Toki's Christmas

Rating: PG
Category: AU
Pairing(s): None
Warnings: Some angst
Summary: “Oh there’s no taste like gnome for the Hollandaise…”
Notes: It is not explained in Metalocalypse exactly why Toki and Skwisgaar speak English as badly as they do. It is however mentioned that Toki comes from a very small and isolated village in what is described vaguely as a remote part of Norway. I filled in the blanks on my own.

VERY little has been revealed about the band manager, Charles Ofdensen, other than he is clearly a great deal more than just a rock manager who is good at his job. He loves his “boys” and is fiercely protective of them, and in one episode fights off an assailant twice his size with a broken arm. I’m dying to find out what his story is. At any rate, he is quite capable of, and indeed happy to, kill anyone who dares harm the oblivious inarticulate nitwits in his care.

You’ll know why you need to know that when you get there. ;-)

For those of you who have no idea what a 1949 Bentley Mark VI Drophead Coupe looks like, here's one. This is vital info I’ve provided so you’ll know when to scream in horror. ;-)

Ofdensen swung the glass doors open and stepped onto his balcony, clad in pyjamas, bathrobe, and slippers. He had a cup of steaming tea in his hands, and the world that was laid out before him could not have been more lovely. Snow covered the ground, and wafted from the sky like the feathers of some heavenly bird. All was pearl grey and white, and the world seemed a wonderful and blessed place…

Right up to the moment the snowball struck him in the temple.

“Sorry butlers-man!” yelled Skwisgaar.

Ofdensen sighed heavily, watching as Toki and Skwisgaar tore by, chased by Nathan. It was not a hunt Nathan could hope to win. Toki and Skwisgaar had been raised in lands where ice and snow were a fact of winter. Nathan had grown up in Florida, and the two-foot deep fluff covering the land was an alien substance to him. Not to mention he was not light and leggy as were his intended victims. Nathan was a tank chasing reindeer. Pickles, however, was a Wisconsin boy. He understood snow and snowball fights, and was lying in ambush with a large heap of snowballs. Nathan didn’t have to catch Toki and Skwisgaar; he just had to herd them.

Ofdensen permitted himself a mean little smile as he wiped snow off his face, hearing Skwisgaar shriek. There were numerous thuds and thwaks as snow-ballista struck bodies. Ofdensen lowered his head to sip his tea, and felt another snowball catch him in the other temple.

“Sorry butlers-man!”

Ofdensen sighed. “I wonder if Roy Harper had days like this?”

Nathan ran back into view, throwing snowballs at his pursuers, his black hair streaming. He was actually laughing; a rare event indeed. Toki and Skwisgaar were in hot pursuit. Ofdensen raised an eyebrow as Pickles strolled into view after the three, wiping off snow. It seemed the hunters had become the hunted. For one brief glorious moment, Toki and Skwisgaar made their Viking ancestors proud, routing their prey and driving it to ground. Then Nathan abruptly reversed his retreat into a charge. Toki dodged. Skwisgaar didn’t. Ofdensen watched as Nathan and Skwisgaar collided head on.

Somewhere in Valhalla, Odin slapped a hand over his face.

Toki of course came to help Skwisgaar out of the snow. Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, Ofdensen thought, or as his mother would say, Big Brother and Me Too. They were inseparable, except for when Skwisgaar was off with one of his countless female acquaintances. Toki would sulk until Skwisgaar returned, and then it was like pouring rain on a flower; he would just perk right up.

Ofdensen observed the pair, scarcely even aware he was doing it. Old habits died hard, after all. He watched Toki sweep snow off Skwisgaar, who was in a snit, gathering his dignity after getting dumped on his fine ass. Ofdensen studied their body language as he sipped his tea, raising one eyebrow ever so slightly. He froze for the briefest second as he caught the way Toki’s head briefly dipped, the end of his nose almost touching Skwisgaar’s jacket, as if considering planting a kiss on his taller companion’s shoulder, but thought better of it at the last second. It was quick, and his friends didn’t notice. If Ofdensen hadn’t been as astute as he was he might have missed it as well.

He couldn’t hold back the warm and fuzzy feeling inside. So Toki was sweet on Skwisgaar, was he? Well it was hardly a surprise; they had been glued at the hip since they met. Ofdensen wondered if Skwisgaar had any idea. Probably not. Skwisgaar may be dumb as a post, but Ofdensen found it highly unlikely he would parade his female friends in front of Toki if he had the first idea he liked him. Much as Skwisgaar could at times be an arrogant Prima Donna, he would never intentionally hurt Toki. Making Toki cry was like kicking a baby bird out of the nest. There was just no way to feel good about yourself after you had done it.

Ofdensen silently wished Toki luck. He’d need it.

***---***

By the time Ofdensen was dressed and ready to come downstairs, lunch was ready, and he could not hide a smile as his five “boys” came thundering in like a group of kids, wet and cold and grinning… everyone but Murderface.

“I AM NOT GAY! God why do we alwaysh end up talking about thish?”

“Hey, it wasn’t us who went and made a giant snow-dick on the lawn,” said Nathan.

“It’sh not a shnow dick! It’sh a shnow man!”

“Dick.”

“Man!”

“Dick.”

“You guysh are sho immature.” He walked up to Ofdensen and took his arm, pointing out the window. “Now what doesh that look like to you? A shnow man or a shnow dick?”

Ofdensen stared at the lawn sculpture.

“Let’s have lunch,” he said.

