A Metalocalypse fan fiction I'm working on. Hope you enjoy.;

Nathan Explosion, lead singer and lyricist for mega-band Dethklok, came out of a deep slumber with a drawn-out "Nooooo!" Sweat beaded his forehead as awareness slowly dawned on him. Just a bad dream, he told himself, another bad dream. In his underwer he padded to the sink in his uber-metal bedroom at Mordhaus and splashed water on his weary, craggy face. Man, he was still tired. Maybe all the partying was getting to him.

"Bleah," he said to the image staring at him from the barbed-wire framed mirror.

Then he noticed something about his appearance, and bent for a closer look...

And screamed bloody murder.

The other members of Dethklok were going through their morning routine: Murderface was slurpily eating cereal, Pickles was helping himself to some hair of the dog whilst sprawled on the couch, Toki playing happily with one of his model airplanes and Skwisgaar was idly noodling new riffs on his guitar. The were slowly getting revved up for a new day of brutality when Nathan literally exploded into the room.

"Aaghhh! Guys! I found a grey hair. I'm going grey!," he panted, oblivious to the fact he was still in his tightie whities.

"There's always hair color, my friend," Pickles reassures in his Midwestern twang, then burps.

"Yeah, you can cover up grey hair, but ya can't cover up fat and ugly. I'm the fat one!," Murderface points out, with milk on his mustache.

"But you know what this means?," Nathan demands in his trademark growly voice. All the others' faces were blank. "This means I'm gettin' old! That's not metal!"

"Wowee, that's brutal," concedes Toki as he twirls a propeller on his airplane. "How does it feel being elder?"

"Tired and shitty!," rumbles Nathan, plopping into an empty chair. "Aw, God, where did my youth go?"

At that moment their manager/financial representative walked into the room, immaculate as always, suave and bespectacled. "There you are," Ofdensen speaks, adjusting his tie. "I've been looking for you. I need to have a word with you. In private."

"Leave it to Mr. Moneybags to rains on your black parades," interjects Skwisgaar, wailing away on a solo.

"Jesus can't you see I'm having a mid-life crisis?," Nathan complains.

"This is important, I need you to come with me so I can--"

"Why can't you just tell me here?"

"Well, it's a delicate situation. There's someone here you have to talk to, and--"

"Another lamp meeting?," interrupts the blond guitarist.

Ofdensen sighs. "No, now please Nathan get dressed, and..."

"Just kill whoever it is," Murderface, ever the sadistic bassplayer, offers.

"Jah, feed them to the yard wolves," Skwisgaar suggests.

"It's not that simple. Nathan, something and someone important has been brought to my attention, and it concerns you." The businessman let that sink in a moment.

Raising his raven head (with its one grey hair) Nathan demands, "Who the hell is it? Just say it!"

"Your daughter is here to see you," the slim, clean-shaven man says flatly.

"My WHAT?!"

"This young woman claims she's your daughter and she's here to see you."

"FK!!," he roars.

Making their way to the conference chamber Ofdensen remarks, "Uh, don't you think you should get dressed?"

Nathan looks down at his large barrel-chested, powerful body essentially bare, with its somewhat flabby belly, and shrugs. Who cares at this point? His life was over. "At least some pants?," the CFO goes on.

"Off," Nathan says.

"Yes?"

"Eat my fk."

"Fine."

A Klokateer opens the double doors for them, and between the Klokateer guards and servants, the girl's lawyers, and the huge high-backed chairs sits a 15-year-old girl in plaid skirt and sweater. She glances up at him with green eyes and he sees his own strong jaw and piercing eyes, but she had full, pretty lips and a cutesy feminine nose. And a familiar full head of long, thick black hair.

"Hi, she speaks shyly, standing to an impressive height for someone of her tender years.

"Hi," Nathan stammers.

"Did you forget your pants?," she giggles.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"So you're my Dad," she muses, looking him over.

"I don't know. Am I?"

"We'll have the DNA tests run to check the girl's claim," Ofdensen puts in.

Footsteps announced the arrival of the rest of Dethklok, their curiosity having got the best of them. "I wanna see!," came Toki's plaintive voice.

"Is she cute?," went Murderface.

All the members fell over each other in the doorway in their haste to get through. "Pfah, it's a little yuppie girl!," scoffs Skwisgaar.

"That ain't metal," sniffs Pickles with a toss of his red dreadlocks.

"She dressed up for a Britney Spears video?," quipped Murderface.

"Metal this," she exclaims, lobbing a stapler at the bassist and bouncing it square off his head with a thok. The next sound was the thud of Murderface's chunky frame hitting the floor.

"My God," breathed Nathan, gazing at the girl with awe. "She IS my daughter."

