Midnight in the Garden of
Dumb and Dumber

Rating: R
Category: AU
Pairing(s):Nathan/Charles, Skwisgaar/Toki, Murderface/Knubbler.
Warnings: Bad smells. Idiots.
Summary: Night has fallen, and the bats are out of the belfry.
Notes: I found this plotbunny under the duck.

In case anyone is interested as to how I came by my calculations for Skwisgaar’s height and weight, I base them directly on my friend Ed, whom I dated once upon a time. Ed and Skwisgaar are nearly identical in build, give or take an inch or so in height. Ed was six-foot-eight in his socks, and weighed two hundred and sixty pounds, even as thin as he was. So that’s how big “my” Skwisgaar is.

This story has an accompanying illustration by Animama

Midnight in Mordhaus. All was dark and quiet. A normal person would assume that, at this hour, all were in bed. Of course, nobody normal lived there. The haus was shaded and silent, but that hardly meant it was sleeping.

Murderface made his way down to the recording studio, his small stocky body flaming with rage. The damned blonde Scandinavian bitch had gone too far this time, and heads would roll. Granted, he and Knubbler were probably not the most attractive couple on the planet, but for Skwisgaar to post wedding announcements at the fucking American Kennel Club was too much. The bastard just had to rub it in, didn’t he? So what if they weren’t tall, with long legs and a tight little ass and willowy body, with golden hair and deep set eyes and those soft full lips brimming with moist promise…

Where was he? Oh, right. Revenge.

Well so what if they weren’t pretty? They had something better than beauty; shitloads of malice. Murderface glanced at his skinny chinless lover with the robotic eyes.

“Sho when I come out, you lock the door.”

“Right. Do you want me to get the fan, too? It’s funnier if there’s no ventilation.”

“Yeah, I shupposhe it is. Okay, you get the fan.”

They walked into the studio, spying Skwisgaar, all alone in the small sound-proofed booth, laying down tracks, headphones on, his long hair hanging over his face, oblivious to everything.

Perfect.

Knubbler turned off the talk-back mic and the ventilation as Murderface stepped into the small confined space, glancing around. Ah yes, the perfect place for his crime; a small area, nearly air-tight without the ventilation, and entirely sound-proof when the recording engineer knew how to cut off all communication.

Skwisgaar played, his back to the door, unaware that vengeance was approaching on swift wings. Murderface considered drawing his attention, but… then he might react and it was much more evil this way. And he never had been big on confrontations with guys who stood twelve inches taller than he did.

Ah sweet vengeance. Or rather, in this case, vengeance most foul. Murderface had been working on this all day with a very carefully planned diet; boiled cabbage, beans, chilli, onions, broccoli, and beer. And now, hours later, it was about to pay off…

Murderface could tell that Skwisgaar didn’t hear the fart; there was too much of a time delay. Enough time in fact for him to dart out and shove the door closed while Knubbler locked it. Then they watched through the glass as, within moments, the blonde’s head shot up and he looked around, his face a mask of disgust as his finely sculpted nostrils were met with the stink of bowel-filtered cabbage. He looked around in an attempt to locate the source of a stench so fetid that it was nearly visible to the naked eye, and suddenly noticed Murderface and Knubbler on the other side of the glass, smiling and waving.

Skwisgaar put aside his guitar and launched himself at the door, yanking the handle, only to find he was locked in with the rancid stench. Seconds later he hit the glass like a rabid Doberman, savagely barking threats that were utterly without sound, small dots of saliva landing on the window.

“He looksh kinda upshet,” said Murderface.

“He does,” agreed Knubbler. “Definitely not happy there.”

“Y’know what thish needs.”

“What’s that?”

“Shome lighting. Blue lighting, to make it look like it’sh underwater, and shome fish. We could do a whole aquarium shorta thing.”

“Oh yeah. Could be nice.”

Skwisgaar continued to rant and rage at the glass. Murderface held his hand out for Knubbler, who accepted it. They turned and began strolling away.

The sheer violence of the impact brought them to a sudden halt. They turned and looked at the studio door, eyes wide. Through the glass they saw Skwisgaar back up, then hurtle forward to once more throw his entire two hundred and sixty pounds of enraged body at the door. It did not open, but the moulding popped off, and there was a noise of tearing wood. The door would not survive a third strike. And Skwisgaar was already backing up.

