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tikificTitle: The Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament starring Dethklok
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nothing I can think of that will annoy outside of bad writing. There is not nearly as much Dick Knubbler in this as I had originally thought there would be, so my apologies to his many devoted fans.
Summary: Pretty much what it says on the can.
Disclaimer: Boy, they really shouldn't let me anywhere near an iPad, as I can now crank this ridiculous stuff out while I'm riding the bus. Also, these aren't my characters or situations or environments, but I doubt anyone cares.
Notes: I don't really play golf. Which will become obvious to anyone once you start reading. But, seeing the boys in their Dethgolf outfits puts me in my special happy place, so I find I start writing my brand new genre, golf!fic. Also, I've been over this several times for spelling/grammar oddities, however, I'm sure there are still errors, especially as I've been forwarding this back and forth between an iPad and a normal computer, so if you find anything egregious, please let me know, OK?
The Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament starring Dethklok
Ofdensen was uncharacteristically late for the band meeting, so he entered the room with his fencing saber still tucked under his arm. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Ofdensen said, coming up behind his chair at the head of the table. “I had to, uh, take care of another matter.”
“That’th fine,” said Murderface, seated to his immediate right.
Ofdensen started, “I’d like to….”
“Asthhole,” added Murderface. Suddenly his eyes grew big, as Ofdensen’s sword point was in his face.
“William, may I suggest that you, uh, might not want to interrupt me while I am carrying a really big sword?”
“Yeah, Murderface,” agreed Nathan, who hadn’t looked up from his New York Times crossword puzzle. “You know not to annoy him while he’s got a sword.”
“Or a guns,” put in Skwisgaar, also not bothering to look up, fingering the riff to the Duncan Hills coffee jingle on his Gibson explorer.
“Yeah, Murderface, don’t annoy him while he’s got a sword or a gun.”
“Or the knife!” chirped Toki. He appeared to be clicking two knitting needles.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t annoy him when he’s got a sword, or a gun, or knives…”
“Or a crossbow!” agreed Pickles.
“Uh,” said Ofdensen, “Yeah. I don’t really like to talk about that.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, dood.”
“Or the chains saw,” commented Skwisgaar, still shredding soundlessly.
“Oh, yeah, dude.” Nathan looked up over his reading glasses, a bit horrified. “The chainsaw. That was really brutal. So, Murderface, no interruptions when he’s got a sword or a gun or a knife or a chainsaw!”
“He was going to kill me!” sputtered Murderface, Ofdensen having finally put down his sword and seated himself.
“Guys! Can we please get back to the topic? I would like to talk about….”
“Toki,” Nathan had finally noticed his younger band mate when he looked up from his crossword puzzle. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I ams knitting a way cools sweater!” Toki proudly held up his handiwork. It was a wool sweater with an elaborate skull and crossbones pattern.
“Dude,” said Pickles, “Knitting is so NOT METAL!”
“No way! Knitting ams brutals! Look at the cools cable knits pattern!”
“Toki,” said Nathan, now even more horrified. “Knitting is … whatever the word is that’s the opposite of brutal!”
“It’s a skulls pattern! Skulls ams brutal!”
“Ja, in Sweden, gnkttings ams most brutal hobbies,” concurred Skwisgaar.
“Dood, Toki ain’t Swedish!” Pickles objected. “Ain’t he from … er… dat other place?”
“Ja, Norway, it ams like Sweden, only it ams sucks.”
“Guys, guys, could we please get back to the topic?” With no interruptions for all of two seconds, Ofdensen decided to press ahead while the getting was good. “I’ve, uh, signed us up for the Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament, starring Dethklok.”
“No,” said Nathan.
“Pass,” said Pickles.
“Naw,” opined Skwisgaar.
“I’m, uh, sorry you feel that way, but, uh, doing charity work would really help to improve our image.”
“Too buthsy,” lisped Murderface.
“Not interested,” yawned Nathan.
“And it might, uh, improve our record sales.”
“Eh,” said Toki.
“OK, well, I’ll just have to tell the, uh, lingerie models that you boys won’t be there to golf with them….”
There was a silence.
“Glingeray modeslsk?” inquired Toki over his knitting needles.
“Blangergays modsels,” Skwisgaar helpfully told his younger band mate.
“Dood!” said Pickles. “Da chicks dat pose in deir underwear?”
“Undergwear?” inquired, Skwisgaar, suddenly a bit more interested.
“Yes, Skwisgaar,” Ofdensen put in, “Lingerie models are attractive young women who make a living posing for photographs wearing a variety of, uh, appealing undergarments. They were going to participate in the Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament Starring Dethklok, but if you guys are too busy, we’ll just have to tell them….”
“WHO SAID WE’RE TOO BUSY?” rumbled Nathan?
“Well, you just told me….”
“Dood! Now you won’t let us golf with lingerie models?”
“YOU NEVER LET US DO ANYTHING!”
“We ams goings to dos the golfs tourgament whether you likes it or nots.”
“Yeah, dood, you can’t push us around like that.”
“Well, all right, if you’re so insistent….”
“WE ARE INSISTENT!”
“Ja, we ams instisigent!”
“Well all right, then I, uh, suppose I can tell Dick Knubbler…”
“Just one thing,” growled Nathan.
“Yes?”
“What’s a six letter word for savage and cruel?”
“Whats letters does it beginses in?” inquired Skwisgaar.
“I dunno. Ends in L.”
There was a thoughtful silence.
The Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament starring Dethklok took place at the picturesque Nihilista National Golf Club, a most exclusive golf club famous for never admitting anybody.
Dick Knubbler was there to give a hearty welcome to the band, his robot eyes shining green. “Hugs all around guys!” he sang. He was greeted with enthusiastic hugs from Murderface and Toki, a grudging hug from Pickles, and a feral warning growl from Nathan.
Skwisgaar returned to the group after turning up short in his quick scan of the course for some hot GMILF action. "Dis ams strange golfs course," he mused, exercising some very stylish tremolo picking on his Gibson. "Dere ams no sexy retired ladies out golfing."
Ofdensen emerged from the Clubhouse proffering a sheaf of papers. "Actually, Skwisgaar, you will find no ladies on this course. The Nihilista is a very exclusive golf club, which admits no women as regular members."
"WHAT?" reasoned Nathan, in tones which could be heard to the next county. "You brought us to a golf course with NO WOMEN!!!!"
"The Nihilista is a very exclusive golf course, they're making a very special exception to their membership rules today for you guys."
"Balls," snorted Skwisgaar. "Dis ams total nut-gathering."
"I ams likes nuts," Toki chirped cheerfully.
"No femaleth ith a good rule," Murderface opined.
"Dood, yer full of crap," Pickles told him.
"Femaleth are the sthpawn of Sthatan! They are not to be trusthted. Oh, hellllooooo, lovely ladieth!!!" Murderface spoke the last part as a bevy of models emerged from the Nihilista Clubhouse and wafted by the band.
Ofdensen took this as a cue to proffer the sheaf of papers he was holding. "I have here your, uh, foursome assignments for today's event."
"Our what?" protested Nathan.
"Dood, I t'ought you told us we was gonna be plain' wit' models."
