snakeskin stilettos and giant ear rings that a drag queen wouldn’t be caught dead in. They looked scared. Tanya was the one holding his mask up.
“We just wanted you to know we had nothing to do with it,” said Vickie in that same drunken stage whisper, as if afraid of waking him. Tanya and Courtenay nodded wide-eyed confirmation.
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Courtenay gave him a coy little wave. Tanya lowered the mask. All three crept out of his room like noisy mice wearing cheap perfume. As Charles wondered how they had managed to get into his room in the first place, Vickie crept back to claim her tarantula.
She put the beast into her handbag and crept back out. Charles lay in the dark and tried to convince himself there was nothing his boys could do anymore to shock and-or horrify him, and he really should go find out who had finally aspirated on vomit and gone to rock ‘n’ roll heaven. Ten bucks said it was Murderface, and the vomit was somebody else’s. That or Skwisgaar had been beaten to death with a speaker that went all the way up to eleven. Oh Lord he really was cracking up. He would have to schedule a few hours off next week in which to have a nervous breakdown. In the meantime, may as well get out of bed and see what the little darlings had done to themselves this time.
He tossed back the covers and sat up, taking the mask off and setting it aside. He put his glasses on, donned his bathrobe, and walked into the hallway. He listened.
It was too quiet.
The door directly across from his own was slightly ajar, and that was the room he went to first. It was dark, lit only by the television, which was on with the sound muted. The bed seemed empty, with only a wad of blankets in the middle, but with a little sorting he found Toki, curled into a ball, sound asleep, and Skwisgaar spooned possessively around him. He smiled, replacing the blankets and leaving them in peace.
Next stop was Nathan’s room, but he too was fine, passed out face down on his bed, fully clothed and snoring quietly. Charles turned off the TV and covered him over, leaving him far away in his dreams. Next room – Pickles’, and it was clear that this had been ground zero for the party. The room was an absolute disaster. The only saving grace was that his boys were not known for smashing windows and furniture, but the chambermaid was going to want a whole lot more than a thank you for shovelling up this mess. He sorted through the wreckage until he was satisfied there were no bodies other than Rockzo’s, then went to the last remaining room, which was Murderface’s. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and froze.
His initial thought was that Murderface was dead. Certainly he looked it. But as Charles drew near he was relieved to hear the sound of quiet snoring. Murderface was quite alive, but he had certainly been worked over. He was stark naked save for some sort of odd silvery undergarment, and handcuffed by his left hand to the headboard of the bed on which he lay. His head had been shaved into a sort of reverse Mohawk, and the remaining hair jutted out from the sides of his head, solidly set into horns by what smelled like Toki’s model plane lacquer. He was missing his left eyebrow, the right side of his moustache, and, as Charles looked more closely, realized that someone had applied duct tape to his armpits. He looked down at the ‘silvery undergarment’, and realized that it, too, was duct tape. His right nipple had been pierced recently, a small ring inserted through it. Attached to the ring was a length of fine chain, leading to a boot perched carefully by Murderface’s head. Considering his tendency to throw things that got too close to his face, Charles winced as he envisioned the scenario that would surely ensue.
Clearly someone was very, very, VERY angry with one Mr. William Murderface. No wonder the Deth-Sluts wanted to make certain he knew they were not responsible. But… if they didn’t do this, and Toki, Skwisgaar, and Nathan were asleep, then…?
Pickles. Where was Pickles?
It did not take long to find him. He had not gone far. He was sitting drunk in the shower in the dark, the water on low, dribbling a steady stream of steaming water onto him. He was drinking a beer, and clearly more than a little high. Charles seated himself on the edge of the bath.
Pickles raised his head and squinted at him. “Oh. Hi. Did we wake you?”
“No, I was just… making sure everyone was all right. You… are all right, aren’t you?”
“Meh. I was kinda pissed earlier but… I dealt with it.”
“I see. Ah… did you… duct tape William and then handcuff him to the headboard?”
“Well it was that or kill him, and I thought… y’know… it might affect the band.”
“Well it certainly would have been a difficult complication to overcome.” He waited for Pickles to say something, and when he didn’t, Charles asked gently; “Anything you want to tell me about?”