There were snickers. Murderface grumbled and bitched the whole way to the dining hall. All Mordhaus was decorated, and not in a terribly ‘metal’ way. But it was two days before Christmas, and Christmas was the one time of the year when things did not have to be ‘metal’. The roadies really, really hated the little decorative bits of holly and mistletoe on their uniforms, and only their Christmas bonuses prevented strikes and riots.

“Gonna be strange not seeing you guys for two weeks,” said Nathan, taking his usual place at the table.

“Ah it’s good to go home once in a while,” said Pickles. “Reminds us of why we left.”

Mordhaus would be vacant until after New Year’s. Every member of the band was taking off for a different part of the world, visiting friends and relations. Skwisgaar was embarking for Sweden, Nathan to Florida, Pickles to Wisconsin, Murderface to where-ever-the-Hell he hailed from, and Toki was going to his small village in Norway. He had seemed both excited and worried by the prospect; his parents were strict, cold people, and Ofdensen couldn’t help but feel that the way Toki was still so child-like at his age had something to do with emotional starvation. He hoped the time apart would make Toki’s parents appreciate their son more. Ofdensen himself was off for Los Angeles, and away from snow and castles for a while. The roadies too were departing for hearth and home over the holidays. Mordhaus would be a tomb.

“Be nice to be in place where be no one is talks funny,” said Skwisgaar.

“Ja to dat,” said Toki. “I is has no normals conservations since is comings here.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” said Ofdensen dryly. “When is your plane leaving?”

“In five hours,” said Skwisgaar. “Toki and I flies to Stockholm, den he goes on to Norway, and I is go on to reds light districts and in two weeks bes found dead with fives prostitutes face downs in my own puke.”

“I’m sure your mother will be proud,” said Nathan.

“Please don’t,” said Ofdensen, “it would really interfere with next year’s tour schedule.”

“Okay I leaves out the beings dead parts.”

“Thank you.”

“The red light district?” said Pickles. “I thought you were going to see your mom.”

“Dat’s where she is, dildo.”

A roadie came in with the day’s mail, handing it out. Toki only had one letter, but there was no mistaking the point of origin; Norway. Toki took it and opened it.

“Who’s it from?” asked Pickles.

“Mor og Far,” said Toki, then corrected himself. “Mother and Father. Why dey writes me now?” He opened the envelope and took out a rather substantial letter. He leafed through it, facial expression not changing. He slowly and carefully folded it back up and replaced it in the envelope, not seeming to notice as his friends exchanged glances.

“Everything okay?” asked Pickles.

“Oh ja, is fines, they just wants me there day later, dey’s not be home.”

“So you is comes with me,” said Skwisgaar. “I puts you on plane next day.”

“No, is okays Skwisgaar, I just catch later flight.”

“You sure? You be alones. Roadies all go home.”

Toki smiled. “I is big boy, I t’inks I survive one night.”

“Well you have all our cell phone numbers if you need anything,” said Ofdensen.

Toki nodded. “I be fine,” he said quietly.

***---***

Toki walked across the snowy yard where mere hours ago he and his four band-mates had played. The snow was still falling, and the sky was rapidly becoming dark. In another hour, the final shift for the roadies would be over and they would leave. Ofdensen and the guys were already gone. Toki would be completely and utterly alone.

He walked up to one of the imposing Klokateers, one of their army of faithful roadies, clad in his executioner-style uniform and holding a massive flamethrower that drooled a steady stream of fire. Toki reached into his pocket and took out the letter once more, looking at it.

His parents did not want him to wait a day. They wanted him to not come at all, and, judging by the petition that had arrived with their letter, the other villagers felt much the same way. He was an embarrassment to their strictly Christian home; a long-haired death-metal playing musician. He would be an evil, corrupting influence. In short, he was not wanted.

Toki put the letter in the flame and watched it go up in smoke, the ashes fluttering out of his hand and scattering over the white snow. Then he walked away slowly, roaming across the field in the falling snow.

When he came back, the roadies were gone. The imposing keep, crafted to look like a Viking longboat, was silent. The fires were out, and the place was as cold and echoing as a tomb.

***---***

Skwisgaar was in the airport bar. Actually he was in a lounge for VIPs, where they could get drunk in peace. His flight had been delayed due to weather, but he didn’t mind. He had run into two members of another band, Death Rider, with whom he had long been friends. They stood out among the other patrons, who were mostly CEOs, political figures, and other like important people. The three heavy-metal rockers kept to their own corner, talking music, laughing, drinking, having fun.

A server came over to claim the empty glasses. “You boys know they won’t let you on the plane if you’re drunk,” she gently reminded them.

“Plane?” said Paul. “What plane? I thought we were spending our holidays here.”

“Thoughts you was going to England,” said Skwisgaar.

“Yeah, so did we,” grumbled Rod.

“I’m sorry,” said the server. “The storm over the Atlantic is supposed to be letting up. We’ll get you on plane as soon as we can.”

“Why we can nots fly in storm?” asked Skwisgaar.

“Well,” said the server as she gathered the glasses, “Because it’s dangerous and no one wants to see you end up spending your Christmas floating around the ocean on an ice berg.”

“Ja dat’s would suck,” said Skwisgaar morosely. “Ends up like dat Leotardo Decapitated in Titanic.”

“I think you mean Leonardo DiCaprio,” said the server.

“Dat’s who I is saying. Wants go fools around in de broom closet?”

“No, sorry, I think my husband might object.”

“Brings him. He cans holds video camera.”

She patted him on the head and fed him a cherry from her tray, then left.

“Poor Skwisgaar,” said Rod.