Knubbler and Murderface ran for their lives as the door suddenly exploded and Thor himself, God of War and Thunder, came tearing out after them. Murderface and Knubbler were hardly mathematical geniuses, but they didn’t need to be in order to know that a thoroughly pissed-off leggy guitar player at six foot eight moved considerably faster than a pudgy five foot eight bass player and his five foot six slightly asthmatic cohort. Their only chance to survive was to split up and dive for cover.

Knubbler darted into a study and shut the door, but Murderface could tell that Skwisgaar was holding true to his course. Skwisgaar didn’t want Knubbler. He wanted the bastard who had just killed his ability to smell and taste for the rest of his life. Murderface fled shrieking down the hall, hearing those long ground-eating strides catching up rapidly. In genuine fear for his life, Murderface drew his knife and, in desperation, turned and struck out.

Skwisgaar stopped dead, turning his face away. There was a long, horrible silence, and Skwisgaar backed up a step. Murderface saw a few drops of blood fall to the stone floor, and lowered his knife.

“Skwisgaar? Y… you okay, buddy?” He began to worry he may have really hurt him. “Skwisgaar?”

Skwisgaar slowly raised his head, revealing a thin, deep cut over one perfect cheekbone. The full lips drew back over the white, even teeth, and froth formed at the corners of his mouth as he began growling like a starving wolf. The sound rose in pitch and volume, until it was finally the blood-freezing scream of Death come to Earth as Thor transformed into Odin, complete with Valkyries.

“Crap!” Murderface turned and resumed running for his life. In the background, he could hear Knubbler call after him.

“Farewell my darling! I promise to never marry!”

“Do shomething, you ash-hole!”

As Murderface ran for his life, Pickles found Toki standing in a ground-floor room, the enormous glass doors open, kneeling on the stone floor. He had his hand extended to something that Pickles couldn’t see.

“Toki? What’cha doin’?”

Toki glanced up. “Oh hi Pickle. I’s making friends wit’ da kitty.”

“Kitty?”

“Ja, is fluffy blacks and white kitty. Never sees her before. And she gots kittens!”

Pickles raised an eyebrow. He knew some of the roadies on premises had pets. In fact one of their oldest and highest ranking roadies had an aged female Pekinese dog named Spartacus. But those pets were ordinarily kept well away from their own areas, specifically because strange and fatal accidents tended to happen around the band. Spartacus alone seemed immune, but fate perhaps was not anxious to mess with a little mop-dog wearing a Death Cog from her collar, who could headbang as well as identify numerous patch cords by name and deliver them to her master on command.

Well maybe this was a stray.

Pickles walked up to Toki, noticing a furry form surrounded by smaller furry forms. And while it was true that the room was very dimly lit, there was something just not very kitty-like about those kitties. Then he caught a whiff of a very tell-tale odour.

“Toki? Uh… y’may wanna just start… slowly backing up, there.”

“Why?”

“That is not a kitty.”

Toki blinked at Pickles, then looked down at the small animal. “Not a kitty?”

“No. That… is a mother skunk and her little skunklettes. Now just slowly back away…”

“What is skunk?”

“Toki, I will be very happy to explain, but get away from her. Toki…now.”

“But so cute when she stomps da little feets!”

“She is telling you to back off, now Toki can you please just once… NOOOOOOOOOOO!!

The mother skunk had been tolerating Toki because he has been tossing her bits of food and maintaining a respectful distance. But suddenly a screaming bass player ran by, with a screaming enraged guitar player hot on his chubby ass. It was more than even a reasonable mother skunk could be expected to endure, and she let loose with her only real weapon. Toki screamed and leapt back, coughing, gagging, wiping at his face. Pickles certainly had to hand it to Madame Le Pew – her aim was impeccable.

“Pickle!” Toki yowled plaintively. What followed next was a lot of unhappy Norwegian that probably translated into “My eyes burn, I want to puke and I have no idea what to do about it.”

Pickles sighed heavily. “Come on, Toki, we’ll get you fixed up.”

“Where we going?”

“Kitchen.”

“Oh I can’ts eats right now. I t’ink I’s goings to…” Toki retched loudly.

“We’re going to make it so you don’t stink.”

“So why we going into kitchen?”

“That’s where they keep the tomato juice.”

