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Tags: writing exercise metalocalypse fiction slash
Published : 9 months, 2 weeks ago (Sat, 27 Sep 2008 10:28:10 PDT)
Searched: fiction,slash
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So, that song-meme-writing-exercise thing (whatever you want to call it) that I did a couple of entries or so ago for Spinal Tap - I decided to do it again, for Metalocalypse, focusing on Charles Ofdensen. But apparently I can't do it now. Because I couldn't keep to the length of the song. I kept having to stop and start and go and look for a dictionary to check whether a word actually existed and then went to make some tea and so on, so... I only actually got one of the five done in the time that the song lasted. Two of them are over 600 words, and sort of stand as short stories in their own right. Whoops.
So, think of it simply as five bits of fiction inspired by songs, as opposed to that actual thing. Because that went right out of the window. Anyway, I put snippets from the lyrics this time, obviously all the lyrics (in italics) are the property of the artists or whoever published them or whatever. I didn't write them.
I'd say that the stories are all pretty much around PG, nothing too nasty at all. Hints of slash, again nothing explicit.
Izzy Stradlin – Lot To Learn
"You know," Fjordslorn murmured, "the band have, ah, made it known that they are unhappy with the current arrangement. They feel that having two managers rather complicates matters."
"I'm sure they do," Ofdensen replied, recapping the bottle of brandy on his desk. "My boys often feel many things to be more complicated than need be. That's why they have me." He had already made his position clear. He held no reservations in fighting to the death for their loyalty.
Fjordslorn raised his chin, watching the other man through low-lidded eyes. "Then we have a problem. They have, in fact, expressed their wish for me to take over full managerial duties. They said that they find me to be more appropriate for the position." He flicked his long, striped hair, and exaggerated his casual stance, making the contrast against Ofdensen's tidy, unassuming appearance even greater. "They say that I have the right style, the right approach."
Ofdensen inclined his head in a small nod. "I'm sure they do," he replied without challenge, standing gracefully from the desk. "However, it's hardly surprising that they don't always want those things which are actually good for them. You've got a lot to learn about the boys."
Rising in reply from his own chair, Fjordslorn arched a dark eyebrow. "And I suppose you presume to be the one to teach me?"
"No," the older man replied. "You'll learn nothing of them from me."
Fjordslorn's eyes quickly flickered to the sabres hanging on the walls, and he hoped that Ofdensen wasn't as good a fencer as the decoration suggested.
-
Yeah, you've got a lot to learn, but you're never gonna get it from me
Yeah, you've got a lot to learn, guess you bit off more than your piece
You go paranoid, trying to take my coin
Fucking up the deal, making it unreal
- - -
Scorpions – Send Me An Angel
He opened his eyes, not even aware that they had been closed, feeling a gentle breeze blowing into his face, lightly ruffling his hair. The view was breathtaking. He was standing in an endless golden field, tall brown grasses dancing leisurely in the air, as the sun rose ahead over the horizon. A watercolour of bronze and gold, oranges and peaches, casting tiny glowing blossoms onto the tips of the grass as they bathed in the glow.
The dawn of all light.
He had always assumed that the 'bright light' people talked about seeing at the end of all things would simply be a white haze, or maybe a pinpoint of cold silver piercing through from the end of a long tunnel. This was not what he would have expected, had he stopped to consider it when he was alive.
Which, he was fairly sure, he wasn't now.
Again, that wasn't something he had expected either. Not that he had planned on invincibility, of course, but he had evaded the assassin twice – defeated him, even, on one occasion. It seemed a waste to have failed now. But as he breathed in the fresh air and gazed at the horizon, he remembered the burn of the arrow tearing through his chest, and the panic as he realised that his head couldn't possibly withstand the beating that followed. He lifted a graceful hand to his cheek, feeling smooth, unbroken skin, slightly warm in the sun's glow.
He had nothing left to do now. His job was done. He had always vowed that he would protect the boys in any way possible, and he had.
Facing the warm glow in front of him, he wondered if perhaps he was supposed to go to it, if one could even reach it – perhaps it was like a rainbow, hanging in the sky but impossible to get to, as much as he had once tried to outrun one as a young boy. Looking around for some sort of sign, or clue as to what to do, he found nothing. No one. Nobody to show him the way.
He sighed. Of course there would be no one to meet him, who would? Most of the deceased people he had known had died because of him, either indirectly, or on occasion at his own hand. He knew of no family – he had long abandoned them in life, he had no idea if any of them were even on this side yet. He was utterly alone.