“What’s you means poor Skwisgaar? I gots her cherry.”

Paul winced. Skwisgaar ate his cherry, and sighed as the loudspeaker came on and announced their flight would be delayed a bit longer. Paul swore and took out his cell phone, calling his girlfriend to let her know about the situation. Skwisgaar decided to call Toki. He would not say as much out loud, but he was a little worried about him. And, truth be told, he missed his favourite naïve brown-haired shadow. The phone was answered after two rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey Tokis, how is you?”

“I is good.”

“Castle scary?”

“Ja, a little. I has fire lit in small hall. Why you nots on plane to Stockholm?”

“Weather is being dildos. I is getting drunk with Paul and Rod.”

“Oh tell Paul I says hi.”

Skwisgaar looked at Paul. “Toki is saying hi.”

Paul smiled an acknowledgement. Rod took the cell phone. “Toki darling, when you gonna come marry me?”

“I is nevers marrying you! You hids old condoms in Deddy Bear! He is traumerized!”

“Well I had to hide them someplace.”

“Nots in my bear you is nots! I marry you when Odin falls to earth and plays theme to Rocky on da ass-trumpets I marries you!”

“Toki I get the impression you don’t like me.”

“Uekte!” Toki spat.

“I have no idea what that means but it sounds negative. Here’s Skwisgaar.” He handed the phone back to the tall Swede. “He’s mad about me.”

“Ja rabies do dat.” Skwisgaar took the phone. “So you is okays?”

“Ja I is good. You… you has good times in Sweden.”

Skwisgaar thought he detected something in Toki’s voice, a brief wavering, but was uncertain. He hesitated, wanting to ask if something was wrong, but didn’t. If Toki wanted to talk, he would let him know.

“Ja you take care. Bye bye.”

“Bye Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar hung up, but hesitated once more before putting the phone away. He very much wanted to call Toki back. Then he gave himself a shake, telling himself that Toki was an adult and could look after himself. He put the phone away and ordered another drink.

***---***

Toki hung up and put the phone away. He had set up a little corner near the fireplace in the smaller of the several fire-halls of Mordhaus. He had drawn a medieval-style love seat over to form a sort of wall, and placed a rug on the floor before it to sit on. To his left he had a small artificial Christmas tree that had been in his room, only four feet tall but brightly decorated. He had his arms wrapped around Deddy Bear, and was staring down at the carpet, unable to shake the words of the letter from his mind. Unwelcome, unwanted, and formally requested not to come back by the entire village. That included people he had grown up with.

He felt his eyes sting with tears. How could they shun him like that? And for what? For being successful? For wanting to do something other than watch his life slowly dry up and wither away in that dead hole? It was a beautiful village but there was nothing there. He wasn’t the only young man who had left for greener pastures. Were the others all told not to come back? Were they called an embarrassment? He narrowed his eyes, suddenly recalling the plea for help from his village last spring after a flood. They wanted his aid, and he had been too happy to give it. He’d sent them a small fortune in funds, as well as workers and supplies.

Toki knew he wasn’t bright. But he certainly knew when he had been used.

He rose from the floor, still clutching Deddy Bear close to his chest, and went to the huge chamber where the sunken hot tub sat. He thought maybe a soak in the hot tub while watching the movie-sized flat screen TV would cheer him up a bit, especially without Murderface on hand to bitch and yowl about every single programme he picked. But the hot tub was cold and empty, and Toki didn’t know how to fill it. In fact Ofdensen had strictly forbidden Toki from operating a hot tub in any capacity after the last time he tried to fill it ended in extensive flood damage and three electrocutions. Sitting naked in a cold empty tub just wasn’t as appealing as sitting in a warm one full of bubbly water. Maybe Jean-Pierre knew…

No, he had gone home, too.

Toki stood in the hot tub room and tried to wrap his mind around the concept. He was alone. ALL alone. No one was here. Not the guys, not Ofdensen, not the roadies, not the staff, the servants… NOBODY. Toki held his teddy bear more tightly to his chest as several scenes from ‘The Shining’ went through his mind.

“I thinks I is going out for while,” he said nervously.

He went to the front entranceway, finding his boots. He pulled them on, then got into his WW2 era flight jacket with the sheepskin lining that Pickles had given him for his birthday, zipping Deddy Bear into it. Departing from the daunting stone structure that was his home, he walked through the snow to the garage where the vehicles were kept. He regarded the collection of cars and motorcycles, realizing he didn’t want to stand out tonight. He didn’t want to be Toki the rock star. He just wanted to be Toki. He just wanted to go someplace where he could hear his own language, eat Norwegian food, and forget for a while he was now without a home town. However the vehicles that belonged to the band were anything but discreet. They were snarling midnight dragons, painted with flames and skulls, front grills and bumpers fashioned to look like teeth. Anyone who had even the vaguest knowledge of Dethklok was going to know somebody from the band had to be driving. And the Murdercycle was right out. There was absolutely no mistaking the gigantic bike with its four side cars as anything other than the Murdercycle.

Maybe he should just stay home…

He was about to close the garage door and walk away when something caught his eye. There, in among the custom black and red metal beasts that looked like snarling undead monsters, was Ofdensen’s 1949 Bentley Mark VI Drophead Coupe. It was a gorgeous metal sculpture on wheels from an age of elegance. It was hardly the sort of vehicle that could blend in, but next to the Murdercycle and other steel dragons it was downright plain.

Ofdensen would have him castrated if he borrowed the Bentley…

Well… he didn’t have to know he borrowed the Bentley, did he? What if he drove slowly and carefully, and when he brought it back he cleaned and dried it? Ofdensen would never know.

