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The Dead Man Walking
Last Updated: 2023 Jan 09
They lived in a world where death metal was an immensely popular genre of music. They sung of death, the end times, an impending tidal wave to subsume the rotten world. No matter the verse: its anger, its hatred, there was a message that resonated in the minds of the public.
Wherever the band Dethklok performed, civil engineers among the local economy enjoyed ample pay and a much needed boost. The effects employed in their shows were not only smokes and flares but also blades and guillotines. Unfortunately, as though the pale spectre of death itself was with the audience, such concerts often involved accidents.
Charles Foster Offdensen was the chief financial officer of Dethklok. At his desk, he handled the affairs of the band. He pinched and eased his upper node bridge where his glasses had left uncomfortable dents. With legal maneuvering, he consistently minimized the band’s liabilities and made the best use of insurance policies.
The band and himself all had a personal brush with mortality. An engineering oversight: a stone head of a decapitated sphinx or a swinging blade, had the trajectories slighted, the band would be no more. In light of every accident, Charles had to reassure the band and keep them booked for more concerts.
“Guys, you aren’t gonna die. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry—”
Ultimately, the close encounters with death did little to change the band’s unhealthy habits.
The lead vocalist Nathan Explosion was an alcoholic.
The lead guitarist Skwisgaar Skwigelf was promiscuous.
The rhythm guitarist Toki Wartooth had a sweet tooth.
Pickles the drummer abused drugs.
And the bassist William Murderface was overweight.
Today, at the meeting room, Charles addressed the band for the current state of affairs. With accordance to health insurance policy, he issued his suggestion with much pressure.
“Guys, its time for your routine health check ups again.”
“No. Not again.” Nathan groaned. “I thought I made friends with a dentist that didn’t want to commit ‘hamburger time’, and he offed himself when I took him out hunting.”
They’re still going to use ‘hamburger time’? Last time, they did refrain from saying the name of their own band. “Well, Nathan, it doesn’t have to be a dentist.”
Pickles inquired.
“Why do we have to go to a doctor, and you don’t?”
Skwisgaar, with his usual Swedish accent.
“Yeah, why don’t he goes to the doctor too?”
Murderface screamed.
“And get his dick jerked off by a gay doctor!”
“Doctors can’t do that or they’ll lose their license,” Charles said.
“THEY CAN. THEY WILL,” Murderface stood from his chair. “THEY TOUCH YOUR WIENER AND LAUGH AT YOU! THE SICK FUCKS!”
I have been thrown out of a building and shot by a crossbow before. “Fine.
“I’ll go to the doctor with the five of you this time and show that this shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“Wow-wee!” Toki noticed Charles. “You’re wearing normal clothes like you listens to death metal!”
Charles often wore his suit for business with the band. He was rarely seen in his casual wear: dark jeans, a black shirt, and a jacket. The calm demeanor, the reservation of words and emotion was what his job required. For what he had to do, foiled starkly with the band’s own responsibilities and personality.
Charles recalled.
“ROBOT!” Murderface had shouted in his face at a time in the past.
Charles did not wince or recoil at Murderface’s outbursts even as the latter had a lisp and a inclination to spraying spit.
“Yeahs, what music does a robot even listens to,” Skwisgaar had asked.
Charles had held himself back from a sigh. “This should be an easy one.”
“You listens to classicals…?” Toki had guessed.
This time, Charles had to make an appearance as a patient and not a client. His hair would be combed back, but now, two wisps of short bangs fell forward to the sides of his forehead, and his glasses were off.
“I listen to metal, yes,” Charles said. “I listen to your music and compare your production with other music on the market.”
Toki gasped, “You know that really means a lot to me.”
As the rest of the band walked in to the main room of Mordhaus to meet up with Charles and Toki. For good reason at any other point in time, Charles wore business wear in the presence of the band.
“Hey, I was thinking,” Nathan said, “Why don’t we just go out drinking instead, and skip this doctor crap.
“Now that,” Nathan whispered to the other band mates, “our manager looks cool this time.”
“Yeah! We can take him anywhere, and he wouldn’t be a stick in the mud,” Pickles added.
“Guys,” Charles said. “We have to make those appointments, and that’s final.”
“RO—!,” Murderface interrupted himself. “Nevermind.”
In the lobby of the St Necrophagist Hospital, the band and their manager waited for their appointments. Murderface crossed his arms and grumbled before whispering to Charles who had sat next to him. In many cases Charles listened to the band, but did not always believe them. Murderface spoke slowly and emphasized the words that would ordinarily be obscured by a lisp.
“I gotta warn you about that doctor. He’s a weirdo…”
Charles recognized. This must be about his previous hernia check-up.
“… He jerked me off then flirted with me. He’s a gay doctor.”
He can’t be serious. Nonetheless… “You should have told me, you might have a case—”
Charles caught the old doctor and the nurse walking in from the corner of his eye and obscured the last syllable that finished his sentence. Charles knew when he previously went to St. Necrophagist Hospital, he was dressed in his business attire making his formal appearance as a man with distinguished responsibilities. He did not disclose his job title, but if he did, the doctor would know well not to try any funny business should Murderface’s statements have any credence.
