NovelaKlok (Part 1 of 2)
Nov. 20th, 2010 03:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificHey, dudes! So, just a couple more weeks, and we'll have NEW SHOWS, so I can stop writing this crazy sh-, er, stuff, and go back to getting my LULZ the old fashioned way, from Metalocalypse episodes, yay!
Title: NovelaKlok
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Foul language. Lots and lots and lots of foul language. Also, there is one particular joke (in Part 2) involving Skwisgaar that I truly believe crosses the line. Twice. If you think you will be offended by that kind of thing, you will probably be offended by that kind of thing.
Summary: The Boys become mad fans of a telenovela. When production is suddenly halted by a drug war/coup, they fly to the notorious Central American cocaine capitol of Santa Dominica. Um, to fix things. Or something.
Notes: I totally stole some of the jokes from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wikdsushi and nugatorytm. I ams hoping they will not send their Klokateers after me. Also, alpacas live in SOUTH AMERICA, not Central America, but since I totally made up the country of Santa Dominica anyway, I didn't really think anyone would care. ALSO, I don't own Metalocalypse or Dethklok or whatever, but it seems like Brendon Small owns part of my brains.
NovelaKlok
This story is based on one simple premise: everyone, everywhere loves telenovelas. You may not realize that you do, especially if you are a non-Hispanic resident of the United States. But, really. Everyone. Everywhere.
Part 1
Swinging from its meat hooks in Mordhaus’s gothic living room area, the flat screen television sputtered to life. Pickles looked up from his various piles of beer and coke and cinnamon buns to foot pedal through the 500-some satellite channels, desperately hoping to come upon something diverting.
"TODAY ON DOG DAYS," blurbed a cheery announcer. "On this week's show, Mr. Selatcia of Secacus, New Jersey will share his affection for his crop of adorable long haired daschunds." On screen, an enormous man with an enormous white beard cuddled a tiny dog to his face and cooed, "Are you daddy's precious?"
"Mr. Galactica?" mused Pickles. “Hey, Skwisgaar, do we know dis dude?"
The guitarist, who had been gently dozing off over his Gibson, was rattled awake. "Whats?” He squinted at the TV screen, even more confused than usual. “We ams knows da wiener dogs?"
"No, da guy!" Pickles indicated the screen with a crumbling pastry. The enormous man, now dressed in a robe and slippers, padded after half a dozen frolicking fluffy miniature dogs, chatting with them, and scooping up their tiny poop with a scooper. "Mr.... Elastica? Or some shit?"
"Who ams know. Some crazies dude wit' da yappy dogs."
"Dood looks familiar." Pickles stepped on the foot pedal.
“TODAY ON DR. JOHN!” another hyperbolic announcer intoned. The screen dissolved to a studio where Dr. John Twinkletits, robot arms poised in thought, sat between two frowning men.
“So, General, tell us how you feel about Vater. Is there something you would like to say to him, honestly?”
The man sitting to Twinkletits’ left looked to Pickles to be wearing some kind of Maitre D’ uniform. “He’s always telling us to wait. ‘Wait! Wait! We’ll do it later.’ Well, dammit, I’m tired of waiting!” whined the Maitre D’.
“And, what would you like to say, Vater?”
The man to Twinkletits’ right, who had, Pickles thought, a pretty fucking brutal beard, sputtered, “You’re a douche bag, Crozier.”
“Hey, do we know DESE dudes?” Pickles asked, once again rattling his Swedish bandmate.
“Pickles, dudes, what ams you beens smokings?”
“I’m not smokin’ NOTHIN’ dude. Just snortin’ a little coke an' eatin' cinnamon buns."
“You ams having fantasiasies with da TV, ja.”
Pickles pedaled away from the Dr. John show, where the various parties were now attempting to fling chairs at each other, as they did every week. After a couple more channel flips, the screen lit up with a dramatic close-up of a raven-haired, heavily made up woman. She suddenly said something that, judging from the background music, was evidently terribly significant, but in a language Pickles was too lazy to identify.
“WAITS!” Toki was sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, sculpting something from Fimo clay.
“What’s dis shit?” grumbled Pickles, eagerly toeing the foot pedals.
“Oh, ja, it ams ‘Corazon de Azul,’” noted Skwisgaar. “Dis ams good show.”
“What fuckin’ language is dat?”
“Dat ams Spanisches. Dis ams shows from Santas Domininicas,” Skwisgaar explained, mispronouncing the famous Central American cocaine Capitol.
"Da famous Central American coke capitol?" asked Pickles, suddenly paying attention.
“Und before dat, it ams from Mexico,” said an already enraptured Toki. "Dere it ams called 'Bonito pulpo de la fatalidad.'"
“Wait, yoo doods already know dis show?”
“Ja, we ams all watching it in Sweden. Is ‘Vonner och fiender’ dere.”
“It ams ‘Familiesagaen De syv sostre’ in Norway.”
“Und it weres ‘Smeshnoe Nazvanie’ in Ruschias!” Skwisgaar noted.
A dashing looking man suddenly appeared onscreen, backlit, in a dramatic closeup. “Oh, wowee, it ams da dude wit’ da longs hair.” Toki unceremoniously grabbed one of Pickles’s cinnamon buns and hurled it at the screen.
"Hey, dat's my cinnamon bun!" Pickles protested.
“Boo! You ams dildos, long hairs dude!” Skwisgaar shouted.
“Wait, why do you doods hate dat dood?”
“Hims ams balls!” Toki snorted. “You ams hates him too, Pickle!” He angrily returned to modeling another little Fimo clay man.
“Dis show is balls,” Pickles muttered, but sat back resignedly and watched for a time with his Scananavian bandmates.
Some days later, Nathan Explosion, Dethklok’s combustible lead singer, looked up from combing his Ozzy Osbourne Chia Pet to see three of his band mates sprawled around the living room staring at something absolutely incomprehensible on their shared flat screen television.
“What is this fucking show and why are you watching it and why isn’t everyone SPEAKING AMERICAN?” he thundered. Despite the china cabinet-rattling volume of his outburst, Toki and Skwisgaar continued sitting absolutely immobile.
