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tikificTitle: Enchanted April 15th (Mythklok Interstitial)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tax time! Doesn't that sound like a great set up for a fic?
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing, accounting practices
Notes: Actually, corporations have a different tax deadline than the one for income taxes, but you really didn't care, did you?
"Tax time."
"Tax time, dearest."
Sariel glowered up from his desk at a maddeningly grinning Ganesh, who held an equally cheery Elias on a hip. "No, that was not..."
"I am perfectly aware that it is not a term of endearment in the American vernacular. I was simply attempting to lighten the mood," Ganesh explained.
"Skejool aye!" burbled Elias.
"You do have tax deadlines in India?"
"Why, yes! We prepare elaborate musical production numbers and report our income in the form of an interpretive modern dance routine!"
"Do you really..."
"Just trying to...."
"...lighten the mood."
"Kap tall gaynz!" chirped Elias, flapping his little wings.
Sariel steepled his hands. "MAYBE the best thing you could do at the present juncture...."
"...is leave. Say goodbye, Boon!" urged Ganesh.
"Waudit!" gabbled Elias.
And they were gone.
"See! It's Unky Sariel!" sang Raziel, who had just appeared in the office.
"Raziel. What an unexpected...."
"Unexpected pleasure?"
"That is actually not remotely...."
"Abby won't settle down. She needs a good night kissy from Unky Sariel!"
"PLEASE don't call me.... Will this get you out of my office? Is she sticky? Answer the last question first."
"OF COURSE SHE'S STICKY! She's a baby. Whatcha doin' anyway?"
"Nothing. It's just a critical tax deadline. Oh god is that strawberry jam?" asked Sariel, cringing back from deadly baby fingers.
"Boy, I have no idea. But, I'd avoid those fingers if I were you. Why dontcha use magic?"
"On your kid?"
“Win fall profts!” gabbled Abby.
"On the tax forms, silly Sariel! Hey, is Boon around?"
"Ganesh took him. He is probably in our room, far away from modern accounting strategies. In point of fact, why doesn't your child go assault him with her sticky fingers? It might combine with his sticky goo to create a new life form."
"Hey, that's a good idea! But I thought you didn't want them dating?"
"It isn't a date!" Sariel protested.
"Combining goo! I would call that a serious relationship!"
"Noted! Now if you'll be so kind..."
"Wanna go see Boon, Abby? I bet he's less of a Mr. Crankypants than Unky Sariel!"
"Don't call me.... I need to finish the frickin' taxes!"
"Tsk! Taxes are no problemo! Let you big sister help!"
"You're not my big... RAZIEL!"
At a wave of the little angel’s hand, the forms were dancing about the room like a charming animated Disney production number.
Sariel's throat emitted the closest thing in his life it would ever come to a girlie scream.
"There ya go!" sang Raziel, disappearing.
He grabbed the forms. They had all been neatly been filled out.
In Swedish.
"Raziel, I did not owe Swedish taxes!" he howled.
"Swedish taxes, what a bit of chicanery!" Wotan huffed, plopping young Liam down in the middle of the stack of forms.
"Wotan! What are you doing here?"
"Looking for my son!" the god boomed.
"Isn't that him on my desk, teething on Form 126(c-3)?"
"No, the other son. The one over there teething on a groupie."
"Pfffft," muttered Skwisgaar from the doorway.
“C’mon! We’re gonna go teach Liam to smoke cigars!”
“You’re not….”
“Just trying to lighten the mood! Why are the wings up, son?”
“Critical. Tax. Deadline.”
“Oh, you need your Cerubim accountants for that!”
“Withholdingses,” muttered Skwisgaar.
Wotan waved his hand, and suddenly Sariel’s office was filled with angels wearing green eyeshades and calculating on colorful, old-fashioned adding machines.
“There ye go!” Wotan sang, accompanying Skwisgaar out the door.
“Hi, we’re da band, Det’klok!” shouted Pickles from the door.
“And, how did I know you would show up now?” Sariel sighed, putting his head down on his desk as the remaining four members of Dethklok made themselves at home in his office.
