Blocks (Mythklok, Chapter 72)
Oct. 10th, 2011 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Blocks (Mythklok, Chapter 72)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Nathan and Toki compete; Skwisgaar shops for a guitar
Warnings: Hell Fries
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok started existence as a Metalocalypse AU. Now, your guess is as good as mine.
Last time: Someone dreamed of a hunt; memories of acquiring a new Dethklok member; and there was programming in C++. Also, Charles' evil ex has gone missing.
In Her underground lair....
“Un-flipping-believable.”
She sat in her underground throne room, picking imaginary lint from her blouse.
“Lady,” said the human now cowering in front of her. “I did exactly as you said. It's just, he's changed – they've all changed somehow. ”
“He's just a little mixed blood angel,” She tutted, examining a ripe red fingernail. “And a particularly scruffy one at that.”
“He's got some kind of Hindu god of vengeance watching over him.”
“Pagans. They will do what they will.”
There were angels arrayed around the periphery. Lower orders – window dressing, really, if this place had had a window. “Pashar,” whispered big blond Quaphsiel as his smaller, darker friend slipped into place, late as usual.
“What's going on?” whispered Pashar.
“Some human is getting a stern talking to from Herself. Did you bring the Hell Fries?” inquired Quaphsiel, a hungry look in his light eyes.
Pashar held up a greasy fast food bag, and then quickly tucked it back behind his wings before anyone saw.
“Love those things,” said Quaphsiel.
“I know, right? The sauce....”
“YOU TWO!” The two Cherubim looked up guiltily at the big Seraph, Gabriel, but then all three stole a glance to the corner, to the very large, white angel reclining there.
He was looking back, grinning a grin.
Pashar felt his stomach sink. Suddenly, he was not in the mood for delicious Dethklok Hell Fries.
“Soooo,” She was musing to the human, “what do you suppose I should do with you, now that you've flipping failed me, and possibly betrayed the entire campaign!”
“You can.... You can call me Gerry,” said Mrs. Jeffers. “No need to be formal.”
“So, GERRY – will someone please bring me my mother-flipping Red Bull? So, GERRY, I have to wonder, if you're not with me, then MAYBE you're really for the other side!”
“I sent my own little daughter, Ashleigh....”
“Aha!” said She, looking canny. “So, perhaps we should pay a teensy little visit to Ashleigh, right, Gerry?”
“No!”
“No? Wouldn't she appreciate us?”
“No. This was.... This was my failure. I accept all responsibility.”
“Your failure?”
“Yes.” Gerry Jeffers drew herself up. “I apologize, your highness.”
It happened before Mrs. Jeffers could even turn to look. She was what might have been termed, in a more genteel time, a woman “of a certain age,” but still attractive. But then she was a much older woman. And then the wrinkles had turned to furrows, her face desiccated, the clothes hanging off what was little more than a skeleton with skin stretched over it. And then Uriah removed his hand from the bony shoulder, and the remains of Mrs. Gerry Jeffers tumbled to the floor, breaking into several pieces as it impacted, the dusty remains lying there, quiet as a grave.
“Apology accepted, Mrs. Jeffers,” She trilled, flouncing off, guzzling Red Bull.
Uriah simply grinned. And then followed on Her heel.
“You two!”
Quaphsiel and Pashar jumped at the sound of Gabriel's voice.
“Clean up this mess. Step to it!”
“Uh, dude?” said Quaphsiel quietly to Pashar as he grabbed the dustpan.
“Yeah. I know,” said Pashar, picking up a broom.
The present day, Mordhaus....
Nathan Explosion was considering fatherhood.
Specifically, he was musing about what the condition had done to his own father, a career military man, tough as nails, neck as big around as a tree trunk, who had shrunk to sounding out Wiggly Piggly books for a taciturn 5-year-old instead of drinking and carousing with his buddies.
And then there was his manager, the once sharp barracuda of a man (OK, maybe not a man, some kinda weird angel-demon thing, or something) who now spent his live coated in a thin layer of oatmeal and peanut butter. Nathan threw open the door to Charles' office to find, sadly and not to his surprise, that the chair was empty, occupied only by somewhat stained grey suit jacket. And it was not even carefully draped over the back, but crumpled – almost balled up – and tossed into the seat of the chair.
“Hey Nathan! We're over here!”
Nathan walked nearer to the couch on the other side of the desk.
“Nate-Nate!” called a much smaller voice.
“We're playing blocks!” said Charles, proudly holding up a small cube of wood with a crude cartoon of an elephant carved out on one side.
Nathan came round to couch to see his manager lying on the floor in shirtsleeves, tie askew, his body semi-curled around a medium sticky toddler, who was giving every bit of his furious attention to lining up more blocks.
“Blocks?” sighed Nathan.
“Some hippy dippy toy. From Bréagán. Anyway, we spelled A is for APPLE! And then we spelled...”
“BIE!” cheered Elias, helpfully pointing out the modular array.
“You're teaching him how to spell different pies?” asked Nathan, who was now sorrowing for the future of humanity.
“And then look what Boon spelled!” said Charles, fatherly pride overtopping his small stature. He pushed a line of blocks into Nathan's viewing range.
Nathan gawped, the ice of his despair suddenly melting into a full warm spring of hopefulness for the future.
“METAL,” he whispered. A tear may have shone in the very corner of his eye.
“BETA!” repeated Elias, whacking the blocks for emphasis, tiny eyes batting at Uncle Nathan. “EM-EE-TEE-AY-EL!”
“That's awesome!” Nathan agreed – he had to agree! What other possible course could there be? - hunkering down beside them.
“My kid's a genius,” Charles crowed.
“We need to show him more words!” said Nathan, somewhat uncomfortably maneuvering his bulk into a cross-legged position on Charles' floor.
“Banana crème?” suggested Charles.
“Why are you fucking angels so fucking loopy over fucking pies?” Nathan groused, arranging blocks in a line. “It's SILLY, Charles.”
“It's not angels. It's Seraphim. And, I dunno why, really.”
“D-E-A-T-H! DEATH METAL!” said Nathan, displaying his work.
“Def meta!” agreed Elias, excitedly surveying the blocks.
“Don't you have any dessert up there in, you know, wherever?” asked Nathan.
“Yeah, they got sweet stuff,” said Charles. “S-P-double-E-D. SPEED METAL!” he showed Elias.
“Oooo!” said the kid.
“So you eat and stuff?” asked Nathan. “I mean, you probably don't fucking eat, but I mean, everybody else?”
“It's pretty much the same up there as it is down here. I mean, too much fucking silver and gold all over everything. But, you do whatever beings do everywhere, eat and drink and fuck and shit.” He looked up at Nathan, who was staring.
“Angels on the john? Really?”
“It's gotta come out somewhere. And that's another reason why, you know, the wings?” He pointed to his wingless back.
“Oh, yeah. Ewwwww!”
“They pick up everything. Everything!”
“G-R-I-N-D. GRIND!” said Nathan.
“Gwind!” said Elias.
“The Creator made us like this,” Charles continued. “I dunno why. Maybe it was just a joke.”
“A joke?” said Nathan. “You talk to the dude? Sometimes?”
Charles looked sullen. “Ganesh does, mostly. He wants to see Elias. I don't see how I can prevent Him.” He put a protective hand through Elias' tangled hair.
“What the fuck do those two talk about, anyway?” said Nathan.
“Oh, they're both nuts for Corazon de Azul. B-L-A-C-K. BLACK.”
“Bwak!”
“You know,” said Nathan, “I didn't really get along with my dad up 'til a little while ago. But now we go hunting and fishing and we hang out. It's pretty cool.”
“Nathan....”
“I don't think I got it, you know? How it is when you have a fucking kid and they're there squalling all the time and stuff,” Nathan said, gesturing towards Elias. “I mean, kids need stuff! Like you gotta burp 'em and all that! And teach 'em to spell!”
“Nathan. He left me in the woods, alone, to die.”
“What about Toki's dad?”
“Yeah. Well. Maybe I know more about that than you guys do.”
Nathan looked curiously, but Charles said nothing more. “G-O-R-E, GORE!” he told Elias.
“Go!” squealed Elias.
“Nathan Explosion!” came a voice.
“Uh. Yeah. Lady Raz.”
“It's time,” said Raziel, pointing at her jeweled wristwatch and tapping a little foot.
“WE'RE PLAYING BLOCKS!” protested Nathan.
“Nathan! You gotta be ready for America's Next Fashion Victim.”
Both Nathan and Charles moaned.
“Hey, Raziel, look!” said Charles, suddenly grabbing a somewhat puzzled Elias and holding him up. “A CUTE BABY!”
“You can't pull that one on me!” lectured Raziel, wagging a well-manicured finger in his direction. “Aw, can they pull that on me? Not they can't! No they can't” she told Elias, who she had grabbed, nevertheless, and was now bouncing on a hip. Suddenly, she extended a designer boot into a fleeing being's path. “Liam Odinsson! I mean, Nathan Explosion!” she said to the figure who was trying to crawl away.
“Ulp,” said Nathan.
“For the record, I tried,” Charles told him, grinning.
“C'mon, we gotta get Toki,” said Raziel, yanking the much bigger being up by his elbow. “Hey,” she called from the outer office. “I think maybe you're needed out here!”
Charles frowned. Taking Elias by the hand, he walked to his door.
The receptionist, Klokateer 31415, who was these days often addressed by his nickname, Pie, was there, along with two beings, who were not waiting patiently in chairs, but rather, lying down on the floor, as Pie's foot was on the neck of one, and his Glock handgun was pointed at the heart of the other.
“Sire, these two men would like a word with you.”
“Any-joo!” said Elias, pointing.
“That's right, son, those are definitely angelic beings,” Charles told Elias. He squinted down at the cowering beings. “Huh. Do I know you?”
“No!” said the little dark one. “We work for Her, Honored Sariel.”
“Her? Who her? Oh, you mean the Goddess?”
“The same.”
“Too many gods damned women with no name. What the fuck are you doing at Mordhaus?”
“We're defecting, Honored Sariel!” said the blond one. “We wanna work for you instead!”
“Oh. So, you're traitors in other words?” asked Charles, narrowing his eyes.
“NOOOOOO!” said the dark one.
“Well, actually, yes,” said the blond one. “That is technically correct.”
“Pie, let these two clowns up. I think they'll be all right.”
“We're not actually clowns,” explained the blond. “We're Cherubim!”
“Uh-huh. Same difference. Come on,” said Charles, walking back into the office. “Siddown,” he instructed the angels, pointing to some guest chairs. He sat down himself, pulling Elias into his lap. The boy picked up an electronic tablet and began to press his chubby fingers to it.
“So, you obviously know me. Who are you?”
“I'm Pashar, and this is Quaphsiel,” said the dark one, pointing to his blond friend.
“Is that the child?” inquired Quaphsiel, who was looking curiously at Elias. Pashar tried to shush him.
“Yeah, this is my kid,” said Charles. He looked over his glasses at the Cherubim, and something seemed to momentarily flash through his eyes. Maybe it was just the light striking his glasses. He leaned forward slightly, putting a hand through Elias' tangled hair. “So, how did you guys get in trouble with the Goddess?”
“We're not in trouble,” said Pashar.
“It was getting creepy!” said Quaphsiel.
“How so?”
“You know Uriah?” asked Pashar.
“I know of him,” Charles allowed.
“He's got powers,” said Pashar.
“What kind of powers?” asked Charles, gazing thoughtfully over Elias' shoulder.
“He can take it away. All the Creator hath granted,” said Quaphsiel, who had suddenly switched to speaking Common Angelic. Elias quite suddenly stopped what he was doing to look at his father. Charles nodded at him, and Elias returned to the electronic pad.