Pickles, sprawled on the couch between a mountain of beer bottles and a somewhat smaller mountain of popcorn, turned his head slightly to say, “Dood, it’s totally metal. Totally. Fuckin’. Metal.”
“This doesn’t look at all metal, it looks FUCKING AWFUL,” Nathan growled, sitting down anyway. He placed the vine-haired Ozzy on the coffee table next to the mountains of popcorn and suspiciously regarded the screen. “WHO IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE?”
“Dat’s Yolanda,” gurgled Pickles, snarfing down another beer.
“Ja, she ams da heroine,” sighed Toki. He completed another Fimo figure and set it delicately on the coffee table next to the Metal God.
“Dis is ‘Corazon de Azul,’” Pickles explained.
“It’s WHAT?” asked Nathan.
“It was ‘Cravate du destin’ in Canada,” Pickles continued.
“Und it was ‘Onde foi que eu coloquei meus oculos’ in Brazil!” Skwisgaar put in.
“Wait, you all know THIS SHOW?”
"Dood, EVERYBODY knows dis show!"
“Oh, no, ams da long haired dude!” snarled Skwisgaar. Nathan cringed as his three bandmates suddenly started showering the TV screen with handfuls of popcorn.
“Da long haireds dude ams sucks dildos!” screamed Toki.
“Wait why don’t you like THE LONG HAIRED DUDE?” demanded Nathan.
“He ams motherdoucher!” snarled Toki, suddenly incensed.
“‘Cuz Yolanda is s’posed to be wit’ DAT dude.”
“The dude with the eye patch?”
“Ja, da eye patsches dude ams her TRUE LOVE,” Toki explained.
“Yeah, but she’s hangin’ around wit’ da stoopid long hair dood instead.”
“We ams hates long haired dude!” Skwisgaar snorted, striking a threatening minor chord on his ever-present Gibson.
Nathan sat back. It looked like a stupid show, but eye patches were kind of metal. As was angrily flinging foodstuffs at the flat screen.
A few minutes later, he was startled from his reverie. “Why can’t any of thesche people schpeak Englilsche?” William Murderface sputtered from behind Nathan.
“SHUT UP MURDERFACE CAN’T YOU SEE THIS IS ‘CORAZON DE AZUL’ AND IT’S TOTALLY METAL?”
“It’sch what?” asked Murderface.
“It was ‘Tortas de cangrejo desmayos’ in da Domican Republic,” Pickles put in helpfully.
Ofdensen watched impatiently as Nathan Explosion used a delicate watering can to sprinkle some kind of moss-covered earthenware bust he had placed on the meeting room table. “OK, guys, we have a lot to, uh, COVER this week, so we should GET STARTED.”
“We gotta go, dood.”
“You have to…. What?”
“HE SAYS WE GOTTA GO ARE YOU NOT LISTENING!” barked Nathan. “Why do we gotta go again, dude?” Nathan whispered to Pickles.
“DOOD! Did yoo forget? Tonight is Conchita’s wedding!”
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” he told Pickles. “YES,” he barked at Ofdensen, “we’ve got to go to CONCHITA’S WEDDING!”
“Conchita? Who is, um, CONCHITA?”
“Conchitas ams da fiery younger sister of Yolanda,” Skwisgaar strummed.
“Uh, Yolanda?”
“Ja, she ams run offs to marry da no good sons of da Innkeeperses, instead of her true loves, da fiery Ernesto,” Toki babbled.
“Yolanda? Is marrying Ernesto?”
“No, dood, Conchita.”
"Conchita is marrying Ernesto."
"NO, Conchita is NOT marrying Ernesto! She's marrying THE OTHER DUDE!"
“You might want to keep abreascht of these thingsch, scho we don’t waschte time exchplaining them,” Murderface put in tartly.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. WHO’S wedding are you going to?”
"It’s 'Corazon da Azool,' dood. Conchita is marryin' dat dood in FIVE minutes an' we're gonna miss da openin' credits!"
"'Corazon de Azul?' You guys are, uh, all watching a soap opera."
"IT'S THE WORLD'S MOST BRUTAL SOAP OPERA."
"It's a Mexican soap opera," stated Ofdensen.
"Dood! It's not Mexican! It's from Santa Dominica!"
"The notorious, uh, COCAINE Capitol of Central America?"
"Uhhhhhh, yeah, dat's da one."
"You want to cut short an, uh, important meeting concerning the FUTURE of the BAND in order to watch two fictional characters get married?"
"Ja, dat's it!" Toki cheerily agreed. He had finished another little Fimo man, and sat him carefully on the meeting room table next to his counterparts.
"WAIT!" thundered Nathan. "Toki, what do you think you're doing."
"I ams modeling little mens for mys voodoo spell."
"VOODOO ISN'T.... Wait. Actually, voodoo IS pretty metal. Good job."
“OK. You guys DO realize the distinction between REALITY and, uh, fiction, don’t you?”
“I’M REAL!” boomed Nathan.
“Ja, I am reals too,” insisted Skwisgaar.
“I ams not,” stated Toki.
“Toki, dood, yer real too,” Pickles told him.
"Oh, ja, I ams real too! Cans I ams go watch da weddings now?"
"OK! Whatever! Go! Go watch a fictional wedding, and just leave IMPORTANT band BUSINESS...." But, Ofdensen was talking to himself as the band room was already completely cleared of any other traces of humanity. He sighed, removed his glasses, and then struck his forehead, once, quite hard, on the meeting room table. Compared to dealing with Deklok, it actually felt rather good.
Things were not going well in Mordhaus's living room.
The boys had put as much preparation into this event as they did their own concerts. The coffee table was amply piled with necessities (primarily beer, cocaine, hot dogs, and an extra large bucket of popcorn, should the long-haired dude dare show his face during Conchita's happy day). The boys had even ordered a possibly repurposed wedding cake from a local bakery ("CONGRATULATIONS BOB & SHEILA" was written across the top).
Pickles swiftly kicked them through the channel rotation.
