Metalocalypse - Just Older (PG)
"Oh, dude! Look Charlie, they got lobster! Second page, I think I might have that. Hey, did I ever tell you how they cook lobster?"
A brown eye peeked at Pickles from over the leather-bound menu. "Mmm, I believe you've told me a few times."
"Really? Never mind, then. But brutal, huh?"
Charles smiled behind his menu at the redhead's enthusiasm, noting how it hadn't waned since the day they met, decades before. It had been soon after the demise of Snakes N' Barrels – Pickles had found himself in a host of legal issues, relating to drugs offences in a range of countries and a small back catalogue of paternity lawsuits. The singer had demanded that his manager find the best lawyer in the country, and Charles had been swiftly brought onto the scene. The two had remained in contact and when Pickles went on to found Dethklok, Charles had been the obvious choice for a Jack-of-all-trades manager.
Now, nearly twenty-five years since they originally formed, Dethklok were long gone as a band, although they all kept in touch – some metaphorically, and some rather more literally. After the guitarists left the country to travel the world and Nathan moved back to Florida, Murderface, Pickles, and Charles had remained in Mordhaus for a while. It had been on a warm summer evening, while Murderface had been away in London's West End producing his theatrical adaptation of the Hindenburg disaster, that the remaining two had toasted the Dethalbum going twenty-five times platinum with a small drink. A small drink had turned into several bottles of champagne as they reminisced over old times, and to both men's surprise, they woke up the following morning in the same bed.
Also to their surprise, they realised that neither was the slightest bit displeased about this turn of events.
To celebrate four years since that first evening together, Pickles had eventually persuaded Charles to come out with him for a meal at a small restaurant, not far from Mordland. Charles was pleasantly surprised at Pickles' choice – it was fairly quiet, and although it was by no means overly extravagant, it was still classy in its own way. Moreover, instead of being a trendy celebrity hang-out or a busy urban eatery, it was much quieter and allowed the pair more privacy than they might find elsewhere.
As Charles perused the menu some more, Pickles took in their surroundings. Landscape paintings hung from oak picture rails, giving the place a homely, if a little old-fashioned feel. Only a few other tables were occupied – a couple of couples, and a large group in their twenties who seemed to be there for a birthday celebration. One of them was wearing a small array of badges, he noticed; he also noticed that the man next to him seemed to be looking directly at the redhead with a curious smile.
Pickles nodded politely and looked down at the menu closed on the table. Although he would never admit it aloud, he did quietly enjoy being recognised now and again after all these years. It wasn't a common occurrence anymore – the dreads were gone, the weight of them worsening his already thinning scalp, and he wore his long hair in a low ponytail most of the time, bald patch be damned. The shallow wrinkles around his eyes and mouth gave away the many years he'd spent laughing. Not many people seemed to notice the new image so easily, so when they did it was a pleasant reminder of times gone by.
Charles watched Pickles' discreet smile out of the corner of his eye and guessed the reason. "Who is it?" he asked without looking up from his menu.
"A kid over near the corner, with the big group. You see him?"
The older man looked discreetly over the top of his glasses. "Mhmm," he murmured. "He's still watching you. Stars in his eyes." He looked back down at the menu with a grin.
Pickles laughed and looked at Charles, still reading. Time had been kinder to him than to the drummer, and had aged him gracefully. The faint lines across his brow had gently spread, and the creases around his eyes conveyed wisdom whilst the increasing silver at his temples gave an air of distinction. It was with fondness that Pickles gently nudged his hand. "You chosen yet?"
Charles paused briefly, before closing the menu and meeting the drummer's gaze. "Yes," he smiled.
After the waitress came and took their orders, the sound of around twenty sets of chair legs squeaking on the laminated floor let everyone in the restaurant know that the birthday group was leaving. As the pair looked towards the large table, the man who smiled at Pickles earlier caught his eye again. He tucked his long dark hair behind an ear embarrassedly, and gestured for the others to go on ahead, before quickly making his way to the couple's table.
"Hey, I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he mumbled shyly.
Pickles smiled politely. "No, it's fine."
"Oh great! I just wanted to say that I'm a huge fan of yours – I was too young to see you guys live, but I always wanted to. My parents had all of your CDs, I used to listen to them all the time as a kid."
The drummer looked at Charles with an amused smile. "That's cool! We haven't played in a long time, but hey! It's nice to see people raising their kids on the right music!"
The man laughed nervously. "I was just wondering, actually – could I have your autograph?"
"Sure!" Pickles grabbed one of the smaller dessert menus from their table and borrowed a pen from Charles, quickly scrawling his name on the front and handing it to the young man with a smile. "Here you go!"
He was rewarded with a wide grin. "Wow, thanks! Oh man, wait 'til I tell the others... Hey, guys!" The man left Pickles and Charles at the table and headed for the door where his friends were waiting. "Check this out! I just got Axl Rose's autograph!"
The drummer's smile faded, and he stared down at the table wordlessly. Sensing his disappointment, Charles gently lifted Pickles' chin, forcing him to make eye contact.
"Pickles, if you were Axl Rose, there's no way that I'd be sleeping with you."
The redhead snorted a laugh in reply. "You'd better not be."
As Charles silently took hold of one of his hands while they waited for their meals to arrive, the thought occurred to Pickles that maybe getting old wasn't actually that bad.