Oh this was such a bad idea…

Toki got into the car, thinking he could feel Ofdensen breathing down his neck as he started the powerful engine. He took Deddy Bear out of his jacket and placed him on the passenger seat, then carefully pulled out of the garage. He handled the vehicle cautiously, not wanting to risk any damage to the grand old car. He made his way gingerly down the long driveway, at last reaching the highway. He flicked on the radio, and was horrified to hear Big Band music coming out. He considered changing the station, but realized if Ofdensen got into the car and found a different station he would know it had been out for a jaunt without him. And Toki wasn’t sure he could find the station again if he changed it. Best just to leave it. Ofdensen forgave them much, but Toki didn’t think he would forgive this.

Toki drove like a granny all the way into town. After a few miles he started to enjoy the music. Maybe this Big Band stuff was okay after all. He began to relax, and to feel a bit better. He made his way to a shop that the band haunted on occasion, and felt his spirits rise immeasurably as he entered and heard a voice call his name.

“Toki! What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Norway, sweetie?”

Toki stood as the corpulent old woman came to take his face between her hands, lowering his head so she could kiss him.

“Hello Katrine. I is nots going to Norway.”

She stroked his hair. “Why not, sweetie?”

He shook his head. “Toki is nots want to talk about it.”

She made soft sounds of sympathy and stroked his hair. From the back of the shop her nineteen-year-old grandson Hansi chose to make his presence known.

“That’s because Norwegians are intelligent, educated and articulate. Toki makes them look bad. They probably told him not to come back.”

Katrine admonished the boy sharply in German. The family had immigrated to the States ten years ago, and all spoke flawless English while Toki still fought to make himself understood. Of course, Hansi had schools and tutors to teach him. Furthermore Hansi had grown up with adults who already spoke English well. He hadn’t fallen off a ship as an adult with fifty bucks in his pocket and an old guitar over his back, having never seen so much as a streetlight until a few days ago. He hadn’t been forced to figure things out on his own from people who could barely make themselves understood in their own language. And the first guy Hansi met while traveling from Germany to the States probably was not a tall crazy Swede from a similar tiny backwoods village who also didn’t know a word of English. The only saving grace was that Skwisgaar could at least hold a decent conversation in Norwegian. But the pair of them teaching each other English learned from high-school dropouts had resulted in a distinctly hashed dialect that no one other than Ofdensen and the other members of Dethklok could understand with any regularity, and that was only from hearing it all the time. Toki knew his English wouldn’t win any awards, but he could, when occasion called for it, make his point very clear.

“Ja Toki is so dumb why he is live in great big beautiful stone house with lots of servants, and Hansi lives in room overs his grandmama’s garage?”

Hansi chose not to answer that. Katrine chuckled.

“So what can I do for you this evening?”

Toki bought three bags of assorted chocolates and a huge beautiful gingerbread house complete with tiny candy furniture. He loaded everything carefully into the Bentley and drove to his destination; a small restaurant wedged between two larger buildings called ‘The Mead Hall’. It wasn’t the largest or finest dining establishment, but Toki came here often, and was on a friendly basis with the family that owned it. He arrived with a feeling of relief, fighting back the hurt caused by Hansi’s remark about the other Norwegians not wanting him. It was just a little too close to the truth, and it cut him deeply. He very much wanted to be among his own people, but when he walked up to the door of the restaurant, his heart dropped as he saw the sign hung on the door.

‘SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.’

He glanced at the hours listed on the door, and felt his heart sink further. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the place had closed early. He shut his eyes, and felt the tears burn. Dammit, he was not going to cry. He would just turn around and go home, have some eggnog and see if he could track down the instruction manual for the hot tub. He was not going to cry.

Toki walked back to the Bentley and got in, turning on the still-warm engine. He activated the wipers, noticing the snow was falling a little harder now, telling himself it was for the best. He really didn’t want to be driving Ofdensen’s car home in a blizzard, and according to the woman speaking on the radio, they were in for a bad one.

Toki looked around to make sure the way was clear, then slowly pulled onto the street. That was when another car shot around the corner and ploughed into his front bumper. Toki’s head snapped forward, hitting the steering wheel, then was flung back. The pain was incredible. His vision went black, and he could feel blood running down his face. Confused, he opened the car door and staggered out, unaware of his own actions, having no idea where he was or what he was doing. He staggered a few paces, then felt himself begin to fall. He put his left arm out to stop himself, and felt his wrist snap as he struck the pavement. He lay on the asphalt, motionless, his blood staining the snow beneath him.

***---***

Skwisgaar stared at the huge TV in the lounge, absolutely plastered. Beside him, Rod and Paul were not much better off. All three were watching the weather channel. None were going home for the holidays, at least not tonight. Paul’s girlfriend was in tears, alone in England and four months pregnant, which meant Paul was depressed and upset as well. The only people currently happy were the cell phone company. His bill was going to be huge. Skwisgaar directed his drunken gaze from the TV to his friend. Then he reached out and plucked the phone from his hand and spoke to the highly distraught woman across the ocean.

“Hi Christine.”

There was a sniff. “Who’s this?”

“What’s you means who’s dis? Is Skwisgaar!”

Her voice brightened slightly. “Hi Skwisgaar.”

“Hey you is stops dis crying, Paul be home soon. We is puts him in big box an’ mails him. He be dere two, t’ree months tops. We gives him air holes an’ newspapers an’ lettuce.”

She giggled through her tears. “Well throw in a toothbrush and some deodorant as well.”