"Uh, not quite, Pickles. In order to make thing fair, you have all been, uh, randomly assigned to golf partners. Here's your assignment, and here's yours..."
"I'm playing with four dudes?" Nathan howled. "Randomness sucks."
"I ams playing wit' three modelsk," sang Toki.
"Shuts ups, Toki," growled Skwisgaar.
"Who isth Gil Ejector?" inquired Murderface.
"Gil Ejector?" asked Dick Knubbler, his robot eyes suddenly flashing a warning red.
"Yes, William, you have been assigned to play in a foursome with the legendary record producer, Gil Ejector."
"Gil Ejector, that has-been phony," muttered Knubbler.
For complicated reasons, Dick Knubbler was required to remain at least 100 meters from the lingerie models at all times. The keynote speech was therefore given to Nathan Explosion, as he possessed the loudest voice.
After some fumbling and sounding out of unfamiliar words like “golf” and “here” on the prepared speech, he tossed the papers and simply declared, “LET THE BLACKNESS THAT IS CELEBRITY PRO/AM GOLF … BEGIN.”
It was only the second hole and Pickles the drummer had already felt his patience wearing thin. His foursome included an actual model, however, it also included some old dude named Pootie McGurk, who was evidently some sort of Nihilista golf club chairman dildo. What's worse, his manager dude kept assuring him that playing golf with this McGurk jack off was some kind of privilege. Said manager dude being the fourth member of the group, which also rankled.
So far, the only thing Chairman McGurk seemed good for was howling invective at the model when she sliced. Watching the old jack off's chins rattle in the wind while he shrieked at the model again, Pickles casually extracted a spliff that was approximately the size of his forearm from his golf bag and lit up.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" McGurk was suddenly screaming at him.
"Jamaican bud, dood," Pickles explained agreeably. "Wanna hit?"
"You can't smoke that here!" Pickles could swear the dude's eyes had gotten as red as Dick Knubblers' did when he'd messed up his double kick.
"Dood! Next you're gonna be tellin' me I can't snort heroin on the course!"
"How dare you ingrates from a heavy metal band...."
"Death metal," Pickles interjected, taking a log puff.
"WHAT?"
"We play death metal, dood. It's a fusion of t'rash metal and early black metal."
"Quiet, you idiot."
"Dood," Pickles asked Ofdensen, sotto voce, "How can dis dildo t'ink we're dumb when he don't even know his metal sub genres?" The manager shrugged. Some people, Pickles thought, sucking in another drag, were just a bit thick.
Nathan Explosion was pouting. He was standing on the edge of the green on the third hole, and had just sucked down the last beer he’d grabbed from the Nihilista Clubhouse. Now he would almost certainly be forced to watch some jack off play golf.
“This golf course SUCKS,” Nathan told his lead guitarist, tossing the beer bottle aside.
“Ja, dis ams dildos,” Skwisgaar agreed, playing an angry chord on his Gibson.
“Shhhh!” urged their fussy golf partner, who was taking for fucking ever (in Nathan’s opinion at least) to line up a putt from just off the margin of the green.
"Why did Toki get assigned to play with the models, and we get to watch these jack offs?"
"Ja, random assignmentsk ams dildos," Skwisgaar commiserated.
"Will you two mindless idiots shut up with your nonsense?" shouted the fourth member of their quartet, who was standing on the opposite side of the green, as far away from Dethklok personnel as he could possibly manage. This outburst annoyingly caused the jack off who was putting to interrupt his shot and then start to line up everything all over again.
"It's bad enough we have to share our exclusive course with an idiotic heavy metal band...."
"Death metal," rumbled Nathan, now deeply offended as well as annoyed.
"Ja, ams completlies separates genres," Skwisgaar put in helpfully.
"If you two won't cease causing a ruckus, I will take my protest to the course officials!" the excitable man fumed. He was in fact so worked up that he was not looking too carefully where he was going, and, taking a step, suddenly tripped on Nathan’s discarded beer bottle. He stumbled, and fell headfirst into their golf cart, simultaneously knocking himself cold, and setting the cart in motion.
The golf cart careened down the hill, onto the green, and ran straight towards the hole, where it smashed into the flag pole. The flag pole was lofted up high in the air by the impact. As Nathan and Skwisgaar watched, the pole did a midair twist and came down, pointed end first, squarely in the middle of the head of their golf partner, who was still lining up his putt. He ended up neatly skewered right down the middle, like a golfer kebab.
With a final reflex, the skewered man's arms, which still clung to his putter, suddenly jerked, knocking the now blood-splattered golf ball straight into the cup.
“Huh. Par 3. That's pretty good,” commented Nathan.
“Ja, dat weren’t bad, probably.”
"Let’s go see if we can find some MORE BEER.”
William Murderface was doing what he did best, pissing on the shrubbery. Well, he had to go.
A red-faced course official raced up to him. "You can't do that! Stop immediately!" he howled.
Murderface affably shifted his aim so the stream fell on the man's shoes.
"What do you think you're doing? The red-faced man screamed.
"Pithing on your shoeth," Murderface replied helpfully. He would have thought it was pretty obvious, but some people were just slow.
The red-faced man ran off screaming, “I’m going to report you to the Elders of the Course! You’ll be sorry!”
“Murderface! Yeah!” Murderface heard Dick Knubbler’s voice whispering over his shoulder as he zipped. “You gotta help me! They invited that old fraud, Gil Ejector, to my charity golf event! Yeah! I gotta get that guy. Yeah.”
Murderface regarded Knubbler disinterestedly. He noticed the producer’s robot eyes were flashing red. This usually led to something boring, Murderface had learned, like making him redub his bass track for the umpteenth millionth time. Before, that is, Nathan erased it and Skwisgaar redubbed it anyway.
Suddenly, Knubbler dug into his golf bag and withdrew an AK-47. “You’re gonna help me get the bastard, yeah? We’ll be an epic team. We’ll live in legend!”
Murderface’s own eyes lit up at the sight of an assault weapon. “Living in legendth? Thounds awethome,” he concurred.
"Come with me, my brother in arms, yeah!" Knubbler urged.
"Doeth this mean I get an AK too?" inquired Murderface.
Pickles and Ofdensen were in the rough. After the unfortunate model in their foursome had sliced again off the fourth tee, a fuming Chairman McGurk had driven away with her in their golf cart, screaming about reporting them all to the Elders of Golf.
At that point, Pickles had muttered something about getting in touch with his spirit animal. Ofdensen had followed him into the clearing just off the fairway, possibly partly as a way to keep the stoned drummer from any self-injury, but mostly to sneak in a smoke. Usually, golf was either Ofdensen's third or fourth favorite activity, but as McGurk had just driven away with Ofdensen's golf bag, he'd unfortunately been left with nothing but the 9-iron he'd been holding in way of club selection. He could, of course, borrow equipment from Pickles, but he suspected the Dethklok drummer had not packed much in the way or traditional golfing equipment in his bag.
As if in confirmation of his manager's speculations, Pickles withdrew what looked like a gallon bag of some kind of fine, yellowish powder from his golf bag. He dumped the entire contents onto a flat rock, and then plunged his face into the pile, evidently in an attempt to snort the whole lot in one go. He made a brave attempt, actually inhaling an impressive portion of the powder pile before collapsing, face first, into it, in the best Scarface style.
Ofdensen looked on curiously as he lit up his own cigar. Pickles appeared to be still alive. More or less. He took a couple of thoughtful puffs of his Cuban, and then gave Pickles a tentative kick.
The drummer suddenly gasped, raised his head, muttered, “I know what it’s like to be dead!” And thereupon collapsed back into the powder mountain.
Well, that was interesting.
“TOOOOKIIIIII!” The voice could only belong to Nathan Explosion. Nathan and Skwisgaar soon stumbled into the little clearing in the rough.
“Have you guys seen Toki?” Nathan asked the smoking Ofdensen and prone Pickles. Ofdensen shrugged, and Pickles roused for a minute to sputter, “Whooo put all dese t’ings in my head, dooooood!” before collapsing again.
“We’re trying to find Toki,” Nathan explained.
“You’re looking for Toki?” Ofdensen repeated.
“YES! We are concerned about him.”
“You’re concerned about Toki?”
“YES WE ARE CONCERNED ABOUT TOKI WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DOUBT EVERYTHING….”
“And dems lingerie modelsk,” Skwisgaar put in helpfully.
“Uh, yeah, that too,” concurred Nathan.
“Ooooo, I know where Toki isssssss….” Pickles suddenly slurred. All eyes were suddenly on the woozy drummer.
“You know where Toki is?” Nathan asked.
“Yeah, dooooood! I’m watchin’ Toki wit’ my SPIRIT ANIMAL! Dey’re up on da ninth hole!” Pickles collapsed again, sending a cloud of powder wafting up into the breeze. Nathan and Skwisgaar snickered.
“What is that stuff? Because, we’ve gotta get him more of it,” Nathan commented.
“Ja, dat’s comegdy cold dere!” agreed the guitarist.
Ofdensen was suddenly looking at his buzzing Dethphone. “I’ve just been summoned to the, uh, Nihilista Clubhouse, for an, uh, emergency meeting with Chairman McGurk. Nathan, since you’re, uh, concerned about Toki, why don’t you guys take Pickles and, uh, look for him.”
“Sure dude.” Nathan snorted as Skwisgaar attempted to wrestle the drummer into a standing position, only to have him suddenly collapse all over again like some boneless creature. “Really, this is better than pro wrestling.”
"Yeah, Murderface, you gotta watch for that bastard, Gil Ejector. He's gotta come through here," Dick Knubbler was explaining from his perch atop a branch in one of the Nihilista club's fine old trees.
"Yeth," Murderface answered, though he sounded a bit peevish. He was currently some 20 feet below Knubbler, carving a Planet Piss logo into the same tree's trunk. His interest in the producer's vengeance project had cooled appreciably when it became clear the producer was reluctant to share his assault weapons.
Suddenly, there came a cry of, "Get off this golf course Knubbler, you old queen!" Murderface craned his neck to look for the source of the cry, but soon hit the deck when he heard the unmistakable report of automatic weapons fire.
"Eat lead, Ejector, yeah!" replied Knubbler from his arboreal perch, returning fire as he screamed.
Murderface heard a loud cracking sound. He looked up. Ejector's fire had hit the branch where Knubbler was clinging, and now the whole thing, branch, Knubbler and assault rifle, was coming crashing down. Ther was another, louder crack, and Murderface was flat on his back, smashed to the ground.
He tried to move, but his head was being being smothered by something heavy. He forced his eyes open, and then screamed in horror.
"Knubblerth! Get your asth out of my faceth!"
"Aiiiiii! Yeah!" Knubbler hollered. "Get your face out of my ass!"
“TOKI, WHERE ARE YOU?” howled Nathan.
“Heres, Nathans,” came a small, friendly voice. Nathan goggled. Toki was sitting in a small clearing off the 9th hole. He was surrounded by three very enthralled lingerie models, and was eagerly knitting what looked like a hat.
“And you sees, goils, heres ams where you must cast offs…” he explained. The models giggled winsomely.
“TOKI!” screamed Nathan. “HOW MANY TIMES DO WE NEED TO TELL YOU, KNITTING IS NOT BRUTAL!”
“But Nathans, all da beautiful goils ams broken deir fingernail wit' golfing'!” Toki confided. A particularly cute blond model raised a single broken fingernail in demonstration.
“Natans,” opined Skwisgaar, who had just wrested the still drug-addled Pickles up the hill, “Hims ams got a point. We can't haves beautiful lady wit' ams broken nail!"
Nathan was going to protest in most certain terms, but found himself moved by the cruelty of the model's fate. “Huh.”
“You’re making me feel like I’ve never been boooooooorn,” Pickles muttered, falling on his ass once again. His band mates helpfully howled with malicious laughter.
“Nows, where ams Moiderface?” Skwisgaar inquired, when they were quite finished giggling.
“Pickles!” Nathan shook the already dizzy drummer until his dreadlocks quivered. “Where is Murderface?”
“Whooooooaaaaa! Murderface?” said Pickles. "Dood, you will find him down by da laaaakkke......." At which point he went ass over teakettle once again in a most epic manner.
“Seriously,” said Nathan, over the howls of laughter, “We need to get him more of this shit.”
The Elders of Golf had gathered in the Nihilista Clubhouse for an emergency meeting. They were without exception elderly white men, and they all wore scowls of extreme disapproval.
Chairman McGurk, whose exact age could perhaps be divined by counting the number of his chins, was currently enjoying himself by verbally abusing a sobbing model, specifically, the unlucky girl who had also been in his golf foursome for the preceding hour.
"Bad as our judgement was to allow a heavy metal band to desecrate our course, we have exceeded ourselves by deigning to allow women on our sacred grounds! You, young lady, have sliced your last Par 4!"
He snapped his fingers, and a security guard standing nearby slapped the already sobbing girl. This caused a red patch to rise on her cheek, and further encouraged the waterworks.
"Now, be gone from our midst!" She didn't have to be asked twice. She rushed blindly for the doorway, nearly knocking into a quizzical Ofdensen, who had just entered the chambers.
"You, uh, wanted to see me?" he politely asked the glowering Golf Elders.
"We have summoned you here to inform you that your heavy metal band is henceforth and forever banned from our sacred Nihilista course!"
"Uh, death metal, actually," Ofdensen corrected mildly.
"WHAT?"
"They play, uh, death metal. It's a sub genre distinguished by distorted vocals and complex song structure...."
"SILENCE! And furthermore, I'm going to report you to the World Federation of Golf Federation," McGurk harrumphed, rattling several of his chins in his exasperation. "You people will never play on a golf course again after I'm finished!"
"Well, uh, do you think that's a good idea?" reasoned Ofdensen.
"YOU'LL NEVER GOLF AGAIN!" boomed the McGurk, Really, he could have given Nathan a few lessons in screamo style vocals.
“Well, I would, uh, urge you to reconsider, in the strongest possible terms,” Ofdensen said, though not particularly urgently. Anyway, they never listened.
“MURDERFACE!” Nathan screamed. Surely, civilizations crumbled to the sound of that voice.
Nathan had left Skwisgaar and Toki to their enjoyment of Pickles’ current and hilarious state of mind, and had gone looking for Murderface near the lake, where Pickles claimed his spirit animal had spotted the Dethklok bassist.
Suddenly, Nathan found himself being tackled from behind. “STHAY DOWN!” whispered William Murderface.
“I’ll get you, Ejector! Yeah!” Dick Knubbler was screaming, his robot eyes glinting red. He was now firing automatic weapons with both hands.
Nathan was appalled. He’d barely been allowed to bring a handgun on the course, and here Knubbler had not one but two automatic weapons? Not cool.
“It’s Knubbler’th final sthowdown with hith rival, Gil Ejector!” Murderface explained.
“Murderface, we’ve gotta get out of here,” Nathan explained, ducking to dodge some incoming fire from Ejector.
“You’re a has-been, Knubbler!” someone (presumably, Ejector) was screaming.
“C’mon, boys! Over the hill! Yeah, you’ll live forever in legend!” urged Knubbler, waving his guns.
“Don’t you wanna live in legendth?” Murderface asked Nathan, a bit wanly.
“Dude! We’re already fucking rock stars.”
Murderface considered. “Oh, yeth, I forgot.” he finally said.
Knubbler screamed and charged up the hill.
“Come on, let’s go get FUCKING SHITFACED,” Nathan urged. Murderface had to agree, it sounded like a plan. He and the lead singer turned and walked to find their band mates.
Ofdensen was slowly walking away from the Clubhouse. He was walking slowly so the oil he was trailing would pour out of the can in a reasonably consistent manner. He reflected sadly on how appalling it was that the people who ran this establishment would be so careless as to leave all that gasoline and fertilizer so near a building. Well, it was not to be helped. He spilled the very last oil drops from the can, and looked back briefly to admire his handwork. The oil made a small, glistening slug trail as far as he could see up the roadway, to the Nihilista Clubhouse. He tossed the can into the bushes, and reached into his vest pocket. It would also be a waste of a perfectly good cigar. It seemed a crime really, but it couldn’t be helped.
He had barely started puffing when he spotted the little red-faced course official racing up to him. Ofdensen thought at first that the man was going to report yet another breach of course etiquette by a member of his band, but instead, the little red-faced man simply howled, “NO SMOKING ON THIS COURSE!” And then for good measure launched into a rather long-winded speech (well, in Ofdensen’s opinion) regarding his general disrespect for all matters vis-à-vis golf.
At length, the red-faced man was forced to stop and take a breath, at which point, Ofdensen asked, “No smoking?”
“YES THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING ON THIS COURSE WHAT ARE YOU DEAF AS WELL AS STUPID….” But Ofdensen had tuned him out at that point, as he sadly tossed down his cigar.
It took a second or two, but the still smoking cigar ignited the thin trail of oil. The flames quickly skittered up the trail. The red-faced man suddenly ceased his invective, and began a new one. “WAIT, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, WHERE IS THAT GOING….” He suddenly stopped screaming and raced along behind the trail of flame, rushing inevitably towards the Nihilista Clubhouse.
“You know, uh, I wouldn’t do that, if I were, uh, you,” Ofdensen said quietly. Well, they never listened to him. It was as bad as trying to talk to Dethklok, really.
He hiked his 9-iron over his shoulder and started slowly down the road. He heard the explosion, of course, and felt the force of the heat slightly on his back. He watched, slightly amused, as the head of the red-faced man - only the head, but still red-faced - came whirling overhead in the resulting concussion. He wished he had more time to stop and enjoy things, but really, it wasn’t nearly as exciting as most Dethklok concerts. He continued away from the conflagration, badly wishing he’d thought to bring along some extra cigars.
Nathan and Murderface had stopped their golf cart on a rise over the lake in order to better appreciate the Nihilista Clubhouse explosion. They heard the approaching wail of sirens, and turned to watch as the police attempted to break up the ongoing gun battle between Dick Knubbler and Gil Ejector. "You'll never take me alive. Yeah!" the producer was screaming.
"You know, maybe I was wrong, maybe this course doesn't totally suck," Nathan allowed.
"Old fasthioned entertainment, that'th what it is," chimed in Murderface
"Can't buy this kind of thing."
"No, not available for purchath."
They were distracted from the general melée by a rustling sound, down by the lake. The light was dimming, but if you looked closely at the rushes, there seemed to be a creature shaped like an octopus writhing its way into the water.
A really big, really red octopus.
The creature slithered and slipped into the lake with a splash.
"Dude," Nathan told his band mate, "We are totally coming back here with fishing line and some dynamite."
"And maybe a thpeargun," the mustachioed bassist concurred.
Ofdensen was still carrying his 9 iron over his shoulder when he entered the meeting. “Sorry I’m, um, late, I had to, uh, take care of a few matters.”
“Athhole,” put in Murderface helpfully. He was not pleased to find a 9-iron in his face.
“MURDERFACE,” Nathan lectured, squinting through his reading glasses at his New York Times crossword puzzle, “You know better to annoy him when he has a gun or a knife or a 9-iron…”
“Or ams toaster ovens,” suggested Skwisgaar.
Pickles got an appalled look. “Ew. Dood! Don’t bring that up. Dat was brutal.”
“…or a toaster oven,” repeated Nathan.
“Guys! Can we get back on topic! It was unfortunate that the, uh, Nihilista Clubhouse spontaneously blew up completely out of the blue like that….”
“Ja, spontangeous explosions happens,” reasoned Skwisgaar.
"Yeah, t'ings blow up," Pickles interjected.
"But I just got off the phone talking to Dick Knubbler from his exclusive minimum security, uh, rehabilitation facility, and he has an idea for a terrific new project that I think you will all appreciate."
"Toki, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"I ams crocheting a way cool scarves, Natans!"
"Toki, crochetgling ams dildos," Skwisgaar scolded.
"Wait, Skwisgaar, dood, I t'ought you said dat knittin' was cool?"
"Ja, but crochetgling ams balls. Onlies dudes from Norway would t'inks it's cools."
"But da lovelies lingerigie goils in my Stitch 'n Bitches clubs ams teachin' me,” Toki protested.
"Wait," Nathan said. “The models are all in your Stitch 'n Bitch now?"
"Dood, I t'ink I need to knit a scarf too."
"Yeah, winterth ith coming, I think I need a thcarf too."
"Yeah, Toki, we all need scarves,” Nathan scolded. “Why are you keeping all the scarves to yourself like that?"
"Toki, does you thinks da models girl ams having da grandmothers dats knits?" Skwisgaar inquired.
"Ja," his young band mate concurred, "Grandmas ams like gnitting!"
"Den I ams needs a scarves toos!"
"Guys! Guys! Can we get back to the topic? Dick Knubbler just contacted me with an idea for a terrific new joint project, Dethklok on Ice. I am very excited...."
"WAIT!"
"Yes, Nathan?"
"What is a 5 letter word for a shiny, solid chemical element that conducts electricity?"
"Dood! What letter does it begin wit'?"
"Ends in L."