Pickles watched Toki try to process all this, then give up and shrug. Dejected, he followed after Pickles, lip wibbling as roadies fled in all directions. Pickles led Toki to the kitchen, where Jean-Pierre would be planning the next day’s menu and laying out instructions for his assistants. Well JP may look like Frankenstein’s chef, but there was clearly nothing wrong with his nose.

“What in the names of all gods is that stench? You cannot bring such a smell into my kitchen!” He gasped as he saw Toki, eyes streaming, coughing, and still gagging. “Toki! My little one! What has zat BASTARD done to you now?”

‘Zat Bastard’ being Skwisgaar’s secret identity, of course. Pickles began hunting for tomato juice.

“It’s not Skwisgaar’s fault, Jean-Pierre, Toki tried to pat a skunk.”

Jean-Pierre snorted. “I will find a way to blame zis on him anyway. Toki, my little one, do you not know better than to pat strange animals?”

“I do now,” said Toki mournfully.

Jean-Pierre sighed, then fetched a truly gigantic pot. He had many such pots; they were most useful when Dethklok entertained. He then directed Pickles to where the tomato juice was kept as he set the pot on the floor.

“Come on, Toki, into the pot.”

“Oh no, I knows dis fairy-tale! Nat’an reads it to me.”

“Toki,” said Pickles, “do you want to smell like that for the next few weeks?”

Toki sighed. “No.”

“Then undress and get into the pot.”

Toki did, tossing his ruined clothing into the garbage, then sat in the pot. He winced as they began slowly pouring the juice over him.

“Dis is cold. I really hates it.”

Pickles would have told him to deal, but Jean-Pierre of course went to warm the juice. Pickles picked up a fresh tomato from a basket on the table and looked at it speculatively.

“I wonder if this wouldn’t work better than the juice?”

“We can try,” said Toki.

“Yeah may as well.”

Pickles began crushing tomatoes with his hands and scrubbing them into the long brown hair, while Jean-Pierre warmed the tomato juice for Toki’s bath.

Meanwhile, down the hallway, Charles Ofdensen sat bolt upright as something ran across his bed; a short skinny something with no chin and robotic eyes that went by the name of Dick Knubbler. Charles stared at the thin little man as he used his less-than-considerable strength to yank open a window. He grunted and whined in his nasal voice, hauling up with every ounce of strength he had, knees shaking.

“Dick? That works better when it’s unlocked.”

Knubbler stopped pulling and looked down. He sighed.

“Son of a bitch.”

Charles watched him try to unlock the window, his white page-boy cut hair falling into his face.

“Dick?”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to save William.” Knubbler finally managed to get the window yanked open, throwing himself off the bed and onto his skinny ass as the window abruptly shot up.

“Oh.” Pause. “And… why?”

“He’s the man that I love, jack.”

Charles watched as Knubbler managed to get to his feet then climbed back onto the bed.

“Just so we’re clear… the man that you love is in fact the same William Murderface who dresses like a reject from an AC/DC concert and can vomit on command?”

“He’s a beautiful complex person.”

Charles raised one eyebrow, but before he could think of anything further to say, Knubbler was out the window and running across the garden in a desperate attempt to intercept what appeared to be Skwisgaar chasing Murderface with an axe.

Just another night in Wonderland.

Well, he was already awake. May as well have a nice cup of tea and catch ‘Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill’ on the retro channel. He got out of bed and pulled on his slippers and bathrobe, and made his way to the kitchen. Charles stopped as he saw Toki sitting stark naked in a huge cauldron on the wide flat hearth before the fire, covered in tomato sauce, tomato juice, tomato paste, and just good old tomatoes. Standing close at hand, Pickles and Jean-Pierre were consulting a huge and ancient-looking tome, unaware of Charles’ presence. Toki waved.

“Hi Charlies.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, and decided he was just happier not knowing. He made tea, and, pot in hand, headed back for his room. He paused as he heard what could only be three people running at top speed down the hallway. Charles had no urge to get run over by or involved in whatever was happening, and darted into the nearest room, which turned out to be a broom closet. He shut the door all the way save for the smallest crack, and watched as Skwisgaar tore by, chased by Knubbler and Murderface who were armed with…

Wiffle bats and hair dye?

Oh that could not possibly end well.

The door to his hiding spot was pulled open, and Charles found himself blinking up at a massive form, well-soaked in alcohol.

“Hello Nathan.”

“Hello Charles. Uh… let me guess. You’re doing a private homage to Monty Python?” He grinned and weaved on his feet. “Bet ya didn’t think I knew that word.”

