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Charles took off his glasses using both hands, carefully folded the left arm down, then the right and gently placed them to one side. Taking a deep breath, he proceeded to lean over and bang his head against his desk; thankfully an inch-thick sheaf of papers was padding-enough to prevent injury.
"Milord?" asked his hooded assistant, rushing over.
"Two Years. I've been negotiating that concert for two years! I'm sure Pink Floyd wouldn't have been subjected to this!" the manager mumbled into his desk.
"Are you talking about the concert at the amphitheatre in Pompeii, Sire?" the Klokateer asked, baffled.
"It is a 'Spectacula', the term 'Amphitheatrum' wouldn't be used until a hundred years after the arena at Pompeii was built... did you not watch the documentary that Murderface sponsored and narrated?" Charles snipped, sitting back up and reaching into his desk for his emergency bottle of brandy and a glass.
"Milord, that was a year ago - and I've processed three hundred purchase orders today so I can't really remember Roman History right now." the hooded figure mumbled.
"That's a pretty good run, three hundred? Well done..." Charles trailed off, swirling the brandy around the glass.
"Praise, Milord?... oh, this is really bad news, isn't it?" the Klokateer whimpered (which coming from a man who was over six-feet tall, a wall of solid muscle and wearing an executioner outfit; was a truly frightening sound).
"The Italian Embassy has just kindly informed me that they have revoked one of the band's visas..." Charles finished the last of his drink and put his glasses back on.
"Is this another 'Finland'? They didn't actually mean to summon a troll; I'm pretty sure they aren't going to accidentally summon something at Pompeii..." the Klokateer said.
"Please gather the entire band in the dining hall for an emergency meeting, as soon as possible." Charles said, waving away his assistant.
"Yes, Milord." the hooded man bowed before dashing out of the room.
"<guitar riff>ing hell." Charles swore, leaving his office.
-----
It took an hour to round up all the members of Dethklok and get them sat around the enormous dining table. Charles was impressed that it hadn't taken much longer.
"Why'd you drag us ehn here? Ehts not Monday... wait, is it Monday?" Pickes grouched, eyes bleary and unfocussed.
"No, it isn't Monday. But this is an emergency meeting." Charles spoke slowly, but not in a tone that would cause offence (or running back to whatever pursuits the band were engaged in previously).
"Didn't do it." Nathan said.
"Pardon, didn't do what, Nathan?" Charles asked.
"You always says we nots supposings to admits alibility." Toki chipped in.
"Yes, but only when someone actually accuses you of something; which I haven't..."
"Scho, thish ish one of thosche 'no comment' schituationsh?" Murderface asked, intently examining the edge of his favourite knife.
"Pfft, he ams already comments." Skwisgaar snorted, mid-way through re-stringing his guitar (while a hundred hooded servants would have gladly taken care of it, the lead guitarist was a control freak when it came to his precious Explorer).
"Gentlemen... we have a problem." Charles cut them off.
"Nah, its 'Houston' we have a prabhlem." Pickles slurred.
"We gets to go sees da space rockets? Wowiee!" Toki cheered, bouncing on his seat in glee.
"I can arrange that... later, but now I need to inform you of something more serious. We might have to pull out of the Pompeii concert." Charles let it sink in before there was a chorus of foul language and complaints. Murderface held the knife handle-down and used it as a gavel to silence the cacophony.
"The only conchert I have ever achtually requeshted?! The only time I have been really exschited about schomething? They even let me do their hishtory documentary! That pretty archaeologisht even schlept with me, and schee schaid schee wanted round two after the conchert! Which one of you <guitar riff>ers has <guitar riff>ed thish up?" he screached.
"Nobody did - the Italian Embassy have refused Skwisgaar's visa. At this moment in time, I can't get him into the country." Charles said sadly only to be cut off.
"You blonde bashtard! What the <guitar riff> have you gone and <guitarr riff>ing done?!" the bassist yelled, clambering over the table to where the lead guitarist was frantically trying to put some distance between himself and the knife.
"Skwisgaar hasn't actually done anything, this time... Italy were knocked out of the football - soccer for the Americans in the room - World Cup qualifier rounds." Charles began.
"Da <guitar riff>s dat gots to do wit me? I don'ts gives two shits abouts footballs, is dildos... waits a goils wit clevers had sexes wit Moiderface?" the Swede asked, utterly baffled, on multiple counts
.
"Sweden were the team that Italy didn't beat." Charles said.
"Is this a joke? Soccer is screwing with a concert? Who cares?" Nathan rumbled.
"Italian media are likening this to an apocalypse." Charles tried to explain.
"We is survivings one of dose, what ams problems?" Toki chirped, happily nibbling away on a (sugar free) popsicle.
"<Guitar riff>, we can't perform without Skwisgaar; whole band or no band. We're not ever going on stage again unless we're all there; we promised." Nathan decreed, banging his fist on the table.
"Two yearsh. I've been helping to plan thish for two yearsh." Murderface mumbled, looking up at Charles with tears in his eyes, "I thought we all looked brutal dresshed up as Roman Emperors; and the Klokateers looked awesome as centurions..."
"The Romans were <guitar riff>ing brutal." Nathan provided.
"I'll see what I can do..." Charles said, rising from his seat and heading back to his office; "Skwisgaar, do not respond to anything on social media, I mean it."
"Dood, but people are totahlly trolling the Italian soccer team on Facefriends... the IKEA instructions on how to score a goal is pretty <guitar riff>ing funny..." Pickles said, showing his DeathPhone screen around the room.
"None of you touch social media until I can get this sorted out! I mean it!" Charles said, confiscating Pickles's phone as he left.
"Two yearsh." Murderface sobbed, dashing from the room after their manager, already dialling a number on his DeathPhone.
"I can't believe it..." Nathan trailed off.
"...Dood, that's mean - Will's got a lahng list ah girls who think he's <guitar riff>ing awesome, it's not hard to believe he got some." Pickles said, heading back to his room and it's various pharmaceuticals.