He fell to his knees with the weight of the knowledge, the bronzed grass brushing around his shoulders, and gasped, his heart aching with grief. No one was here. Eternity in this beautiful place, in utter desolation.
He choked back a sob, and muttered desperately, "Someone. Please, anyone!"
Lowering his head and blinking his damp eyes, he almost thought he imagined the huge black boots barely a foot from his knees, grass trampled beneath them. Slowly gazing up, he was met by wide green eyes framed by long black tresses blowing in the breeze, the line of each stray hair bathed in a golden glow.
"Nathan?"
The singer nodded, his expression sad, as he wordlessly held out a hand.
It was gratefully accepted, and as he was pulled from his knees by the other man, he was barely aware of the warm light disappearing.
He opened his eyes once more, to thick billowing smoke and flames licking at the sky above him. The air was no longer fresh, but tasted acrid, soot and ash invading his airways. He felt the ground under his back, the warm blood running down his face, the agony of every breath he took, and he let out a feeble cry.
The same green eyes came into view, and gazed at his own – no longer sad, but relieved. "Guys, he's alive!"
Ofdensen knew that for years to come he would wonder whether he imagined the offer of a large, calloused hand in the field, or if Nathan had really been there. He also knew that he would never have the courage to ask the man himself.
-
The wise man said just walk this way to the dawn of the light
The wind will blow into your face as the years pass you by
Hear this voice from deep inside, it's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find the passage out of the dark
Here I am, will you send me an angel?
Here I am, in the land of the morning star
- - -
Alice Cooper – Generation Landslide
"Toki, please take the saucepan off your head. It's unhygienic."
"We's playing!" Toki shouted, running into the meeting room forty-five minutes late.
Ofdensen raised an eyebrow. "You and...?"
"ATTAAACKS!"
"AAAAAAAAHHHH!"
Toki hid under the table as Skwisgaar followed him into the room, chasing him with a wooden spoon in one hand and a frying pan in the other.
"I see," the manager quietly muttered from his seat at the head of the table, answering his own question. "Well, if you could both just sit down for the time being it would be appreciated, we've got a lot to cover–"
"Yeah, schtop messing around! Re-enacting wars with kitschen schtuff? You know how much genuine military equipment I own?
"Thankyou William, that's enough –"
"Ja, loads," Skwisgaar interrupted from somewhere under the table, "I am's thinking someone needs to be gettings out more? Ah?"
"Skwisgaar, Toki, please come out from under the table, we've got a lot to discuss." The two Scandinavians slowly crawled out, hair mussed and Toki's saucepan lopsided, and slinked into their chairs, looking berated.
"Thankyou. Now, as I was saying –"
"Oh, dood, I nearly forgot!"
Ofdensen sighed at the interruption. "Yes, Pickles?"
"About next week's meeting, I totally can't make it. Sorry."
"Well, it is actually quite important. Why can't you make it, may I ask?"
Pickles shifted in his chair. "I'd uhh... rather you didn't. It's no big thing, I just need to go meet a couple people about some deals."
The manager raised an eyebrow. "Deals?"
"Oh!" Nathan exclaimed. "You mean about the... you know?"
"Yeah."
"How's it going?"
"Oh, it's goin' well. Just got a few more business deals to make and it should be set."
Ofdensen watched the conversation back and forth between the singer and drummer, becoming ever more concerned with each exchange. "Sorry, Pickles... Business deals? What business deals?"
"Uhh... it, ah... Hmmm–"
"It'sch totally nothing scherious," Murderface added helpfully, sending Pickles a knowing wink. "It'sch nothing about drugs empires, that'sch for sure." He missed the glare that Pickles sent back.
"Drugs empire?" Ofdensen stared at the drummer incredulously. "You're setting up a drugs empire?"
"Eh... A little."
"You're 'a little' bit setting up a drugs empire." The manager took his glasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and replaced them. "I'd much rather you'd consult me first, I am your financial advisor."
"Sorry."
"Okay, just tell me in future."
"Okay."
"Alright. Now, as I keep trying to say, the point of this meeting is to discuss some very serious –"
"It's threes o'clock!"
"Toki, what?"
"It's threes o'clock!" he repeated.
Ofdensen looked at his watch. It was, indeed, three o'clock. "I don't see what that has to do with anything."
"Meeting's over!" The Norwegian stood up, straightened his saucepan, and skipped out of the room, quickly chased by Skwisgaar wielding his spoon and frying pan.
