Toki Ams Dumbs Dildoheads
Jun. 8th, 2012 07:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Toki Ams Dumbs Dildoheads
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dethklok’s latest literary venture.
Warnings: Spoilers for BookKlok. Duh.
Notes: A BookKlok deleted scene. For Z’s challenge, because all the kids are doing it.
Pairings: Hints of S/T, but only hints. Sahry. Also, Charles/Marlboro.
This was originally posted to i_hates_you for Z's challenge.
“I ams writes a books.”
Charles looked up from the second quarter accounts receivable paperwork spread out over his desk, not surprised at all to see that Skwisgaar Skwigelf, the fastest guitarist in the world, had invited himself into his office, taken a seat, and was now blithely ignoring him, instead fingering some Aeolian mode scales on his beloved new Gibson.
“Yes, ah, Skwisgaar?” said Charles. As there was nothing else to say.
“I ams writes a books,” the guitarist repeated.
Charles leaned forward, clasping his hands, the picture of an attentive listener. “Like Toki’s book?” he ventured.
“Ja. Like Toki’s book, only ams betters.”
“Well, that’s very ambitious of you, uh, Skwisgaar,” Charles agreed, his mind drifting to pleasant musings of the sweet scent of a sneaked Marlboro Menthol, maybe somewhere out on a convenient balcony.
Skwisgaar looked up, the blue eyes now two blue laser beams of annoyance. “So, robots?” he urged his manager.
“Uh, yes?” asked Charles, ignoring the oft-repeated insult.
“Ams fetch me a writer!” huffed the guitarist, who had already returned to bending notes.
Charles shrugged imperceptibly and lifted the receiver his telephone. He had long since learned to pick his battles. “Can we get a, ah, writer in here?” he said.
“Charles, da glues ams dumb dildos again,” called Toki from the office doorway. The young guitarist was prying ineffectually at a model airplane which had somehow gotten adhered to his head. Spotting Skwisgaar, he suddenly stopped his efforts. “What you ams doings in here, Skwisgaar?” Toki demanded suspiciously.
“I ams writings da books,” sniffed the smug Swede, not even interrupting his tremolo picking.
“But I alreadies wrote da books,” insisted Toki, storming into the office.
“I writes anudder book. And it ams better dan your book.”
“No, Charles!” appealed Toki, giving a plaintive tug to the plastic Sopwith Camel mounted on his head. “Skwisgaar cannot ams write a books! I ams wrote da book.”
“Now, Toki,” soothed Charles, setting his telephone back in its cradle, and idly wondering whether Pickles had recently picked up any interesting herbs when he was in Tijuana. “More than one person can write a book.”
“But it ams not be better dan mine!” wailed Toki.
“Uh, acetone?” Charles asked him, coolly sliding open a drawer in his vast desk.
“Ja, please,” admitted Toki, who slumped into a chair beside Skwisgaar. The airplane looked as if it had crash landed in his forehead.
“You wanted a writer, sire?” trilled the rather thin and scrawny Klokateer who had just entered the office, a trace of eagerness in his voice.
“Uh, yeah, Skwisgaar did.”
“You ams writes my books,” Skwisgaar crisply told him.
“Yes, sire,” said the Klokateer, nodding and nudging up thick glasses he wore under his hood.
“It ams bes better dan Toki’s books.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And da title of da book ams…” said Skwisgaar, pausing dramatically.
“Ja…?” said Toki. He, Charles and the Klokateer all leaned forward slightly.
“Pickle Ams Da Dumb Dildoheads,” sneered Skwisgaar.
“NOOOOO!” shrieked Toki, sounding much like Nathan Explosion might after being punched in the balls. The Sopwith Camel vibrated as if under attack by the Red Baron.
“Uh, Skwisgaar,” said Charles, who had just come out from behind his desk carrying a small plastic bottle and a rag. “Do you think that’s a good-“
“Ams da bestest titles, better dan Toki’s title by da millions billions miles!” taunted Skwisgaar.
“Ams da lame and not metals title- Awk!” protested Toki, whose head was suddenly jerked by Charles as the manager grasped the plastic model airplane by the fuselage and began to apply acetone.
“Oh, uh, sorry, Toki,” said Charles.
“So, can you please tell me why Pickles is a dumb dildohead, sire?” inquired the writing Klokateer.
“You there, could you hold the airplane?” Charles asked the Klokateer. The writer nodded, grasping the plastic model, and Charles, one knee up on Toki's chair, went back to dabbing the Norwegian's forehead with the rag. The room had begun to reek of acetone.