“So, Uriah specifically takes away things granted by Him?” asked Charles.
Pashar and Quaphsiel exchanged a glance, and then nodded. “Well. Yes,” said Pashar. “But, He is the author of all things.”
“Could be,” mused Charles. “Could be.” Pashar and Quaphsiel exchanged another worried glance.
“So, whaddya want?” Charles asked.
“We wanted to work for you,” Pashar told him.
“We have heard you have sheet cake!” said Quaphsiel.
“And,” said Pashar cautiously, “Hell Fries.”
“We have damned good sheet cake, as it happens,” Charles told them. “And a pretty much endless supply of fries. Lemme go chat with my receptionist about alerting the kitchen.”
“Uh, that would be the fellow with the Glock?” gulped Pashar.
“He's a great guy. One minute,” he said, leading Elias out the door to the outer office.
His receptionist looked up, the hooded head cocked to the side. “Pie, whatever you're doing today, cancel it, this is what you're doing today: these two knuckleheads.”
“Yes, sire?”
“Stuff 'em full of sheet cake, and listen to everything they've got to say! Everything. And get Kam – they tend to start talking Common, and I don't want you to miss any subtleties.”
“Certainly sire. Strategic purposes?”
“Literally anything, even if it doesn't seem useful. What they ate, what they wore.... Oh, yeah, and after you're done, get Raziel here to start over. And Chango and Orula and their torture tea!”
“Very good, sire.”
“I'll go get Kam,” said Charles, leading Elias by the hand.
“Dada, lookee!” said the boy once they were out in the corridor.
“That's very nice, dear. Is that in the Renaissance style?” Charles guessed, looking at the two angels, one light, and one dark, depicted in Elias' drawing on the electronic pad.
“An Pash an' Kwapsh, in da Too Foam!”
“Oh, their True Forms, huh?”
“Uh-huh!”
“You know what they look like? Without seeing 'em?”
“Uh-huh!”
Charles stopped and regarded his son for a long moment. “Another power, huh? Well, I guess Ganesh can see magic. All right, let's go see Kam!” They continued down the corridors to their suite.
“Oh, there we are!” said Kamuel.
“Plans have changed. I'm taking Boon with me. You get down to my office. Pie is chatting with a couple of angels, and I need someone there I trust to listen if they start babbling in Angelic.”
“Angels?” asked Kam.
“They're from Her camp.”
Kam blinked. “Oh! Oh, all right.”
“We gotta go. We gotta round up Skwisgaar and get outta here.”
“Honored Sariel. I wondered if I might … speak to you some time?”
“PLEASE don't tell me you're going to graduate school!”
Kam smiled. “Well, no. As you might know … you know, I've been sitting with the boy, Jyoti?”
“The one from the orphanage. Yeah. He's a good kid.”
“He is very special to me. However, Honored Ganesh has offered me.... He has proposed.... And adoption?”
“You would get to keep him?”
“We're obviously of different cultures. Obviously! But we get on so well. And he is special needs so would be difficult to place with human parents. But it is such a responsibility....”
“Kam, you want my advice?”
“Well, yes....”
Charles looked down at Elias, who smiled up at him. “It needs to be done. Don't mull it the fuck over. Take him.”
“You would...? Really?”
“Really. I gotta go. Your decision. But anything you need, we'll make it happen. Come on!” he said, lifting up Elias.
“Thank you. Sir,” said Kam as Charles ducked out.
“OK,” Charles told Elias. “We gotta go untangle Skwisgaar from some groupies, and then we're gonna see Uncle Phanuel. You like Uncle Phanuel?”
“Uh-huh!”
“America's Next Fashion Victim,” grumbled Nathan Explosion as he squinted through his reading glasses into a six month old copy of Hello! Magazine in the ANFV green room. “What the fuck was Lady Raz thinking? Not that she thinks. She seems to mostly just wave that fucking sword around.”
“I ams looksing forwards to talksing with Pippis!” Toki told him, as he shook out the cropped sweater he was knitting to make sure his stitching was straight.
“Yeah?”
“I ams has da ideas for knitswear dis falls!”
“Please tell me you did not just say what I just heard you saying.”
But the conversation ground to a halt was the green room door swung back and a lithe figure sashayed in.
“Pippi,” said Nathan, his mouth suddenly lolling open as the Danish supermodel, Pippi Bluestocking, paraded into the waiting room. She was a good six foot tall, at least 5' 10” of which appeared to be composed of legs. To add a needless illusion to her stature, she was further lofted by a pari of designer high heeled boots which may have given even Lady Raziel pause.
“Hellos, Miss Bluestockings!” said Toki cheerily, rising.
“Hmpf. You guys ams from Dethflock?” asked Pippi, eyeing the two musicians as if they were a couple of K Mart catalog models. What with the legs and the heels and hair foofed up on her head, she was at least three inches taller than he.
“Uh. Dethklok. Yeah,” said Nathan, his eyes eventually drifting up from Pippi's glorious legs to somewhere near her facial region.
“You ams heads-buttsed our Prince!” she told them.
“Hey, yeah, Murderface,” chuckled Nathan.
“He ams still in tractions,” sniffed Pippi.
“Oh, and you know the best part?” laughed Nathan. “Skwisgaar still thinks the guy is Dutch!”
“Dutch?” hissed Pippi. “Pfffft!” At which point, she turned on her high heel and departed.
“Toki, dude, did that chick just 'Pffft' us? Because, that wasn't cool.”
“I ams not t'inks she depreciates being mistaksen for da Dutch, Nat'ans,” Toki told him.
“Danish, Dutch, what's the difference? They both have fruit pies, right?”
“Uh....”
“All right, people, are we ready?” came a high voice from the doorway. Nathan squinted down at the tiny man now standing there.
“Ready for what?” growled Nathan.
“Ready to be America's next fashion victim! Come on, let's use it or lose it!” And then the tiny man had darted out of the doorway, off the find his Hobbit hole, Nathan guessed.
“What does that even mean, use it or lose it?” asked Nathan.
“Ams da t'emes of da shows! Dat ams 'Beat' Beretta, da co-hosts. Ams you not watches it every weeks wit' me, Nat'ans?”
“Yeah, but, you know, I'm waiting for Pippi to bend over or something. So, are we supposed to follow the Hobbit dude or what?”
Toki shrugged and they exited the door. The saw passed by a group of people staggering down the hall the other way.
“Who are those douches, you suppose?” Nathan asked Toki.
“Oh. Dose ams da last groups of contesticants!” Toki told him. “No biggie.”
Nathan blinked and looked back. And then he looked at Toki.
“TOKI!”
“Ja?”
“Why were they all covered in CHEESE SPREAD?”
“Dis ams dat scary shoppings malls we went through on da way outta hell?” Skwisgaar asked nervously. Charles smiled and held on to Elias' little hand as they ventured down the large escalator. Skwisgaar always looked a bit out of sorts when forced to undergo separation from his beloved Gibson, but as he would be looking for a guitar today, Charles had somehow convinced him to leave the precious object behind, in the tender care of some loyal GMILFs.
“There have been some, uh, changes made. Under new management, you know,” Charles assured him. He tried to conceal his own trepidation. There were really few beings he trusted more than Phanuel the Grey, but the last time they had ventured down this way, they had barely escaped with their lives. And Ganesh had, in fact, been clinically dead for a few moments. Charles steeled himself from an involuntary shudder and forced his eyes down towards Elias, who was gripping the handle and staring wide-eyed at everything.
The escalator went down much further than any human-made device should. Charles spotted the solemn Seraph standing down at the bottom, patiently awaiting them.
“I am very pleased. To see you. Today,” enunciated Phanuel when at last the small party found themselves on solid ground.
“Unky Phan!” said Elias.
“And how are you, my dearest?” said the angel, his grave expression melting as he scooped up his beloved sister's grandchild.
“Bidchure fo' Unkyphan!” Elias told him, holding up the rolled canvas he had been clutching.
“You have made me. A picture. Elias?” inquired Phanuel.
“Yeah. Uh-huh,” Elias nodded.
Phanuel set down Elias and removed the ribbon from the canvas, and then carefully unrolled it. “Oh, my!” he said.
“Dat kid ams done dat?” asked Skwisgaar.
“Well. Ganesh helped,” grinned Charles. “Though I understand he mostly kept Elias from eating the paint. He hadn't worked in acrylic before.
“And where is. Our Ganesha. Today?” asked Phanuel.
“Oh. He says hi. He would've come along, but we're both pretty busy getting ready for the Naming.”
“Well,” said Phanuel. “I thank you very much. For this artwork,” Phanuel told Elias.
“We'come!” said Elias.
“What we shall do,” said the angel, carefully rolling up the canvas, “we shall get to a shop. I know. And get this. Properly matted!”
“Da kidsy pictures?” Skwisgaar grumbled, more or less under his breath.
“You do not like. Children?” Phanuel inquired.
“Uh,” said Skwisgaar, now feeling a bit like he'd got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “No,” he admitted.
Phanuel gazed for a long while at Skwisgaar, arching an eyebrow, and then turned on his heel, walking off with Elias holding his hand.
Skwisgaar frowned irritably at Charles, who almost but not quite wiped the slight smile off his face in time. “He ams just called me da idiots!” Skwisgaar told Charles.
“Uh, I didn't hear anything,” said Charles.
“Hims ams used da eyebrow!”
“Oh, well, uh, I dunno,” said Charles, hurrying after Phanuel.
“Hims ams sneaksy angels,” muttered Skwisgaar, following after them.
“Explain to me again WHY I'M DRESSED LIKE A DOUCHE?” Nathan inquired of Toki.
Toki tied to hide his smile when he looked up at Nathan, who was clothed from the waist up in a huge papier-mache costume that resembled nothing so much as a large cartoon bowling pin.
“You ams walks up da hills, Nat'ans, whiles I ams makes da patterns!” said Toki.
“But why aren't YOU dressed like a douche? And why do you get to hang out with the underwear model?” he asked, indicating the cute and very scantily clad young lady who was standing beside Toki's workspace.
“You ams wants to switches?” asked Toki, holding up an intricate looking pattern.
“Well, uh, no, I guess not.”
“You ams just needs to gets up dat hills while I ams measurings!”
Nathan looked up and surveyed the game course. It had the appearance of nothing so much as a giant pinball playfield, complete with bumpers and flashing lights.
“I just run up that?” asked Nathan. “It's a hill. Can I walk?”
“Just makes sure you ams nots elimininitated, 'cause den I gots to stops working on dis pattern.”
“Yeah, I think I can avoid being, uh, eliminin... Uh, knocked out. Uh, how do you get knocked out by the way?
“You ams gets knocked out,” answered Toki dryly.
“Are we READY?” cheered “Beat” Beretta, suddenly urging Nathan over to the starting line.
“Why is there a pool of whipped cream down here?” wondered Nathan, looking in back of the starting line.
“Contestants, line up, and remember, Use it or lose it!”
“What the fuck does that even mean?” grumbled Nathan as the starting gun fired. He watched the other contestants, also dressed in cumbersome costumes, scramble awkwardly up the incline of the playfield, and ambled after them. “Why is everybody in such a fucking hurry? Fashion, who needs it,” he mused.
Suddenly, it was as if someone had scored a multiball, and some huge round objects, which somewhat resembled pinballs after a massive steroid injection, came tumbling down the playfield, bouncing off bumpers, and knocking over, one by one, a raft of contestants, who went comically rolling down the field, and right into a splash of whipped cream at the bottom.
“Wow!” said Nathan, who had stepped behind a bumper. “That's actually pretty funny. Maybe fashion ain't so bad after all.”
“Dis ams looks different dan da last times,” Skwisgaar commented as the small group strolled through Purgatory Mall. They had stopped for a moment by an escalator to listen to a string quartet playing.
“Yeah, I don't recognize any of these retailers,” said Charles, looking around at the names of the stores.
“Changes have been made,” Phanuel told them. “After I assumed. Administration.” He nodded to the musicians, who smiled and nodded back, and the moved on. “These shops are all devoted to artisans now. The quartet? We crafted the instruments here. We also created and sewed their costumes. And even the chairs. They were sitting upon. And here we are!”
They had arrived at the end of an aisle, at a music store. It was huge: the size of a large department store up on earth. There were racks upon racks of musical instruments on display. Charles paused at the entryway, gazing up in apparent wonder at the name of the store. “Phanuel,” he said.
“I hope you do not mind,” smiled the angel. “It is. A small tribute. To your past history.”
“What ams it?” Skwisgaar asked, scratching his head at the weird script.
“It's, uh, my name. In Angelic,” Charles told him. He blushed and then hurried inside, Skwisgaar looking curiously after him.
“So, uh, these instruments were all made in Purgatory?” Charles asked Phanuel. They were walking past a very very very large selection of percussion instruments, everything from rock and roll drum kits to tablas to bongos xylophones to African steel drums.
“The workshop is on site,” Phanuel told him. “Would you like to see?” the Seraph asked Elias, who nodded enthusiastically.
They walked down an aisle of zithers and harps to a doorway. The guard nodded at Phanuel, and the party all stepped through to a world of happy chaos, at least twice as big again as the retail floor. There were work tables as far as the eye could see, and workers busy sawing, hammering, polishing, stringing and tuning and a million other jobs.
Phanuel led them past workers assembling grand pianos and carving didgeridoos and stringing sitars to an area that was mostly guitars.
“These ams looks amazings Phanuel,” Skwisgaar said, regarding a nearly finished Gibson-style electric guitar in wonder.
“We will take you shortly. To see the finished pieces,” said Phanuel proudly. “But in the meantime,” he said, watching Charles leaning over the shoulder of a man affixing a neck to a solid body, “perhaps Honored Sariel. Would care to show my associates. His art?”
Charles blinked up at Phanuel. “What? Oh, no no no no. We don't have time.”
“As I have said,” Phanuel told him. “We may escort Skwisgaar. To make a preliminary selection. While you work.”
Charles had to restrain himself from bouncing up and down on his toes. Several of the souls who had been assembling guitars had stopped and quietly gathered around.
“Uhhhh. Would you be OK on your own for a while, Skwisgaar?” he asked hopefully.
“Pfft. I ams selects da guitars on my owns!”
“Would you care to see. Your daddy. Create a guitar?” Phaunel suggested to Elias, who replied with a storm of nods and “Uh-huh's.”
Charles already had his jacket and tie off and tossed over a chair back. Another worker pulled up a stool for Elias to sit in so he could see the activity on the high work bench.
“Won't you come this way?” Phanuel asked Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar gazed at Charles (who, leaning over the workbench, seemed off in his own world) for a bit longer, and then walked along with Phanuel.
“Hims ams made da instruments?” Skwisgaar asked.
“For many. Centuries,” Phanuel replied, pausing to let the expanse of time sink in. “I gather from my daughter. He had. Among the humans. A certain fame.”
“All you dudes been around for da centuries,” Skwisgaar sighed.
“Yes. Much time wasted.”
“Wasted?”
“I cannot convey how much of that time we have all spent. In warfare. But here?” They had emerged from Sariel's department store and into the main mall, and were presently walking past a bakery. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted out. “Here, I am giving souls a chance to find a calling. A chance, perhaps, they lacked, in life. Ah, here we are.” He had paused before a smaller, boutique-like store.
It stocked hand-made guitars. And only hand-made guitars.
Skwisgaar gripped his chest.
He was having a guitargasm.
“You ams gots dat cart?” inquired Toki, looking over to Nathan.
“Oh, yeah,” said Nathan, gripping the handles of the metal grocery shopping cart. He grinned, looking over at the other dripping wet and cranky contestants.
“We ams got fifteens minutes to gets da materials on da lists!” Toki explained.
“That doesn't sound so hard!” said Nathan.
“Ja, but you ams never watched da shows excepts for Pippi's assets!” sighed Toki.
“It's a good reason!” protested Nathan. Toki shrugged in apparent agreement.
“All right, people!” squealed “Beat” Beretta. “Use it or lose it!”
The starting gun sounded, and suddenly, “Yakety Sax” was playing.
“Oh,” said Nathan, still at the starting gate. “That's never a good sign.” He pushed on.
“Dere, we ams needs some o' dat!” said Toki, who pointed up. Way up.
“You need the shit way up on the top shelf?” asked Nathan, pointing to the tulle Toki was indicating. “Why don't you just use some of this shit?” he said, pulling out a random roll of fabric.
“Tsk! Nat'ans, dat ams never drapes rights! Here!”
Nathan grunted, and gave Toki a leg up. “I ams almost gots it!” the guitarist shouted.
But then, all of a sudden, a costumed character leapt out and growled at Nathan, who lost his footing, sending him toppling over, Toki landing atop him.
“WHO IS THAT ASSHOLE!” shrieked Nathan, untangling himself from Norwegians.
“Dat ams do boxings gods,” groaned Toki, rubbing his hip.
“Oh, yeah? You know who I am, asshole?” asked Nathan, as the large character feinted punches at him.
The character mimed a shrug, but then someone inside could be heard crying a muffled, “Aiiii!” when it came in contact with the fist of a very angry death metal musician.
“THE GUY WHO JUST PUNCHED YOU!” boomed Nathan. “Come on, Toki,” he grumbled, interlacing his hands, “Let's fucking goosh it or chew it, or whatever the fuck.”
Charles recognized well the expression on Skwisgaar's face, although the guitarist probably would have balked at the analogy: it was the same expression his small half brother Liam would assume when his mother told him he could choose one and only one toy.
They stood at the small Purgatory Mall boutique with Phanuel. “I ams only gets onlies one, Charles,” the guitarist fussed, nervously chewing a pinkie fingernail.
Charles smiled, although not as widely as he wanted to, and looked at the small line of guitars stacked neatly against the wall.
“They are all good choices!” the manager assured Charles.
“I'm sure they are. Well, let's see if we can help Skwisgaar make a choice, huh?” he asked Elias, who nodded solemnly. “This one is an acoustic,” he pointed out, somewhat surprised that the Swede had lowered himself to a “grandpa's guitar.”
“But da tone!” Skwisgaar leaned over an thumbed a string, looking for all the world as if he were having a religious experience. Which as it happened he probably was.
“Well, for what we're going to do, we're probably going to need amplification, and lots of it, correct?” Charles asked softly.
Looking stricken, Skwisgaar nodded, and Charles handed the guitar off to a clerk.
“OK. All right. Now, you know which song?” The guitarist nodded again. “So, which among these will be best?”
“Maybe I ams t'inkings ams not good for a twelve-strings....” Skwisgaar muttered. Slowly, painfully, one by one, the guitar selection was narrowed down to just two axes.
Charles regarded Skwisgaar. He was actually beginning to feel a bit sorry for the guitarist, who looked so overwrought. Elias, who usually gave the Skwisgaar a rather wide berth, had come over to grab Skwisgaar's hand.
“What ams you t'inks about dats ones?” Skwisgaar asked Elias, who nodded heartily.
Skwisgaar frowned.
“You may take only one today,” said Phanuel. “But it is possible. For you to return. At some future time.”
“I ams pays lotsa cash for any of dese,” Skwisgaar told Phanuel, the desperation coloring his voice.
“Your money. Is of no value. Down here,” smiled Phanuel.
Skwisgaar considered. He looked down at Elias. “Hey! I ams gives leskons! I ams gives leskons to my brothers!”
Charles blinked, though he didn't say anything. It was odd indeed to hear Skwisgaar acknowledge Liam as any kind of relative.
“Lessons?” said Phanuel, looking around the shop. Several of the souls there nodded excitedly. “I think that would be. A suitable trade.”
Skwisgaar nodded and, perhaps reassured that the neglected guitars would not necessarily be lost to him forever, strode forward a step and decisively grabbed a guitar neck.
“Dis one,” he said. “Ams dis one.”
“Ah, an excellent choice!” said Phanuel. “We shall get a case. And....” A clerk ran up, carrying a guitar case. “We would like you to have this. Little one,” he said, presenting the case to Elias, who goggled at it, looking back questioningly at his father. “This is the guitar your father. Kindly created for us. As a demonstration.”
“Oh,” said Charles. “Oh, yeah. That would be great Phanuel! What do we say, Elias?”
“Dank oo!” Elias politely told the angel.
“It is a great treat. To have. Satisfied customers.”
Nathan sat beside the runway. He and Toki both looked a bit worse for wear. The model Toki has dressed was marching up and down to a snappy dance beat. Lame music, thought Nathan, but the model was cute. “Whaddya think, Tok?” asked Nathan, brushing cheese spread out of his eyes.
“It ams not drapes like I wanted,” grumbled Toki, wringing mud out of his hair. “We ams took to long goings over da slippery walls, so I did not have da times.”
Nathan sat back and grinned. He had finally just tossed the smaller guitarist over the wall. And into the vat of cheese spread. Oops! “Aw, well, at least it covers her ass!” Nathan assured him. “You think we gotta shot?”
“I dunno, Nat'ans, da competitions ams fierce!” They watched another model saunter down the runway. “Kenley ams such a bitch!” he whispered to Nathan.
“Yeah,” agreed Nathan. They both looked daggers over at the bitchy designer, who scowled back.
They both quieted as the darkened area where the judging panel had been sitting was lit up, and Pippi introduced their judges one by one. Nathan and Toki exchanged a glance at sighting a very familiar face.
“And dis ams our special guest judges dis week, Shri Ganeshas Vighneshvaras, da frequents Vogues India cover models, and fashion icons.”
Ganesh leaned back comfortably in his chair. “I am so honored to be here, Pippi,” he said courteously, meanwhile winking at Nathan.
“He ams helps us I t'inks,” said Toki.
“Are you sure? That guy is all FAIR and stuff!” Nathan rumbled back.
There was some bantering about fashion, and then one of the cranky judges opined that one outfit (fortunately, not Toki's) looked like a Teletubby gone off on a ski holiday. It sailed over Nathan, who was more intent on how Pippi was crossing her legs.
“And what ams you think, Shri Ganeshas,” inquired Pippi, crossing those legs and leaning over, as did all the other female panelists. “Betweens da favorites, Toki an' Henley?”
“Well, Pippi,” said Ganesh, leaning back and posing thoughtfully. “I am so awfully glad you asked! As a terribly good looking person, I have long observed that good looking people are inevitably the best, and by rights, should win everything. And Nathan and Toki – you cannot deny, they are two splendid, charismatic musicians, who are extremely popular to boot. It is inevitable! They must win, and the others must lose!”
“Ooo, yes, that's so truuuuuue, Shri Ganesha,” gushed Pippi as Ganesh batted his eyes at her.
Nathan grinned at Toki.
“We're all watching you on America's Next Fashion Victim!” gushed Raziel. Ganesh, who had just returned to Mordhaus after offering his congratulations to Nathan and Toki, let his eyes roam around the “interrogation” room. The two defecting Cherubim, Pashar and Quaphsiel were there, spread comfortably out on the couch, along with the vodouisants, Chango and Orula and elaborate tea service. And there were fast food bags everywhere. And what seemed a lot of friendly chatter. He noticed Pashar was now apparently wearing one of Chango's feather boas.
Raziel came out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. “We just keep feeding them Hell Fries,” she whispered. “They can't get enough of the stuff!”
“Well, Sariel will be pleased at that. By the way, where is he?”
