nasasie (nasasie) wrote in dethslash, @ 2009-08-09 22:32:00 |
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Current mood: | .3. |
Current music: | eehh. Uriah Heep? -_- |
Dethdrabbles by.... Nasasie?!! HOSHI--
Title: Dethdrabbles? Drabbleklok?
"Author": Nasasie
Rating: I have no idea, there is no sex, only well uh, this is Dethklok.
Warnings: omfg Drabbleklok?! uh, so I wrote something. uhm, I never write (yes I do, but rare enough to be never, shush.) let alone Fan-Fiction™ :o
but yea. suddenly inspiration hit me like a sharp piece of junk flying out of the Hatredcopter :bleeds guts everywhere:
pleases to be giving constructive criticism guise :D
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Toki Wartooth looked thoughtfully at his own reflection. He was shirtless, but still decent, clad in his usual comfortably-loose jeans.
Face screwed in concentration, hand on jawline and eyebrows furrowed he examined his own torso throughoutly.
Tapping index finger on his cheekbone, eyes flittering down for a moment to look as he flexed his abdomen slightly, eyebrows furrowing further.
Hand falling down to rest at his side, other arm coming up to scratch unceremoniously at his head. Looking at himself as he yawned blearily, turning sideways then, eyeing himself suspiciously with the one eye for just a moment.
Then, seemingly forgetting the mirror altogether, Toki shrugged and walked away from it, intending for the kitchen but getting distracted by the DDR machine in the main room (as usual).
Half an hour or so later, Toki, pleasantly tired but somewhat unpleasantly moist, again headed towards his original destination; the kitchen to fetch a soft drink and/or alcopop.
The rhythm connoisseur did not stop as he strolled past the mirror.
He grinded to a halt right after he had passed it.
Blinking he leaned backwards until he could catch his face and shoulders in it, (the move looking rather comical) giving it a noncommittal hazy expression. Straightening up with a shrug, Toki sundered off towards the kitchen, finally muttering to himself: "is maybe 'causa I's eats deh pop-cock-ls a w'ole lots?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nathan Explosion sat in one of the many random rooms in Mordhouse with a sour expression. He was stuck, no inspiration meant no songs, which meant no moola, which again meant not buying any more yachts and definitely no more parties with women mudwrestling eachother this month.
Dethklok's Lyrical prodigy & lead vocalist had been sitting and staring out the window now for the better part of 3 hours. Not moving, not even eating - unless you count the three empty bottles of explosion-sauce spiced with ample amounts of vodka sitting by his side.
Now and again a simple "uh" or unrenderable grunt could be heard when the cogs and wheels in his head would grind rigidly towards eachother.
Nope, nothing.
Perhaps a more Cerebral man would have gotten bored and buzzed off by then, but Nathan still stared relentlessly out the window, at the roof (which is what was conveniently in the way). Be it by virtue of patience (unlikely) or stupidity (guess) something finally caught his eye, among the ridiculously long deth-trap steeples.
A black carrion-bird was picking at the eyeballs of a rotting corpse, neatly skewered on a spire. Left there by the other roof maintenance/cleaner guys simply because getting him down would be too dangerous, the situation was deemed "brutal" after a particularly unceremonious staff-meeting, and he was categorically left there to fester, now food for flies and birds of prey.
Nathan's face brightend, as if a lightbulb had turned on right by his face, when the gears in his head grinded together with an almost audible clunk. His grin was absolutely vicious as he slowly lifted his ever present tape-recorder, taking a shallow breath, clicking the red button before announcing with his gravely sand-paper of-a voice:
"idea for a song:"
"rotting cadaver shish-kebob"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Skwisgaar Skwigelf made great effort to avoid thinking. no scratch that, he made great effort not to think at all.
That was why he spent so much time with the other members of dethklok, including Toki. Avoiding thinking is easy when other people are around you, no-one has time for introspection when arguing exactly why playing dodgeball with spiked bocca-orbs was a bad idea with a bunch of other equally-as-dumb-as-you-are guys.
Yet, here he was in his room, all alone, lying on his white, minimalistic Swedish IKEA designed bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Usually, in situations such as this, the swede would occupy himself with his guitar, not that he didn't occupy himself with it anyway, having it always with him, relentlessly always playing.
But now he was simply laying there, listlessly looking up.
In situations such as these, the risk of self contemplation was high
and all that not-to be-thinking-about garbage was just an inchway below the surface of the swede's blond mop.
Alright, so maybe the "blonde" was a bit thicker than an inch, something accord to a whole foot was probably more in order when the swede was concerned, but it was all still there.
All of this would all have been bloody dire in this situation, hadn't it been for the fact that the guitarist was completely stoned out of his mind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pickles the Drummer is exempt from this drabble due to excessive amounts of intoxicants and/or hallucinogens.
Really, he's just sitting there staring at the wall and its many stains (that not even cillicit-bang can get out), one pupil bigger than the other, stupendous grin, chuckeling to himself now and again at patterns only he can see...
Actually he's been like that for 3 hours now, erhm, maybe we should call somebody....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
William Murderface (Murderface, Murderface) was also sat in his room this evening. Rhythmically stabbing the nightstand table, now and again taking a break to groan or mutter "pisch"
But he wasn't introspecting, he was moping.
For all his flaws and despite his tremendous hatred for himself (and everybody else) Murderface knew it would not solve, only aggravate the issue if one kept regurgitating old internal turmoil only to re-pack the puss-filled remains plus added drudgery back down in one's core, especially while you where sitting alone by yourself.
No, that sort of thing was much better with an audience that could give you attention.
Which brings us to why he was moping, noone was about today. Nathan was cooped up in some 3rd story room trying to come up with a new song, Skwisgaar had boarded himself up in his, Toki had to be rushed to the emergency room with an acute diabetic shock due to (for whatever reason) popsicle overdose, and Pickles was totally out of commission altogether.
Basically the bassist was bored.
Grappling a firmer hold around the shaft of his knife, William Murderface stood up, with sudden determination.
Sundering out the door, only stopping by the minifridge to get a couple of beers, the bassist went looking for the singer. Maybe he had come up with something by now - at-least he'd appreciate the beer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End...? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
end notes: two issues I know of, Toki's piece is way to detailed and long winded, it don't know how to fix it, when i wrote it i was imagining it in my head like movies, it's more like a script than a story.
Murderface's... needs some sort of grammar fix, I dunno.
ok here we go. :bleeds guts somewhere else: