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Dethchicks	By : excelsis Category: +M through R > Metalocalypse > AU/AR-Alternate Universe-Alternate Reality Views: 1948 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Metalocalypse, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Curse of Dethklok
- 2-Dethfam
- 1
- 2
Dethklok as chicks

Skwisgaar Skwigelf—same

Toki Wartooth—same

William Murderface—Willa Murderface

Pickles—same

Nathan Explosion—Natalie Explosion

I’m only going to do a few of these, so if you have a request, please tell me.

Basically, I’m redoing a few select episodes, in no particular order, how I think it would have happened if they were all girls.

Note: This is meant for comedic value only. If you can’t take a joke, please go elsewhere, as I don’t like you and think your head should be ran over with a large tractor. Flames will be laughed at.

The Curse of Dethklok

“Y’know that all our chefs are cursed, right?” Pickles demanded of the band’s new chef, Jean-Pierre.
“You know what happened to our lasht scheff?” Willa asked, spinning her Bowie knife, grinding the tip of it into the table.
“He gots run in to by a hoover-scarf,” Toki said.
“Hoober carve,” Skwisgaar attempted to correct.
“However cart?”
“Hoods car?”
“Hovercraft!” Pickles yelled.
Neither Scandinavian guitarist seemed to hear her.
“Hudder craft?”
“Hunder-carve?”
“Hovercraft, ya douchebags!” Pickles interjected. The guitarists continued talking in mindless drivel, oblivious to their drummer. The redhead slapped a hand to her face, irritated. She looked at the chef. “Our last chef got killed by a hovercraft… Is what they’re tryin’ t’ say.” The two foreign guitarists fell silent.
The chef was unperturbed. “I would rather scoop out my brain with a melon—“
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Toki said. “Are we there yet?”
“I dunno. Let me check.” Natalie pushed a button that went straight to their pilot. “Hey, are we there yet?”
“Almost, Mistress.”
“Good.” She cut the transmission. She looked at Toki. “He said we’re almost there.”
“I can hears the transmatition too!” Toki growled.
“From the Prime Minister of Norway,” Jean-Pierre said, brandishing a bottle of fine wine. “There are several cases of them. May I—“
“We never drink before a show! Never!” Natalie screamed. Like typical girls, they are much more interested in what they have to say, and thus cut everyone else—especially their chef, apparently—off in favour of their own words.
The others looked at her. Willa grabbed the bottle and pried off the cork. She poured a glass full. “Well, I do.”
“Me too,” Toki said, raising her bottle of beer.
“Me too,” Skwisgaar said, raising a mostly empty bottle of liquor.
“Me too,” Pickles said, downing her eighth scotch of the hour.
“… Me too,” Natalie admitted.

The band went to go change, do their hair, and put on their makeup. They didn’t have professional hairdressers or cosmologists anymore. They were just as cursed as the chefs were, if not more so. And good makeup artists were a lot harder to find than chefs. And, they couldn’t get the best ones to work for them anymore, no matter how much money they shoved up and down their orifices. It just didn’t seem to be worth their lives or their appendages.
Thus, the band had to do it themselves.
Skwisgaar was off in her private dressing room. Natalie, Toki, and Pickles were in the makeup room, applying makeup and nail polish. Willa was off somewhere, presumably also changing clothes.
The door burst open. “I can’t’s do’s it!” Skwisgaar screamed.
Natalie frowned, concentrating on her black nail polish. “What?”
Pickles glanced up. Through her very alcohol-lathered mind, she saw the roots of the problem. Skiwsgaar was trying to put on a corset. The corset laced in the back, and she couldn’t tie it, so was throwing a tantrum. “It ain’t like it’s that hard—“
“Fucks it!” she wailed. She unzipped the front of it and threw it on the floor. She crossed her arms below her breasts. “I’ll just goes topless!”
Natalie suddenly perked up. “The fans would love it.” Which meant more people would buy the recordings, which meant more money for them that they could blow on booze and narcotics.
Toki glanced at Skwisgaar, feeling something not unlike jealousy rise in her dark soul. Skwisgaar had such big breasts—totally natural too. And she was thin, with an hourglass shape even without the corset. “Just wears somethings else,” she spat. She picked up a tube of lipstick. She considered the shade of black, then set it down. She wanted a coal black, not a smoky black. She found the desired tube and applied it.
Skwisgaar planted her hands on her hips. “Why don’t’s ones of yous helps me?” she demanded. “Just ties the damn corsets.”
“Why don’t you’s learns how to ties a fucking knot!” Toki interjected.
“I can too’s ties a knot! Just not’s ones I cant’s sees! Dildo. Pickle?” she asked hopefully.
Why me? Why always me? Pickles wondered. Of course, she was the only one who could tolerate all of this insanity. Then again, that was only because she was really drunk. Natalie’s nails were still wet, and Willa wouldn’t do it anyway. And Toki wouldn’t help Skwisgaar if it meant she would have frizzy hair for the rest of her life. So it had to be Pickles. “Fine. Put the fucking corset back on, ya douchebag.”
If the insult had came from anyone else, she might have complained, but because Pickles was going to help her put on the very sexy corset, she excused this. She picked up the corset again and zipped it on, with a bit of force over her bustline. Toki rolled her eyes behind her mascara. “Tie it tight. I don’t’s wants it to’s falls off, Pickle.” Yeah, deities on high forbid that a couple more thousand people saw her tits. Too tight, and they might pop out, too loose, and it might start falling off. Big deal. It wasn’t like she wasn’t the biggest slut on this side of the universe anyways.
“Yeah, whatever.” She grabbed the two middle strings and yanked on them as hard as she could. Skwisgaar yelped in pain. Toki smirked. Pickles yanked again. Skwisgaar gasped, hands flying to her throat and chest, gasping for air. “Are ya sure ya want it this tight? What if ya pass out on stage?”
“I won’t’s passes out,” Skwisgaar gasped. Her already pale skin was paling further. She looked like living parchment.
Pickles tightened it a little and tied it. “How’s that?”
She took a deep, laboured breath, then another. Then a few more. Finally, her body had adjusted to the corset and she was breathing semi-regularly now. Some colour flushed back into her cheeks. At least she looked human now. She walked over to the mirror and turned, looking at her waist on all sides. Her boobs were pushed up so high that they resembled cocaine-white balloons. Her nipples had to be just barely covered by the corset. One wrong move, one stretch… “That good,” she said. It was one of Skwisgaar’s personal goals to one day achieve a twelve-inch waistline.
“Where the fuck is Willa?” Natalie demanded, looking around, expecting to see her somewhere. Speak of the devil and she shall appear; Willa appeared in the doorway.
“I hope you bitschesh are ready becaushe we’re almosht there,” she said.
Toki ground her teeth. She wasn’t done! She quickly outlined her eyes in black eyeliner. It looked shitty. Fuck it. They didn’t have time. She stood up. Her miniskirt had bunched on one side. She quickly shoved it down before they saw her Superman panties.
Natalie stood up. “Let’s fucking go.”
Skwisgaar glanced at the lead singer. “But my hair is—“
“We’re going now!”
“No! I needs to—“
Natalie grabbed on to the lead guitarist’s hair and hauled her out of the dressing room forcefully. The rest of the band followed suit before they received the same treatment. Skwisgaar was yelling something in Swedish, and she sounded very angry, but no one could understand her, and even if they could, no one cared anyway. It was probably nothing more than a string of Swedish in any case.

Concert. Good song. Same stupid fans. Toki kept waiting for Skwisgaar to suddenly stop playing and fall over, unconscious, but it never happened, much to her supreme disappointment. Skwisgaar kept waiting for Toki to trip and for her skirt to fly up (that had happened once; tabloids everywhere of her undies—bad news for the band, very embarrassing for Toki). But that didn’t happen either.
Fireworks. Explosions. Looked really cool. End of song. The band happened to notice something, though. One of their fireworks went right through a window of their copter. A body went flying out the adjacent window, got wrapped up in the blades of the propeller. Blood showered down on them like a spring shower.
“Holy mother douchebags! How much you wanna bet that was our new chef?” Pickles asked the others.
No one said anything. It had to be the chef.