"Wanna come pal around with us?" asked Nathan. "Because you haven't been out pall in' around in at least two days! Seriously, we may get A COMPLEX FROM MANAGERIAL NEGLECT!"
"Guys, there is nothing I would like better than to be dragged out of here, force fed cheap liquor, and drugged into a coma. However, I need to finish our taxes!”
“Ischn’t that what the angelic dudesch with the calculatorsch are doing?” Murderface inquired.
“I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing! Hey, Cherubic accountants! I saw over by the water cooler, someone had a sheet cake!” Sariel called.
The room was suddenly emptied of Angelic tax accountancy.
“Hey there son!”
“Jacque…” muttered Sariel.
“Hey, Jacque, your son is being a DOUCHE about going out partying with us!” Nathan tattled.
“Ogoun Charles!” said Jacque sternly. “Why are you being a douche to these nice boys?”
“I. Need. To. Finish. The. Fucking. Taxes.”
“Dere ams a taxes on fucksing?”
"Taxes? Son, this is a job for voodoo economics!" Jacque explained, plucking a chicken out of the air.
“Papa! NOOOOO!”
But quick as a flash, the chicken morphed to an egg, which Jacque gently broke over the desk.
There was a puff of smoke.
Suddenly, the TV monitor in the office clicked on.
"Yes, Dan, everyone working at the IRS - every single employee, from the most high powered middle manager to the lowliest middle manager - has just come down with chicken pox," prattled the TV news reporter.
"Why, that's extraordinary, Connie!"
"This is fucked up shit, Dan."
"I fuckin' love Cnnie Conehead," Nathan boomed.
"What can this mean for tax deadlines, Connie?"
"Well, in lieu of tax forms this year, the IRS has asked everyone to send in some nice calamine lotion!"
"That sounds very soothing, Connie!"
"There ya go son," said Jacque. Now, let's go smoke some cigars and cut up shit."
"Ams there be rum?" asked Toki.
"Sure! And I could show you my reattaching severed fingers trick!" Jacque said, putting a friendly arm around the guitarist.
"Wowee!" said Toki.
"Papa…. Oh, forget it," muttered Sariel, grabbing a cigar and heading to the doorway with the crowd.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tax time! Doesn't that sound like a great set up for a fic?
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing, accounting practices
Notes: Actually, corporations have a different tax deadline than the one for income taxes, but you really didn't care, did you?
"Tax time."
"Tax time, dearest."
Sariel glowered up from his desk at a maddeningly grinning Ganesh, who held an equally cheery Elias on a hip. "No, that was not..."
"I am perfectly aware that it is not a term of endearment in the American vernacular. I was simply attempting to lighten the mood," Ganesh explained.
"Skejool aye!" burbled Elias.
"You do have tax deadlines in India?"
"Why, yes! We prepare elaborate musical production numbers and report our income in the form of an interpretive modern dance routine!"
"Do you really..."
"Just trying to...."
"...lighten the mood."
"Kap tall gaynz!" chirped Elias, flapping his little wings.
Sariel steepled his hands. "MAYBE the best thing you could do at the present juncture...."
"...is leave. Say goodbye, Boon!" urged Ganesh.
"Waudit!" gabbled Elias.
And they were gone.
"See! It's Unky Sariel!" sang Raziel, who had just appeared in the office.
"Raziel. What an unexpected...."
"Unexpected pleasure?"
"That is actually not remotely...."
"Abby won't settle down. She needs a good night kissy from Unky Sariel!"
"PLEASE don't call me.... Will this get you out of my office? Is she sticky? Answer the last question first."
"OF COURSE SHE'S STICKY! She's a baby. Whatcha doin' anyway?"
"Nothing. It's just a critical tax deadline. Oh god is that strawberry jam?" asked Sariel, cringing back from deadly baby fingers.
"Boy, I have no idea. But, I'd avoid those fingers if I were you. Why dontcha use magic?"
"On your kid?"
“Win fall profts!” gabbled Abby.
"On the tax forms, silly Sariel! Hey, is Boon around?"
"Ganesh took him. He is probably in our room, far away from modern accounting strategies. In point of fact, why doesn't your child go assault him with her sticky fingers? It might combine with his sticky goo to create a new life form."
