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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
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- 2
I’m only re-doing a few select episodes. If you have a request, tell me.

Dethfam

“This is the Nick Ibson show, and here we have the famous metal band, Dethklok,” the host said.
The band didn’t really seem to be listening. Skwisgaar had a compact mirror and was applying lip gloss. Natalie was zoning. Toki was absorbed in her cherry-flavoured sucker. Willa was slicing chunks out of the table absently. Pickles was so wasted that they could have shaved her head, and she probably wouldn’t have noticed.
“Yeah, whatever,” Skwisgaar said.
“Here at the Nick Ibson show, we pride ourselves on being able to find out things about celebrities that no one else has ever heard about,” Nick Ibson blathered on. The band’s interest suddenly piqued, thoughts of murder playing in the background of their minds. “We have uncovered something that you all have been desperately trying to hide.”
They looked at each other, a little nervously. A curtain was drawn on the other side of the room.
“Your families,” Nick Ibson finished.
Natalie screamed. Skwisgaar dropped her compact and her lip gloss. Willa drove the knife all the way through the table. Pickles happily fuzzy drunk feeling abruptly died, and she was immediately completely sober. Toki merely froze, not moving.
“You’ll pay for this,” Natalie growled.
“For what?” the host demanded. “Journalistic integrity?”
“Willa!” Willa’s grandmother said, scooting her wheelchair forward, her husband in tow in his wagon.
“I think you’ll find that any journalist worth his own salt—“
A cord snapped in the wheelchair’s wheels.
“—would do the same.”
Another cord was pulled. A light was knocked over, falling right at the host, embedding itself in his neck. He screamed, instinctively leaping out of his chair. His blood created a nice slippery trail, conducting the electricity of the broken cord. His body also conducted electricity rather well, and he died in a horrible electric moment of electrocution, aided by blood.
“Good song title. Bloodrocuted,” Natalie said.

The band was miserable. 4/5 of them agreed that they wanted to die. They didn’t know Toki’s opinion. All she had done was lie on the floor as if she were catatonic since seeing her parents. Contrary to her usual loud, hyper personality, she suddenly became utterly bleak, mute, and almost dead.
“I’ve had this sick feelings in my stomachs since my mom showed up,” Skwisgaar said, her fingers dancing back and forth on the string’s of her Gibson.
“I know. I don’t think I’ll ever not be embarrassed of my parents,” Natalie agreed.
“Maybe we can just take them out to dinner and get those jackesses off our backs,” Pickles said.
“That’sh a good idea,” Willa agreed, carving out pieces of the arm of the chair she sat at.
Natalie looked at their families, who were all of two feet away. “What do you feel like eating?”
They ended up at a cheap burger restaurant—something akin to Denny’s—in a nearby town. The band was miserable. Serveta was flirting in a very obvious manner with Nathan’s father, Oscar. His mother, Rose, was utterly oblivious. She was making an attempt to talk gossip with Natalie. Natalie looked like she was being put under medieval torture during the Inquisition, which probably would have been preferable. Her eyes were enraged—the slow kind of rage that only simmers instead of burns. Her fingernails were digging in to her scalp. A few more minutes of this, and there might be blood running through her long black hair. She looked like she would welcome a terrorist attack right now.
Willa had a death grip on her knife. It was a comfort thing, and completely necessary. Her grandmother, Stella, was complaining about the sorry condition of her husband, who had to sit in a wagon “like a dead cat.” Willa didn’t particularly care. Thunderbolt Murderface couldn’t say anything if he wanted to, so Willa managed to tolerate him—except that Stella was trying to convince her to buy him some kind of special wheelchair.
Toki continued not moving. Her eyes even stayed fixed on the same particles of air in front of her face. It was kind of creepy.
Pickles looked like she wanted to hang herself. Her older brother, Seth, was bragging about himself, and his parents were bragging about him too, much to her intense displeasure.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” Natalie said, unable to stand any more. She shot to her feet.
“Me too,” Willa said.
“That’s for sure,” Skwisgaar said.
Pickles scrambled out of the booth after the other three. Toki didn’t move.

“All my parents do is brag and brag about my brother!” Pickles almost screeched. She was fishing around in her pockets for something. “’He’s gonna make an office above the garage!’ Big deal! He’s an ex-con!” She shook her inhaler and inhaled. “I haven’t used one of these in thirteen years.” She inhaled again.
“Ever since my mom has been here, I can’t get this sour feelings out of my stomachs,” Skwisgaar said, walking into a stall. She shut it behind her. She immediately hurled into the toilet.
“Aw, your mom sheemsh cool,” Willa said, leaning against the counter.
The toilet flushed and the door opened. Skwisgaar actually looked a little healthier after having thrown up. She walked over to the sink and wiped her mouth. “Yeah, now everyone thinks womens from Swedens has sex with everybody. Yeah. Thanks, Mom,” she said. “Anyone have a mint?”
“Do you realize that you’re a slut too?” Pickles demanded, handing Skwisgaar a mint. Skwisgaar didn’t seem to hear her and shoved it in her mouth.
“The fact that my parents had to have sex to create me, makes me want to be buried alive,” Natalie growled, in her usual Natalie-like way.
“She wants me to buy that bastard a fucking wheelchair,” Willa complained.
“I say we solve this like any other problem,” Pickles said, narrowing her eyes in a way that could be considered very evil.
“Of courshe,” Willa said, smiling wickedly. “We’ll have them put to shleep.”
“No,” Pickles corrected. “We lie. We lie through our teeth and throw money at them. Buy that bastard a wheelchair.” She looked at her bandmates. “At the end of the weekend, we’ll ship them out of here, never to be seen again.” The very air around Pickles seemed to darken. Natalie was impressed.