“You is just girl who wants ev’ryt’ing, isn’t you?”

“I know, I’m terribly hard to please. So you’re trapped in the airport as well?”

“Ja we is all stucks in here. But storm not lasts much longer. Paul bes home for Christmas.”

As soon as he uttered the words, a small refrigerator light went on over his head. He glanced at Paul and Rod to see if they had the same alcohol-drenched thought, then held the cell phone out. Moments later Christine was listening to a surprisingly lovely rendition of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’. The other patrons in the lounge turned to look at the three shaggy, leather-and-denim clad figures in the corner, amazed at the sound coming out of them. When they finished, the place erupted in applause. Rod raised his mug in acknowledgement.

“Thank you folks, we’ll be here all week.”

“So will the rest of us!” someone yelled back.

Skwisgaar handed back the cell phone to Paul, and resumed staring morosely at the weather channel. Storms over the Atlantic, storms over Sweden, and a truly bad storm forming right over the city he called home. He had the sinking feeling that none of them were going anywhere for a long time.

Paul hung up and put his cell phone away, looking miserable. “Chris says she misses me and she’ll make sure she has the mulled wine hot for when I finally arrive.”

“Wow,” said Rod. “What a cow.”

“Yeah I know.”

“She got a sister?”

“She’s got a brother.”

Rod thought. “Is he pretty?”

“If you fancy three-hundred-pound rugby-playing lorry drivers he is.”

“Yech. Hey you know we were pretty good. Maybe we should get together and do a Christmas album.”

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow, trying to envision Nathan’s growling guttural voice singing carols. He shrugged.

“I is nots t’inking dat is good idea. Nat’an sounds like Satan wit’s da headache, an’ yous singer not much different.”

Paul smiled drunkenly. “Well you and Toki could sing.”

Skwisgaar perked up at that suggestion. “Ja dat’s could work, Toki loves dos kinds of songs. He sing dem all da time. ‘Specially dat one abouts der is no taste like gnomes for da Hollandaise.”

Rod and Paul just stared at him. Finally Paul said; “The truly frightening thing about what you just said is the fact that I understood it.”

Skwisgaar grinned, then reached for his cell phone. He called a number and waited for an answer, becoming concerned when he did not get one. He glanced at his watch. It was 9:13 at night, far too early for Toki to be in bed. So why wasn’t he answering?

“Who you calling?” asked Rod as Paul ordered another round.

“Toki.”

He rolled his eyes. “You just called him just a little while ago. You gonna read him a bedtime story?”

“Don’ts be dildos, is too early for bed.” Skwisgaar began to feel worried. “He’s not answering.”

“Well maybe he’s in the bath. Or another part of the house.”

Skwisgaar reluctantly hung up. Rod was right. Toki was just fine.

So why didn’t he believe that?

Skwisgaar glanced out the window, feeling uneasy as the blizzard grew in intensity.

***---***

“Toki? Can you hear me?”

It was cold, and he was wet, and the voice he heard was mispronouncing his name. He was lying on something hard and icy. He stirred, wanting to get up, but gentle hands restrained him. He managed to open his eyes, and found a police officer bending over him, worry in his eyes.

“Toki!” the officer said, his tone firm but gentle.

“Do I knows you?” asked Toki.

“No. You were in an accident. Do you know what happened?”

In the distance, Toki could hear the wail of an approaching ambulance. He tried to get up again, and once more the cop restrained him.

“Lie still, we don’t know how badly you’re hurt.”

Toki closed his eyes, too weak to argue. He felt nauseous, and there was something warm running in his eyes. His face hurt. In fact everything hurt. The world seemed very confusing and frightening, and he groped for the cop’s hand.

“What’s happen?” Toki asked.

“Well that’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

In the background Toki could hear a belligerent drunken voice yelling threats, demanding the bastard who hit him be given a breath test.

“Yeah we’ll get right on that,” said the officer keeping an eye on the drunk. “Just as soon as he gets over his skull fracture.”

“Well why the fuck was he on the wrong side of the road?”

“Well from what we can see, it was you on the wrong side.”

“Bullshit! You test that bastard for alcohol! I’m gonna sue him!”

Toki managed to turn his head. His eyes were swelling shut, but he could still see well enough through the blood and swollen lids to notice that the Bentley’s hood was up, and the mighty grey steel beast steamed and slobbered radiator fluid. He made a small sound of distress. Great. Ofdensen would have his skull for a cereal bowl. Toki huddled against the cop and closed his eyes, feeling his stomach churn. The ambulance arrived just as the first of the reporters did. Nathan always said they could smell celebrity blood. He was so not in the mood for them, and the guys weren’t there to defend him. So this was how he was going to die; lying on the road hanging onto a cop beside his manager’s destroyed Bentley, being filmed. Great. Just great.

Reality was becoming blurry and distant. He heard someone come up to kneel beside him, and tried to get a look at his injuries. Toki refused to relinquish his hold on the cop.

“What’s his name?” asked the paramedic.

The cop showed the man Toki’s ID. “Not real sure how to pronounce it.”

The paramedic recognized the name immediately. “Toki Wartooth! He’s the guitar player from Dethklok. Toki! Can you hear me? Come on, look at me. Toki. Come on, open your eyes. Can you hear me?”

Toki heard him; he just wasn’t certain how to respond. Everything was turning grey. He tried to raise his head, but couldn’t. He was limp and unresponsive as the paramedics attended him, only vaguely aware of being carefully placed on a back board and strapped onto it, neck brace in place. He was put in the ambulance and taken away, just as his cell phone, forgotten on the passenger seat, began to trill. No one heard it other than Deddy Bear, and he wasn’t able to answer.

