Dethklok: Growing Dethpains

"Damn, she looks a lot like the singer," came a gruff male voice.
"Yes, she may be a close relative, perhaps even his daughter," spoke a more distinguished voice.
"I say we kill her now," suggested a third, younger sounding, voice.
"Patience," the second speaker told him. "We want to savor the bittersweet moment."
The gruff one snickered, a dry, rattling, vile sound. Judy opened her eyes and almost freaked: she thought for a moment she was blind but discovered her head was enclosed in heavy cloth, her hands tied behind her back. She was lying on her stomach in an ungainly heap and her head throbbed. "Are you awake, my dear?," came the brutal voice. She was hauled roughly to her feet. The head-covering was removed, to reveal a man even larger than her father and twice as mean-looking. He was pants-shittingly scary, the kind of scary that made nightmares shrivel up and run home to their mamas, scarred face partially covered in a metallic mask. One powerful arm sported some sort of metal brace which squeaked when he moved. Her eyes strayed from this fellow to another in a wheelchair, a corpulent blob of a man in cracked glasses and goatee. She appeared to be in a storage room, deep in the bowels of the massive helicopter, dimly lit and musty.
"Hello, young lady," the crippled man spoke. "I'll be asking you a few questions, and my advice to you would be to answer as truthfully as you can."
"Who--who are you?," she whispered, terrified and bewildered.
"Shut up, bitch!," yelled the third man, and she twisted her head to spy two more people, one silently standing there in a mask made of someones face and another young man dressed as a Dethklok employee sans black hood. It was he who wanted her dead. "We'll be asking the questions!"
The invalid began. "We'd like to know who YOU are, please."
"Eat shit," she answered.
Mr. Scary Metal Mask slapped her, gently for him, but it left her dazed and seeing dancing lights before her eyes. "Your name," he wheezed at her.
"Judy. Judy Explosion," she squawked, only catching her slipup after it popped out of her mouth.
"Ah. He's your father, right?," roly-poly continued.
She said nothing. Another slap. This time she was a bit more prepared, and spat blood defiantly. "Stubbon, I see. Get the cattle prod," he tells Metal Mask. "He'll kill you," she hisses at them. "He'll fucking kill you."
"He'll fuckin try," guffaws I-Just-Made-You-Shit-Your-Pants.

Backstage Area. Twenty minutes before showtime. Tons of fangirls and fanboys. Booze. Dethklok. Potato salad.
"Where's Judy?," demands Nathan of Ofdensen.
"I don't know, I thought she was with you," responds the CFO.
"No, she was in her room last I saw her," Nathan says, black heart sinking.
"She's not watching the show? Whatta brat," declared Pickles.
"She's probably puttings on makeups," put in Skwisgaar.
"Soul murderer," mutters Murderface.
"I'll have the roadies look for her," says Ofdensen, getting a bit worried, himself. "Don't worry, I'll handle it. You just concentrate on the concert, all right?"
"Mmmuuuhhh," growled the unhappy frontman. "Make sure she's all right, Off."
"I will. Promise."
"You--you promise?"
"Yes Nathan," he answers patiently. As soon as he was out of earshot he sent out hoodies to search for the girl, then having a moment of genius rushed to the Security Room aboard the Dethcopter and began running back the hidden camera footage. After a few uneventful minutes of that his dark blue eyes widened. "Fuck. Me. Sideways," he cursed. He rarely cursed.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," he mantra'd under his breath in between issuing orders to various staff like a general. If Nathan found out before this show was over, he would erupt like ten volcanoes and cause a riot the likes of which the one in LA in the 90's would look like a Kindergarten playtime outing. And if the Revengencers had their way, they'd ruin any and all chances of him humping the dogshit out of Miss Explosion when she became legal. Not that he had that much of a chance to begin with, but he wasn't into necrophilia, for sure.
Not if he could help it, anyway.

"It'll be ok, Nat'an," assured Pickles. "She'll be here."
"I hopes so," Toki says worriedly. "I likes that goil."
"Hah. Wants to give her your sausage, do yous?," taunted Skwisgaar, strapping on his guitar in preparation.
"I'd buy her one if she wanted me to," Toki said.
"You is big retards," chortled the Swede viciously. "Yous would rather have playtime happy hourse than making the sex with hot girl."
"Skwisgaar, she is not for de fuckings! She is childrens, not hots babes." Toki was horrified.
"I'm right here, yanno," grated Nathan with gritted teeth. "Assholes. You dumb dicks just play and stop fantasizing about Judy, ya gross bastards."
"How bout I just kill myself for bein' sucha loser," wheezed Murderface. "Would that make you happy?"
"I should be so lucky," snarled Nathan in metal-induced sarcasm.