“He went off with Bréagán. Right after they came back from my dad's place.”
“Bréagán? Really?”
“Yeah. They looked like they were up to something!”
Ganesh frowned. “Where did they go?”
“Up to your suite, I think! Yeah, definitely up to something!” Raziel grinned.
Ganesh nodded, and, leaving Raziel, went up to their rooms. “Sariel?” he called. He entered to find it empty, but quickly became aware of suspicious noises coming from the bedroom. He strode over and whipped open the door.
Two guilty faces looked up.
“Close the door! Close the door!” whispered Charles frantically.
Ganesh grinned and did as he asked.
“I don't want Skwisgaar to hear!” said Charles. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a brand new guitar in his lap. Bréagán was sitting on a chair, also holding a guitar.
“You were jamming?” asked Ganesh.
“Dammin!” said Elias, from where he was playing on the floor.
“Skwisgaar and Toki would never let me hear the end of it!” Charles groused.
“And you didn't think to invite me?” asked Ganesh.
“Well....” said Charles.
“To be quite honest, you're not very good, darlin',” grinned Bréagán.
“What?” said Ganesh, now sounding a bit offended.
“I used to drag you along busking due t' your pretty face more than anything,” she admitted. “That got a lot of attention.”
“That and the fake British accent,” joked Charles.
“It's not fake!” protested Ganesh.
“Well, it's a touch fake, dear,” said Bréagán.
Ganesh looked from one to the other. “When I said the two of you should become friends, this was not what I meant!”
“I think he's pissed that we didn't let him jam,” Charles told Bréagán.
“Maybe we'll let you hold the tambourine, lad, like Stevie Nicks!”
“So I'm Stevie Nicks now?” said Ganesh, pulling Elias into his lap and plopping down on the bed. “Hmpf.” And then he quietly began to sing to his son.
For you, there'll be no more crying
For you, the sun will be shining
And I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right
To you, I'll give the world
To you, I'll never be cold
'Cause I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right
And the songbirds are singing,
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before
“That was Chris McVie actually love,” laughed Bréagán.
“Fuck you, Bréagán.”
She stood, grinning from ear to ear. “I gotta go wrangle my coders now.” She nodded at Charles, and departed.
Ganesh put down Elias, sighed deeply, and collapsed back onto the bed. Charles was on top of him in an instant, undoing his shirt buttons. “Sariel, what....” But he soon had his answer when Charles sighed himself, burying his face in Ganesh's chest.
“I'm not a soft pillow!” protested Ganesh.
“You are a soft pillow,” said Charles, raising his head for an instant. “With a funny accent. But you do a good Stevie Nicks.”
Ganesh shook his head and laid back. “So, I take it your errand was successful?”
“I think Skwisgaar found a good one.”
“And you obtained a new guitar as well?”
Charles raised his head again, this time to gaze dreamily at the guitar. “Phanuel asked me to build one. While we were there waiting.” He pushed off of Ganesh and reached over a tentative finger to touch it. “Then he gave it to us! Aiiii!” The last was said when Charles' son quite suddenly glomped onto his back like a mad rodeo rider.
“Dada made da tar an Boon an hep!” Elias reported.
“You helped make the guitar?” laughed Ganesh, pulling the boy off his partner.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Made da-tar!”
“And we enjoyed ourselves?”
“Uh-huh!”
But Ganesh was eyeing, Charles, who had carefully picked the guitar off the bed to set it aside. Charles lay back down, arms behind his head. “Yeah. It was.... I had forgotten how much fun it is. You know? Just make something.”
“Phanuel has luthiers now?”
“Not just guitar makers. They make everything! You know how Purgatory under Lucifer was shopping? Now Phanuel has everybody busy making stuff all day. They're happy as frickin' hell! It's disgusting!”
“Speaking of shopping, did you want to take care of the errand now?” asked Ganesh.
“Oh, do we have to?”
“Well, yes we do. Do you want to go with your daddies now?” he asked Elias.
“Uh-huh!”
“No you don't! No you don't! You wanna stay here and play guitar!” Charles protested.
“Uh-huh!”
“And, would you like to take a helicopter to the moon an investigate the green cheese controversy?” asked Ganesh.
“Uh-huh!”
“So much for a tie breaking vote,” sighed Charles..
Many years ago....
Charles lowered his head down onto the table.
Why now, lord, why?
Well, he knew why. And knew why the lord – who probably would have laughed his ass off, if he wasn't already – was the last person to ask.
“Now?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “This couldn't wait 'til the end of the tour?”
“No,” answered Nathan. Charles looked up to see the rest of them – well the other three – nodding in agreement. They quarreled, sure – they had epic quarrels, in fact – but these guys were already a solid unit. And so fast! An album, recorded in a week. A week! Faster than his Father worked. And no stopping to watch a soap opera. Top of the charts. Girls screaming and fainting. Boys screaming and fainting! It was like the Beatles pumped full of synthetic steroids.
A juggernaut.
And now, in the middle of their first tour – already the most successful tour of all time! The pain waivers had been genius. Genius! It was now a mark of a true fan to brave the concerts. And they were fostering the most loyal fan base in history.
And now, for an encore? They would make everything come crashing down in the most spectacular industry flameout in history.
“Can't we just keep Magnus on 'til the end of the tour?”
“No.”
No, that was not gonna work. Being reasonable was not gonna fly.
Charles sighed. Magnus had no faults. That was his fault. The other guys were suspicious of him. And then he butted heads with Skwisgaar. That was fine. You needed some rivalry within the band, it kept things interesting.
But here was the deal: Skwisgaar's intent, evidently, was to sleep with every single of age female in the entire world.
And Magnus, damn his hide, would only bag women Skwisgaar had shown an interest in.
It was dumb, really. But, Skwisgaar wrote songs, and Magnus showed no interest. So Magnus' days were numbered. Charles had tried dropping hints, but you don't hint with these guys. He figured, they'd finish out this fucking European tour, and then come home, and quietly set up auditions. There would be a smooth transition, and they had the money now to pay off Magnus so he could cry all the way to the bank.
But why, in the middle of the god damned tour?
“We're in the middle of fucking nowhere! In fucking.... What the fuck country are we even in?”
“Denmark,” supplied Skwisgaar.
“Uh, I t'ink it's Norway, dood,” said Pickles.
“Pffft,” replied Skwisgaar.
“I can't pull a rhythm guitarist out of my ass!”
“Why? Schomeone elsche in there?” snickered Murderface.
Charles glowered. “I don't work miracles.”
Nathan glowered back. “No? That's why we hired you.”
“Whats about dats crazy kids from last nights?” suggested Skwisgaar.
“What crazy kid from last night?”
“Dood. You wud know if yoo'd a come out wit' us for once,” Pickles pointed out.
Charles looked rueful. “I have stuff to do.”
“He was crazy! I thought it was a chick at first, because he knitted us all sweaters with FACEBONES in them but it's a guy who knits because I guess you can do that in this country and not be gay or something, I don't know, but then Skwisgaar handed him a guitar or whatever and he could play all our stuff, including stuff we just played at the concert, note for note, only not as fast as Skwisgaar....”
“Ams not as good as me....”
“But it was still pretty cool so we got him beers and got him real drunk only then his DAD came to pick him up and he wasn't pleased and he was weird he looked like a vampire or something....”
“Uh, the father?” interjected Charles, who still couldn't quite keep up with a Nathan story.
“Yeah! That would have been really cool, village of the vampires! But anyway then he probably took him back to his vampire castle to drink virgin blood or something.
“OK. OK. Anybody get a card....”
There were laughs.
“Or a phone number on this guy? Something?”
“Oh, dat villiage, dere's maybe a dozen people dat lives dere,” Skwisgaar informed him. “Ams abandoned pieces of shits.”
“So. In summary. You guys wanna fire your rhythm guitarist – your rhythm guitarist – who played on the most successful album ever, and who is playing on the most successful tour ever – in the middle of a tour, and instead hire a kid you met in a bar when you were all drunk?
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Great,” said Nathan.
And they were gone.
Charles laid his head back down on the table.
“Well, I'm fucked,” he said to himself.
The present day...
“So, what do we think?” inquired Lord Ganesh of the Elias.
“Haan, Baap!”
“All rightie,” said Ganesh, zapping the UPC mark with the little electronic gun.
“Our kid has everything,” grumbled Charles
“Probably so!” agreed Ganesh. “You are spoiled absolutely rotten, aren't you dear?” he inquired of Elias.
“Uh-huh!”
“So why are we bothering with this crap?” asked Charles, gesturing around the large department store.
“I have requested no gifts for the Naming, or, as an alternative, have given suitable recipients for a charitable donation on Boon's behalf.”
“Does that include send a deserving CFO to Bermuda?”
“No, it does not.”
“Yeah, I didn't think so.”
“But, some still feel obligated. You remember our commitment ceremony, that singing bass … thing.”
“Aw, I like the singing bass. I gave it to William. It's his favorite thing ever.”
“Be that as it may....”
“Though I guess Raziel and Wotan are still trying to figure out what the fuck to do with Iceland.”
“Well, precisely. So I thought we would put out a registry including a few appropriate suggestions. For those of, er, uncertain taste levels.”
“You realize, whatever the fuck it is, he's probably gonna end up playing with the box.”
“Seems to run in the family, jaanu,” chuckled Ganesh. Charles glared.
“Ooooo!” said Elias. He let got of Ganesh's hand and ran a few steps forward to behold the wonder that was an RC helicopter.
“Ooo,” said Charles, who had also run ahead. Father and son watched the small craft magically hover above a display stand.
“So is this a yes?” asked Ganesh, wielding his electronic gun.
“Uh. Well. Uh,” said Charles. “Might be a little old for him, huh?”
Ganesh leaned over and gripped Charles' shoulder in a conspiratorial manner. “He will probably grow bigger,” he whispered.
“Well. Um. Maybe,” said Charles, grabbing the marking gun and scanning it on the UPC.
“AICH. EE. ELL-” spelled Elias, who was getting rather good at spelling.
“Helicopter,” supplied Charles.
“Hebby?”
“He. Li. Cop. Ter.”
“He. Be. Cawb. Tah.”
“Helicopter.”
Elias made his Charles face of deep concentration, causing Ganesh to grin and Charles to make his very own Charles face. “Hebbicabtah!”
“Excellent,” agreed Ganesh. “That is very good.”
Elias's face brightened and he took off down the aisle, looking back to make sure his daddies were still in sight.
“Why are they so fucking obsessed?” asked Charles, who had not doffed his own look of concern. “He's just a baby.”
“You know as well as I. He will grow to be powerful.”
“Why should they even fucking care? They're powerful too!”
Ganesh shook his head. “Beings tend to fear what they do not comprehend. As his guardians, we should....”
“I'm not just a guardian, Ganesh.”
Ganesh looked sadly at Charles. “I know,” he said softly.
“i know how you and your family are with that heir thing. But, I wanna teach him to spell with blocks! And build guitars! Look....” He stared at the floor. “What if, instead of this Naming crap, we just all went away, the three of us? Maybe we could just live on my dad's island. Just, go away somewhere....”
“You know, as well as I do, there is nowhere we could run to,” said Ganesh. “Nowhere far enough. And, what about your boys?”
“They would.... OK, yeah, maybe not the world's most well thought out plan.”
Both adults looked down, as Elias was now tugging on Ganesh's pant leg. The boy had located an empty helicopter box, which included a clear cellophane panel in the front, and now wore it on his head.
“Pace man!” he told Ganesh.
“You are a space man,” seconded Ganesh.
“Uh-huh! Go to moon!”
“The green cheese thing?” asked Charles. “Yeah, we'll do that next.”
Elias grinned and ran off again, imitating what was, evidently, a space helicopter.
“We will be all right,” said Ganesh.
“We will?”
“Yes. Because we must be.”
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Nathan and Toki compete; Skwisgaar shops for a guitar
Warnings: Hell Fries
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok started existence as a Metalocalypse AU. Now, your guess is as good as mine.
Last time: Someone dreamed of a hunt; memories of acquiring a new Dethklok member; and there was programming in C++. Also, Charles' evil ex has gone missing.
In Her underground lair....
“Un-flipping-believable.”
She sat in her underground throne room, picking imaginary lint from her blouse.
“Lady,” said the human now cowering in front of her. “I did exactly as you said. It's just, he's changed – they've all changed somehow. ”
“He's just a little mixed blood angel,” She tutted, examining a ripe red fingernail. “And a particularly scruffy one at that.”
“He's got some kind of Hindu god of vengeance watching over him.”
“Pagans. They will do what they will.”
There were angels arrayed around the periphery. Lower orders – window dressing, really, if this place had had a window. “Pashar,” whispered big blond Quaphsiel as his smaller, darker friend slipped into place, late as usual.
“What's going on?” whispered Pashar.
“Some human is getting a stern talking to from Herself. Did you bring the Hell Fries?” inquired Quaphsiel, a hungry look in his light eyes.
Pashar held up a greasy fast food bag, and then quickly tucked it back behind his wings before anyone saw.
“Love those things,” said Quaphsiel.
“I know, right? The sauce....”
“YOU TWO!” The two Cherubim looked up guiltily at the big Seraph, Gabriel, but then all three stole a glance to the corner, to the very large, white angel reclining there.
He was looking back, grinning a grin.
Pashar felt his stomach sink. Suddenly, he was not in the mood for delicious Dethklok Hell Fries.
“Soooo,” She was musing to the human, “what do you suppose I should do with you, now that you've flipping failed me, and possibly betrayed the entire campaign!”
“You can.... You can call me Gerry,” said Mrs. Jeffers. “No need to be formal.”
“So, GERRY – will someone please bring me my mother-flipping Red Bull? So, GERRY, I have to wonder, if you're not with me, then MAYBE you're really for the other side!”
“I sent my own little daughter, Ashleigh....”
“Aha!” said She, looking canny. “So, perhaps we should pay a teensy little visit to Ashleigh, right, Gerry?”
“No!”
“No? Wouldn't she appreciate us?”
“No. This was.... This was my failure. I accept all responsibility.”
“Your failure?”
“Yes.” Gerry Jeffers drew herself up. “I apologize, your highness.”
It happened before Mrs. Jeffers could even turn to look. She was what might have been termed, in a more genteel time, a woman “of a certain age,” but still attractive. But then she was a much older woman. And then the wrinkles had turned to furrows, her face desiccated, the clothes hanging off what was little more than a skeleton with skin stretched over it. And then Uriah removed his hand from the bony shoulder, and the remains of Mrs. Gerry Jeffers tumbled to the floor, breaking into several pieces as it impacted, the dusty remains lying there, quiet as a grave.
“Apology accepted, Mrs. Jeffers,” She trilled, flouncing off, guzzling Red Bull.
Uriah simply grinned. And then followed on Her heel.
“You two!”
Quaphsiel and Pashar jumped at the sound of Gabriel's voice.
“Clean up this mess. Step to it!”
“Uh, dude?” said Quaphsiel quietly to Pashar as he grabbed the dustpan.
“Yeah. I know,” said Pashar, picking up a broom.
The present day, Mordhaus....
Nathan Explosion was considering fatherhood.
Specifically, he was musing about what the condition had done to his own father, a career military man, tough as nails, neck as big around as a tree trunk, who had shrunk to sounding out Wiggly Piggly books for a taciturn 5-year-old instead of drinking and carousing with his buddies.
And then there was his manager, the once sharp barracuda of a man (OK, maybe not a man, some kinda weird angel-demon thing, or something) who now spent his live coated in a thin layer of oatmeal and peanut butter. Nathan threw open the door to Charles' office to find, sadly and not to his surprise, that the chair was empty, occupied only by somewhat stained grey suit jacket. And it was not even carefully draped over the back, but crumpled – almost balled up – and tossed into the seat of the chair.
“Hey Nathan! We're over here!”
Nathan walked nearer to the couch on the other side of the desk.
“Nate-Nate!” called a much smaller voice.
“We're playing blocks!” said Charles, proudly holding up a small cube of wood with a crude cartoon of an elephant carved out on one side.
Nathan came round to couch to see his manager lying on the floor in shirtsleeves, tie askew, his body semi-curled around a medium sticky toddler, who was giving every bit of his furious attention to lining up more blocks.
“Blocks?” sighed Nathan.
“Some hippy dippy toy. From Bréagán. Anyway, we spelled A is for APPLE! And then we spelled...”
“BIE!” cheered Elias, helpfully pointing out the modular array.
“You're teaching him how to spell different pies?” asked Nathan, who was now sorrowing for the future of humanity.
“And then look what Boon spelled!” said Charles, fatherly pride overtopping his small stature. He pushed a line of blocks into Nathan's viewing range.
Nathan gawped, the ice of his despair suddenly melting into a full warm spring of hopefulness for the future.
“METAL,” he whispered. A tear may have shone in the very corner of his eye.
“BETA!” repeated Elias, whacking the blocks for emphasis, tiny eyes batting at Uncle Nathan. “EM-EE-TEE-AY-EL!”
“That's awesome!” Nathan agreed – he had to agree! What other possible course could there be? - hunkering down beside them.
“My kid's a genius,” Charles crowed.
“We need to show him more words!” said Nathan, somewhat uncomfortably maneuvering his bulk into a cross-legged position on Charles' floor.
“Banana crème?” suggested Charles.
“Why are you fucking angels so fucking loopy over fucking pies?” Nathan groused, arranging blocks in a line. “It's SILLY, Charles.”
“It's not angels. It's Seraphim. And, I dunno why, really.”
“D-E-A-T-H! DEATH METAL!” said Nathan, displaying his work.
“Def meta!” agreed Elias, excitedly surveying the blocks.
“Don't you have any dessert up there in, you know, wherever?” asked Nathan.
“Yeah, they got sweet stuff,” said Charles. “S-P-double-E-D. SPEED METAL!” he showed Elias.
“Oooo!” said the kid.
“So you eat and stuff?” asked Nathan. “I mean, you probably don't fucking eat, but I mean, everybody else?”
“It's pretty much the same up there as it is down here. I mean, too much fucking silver and gold all over everything. But, you do whatever beings do everywhere, eat and drink and fuck and shit.” He looked up at Nathan, who was staring.
“Angels on the john? Really?”
“It's gotta come out somewhere. And that's another reason why, you know, the wings?” He pointed to his wingless back.
“Oh, yeah. Ewwwww!”
“They pick up everything. Everything!”
“G-R-I-N-D. GRIND!” said Nathan.
“Gwind!” said Elias.
“The Creator made us like this,” Charles continued. “I dunno why. Maybe it was just a joke.”
“A joke?” said Nathan. “You talk to the dude? Sometimes?”
Charles looked sullen. “Ganesh does, mostly. He wants to see Elias. I don't see how I can prevent Him.” He put a protective hand through Elias' tangled hair.
“What the fuck do those two talk about, anyway?” said Nathan.
“Oh, they're both nuts for Corazon de Azul. B-L-A-C-K. BLACK.”
“Bwak!”
“You know,” said Nathan, “I didn't really get along with my dad up 'til a little while ago. But now we go hunting and fishing and we hang out. It's pretty cool.”
“Nathan....”
“I don't think I got it, you know? How it is when you have a fucking kid and they're there squalling all the time and stuff,” Nathan said, gesturing towards Elias. “I mean, kids need stuff! Like you gotta burp 'em and all that! And teach 'em to spell!”
“Nathan. He left me in the woods, alone, to die.”
“What about Toki's dad?”
“Yeah. Well. Maybe I know more about that than you guys do.”
Nathan looked curiously, but Charles said nothing more. “G-O-R-E, GORE!” he told Elias.
“Go!” squealed Elias.
“Nathan Explosion!” came a voice.
“Uh. Yeah. Lady Raz.”
“It's time,” said Raziel, pointing at her jeweled wristwatch and tapping a little foot.
“WE'RE PLAYING BLOCKS!” protested Nathan.
“Nathan! You gotta be ready for America's Next Fashion Victim.”
Both Nathan and Charles moaned.
“Hey, Raziel, look!” said Charles, suddenly grabbing a somewhat puzzled Elias and holding him up. “A CUTE BABY!”
“You can't pull that one on me!” lectured Raziel, wagging a well-manicured finger in his direction. “Aw, can they pull that on me? Not they can't! No they can't” she told Elias, who she had grabbed, nevertheless, and was now bouncing on a hip. Suddenly, she extended a designer boot into a fleeing being's path. “Liam Odinsson! I mean, Nathan Explosion!” she said to the figure who was trying to crawl away.
“Ulp,” said Nathan.
“For the record, I tried,” Charles told him, grinning.
“C'mon, we gotta get Toki,” said Raziel, yanking the much bigger being up by his elbow. “Hey,” she called from the outer office. “I think maybe you're needed out here!”
Charles frowned. Taking Elias by the hand, he walked to his door.
The receptionist, Klokateer 31415, who was these days often addressed by his nickname, Pie, was there, along with two beings, who were not waiting patiently in chairs, but rather, lying down on the floor, as Pie's foot was on the neck of one, and his Glock handgun was pointed at the heart of the other.
“Sire, these two men would like a word with you.”
“Any-joo!” said Elias, pointing.
“That's right, son, those are definitely angelic beings,” Charles told Elias. He squinted down at the cowering beings. “Huh. Do I know you?”
“No!” said the little dark one. “We work for Her, Honored Sariel.”
“Her? Who her? Oh, you mean the Goddess?”
“The same.”
“Too many gods damned women with no name. What the fuck are you doing at Mordhaus?”
“We're defecting, Honored Sariel!” said the blond one. “We wanna work for you instead!”
“Oh. So, you're traitors in other words?” asked Charles, narrowing his eyes.
“NOOOOOO!” said the dark one.
“Well, actually, yes,” said the blond one. “That is technically correct.”
“Pie, let these two clowns up. I think they'll be all right.”
“We're not actually clowns,” explained the blond. “We're Cherubim!”
“Uh-huh. Same difference. Come on,” said Charles, walking back into the office. “Siddown,” he instructed the angels, pointing to some guest chairs. He sat down himself, pulling Elias into his lap. The boy picked up an electronic tablet and began to press his chubby fingers to it.
“So, you obviously know me. Who are you?”
“I'm Pashar, and this is Quaphsiel,” said the dark one, pointing to his blond friend.
“Is that the child?” inquired Quaphsiel, who was looking curiously at Elias. Pashar tried to shush him.
“Yeah, this is my kid,” said Charles. He looked over his glasses at the Cherubim, and something seemed to momentarily flash through his eyes. Maybe it was just the light striking his glasses. He leaned forward slightly, putting a hand through Elias' tangled hair. “So, how did you guys get in trouble with the Goddess?”
“We're not in trouble,” said Pashar.
“It was getting creepy!” said Quaphsiel.
“How so?”
“You know Uriah?” asked Pashar.
“I know of him,” Charles allowed.
“He's got powers,” said Pashar.
“What kind of powers?” asked Charles, gazing thoughtfully over Elias' shoulder.
“He can take it away. All the Creator hath granted,” said Quaphsiel, who had suddenly switched to speaking Common Angelic. Elias quite suddenly stopped what he was doing to look at his father. Charles nodded at him, and Elias returned to the electronic pad.
“So, Uriah specifically takes away things granted by Him?” asked Charles.
