Chapter Text
Tension hangs in the air between the bandmates as they stare at one another in anticipation. They watch as Charles shuffles through documents at the end of the table before he looks at them with a pensive look on his face.
“Well, today’s the day. It’s Valentine’s Day.”
A shared feeling of disgust seems to spread amongst the members, besides the rhythm guitarist, who sits in his seat with glee in his eyes.
“We've got to, um,” Charles gestures in the air with each word, pondering how he’ll approach the band with his propositions. He’s always been the one to plan ahead for holidays, and putting him in charge of promotional material seems to be the best decision after the failed relations with Ms. Bane and the near-destruction of the planet by her interplanetary cult.
“Y’know, we’ve gotta get a, um, product out there, we gotta get something going here. For the fans, y’know. ”
The others seem skeptical, shaking their heads in subtle disagreement. Then comes the words of an over-excited bandmate, jumping up in his seat as he slams his hands down onto the wooden table in front of him.
“Oh! I loves Valentine’s Day! We never celebrates it, back where I’m from- Mamma always said it ams againsts de Bibelen, what’s sharings yous loves with the skanks whores callings yous ‘valentines’.”
“...Okay.” Charles folds his hands together in front of him. “Maybe we can begin to look into a few, approaches, um, for marketing, that is. Your fans are all quite fond of you, we can tap into that. Make a few, um, sales from it.”
Here comes the words of a man who wouldn’t know love if it smacked him upside the head and dangled him upside down from a telephone pole, as Murderface pitches in, head held high and frown held low.
“Ischn’t that kinda gay, Charlesch? I mean, all thisch.. Valentine’sch day schit. It’sh for puschiesh, I’ll tell you that! Nothing brutal about pink, and schoft teddy bearsch.” He sticks his tongue out in a display of raw disgust, shivering at the idea of love.
“Why do we need to do any of thisch promoschional schit, anywaysh? I mean,” He’s trying to bargain, but he isn’t succeeding. “Why can’t we juscht do what we did lascht year?”
The CFO’s eyes widen, almost as if he’s taken aback by the very sentiment.
“ Murderface. You know what happened last year.”
Valentine’s Day Klokikon 2007.
Dethklok hadn’t originally signed onto this idea, they’d found it to be a waste of time. They’ve always had very little interest in doing these things for their fans- but here they are. Each booth is situated in a different area of the venue, separated by an elaborate labyrinth of trails and winding pathways surrounded by fan merchandise, the dildo that’s stuck unceremoniously onto the top of a large pillar, DethSoda dispensing machines, and battery-powered scooters for sale.
Those scooters should be defunct by now- the battery wastes away in about an hour of usage, and any longer would cause it to combust, yet they’re still sought after nonetheless, because of course they are. No one seems to be able to resist the temptation of riding their very own Murdercycle, even if they look like a complete tool while doing so.
One booth in particular stands out like a sore thumb. Up, high and mighty, sits Skwisgaar Skwigelf, at his own personal booth at the top of a makeshift industrial staircase. A complex system of traps, with fire bellowing out into the air, hot flames scorching their breaths as metal spikes come in and out of the platform underneath- it’s an obstacle course. They’ve built Skwisgaar an obstacle course to keep the fans that’d like to see him under control, for fuck’s sake.
A rumble of curious fans emanates from the closed doors. The band sits in anticipation at their own booths, nearly trembling in fear. They can see the hoards of desperately fans clawing at the windows, they can see the warm huffs of breath against the glass as they salivate hungrily.
“We! Want! Deth! Klok!” “We! Want! Deth! Klok!” “We! Want! Deth! Klok!”
An army of black-haired, sexually frustrated wannabe groupies begin to congregate near the main entrance, thrashing about and pounding against the bulletproof surface.
“Oh my god, it’s DETHKLOK! I wanna see Skwisgaar Skwigelf!”
“Booor-ing! I wanna see Toki! He’s just, like, sooo cute, I wanna play with him~!”
“Forget Toki , I want a REAL man! I want Nathan Explosion! ”
The clock above them ticks ominously, counting down to their own demise.
“Oh shii-et. Nate’aaan?”
An uncomfortable look is shared between the frontman and his drummer.
“... I think this was a bad idea. ”
Doom looms among them.
May they not fear their mortality,
And the clock comes to a halt.
The doors open abruptly, and in comes the horde like an uncontained stampede- a rush of wind and the smell of axe body spray on top of Type O Negative, if that even is a smell .
They flood the venue ravenously, rushing to the forefront of the attraction. The only member left with some semblance of peace is Murderface as he sits in irritation at his own booth, completely alone.
…Okay, maybe not completely alone. There’s a fan standing in front of him, shifting around as they bounce their own body weight from foot to foot, more excited to see him than anyone else has ever been.
“Oh mai gaaahd, hi Murderface , eheh,” The fan’s hair is dark and messy, swept over their eyes where it curves onto their facial features. “I’m like, such a big fan of yours… Can you please, hehe, sign this for me?”
They hold up an obscene object, with a gear icon near the base of it. Murderface winces in repulsion with his hands up in a defensive position. His brows furrow, obviously upset.
“ NO! That’sch- that’sh GAY,”
“But- but, I’m supporting you! So.. You don’t support your fans?”
Clearly enraged, the bassist stands up from his stool. It clatters against the ground behind him, to which he pays little thought. “I hate my fansch! And I don’t even hg-ave any-”
He gestures to the mound of people piled on top of one another in front of the Swede’s dethcourse.
“Look at all the fansch over at Schkwizhgaar’sch booth!”
The ground rumbles with the sheer force of the angry bassist’s stomps as he passes through the venue, knocking things over, one after another. A strung-up garland gets caught in the decoration and is sent tumbling down. Then goes a pillar, then a wall of limited-edition t-shirts, and then- oh, something’s caught on fire, hasn’t it?
Death lingers throughout the establishment as flames take over half of the building. A shout shakes the venue with the power of a dragon’s breath.
“SCHKWISHGAAR! I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!”
“...Oh come on, that wasch one time!”
“Yeah. Okay. Anyways,” Their manager pulls out another sheet of paper from his seemingly-bottomless folder. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we can appeal to a, um, larger demographic this time.”
“Larger demographic? Like, like what- like, hot chicksch? Pleasche! I need thish, I can’t keep being called gay or being ashoschiated with those homosh! ”
“No, Murderface, for once, I was thinking we could, erm, appeal to our younger demographic. Kids, and whatnot. They do, um, make up quite a large amount of your fanbase, you know.”
Murderface is utterly horrified.
Doodily Ding-Dong Tick Tock.
Doodily Ding-Dong Tick Tock.
Doodily Ding-Dong Tick Tock.
Doodily Ding-Dong Tick Tock.
Doodily Ding-Dong Tick Tock.
DETHKLOK, DETHKLOK!
DETHKLOK, DETHKLOK!
Bop. Diddy. Boop. Bop
DETHKLOK, DETHKLOK!
Skwisgaar Skwigelf, taller than a tree.
Toki Wartooth, not a bumblebee.
William Murderface-Murderface-Murderface.
Pickles the Drummer, doodily doo, ding-dong doodily-doodily doo.
Nathan Explosion!