To Kids From One To Ninety-Two

It was Christmas Eve and, as sometimes happened, Dethklok was traveling. They’d just finished up the Portugal leg of their Wasted For The Holidays tour and were in the Dethbus on their way through Spain to the Straight of Gibraltar, where they’d take a ferry across to their next performance in Morocco. 

Inside, white paper cones of roasted chestnuts from vendors on the streets of Lisbon were scattered over one of the tables. The walls and gargoyles were decorated with boughs of holly and the fire in both fireplaces was built up to a deep-throated roar. A soon-to-be-dead evergreen tree was propped up on the far side of the bus from the fireplace, its pentagram ornaments and gold- and silver-plated garlands of human finger bones swaying and clinking gently with the motion of the road. 

There was no mistletoe, on account of it being a total sausage party. 

On one of the courches, to either side of a carton of eggnog, Pickles and the band’s manager, tie slightly loosened in the spirit of the party, were deep in debate mode. 

“Dood, I’m tellin’ ya, rum nog is a classic. It’s gotta be rum or it doesn’t taste right!”

“I, ah, didn’t say it wasn’t a classic combination. What I said was, Cognac is far superior.”

“Bullshit.”

Charles shrugged. “A combination of the two is better than just rum alone, but that’s a, ah, verifiable fact that Cognac is better. Any kind of brandy nog, really.”

“No it ain’t, you’re just bein’ a huge snahb!”

“Care to put it to a blind taste test?”

“Yer on!”

“Wait.” Charles steepled his fingers. “You can at least agree with me that it must be topped with a dash of freshly grated nutmeg, can’t you?”

“Dood, what are you talking about? Nutmeg is just, like. Spicy dust. It comes in lil shaker bottles. How do you grate that?”

“HEY, ASSCHHOLESCH!” Murderface shouted from the bar, currently obscured by the Christmas tree. “Who drank all the hot buttered rum?! That was part of an EXCHPERIMENT!”

“Hey, watches what bad words you says arounds the ladies!” Toki shouted from the upper balcony, where he was carrying two glass mugs of a steaming, suspiciously butter-yellow beverage. He sat on the chaise lounge next to a gorgeous woman with blue eyes, long blonde hair, in gray jeans and a black sleeveless shirt. “Here ams a drinks for you, beautifuls.”

She took it with a smile, then leaned over to whisper something in his ear. 

“Oh, reallies? Wowee, thanks for sayings how goods I play the guitar, that ams really nice of yous! So much bettters that Skwisgaar? Oh wowee!”

On the lower level, ensconced in a couch of his own, Skwisgaar huffed irritably. He grabbed a heavily decorated sugar cookie from the platter on the cushion next to him, devoured it with lots of aggressive crunching through the icing and decorating sugar, and then went back to playing even faster on his unplugged guitar. 

Meanwhile, Murderface stomped back to the bar. “Fuck, no one’sch gonna admit to it. We gotta make another batch.”

“Fuck,” Nathan echoed, and downed another glass of lukewarm buttered rum. “Still liquid,” he announced, and gestured for a Klokateer to bring them another block of butter. “Don’t worry bro,” he added, swaying slightly as he poured more rum into the warming pot, “we’ll get there eventually.”

“Schure thing, bro,” Murderface replied. He drained his own drink, smacked his lips, and sighed. “How many batchesch doesch it take to get to the schenter of . . . the anschwer. . . .”

They were at least nine batches in already, and still firmly dedicated to their quest to determine whether or not hot buttered rum ever solidified if it got cold enough. Instead of chefs hats they were both wearing black Santa hats. The bro thing had just . . . happened somehow, but the two bandmates were rolling with it. 

Murderface slumped against the edge of the bar counter and stared as Nathan stirred, dumped the butter and a haphazard amount of spices in, and stirred some more. It was hypnotic. Not a bad way to spend a Christmas Eve, he thought contentedly. Good booze, good friend. . . . As the pot slowly began to steam, he looked up at Nathan through the shimmering air and their eyes locked. 

Nathan loomed slightly closer, eyes aglow with some heretofore unseen emotion. “Bro. . . .”

“Bro,” Murderface whispered, straightening up into the sudden arc of electricity silently humming between them. 

Their mouths met in slow motion amidst the rising steam. Scents of butter and booze and holiday spices surrounded them for the entirety of the surprisingly gentle, just-a-touch-past-chaste kiss, both keeping their eyes closed as water beaded on their eyelashes and Murderface’s mustache. 

“Bro,” Nathan sighed, and they pulled back, both men blinking rapidly. 

Because of the steam, obviously, not in any way because it had been a lovely moment full of longing met and a kind of deep connection that neither of them had ever quite managed to feel with a woman. 

“Bro,” Murderface agreed hoarsely, and slummed back against the bar again. 

“Uh, I’m going to add some more rum to this one, bro,” Nathan said, already doing so. 

Murderface relaxed a little. Surely drinking more would solve his problem of the sudden pit of yearning that had just opened up somewhere in his gut—one that promised to keep him awake if he ever in fact tried to go to sleep tonight. More alcohol was definitely a sure-fire way of blowing past the moment and not revisiting it again later in the evening. . . . Yeah. 

“Ho ho ho-kay, bro.” With a soft smile on his face that would’ve deeply embarrassed him if he’d realized it was there, he went back to watching Nathan stir.