skwissgaar is ams....homoskextual?

in which background is established, and hot tub beers are had.

note: this shitty fic is set during
the "partying around the world"
segment of doomstar requiem.
really, this entire shit-hole plot
is a set up to call skwisgaar gay.
[before anyone takes that as a
genuine insult, pro tip: don't.]

CRYSTALS METH!

     pickles didn't know where they were. granted, it wasn't often that he really did know much about where they were. this time though, it was different. the drinking, the drugs, the constant lull of intoxication had the whole band stuck in a whirlwind of empty thoughts of ignorant bliss (barring toki, of course, but everyone shoved those thoughts deep, far down). they'd been staying in some large building; it was certainly not mordhaus, but it was still filled with loyal klokateers and servants nonetheless; most of whom where pitifully tasked with the thankless clean up after late-night benders, scrubbing the vomit stuck to drywall, and tirelessly steam-cleaning the piss out of stained couch cushions.
     even so, dethklok didn't see much of their entourage apart from when they'd attempt to offer them meals. it's not that they didn't want to eat, they were just all too damn angry. if they wanted food, they'd go bother some gas station employee. needless to say, those who tried to get them on a proper meal schedule were not strangers to the pain of having a hefty glass bong heartily thrown directly towards their skulls. no apologies or regrets were bestowed to their servants for such trivial actions; they'd signed up for the job, after all.
     back to the original point; pickles didn't know where they were. none of them really did, to be frank. it was damn near impossible for any of them to decipher the words of writing at the bars they'd been frequenting, it were as though everyone, wherever they happened to be, spoke in tongues. not literally of course, but how were any members of dethklok supposed to know that? all they really seemed aware of was the fact that everyone in their vicinity appeared to be vaguely asian. who knew whether they were in china, japan, taiwan, korea, or wherever the fuck else? not that all asian people all looked the same, the band was certainly not racist (they'd already cleared such claims, after all!), but they weren't exactly educated on the matter. it's not like where they were or what ethnicity the barkeeps serving them was mattered anyway; the mind-numbing monotony of the regular jackoffs that surrounded them was exhausting and inconsequential.
     with all these thoughts and observations brewing in their minds, the fog from obsessive substance abuse, the distractions of pain and worry, and worst of all, the guilt; most everyone and everything seemed the same. while it was factual that every little thing mattered too much, it was equally as true to say that nothing really mattered at all.
     in that same vein, the band had had futile attempts at writing new music since toki had been taken, mostly when they were high enough that it felt as though rather than missing a bandmate, he just hadn't joined yet. the return to a lack of synths was an alien feeling, and nothing was exactly cohesive. their recording software files were chock full of half-finished projects with no substance at all. nathan's lyricism had plummeted in quality during this time; if you can imagine something written worse in terms of grammar than facefisted, you're still probably not thinking bad enough.
     out of the four bandmates, it was obvious to pickles and murderface alone, that skwisgaar was having the hardest time with all that had happened. nathan's long winded soliloquies were hard to ignore for sure, but the band knew that his affections were far more intense when targeted towards a concept, rather than a person he could feel beside him. the whole ordeal of the kidnapping left a festering emotional wound for the whole lot of them, but at the cost of sounding like dildoes, pickles and murderface silently agreed that nathan would just eventually just get over it. it's not like he was the best at having a grasp on object permanence, which tended to be applicable even to the people he knew.
     skwisgaar however, hadn't brought home any women in a while. his bedroom was depressingly empty of his usual choice of lays, somehow more spotless than it ever had been, all things a shining white, almost blinding. he'd hardly even been practicing guitar; no anxious speeding scales permeated the air amongst the rooms, establishments, or corner stores he frequented.