***---***

At one in the morning Paul stood up, nearly fell, caught himself, and weaved slightly.

“Screw it,” he managed to say. “Let’s get a hotel room.”

Skwisgaar raised his head and looked out the window. The storm was in full fury. The snow fell from the sky with a vengeance; obscuring everything. He could not even see the massive planes on the runway. Everything was at an absolute standstill.

“I nots sure we can. Look at it out der. Not even taxis out in dat.”

“Let’s try anyway. I want out of here. I need a place to pass out.”

Skwisgaar looked around, bleary and tired. He made a motion to the server; a new one, the other one having completed her shift and gone home before the storm began venting its full wrath. She approached the table, smiling warmly at the utterly gooned rock star. She pushed his hair out of his face.

“Another beer?”

He shook his head. “We is need cab and hotel room.”

“I’ll see if I can help you with that, but honestly I don’t think you’re going to be able to leave.”

He smiled blearily. “So what’s you doing after work?”

“Hopefully taking my triplets to see Santa, you want to come?”

“No, dat’s okay. I nots been a good boy.”

“Why do I have no difficulty believing that?”

She went to see about arranging for a cab and hotel room. Another patron asked the barkeep to change the channel to the news, and he obliged. The first thing Skwisgaar saw was a very familiar-looking grey Bentley. He abruptly sat up, worry penetrating his inebriated brain.

“Turns it up!” Skwisgaar called.

The bartender did.

“… was struck by a drunk driver at around nine pm this evening. He was taken to the hospital by ambulance. We go now live to Kira Michaels at the scene.”

“Thanks Gail. As you can see behind me police are wrapping up the scene and the tow trucks are here to take away the vehicles involved. At this point it seems very clear the driver of the white Buick Regal was on the wrong side of the road when it came around the corner and struck the Bentley head-on. The driver of the Buick was examined at Eagle Ridge hospital and treated for minor cuts and abrasions. He was subsequently taken to a local precinct and is being held. Breathalyser tests revealed his blood alcohol level to be five times the legal limit. What is not known is the condition of the driver of the Bentley. Rock guitar player Toki Wartooth was taken by ambulance to Eagle Ridge, unconscious with severe facial lacerations, but doctors are not saying exactly how serious his condition is, or if indeed he is even alive. So far we have been unable to reach the other members of Dethklok for comment.”

Skwisgaar screamed. “IS BECAUSE WE IS SCATTERED ALL OVER COUNTRY YOU DUMB BITCH!” He began digging through his coat. “Needs a phone.”

Paul handed him his own. “Skwisgaar calm down, I’m sure he’s all right.”

“Dildo! You nots hear? Doctors nots saying! Dis is serious! FUCKER! I kill dat drunk wit’s my bare hands!”

Skwisgaar called a number, and listened to the phone ring in Florida. It was picked up after the second ring.

“H’lo?”

“Nat’an? Is Skwisgaar. You see news?”

“No. Why?”

“Drunk hit Toki.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean car come round corner and smacks into him head-on! He’s in da horsebrutal. You has to come home!”

“Thank fucking god. Five more minutes here and I would have cut my wrists. I mean I’m sure Toki’s fine. Do Pickles and Murderface know?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay I’ll call them. You call the hospital.”

Skwisgaar hung up and called the hospital, but was told in no uncertain terms by a woman with a gracious Southern accent that information regarding Toki Wartooth’s condition was not being released to anyone. Furthermore, not only was he the fifth Skwisgaar to call in the past hour, but his was the worst Swedish accent of them all.

Skwisgaar hung up and screamed in futile rage. Outside the storm worsened, and the city was slowly buried in a suffocating death shroud of white.

***---***

“Well look who’s awake!” said a gentle voice.

Toki blinked into groggy wakefulness, and looked around, confused. His eyes were almost completely swollen closed, and his neck and head pounded. He was in the hospital, and it was five pm on Christmas Eve. He looked around, moving his head slowly, waiting for things to come into focus. All around him were flowers, balloons, get well cards, teddy bears, boxes of different types of candy…

“Toki,” said a gentle voice, and he eased his head in the direction of the voice. He managed a smile as he saw the familiar uniformed figure.

“Hey, is my policemans!”

He smiled. “I just came by to see how you were and drop off your cell phone. It was left on the seat of your car.”

“Is not my car, is belong to Ofdensen,” said Toki, accepting the phone. “He is goings be real mad.”

“He’ll probably be glad you’re all right. Oh, aaaannd I brought this, also.” He held up a floppy brown form. “We found him under the passenger seat. My partner assured me you would want it.”

“Deddy Bear!” Toki accepted his bear happily, unconcerned with image, just grateful to have the toy’s comforting presence with him. “How longs I beens here?”

“Well you were struck a little after nine last night, it’s now…” The cop checked his watch. “Five after five. So about twenty hours. And if your buddies hold true to their calling pattern, that phone should go off in five, four, three, two…”

The phone rang. Toki answered it, weak and bleary. “Hello?” He grinned as he heard five voices he immediately recognized. “Hey guys!”

“Hey, Toki, how ya doing?” Pickles asked.

“I is okay. Breaks my face on steering wheel, though.”

“Cool!” said Murderface.

Ofdensen’s voice came through. “Didn’t the airbags deploy?”