“Actually I was trying to avoid getting run over by Skwisgaar and Murderface. Where have you been for the last eight days?”

“South… South Ameri… hic!...ca.”

“I see. And what were you doing there?”

“Well… you… you were so upset when… that lady you liked stole your grad… grad-u-al…”

“Graduation?”

“Yeah. The ring you got when you gr… finished law school.”

Charles was truly puzzled as to why on earth Nathan would care about that. True he had been very upset, but that was ten years ago. He hadn’t even known Nathan, and rock music was something his neighbours listened to. He could not even recall having ever mentioned the ring, but then he’d underestimated his boys before.

He still recalled how he had been given his own cog-brand. It had been a perfectly normal day in Mordhaus, or at least what passed for normal. Charles had long ago learned to trust his instincts, especially in this place, so when the hair went up on the back of his neck he didn’t ignore the warning. Instead he carefully closed the folder he was looking through, slowly set it aside, and looked over his shoulder. Behind him stood Toki, Pickles, and Murderface, all studying him with predatory intensity. Charles gazed at them. They stared back. Pickles started to grin.

Maybe he should just move along to his office…

He heard them walking after him. It was a most unnerving feeling, knowing he was being stalked, even if it was just his boys and he knew that whatever they were up to was hardly life threatening. Hopefully.

The corridor widened. He heard them fan out, and the pace picked up slightly. Crap. Charles had no urge to end up part of whatever demented game they were playing. He could mail in his resignation after he reached Thailand.

He started to run, and was nearly blindsided by something very tall with a lot of gold hair. He heard Toki shout “Get him, Skwisgaar!”

Just how stupid were these boys, anyway? It took five hours to explain why it was a bad idea to leave your drink unattended in a bar, but they could plot strategies to make his life hell almost telepathically in less than a minute. Charles heard Skwisgaar’s boots slide on the floor after he missed his mark, then begin pounding down the hall after him. Charles did the only thing he could; he bolted into the nearest hall…

And smack into Nathan.

“All right. You caught me. Whatever unspeakable thing you are going to do to me that shall doubtlessly lead to years of therapy, just get it over with. I have a five o’clock appointment with the label executives.”

Charles was picked up and slung over a broad shoulder. Toki took his glasses, while Skwisgaar removed his tie from around his neck and wrapped it around his eyes, gently securing it.

“Do I need to call next of kin?” Ofdensen asked.

“Oh calm down ya big baby,” said Pickles. “We ain’t gonna hurt ya. We just wanna show our appreciation for everything you do.”

“I see. And… your thanks includes kidnapping?”

“Ah you’re always busy,” said Pickles. “We wanted to do this now before we’re sober.”

What they did was brand him so that if he ever fled this mad house there would still be no escaping it. It would forever be emblazoned on the small of his back. At least it wasn’t visible to most people, but anyone who had never endured a board meeting in a suit in the middle of summer with a new burn right where his belt sat had no idea what sort of torture it was.

All right, well, at any rate, Nathan was capable at times of being very sweet, and he could indeed plot when he had to. But that still didn’t explain how he knew about his stolen ring or why he had gone to South America. Or for that matter why they were standing in a broom closet while he held a pot of tea as they discussed the matter.

“Nathan how did you find out about my ring?”

“I heard you talking about it to Jean-Pierre once.”

“When?”

“Back… y’know… when we had the release party for Dethwater.”

“Nathan that was a year ago.”

“I know. But… well… I remembered.”

He had recalled a conversation a year ago about a ring. The same man who misspelled his own name on a regular basis. Charles couldn’t help but be a little touched.

“So why did you go to South America?”

“Well… uh… you once said that… you read about a garden an Aztec king had with… like… birds and flowers made out of emeralds, and that the conquistadors smashed it, and… well… I thought maybe if I went to South America to get an emerald, then maybe there was a chance it came from that garden.”

Charles felt himself melt. “Why would you need an emerald?”

Nathan reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. “Because I needed an emerald to put into the ring that I asked the jeweller to recreate for you.”

Charles stared at the large graduation ring with the green stone in it that he had not seen in a decade. He set the teapot aside, then reached out to take the ring, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Nathan… where…?”

“I wrote your mom and asked her for a photo of it.”

Charles turned the object over in his fingers. It was perfect; he would never have known it was not the original. He swallowed the lump in his throat before gently chastising him.