Much to their horror, Pickles was absolutely right. It was the chef. After much swearing, they decided to attempt to live off of coffee and booze. However, that sort of upset their stomachs and they needed something sustaining. That, and no one knew how to make coffee, despite all the free coffee they had received. And, there were no instructions on how to cook the coffee.
So, after they utterly exhausted their supply of candy and microwave burritos, they decided that they needed real food.
Thus, the band went off to do some grocery shopping.
“What’s is this place?” Toki wondered. Being that she was from an abandoned village in the middle of fucking nowhere in the Arctic Circle, it really didn’t surprise the band that she didn’t know what a grocery store was. There were a lot of things she was totally clueless to because of her origins. Like life in general. So, her ignorance was excused.
“I think it is called a ‘food’s libraries,” Skwisgaar said.
Toki frowned. “Food… libraries?”
The two bantered back and forth for a moment, trying to work on pronunciation. However, no matter how often they did that, they really just needed a Norwegian-English/Swedish-English dictionary engrained in their brains, along with a pronunciation key.
Pickles ground her teeth. “It’s a fucking grocery store. Fucking douchebag Scandinavians…”
“You’s racist!” Toki accused.
“Totally racist,” Skwisgaar agreed.
“Nothin’ ya two says ever makes fuckin’ sense!” she accused back.
Natalie acted quickly before there was a Scandinavian-Irish/American brawl. She stepped between them. “Each of you are in charge of putting together a dish.” She handed out slips of paper with said dish on it. “And don’t just buy booze. That ain’t food.”
“What the hell!?” Willa demanded. “I’d rather schop off my titsh than not drink booze!”
Toki’s eyes widened. “You’s rather chops off your tit than not drink?”
“Yesh.”
“Wowie!”
Pickles looked over the paper and shoved it in her pocket. She grabbed a shopping cart and headed straight for the liquor. She didn’t even look at the labels. She just grabbed anything and everything in sight that had high alcohol content (meaning no cheap beer).
Skwisgaar attempted to seduce a 60-year old man out of his forty-year marriage, Toki failed miserably at reading Natalie’s handwriting and ended up throwing random things in the cart, and Willa went outside and chain smoked. That left Natalie to do the real shopping.
Needless to say, they were doomed. They learned how doomed they were when they got back to the haus.
“Sho, what do we do now?” Willa demanded.
Natalie pointed at the foreboding-looking stove. “We put the food on that, in that thing.” She gestured to the skillet.
They blinked as a realization struck them. “I thinks we leave our food at the foods library,” Toki said.
Pickles opened her mouth to correct her, then thought better of it and took a drink of tequila instead.
The band looked at each other. Wordlessly, they marched back to the Mordhaus hospital and found the pieces of body parts that was Jean-Pierre. They attempted to make him get up and cook something, even though it was obvious that he was in no position to do so—to anyone with a grain of common sense anyway. But the band was lacking in common sense, unfortunately for their chef. But that’s what makes them interesting.
It soon became apparent; he would have to be sewn back together in order to cook.
Toki pointed out the obvious, “But we’s such screw-ups, we’d prob’ly’s sews him back togethers wrong.”
Natalie’s eyes opened wide. “Good song title,” she said, the lyrics already forming in her mind. “Does anyone know how to sew?”
For some reason, all eyes went to Pickles. Pickles glared at them. “I took a Home Ec. Class in high school,” she admitted.
They looked at Willa, who was most likely to know how to put a body together, seeing as how she knew how to take on apart. “Fine. We’ll do it.”
So, Willa and Pickles started sewing the unfortunate chef back together, though they probably misplaced a lot of pieces, and put on a few backwards. It was too much for Toki, and she ran to the nearest bathroom to tango with the toilet. Skwisgaar backed up to the window, guitar in hand. Her fingers started doing the can-can on the strings as she elbowed a window open. The stench of guts filled the air, and it was making her nauseous. Natalie was totally engrossed in the gross procedure, taking notes for the song.
Finally, Franken-chef rose, just in time for a still-green Toki to enter the room. She abruptly fainted, hitting the floor like a sack of dead crows. Skwisgaar covered her mouth, her other hand dancing back and forth on her guitar strings, playing out her feelings of horror and disgust. Natalie sort of twitched. Pickles cringed. Even Willa grimaced at their hideous creation.
For a while, no one did anything. No one moved. Toki didn’t even wake up. Lucky bitch.
“Go cook us something,” Willa said, being the first to snap out of the stunned silence.
“Make me a sandwich!” Pickles demanded.
“I feel like eating nachos,” Natalie said.
Skwisgaar contemplated her bandmate’s sanity for all of two seconds, then she joined them in their insanity. “I wants a fruit salad,” she said.
“Yessssh, my ladiessss,” the chef slurred. The conscious band members watched him like a dying man in the desert watched vultures as he exited the room and went off to prepare them their meal of choice.
No one had ordered for Toki, though. When she woke, she was very angry, and ended up mooching off of her bandmates for revenge.
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Dethchicks