Dethklok: Growing Dethpains

Judy lost all idea of where she was or even who she was after the second jolt of electricity, enough to make a 2 ton bull sit up and take notice. She was flopping bonelessly on the floor, eyes rolled back in their sockets, foamy spit frothing at her lips. The young, skinny son of a bitch was guffawing in glee and was disappointed when the cattle prod was put away. After a few moments she began to feel like she was inhabiting her body, and it sucked balls because the body was still trying to figure out what had just happened to it. The electrical impulse which controlled nearly everything in one's body had been disrupted, causing muscles to spasm. Finally her muscles relaxed and the heart to pump correctly. "This is effective," marvelled the gruff man. "That was a good idea, Edgar."

"That should take some of the fight out of her," agreed the wheelchair-bound maniac, satisfied. "Now to make Dethklok come to us, so we can crush them one by one. D, calm yourself."

The Klokateer-garbed man composed himself. "They'll think twice before torturing a poor kid for downloading free Dethklok songs," he said.

"And both our brothers will at last rest in peace," vowed Edgar solemnly.

The Assassin, for that's what Judy had decided to call him (and she was right on the mark), stood over her, smirking. His silver-grey hair fell in ratty locks around his scarred face as he bent forward. "This is just the tip of the iceberg of what can and will be done to you," he remarked, pulling her to her feet again. Her legs wouldn't obey at first, and he snarled as he held her up with his good arm until her wobbly legs gained enough strength to keep her upright.

At that moment the doors to the storage room exploded inwards, rabidly loyal Dethklok employees running inside to surround the Revengencers. D and the silent one tripped a couple of them and used the cattle prod on a few more. The mute one wearing the hideous skin mask jumped on Edgar's motorized wheelchair and they buzzed away from the Klokateers. The Assassin tucked the feebly squirming teen under his arm and fell back, shooting incoming hoodies with a handgun.

"We have to get out of this copter," the Assassin told Edgar as they fled down passageways, the Klokateers on their tail.

"Our best bet would be the concert itself, cause an uproar and have Dethklok at our mercy," D suggested.

"Hmm, not a bad idea," mused Edgar.


"Where do you think you're going?," came a voice all-too-familiar to the Assassin as they neared the concert hall. It was fine, almost accentless, and underscored with loads of hidden menace.

"Well, it's you, the babysitter," the huge man countered, levelling his gun at the other's heart. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

"I can't let you use that girl against Dethklok." Ofdensen removed his glasses.

"Come and get her, hotshot," and the masked man squeezed the trigger, but Ofdensen was unbelievably quick leaping to the side, the bullet grazing his upper arm. Gathering his feet under him he sprang on the bigger man, who had to decide whether to drop the firearm or the hostage, and chose to drop the gun. His bear-paw fist plowed into the financial officer's face, who didn't stop but slapped the heel of his palm under the Assassin's chin, snapping his head back. He staggered, still clutching the young lady, and took another swing at the manager who ducked. Ofdensen delivered a right, then a left to his opponent's face, then a shin kick to his ribcage. This elicited a grunt from the enormous man, who along with the rest of his group retreated into a deserted hallway.

"He broke my nose," Ofdensen told one of the Klokateers who'd come to aid him in surprise. "Go in after them!," he orders.



Meanwhile Dethklok was brutalizing the audience in typical Dethklok fashion, even though they were kinda down because of Judy being missing. They took out their frustration on their instruments and the crowd. The noise was nearing face-melting level, the kind of loud, deep music that makes your insides feel like they've been shook loose and are now falling into your legs, then you notice your pants legs vibrating from the aural assault and you wonder if you need to throw up or die. That's the kind of metal-ness we're talking about.

Nathan prowled the stage like a metal beast, his growling vocals giving audiatory ear orgasms to every man, woman and primate within range, causing paroxyisms of jumping, screaming, and pulling fistfuls of hair out of their own heads. He gripped the microphone the way ancient Germanic barbarians clutched their broadswords before sticking them into surprised Roman soldiers, and looked as if he would happily tear your pancreas out of your writhing body and eat it in front of you before kicking your balls in (or if you're a woman, kicking your tits off). He banged his head during the nonsinging parts, whipping his thick raven hair in circles and causing chicks in the front row to pass out all over each other, their ovaries having exploded from too much metal.

Pickles was drumming frenetically enough to make Animal from the Muppet Show approve, sweat beading out on his corpse-painted forehead. Red dreadlocks flew about as the slender man attacked his drumset with a vengeance, biting his lower lip in concentration. The Pickles Fan Club all swooned when he executed a tricky roll, some dropping their 'I love Pickles' signs. Eight deaths were caused when he threw a pair of broken drumsticks into the crowd as a souvinier. The winner of the sticks lost a couple of fingers and all feeling in the left side of his face.