There was silence.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nothing I can think of that will annoy outside of bad writing. There is not nearly as much Dick Knubbler in this as I had originally thought there would be, so my apologies to his many devoted fans.
Summary: Pretty much what it says on the can.
Disclaimer: Boy, they really shouldn't let me anywhere near an iPad, as I can now crank this ridiculous stuff out while I'm riding the bus. Also, these aren't my characters or situations or environments, but I doubt anyone cares.
Notes: I don't really play golf. Which will become obvious to anyone once you start reading. But, seeing the boys in their Dethgolf outfits puts me in my special happy place, so I find I start writing my brand new genre, golf!fic. Also, I've been over this several times for spelling/grammar oddities, however, I'm sure there are still errors, especially as I've been forwarding this back and forth between an iPad and a normal computer, so if you find anything egregious, please let me know, OK?
The Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament starring Dethklok
Ofdensen was uncharacteristically late for the band meeting, so he entered the room with his fencing saber still tucked under his arm. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Ofdensen said, coming up behind his chair at the head of the table. “I had to, uh, take care of another matter.”
“That’th fine,” said Murderface, seated to his immediate right.
Ofdensen started, “I’d like to….”
“Asthhole,” added Murderface. Suddenly his eyes grew big, as Ofdensen’s sword point was in his face.
“William, may I suggest that you, uh, might not want to interrupt me while I am carrying a really big sword?”
“Yeah, Murderface,” agreed Nathan, who hadn’t looked up from his New York Times crossword puzzle. “You know not to annoy him while he’s got a sword.”
“Or a guns,” put in Skwisgaar, also not bothering to look up, fingering the riff to the Duncan Hills coffee jingle on his Gibson explorer.
“Yeah, Murderface, don’t annoy him while he’s got a sword or a gun.”
“Or the knife!” chirped Toki. He appeared to be clicking two knitting needles.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t annoy him when he’s got a sword, or a gun, or knives…”
“Or a crossbow!” agreed Pickles.
“Uh,” said Ofdensen, “Yeah. I don’t really like to talk about that.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, dood.”
“Or the chains saw,” commented Skwisgaar, still shredding soundlessly.
“Oh, yeah, dude.” Nathan looked up over his reading glasses, a bit horrified. “The chainsaw. That was really brutal. So, Murderface, no interruptions when he’s got a sword or a gun or a knife or a chainsaw!”
“He was going to kill me!” sputtered Murderface, Ofdensen having finally put down his sword and seated himself.
“Guys! Can we please get back to the topic? I would like to talk about….”
“Toki,” Nathan had finally noticed his younger band mate when he looked up from his crossword puzzle. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I ams knitting a way cools sweater!” Toki proudly held up his handiwork. It was a wool sweater with an elaborate skull and crossbones pattern.
“Dude,” said Pickles, “Knitting is so NOT METAL!”
“No way! Knitting ams brutals! Look at the cools cable knits pattern!”
“Toki,” said Nathan, now even more horrified. “Knitting is … whatever the word is that’s the opposite of brutal!”
“It’s a skulls pattern! Skulls ams brutal!”
“Ja, in Sweden, gnkttings ams most brutal hobbies,” concurred Skwisgaar.
“Dood, Toki ain’t Swedish!” Pickles objected. “Ain’t he from … er… dat other place?”
“Ja, Norway, it ams like Sweden, only it ams sucks.”
“Guys, guys, could we please get back to the topic?” With no interruptions for all of two seconds, Ofdensen decided to press ahead while the getting was good. “I’ve, uh, signed us up for the Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament, starring Dethklok.”
“No,” said Nathan.
“Pass,” said Pickles.
“Naw,” opined Skwisgaar.
“I’m, uh, sorry you feel that way, but, uh, doing charity work would really help to improve our image.”
“Too buthsy,” lisped Murderface.
“Not interested,” yawned Nathan.
“And it might, uh, improve our record sales.”
“Eh,” said Toki.
“OK, well, I’ll just have to tell the, uh, lingerie models that you boys won’t be there to golf with them….”
There was a silence.
“Glingeray modeslsk?” inquired Toki over his knitting needles.
“Blangergays modsels,” Skwisgaar helpfully told his younger band mate.
“Dood!” said Pickles. “Da chicks dat pose in deir underwear?”
“Undergwear?” inquired, Skwisgaar, suddenly a bit more interested.
“Yes, Skwisgaar,” Ofdensen put in, “Lingerie models are attractive young women who make a living posing for photographs wearing a variety of, uh, appealing undergarments. They were going to participate in the Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament Starring Dethklok, but if you guys are too busy, we’ll just have to tell them….”
“WHO SAID WE’RE TOO BUSY?” rumbled Nathan?
“Well, you just told me….”
“Dood! Now you won’t let us golf with lingerie models?”
“YOU NEVER LET US DO ANYTHING!”
“We ams goings to dos the golfs tourgament whether you likes it or nots.”
“Yeah, dood, you can’t push us around like that.”
“Well, all right, if you’re so insistent….”
“WE ARE INSISTENT!”
“Ja, we ams instisigent!”
“Well all right, then I, uh, suppose I can tell Dick Knubbler…”
“Just one thing,” growled Nathan.
“Yes?”
“What’s a six letter word for savage and cruel?”
“Whats letters does it beginses in?” inquired Skwisgaar.
“I dunno. Ends in L.”
There was a thoughtful silence.
The Dick Knubbler/Dethklok Celebrity Pro/Am Golf Tournament starring Dethklok took place at the picturesque Nihilista National Golf Club, a most exclusive golf club famous for never admitting anybody.
Dick Knubbler was there to give a hearty welcome to the band, his robot eyes shining green. “Hugs all around guys!” he sang. He was greeted with enthusiastic hugs from Murderface and Toki, a grudging hug from Pickles, and a feral warning growl from Nathan.
Skwisgaar returned to the group after turning up short in his quick scan of the course for some hot GMILF action. "Dis ams strange golfs course," he mused, exercising some very stylish tremolo picking on his Gibson. "Dere ams no sexy retired ladies out golfing."
Ofdensen emerged from the Clubhouse proffering a sheaf of papers. "Actually, Skwisgaar, you will find no ladies on this course. The Nihilista is a very exclusive golf club, which admits no women as regular members."
"WHAT?" reasoned Nathan, in tones which could be heard to the next county. "You brought us to a golf course with NO WOMEN!!!!"
"The Nihilista is a very exclusive golf course, they're making a very special exception to their membership rules today for you guys."
"Balls," snorted Skwisgaar. "Dis ams total nut-gathering."
"I ams likes nuts," Toki chirped cheerfully.
"No femaleth ith a good rule," Murderface opined.
"Dood, yer full of crap," Pickles told him.
"Femaleth are the sthpawn of Sthatan! They are not to be trusthted. Oh, hellllooooo, lovely ladieth!!!" Murderface spoke the last part as a bevy of models emerged from the Nihilista Clubhouse and wafted by the band.
Ofdensen took this as a cue to proffer the sheaf of papers he was holding. "I have here your, uh, foursome assignments for today's event."
"Our what?" protested Nathan.
"Dood, I t'ought you told us we was gonna be plain' wit' models."