Toki cringed in his bed. Here it was, the moment of truth. He winced in anticipation of the explosion, and said in a small voice; “Is no airbags on 1949 Bentley Mark VI Drophead Coupe.”

There was a very, very, looooooonnng pause.

“It wash nishe knowin’ ya, Toki,” said Murderface.

“Toki,” Ofdensen finally said, his voice level as always, “why were you driving my car?”

“I just… nots want to be bothers. All others too easy recognized. I was just going to Mead Hall, spend some time dere and goes back home. I nots drunk or speedings or notings like dat. Here, you ask my policemans.”

The officer looked at the cell phone he was offered, and took it, his expression slightly puzzled.

“Hello? Hello Mr. Ofdensen. No, from what was determined at the accident scene Toki was driving in a manner appropriate for conditions, and his blood alcohol level was zero. He hadn’t had so much as a rum ball. All right. You’re welcome.”

The officer handed the phone back to Toki, who felt worried. “Is you mads at me?” he asked Ofdensen in a small voice.

“Well, Toki, you know better than to borrow things that don’t belong to you. But at least you were behaving in a responsible manner. I’ll have to have a… discussion… with the man who struck you, however.”

“I think he is still at police station.”

“Good, he’ll be easy to find that way.”

“Toki?” said a low, gravely voice.

“Hi Nat’an! Is you in Florida?”

“Yeah. But I’ll be coming back soon. Thanks for giving me an excuse to get the fuck out of here. God what the fuck was I thinking?”

“You’s not thinking. You’s pissed,” said a voice.

Toki immediately brightened. “Skwisgaar! You in Stockholm?”

“No I still in airport. You seen outside? Is worst storm in decades.”

“I guess dat means none of us is home for Christmas,” said Toki, his heart sinking.

“Hey don’t be sad, Toki,” said Pickles consolingly. “You can go to Norway another time.”

“No,” said Toki quietly. “Not goes dere no more. Da letter from my parents not say come later, it say not come at all. They say I is embarrassment to village, and bad influence on de kids.”

“What?!” exclaimed Murderface. “Thatsh… horrible! Jeezsh I’m a total dick and I even I would never shay shomething like that!”

“There you go again, talking about dicks,” teased Nathan.

“I’M NOT GAY!”

“Nathan, don’t tease William,” said Ofdensen.

“But it’s so easy.”

“Wait a minute,” said Pickles. “Are these the same people that pleaded with you to help them last spring after that massive flood?!”

“Ja,” said Toki quietly. “It is.”

Silence. Then Ofdensen spoke.

“I see. Well. I’ll have to look into that.”

Toki looked up as the doctor came in. He gazed at him with blackened eyes swollen into slits. “Can I goes now? I just wants to go home.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree to let you do that just yet,” said the doctor. “You’re pretty banged up.”

“Toki?” said Ofdensen. “Let me talk to the doctor.”

Toki nodded, and handed his phone to the doctor, who listened for a moment before speaking.

“I realize he is distraught, Mr. Ofdensen, but I can’t in good conscience agree to sending him home just yet.” Pause. “Well, he took quite a blow to the face. He has a broken nose, a cracked orbit, a laceration to his forehead and his lip, both of which required stitches, a concussion and he has a pretty bad case of whiplash. He’s also broken his wrist. I’d like to keep him here a couple days at least.” The doctor nodded in agreement with something Ofdensen said. “Okay.”

He handed the phone back to Toki, who accepted it, looking like a kid who knows he’s not going to get his way.

“I nots go home?” Toki asked mournfully.

“No, Toki, you have to stay there,” said Ofdensen. “You’re quite badly hurt.”

“Okay,” he said quietly. “But I nots liking dis.”

***---***

Skwisgaar stared out the window at the snow. It was still falling, thought the storm had lessened in intensity, and the city was at a standstill. In the distance he could just make out Eagle Ridge Hospital, where Toki was alone in a room, depressed and in pain, on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t fair. It absolutely wasn’t fair. How could anybody call Toki an evil influence and tell him not to come? Skwisgaar recalled how utterly delighted Toki had been to come to the aid of the tiny village he had called home. He had helped them without so much as a second thought about the cost, which frankly had been substantial, because Toki didn’t want just to repair the place; he wanted to make it better. He had been very much looking forward to seeing how things looked. And the bastards actually had the nerve to tell him not to come. They should have thrown him a fucking parade. How fucking dare they hurt Toki.

Skwisgaar placed one long hand on the window, the warmth of his skin making little steaming halos on the glass around his fingers. He was aware of Paul coming to stand beside him as he trailed his fingers over the vague and distant shape that was the hospital. The storm had relented greatly, but it was still snowing hard.

“So near and yet so far,” Paul said. “You could walk it if the snow wasn’t four feet deep.”

“Ja if I has skis I coulds get dere.”

Paul gave him a surprised look. “You ski? I didn’t know that.”

“You grows up where I did, you ski too. Is only way into town in winter.”

“Well I doubt this airport has a sporting goods shop.”

“No, buts it got tourists.”

It took some time, but Skwisgaar finally tracked someone down who was willing to part with his skis, and all he wanted in return was a few pictures and an autograph. By now it was dark, and the storm was picking up once more. Paul, Rod, and assorted Dethklok fans watched Skwisgaar put on his skis.

“You’re nuts,” said Rod. “Look at it out there, Skwisgaar! You’re out of your mind!”

Skwisgaar’s voice dripped affectionate sarcasm. “Rod you a genius! Four years you know me, now you is figured it out.”

“You go out there and you’re going to end up a frozen Swedish meatball.”