"TODAY ON CLASSIC CINEMA BLAST: DICK KNUBBLER AND THE KNUBLERETTES STAR IN, SWINGING LONDON GO-GO PHREAK OUT!"
"Oh, I ams want to see dat movies," strummed Skwisgaar.
"Laters, dood, we'll miss da openin' credits!"
The image changed to a dramatic back-lit photo of a woman, and, as music thundered, the words, "Corazon de azul" splashed across the screen. Beers were cracked open, and handfuls of popcorn were readied.
Suddenly, the scene changed to a simple slide, bearing the words, BOLETIN ESPECIAL. Even Pickles hesitated in snarfing down his beer. The scene changed to some douche bag in a suit, sitting at a desk, chattering away. Superimposed images showed some other dude, dressed up as a Maitre d', and waving an automatic weapon, while lots of other maitre d's behind him held guns at ready.
"Dood," mused Pickles, "are da restaurants in dat country really so bad dat da waiters gotta be armed?"
"Oh," said Toki, lining up some of his little Fimo men on the coffee table. "Dat guy is a drugs lord. He ams taking over da country now."
"But," Murderface stammered, "what about Coraschon de aschul?"
"Da show ams cancelled."
"WHAT? Why would he cancel CORAZON DE AZUL?"
"Eh. Maybe hims likes da dude with da longs hairs."
"Toki, no one ams likes da dude with da longs hairs."
"Guys!" Nathan actually stood to address his bandmates. "Current political circumstances have conspired to potentially rob Conchita of her day of happiness! There is only ONE THING TO DO!"
There was silence for a moment.
"Composche a mid-tempo country and weschtern ballad?"
"Uh, no, the OTHER one thing."
Ofdensen stood on the Dethcopter landing pad, trying to out-shout Nathan Explosion.
Things were not going well on this regard.
"You are taking the Dethcopter to the middle of a Central American REVOLUTION?"
"Yeah! Even I can't believe how TOTALLY METAL this idea is."
"We have work to do!"
"That's cool! We can do it on the way."
"I'm not going in the Dethcopter!"
"We'll go straighten things out, and then we'll got to Conchita's wedding, and then we'll find some local hookers and do tequila shots. IT WILL BE AWESOME."
"You know I don't go on long trips on the Dethcopters any more!"
"Stop being a FUCKING PUSSY. What if we need legal advice?"
"Legal advice? In the middle of a drug war??"
"Skwisgaar," Nathan scream/whispered, gesturing towards at his blond band mate, who was strolling past on the gangplank strumming his guitar. "Paternity waivers!"
"Paternity waivers? IN THE MIDDLE OF A WAR?"
"We are talking about Skwisgaar, dude."
"OK. Yeah. Point."
Toki wandered up the Dethcopter's gangplank, cradling an armload of little Fimo figures. "Ams Charles gonna come to Conchitsa's weddings?" he asked cheerily. "It ams her special day!"
"Cool, it's decided then!" Nathan nodded at Murderface, and they each grabbed a suited arm.
"FUCKING PUT ME DOWN!"
Ofdensen lay on the floor of the Dethcopter bathroom, a wet towel on his forehead. Between the persistent turbulence and frequent fueling stops, he reckoned he was currently retching food that he originally ate back in college.
He couldn't possibly imagine being more miserable until he saw what was clearly Toki’s boots show up a few inches from his head.
"Toki,” he said weakly, “can this possibly wait...?"
"Skwisgaar ams gonna wear WHITE to Conchitas' weddings."
"I ams lookin' hots in white," snorted the guitarist, who was now evidently in the bathroom as well. Along with his guitar. "Not dat I ams not always lookings good."
"You ams ruins da bride's SPECIAL DAYS, Skwisgaar," Toki scolded.
"I ams not disappoint da ladies!"
"You ams selfishes!"
"Guys, is it possible we could, uh, have this important wedding etiquette debate, maybe, uh, next year..."
"Is schomebody usching the john?"
"Oh god please no."
"I gotta pisch!"
"Can't you ams hangin' it out da portholes, dude? Nobodies needs to see dat!"
"I tried that in Schouth America and got a belly full of paraschites!"
"Ja, for once you ams gots friends on da sames intellectuals planes."
"You were alwaysch jealousch of my paraschites!"
"Dood! Why wasn't I invited to da bat'room meetin'?"
"Guys, you wouldn't consider, uh, leaving me here alone to, uh, die in peace?"
"Dood! You can't die in here! Dis is our only bat'room."
"Tschk. Schelfish asch alwaysch."
"GUYS? Are you all in there? I need to water CHIA OZZY! He's getting DRY!"
"Nat'ans, you ams interruptin' our bathrooms meetings."
"Bathroom meeting? I dunno, it seems kinda GAY!"
"Den ams telling Murderfaces to put away his dick!"
"EWWWWWW!"
"I told you, I need to take a pisch."
"Hey, guys, did you see the view out this PORTHOOOOOLLLE? It's kinda METAL." They all crowded around the small bathroom porthole for a time. Nathan looked around. "Hey, did anybody see where Ofdensen got to?"
Dethklok's manager had managed to crawl back to the Dethcopter's seating area. He had grabbed a small bottle from his coat pocket, and was wondering if it were possible to OD on Dramamine. Especially if you downed the entire bottle in one go. He was silently praying it was.
There was a mild hubbub at the seaside presidential palace that evening.
Guillermo, one of the guards, was late for work. He asked a fellow guard, in Spanish, "Dude, what's up with that freaky ass helicopter?"
"Dunno, dude, it's some American rock band? Like, Fatal Stopwatch, or some shit?"
"What the fuck are they doing here? Have they come to load up on blow?"
"Nah. You'll love this. They're fans of 'Corazon de Azul.'"
"No fucking way. That show sucks!" Guillermo snickered.
"Ah, it's not so bad. My wife likes it."
"I fucking hate that long haired guy."
"Dude, everybody hates the fucking long haired guy."
"Why does he keep hanging around Yolanda?"
"You got me. She'd be better off with the dude with the eye patch."
"Dude, 'Corazon de azul?'" Guillermo mused. "Those fans are fucking batshit. Why you think the Generalissimo is meeting with them?"