So, the band had the worst weekend of their lives. It was filled with electric wheelchairs, beauty salons, and other such horrors, like mini golf.
They were “enjoying” a round on miniature golf. Needless to say, Dethklok was at its most miserable moment. Pickles was like a ticking time bomb with her brother trying to convince her to sign a check. The others were half-expecting her to sudden lunge and club him with the golf club.
However, she didn’t. Instead, she calmly looked at her older brother. “How about we talk about all this fun stuff when I come and visit next weekend?” she said.
“That would be fine. Send me a plane ticket. Send me an e-ticket. I know your pin number. That’s not a threat, by the way.”
Pickles made a mental note to change her pin number.
Willa was staring at her grandmother, a look of sheer horror on her face. Stella Murderface was eating a hot dog, slowly, mashing it between her teeth, turning it in to mush, muscles moving to make it slide down her throat like so much sludge, sloshing down to her stomach, where the digestion process would begin. Then it started all over again.
Rose was still talking, about some random gossip, as if Natalie was actually listening. Natalie contemplated suicide.
Toki’s father, Reverend Aslag, scored a hole in one. Anja crossed herself. Toki didn’t move, didn’t blink, and especially did not speak.
Selveta was still trying to seduce Oscar Explosion out of his marriage, apparently, but was failing as his sex drive was apparently utterly dead. Skwisgaar was glaring at her, her deft fingers playing out Dethharmonic in double time; it was unrecognizable to anyone else as such.
Willa suddenly screamed, her fingers wrapping around Stella’s throat. Natalie grabbed her and yanked her away. “Shorry, my fault. My fault! Shorry!” she said.

Willa, Stella, and Thunderbolt Murderface went electric wheelchair shopping. Thunderbolt was outfitted with one.
“You’re going to go to heaven for this!” Stella exclaimed.
Willa frowned. “I’d rather die than go to heaven,” she proclaimed.
Thunderbolt’s wheelchair suddenly rocketed backwards.

Sunday. The weekend was over. The band was absolutely joyous and excited about the prospect of their families leaving.
“My mom keeps giving me the case of my stomach’s throw up,” Skwisgaar complained, looking a little queasy.
Natalie pointed at Toki. “Toki hasn’t said one fucking word!” she said. It was beginning to creep everyone out. Life just wasn’t normal without Toki running around screaming.
Pickles saw Seth. She rushed up to him. “Hey, time to go. To ship off. Not here. Let’s go! Where’s the folks? Heyhey!”
Seth looked at her. “They’re in the studio.”
“Studio?” Natalie demanded.
“Come with me.”
So, Dethklok followed Seth to the studio, where some of their worst nightmares were coming true.
“We’re gonna do a family album,” Seth said.
“No!” Pickles lunged at her brother, her fingers wrapping around his throat in a vice grip.
“You’ll be making a percentage!”
“For once, it is not about the money! I don’t want my family doing a metal album!”
“Don’t take this away from them. We’re family!”
Stella came to Seth’s rescue. She maced Pickles. Pickles let go immediately and backed off. Seth fell to the floor, gasping for air.
“Don’t mace people!” Willa yelled.
She maced Willa next. Willa screamed and covered her eyes. She sprayed again. “You rich low-lives think you know what it’s like to be brutal? Do you know what it’s like to change this moron’s diapers every morning!”
“You ruined my vagina!” Rose added.
“I could never lose the weight after you were born. And look at the veins on my bosom.” Skwisgaar was scarred for life when her mother pulled down the top of her dress in a show of flagrant disregard for her child’s mental state. “They’re like a road map of stucco!” Skwisgaar turned absolutely green—and not with envy. It had something to do with a desire to heave her guts out through her mouth.
“I used to be happy. Then there was you! Then I had to spend all my time with her. And spend all my beer money on little kid’s clothes. Now that’s brutal!”
The band looked at each other, a newfound appreciation for the brutality that their parents (and grandparents) were forced through when they were born and having to raise them.
“I’m never havin’ children,” Pickles decided.
“Me’s neither,” Toki agreed.
Skwisgaar contemplated her three abortions quietly, glad that she had joyfully gone off to have a doctor murder the parasitic humans growing inside of her.
Of course, the band drank, smoked, and did enough narcotics to permanently render their ovaries useless and/or kill any child that might grow there (much like a fungus), so they really had nothing to worry about.
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