Skwisgaar snorted in disdain and rose to his feet, checking to make certain the skis were properly in place.

“I be fines. My ancestors Vikings. Yours runs around da bogs in skirts.”

Rod was outraged. “It’s a kilt!”

“Is easy access fors da sheep.”

Paul caught Rod’s arm before he could throw a punch. “Think of us when you make it to Vegas,” he said.

“I send you Saint Bernard with empty brandy cask.” He fit his goggles into place. “How do I look?”

Paul raised an eyebrow and looked Skwisgaar up and down. “Let’s see. Motorcycle boots, black jeans, leather belt with skull-head buckle, black t-shirt, black leather jacket, black leather gloves, skis, ski poles and ski goggles. Like a tall crazy Swedish guitar player skiing in an airport. You be careful out there.”

Skwisgaar peered outside, looking up at the night sky, and the fat flakes falling fast and hard. Frankly when it came to snowfalls he had seen worse, but not much. Now he just had to make sure he didn’t become first guy in history to get run over by a car while skiing. Skwisgaar fit his goggles into place and headed out into the storm.

The snow was deep, and there was no one on the street. No last minute shoppers, no people coming home, no cars, nothing. There was not even any real way of telling where the street ended and the sidewalk began. It was eerie. The city was silent and locked up tight against the snow. Anyone in need of a cab or an ambulance, or indeed a fire truck or the police would have a very, very long wait. He was the only thing moving on what was normally a busy city street, a black shadow in a world of white, his skis making hushed noises against the powder. The few cars Skwisgaar did see were little more than small white hills, and the streets were impassable.

Unless, of course, one had a pair of cross-country skis.

Skwisgaar reached the hospital in reasonably good time, and checked his watch. 11:20. Still Christmas Eve. He took the skis off and walked into the hospital, carrying them with him. There was little doubt in the minds of those who saw him as to how he got there. His long hair was partly frozen, dripping with melted snow, and there was snow clinging to his jeans. Skwisgaar was cold to the bone, and he shivered as he approached the front desk, where the receptionist, one doctor and two nurses just stared at him in disbelief.

“I is looking for Toki Wartooth,” he said, unable to stop shaking.

The receptionist seemed intimidated, and possibly a bit worried. She cleared her throat.

“Well it’s after visiting hours. Are you a relative?” she asked.

Skwisgaar narrowed his eyes as he caught that oh-so-familiar Southern Belle accent. He loomed over her, growling.

“I is Skwisgaar and I is not skiing all da way from airport TO TAKE CRAPS FROM TWIT WHO INSULT MY ACCENT!”

She stared at him, lip quivering. “Well how was I to know you were the real one?”

He growled at her again. She looked up the number.

“He’s in room 310.”

Skwisgaar walked away from the desk, heading to the elevator and riding it up to the third floor. He found the room with no trouble, and slipped inside, closing the door behind himself. He propped the skis and ski poles in a corner, tossed his jacket onto a chair, then removed his boots. He crept over to the bed and climbed onto it, settling beside Toki. Even in the dim light of the hospital room he could see the swollen blackened eyes, the stitches in his brow and lip, and the bandages. He gently stroked the long brown hair, feeling oddly guilty.

“Poor Toki,” he said softly. “Nevers should have leave you alone. I knew somet’ing like dis happen. From now on, where you goes, I goes.”

Toki shifted in his sleep, and then slowly turned his gaze towards the person next to him. He blinked, his eyes only able to open to slits.

“Skwisgaar?”

He smiled. “Is me.”

It took a moment for it to sink in that he was really looking at his friend, then Toki managed a lop-sided smile through the split lip and medication.

“You here! How you gets here?”

“I skied from da airport.”

“You come all dat way for me?”

“No, dildo, I come because I can no gets hotels room. Of course I come for you.”

Slowly, painfully, Toki turned onto his side. “I so glad you is here!”

“How you feeling?”

“Nots bad.”

“You looks like shit.”

“Ja well we see how goods you look after you rams face into steerings wheel.” He managed to get himself settled, facing Skwisgaar, touching his hair. “You is frozen!”

“You nots worry ‘bouts dat. I is thaw in little while.”

Toki feebly tried to pull the covers over Skwisgaar. “I broke my wrist. How can I is play with broken wrist? We is to starts laying tracks for da new album soon.”

Skwisgaar helped Toki to straighten out the blankets, so they could share them. “Nots be worrying. I covers for you. Dat’s what friends do.”

“So glad you is here.”

“Didn’t want your Christmas be a complete loss.”

“Is been dildos so far,” agreed Toki. “But… mights be okay.”

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow, puzzled, saying nothing. Toki seemed to be working up the courage to do something. Cautiously, as if fully expecting to be rebuffed, Toki inclined his head forward, parting his lips slightly, and gave Skwisgaar a shy little kiss. Then he drew back, uncertain how the gesture would be received. Skwisgaar smiled at him.

“I thinks we can do better than that,” he whispered.

He leaned in closer to kiss him gently. Toki returned the kiss happily, bringing one hand up to rest on Skwisgaar’s shoulder, uttering a little sound of delight as Skwisgaar parted his lips, and their tongues met. He cautiously trailed the hand down Skwisgaar’s arm, his breath catching as Skwisgaar returned the touch. Too soon the kiss ended, but Toki was tired, and in pain. Skwisgaar gently drew him closer, nuzzling him.

“Better?” Skwisgaar asked quietly.

Toki pressed his face against Skwisgaar’s neck, and breathed out a contented sigh. “Best Christmas ever,” he said softly, and fell asleep.