Murderface was on the top of his game that night, his normally poofy, frizzy light brown hair plastered to his head from his exertion. He even got to do his bass solo, which the other guys felt was an excuse to drop his pants. His solo involved playing the bass with his dick--despite loathing his appearance the other members thought he was quite the exhibitionist. He behaved more than usual, having only kicked in one overzealous fan's face in this time instead of the usual five.

Toki got to solo a few times, despite Skwisgaar rolling his eyes at what the Swede refers to as Toki's "Slow dumb dildoes playings." He headbanged, sandy brown hair flipping hither and thither and yon. The black facepaint around his eyesockets brought out the color in his light blue eyes, but the Fu Manchu mustache he sported clashed in a comical way. He hoped little Judy was ok, he thought. The second-fastest guitarist in the world shredded his Flying-V all night. He wrenched noise and feedback straight from the depths of Hell, where the Norse Goddess Hela sat up during dinnertime and went "What the fuck was THAT? That was brutal!"

Skwisgaar, the tallest and fastest guitarist in the world, stood straight as a post and his fingers moved so fast that they were a blur on his guitar. His thick blond hair fell down his back and beyond as he arched his back during a solo. Tension increased, veins popped out on people's heads as he bent further backward, at last snapping forward, yellow locks pitching forward into his serene face. Ten fans lost their minds right there and had to be admitted to a mental hospital.


Judy had been thrown to the side like a ragdoll and lay panting where she flopped, unable to do more than twitch. The Assassin and Ofdensen were grappling with each other while the remaining Revengencers held off a horde of Klokateers. The band manager had discarded his ripped up jacket and the left arm of his shirt was covered in scarlet from his wound. Gotta do something, the girl thought groggily. Must get out of here. Slowly she levered herself up and looked around to get her bearings; there were signs pointing to the stage area. She staggered forward like a puppet with its strings cut, head swimming but determined. "No! Stop her!," cried Edgar, blocked by several Dethklok guards. She made her way to the stage area, initially stopped by the staff but they recognized her and tried to help her to somewhere she could sit down.

"No, let go of me. I have to get up there!," she pointed to where Dethklok was performing. Judy twisted out of their grip and pushed her way up the stairs leading to the stage. Nathan noticed his bedraggled, beaten looking offspring and ceased singing, surprised and concerned. D the faux-Klokateer came bounding from the opposite sidestage as the girl, hoping to intercept her. Nathan swung his huge arm out, executing a textbook clothesline wrestling move. The guy actually did a complete flip before he smacked the soundstage floor.

"You're gonna pay for your misdeeds, Dethklok!," screamed Edgar, aiming a harpoon at the teenager. Where he got one from is anyone's guess, but if he can slither his way out of the Mordhaus dungeon, he can probably do about anything. He pulled the trigger, the wicked-looking spear launching right for Judy. Murderface removed his bass and slung it with all his might toward the girl, and the wooden instrument caught the the harpoon, sharp tip burying itself in the bass. The momentum carried the guitar into the unsteady girl, knocking her back.

The strong arms of her father caught her, cradling her against his barrel chest. She gazed up at him gratefully. Time seemed to stop; the band standing there with their mouths open. "Dad, I need the microphone," she told him.

"You need the--what?," he wondered, completely lost. He felt like he was missing something a lot of the time.

"Help me stand up, and give me the mike."

Dumbly he complies, and she announces, "That man over there wants to kill me and Dethklok!"

The crowd gasps.
"That other man running toward the stage wants to kill them, too!," she roars. All eyes turn toward the Assassin, who had decided that running was his best option against Ofdensen. "What do you have to say about that?," she demands in a shockingly powerful voice.

"Kill them!," yells the audience. "Kill them!"

Edgar backed up in his wheelchair, but Nathan grabbed the bass with the harpoon imbedded in it and gave it a hearty yank and was rewarded: the line was hung up in the wheelchair and the man couldn't get away. He screamed as the crowd poured over him in a wave of hatred.

Ofdensen caught up to the Assassin and tore off a piece of his arm bracing, then stabbed him through the bend of his arm. "AAAAaghhh!," went the man in agony. He headbutted the manager and loped off, arm dangling limply at his side. He was so fast the hoodies didn't catch him. He was, however, the only one known to escape. The audience tore two to pieces, and D was consigned to the Mordhaus dungeon. Again.