"Think maybe they're rich, dude."
"They're rich?"
"Crazy ass helicopter?"
"Oh. Yeah."
"And maybe, not too bright."
Ofdensen had been halfway hoping that if they landed in whatever passed for a city in this godforsaken country, they might, following a simple requisition of sufficient cocaine and prostitutes, happily be on their way once again, with no further outlay of resources beyond a few courses of antibiotics for various band members.
Unfortunately, things were looking quite, well, metal. Meaning, plenty of batshit crazy dudes with guns who were, unfortunately, not Klokateers. And now, somehow, they had been invited to the headquarters of the head batshit dude with a gun, the drug lord who had just declared himself Generalissimo. The dude lived in some kind of creepy palace, located on a cliff beside the ocean. What kind of douche bag built himself a creepy castle? It did not bode well.
"Welcome, my friends," said the Generalissimo, as dudes with automatic weapons urged them out of the jeep and into the creepy castle.
"See?" Nathan whispered to Ofdensen. "I told you this would be FUCKING METAL." The manager sighed and followed them towards the front entrance to the creepy castle.
"So, who are these dudes again?" Guillermo, one of the aforesaid armed dudes asked the Generalissimo.
"Some American rock n roll band. They are rich and not too bright."
"Why is the one asshole wearing a suit?"
"That asshole is their lawyer. And YOU KNOW how I feel about lawyers." And here he made a slashing gesture with his hand.
The Generalissimo followed Dethklok into his castle.
“So what can I do for you, gentlemen,” the Generalissimo asked courteously. He stood, along with the five members of Dethklok and assorted armed henchmen, in the large entryway of his presidential palace. Nathan found himself pleased by the brutality of the set up, as it featured a number of suits of armor and plenty of portraits of old Central American dudes mounted on horses swinging big ass swords around.
“We’re fans of that show, ‘CORAZON DE AZUL,” Nathan informed him.
“And cocaine,” Pickles supplied.
“But mostly ‘CORAZON DE AZUL.’”
“And blow.”
Nathan gave a withering look to Pickles. “BUT MOSTLY ‘CORAZON DE AZUUUUUUL!’”
“And coke,” Pickles said.
“Oh, yes, our famous telenovela. I am a fan as well. Unfortunately, recent events in my country have forced us to temporarily suspend production.”
“Schuschpend what?”
“Um, I’m sorry?”
“What abouts Conchitsa’s weddings? It ams her happy days!”
“Uh, yeah. You fellows are aware of the distinction between reality and fiction, aren’t you?”
“WE’VE ALREADY BEEN THROUGH THIS,” Nathan stormed. “WE’RE ALL REAL.”
“I ams not!”
“Except Toki.”
“Are we ams going to da weddings, or at least finds some hookers?” Skwisgaar asked, playing an inquisitive chord.
The Generalissimo hesitated. He wasn’t exactly certain if it was his poor comprehension of English, or that Dethklok simply lacked sufficient collective brain power to keep their own hearts beating. “Let me propose this. Why don’t you all join me for dinner, and we will discuss this and other pressing matters?”
"Presching mattersch?"
"He means like why isn't Conchita marrying ERNESTO???"
"Uh, actually...."
"Yeah, why is she wastin' her time wit' dat innkeeper's son?"
"He ams douche bag."
"Heeeeyyyyy, maybe since you're the dude in charge here, you could have a couple of your dudes go talk to that asshole with the long hair!"
"Um....." said the Gemeralissimo.
"What the fuck are they talking about now?" asked one of the lurking henchmen, in Spanish.
"The Mortal Time dudes want us to go rough up the long-haired dude on 'Corazon de azul.'"
"Hey, that's not a bad idea!"
"Yeah, then maybe he'd fucking stay away from Yolanda!"
"Uh, OK, my friends, why don't we retire to my dining room, where we can discuss this important matter in more detail?"
“Boy, that general dude is kind of stupid,” Nathan confided to Pickles as they proceeded down the vast hallway, deeper into the creepy castle.
“Dood, did ya see what happened t' Ofdensen?” Pickles whispered to Nathan.
“Dude is probably face down in a PILE OF BLOW by now,” Nathan snarled.
“Yeah, like we oughta be,” sighed Pickles.
Guillermo was a mook, basically. He was a bit smarter than most of the other mooks, which was why he got to boss some of them around. But, pretty much, it was the henchman's life for him. Realistically, considering the other career options in Santa Dominica - which pretty much boiled down to drug lord or soap opera actor - the hours weren't bad, and the benefits were all right.
That said, he didn't tend to agree with the Generalissimo that this whole deal with Morbid Timepiece (or whatever it was the band called itself, Google Translate didn't seem to be doing the job) was a terribly bright idea. He'd dealt with some pretty bad dudes, but quite frankly, these guys scared the shit out of him. The big, shouty guy was absolutely terrifying, and the little thin guy with the weird mustache had the look of someone who would go berserk and stab you in the eye with a butter knife.
But it was the dude in the suit who scared him most of all. Something about the cold look in his eyes. That dude was standing on one of the creepy Presidential castle's many balconies, overlooking the sea, and staring at Guillermo with those cold eyes right now. Guillermo was desperately wishing he'd phoned in sick with a head cold that day.
"I'm not exactly sure how good your English is," the man in the suit was telling Guillermo, "but I suspect it's better than my Spanish. So, let me just tell you now, you can go ahead and do this, but you WILL regret it. And, I know you will regret it, because I, personally, will MAKE you regret it."
Guillermo hesitated, just for a second.
Two of his mooks were holding on to the guy in the suit, and one of them asked him now, in Spanish, "Dude! Are we gonna do this or not? I'm gonna miss my novela!"
Guillermo gulped, but nodded, and his two sub-henchmen casually tossed the guy in the suit off the balcony, into the crashing, rocky sea a hundred feet below, and to certain death.
Guillermo could have sworn, just before they let him go, the man's unblinking expression changed, ever so slightly. He could have sworn he saw the dude in the suit break into a small smile.
Guillermo hastened away. He had just decided he needed to go make sure his life insurance premiums were paid up.