A brown eye peeked at Pickles from over the leather-bound menu. "Mmm, I believe you've told me a few times."
"Really? Never mind, then. But brutal, huh?"
Charles smiled behind his menu at the redhead's enthusiasm, noting how it hadn't waned since the day they met, decades before. It had been soon after the demise of Snakes N' Barrels – Pickles had found himself in a host of legal issues, relating to drugs offences in a range of countries and a small back catalogue of paternity lawsuits. The singer had demanded that his manager find the best lawyer in the country, and Charles had been swiftly brought onto the scene. The two had remained in contact and when Pickles went on to found Dethklok, Charles had been the obvious choice for a Jack-of-all-trades manager.
Now, nearly twenty-five years since they originally formed, Dethklok were long gone as a band, although they all kept in touch – some metaphorically, and some rather more literally. After the guitarists left the country to travel the world and Nathan moved back to Florida, Murderface, Pickles, and Charles had remained in Mordhaus for a while. It had been on a warm summer evening, while Murderface had been away in London's West End producing his theatrical adaptation of the Hindenburg disaster, that the remaining two had toasted the Dethalbum going twenty-five times platinum with a small drink. A small drink had turned into several bottles of champagne as they reminisced over old times, and to both men's surprise, they woke up the following morning in the same bed.
Also to their surprise, they realised that neither was the slightest bit displeased about this turn of events.
To celebrate four years since that first evening together, Pickles had eventually persuaded Charles to come out with him for a meal at a small restaurant, not far from Mordland. Charles was pleasantly surprised at Pickles' choice – it was fairly quiet, and although it was by no means overly extravagant, it was still classy in its own way. Moreover, instead of being a trendy celebrity hang-out or a busy urban eatery, it was much quieter and allowed the pair more privacy than they might find elsewhere.
As Charles perused the menu some more, Pickles took in their surroundings. Landscape paintings hung from oak picture rails, giving the place a homely, if a little old-fashioned feel. Only a few other tables were occupied – a couple of couples, and a large group in their twenties who seemed to be there for a birthday celebration. One of them was wearing a small array of badges, he noticed; he also noticed that the man next to him seemed to be looking directly at the redhead with a curious smile.
Pickles nodded politely and looked down at the menu closed on the table. Although he would never admit it aloud, he did quietly enjoy being recognised now and again after all these years. It wasn't a common occurrence anymore – the dreads were gone, the weight of them worsening his already thinning scalp, and he wore his long hair in a low ponytail most of the time, bald patch be damned. The shallow wrinkles around his eyes and mouth gave away the many years he'd spent laughing. Not many people seemed to notice the new image so easily, so when they did it was a pleasant reminder of times gone by.
Charles watched Pickles' discreet smile out of the corner of his eye and guessed the reason. "Who is it?" he asked without looking up from his menu.
"A kid over near the corner, with the big group. You see him?"
The older man looked discreetly over the top of his glasses. "Mhmm," he murmured. "He's still watching you. Stars in his eyes." He looked back down at the menu with a grin.
Pickles laughed and looked at Charles, still reading. Time had been kinder to him than to the drummer, and had aged him gracefully. The faint lines across his brow had gently spread, and the creases around his eyes conveyed wisdom whilst the increasing silver at his temples gave an air of distinction. It was with fondness that Pickles gently nudged his hand. "You chosen yet?"
Charles paused briefly, before closing the menu and meeting the drummer's gaze. "Yes," he smiled.
After the waitress came and took their orders, the sound of around twenty sets of chair legs squeaking on the laminated floor let everyone in the restaurant know that the birthday group was leaving. As the pair looked towards the large table, the man who smiled at Pickles earlier caught his eye again. He tucked his long dark hair behind an ear embarrassedly, and gestured for the others to go on ahead, before quickly making his way to the couple's table.
"Hey, I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he mumbled shyly.
Pickles smiled politely. "No, it's fine."
"Oh great! I just wanted to say that I'm a huge fan of yours – I was too young to see you guys live, but I always wanted to. My parents had all of your CDs, I used to listen to them all the time as a kid."
The drummer looked at Charles with an amused smile. "That's cool! We haven't played in a long time, but hey! It's nice to see people raising their kids on the right music!"
The man laughed nervously. "I was just wondering, actually – could I have your autograph?"
"Sure!" Pickles grabbed one of the smaller dessert menus from their table and borrowed a pen from Charles, quickly scrawling his name on the front and handing it to the young man with a smile. "Here you go!"
He was rewarded with a wide grin. "Wow, thanks! Oh man, wait 'til I tell the others... Hey, guys!" The man left Pickles and Charles at the table and headed for the door where his friends were waiting. "Check this out! I just got Axl Rose's autograph!"
The drummer's smile faded, and he stared down at the table wordlessly. Sensing his disappointment, Charles gently lifted Pickles' chin, forcing him to make eye contact.
"Pickles, if you were Axl Rose, there's no way that I'd be sleeping with you."
The redhead snorted a laugh in reply. "You'd better not be."
As Charles silently took hold of one of his hands while they waited for their meals to arrive, the thought occurred to Pickles that maybe getting old wasn't actually that bad.
N.B. Axl Rose is, of course, the property of himself. ;-)