Pashar and Quaphsiel exchanged a glance, and then nodded. “Well. Yes,” said Pashar. “But, He is the author of all things.”
“Could be,” mused Charles. “Could be.” Pashar and Quaphsiel exchanged another worried glance.
“So, whaddya want?” Charles asked.
“We wanted to work for you,” Pashar told him.
“We have heard you have sheet cake!” said Quaphsiel.
“And,” said Pashar cautiously, “Hell Fries.”
“We have damned good sheet cake, as it happens,” Charles told them. “And a pretty much endless supply of fries. Lemme go chat with my receptionist about alerting the kitchen.”
“Uh, that would be the fellow with the Glock?” gulped Pashar.
“He's a great guy. One minute,” he said, leading Elias out the door to the outer office.
His receptionist looked up, the hooded head cocked to the side. “Pie, whatever you're doing today, cancel it, this is what you're doing today: these two knuckleheads.”
“Yes, sire?”
“Stuff 'em full of sheet cake, and listen to everything they've got to say! Everything. And get Kam – they tend to start talking Common, and I don't want you to miss any subtleties.”
“Certainly sire. Strategic purposes?”
“Literally anything, even if it doesn't seem useful. What they ate, what they wore.... Oh, yeah, and after you're done, get Raziel here to start over. And Chango and Orula and their torture tea!”
“Very good, sire.”
“I'll go get Kam,” said Charles, leading Elias by the hand.
“Dada, lookee!” said the boy once they were out in the corridor.
“That's very nice, dear. Is that in the Renaissance style?” Charles guessed, looking at the two angels, one light, and one dark, depicted in Elias' drawing on the electronic pad.
“An Pash an' Kwapsh, in da Too Foam!”
“Oh, their True Forms, huh?”
“Uh-huh!”
“You know what they look like? Without seeing 'em?”
“Uh-huh!”
Charles stopped and regarded his son for a long moment. “Another power, huh? Well, I guess Ganesh can see magic. All right, let's go see Kam!” They continued down the corridors to their suite.
“Oh, there we are!” said Kamuel.
“Plans have changed. I'm taking Boon with me. You get down to my office. Pie is chatting with a couple of angels, and I need someone there I trust to listen if they start babbling in Angelic.”
“Angels?” asked Kam.
“They're from Her camp.”
Kam blinked. “Oh! Oh, all right.”
“We gotta go. We gotta round up Skwisgaar and get outta here.”
“Honored Sariel. I wondered if I might … speak to you some time?”
“PLEASE don't tell me you're going to graduate school!”
Kam smiled. “Well, no. As you might know … you know, I've been sitting with the boy, Jyoti?”
“The one from the orphanage. Yeah. He's a good kid.”
“He is very special to me. However, Honored Ganesh has offered me.... He has proposed.... And adoption?”
“You would get to keep him?”
“We're obviously of different cultures. Obviously! But we get on so well. And he is special needs so would be difficult to place with human parents. But it is such a responsibility....”
“Kam, you want my advice?”
“Well, yes....”
Charles looked down at Elias, who smiled up at him. “It needs to be done. Don't mull it the fuck over. Take him.”
“You would...? Really?”
“Really. I gotta go. Your decision. But anything you need, we'll make it happen. Come on!” he said, lifting up Elias.
“Thank you. Sir,” said Kam as Charles ducked out.
“OK,” Charles told Elias. “We gotta go untangle Skwisgaar from some groupies, and then we're gonna see Uncle Phanuel. You like Uncle Phanuel?”
“Uh-huh!”
“America's Next Fashion Victim,” grumbled Nathan Explosion as he squinted through his reading glasses into a six month old copy of Hello! Magazine in the ANFV green room. “What the fuck was Lady Raz thinking? Not that she thinks. She seems to mostly just wave that fucking sword around.”
“I ams looksing forwards to talksing with Pippis!” Toki told him, as he shook out the cropped sweater he was knitting to make sure his stitching was straight.
“Yeah?”
“I ams has da ideas for knitswear dis falls!”
“Please tell me you did not just say what I just heard you saying.”
But the conversation ground to a halt was the green room door swung back and a lithe figure sashayed in.
“Pippi,” said Nathan, his mouth suddenly lolling open as the Danish supermodel, Pippi Bluestocking, paraded into the waiting room. She was a good six foot tall, at least 5' 10” of which appeared to be composed of legs. To add a needless illusion to her stature, she was further lofted by a pari of designer high heeled boots which may have given even Lady Raziel pause.
“Hellos, Miss Bluestockings!” said Toki cheerily, rising.
“Hmpf. You guys ams from Dethflock?” asked Pippi, eyeing the two musicians as if they were a couple of K Mart catalog models. What with the legs and the heels and hair foofed up on her head, she was at least three inches taller than he.
“Uh. Dethklok. Yeah,” said Nathan, his eyes eventually drifting up from Pippi's glorious legs to somewhere near her facial region.
“You ams heads-buttsed our Prince!” she told them.
“Hey, yeah, Murderface,” chuckled Nathan.
“He ams still in tractions,” sniffed Pippi.
“Oh, and you know the best part?” laughed Nathan. “Skwisgaar still thinks the guy is Dutch!”
“Dutch?” hissed Pippi. “Pfffft!” At which point, she turned on her high heel and departed.
“Toki, dude, did that chick just 'Pffft' us? Because, that wasn't cool.”
“I ams not t'inks she depreciates being mistaksen for da Dutch, Nat'ans,” Toki told him.
“Danish, Dutch, what's the difference? They both have fruit pies, right?”
“Uh....”
“All right, people, are we ready?” came a high voice from the doorway. Nathan squinted down at the tiny man now standing there.
“Ready for what?” growled Nathan.
“Ready to be America's next fashion victim! Come on, let's use it or lose it!” And then the tiny man had darted out of the doorway, off the find his Hobbit hole, Nathan guessed.
“What does that even mean, use it or lose it?” asked Nathan.
“Ams da t'emes of da shows! Dat ams 'Beat' Beretta, da co-hosts. Ams you not watches it every weeks wit' me, Nat'ans?”
“Yeah, but, you know, I'm waiting for Pippi to bend over or something. So, are we supposed to follow the Hobbit dude or what?”
Toki shrugged and they exited the door. The saw passed by a group of people staggering down the hall the other way.
“Who are those douches, you suppose?” Nathan asked Toki.
“Oh. Dose ams da last groups of contesticants!” Toki told him. “No biggie.”
Nathan blinked and looked back. And then he looked at Toki.
“TOKI!”
“Ja?”
“Why were they all covered in CHEESE SPREAD?”
“Dis ams dat scary shoppings malls we went through on da way outta hell?” Skwisgaar asked nervously. Charles smiled and held on to Elias' little hand as they ventured down the large escalator. Skwisgaar always looked a bit out of sorts when forced to undergo separation from his beloved Gibson, but as he would be looking for a guitar today, Charles had somehow convinced him to leave the precious object behind, in the tender care of some loyal GMILFs.
“There have been some, uh, changes made. Under new management, you know,” Charles assured him. He tried to conceal his own trepidation. There were really few beings he trusted more than Phanuel the Grey, but the last time they had ventured down this way, they had barely escaped with their lives. And Ganesh had, in fact, been clinically dead for a few moments. Charles steeled himself from an involuntary shudder and forced his eyes down towards Elias, who was gripping the handle and staring wide-eyed at everything.
The escalator went down much further than any human-made device should. Charles spotted the solemn Seraph standing down at the bottom, patiently awaiting them.
“I am very pleased. To see you. Today,” enunciated Phanuel when at last the small party found themselves on solid ground.
“Unky Phan!” said Elias.
“And how are you, my dearest?” said the angel, his grave expression melting as he scooped up his beloved sister's grandchild.
“Bidchure fo' Unkyphan!” Elias told him, holding up the rolled canvas he had been clutching.
“You have made me. A picture. Elias?” inquired Phanuel.
“Yeah. Uh-huh,” Elias nodded.
Phanuel set down Elias and removed the ribbon from the canvas, and then carefully unrolled it. “Oh, my!” he said.
“Dat kid ams done dat?” asked Skwisgaar.
“Well. Ganesh helped,” grinned Charles. “Though I understand he mostly kept Elias from eating the paint. He hadn't worked in acrylic before.
“And where is. Our Ganesha. Today?” asked Phanuel.
“Oh. He says hi. He would've come along, but we're both pretty busy getting ready for the Naming.”
“Well,” said Phanuel. “I thank you very much. For this artwork,” Phanuel told Elias.
“We'come!” said Elias.
“What we shall do,” said the angel, carefully rolling up the canvas, “we shall get to a shop. I know. And get this. Properly matted!”
“Da kidsy pictures?” Skwisgaar grumbled, more or less under his breath.
“You do not like. Children?” Phanuel inquired.
“Uh,” said Skwisgaar, now feeling a bit like he'd got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “No,” he admitted.
Phanuel gazed for a long while at Skwisgaar, arching an eyebrow, and then turned on his heel, walking off with Elias holding his hand.
Skwisgaar frowned irritably at Charles, who almost but not quite wiped the slight smile off his face in time. “He ams just called me da idiots!” Skwisgaar told Charles.
“Uh, I didn't hear anything,” said Charles.
“Hims ams used da eyebrow!”
“Oh, well, uh, I dunno,” said Charles, hurrying after Phanuel.
“Hims ams sneaksy angels,” muttered Skwisgaar, following after them.
“Explain to me again WHY I'M DRESSED LIKE A DOUCHE?” Nathan inquired of Toki.
Toki tied to hide his smile when he looked up at Nathan, who was clothed from the waist up in a huge papier-mache costume that resembled nothing so much as a large cartoon bowling pin.
“You ams walks up da hills, Nat'ans, whiles I ams makes da patterns!” said Toki.
“But why aren't YOU dressed like a douche? And why do you get to hang out with the underwear model?” he asked, indicating the cute and very scantily clad young lady who was standing beside Toki's workspace.
“You ams wants to switches?” asked Toki, holding up an intricate looking pattern.
“Well, uh, no, I guess not.”
“You ams just needs to gets up dat hills while I ams measurings!”
Nathan looked up and surveyed the game course. It had the appearance of nothing so much as a giant pinball playfield, complete with bumpers and flashing lights.
“I just run up that?” asked Nathan. “It's a hill. Can I walk?”
“Just makes sure you ams nots elimininitated, 'cause den I gots to stops working on dis pattern.”
“Yeah, I think I can avoid being, uh, eliminin... Uh, knocked out. Uh, how do you get knocked out by the way?
“You ams gets knocked out,” answered Toki dryly.
“Are we READY?” cheered “Beat” Beretta, suddenly urging Nathan over to the starting line.
“Why is there a pool of whipped cream down here?” wondered Nathan, looking in back of the starting line.
“Contestants, line up, and remember, Use it or lose it!”
“What the fuck does that even mean?” grumbled Nathan as the starting gun fired. He watched the other contestants, also dressed in cumbersome costumes, scramble awkwardly up the incline of the playfield, and ambled after them. “Why is everybody in such a fucking hurry? Fashion, who needs it,” he mused.
Suddenly, it was as if someone had scored a multiball, and some huge round objects, which somewhat resembled pinballs after a massive steroid injection, came tumbling down the playfield, bouncing off bumpers, and knocking over, one by one, a raft of contestants, who went comically rolling down the field, and right into a splash of whipped cream at the bottom.
“Wow!” said Nathan, who had stepped behind a bumper. “That's actually pretty funny. Maybe fashion ain't so bad after all.”
“Dis ams looks different dan da last times,” Skwisgaar commented as the small group strolled through Purgatory Mall. They had stopped for a moment by an escalator to listen to a string quartet playing.