"Hey, that's a good idea! But I thought you didn't want them dating?"
"It isn't a date!" Sariel protested.
"Combining goo! I would call that a serious relationship!"
"Noted! Now if you'll be so kind..."
"Wanna go see Boon, Abby? I bet he's less of a Mr. Crankypants than Unky Sariel!"
"Don't call me.... I need to finish the frickin' taxes!"
"Tsk! Taxes are no problemo! Let you big sister help!"
"You're not my big... RAZIEL!"
At a wave of the little angel’s hand, the forms were dancing about the room like a charming animated Disney production number.
Sariel's throat emitted the closest thing in his life it would ever come to a girlie scream.
"There ya go!" sang Raziel, disappearing.
He grabbed the forms. They had all been neatly been filled out.
In Swedish.
"Raziel, I did not owe Swedish taxes!" he howled.
"Swedish taxes, what a bit of chicanery!" Wotan huffed, plopping young Liam down in the middle of the stack of forms.
"Wotan! What are you doing here?"
"Looking for my son!" the god boomed.
"Isn't that him on my desk, teething on Form 126(c-3)?"
"No, the other son. The one over there teething on a groupie."
"Pfffft," muttered Skwisgaar from the doorway.
“C’mon! We’re gonna go teach Liam to smoke cigars!”
“You’re not….”
“Just trying to lighten the mood! Why are the wings up, son?”
“Critical. Tax. Deadline.”
“Oh, you need your Cerubim accountants for that!”
“Withholdingses,” muttered Skwisgaar.
Wotan waved his hand, and suddenly Sariel’s office was filled with angels wearing green eyeshades and calculating on colorful, old-fashioned adding machines.
“There ye go!” Wotan sang, accompanying Skwisgaar out the door.
“Hi, we’re da band, Det’klok!” shouted Pickles from the door.
“And, how did I know you would show up now?” Sariel sighed, putting his head down on his desk as the remaining four members of Dethklok made themselves at home in his office.
"Wanna come pal around with us?" asked Nathan. "Because you haven't been out pall in' around in at least two days! Seriously, we may get A COMPLEX FROM MANAGERIAL NEGLECT!"
"Guys, there is nothing I would like better than to be dragged out of here, force fed cheap liquor, and drugged into a coma. However, I need to finish our taxes!”
“Ischn’t that what the angelic dudesch with the calculatorsch are doing?” Murderface inquired.
“I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing! Hey, Cherubic accountants! I saw over by the water cooler, someone had a sheet cake!” Sariel called.
The room was suddenly emptied of Angelic tax accountancy.
“Hey there son!”
“Jacque…” muttered Sariel.
“Hey, Jacque, your son is being a DOUCHE about going out partying with us!” Nathan tattled.
“Ogoun Charles!” said Jacque sternly. “Why are you being a douche to these nice boys?”
“I. Need. To. Finish. The. Fucking. Taxes.”
“Dere ams a taxes on fucksing?”
"Taxes? Son, this is a job for voodoo economics!" Jacque explained, plucking a chicken out of the air.
“Papa! NOOOOO!”
But quick as a flash, the chicken morphed to an egg, which Jacque gently broke over the desk.
There was a puff of smoke.
Suddenly, the TV monitor in the office clicked on.
"Yes, Dan, everyone working at the IRS - every single employee, from the most high powered middle manager to the lowliest middle manager - has just come down with chicken pox," prattled the TV news reporter.
"Why, that's extraordinary, Connie!"
"This is fucked up shit, Dan."
"I fuckin' love Cnnie Conehead," Nathan boomed.
"What can this mean for tax deadlines, Connie?"
"Well, in lieu of tax forms this year, the IRS has asked everyone to send in some nice calamine lotion!"
"That sounds very soothing, Connie!"
"There ya go son," said Jacque. Now, let's go smoke some cigars and cut up shit."
"Ams there be rum?" asked Toki.
"Sure! And I could show you my reattaching severed fingers trick!" Jacque said, putting a friendly arm around the guitarist.
"Wowee!" said Toki.
"Papa…. Oh, forget it," muttered Sariel, grabbing a cigar and heading to the doorway with the crowd.
