Scandinavian Heartstrings, in Drop D.

Chapter 3.1 Morning after the night before

Murderface gave a massive morning breath yawn as he stumbled along the hallway on his way down to the haus kitchen. He rubbed his eyes as he walked down the stairs. There was something strange in the middle of the lounge. He yawned again and internally debated whether to wait until after breakfast to solve this mystery. Curiosity got the better of him, and he waddled over to it and looked inside.

The harsh morning sun must be fucking with his sight, because it sort of looked like the two guitarists from his band were cuddling, nose to nose, in a fucking couch tent! Under really nice furs! Where did they get such nice furs, anyway?! Why didn't he have any?! And the fuckers had drunk his $400 bottle of Resoir Bluer limited edition fucking vodka!

Murderface could not deal with this shit. He took out a smoke and lit it. The sound of the zippo made Toki shift his head up a little so that he and Skwisgaar's mouths were millimetres away from touching. With that hideous picture now tattooed onto his consciousness, Murderface trotted off towards the kitchen to get help.

He found a red eyed Nathan with a very large cup of coffee and a jittery, wide awake Pickles with a can of cola, sitting at the breakfast table. Pickles was twitching his heel and talking very quickly about the drum pattern he had thought up overnight. It looks like Nathan was dragged out of bed early to hear it.

"Um... have you two scheen what'sch in the lounge room?" Murderface asked leaning up against the door frame, cigarette in hand.

"No." Nathan answered non-inquisitively.

"Do you wanna know what'sch in there? Plain asch day? For everyone to schee?"

Nathan grunted annoyance at him.

"Aw, go on Murderface. Tell uz." Pickles said, twitching his heel so quickly he was about to take flight.

"Well, it would scheem our resident European weirdos have been making out all night in a damn matressch fort." Murderface tapped his ash for dramatic effect. Nathan turned and blinked sluggishly at him, asking if he was serious. Murderface assured him that he was and Pickles grounded his flying foot.

Two pairs of boots and one pair of shoes raced to the lounge room and stood in front of the longhaus/mattress fort. The gentle steady breathing of the two sleeping men, entangled in each other's arms, lips half an inch apart set a lovely background rhythm to the beeping of Pickle's camera phone as he started to record.

Nathan grabbed a handful of couch cushion on either side of the long house and pulled it apart with a loud growl.

"What the fuck!" They said one after the other.

Being scared awake by the black haired behemoth significantly increased their fight or flight reactions and adrenaline fuelled their hungover bodies. Skwisgaar tried to pull away from Toki but was tethered by the braid in their hair.

"Arrg! Fuck! What the fuck is in my hair!" He yelled. The braid became increasingly tight and tangled as he pulled back on it sharply.

"Fuck! You asshole! That hurt! Stop pulling, you're stuck to me!" Toki held his hair at the scalp with one hand as he came up onto all threes.

The Americans watched on wishing that real life could have subtitles.

"Untie me immediately you fucking Norwegian bastard!" Skwisgaar said, pulling again.

"Fuck You, you Swedish prick! You're the bastard here, not me!"

Skwisgaar was on him like fleas on a dire wolf. The two were wrestling and punching as best they could with their faces nearly stitched together. Both tugged and hit and tossed the other all over the remains of the little longhaus while spurting out a string of profanity in their native tongues.