“Yeah, I don't recognize any of these retailers,” said Charles, looking around at the names of the stores.
“Changes have been made,” Phanuel told them. “After I assumed. Administration.” He nodded to the musicians, who smiled and nodded back, and the moved on. “These shops are all devoted to artisans now. The quartet? We crafted the instruments here. We also created and sewed their costumes. And even the chairs. They were sitting upon. And here we are!”
They had arrived at the end of an aisle, at a music store. It was huge: the size of a large department store up on earth. There were racks upon racks of musical instruments on display. Charles paused at the entryway, gazing up in apparent wonder at the name of the store. “Phanuel,” he said.
“I hope you do not mind,” smiled the angel. “It is. A small tribute. To your past history.”
“What ams it?” Skwisgaar asked, scratching his head at the weird script.
“It's, uh, my name. In Angelic,” Charles told him. He blushed and then hurried inside, Skwisgaar looking curiously after him.
“So, uh, these instruments were all made in Purgatory?” Charles asked Phanuel. They were walking past a very very very large selection of percussion instruments, everything from rock and roll drum kits to tablas to bongos xylophones to African steel drums.
“The workshop is on site,” Phanuel told him. “Would you like to see?” the Seraph asked Elias, who nodded enthusiastically.
They walked down an aisle of zithers and harps to a doorway. The guard nodded at Phanuel, and the party all stepped through to a world of happy chaos, at least twice as big again as the retail floor. There were work tables as far as the eye could see, and workers busy sawing, hammering, polishing, stringing and tuning and a million other jobs.
Phanuel led them past workers assembling grand pianos and carving didgeridoos and stringing sitars to an area that was mostly guitars.
“These ams looks amazings Phanuel,” Skwisgaar said, regarding a nearly finished Gibson-style electric guitar in wonder.
“We will take you shortly. To see the finished pieces,” said Phanuel proudly. “But in the meantime,” he said, watching Charles leaning over the shoulder of a man affixing a neck to a solid body, “perhaps Honored Sariel. Would care to show my associates. His art?”
Charles blinked up at Phanuel. “What? Oh, no no no no. We don't have time.”
“As I have said,” Phanuel told him. “We may escort Skwisgaar. To make a preliminary selection. While you work.”
Charles had to restrain himself from bouncing up and down on his toes. Several of the souls who had been assembling guitars had stopped and quietly gathered around.
“Uhhhh. Would you be OK on your own for a while, Skwisgaar?” he asked hopefully.
“Pfft. I ams selects da guitars on my owns!”
“Would you care to see. Your daddy. Create a guitar?” Phaunel suggested to Elias, who replied with a storm of nods and “Uh-huh's.”
Charles already had his jacket and tie off and tossed over a chair back. Another worker pulled up a stool for Elias to sit in so he could see the activity on the high work bench.
“Won't you come this way?” Phanuel asked Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar gazed at Charles (who, leaning over the workbench, seemed off in his own world) for a bit longer, and then walked along with Phanuel.
“Hims ams made da instruments?” Skwisgaar asked.
“For many. Centuries,” Phanuel replied, pausing to let the expanse of time sink in. “I gather from my daughter. He had. Among the humans. A certain fame.”
“All you dudes been around for da centuries,” Skwisgaar sighed.
“Yes. Much time wasted.”
“Wasted?”
“I cannot convey how much of that time we have all spent. In warfare. But here?” They had emerged from Sariel's department store and into the main mall, and were presently walking past a bakery. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted out. “Here, I am giving souls a chance to find a calling. A chance, perhaps, they lacked, in life. Ah, here we are.” He had paused before a smaller, boutique-like store.
It stocked hand-made guitars. And only hand-made guitars.
Skwisgaar gripped his chest.
He was having a guitargasm.
“You ams gots dat cart?” inquired Toki, looking over to Nathan.
“Oh, yeah,” said Nathan, gripping the handles of the metal grocery shopping cart. He grinned, looking over at the other dripping wet and cranky contestants.
“We ams got fifteens minutes to gets da materials on da lists!” Toki explained.
“That doesn't sound so hard!” said Nathan.
“Ja, but you ams never watched da shows excepts for Pippi's assets!” sighed Toki.
“It's a good reason!” protested Nathan. Toki shrugged in apparent agreement.
“All right, people!” squealed “Beat” Beretta. “Use it or lose it!”
The starting gun sounded, and suddenly, “Yakety Sax” was playing.
“Oh,” said Nathan, still at the starting gate. “That's never a good sign.” He pushed on.
“Dere, we ams needs some o' dat!” said Toki, who pointed up. Way up.
“You need the shit way up on the top shelf?” asked Nathan, pointing to the tulle Toki was indicating. “Why don't you just use some of this shit?” he said, pulling out a random roll of fabric.
“Tsk! Nat'ans, dat ams never drapes rights! Here!”
Nathan grunted, and gave Toki a leg up. “I ams almost gots it!” the guitarist shouted.
But then, all of a sudden, a costumed character leapt out and growled at Nathan, who lost his footing, sending him toppling over, Toki landing atop him.
“WHO IS THAT ASSHOLE!” shrieked Nathan, untangling himself from Norwegians.
“Dat ams do boxings gods,” groaned Toki, rubbing his hip.
“Oh, yeah? You know who I am, asshole?” asked Nathan, as the large character feinted punches at him.
The character mimed a shrug, but then someone inside could be heard crying a muffled, “Aiiii!” when it came in contact with the fist of a very angry death metal musician.
“THE GUY WHO JUST PUNCHED YOU!” boomed Nathan. “Come on, Toki,” he grumbled, interlacing his hands, “Let's fucking goosh it or chew it, or whatever the fuck.”
Charles recognized well the expression on Skwisgaar's face, although the guitarist probably would have balked at the analogy: it was the same expression his small half brother Liam would assume when his mother told him he could choose one and only one toy.
They stood at the small Purgatory Mall boutique with Phanuel. “I ams only gets onlies one, Charles,” the guitarist fussed, nervously chewing a pinkie fingernail.
Charles smiled, although not as widely as he wanted to, and looked at the small line of guitars stacked neatly against the wall.
“They are all good choices!” the manager assured Charles.
“I'm sure they are. Well, let's see if we can help Skwisgaar make a choice, huh?” he asked Elias, who nodded solemnly. “This one is an acoustic,” he pointed out, somewhat surprised that the Swede had lowered himself to a “grandpa's guitar.”
“But da tone!” Skwisgaar leaned over an thumbed a string, looking for all the world as if he were having a religious experience. Which as it happened he probably was.
“Well, for what we're going to do, we're probably going to need amplification, and lots of it, correct?” Charles asked softly.
Looking stricken, Skwisgaar nodded, and Charles handed the guitar off to a clerk.
“OK. All right. Now, you know which song?” The guitarist nodded again. “So, which among these will be best?”
“Maybe I ams t'inkings ams not good for a twelve-strings....” Skwisgaar muttered. Slowly, painfully, one by one, the guitar selection was narrowed down to just two axes.
Charles regarded Skwisgaar. He was actually beginning to feel a bit sorry for the guitarist, who looked so overwrought. Elias, who usually gave the Skwisgaar a rather wide berth, had come over to grab Skwisgaar's hand.
“What ams you t'inks about dats ones?” Skwisgaar asked Elias, who nodded heartily.
Skwisgaar frowned.
“You may take only one today,” said Phanuel. “But it is possible. For you to return. At some future time.”
“I ams pays lotsa cash for any of dese,” Skwisgaar told Phanuel, the desperation coloring his voice.
“Your money. Is of no value. Down here,” smiled Phanuel.
Skwisgaar considered. He looked down at Elias. “Hey! I ams gives leskons! I ams gives leskons to my brothers!”
Charles blinked, though he didn't say anything. It was odd indeed to hear Skwisgaar acknowledge Liam as any kind of relative.
“Lessons?” said Phanuel, looking around the shop. Several of the souls there nodded excitedly. “I think that would be. A suitable trade.”
Skwisgaar nodded and, perhaps reassured that the neglected guitars would not necessarily be lost to him forever, strode forward a step and decisively grabbed a guitar neck.
“Dis one,” he said. “Ams dis one.”
“Ah, an excellent choice!” said Phanuel. “We shall get a case. And....” A clerk ran up, carrying a guitar case. “We would like you to have this. Little one,” he said, presenting the case to Elias, who goggled at it, looking back questioningly at his father. “This is the guitar your father. Kindly created for us. As a demonstration.”
“Oh,” said Charles. “Oh, yeah. That would be great Phanuel! What do we say, Elias?”
“Dank oo!” Elias politely told the angel.
“It is a great treat. To have. Satisfied customers.”
Nathan sat beside the runway. He and Toki both looked a bit worse for wear. The model Toki has dressed was marching up and down to a snappy dance beat. Lame music, thought Nathan, but the model was cute. “Whaddya think, Tok?” asked Nathan, brushing cheese spread out of his eyes.
“It ams not drapes like I wanted,” grumbled Toki, wringing mud out of his hair. “We ams took to long goings over da slippery walls, so I did not have da times.”
Nathan sat back and grinned. He had finally just tossed the smaller guitarist over the wall. And into the vat of cheese spread. Oops! “Aw, well, at least it covers her ass!” Nathan assured him. “You think we gotta shot?”
“I dunno, Nat'ans, da competitions ams fierce!” They watched another model saunter down the runway. “Kenley ams such a bitch!” he whispered to Nathan.
“Yeah,” agreed Nathan. They both looked daggers over at the bitchy designer, who scowled back.
They both quieted as the darkened area where the judging panel had been sitting was lit up, and Pippi introduced their judges one by one. Nathan and Toki exchanged a glance at sighting a very familiar face.
“And dis ams our special guest judges dis week, Shri Ganeshas Vighneshvaras, da frequents Vogues India cover models, and fashion icons.”
Ganesh leaned back comfortably in his chair. “I am so honored to be here, Pippi,” he said courteously, meanwhile winking at Nathan.
“He ams helps us I t'inks,” said Toki.
“Are you sure? That guy is all FAIR and stuff!” Nathan rumbled back.
There was some bantering about fashion, and then one of the cranky judges opined that one outfit (fortunately, not Toki's) looked like a Teletubby gone off on a ski holiday. It sailed over Nathan, who was more intent on how Pippi was crossing her legs.
“And what ams you think, Shri Ganeshas,” inquired Pippi, crossing those legs and leaning over, as did all the other female panelists. “Betweens da favorites, Toki an' Henley?”
“Well, Pippi,” said Ganesh, leaning back and posing thoughtfully. “I am so awfully glad you asked! As a terribly good looking person, I have long observed that good looking people are inevitably the best, and by rights, should win everything. And Nathan and Toki – you cannot deny, they are two splendid, charismatic musicians, who are extremely popular to boot. It is inevitable! They must win, and the others must lose!”
“Ooo, yes, that's so truuuuuue, Shri Ganesha,” gushed Pippi as Ganesh batted his eyes at her.
Nathan grinned at Toki.
“We're all watching you on America's Next Fashion Victim!” gushed Raziel. Ganesh, who had just returned to Mordhaus after offering his congratulations to Nathan and Toki, let his eyes roam around the “interrogation” room. The two defecting Cherubim, Pashar and Quaphsiel were there, spread comfortably out on the couch, along with the vodouisants, Chango and Orula and elaborate tea service. And there were fast food bags everywhere. And what seemed a lot of friendly chatter. He noticed Pashar was now apparently wearing one of Chango's feather boas.
Raziel came out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. “We just keep feeding them Hell Fries,” she whispered. “They can't get enough of the stuff!”
“Well, Sariel will be pleased at that. By the way, where is he?”
“He went off with Bréagán. Right after they came back from my dad's place.”
“Bréagán? Really?”