"Uh, not quite, Pickles. In order to make thing fair, you have all been, uh, randomly assigned to golf partners. Here's your assignment, and here's yours..."
"I'm playing with four dudes?" Nathan howled. "Randomness sucks."
"I ams playing wit' three modelsk," sang Toki.
"Shuts ups, Toki," growled Skwisgaar.
"Who isth Gil Ejector?" inquired Murderface.
"Gil Ejector?" asked Dick Knubbler, his robot eyes suddenly flashing a warning red.
"Yes, William, you have been assigned to play in a foursome with the legendary record producer, Gil Ejector."
"Gil Ejector, that has-been phony," muttered Knubbler.
For complicated reasons, Dick Knubbler was required to remain at least 100 meters from the lingerie models at all times. The keynote speech was therefore given to Nathan Explosion, as he possessed the loudest voice.
After some fumbling and sounding out of unfamiliar words like “golf” and “here” on the prepared speech, he tossed the papers and simply declared, “LET THE BLACKNESS THAT IS CELEBRITY PRO/AM GOLF … BEGIN.”
It was only the second hole and Pickles the drummer had already felt his patience wearing thin. His foursome included an actual model, however, it also included some old dude named Pootie McGurk, who was evidently some sort of Nihilista golf club chairman dildo. What's worse, his manager dude kept assuring him that playing golf with this McGurk jack off was some kind of privilege. Said manager dude being the fourth member of the group, which also rankled.
So far, the only thing Chairman McGurk seemed good for was howling invective at the model when she sliced. Watching the old jack off's chins rattle in the wind while he shrieked at the model again, Pickles casually extracted a spliff that was approximately the size of his forearm from his golf bag and lit up.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" McGurk was suddenly screaming at him.
"Jamaican bud, dood," Pickles explained agreeably. "Wanna hit?"
"You can't smoke that here!" Pickles could swear the dude's eyes had gotten as red as Dick Knubblers' did when he'd messed up his double kick.
"Dood! Next you're gonna be tellin' me I can't snort heroin on the course!"
"How dare you ingrates from a heavy metal band...."
"Death metal," Pickles interjected, taking a log puff.
"WHAT?"
"We play death metal, dood. It's a fusion of t'rash metal and early black metal."
"Quiet, you idiot."
"Dood," Pickles asked Ofdensen, sotto voce, "How can dis dildo t'ink we're dumb when he don't even know his metal sub genres?" The manager shrugged. Some people, Pickles thought, sucking in another drag, were just a bit thick.
Nathan Explosion was pouting. He was standing on the edge of the green on the third hole, and had just sucked down the last beer he’d grabbed from the Nihilista Clubhouse. Now he would almost certainly be forced to watch some jack off play golf.
“This golf course SUCKS,” Nathan told his lead guitarist, tossing the beer bottle aside.
“Ja, dis ams dildos,” Skwisgaar agreed, playing an angry chord on his Gibson.
“Shhhh!” urged their fussy golf partner, who was taking for fucking ever (in Nathan’s opinion at least) to line up a putt from just off the margin of the green.
"Why did Toki get assigned to play with the models, and we get to watch these jack offs?"
"Ja, random assignmentsk ams dildos," Skwisgaar commiserated.
"Will you two mindless idiots shut up with your nonsense?" shouted the fourth member of their quartet, who was standing on the opposite side of the green, as far away from Dethklok personnel as he could possibly manage. This outburst annoyingly caused the jack off who was putting to interrupt his shot and then start to line up everything all over again.
"It's bad enough we have to share our exclusive course with an idiotic heavy metal band...."
"Death metal," rumbled Nathan, now deeply offended as well as annoyed.
"Ja, ams completlies separates genres," Skwisgaar put in helpfully.
"If you two won't cease causing a ruckus, I will take my protest to the course officials!" the excitable man fumed. He was in fact so worked up that he was not looking too carefully where he was going, and, taking a step, suddenly tripped on Nathan’s discarded beer bottle. He stumbled, and fell headfirst into their golf cart, simultaneously knocking himself cold, and setting the cart in motion.
The golf cart careened down the hill, onto the green, and ran straight towards the hole, where it smashed into the flag pole. The flag pole was lofted up high in the air by the impact. As Nathan and Skwisgaar watched, the pole did a midair twist and came down, pointed end first, squarely in the middle of the head of their golf partner, who was still lining up his putt. He ended up neatly skewered right down the middle, like a golfer kebab.
With a final reflex, the skewered man's arms, which still clung to his putter, suddenly jerked, knocking the now blood-splattered golf ball straight into the cup.
“Huh. Par 3. That's pretty good,” commented Nathan.
“Ja, dat weren’t bad, probably.”
"Let’s go see if we can find some MORE BEER.”
William Murderface was doing what he did best, pissing on the shrubbery. Well, he had to go.
A red-faced course official raced up to him. "You can't do that! Stop immediately!" he howled.
Murderface affably shifted his aim so the stream fell on the man's shoes.
"What do you think you're doing? The red-faced man screamed.
"Pithing on your shoeth," Murderface replied helpfully. He would have thought it was pretty obvious, but some people were just slow.
The red-faced man ran off screaming, “I’m going to report you to the Elders of the Course! You’ll be sorry!”
“Murderface! Yeah!” Murderface heard Dick Knubbler’s voice whispering over his shoulder as he zipped. “You gotta help me! They invited that old fraud, Gil Ejector, to my charity golf event! Yeah! I gotta get that guy. Yeah.”
Murderface regarded Knubbler disinterestedly. He noticed the producer’s robot eyes were flashing red. This usually led to something boring, Murderface had learned, like making him redub his bass track for the umpteenth millionth time. Before, that is, Nathan erased it and Skwisgaar redubbed it anyway.
Suddenly, Knubbler dug into his golf bag and withdrew an AK-47. “You’re gonna help me get the bastard, yeah? We’ll be an epic team. We’ll live in legend!”
Murderface’s own eyes lit up at the sight of an assault weapon. “Living in legendth? Thounds awethome,” he concurred.
"Come with me, my brother in arms, yeah!" Knubbler urged.
"Doeth this mean I get an AK too?" inquired Murderface.
Pickles and Ofdensen were in the rough. After the unfortunate model in their foursome had sliced again off the fourth tee, a fuming Chairman McGurk had driven away with her in their golf cart, screaming about reporting them all to the Elders of Golf.
At that point, Pickles had muttered something about getting in touch with his spirit animal. Ofdensen had followed him into the clearing just off the fairway, possibly partly as a way to keep the stoned drummer from any self-injury, but mostly to sneak in a smoke. Usually, golf was either Ofdensen's third or fourth favorite activity, but as McGurk had just driven away with Ofdensen's golf bag, he'd unfortunately been left with nothing but the 9-iron he'd been holding in way of club selection. He could, of course, borrow equipment from Pickles, but he suspected the Dethklok drummer had not packed much in the way or traditional golfing equipment in his bag.