     on this particular evening, the band had gathered in their common room. it had been modelled to be nearly identical to that of mordhaus, which did not help much with the band's state on confusion about their location.
     pickles and skwisgaar were separated by nathan's large frame, the three sitting bare in the hot tub. each of them were holding an open bottle, the majority of the contents were no longer beer, but piss and ball-sweat-stew from the hot tub water. empty bottles littered the floor, a notable amount of which were broken due to the groups reckless and impulsive acts of destruction in the name of fun.
     murderface stood (clothed, for which all were thankful) planted in front of his arcade machine, a halo of various empty cans surrounding his boot-clad feet, as he furiously played wheelchair bound. conversation stumbled along between the four, a certain 'zazz missing due to the absence of their rhythm guitarist, but they paid that no mind. say what you will, but alcohol lends a special helping hand with the ability to push those thoughts away.
     without warning, charles cleared his throat from behind the hot tub trio, startling pickles into dropping his beer into the bubbling water. "bah, feck, charles, ya gotta stop doin' that shit! i got a bad heart, yer gonna fecking kill me!" he reached into the water, both hands flailing to recapture his bottle. triumphantly holding it up, he shrugged and took a swig. "we should fill this feckin' thing with beer. wouldn't that be smart? drop one in and yer fine an good." nathan nodded in agreement.
     "pickles," charles interrupted, "not now. it's uh... very important that i speak to the four of you." murderface, evidently, was distracted enough by such a statement that he died in-game, earning the machine a slew of curses and a swift kick. "i didn't do nothing! i'm schure that if anything isch fucked up, it was one of them dildo-lickersch!" he barked, grandiosely gesturing towards the members in the hot tub with both arms.
     "no, no, nothing is out of place... yet," charles assured them all, the last of which was muttered, mostly to himself. "i want you guys to consider laying off the substances a little bit, maybe for the next couple of days. that uh, press conference you boys will be attending within the week, well, it would be beneficial if you all were to have at least a smidgen of knowledge of your surroundings," he explained, painfully aware that it was likely none of them would remember what he was saying, even now.
     "hey, wait, i'm always fecked up, you can't tell me i gotta stay sober; i'd probably be worse off if you had me slow down," pickles complained; opening a new bottle. he'd given up on his dropped beer after too many sips, he'd decided, and had dumped its contents back into the water in shame and disappointment. "brutal. no way am i gonna do that boring fucking interview without a beer or two. you know that."
     "ja, yous don't gets to tells us when we ams able to drinks!"
     "what's nexcht, charles? fucking schtarving us to death? jeez!"
     charles sighed, exasperated. moments like these made him wonder why he even bothered sometimes. "fine. keep drinking. but maybe uh, slow down with the drugs. looking at you, skwisgaar." the band were about to protest such a point, but charles carried on before they could get a word in.
     "the hologram stand-in for toki that we've had our people working on is not perfect, but it's been working in tests. it's finicky, and when it's time to use it, you guys can't be messing around with it, especially not on stage. understood?" nathan swung his head around to face charles, the hot tub water sloshing against his chest and into the neck of his open bottle.
     "hey. shut the fuck up, man. we'll be fine, the press conference will the fine, and we won't mess with your stupid fancy fuckin' wizard magic shit."
     "it's not uh, magic, nathan. it's a projection. that's not the point here, let's uh, not get into that."
     "yous really ekspects us to just play well and goods, while we ams standink next tos am ghost? duh ghost of toki? pshh."
     "not a ghost, either. still a hologram. let's please not get sidetracked here—" interrupting charles, murderface spoke from behind the cabinet of the arcade game; "you schaying toki isch dead, shkwischgaar? do you even know how the government makesch fuckin' ghostsch?
     "yeea, the existence of a ghost kinda has a prerequisite, y'know?"
     the blonde man rose swiftly, as murderface and pickles exchanged a cringe as to what physical or vocal lashing may be coming to them. instead of berating either of the two though, skwissgaar only shot them a look of contempt. "i ams leaving," he said stiffly, picking up his disordered pile of clothes, throwing on what he could as he marched towards the exit of their current housing.
     opening the door, he shouted back to charles, who's fingers were now gently massaging his temples, frustrated to have been totally sidetracked, again. "get some guy tos drives me around, will yous?"
     and so, charles was off to locate whichever poor soul he came across first, to chauffeur the rightfully sour guitarist around. murderface removed his shoes and socks and pulled himself to the edge of the tub, dipping in first his toes, proceeding to dunk his legs in to the height of his knees. the trio sat in an awkward, destitute silence for a moment, until nathan spoke up.
     "will someone tell me where the closest shitty bar is?"