“Pickle ams big dumb dildohead,” explained Skwisgaar while Toki glared at him, “because hims ams never practices,” he enumerated, striking a chord, “and hims ams always complaingning,” another chord, “and Pickle ams jealous dat hims not lead geetarist and gets all da hot sluts….”
“Pickles does this?” asked Charles, even though he knew no one was listening. He fixed a resentful glare at the recalcitrant Sopwith Camel, though this surprisingly failed to melt the glue.
“An' Pickle ams always singsing da AutoTune craps abouts da rainbow bunnies and dildos…”
“Awk!” cried Toki as suddenly Charles and the Klokateer, who had combined forces, wrenched the model plane from where it adhered to his skin. There was an audible pop as plastic came free of Scandinavian crania. “OWIE!” Toki protested, rubbing his forehead.
“Wanna Baidaid?” offered Charles, handing the model to Toki and going to rummage in another desk drawer.
“And Pickle ams gets models planeses stuck to his dumb dildo head,” concluded Skwisgaar, striking a particularly snotty chord for emphasis.
“Heeeeey, wowie, I ams gots da models planeses stucks to my heads!” wondered Toki. Suddenly, it was as if someone had turned on a light switch behind those blue eyes. He turned to face Skwisgaar, who was glaring at him.
“Here you go. It’s, uh, Spiderman,” said Charles, applying the small plastic adhesive strip to Toki’s forehead.
“Maybe Pickles ams dumbs dildoheads after alls,” Toki admitted to Skwisgaar, setting down his model plane on Charles’ desk.
“Pffft,” said Skwisgaar.
“When shall we begin writing, sire?” inquired the Klokateer.
“I ams changed my minds,” said Skwisgaar, waving him off. “Maybe I ams not writes da books.” He rose and without a word, sashayed out of Charles’ office.
“Oh, maybe I ams helps you!” said Toki, who ran after him. He returned seconds later, grabbed his model plane, and then tore off again.
“Will that be all, sire?” asked the writing Klokateer.
“Yes, you are dismissed,” said Charles, seating himself once again behind his desk. “Uh, wait, no! One more thing! You’re a writer, right?”
The weedy Klokateer straightened and squared his shoulders. “Yes sire!”
Charles leaned forward conspiratorially.
The Klokateer also leaned over, eager to hear.
“You got a cigarette?”
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dethklok’s latest literary venture.
Warnings: Spoilers for BookKlok. Duh.
Notes: A BookKlok deleted scene. For Z’s challenge, because all the kids are doing it.
Pairings: Hints of S/T, but only hints. Sahry. Also, Charles/Marlboro.
This was originally posted to i_hates_you for Z's challenge.
“I ams writes a books.”
Charles looked up from the second quarter accounts receivable paperwork spread out over his desk, not surprised at all to see that Skwisgaar Skwigelf, the fastest guitarist in the world, had invited himself into his office, taken a seat, and was now blithely ignoring him, instead fingering some Aeolian mode scales on his beloved new Gibson.
“Yes, ah, Skwisgaar?” said Charles. As there was nothing else to say.
“I ams writes a books,” the guitarist repeated.
Charles leaned forward, clasping his hands, the picture of an attentive listener. “Like Toki’s book?” he ventured.
“Ja. Like Toki’s book, only ams betters.”
“Well, that’s very ambitious of you, uh, Skwisgaar,” Charles agreed, his mind drifting to pleasant musings of the sweet scent of a sneaked Marlboro Menthol, maybe somewhere out on a convenient balcony.
Skwisgaar looked up, the blue eyes now two blue laser beams of annoyance. “So, robots?” he urged his manager.
“Uh, yes?” asked Charles, ignoring the oft-repeated insult.
“Ams fetch me a writer!” huffed the guitarist, who had already returned to bending notes.
Charles shrugged imperceptibly and lifted the receiver his telephone. He had long since learned to pick his battles. “Can we get a, ah, writer in here?” he said.
“Charles, da glues ams dumb dildos again,” called Toki from the office doorway. The young guitarist was prying ineffectually at a model airplane which had somehow gotten adhered to his head. Spotting Skwisgaar, he suddenly stopped his efforts. “What you ams doings in here, Skwisgaar?” Toki demanded suspiciously.
“I ams writings da books,” sniffed the smug Swede, not even interrupting his tremolo picking.
“But I alreadies wrote da books,” insisted Toki, storming into the office.
“I writes anudder book. And it ams better dan your book.”