END OF PART 1
And now you all get wait nine months for Part 2.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA..... *klunk*
(OK, just kidding. Though, it may take a couple days to finish.)
Title: NovelaKlok
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Foul language. Lots and lots and lots of foul language. Also, there is one particular joke (in Part 2) involving Skwisgaar that I truly believe crosses the line. Twice. If you think you will be offended by that kind of thing, you will probably be offended by that kind of thing.
Summary: The Boys become mad fans of a telenovela. When production is suddenly halted by a drug war/coup, they fly to the notorious Central American cocaine capitol of Santa Dominica. Um, to fix things. Or something.
Notes: I totally stole some of the jokes from
wikdsushi and nugatorytm. I ams hoping they will not send their Klokateers after me. Also, alpacas live in SOUTH AMERICA, not Central America, but since I totally made up the country of Santa Dominica anyway, I didn't really think anyone would care. ALSO, I don't own Metalocalypse or Dethklok or whatever, but it seems like Brendon Small owns part of my brains.NovelaKlok
This story is based on one simple premise: everyone, everywhere loves telenovelas. You may not realize that you do, especially if you are a non-Hispanic resident of the United States. But, really. Everyone. Everywhere.
Part 1
Swinging from its meat hooks in Mordhaus’s gothic living room area, the flat screen television sputtered to life. Pickles looked up from his various piles of beer and coke and cinnamon buns to foot pedal through the 500-some satellite channels, desperately hoping to come upon something diverting.
"TODAY ON DOG DAYS," blurbed a cheery announcer. "On this week's show, Mr. Selatcia of Secacus, New Jersey will share his affection for his crop of adorable long haired daschunds." On screen, an enormous man with an enormous white beard cuddled a tiny dog to his face and cooed, "Are you daddy's precious?"
"Mr. Galactica?" mused Pickles. “Hey, Skwisgaar, do we know dis dude?"
The guitarist, who had been gently dozing off over his Gibson, was rattled awake. "Whats?” He squinted at the TV screen, even more confused than usual. “We ams knows da wiener dogs?"
"No, da guy!" Pickles indicated the screen with a crumbling pastry. The enormous man, now dressed in a robe and slippers, padded after half a dozen frolicking fluffy miniature dogs, chatting with them, and scooping up their tiny poop with a scooper. "Mr.... Elastica? Or some shit?"
"Who ams know. Some crazies dude wit' da yappy dogs."
"Dood looks familiar." Pickles stepped on the foot pedal.
“TODAY ON DR. JOHN!” another hyperbolic announcer intoned. The screen dissolved to a studio where Dr. John Twinkletits, robot arms poised in thought, sat between two frowning men.
“So, General, tell us how you feel about Vater. Is there something you would like to say to him, honestly?”
The man sitting to Twinkletits’ left looked to Pickles to be wearing some kind of Maitre D’ uniform. “He’s always telling us to wait. ‘Wait! Wait! We’ll do it later.’ Well, dammit, I’m tired of waiting!” whined the Maitre D’.
“And, what would you like to say, Vater?”
The man to Twinkletits’ right, who had, Pickles thought, a pretty fucking brutal beard, sputtered, “You’re a douche bag, Crozier.”
“Hey, do we know DESE dudes?” Pickles asked, once again rattling his Swedish bandmate.
“Pickles, dudes, what ams you beens smokings?”
“I’m not smokin’ NOTHIN’ dude. Just snortin’ a little coke an' eatin' cinnamon buns."
“You ams having fantasiasies with da TV, ja.”
Pickles pedaled away from the Dr. John show, where the various parties were now attempting to fling chairs at each other, as they did every week. After a couple more channel flips, the screen lit up with a dramatic close-up of a raven-haired, heavily made up woman. She suddenly said something that, judging from the background music, was evidently terribly significant, but in a language Pickles was too lazy to identify.
“WAITS!” Toki was sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, sculpting something from Fimo clay.
“What’s dis shit?” grumbled Pickles, eagerly toeing the foot pedals.
“Oh, ja, it ams ‘Corazon de Azul,’” noted Skwisgaar. “Dis ams good show.”
“What fuckin’ language is dat?”
“Dat ams Spanisches. Dis ams shows from Santas Domininicas,” Skwisgaar explained, mispronouncing the famous Central American cocaine Capitol.
"Da famous Central American coke capitol?" asked Pickles, suddenly paying attention.
“Und before dat, it ams from Mexico,” said an already enraptured Toki. "Dere it ams called 'Bonito pulpo de la fatalidad.'"
“Wait, yoo doods already know dis show?”
“Ja, we ams all watching it in Sweden. Is ‘Vonner och fiender’ dere.”
“It ams ‘Familiesagaen De syv sostre’ in Norway.”
“Und it weres ‘Smeshnoe Nazvanie’ in Ruschias!” Skwisgaar noted.
A dashing looking man suddenly appeared onscreen, backlit, in a dramatic closeup. “Oh, wowee, it ams da dude wit’ da longs hair.” Toki unceremoniously grabbed one of Pickles’s cinnamon buns and hurled it at the screen.
"Hey, dat's my cinnamon bun!" Pickles protested.
“Boo! You ams dildos, long hairs dude!” Skwisgaar shouted.
“Wait, why do you doods hate dat dood?”
“Hims ams balls!” Toki snorted. “You ams hates him too, Pickle!” He angrily returned to modeling another little Fimo clay man.
“Dis show is balls,” Pickles muttered, but sat back resignedly and watched for a time with his Scananavian bandmates.
Some days later, Nathan Explosion, Dethklok’s combustible lead singer, looked up from combing his Ozzy Osbourne Chia Pet to see three of his band mates sprawled around the living room staring at something absolutely incomprehensible on their shared flat screen television.
“What is this fucking show and why are you watching it and why isn’t everyone SPEAKING AMERICAN?” he thundered. Despite the china cabinet-rattling volume of his outburst, Toki and Skwisgaar continued sitting absolutely immobile.
Pickles, sprawled on the couch between a mountain of beer bottles and a somewhat smaller mountain of popcorn, turned his head slightly to say, “Dood, it’s totally metal. Totally. Fuckin’. Metal.”
“This doesn’t look at all metal, it looks FUCKING AWFUL,” Nathan growled, sitting down anyway. He placed the vine-haired Ozzy on the coffee table next to the mountains of popcorn and suspiciously regarded the screen. “WHO IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE?”
“Dat’s Yolanda,” gurgled Pickles, snarfing down another beer.
“Ja, she ams da heroine,” sighed Toki. He completed another Fimo figure and set it delicately on the coffee table next to the Metal God.
“Dis is ‘Corazon de Azul,’” Pickles explained.
“It’s WHAT?” asked Nathan.
“It was ‘Cravate du destin’ in Canada,” Pickles continued.
“Und it was ‘Onde foi que eu coloquei meus oculos’ in Brazil!” Skwisgaar put in.
“Wait, you all know THIS SHOW?”
"Dood, EVERYBODY knows dis show!"
“Oh, no, ams da long haired dude!” snarled Skwisgaar. Nathan cringed as his three bandmates suddenly started showering the TV screen with handfuls of popcorn.
“Da long haireds dude ams sucks dildos!” screamed Toki.
“Wait why don’t you like THE LONG HAIRED DUDE?” demanded Nathan.
“He ams motherdoucher!” snarled Toki, suddenly incensed.
“‘Cuz Yolanda is s’posed to be wit’ DAT dude.”
“The dude with the eye patch?”
“Ja, da eye patsches dude ams her TRUE LOVE,” Toki explained.
“Yeah, but she’s hangin’ around wit’ da stoopid long hair dood instead.”
“We ams hates long haired dude!” Skwisgaar snorted, striking a threatening minor chord on his ever-present Gibson.
Nathan sat back. It looked like a stupid show, but eye patches were kind of metal. As was angrily flinging foodstuffs at the flat screen.
A few minutes later, he was startled from his reverie. “Why can’t any of thesche people schpeak Englilsche?” William Murderface sputtered from behind Nathan.
“SHUT UP MURDERFACE CAN’T YOU SEE THIS IS ‘CORAZON DE AZUL’ AND IT’S TOTALLY METAL?”
“It’sch what?” asked Murderface.
“It was ‘Tortas de cangrejo desmayos’ in da Domican Republic,” Pickles put in helpfully.
Ofdensen watched impatiently as Nathan Explosion used a delicate watering can to sprinkle some kind of moss-covered earthenware bust he had placed on the meeting room table. “OK, guys, we have a lot to, uh, COVER this week, so we should GET STARTED.”
“We gotta go, dood.”
“You have to…. What?”
“HE SAYS WE GOTTA GO ARE YOU NOT LISTENING!” barked Nathan. “Why do we gotta go again, dude?” Nathan whispered to Pickles.
“DOOD! Did yoo forget? Tonight is Conchita’s wedding!”
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” he told Pickles. “YES,” he barked at Ofdensen, “we’ve got to go to CONCHITA’S WEDDING!”
“Conchita? Who is, um, CONCHITA?”
“Conchitas ams da fiery younger sister of Yolanda,” Skwisgaar strummed.
“Uh, Yolanda?”
“Ja, she ams run offs to marry da no good sons of da Innkeeperses, instead of her true loves, da fiery Ernesto,” Toki babbled.
“Yolanda? Is marrying Ernesto?”
“No, dood, Conchita.”
"Conchita is marrying Ernesto."
"NO, Conchita is NOT marrying Ernesto! She's marrying THE OTHER DUDE!"
“You might want to keep abreascht of these thingsch, scho we don’t waschte time exchplaining them,” Murderface put in tartly.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. WHO’S wedding are you going to?”
"It’s 'Corazon da Azool,' dood. Conchita is marryin' dat dood in FIVE minutes an' we're gonna miss da openin' credits!"
"'Corazon de Azul?' You guys are, uh, all watching a soap opera."
"IT'S THE WORLD'S MOST BRUTAL SOAP OPERA."
"It's a Mexican soap opera," stated Ofdensen.
"Dood! It's not Mexican! It's from Santa Dominica!"
"The notorious, uh, COCAINE Capitol of Central America?"
"Uhhhhhh, yeah, dat's da one."
"You want to cut short an, uh, important meeting concerning the FUTURE of the BAND in order to watch two fictional characters get married?"
"Ja, dat's it!" Toki cheerily agreed. He had finished another little Fimo man, and sat him carefully on the meeting room table next to his counterparts.
"WAIT!" thundered Nathan. "Toki, what do you think you're doing."
"I ams modeling little mens for mys voodoo spell."
"VOODOO ISN'T.... Wait. Actually, voodoo IS pretty metal. Good job."
“OK. You guys DO realize the distinction between REALITY and, uh, fiction, don’t you?”
“I’M REAL!” boomed Nathan.
“Ja, I am reals too,” insisted Skwisgaar.
“I ams not,” stated Toki.
“Toki, dood, yer real too,” Pickles told him.
"Oh, ja, I ams real too! Cans I ams go watch da weddings now?"
"OK! Whatever! Go! Go watch a fictional wedding, and just leave IMPORTANT band BUSINESS...." But, Ofdensen was talking to himself as the band room was already completely cleared of any other traces of humanity. He sighed, removed his glasses, and then struck his forehead, once, quite hard, on the meeting room table. Compared to dealing with Deklok, it actually felt rather good.
Things were not going well in Mordhaus's living room.
The boys had put as much preparation into this event as they did their own concerts. The coffee table was amply piled with necessities (primarily beer, cocaine, hot dogs, and an extra large bucket of popcorn, should the long-haired dude dare show his face during Conchita's happy day). The boys had even ordered a possibly repurposed wedding cake from a local bakery ("CONGRATULATIONS BOB & SHEILA" was written across the top).
Pickles swiftly kicked them through the channel rotation.
"TODAY ON CLASSIC CINEMA BLAST: DICK KNUBBLER AND THE KNUBLERETTES STAR IN, SWINGING LONDON GO-GO PHREAK OUT!"
"Oh, I ams want to see dat movies," strummed Skwisgaar.
