Do it yourself!

“Well”, observes Murderface. “I guess we’re in the shit now.”

Nathan looks around at the chaos of burnt bodies, the burning façade of Mordhaus, and the few ambulances and helpers that are around. They’re sitting on a stone bench in a row, Nathan between Pickles and Murderface (who is poking his knife in between two stones). Pickles is silent, staring at the whole mayhem in amazement, and Skwisgaar beside him has leaned backward with his arms folded and his mouth open. Toki sits beside him, wrapped up in a blanket, still weeping silently. Once the horror got through to his half-sober brain, he fell into the usual catastrophe victim mode. Occasionally, you can hear Charles’ name in between the sobs.

“Yeah. Damn Charles. We would need him now.” Nathan scratches his neck. “I guess half the house must be burned down. I just hope it hasn’t gone to the lower rooms. Like the conference room. We’ve got to do a band meeting.”

“About what?” asks Skwisgaar.

“Well, the album? The… the safety briefings? The last ones were lousy.”

“Yah. Dey were. Lousy. How could dis happens?” Skwisgaar chews his lip. “Looks at all dats fire!”

“Doods”, says Pickles, “We’re fucked. We’re little ants in a big machine, but we don’t know how it works.”

“But it’s got to work”, says Murderface darkly. “I mean, we can’t stay like this!”

“Especially now.” Nathan looks to the ground. “I say we have a band meeting tomorrow. For tonight, we can probably sleep in the bus.”

“Hmmm.” Pickles nods at the chaos all around. “Yeah, the bus sounds nice. Though we won’t have any alcohol in there, I checked last time, we drank it all up.”

“Oh damn.”

“Yeah, the booze is on fire now”, nods Nathan, and they go back to silence.

Miraculously, they have all managed to get into the conference room at vaguely the same hour. This inner part of the building hasn’t suffered any damage that a few hours of air venting couldn’t do away with, and even the infirmary was undamaged enough to take care of the most important patient around: Charles Ofdensen.

“Alright”, Nathan begins, trying very hard not to look at the empty place at the head of the table. “We have a problem.”

“You cans say dats again!” says Toki.

“As I said before, we have a problem.” Nathan looks at Toki very strictly for interrupting him. “Charles is in a critical condition. The doc says he can’t work for several months, and stress might, you know, kill him. And, yeah, we don’t want that to happen.”

Shaking heads all around.

“He’s a nice robot.”

“Boy, without him, we’d have to get ourselves out of the shit every time!”

“We do now.” Nathan stands up. “We have to keep him in the infirmary, away from stress.”

“He dids it for us!” pipes Toki. “He’s a heroes! He gots an arrow in his lungs, how metal is dats?!”

“Yeah. Now let me finish. Do you know anybody who could replace him?”

Shaking heads.

“Pfftt, no. We can nots trusts anyone out deres. It’s so importants.”

Murderface is slicing lines along the table, a sign that he is very nervous. “Why don’t we do it ourselves?”

“Someone has to. Especially with the new album and the killer assholes out there”, concludes Nathan. “And yes. I was just about to suggest it. We can’t trust anybody, so we’ll have to do the job. Ourselves.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it. “I made a list. We need someone to take care of the finances, the number stuff; and someone to deal with the legal stuff, like hiring and … and shit. Someone to tell the Klokateers what to do, and someone to sit by Charles’ bedside and keep him the fuck down in bed. That’s a job for a sensitive guy.”

“Dood, I want to do it!”

“Okay then. Pickles is the nurse. Anyone else volunteering?”

Charles’ very fragile state is seriously in danger when Pickles breaks him the news. He’s in no shape to protest, though.

“So I stay here with you, so that you don’t get bored. Toki and Skwisgaar are supervising the financial stuff. And Murderface and Nathan are doing the paperwork, and tomorrow we’ll have a Klokateer meeting to get them all to do their work”, Pickles explains and smiles his sweetest, most reassuring smile. “And you get a loooong holiday!”

Charles, one plastic tube in his nose and two IVs in his elbows, twitches his fingers and eyelids in despair. His dry lips are moving. His voice is barely a whisper.

“Pick… les… we’ll all… die.”

“Naaaw, bullcrap”, says Pickles and smiles even more reassuringly. He pats Charles’ hand. “Nobody will die, and you will get well really soon, Charlie.”

Charles winces. Nobody calls him Charlie. Still, in his hazy, pain-ridden state of mind, Pickles’ warm hand on his own feels very comforting. He just hopes he won’t come back to a clearer state of mind too soon. It would be really uncomfortable to start thinking about the situation.

“The world…”, he gurgles with all his strength, “de… pends… and… there’s two idiots… and one asshole… and one man who can’t … speak… in sentences… and I… I have a drunk… for a nurse.”

These harsh words make Pickles swallow. But he finds his friendly voice again. “It’s alright, Charlie. You’re hurting and frustrated. It will be fine. It’ll all be fine.”

Charles closes his eyes and dozes away into blissful unconsciousness.