As if in confirmation of his manager's speculations, Pickles withdrew what looked like a gallon bag of some kind of fine, yellowish powder from his golf bag. He dumped the entire contents onto a flat rock, and then plunged his face into the pile, evidently in an attempt to snort the whole lot in one go. He made a brave attempt, actually inhaling an impressive portion of the powder pile before collapsing, face first, into it, in the best Scarface style.
Ofdensen looked on curiously as he lit up his own cigar. Pickles appeared to be still alive. More or less. He took a couple of thoughtful puffs of his Cuban, and then gave Pickles a tentative kick.
The drummer suddenly gasped, raised his head, muttered, “I know what it’s like to be dead!” And thereupon collapsed back into the powder mountain.
Well, that was interesting.
“TOOOOKIIIIII!” The voice could only belong to Nathan Explosion. Nathan and Skwisgaar soon stumbled into the little clearing in the rough.
“Have you guys seen Toki?” Nathan asked the smoking Ofdensen and prone Pickles. Ofdensen shrugged, and Pickles roused for a minute to sputter, “Whooo put all dese t’ings in my head, dooooood!” before collapsing again.
“We’re trying to find Toki,” Nathan explained.
“You’re looking for Toki?” Ofdensen repeated.
“YES! We are concerned about him.”
“You’re concerned about Toki?”
“YES WE ARE CONCERNED ABOUT TOKI WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DOUBT EVERYTHING….”
“And dems lingerie modelsk,” Skwisgaar put in helpfully.
“Uh, yeah, that too,” concurred Nathan.
“Ooooo, I know where Toki isssssss….” Pickles suddenly slurred. All eyes were suddenly on the woozy drummer.
“You know where Toki is?” Nathan asked.
“Yeah, dooooood! I’m watchin’ Toki wit’ my SPIRIT ANIMAL! Dey’re up on da ninth hole!” Pickles collapsed again, sending a cloud of powder wafting up into the breeze. Nathan and Skwisgaar snickered.
“What is that stuff? Because, we’ve gotta get him more of it,” Nathan commented.
“Ja, dat’s comegdy cold dere!” agreed the guitarist.
Ofdensen was suddenly looking at his buzzing Dethphone. “I’ve just been summoned to the, uh, Nihilista Clubhouse, for an, uh, emergency meeting with Chairman McGurk. Nathan, since you’re, uh, concerned about Toki, why don’t you guys take Pickles and, uh, look for him.”
“Sure dude.” Nathan snorted as Skwisgaar attempted to wrestle the drummer into a standing position, only to have him suddenly collapse all over again like some boneless creature. “Really, this is better than pro wrestling.”
"Yeah, Murderface, you gotta watch for that bastard, Gil Ejector. He's gotta come through here," Dick Knubbler was explaining from his perch atop a branch in one of the Nihilista club's fine old trees.
"Yeth," Murderface answered, though he sounded a bit peevish. He was currently some 20 feet below Knubbler, carving a Planet Piss logo into the same tree's trunk. His interest in the producer's vengeance project had cooled appreciably when it became clear the producer was reluctant to share his assault weapons.
Suddenly, there came a cry of, "Get off this golf course Knubbler, you old queen!" Murderface craned his neck to look for the source of the cry, but soon hit the deck when he heard the unmistakable report of automatic weapons fire.
"Eat lead, Ejector, yeah!" replied Knubbler from his arboreal perch, returning fire as he screamed.
Murderface heard a loud cracking sound. He looked up. Ejector's fire had hit the branch where Knubbler was clinging, and now the whole thing, branch, Knubbler and assault rifle, was coming crashing down. Ther was another, louder crack, and Murderface was flat on his back, smashed to the ground.
He tried to move, but his head was being being smothered by something heavy. He forced his eyes open, and then screamed in horror.
"Knubblerth! Get your asth out of my faceth!"
"Aiiiiii! Yeah!" Knubbler hollered. "Get your face out of my ass!"
“TOKI, WHERE ARE YOU?” howled Nathan.
“Heres, Nathans,” came a small, friendly voice. Nathan goggled. Toki was sitting in a small clearing off the 9th hole. He was surrounded by three very enthralled lingerie models, and was eagerly knitting what looked like a hat.
“And you sees, goils, heres ams where you must cast offs…” he explained. The models giggled winsomely.
“TOKI!” screamed Nathan. “HOW MANY TIMES DO WE NEED TO TELL YOU, KNITTING IS NOT BRUTAL!”
“But Nathans, all da beautiful goils ams broken deir fingernail wit' golfing'!” Toki confided. A particularly cute blond model raised a single broken fingernail in demonstration.
“Natans,” opined Skwisgaar, who had just wrested the still drug-addled Pickles up the hill, “Hims ams got a point. We can't haves beautiful lady wit' ams broken nail!"
Nathan was going to protest in most certain terms, but found himself moved by the cruelty of the model's fate. “Huh.”
“You’re making me feel like I’ve never been boooooooorn,” Pickles muttered, falling on his ass once again. His band mates helpfully howled with malicious laughter.
“Nows, where ams Moiderface?” Skwisgaar inquired, when they were quite finished giggling.
“Pickles!” Nathan shook the already dizzy drummer until his dreadlocks quivered. “Where is Murderface?”
“Whooooooaaaaa! Murderface?” said Pickles. "Dood, you will find him down by da laaaakkke......." At which point he went ass over teakettle once again in a most epic manner.
“Seriously,” said Nathan, over the howls of laughter, “We need to get him more of this shit.”
The Elders of Golf had gathered in the Nihilista Clubhouse for an emergency meeting. They were without exception elderly white men, and they all wore scowls of extreme disapproval.
Chairman McGurk, whose exact age could perhaps be divined by counting the number of his chins, was currently enjoying himself by verbally abusing a sobbing model, specifically, the unlucky girl who had also been in his golf foursome for the preceding hour.
"Bad as our judgement was to allow a heavy metal band to desecrate our course, we have exceeded ourselves by deigning to allow women on our sacred grounds! You, young lady, have sliced your last Par 4!"
He snapped his fingers, and a security guard standing nearby slapped the already sobbing girl. This caused a red patch to rise on her cheek, and further encouraged the waterworks.
"Now, be gone from our midst!" She didn't have to be asked twice. She rushed blindly for the doorway, nearly knocking into a quizzical Ofdensen, who had just entered the chambers.
"You, uh, wanted to see me?" he politely asked the glowering Golf Elders.
"We have summoned you here to inform you that your heavy metal band is henceforth and forever banned from our sacred Nihilista course!"
"Uh, death metal, actually," Ofdensen corrected mildly.
"WHAT?"
"They play, uh, death metal. It's a sub genre distinguished by distorted vocals and complex song structure...."
"SILENCE! And furthermore, I'm going to report you to the World Federation of Golf Federation," McGurk harrumphed, rattling several of his chins in his exasperation. "You people will never play on a golf course again after I'm finished!"
"Well, uh, do you think that's a good idea?" reasoned Ofdensen.
"YOU'LL NEVER GOLF AGAIN!" boomed the McGurk, Really, he could have given Nathan a few lessons in screamo style vocals.
“Well, I would, uh, urge you to reconsider, in the strongest possible terms,” Ofdensen said, though not particularly urgently. Anyway, they never listened.
“MURDERFACE!” Nathan screamed. Surely, civilizations crumbled to the sound of that voice.
Nathan had left Skwisgaar and Toki to their enjoyment of Pickles’ current and hilarious state of mind, and had gone looking for Murderface near the lake, where Pickles claimed his spirit animal had spotted the Dethklok bassist.
Suddenly, Nathan found himself being tackled from behind. “STHAY DOWN!” whispered William Murderface.
“I’ll get you, Ejector! Yeah!” Dick Knubbler was screaming, his robot eyes glinting red. He was now firing automatic weapons with both hands.
Nathan was appalled. He’d barely been allowed to bring a handgun on the course, and here Knubbler had not one but two automatic weapons? Not cool.
“It’s Knubbler’th final sthowdown with hith rival, Gil Ejector!” Murderface explained.
“Murderface, we’ve gotta get out of here,” Nathan explained, ducking to dodge some incoming fire from Ejector.
“You’re a has-been, Knubbler!” someone (presumably, Ejector) was screaming.
“C’mon, boys! Over the hill! Yeah, you’ll live forever in legend!” urged Knubbler, waving his guns.
“Don’t you wanna live in legendth?” Murderface asked Nathan, a bit wanly.
“Dude! We’re already fucking rock stars.”
Murderface considered. “Oh, yeth, I forgot.” he finally said.
Knubbler screamed and charged up the hill.
“Come on, let’s go get FUCKING SHITFACED,” Nathan urged. Murderface had to agree, it sounded like a plan. He and the lead singer turned and walked to find their band mates.
Ofdensen was slowly walking away from the Clubhouse. He was walking slowly so the oil he was trailing would pour out of the can in a reasonably consistent manner. He reflected sadly on how appalling it was that the people who ran this establishment would be so careless as to leave all that gasoline and fertilizer so near a building. Well, it was not to be helped. He spilled the very last oil drops from the can, and looked back briefly to admire his handwork. The oil made a small, glistening slug trail as far as he could see up the roadway, to the Nihilista Clubhouse. He tossed the can into the bushes, and reached into his vest pocket. It would also be a waste of a perfectly good cigar. It seemed a crime really, but it couldn’t be helped.
He had barely started puffing when he spotted the little red-faced course official racing up to him. Ofdensen thought at first that the man was going to report yet another breach of course etiquette by a member of his band, but instead, the little red-faced man simply howled, “NO SMOKING ON THIS COURSE!” And then for good measure launched into a rather long-winded speech (well, in Ofdensen’s opinion) regarding his general disrespect for all matters vis-à-vis golf.
At length, the red-faced man was forced to stop and take a breath, at which point, Ofdensen asked, “No smoking?”
“YES THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING ON THIS COURSE WHAT ARE YOU DEAF AS WELL AS STUPID….” But Ofdensen had tuned him out at that point, as he sadly tossed down his cigar.
It took a second or two, but the still smoking cigar ignited the thin trail of oil. The flames quickly skittered up the trail. The red-faced man suddenly ceased his invective, and began a new one. “WAIT, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, WHERE IS THAT GOING….” He suddenly stopped screaming and raced along behind the trail of flame, rushing inevitably towards the Nihilista Clubhouse.
“You know, uh, I wouldn’t do that, if I were, uh, you,” Ofdensen said quietly. Well, they never listened to him. It was as bad as trying to talk to Dethklok, really.
He hiked his 9-iron over his shoulder and started slowly down the road. He heard the explosion, of course, and felt the force of the heat slightly on his back. He watched, slightly amused, as the head of the red-faced man - only the head, but still red-faced - came whirling overhead in the resulting concussion. He wished he had more time to stop and enjoy things, but really, it wasn’t nearly as exciting as most Dethklok concerts. He continued away from the conflagration, badly wishing he’d thought to bring along some extra cigars.
Nathan and Murderface had stopped their golf cart on a rise over the lake in order to better appreciate the Nihilista Clubhouse explosion. They heard the approaching wail of sirens, and turned to watch as the police attempted to break up the ongoing gun battle between Dick Knubbler and Gil Ejector. "You'll never take me alive. Yeah!" the producer was screaming.
"You know, maybe I was wrong, maybe this course doesn't totally suck," Nathan allowed.
"Old fasthioned entertainment, that'th what it is," chimed in Murderface
"Can't buy this kind of thing."
"No, not available for purchath."
They were distracted from the general melée by a rustling sound, down by the lake. The light was dimming, but if you looked closely at the rushes, there seemed to be a creature shaped like an octopus writhing its way into the water.
A really big, really red octopus.
The creature slithered and slipped into the lake with a splash.
"Dude," Nathan told his band mate, "We are totally coming back here with fishing line and some dynamite."
"And maybe a thpeargun," the mustachioed bassist concurred.
Ofdensen was still carrying his 9 iron over his shoulder when he entered the meeting. “Sorry I’m, um, late, I had to, uh, take care of a few matters.”
“Athhole,” put in Murderface helpfully. He was not pleased to find a 9-iron in his face.
“MURDERFACE,” Nathan lectured, squinting through his reading glasses at his New York Times crossword puzzle, “You know better to annoy him when he has a gun or a knife or a 9-iron…”
“Or ams toaster ovens,” suggested Skwisgaar.
Pickles got an appalled look. “Ew. Dood! Don’t bring that up. Dat was brutal.”
“…or a toaster oven,” repeated Nathan.
“Guys! Can we get back on topic! It was unfortunate that the, uh, Nihilista Clubhouse spontaneously blew up completely out of the blue like that….”
“Ja, spontangeous explosions happens,” reasoned Skwisgaar.
"Yeah, t'ings blow up," Pickles interjected.
"But I just got off the phone talking to Dick Knubbler from his exclusive minimum security, uh, rehabilitation facility, and he has an idea for a terrific new project that I think you will all appreciate."
"Toki, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"I ams crocheting a way cool scarves, Natans!"
"Toki, crochetgling ams dildos," Skwisgaar scolded.
"Wait, Skwisgaar, dood, I t'ought you said dat knittin' was cool?"
"Ja, but crochetgling ams balls. Onlies dudes from Norway would t'inks it's cools."
"But da lovelies lingerigie goils in my Stitch 'n Bitches clubs ams teachin' me,” Toki protested.
"Wait," Nathan said. “The models are all in your Stitch 'n Bitch now?"
"Dood, I t'ink I need to knit a scarf too."
"Yeah, winterth ith coming, I think I need a thcarf too."
"Yeah, Toki, we all need scarves,” Nathan scolded. “Why are you keeping all the scarves to yourself like that?"
"Toki, does you thinks da models girl ams having da grandmothers dats knits?" Skwisgaar inquired.
"Ja," his young band mate concurred, "Grandmas ams like gnitting!"
"Den I ams needs a scarves toos!"
"Guys! Guys! Can we get back to the topic? Dick Knubbler just contacted me with an idea for a terrific new joint project, Dethklok on Ice. I am very excited...."
"WAIT!"
"Yes, Nathan?"
"What is a 5 letter word for a shiny, solid chemical element that conducts electricity?"
"Dood! What letter does it begin wit'?"
"Ends in L."
There was silence.
