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The new guy was tall. And skinny. And blond. And his eyes were so blue. It was ridiculous. Murderface couldn't stop staring.
His arrival took him by surprise on that fine Friday night. Murderface fully anticipated another lonely spiteful night of moping around Dethklok's stuffy claustrophobic apartment since he hurt his leg falling down from the second floor balcony of somebody's apartment during some party he never wanted to go to in the first place. Details escaped him but he remembered trying to impress some pretty face in tight jeans by getting in a drinking contest that he, to no one's surprise, lost, subsequently starting a fist fight with the winner and being pushed over the rails just before he was about to make some truly miraculous comeback. So instead of a blond hottie he got a monster headache, possible concussion, scrapes and scratches from falling through tree branches and a twisted ankle. When the guys made snarky remarks about what on earth would they do if their bassist broke an arm, he snarled back that maybe he should dive head first on the concrete from a sky-scraper and explode into tiny little murderpieces like some shit-filled pinata (Nathan quickly put down this new idea for a song, "Murder-scraper, sky-scraper that, uh, murders people."), if that would make them happy. Since then he spent almost a whole week dramatically limping around and pointedly turning down every invitation to a party or a bar or some other new and upcoming band's gig. He had to admit though that it hadn't been all that bad. He could wallow in self-pity in peace, practice his bass, eat unholy amounts of take out Chinese food or pizza or ice cream or whatever else he wanted, indulge in his guilty-pleasure feel-good pop songs and sing along without being mocked.
That's how the new guy found him: twirling barefoot in the living room to "It's Raining Men" with a slice of pizza in his hand, eyes shut, pouring his heart out into the chorus. He didn't even say anything. Just stood there with his duffel bag, guitar case on his back, dressed in all white, brows raised incredulously. Until Murderface opened his eyes mid-twirl and caught a glimpse of a tall white apparition in his peripheral vision. With a shriek of horror he threw pizza in its general direction and scattered behind the couch.
And here they were now. In their tiny kitchen. Drinking beer in awkward silence. The new guy - Skwisgaar, his name is Skwisgaar, he arrived from Stockholm, that's in Sweden, too much "s" for Murderface's liking - was their new rhythm guitarist that Magnus' buddy's brother-in-law's younger brother that was once in a metal band recommended them. After a quick initial introduction ("Skwisgaar. Stockholm. Sweden? Rhyt'm guitars?!"), neither said a word. Skwisgaar was rubbing his eyes irritably and dozing off. And Murderface just kept staring. His cheekbones were so chiseled. His nose - so perfect. His collarbones. Long restless fingers.
Cruel fate! Murderface was itching to rip off his skin and shrivel up like a salted slug just to escape sharing the same space with this guy. Everything he ever wanted to be and have was now in front of him, reminding him how far he was from perfect, absolutely shuttering every bit of self-confidence he had built, leaving him feeling like an idiot with a saggy gut full of junk food, bulldog muzzle and frizzy hair, an absolute clown with no vocal talent and coordination pretending to be something he could never be. Whisper of self-destruction twisted his guts harder than any amount of purging could. He picked up a knife from the table, idly caressed the blade with a pad of his thumb and casually cleared his throat.
"Scho... You wanna practisch together?"
Skwisgaar propped his chin on his fist and looked at him through heavy half-lowered eyelids, clearly struggling to stay awake.
"Shore, whys not?"
And it just might have been the best guitar practice in Murderface's life. After initial shock - jeez, thisch douchebag isch scheriouschly FASCHT - came awe, then stressful scrambling to match his aggressive speed and style and then the absolute bliss transcending everything he'd ever experienced. With the soul-piercing melodies of Skwisgaar's guitar and low bone-rattling thrumming of his bass he felt his soul flying free from its flesh bonds and soaring on mighty wings among stormy skies with thunder and lightning following him. It took him some time to realize that Skwisgaar stopped playing and was now watching him with the same sleepy expression like he didn't just bring pure metal magic into this dilapidated living room. Murderface though felt his heart beat in his throat, suddenly grown too big to fit in his chest, power surging through his veins and some newfound confidence breaking through his hardened shell of insecurities. Suddenly he felt like maybe Magnus won't be such a problem anymore, that old dick with his constant criticism and shouts and ego way too big for his sickly wiry body and grandpa style of play can suck it! Now they have the real deal, now they have a shot at becoming the next big thing! Just for a second though. Just for a moment before new guitarist smirked at his star-struck toothy grin and said.
"Welps, dat sucked evens more den I thought bass even cans."
Just as easy as his heart soared it dropped to the deepest darkest pits of hell, burned, charred and froze over before hitting the rock bottom. Throwing his bass aside, before even realizing what he was going to do, Murderface found himself right into the new guy's face, gripping the front of his tank top, yelling and sputtering and seething. Greasy blond locks getting into his face. Dark circles making blue eyes pop brighter. Bloodshot eyes. Blue veins on the neck. Too pale, flaky skin. A hint of stubble.
"What did you schay, you fisch fasche?! What did you schay?!"
Skwsigaar chuckled.
"You ams sos bad, I ams impressed!"
With a shriek of rage Murderface shook him hard, making him stumble and almost lose his balance but it only made him laugh harder.
"You has de spirits dough. I gots reals inkspirashun."
"Inspiraschion?! To pick up your bagsch and fuck off back to your frozhen hellhole?!"
"Nej, inkspirashun to hates everythings? Dumb dildos airlines, eight hours on de smol dildos plane, dildoslicker what ams doesn't like me practicinks mine guitar on de board? You makes me want to gets up and breaks a windows? Punch someones in de nuts? Cuts my own ding-dong off and fries it wid mushroom and not evens eat it because it ams taste like shit? Or tells my mom to go fucks herselves?" He cringed a bit. "Well, maybes not dat."
Murderface stopped shaking him, looking up at his grimy exhausted face with same fire burning in his eyes that perpetually burns inside him. Slowly he let go of the white tank top. They took a step back, measuring each other up. Murderface's face hot, chest tight and hands still buzzing a little. Skwisgaar swaying a little, looking a step away from falling asleep standing.
"Yeah, man, there'sch lotsch'a thingsch to hate around here. You haven't even met the other guysch."
"Oh ja? Dey suck as much as you does?"
Murderface grinned looking at Magnus' guitar propped in the corner.
"Yeeeeaaaahhh, there'sch one douschebag you'd like to meet. It'sch gonna be fun."