"Boys, can you please come back? The meeting hasn't finished yet..." He gave up, hearing the footsteps disappear down the corridor.
"Yeah, it has," Nathan grunted. "It's three o'clock."
Ofdensen sighed, forcing himself to stay civil. "But we started forty-five minutes late."
"Sch'not our fault," Murderface countered as they all stood up to leave.
"No, but nonetheless, this is very important –"
"I know it is," Pickles cooed, "and you do a great job with all that important stuff. Keep up the good work."
"See you later," Nathan muttered, and they left.
If this was what looking after five fully grown men was like, Ofdensen thought to himself as he sat alone, there was no way that he was ever having children.
-
Militant mothers hiding in the basement
Using pots and pans as their shields and their helmets
Molotov milk bottles heaved from pink highchairs
While mothers' lib burns birth certificate papers
And dad gets his allowance from his sonny the dealer
Who's pubic to the world but involved in high finance
Sister's out til five, doing banker son's hours
But she owns a Mazarotti that's a gift from his father
Stop at full speed, at 100 miles per hour
The Colgate invisible shield finally got 'em
And I laughed to myself at the men and the ladies
Who never conceived those billion dollar babies
- - -
Motorhead – Ace Of Spades
Somebody once asked Charles Ofdensen if he was a gambler. 'Never with money,' he had replied, and the stranger had shrugged and gone to look for someone else willing to risk a few bucks on a game.
It was true – his money was too hard earned. It was difficult, after all, to run a business as large as Dethklok and everything it entailed. Hours were spent making decisions on which parts of the planet would be missed the least if destroyed through a gig, which animals were near enough to extinction that accidentally wiping them out would be natural inevitability and so no fault of the band, or how many fan suicides would be enough to be brutal, but not so much as to damage album sales.
No, he never gambled with money. Money was replaceable, and gambling with the irreplaceable was where the fun was.
-
If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man
You win some, lose some, it's all the same to me
The pleasure is to play, it makes no difference what you say
I don't share your greed, the only card I need is the ace of spades
The ace of spades
- - -
Diamond Head – Calling Out
Opening the door a couple of inches, Pickles peered out to see who had knocked, and wasn't surprised to see the manager there. He took in the pyjama bottoms visible below the dark blue dressing gown, the mussed up hair, and the dark lines under his eyes.
"It's two-am," the drummer said quietly, without malice.
"I know," Charles replied.
"Can't sleep again?"
He shook his head in reply.
Pickles stood back and opened the door wider. "Come in." Charles silently entered and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
It had been five months since the fire, and fortunately, the damage had been mostly isolated to the rooms on the east, and repairable. Structurally, Mordhaus had been built to withstand a war, and it had proven to be a good move. After some refurbishment, the building was almost as before, from the outside.
The same could almost be said of the manager. After a lengthy rehabilitation as his chest healed, all that was left were some scars – two white star shapes, each on his chest and his back, and a single pale line down his left cheek. From a distance, it was barely visible. From a distance, he was as well as he was before.
But, Pickles knew as he sat down on his bed and leant back against the headboard, appearances could be deceiving. How could anyone really recover with the knowledge that someone was out there, waiting to torture them? It was the third time this week that Charles had turned up at his door, and that Pickles had distracted him with stories and weed until the man fell asleep. It was the only way lately, it seemed.
Seeing him sitting awkwardly on the edge of his bed, Pickles motioned for Charles to sit next to him. "Hey, c'mere." The manager obliged wordlessly, and sunk against the drummer as he wrapped an arm around him, grabbing a joint and lighter from his bedside table.
"I rolled us one already, in case you... you know."
"Thankyou." Charles nodded gratefully.
Pickles stroked his hair lightly in acknowledgement. "Wanna hear more stories about Snakes N' Barrels?"
Charles nodded, resting his head on the drummer's shoulder, appreciating the contact. "Magazines would pay a fortune for what you tell me."
"Yeah, well," Pickles mumbled around the joint as he lit up, "they ain't gonna hear none of it. Only you."
Charles gave a rare smile.
-
Roll me another so I fall asleep
And the stories you tell me are mine alone to keep
Close your eyes, and hold me
I'm feeling so lonely
I'm trembling inside
Don't let go
I'm calling out, can you hear me when I cry?
I'm calling out, I can't hide
I'm reaching out to touch the sky
I'm calling out, calling out |