“No, Charles!” appealed Toki, giving a plaintive tug to the plastic Sopwith Camel mounted on his head. “Skwisgaar cannot ams write a books! I ams wrote da book.”
“Now, Toki,” soothed Charles, setting his telephone back in its cradle, and idly wondering whether Pickles had recently picked up any interesting herbs when he was in Tijuana. “More than one person can write a book.”
“But it ams not be better dan mine!” wailed Toki.
“Uh, acetone?” Charles asked him, coolly sliding open a drawer in his vast desk.
“Ja, please,” admitted Toki, who slumped into a chair beside Skwisgaar. The airplane looked as if it had crash landed in his forehead.
“You wanted a writer, sire?” trilled the rather thin and scrawny Klokateer who had just entered the office, a trace of eagerness in his voice.
“Uh, yeah, Skwisgaar did.”
“You ams writes my books,” Skwisgaar crisply told him.
“Yes, sire,” said the Klokateer, nodding and nudging up thick glasses he wore under his hood.
“It ams bes better dan Toki’s books.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And da title of da book ams…” said Skwisgaar, pausing dramatically.
“Ja…?” said Toki. He, Charles and the Klokateer all leaned forward slightly.
“Pickle Ams Da Dumb Dildoheads,” sneered Skwisgaar.
“NOOOOO!” shrieked Toki, sounding much like Nathan Explosion might after being punched in the balls. The Sopwith Camel vibrated as if under attack by the Red Baron.
“Uh, Skwisgaar,” said Charles, who had just come out from behind his desk carrying a small plastic bottle and a rag. “Do you think that’s a good-“
“Ams da bestest titles, better dan Toki’s title by da millions billions miles!” taunted Skwisgaar.
“Ams da lame and not metals title- Awk!” protested Toki, whose head was suddenly jerked by Charles as the manager grasped the plastic model airplane by the fuselage and began to apply acetone.
“Oh, uh, sorry, Toki,” said Charles.
“So, can you please tell me why Pickles is a dumb dildohead, sire?” inquired the writing Klokateer.
“You there, could you hold the airplane?” Charles asked the Klokateer. The writer nodded, grasping the plastic model, and Charles, one knee up on Toki's chair, went back to dabbing the Norwegian's forehead with the rag. The room had begun to reek of acetone.
“Pickle ams big dumb dildohead,” explained Skwisgaar while Toki glared at him, “because hims ams never practices,” he enumerated, striking a chord, “and hims ams always complaingning,” another chord, “and Pickle ams jealous dat hims not lead geetarist and gets all da hot sluts….”
“Pickles does this?” asked Charles, even though he knew no one was listening. He fixed a resentful glare at the recalcitrant Sopwith Camel, though this surprisingly failed to melt the glue.
“An' Pickle ams always singsing da AutoTune craps abouts da rainbow bunnies and dildos…”
“Awk!” cried Toki as suddenly Charles and the Klokateer, who had combined forces, wrenched the model plane from where it adhered to his skin. There was an audible pop as plastic came free of Scandinavian crania. “OWIE!” Toki protested, rubbing his forehead.
“Wanna Baidaid?” offered Charles, handing the model to Toki and going to rummage in another desk drawer.
“And Pickle ams gets models planeses stuck to his dumb dildo head,” concluded Skwisgaar, striking a particularly snotty chord for emphasis.
“Heeeeey, wowie, I ams gots da models planeses stucks to my heads!” wondered Toki. Suddenly, it was as if someone had turned on a light switch behind those blue eyes. He turned to face Skwisgaar, who was glaring at him.
“Here you go. It’s, uh, Spiderman,” said Charles, applying the small plastic adhesive strip to Toki’s forehead.
“Maybe Pickles ams dumbs dildoheads after alls,” Toki admitted to Skwisgaar, setting down his model plane on Charles’ desk.
“Pffft,” said Skwisgaar.
“When shall we begin writing, sire?” inquired the Klokateer.
“I ams changed my minds,” said Skwisgaar, waving him off. “Maybe I ams not writes da books.” He rose and without a word, sashayed out of Charles’ office.
“Oh, maybe I ams helps you!” said Toki, who ran after him. He returned seconds later, grabbed his model plane, and then tore off again.
“Will that be all, sire?” asked the writing Klokateer.
“Yes, you are dismissed,” said Charles, seating himself once again behind his desk. “Uh, wait, no! One more thing! You’re a writer, right?”
The weedy Klokateer straightened and squared his shoulders. “Yes sire!”
Charles leaned forward conspiratorially.
The Klokateer also leaned over, eager to hear.
“You got a cigarette?”