"Laters, dood, we'll miss da openin' credits!"
The image changed to a dramatic back-lit photo of a woman, and, as music thundered, the words, "Corazon de azul" splashed across the screen. Beers were cracked open, and handfuls of popcorn were readied.
Suddenly, the scene changed to a simple slide, bearing the words, BOLETIN ESPECIAL. Even Pickles hesitated in snarfing down his beer. The scene changed to some douche bag in a suit, sitting at a desk, chattering away. Superimposed images showed some other dude, dressed up as a Maitre d', and waving an automatic weapon, while lots of other maitre d's behind him held guns at ready.
"Dood," mused Pickles, "are da restaurants in dat country really so bad dat da waiters gotta be armed?"
"Oh," said Toki, lining up some of his little Fimo men on the coffee table. "Dat guy is a drugs lord. He ams taking over da country now."
"But," Murderface stammered, "what about Coraschon de aschul?"
"Da show ams cancelled."
"WHAT? Why would he cancel CORAZON DE AZUL?"
"Eh. Maybe hims likes da dude with da longs hairs."
"Toki, no one ams likes da dude with da longs hairs."
"Guys!" Nathan actually stood to address his bandmates. "Current political circumstances have conspired to potentially rob Conchita of her day of happiness! There is only ONE THING TO DO!"
There was silence for a moment.
"Composche a mid-tempo country and weschtern ballad?"
"Uh, no, the OTHER one thing."
Ofdensen stood on the Dethcopter landing pad, trying to out-shout Nathan Explosion.
Things were not going well on this regard.
"You are taking the Dethcopter to the middle of a Central American REVOLUTION?"
"Yeah! Even I can't believe how TOTALLY METAL this idea is."
"We have work to do!"
"That's cool! We can do it on the way."
"I'm not going in the Dethcopter!"
"We'll go straighten things out, and then we'll got to Conchita's wedding, and then we'll find some local hookers and do tequila shots. IT WILL BE AWESOME."
"You know I don't go on long trips on the Dethcopters any more!"
"Stop being a FUCKING PUSSY. What if we need legal advice?"
"Legal advice? In the middle of a drug war??"
"Skwisgaar," Nathan scream/whispered, gesturing towards at his blond band mate, who was strolling past on the gangplank strumming his guitar. "Paternity waivers!"
"Paternity waivers? IN THE MIDDLE OF A WAR?"
"We are talking about Skwisgaar, dude."
"OK. Yeah. Point."
Toki wandered up the Dethcopter's gangplank, cradling an armload of little Fimo figures. "Ams Charles gonna come to Conchitsa's weddings?" he asked cheerily. "It ams her special day!"
"Cool, it's decided then!" Nathan nodded at Murderface, and they each grabbed a suited arm.
"FUCKING PUT ME DOWN!"
Ofdensen lay on the floor of the Dethcopter bathroom, a wet towel on his forehead. Between the persistent turbulence and frequent fueling stops, he reckoned he was currently retching food that he originally ate back in college.
He couldn't possibly imagine being more miserable until he saw what was clearly Toki’s boots show up a few inches from his head.
"Toki,” he said weakly, “can this possibly wait...?"
"Skwisgaar ams gonna wear WHITE to Conchitas' weddings."
"I ams lookin' hots in white," snorted the guitarist, who was now evidently in the bathroom as well. Along with his guitar. "Not dat I ams not always lookings good."
"You ams ruins da bride's SPECIAL DAYS, Skwisgaar," Toki scolded.
"I ams not disappoint da ladies!"
"You ams selfishes!"
"Guys, is it possible we could, uh, have this important wedding etiquette debate, maybe, uh, next year..."
"Is schomebody usching the john?"
"Oh god please no."
"I gotta pisch!"
"Can't you ams hangin' it out da portholes, dude? Nobodies needs to see dat!"
"I tried that in Schouth America and got a belly full of paraschites!"
"Ja, for once you ams gots friends on da sames intellectuals planes."
"You were alwaysch jealousch of my paraschites!"
"Dood! Why wasn't I invited to da bat'room meetin'?"
"Guys, you wouldn't consider, uh, leaving me here alone to, uh, die in peace?"
"Dood! You can't die in here! Dis is our only bat'room."
"Tschk. Schelfish asch alwaysch."
"GUYS? Are you all in there? I need to water CHIA OZZY! He's getting DRY!"
"Nat'ans, you ams interruptin' our bathrooms meetings."
"Bathroom meeting? I dunno, it seems kinda GAY!"
"Den ams telling Murderfaces to put away his dick!"
"EWWWWWW!"
"I told you, I need to take a pisch."
"Hey, guys, did you see the view out this PORTHOOOOOLLLE? It's kinda METAL." They all crowded around the small bathroom porthole for a time. Nathan looked around. "Hey, did anybody see where Ofdensen got to?"
Dethklok's manager had managed to crawl back to the Dethcopter's seating area. He had grabbed a small bottle from his coat pocket, and was wondering if it were possible to OD on Dramamine. Especially if you downed the entire bottle in one go. He was silently praying it was.
There was a mild hubbub at the seaside presidential palace that evening.
Guillermo, one of the guards, was late for work. He asked a fellow guard, in Spanish, "Dude, what's up with that freaky ass helicopter?"
"Dunno, dude, it's some American rock band? Like, Fatal Stopwatch, or some shit?"
"What the fuck are they doing here? Have they come to load up on blow?"
"Nah. You'll love this. They're fans of 'Corazon de Azul.'"
"No fucking way. That show sucks!" Guillermo snickered.
"Ah, it's not so bad. My wife likes it."
"I fucking hate that long haired guy."
"Dude, everybody hates the fucking long haired guy."
"Why does he keep hanging around Yolanda?"
"You got me. She'd be better off with the dude with the eye patch."
"Dude, 'Corazon de azul?'" Guillermo mused. "Those fans are fucking batshit. Why you think the Generalissimo is meeting with them?"
"Think maybe they're rich, dude."
"They're rich?"
"Crazy ass helicopter?"
"Oh. Yeah."
"And maybe, not too bright."