“Nathan that garden was Incan, not Aztec, and it was made of gold not emeralds.”

Nathan shrugged. “Well I knew it was something like that.”

Charles smiled, turning the ring over him his fingers, unable to hold back a smile, feeling his eyes burn just slightly with tears. He looked up at Nathan.

“Why would you do this for me?” he asked softly.

Nathan lowered his head so that their brows met, keeping himself upright by holding onto the door frame with one hand.

“It’s… uh… well. I can’t lie. Well I could, but… I suck. It’s a cheap ploy to get into your pants.”

Charles laughed quietly. “Nathan I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Aw c’mon.”

“You’re falling down drunk, you wouldn’t remember even if I let you.”

“I know.” Nathan used his free hand to take Charles’ chin and tip his head up, looking into his brown eyes. “But maybe you’d let me pass out beside you and hold you.”

“Okay,” said Charles.

They gazed at each other for a time, then Nathan slowly lowered his head, moving in for a kiss. The moment was ruined by a nasal Wisconsin accent with a strange yodeling quality to it coming from down the hall.

“‘In the closet’s’ just an expression, you two!”

“Fuck off, Pickles!” Nathan yelled back.

Charles collected his tea pot. Holding it close, he stepped under Nathan’s arm and walked away.

“Aw, great!” said Nathan. “Now look what you did. You chased him away.”

“Y’sure it wasn’t your breath? Hey you wanna come help me and Jean-Pierre rub vegetables on Toki?”

“No, I’m not into… y’know… weird kinky shit. G’night.”

Nathan followed Charles into his private quarters. Charles settled himself in bed and turned on the TV, pleased to find the movie was just starting. Nathan struggled with his t-shirt, managing to get stuck in it and then falling face first onto the bed, causing everything to leap six inches straight up with the impact. He lay there like a dead bear, smelling roughly the same, snoring quietly.

“And now we pour the tea,” said Charles quietly to himself.

Charles poured his tea and sat back to watch the film, his free hand stroking Nathan’s long black hair.

***---***

The night passed. Morning came, peeking into windows, lingering for a time, then moving on. Afternoon arrived, and watched a collection of bodies assemble slowly, like zombies in a horror film, in the dining area, moaning and muttering. Toki was the first to arrive, odour free but stained red, the acid from the tomatoes having turned his glossy brown hair to an explosion of static. Pickles was right behind him, yawning, his arms red from the elbows down. Next were Skwisgaar, Knubbler and Murderface, all various shades of black and blue, bruised, battered and bloody, all three stained with splotches of pink, green, and orange. The group sat at the table, sleepy and subdued, failing to look up as Nathan staggered in, smelling like everything he had been in contact with the last few days. He sat down at the head of the table, blinking.

“I am so pissed off, that… I’ve reached this place where… I’m not pissed off no more.”

“Why?” said Pickles, reaching for the coffee pot. “Last I saw you; you were following Ofdensen to his room.”

“I know. I woke up there. In his bed. With him.”

“Well took ya long enough,” said Murderface. “You’ve only been after him for like a million years.”

“I know.”

“So what are you pished off about?”

“I can’t remember if I fucked him.”

That caught everyone’s attention.

“Dood how can you not remember?” said Pickles.

“I can’t! I can’t remember anything! I’m not even sure how I got home! I just… I woke up and he was all snuggled in my arms and he looked so fucking cute… and I have no idea if I actually finally got to have him!”

“Dat’s brutal,” said Toki.

Charles himself walked in just then, looking very pleased with life, a large gold ring sporting an emerald on his right hand. He walked up to Nathan and dropped himself into his lap, straddling him. He tangled his hands into the black hair, yanked his head back and kissed him, long and hard. Then he drew back and smiled.

“Well good morning, stud,” he purred. “You know I had no idea how you would perform with all that booze in you, but I have to say you were the longest, hardest, and most brutal fuck of my life.”

Charles licked him, then got off Nathan’s lap and walked to his usual place at the table. Nathan stared after Charles in opened-mouthed shock, then threw his head back and howled his frustration to the ceiling. Murderface watched all this with some scepticism.

“You didn’t actually sleep with him, did you?” said Murderface quietly to Charles.

Charles raised one eyebrow ever so slightly, and smiled that evil little smile. “That will teach him to vanish for eight days and worry the hell out of me,” he muttered.