“Yeah. They looked like they were up to something!”
Ganesh frowned. “Where did they go?”
“Up to your suite, I think! Yeah, definitely up to something!” Raziel grinned.
Ganesh nodded, and, leaving Raziel, went up to their rooms. “Sariel?” he called. He entered to find it empty, but quickly became aware of suspicious noises coming from the bedroom. He strode over and whipped open the door.
Two guilty faces looked up.
“Close the door! Close the door!” whispered Charles frantically.
Ganesh grinned and did as he asked.
“I don't want Skwisgaar to hear!” said Charles. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a brand new guitar in his lap. Bréagán was sitting on a chair, also holding a guitar.
“You were jamming?” asked Ganesh.
“Dammin!” said Elias, from where he was playing on the floor.
“Skwisgaar and Toki would never let me hear the end of it!” Charles groused.
“And you didn't think to invite me?” asked Ganesh.
“Well....” said Charles.
“To be quite honest, you're not very good, darlin',” grinned Bréagán.
“What?” said Ganesh, now sounding a bit offended.
“I used to drag you along busking due t' your pretty face more than anything,” she admitted. “That got a lot of attention.”
“That and the fake British accent,” joked Charles.
“It's not fake!” protested Ganesh.
“Well, it's a touch fake, dear,” said Bréagán.
Ganesh looked from one to the other. “When I said the two of you should become friends, this was not what I meant!”
“I think he's pissed that we didn't let him jam,” Charles told Bréagán.
“Maybe we'll let you hold the tambourine, lad, like Stevie Nicks!”
“So I'm Stevie Nicks now?” said Ganesh, pulling Elias into his lap and plopping down on the bed. “Hmpf.” And then he quietly began to sing to his son.
For you, there'll be no more crying
For you, the sun will be shining
And I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right
To you, I'll give the world
To you, I'll never be cold
'Cause I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right
And the songbirds are singing,
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before
“That was Chris McVie actually love,” laughed Bréagán.
“Fuck you, Bréagán.”
She stood, grinning from ear to ear. “I gotta go wrangle my coders now.” She nodded at Charles, and departed.
Ganesh put down Elias, sighed deeply, and collapsed back onto the bed. Charles was on top of him in an instant, undoing his shirt buttons. “Sariel, what....” But he soon had his answer when Charles sighed himself, burying his face in Ganesh's chest.
“I'm not a soft pillow!” protested Ganesh.
“You are a soft pillow,” said Charles, raising his head for an instant. “With a funny accent. But you do a good Stevie Nicks.”
Ganesh shook his head and laid back. “So, I take it your errand was successful?”
“I think Skwisgaar found a good one.”
“And you obtained a new guitar as well?”
Charles raised his head again, this time to gaze dreamily at the guitar. “Phanuel asked me to build one. While we were there waiting.” He pushed off of Ganesh and reached over a tentative finger to touch it. “Then he gave it to us! Aiiii!” The last was said when Charles' son quite suddenly glomped onto his back like a mad rodeo rider.
“Dada made da tar an Boon an hep!” Elias reported.
“You helped make the guitar?” laughed Ganesh, pulling the boy off his partner.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Made da-tar!”
“And we enjoyed ourselves?”
“Uh-huh!”
But Ganesh was eyeing, Charles, who had carefully picked the guitar off the bed to set it aside. Charles lay back down, arms behind his head. “Yeah. It was.... I had forgotten how much fun it is. You know? Just make something.”
“Phanuel has luthiers now?”
“Not just guitar makers. They make everything! You know how Purgatory under Lucifer was shopping? Now Phanuel has everybody busy making stuff all day. They're happy as frickin' hell! It's disgusting!”
“Speaking of shopping, did you want to take care of the errand now?” asked Ganesh.
“Oh, do we have to?”
“Well, yes we do. Do you want to go with your daddies now?” he asked Elias.
“Uh-huh!”
“No you don't! No you don't! You wanna stay here and play guitar!” Charles protested.
“Uh-huh!”
“And, would you like to take a helicopter to the moon an investigate the green cheese controversy?” asked Ganesh.
“Uh-huh!”
“So much for a tie breaking vote,” sighed Charles..
Many years ago....
Charles lowered his head down onto the table.
Why now, lord, why?
Well, he knew why. And knew why the lord – who probably would have laughed his ass off, if he wasn't already – was the last person to ask.
“Now?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “This couldn't wait 'til the end of the tour?”
“No,” answered Nathan. Charles looked up to see the rest of them – well the other three – nodding in agreement. They quarreled, sure – they had epic quarrels, in fact – but these guys were already a solid unit. And so fast! An album, recorded in a week. A week! Faster than his Father worked. And no stopping to watch a soap opera. Top of the charts. Girls screaming and fainting. Boys screaming and fainting! It was like the Beatles pumped full of synthetic steroids.
A juggernaut.
And now, in the middle of their first tour – already the most successful tour of all time! The pain waivers had been genius. Genius! It was now a mark of a true fan to brave the concerts. And they were fostering the most loyal fan base in history.
And now, for an encore? They would make everything come crashing down in the most spectacular industry flameout in history.
“Can't we just keep Magnus on 'til the end of the tour?”
“No.”
No, that was not gonna work. Being reasonable was not gonna fly.
Charles sighed. Magnus had no faults. That was his fault. The other guys were suspicious of him. And then he butted heads with Skwisgaar. That was fine. You needed some rivalry within the band, it kept things interesting.
But here was the deal: Skwisgaar's intent, evidently, was to sleep with every single of age female in the entire world.
And Magnus, damn his hide, would only bag women Skwisgaar had shown an interest in.
It was dumb, really. But, Skwisgaar wrote songs, and Magnus showed no interest. So Magnus' days were numbered. Charles had tried dropping hints, but you don't hint with these guys. He figured, they'd finish out this fucking European tour, and then come home, and quietly set up auditions. There would be a smooth transition, and they had the money now to pay off Magnus so he could cry all the way to the bank.
But why, in the middle of the god damned tour?
“We're in the middle of fucking nowhere! In fucking.... What the fuck country are we even in?”
“Denmark,” supplied Skwisgaar.
“Uh, I t'ink it's Norway, dood,” said Pickles.
“Pffft,” replied Skwisgaar.
“I can't pull a rhythm guitarist out of my ass!”
“Why? Schomeone elsche in there?” snickered Murderface.
Charles glowered. “I don't work miracles.”
Nathan glowered back. “No? That's why we hired you.”
“Whats about dats crazy kids from last nights?” suggested Skwisgaar.
“What crazy kid from last night?”
“Dood. You wud know if yoo'd a come out wit' us for once,” Pickles pointed out.
Charles looked rueful. “I have stuff to do.”
“He was crazy! I thought it was a chick at first, because he knitted us all sweaters with FACEBONES in them but it's a guy who knits because I guess you can do that in this country and not be gay or something, I don't know, but then Skwisgaar handed him a guitar or whatever and he could play all our stuff, including stuff we just played at the concert, note for note, only not as fast as Skwisgaar....”
“Ams not as good as me....”
“But it was still pretty cool so we got him beers and got him real drunk only then his DAD came to pick him up and he wasn't pleased and he was weird he looked like a vampire or something....”
“Uh, the father?” interjected Charles, who still couldn't quite keep up with a Nathan story.
“Yeah! That would have been really cool, village of the vampires! But anyway then he probably took him back to his vampire castle to drink virgin blood or something.
“OK. OK. Anybody get a card....”
There were laughs.
“Or a phone number on this guy? Something?”
“Oh, dat villiage, dere's maybe a dozen people dat lives dere,” Skwisgaar informed him. “Ams abandoned pieces of shits.”
“So. In summary. You guys wanna fire your rhythm guitarist – your rhythm guitarist – who played on the most successful album ever, and who is playing on the most successful tour ever – in the middle of a tour, and instead hire a kid you met in a bar when you were all drunk?
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Great,” said Nathan.
And they were gone.
Charles laid his head back down on the table.
“Well, I'm fucked,” he said to himself.
The present day...
“So, what do we think?” inquired Lord Ganesh of the Elias.
“Haan, Baap!”
“All rightie,” said Ganesh, zapping the UPC mark with the little electronic gun.
“Our kid has everything,” grumbled Charles
“Probably so!” agreed Ganesh. “You are spoiled absolutely rotten, aren't you dear?” he inquired of Elias.
“Uh-huh!”
“So why are we bothering with this crap?” asked Charles, gesturing around the large department store.
“I have requested no gifts for the Naming, or, as an alternative, have given suitable recipients for a charitable donation on Boon's behalf.”
“Does that include send a deserving CFO to Bermuda?”
“No, it does not.”
“Yeah, I didn't think so.”
“But, some still feel obligated. You remember our commitment ceremony, that singing bass … thing.”
“Aw, I like the singing bass. I gave it to William. It's his favorite thing ever.”
“Be that as it may....”
“Though I guess Raziel and Wotan are still trying to figure out what the fuck to do with Iceland.”
“Well, precisely. So I thought we would put out a registry including a few appropriate suggestions. For those of, er, uncertain taste levels.”
“You realize, whatever the fuck it is, he's probably gonna end up playing with the box.”
“Seems to run in the family, jaanu,” chuckled Ganesh. Charles glared.
“Ooooo!” said Elias. He let got of Ganesh's hand and ran a few steps forward to behold the wonder that was an RC helicopter.
“Ooo,” said Charles, who had also run ahead. Father and son watched the small craft magically hover above a display stand.
“So is this a yes?” asked Ganesh, wielding his electronic gun.
“Uh. Well. Uh,” said Charles. “Might be a little old for him, huh?”
Ganesh leaned over and gripped Charles' shoulder in a conspiratorial manner. “He will probably grow bigger,” he whispered.
“Well. Um. Maybe,” said Charles, grabbing the marking gun and scanning it on the UPC.
“AICH. EE. ELL-” spelled Elias, who was getting rather good at spelling.
“Helicopter,” supplied Charles.
“Hebby?”
“He. Li. Cop. Ter.”
“He. Be. Cawb. Tah.”
“Helicopter.”
Elias made his Charles face of deep concentration, causing Ganesh to grin and Charles to make his very own Charles face. “Hebbicabtah!”
“Excellent,” agreed Ganesh. “That is very good.”
Elias's face brightened and he took off down the aisle, looking back to make sure his daddies were still in sight.
“Why are they so fucking obsessed?” asked Charles, who had not doffed his own look of concern. “He's just a baby.”
“You know as well as I. He will grow to be powerful.”
“Why should they even fucking care? They're powerful too!”
Ganesh shook his head. “Beings tend to fear what they do not comprehend. As his guardians, we should....”
“I'm not just a guardian, Ganesh.”
Ganesh looked sadly at Charles. “I know,” he said softly.
“i know how you and your family are with that heir thing. But, I wanna teach him to spell with blocks! And build guitars! Look....” He stared at the floor. “What if, instead of this Naming crap, we just all went away, the three of us? Maybe we could just live on my dad's island. Just, go away somewhere....”
“You know, as well as I do, there is nowhere we could run to,” said Ganesh. “Nowhere far enough. And, what about your boys?”
“They would.... OK, yeah, maybe not the world's most well thought out plan.”
Both adults looked down, as Elias was now tugging on Ganesh's pant leg. The boy had located an empty helicopter box, which included a clear cellophane panel in the front, and now wore it on his head.
“Pace man!” he told Ganesh.
“You are a space man,” seconded Ganesh.
“Uh-huh! Go to moon!”
“The green cheese thing?” asked Charles. “Yeah, we'll do that next.”
Elias grinned and ran off again, imitating what was, evidently, a space helicopter.
“We will be all right,” said Ganesh.
“We will?”
“Yes. Because we must be.”