Ofdensen had been halfway hoping that if they landed in whatever passed for a city in this godforsaken country, they might, following a simple requisition of sufficient cocaine and prostitutes, happily be on their way once again, with no further outlay of resources beyond a few courses of antibiotics for various band members.
Unfortunately, things were looking quite, well, metal. Meaning, plenty of batshit crazy dudes with guns who were, unfortunately, not Klokateers. And now, somehow, they had been invited to the headquarters of the head batshit dude with a gun, the drug lord who had just declared himself Generalissimo. The dude lived in some kind of creepy palace, located on a cliff beside the ocean. What kind of douche bag built himself a creepy castle? It did not bode well.
"Welcome, my friends," said the Generalissimo, as dudes with automatic weapons urged them out of the jeep and into the creepy castle.
"See?" Nathan whispered to Ofdensen. "I told you this would be FUCKING METAL." The manager sighed and followed them towards the front entrance to the creepy castle.
"So, who are these dudes again?" Guillermo, one of the aforesaid armed dudes asked the Generalissimo.
"Some American rock n roll band. They are rich and not too bright."
"Why is the one asshole wearing a suit?"
"That asshole is their lawyer. And YOU KNOW how I feel about lawyers." And here he made a slashing gesture with his hand.
The Generalissimo followed Dethklok into his castle.
“So what can I do for you, gentlemen,” the Generalissimo asked courteously. He stood, along with the five members of Dethklok and assorted armed henchmen, in the large entryway of his presidential palace. Nathan found himself pleased by the brutality of the set up, as it featured a number of suits of armor and plenty of portraits of old Central American dudes mounted on horses swinging big ass swords around.
“We’re fans of that show, ‘CORAZON DE AZUL,” Nathan informed him.
“And cocaine,” Pickles supplied.
“But mostly ‘CORAZON DE AZUL.’”
“And blow.”
Nathan gave a withering look to Pickles. “BUT MOSTLY ‘CORAZON DE AZUUUUUUL!’”
“And coke,” Pickles said.
“Oh, yes, our famous telenovela. I am a fan as well. Unfortunately, recent events in my country have forced us to temporarily suspend production.”
“Schuschpend what?”
“Um, I’m sorry?”
“What abouts Conchitsa’s weddings? It ams her happy days!”
“Uh, yeah. You fellows are aware of the distinction between reality and fiction, aren’t you?”
“WE’VE ALREADY BEEN THROUGH THIS,” Nathan stormed. “WE’RE ALL REAL.”
“I ams not!”
“Except Toki.”
“Are we ams going to da weddings, or at least finds some hookers?” Skwisgaar asked, playing an inquisitive chord.
The Generalissimo hesitated. He wasn’t exactly certain if it was his poor comprehension of English, or that Dethklok simply lacked sufficient collective brain power to keep their own hearts beating. “Let me propose this. Why don’t you all join me for dinner, and we will discuss this and other pressing matters?”
"Presching mattersch?"
"He means like why isn't Conchita marrying ERNESTO???"
"Uh, actually...."
"Yeah, why is she wastin' her time wit' dat innkeeper's son?"
"He ams douche bag."
"Heeeeyyyyy, maybe since you're the dude in charge here, you could have a couple of your dudes go talk to that asshole with the long hair!"
"Um....." said the Gemeralissimo.
"What the fuck are they talking about now?" asked one of the lurking henchmen, in Spanish.
"The Mortal Time dudes want us to go rough up the long-haired dude on 'Corazon de azul.'"
"Hey, that's not a bad idea!"
"Yeah, then maybe he'd fucking stay away from Yolanda!"
"Uh, OK, my friends, why don't we retire to my dining room, where we can discuss this important matter in more detail?"
“Boy, that general dude is kind of stupid,” Nathan confided to Pickles as they proceeded down the vast hallway, deeper into the creepy castle.
“Dood, did ya see what happened t' Ofdensen?” Pickles whispered to Nathan.
“Dude is probably face down in a PILE OF BLOW by now,” Nathan snarled.
“Yeah, like we oughta be,” sighed Pickles.
Guillermo was a mook, basically. He was a bit smarter than most of the other mooks, which was why he got to boss some of them around. But, pretty much, it was the henchman's life for him. Realistically, considering the other career options in Santa Dominica - which pretty much boiled down to drug lord or soap opera actor - the hours weren't bad, and the benefits were all right.
That said, he didn't tend to agree with the Generalissimo that this whole deal with Morbid Timepiece (or whatever it was the band called itself, Google Translate didn't seem to be doing the job) was a terribly bright idea. He'd dealt with some pretty bad dudes, but quite frankly, these guys scared the shit out of him. The big, shouty guy was absolutely terrifying, and the little thin guy with the weird mustache had the look of someone who would go berserk and stab you in the eye with a butter knife.
But it was the dude in the suit who scared him most of all. Something about the cold look in his eyes. That dude was standing on one of the creepy Presidential castle's many balconies, overlooking the sea, and staring at Guillermo with those cold eyes right now. Guillermo was desperately wishing he'd phoned in sick with a head cold that day.
"I'm not exactly sure how good your English is," the man in the suit was telling Guillermo, "but I suspect it's better than my Spanish. So, let me just tell you now, you can go ahead and do this, but you WILL regret it. And, I know you will regret it, because I, personally, will MAKE you regret it."
Guillermo hesitated, just for a second.
Two of his mooks were holding on to the guy in the suit, and one of them asked him now, in Spanish, "Dude! Are we gonna do this or not? I'm gonna miss my novela!"
Guillermo gulped, but nodded, and his two sub-henchmen casually tossed the guy in the suit off the balcony, into the crashing, rocky sea a hundred feet below, and to certain death.
Guillermo could have sworn, just before they let him go, the man's unblinking expression changed, ever so slightly. He could have sworn he saw the dude in the suit break into a small smile.
Guillermo hastened away. He had just decided he needed to go make sure his life insurance premiums were paid up.
END OF PART 1
And now you all get wait nine months for Part 2.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA..... *klunk*
(OK, just kidding. Though, it may take a couple days to finish.)