Charles knew his shortcomings. He knew that dealing with emotional outbursts was not his forté, but well, may as well make an effort. Much to his surprise, Pickles opened up. Not that Charles could understand most of it; Pickles was not exactly articulate at the best of times, and piss-drunk, high and upset did not make him easier to understand. Slowly Charles gathered that William, Pickles and the Deth-Sluts had been playing truth or dare and it had gotten… adventurous. William could scream and rant about not being gay all he liked; presented with an excuse to get Pickles naked and horizontal he had risen to the bait faster than a shark after a baby seal. Perhaps the presence of the Deth-Sluts was his rationale for it being ‘not gay’, assuming they hung around to watch the show. Then… the phone rang, and Murderface answered it.
Charles tried to envision what it would be like to be in the middle of coitus and have his lover answer the phone. He suspected that alone would be enough to kill the mood and possibly end the relationship, but Murderface never did anything by halfs.
“So what are you doing?” asked the caller.
Murderface, who was naked in a bed on top of Pickles and actively having sex with him, actually replied; “Nothing.”
Charles winced. Murderface was damned lucky he had gotten off so easy; if he had done that to Skwisgaar, the big Swede would have literally chewed his face off. As it was, Pickles had left the bed and sat and stewed and steamed until Murderface passed out, then he went for the duct tape. Now that he was done being angry, he was drunk and despondent.
“I’m not ‘nothing’,” he sulked.
“No, you’re not,” said Charles. He turned off the shower and managed to get the morose redhead out of the shower, wrapping him up in a hotel bathrobe. Pickles was quiet and compliant, permitting Charles to lead him out of the bathroom. However he stopped and looked at the figure wrapped in tape and handcuffed to the bed.
“Ah, dood, he’s gonna kill me when he wakes up.”
“Not if we deflect the blame.”
Pickles looked at Charles blearily. “Deflect the blame?”
Charles looked around the room, and managed to find what he had hoped he would; a tube of lipstick, dropped by one of the groupies. Probably Vickie judging by the violently pink colour. Then, as Pickles watched, Charles called one of the roadies and requested several packages of meat-packing gelatine. Pickles cocked his head.
“What do we need jello for?”
“Not jello, meat-packing gelatine. Similar but very different. For one thing it tends to set into a much more solid mass. You see, Pickles, when exacting retribution on someone, there are two rules you should always obey. One, make it memorable, and two, make sure nobody knows it was you.”
The roadie arrived just then with a tub of powdered gelatine. Charles took it into the bathroom, filled the tub, and, as Pickles watched, dissolved the entire bucket in the water. Next they moved Murderface from the bed to the bath tub and handcuffed him to the safety bar provided by the hotel for their more aged patrons. Then Charles brandished the lipstick and wrote across Murderface’s chest; “DR. ROCKZO WUZ H-H-H-HERE!” Capping the lipstick, Charles set it aside, then picked up the boot and reattached it to the nipple ring.
“There,” said Charles, looking pleased. He then turned to Pickles. “Now come along, it’s late, and we have to be on the road in the morning.”
Pickles gazed back at Charles with inebriate awe. “I want you.”
“Of course you do.”
“No. Seriously. You. Me. On the bed.”
Charles thought about that, raising one eyebrow. Well why not? He’d certainly had worse offers than a night with an armful of warm willing flesh. And it had been a while…
Charles and Pickles went down the hall to Charles’ room, closing the door and falling into bed. By six in the morning, Charles had decided that Murderface was a bigger idiot than he had been giving him credit for; Pickles in bed was definitely not ‘nothing’. They were lying together in a satisfied heap when from down the hallway they heard a scream of pain, rage and frustration, coupled with a lot of incomprehensible death threats, and finally the words; “MOTHER FUCKING CLOWN!! I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING BALLSH OFF WITH MY TEETH AND SHOVE THEM DOWN YOUR THROAT!”
Pickles snuggled closer to Charles. “I wonder if he’s thrown the boot yet?”
There was a sudden high-pitched shriek of agony.
“I believe that was the boot,” said Charles.
“Should we go help him?”
“How can we? We’re asleep. We’re not hearing any of this.”
Pickles thought about that, then raised his head, eyes narrowing.
“We’ve... ah… been grossly underestimating you, haven’t we?”
Charles smiled, placing his hand on Pickles’ head and drawing him close. “Let’s just get some sleep.