The best chances Charles had to catch the doctor for misconduct was if he wasn’t recognized. Currently, he had a very different appearance. Whether the doctor recognized him was simply out of his hands for now.
“Hello!” the old doctor greeted. “Going to need the six of you to fill these cups. Please enter the restroom one-by-one. Do not flush the toilet unless you are told to do so.”
The nurse with the tray of empty cups guarded the door to the unisex restroom.
“What the fuck!” Pickles said to Charles, “You made the test even harder!”
“Previously, you five swapped samples, and I had to order specimen validity testing. So we’re doing this test on-site instead of Mordhaus.”
The band quietly looked at Charles.
“You boys also tested positive for bleach.” Charles added.
“Are you saying bleach isn’t good for us,” Nathan asked.
“You shouldn’t drink bleach. Bleach is bad.”
Murderface retorted.
“What are you going to test positive for, smart ass!”
“I have a clean lifestyle… other than cigars and brandy.”
“Oh! Sounds like he’s keepings things from us,” Skwisgaar said.
“Imagines he’s secretly there with us at the parties with the sluts and the blows just in a different room!” Toki added.
“Huh. That does take place in Mordhaus,” Nathan scratched his chin and smiled, “Where he has his office!”
With as much professionalism and confidence as he ordinarily had, Charles asserted, “I am not distracted or under the influence while performing my duties at Mordhaus.”
But combined in his ordinary clothes, it earned him a little giggle from the band.
“HOW MUCH YOU WANNA BET ON THAT?” Murderface spat.
“Dude,” Pickles sneered, “you test positive for drugs then we decide where to go after this.”
“Fine,” Charles ended the conversation.
They’re not taking me seriously, but they are listening to me more when I’m not dressed for business.
“Well, Mr Offdensen,” the doctor entered the lobby again, “Your results are in.”
Charles sensed the entire band behind him leaning in their chairs and anticipating the next words from the doctor. The doctor continued with the urinalysis results.
“You seem to have glutaraldehyde, formaldehyde…
“No, no… this can’t be right!”
The results included chemicals that were present in hospitals, but the combination of them was not intended for the living. They were toxic or categorically biocides, and intended to stabilize specimens. The doctor’s face paled as he read from the page of reports. However, Pickles did not suspect.
“Woah! That’s so hardcore I never even heard of those before.”
“Let’s look up what it does,” Nathan pulled out his dethphone and giggled, “‘gluta…’, ‘gluco…’ What was the rest of that!”
“Here, I try spellings it!” Skwisgaar leaned in.
Charles gave the results some thought.
I must have been embalmed before my funeral. I can’t have any trace of that. “Ah. There must have been a mistake at the lab. But may we proceed with the physical examinations?”
“Certainly.”
As Charles walked away with the doctor, he noticed an empty trash can with a black bag.
Perfect.
Charles waited in the examination room after the doctor left to briefly juggle patients. He noticed the room was well-decorated. Mounted upon the plain white walls were colorful framed images that would each have a story of its own.
Charles took notice to one of them.
A large photo of a youth outreach program: a row of young people and the old doctor himself wore t-shirts designed by a non-profit organization. They stood with wide smiles before a rainbow flag.
“Hello, Mr. Offdensen,” the doctor entered. “I’ll be carrying out your physical examination.”
“Okay, but wash your hands before you start.”
“Why, of course.”
The doctor turned his back to Charles and turned on the faucet. He pulled his sleeves back as the flow of water hit the sink, trickled down the drain, and obscured Charles’ footsteps.
Charles quickly pulled the black bag over the doctor’s head. Before a gasp could escape, the inner corner of Charles’ elbow pressed against the doctor’s neck. He tightened his hold despite his victim’s uncoordinated attempts to pull him off and waited for the body to go limp.
Meanwhile, in the lobby, the entire band had their dethphones out. For each of them, discontent and frustration marked their faces. A frown, a furrowed brow, a squint, and the words on screen:
Did you mean "formal dehydration"?
Including results for "formal dehydration"
“Shucks guys,” Toki tapped the touchscreen to query another search. “I think we’ll have to asks Charles about it.”
Just as Pickles gave up on the search engine, he noticed anonymous men with executioner’s hoods walking in the halls of the hospital.
“Oh hey! What are the Klokateers doin’ around here?”
Very shortly after, Charles met with the band.
“Well, that’s over with. Whew, you caught me red-handed,” he nervously laughed. Please God, do NOT have them think about playing with embalming fluids. “About that bet I lost?”
“YEAH! WHAT THE FUCK IS ‘FORMAL HIGH DRAKE’!” Pickles frowned.
Nathan tapped his chain, “Glutamin…. glucominitis…. tism….”
“It’s uh…” Charles said. I am not a chemist. What can I tell them instead? “Nothing special. It’s in my cigars and brandy. You’re welcome to have as much of that as you like.”
And then they all got happily shitfaced again.
THE END.