The Tribunal sat in their accustomed places in the darkened room, awaiting Senator Stampingston's information. "It seems that a new development occured over the weekend--Nathan Explosion has met his illegitimate daughter Judy Evans." The grey-haired politician stood before a huge television screen which flashed appropriate information on the screen.

"That's interesting news indeed," says General Crozier in his surly manner. "It could be used to implode the band from the inside out."

"Here is Dr. Albrecht Schwingenhardbordson, a family dynamics specialist, to explain the situation," the Senator says, stepping aside.

"Gentlemen," the middle-aged, professional-looking man begins, clearing his throat. "The girl in question is daughter of one Betty Evans, a high school cheerleader and onetime sweetheart of Nathan Explosion when he played football. They broke up when he dropped out of high school and began playing in a band. Judy was born seven months later. Betty has since then went on to be a successful nurse at a hospital in Georgia, raising the child on her own. This revelation can do one of two things: having a child may strengthen Nathan, making him feel more whole and complete; or it could possibly tear Dethklok apart."

The white-haired elder sitting on the throne in the middle of the table speaks at last. "Yes...we will observe what happens. Let him get to know his progeny.."

"We have the results from the DNA paternity test," announces Ofdensen.

"Did I fail?," Nathan asks worriedly.

"It's not that kind of test, Nathan," the man replies, mustering his patience. "This will tell us whether or not you are truly this young lady's father." He opens the envelope and his shrewd eyes scan the papers. "Well, it says that you ARE the father with 99.99 certainty."

"Hoo boy," the singer mumbles.

"Dad!," exclaims the girl cheerily, hugging his muscular arm.

"So what am I supposed to do now?"

"I guess you uh...go do father stuff," answers Ofdensen. "Learn about your daughter, take her with you to concerts, help her do homework. You know, parent type things."

"[bad word removed]," he hisses.

"I'm glad you fin'ly decided to put some clothes on," Judy burbles.

In olden days, before the coming of the saints to Eire, that island knew an Age of Heroes. The Celtic peoples made their heroes into gods and gods into heroes. However, sometimes a very important (and entertaining) part of their culture has oft been overlooked in the ages since then...the women.

Poets were renowned on par with the adventurers, their wit and musical ability unsurpassed. So, too, were their ethics raised just as high, along with the morals of their priestly Druids and impartial Judges. But, being only human, they at times had failings. Take for instance, Bricriu of the Poison Tongue, aptly named for his abuse of his masterful arts. His satires broke peoples reputations, and likely as not, livelihoods, and his dry, cruel sense of humor much feared across the land of Erin.

What was his saving grace was his sparkling wit and the fact that he was tremendously, fabulously wealthy. He entertained lavish get-togethers and he announced the biggest feast of the year to be held at a special stronghold built just for the occasion. It was fit for a High King when completed, and the gathering was expected to be the talk of the region for some time to come. Absolutely everyone was invited and they determined to go, Poison Tongue or no.

The Irish just can't pass up free food and ale, after all.

The Ulster champions in particular were warned by Fergus MacRiogh, who had a good head on his shoulders, that to attend would end in some mischief, and like as not would be fatal to those boisterous lads. He wasn't listened to.

Remember, free food and beer.

The famous Cuchullain, who fought in more wars than he could count years on earth, attended with his equally impressive wife, Emer, she of the Six Womanly Gifts: music, physical beauty, the gift of song, embroidery, the gift of wisdom, and of modesty. Conal Cearnath's wife was with him, Lendabair the Fair, whose golden hair shone like spun silk in the sun. Fedelm the Ever-blooming travelled there as well with her champion husband Laoghaire Buadach, and her voice was like that of birds on a warm summer day.

All were impressed as they entered Bricriu's house with it's open, airy spaces and massive pillars. When the feast was begun the halls rang with their loud merriment and good fellowship was felt by all. Bricriu, playing the indulgent host, saw an opportunity to express his twisted humor. He struck up a conversation with Fedelm, who came of an old, royal family, and made a point to tell her so. He complimented her quite ample curves undaunted by the layers of fine brocade swathing her voluptuous frame. Smiling while eating the roasted wild boar she simpered and preened, pleased that someone had noticed her among all these fine champions and ladies. "It has been given unto me in a vision," he went on, smooth as butter, in the High Old Gaelic, "that it should be after thy heels that the whole band of the women should come. To-night, the first lady to enter the banqueting hall shalt be queen over all the other women, indeed over all the people of Ulster."

Exercising one of the maidenly virtues of modesty Fedelm said nothing and merely lowered her eyes.

Bricriu repeated his praise and 'vision' to the other ladies present, and none of them forgot.

That evening the ladies with their myriad attendants strolled to take the air in the troublemaking poet's magnificent lawn, each minding what the serpent had said. The women enjoyed conversing with each other about their families, children, poetry, and many had battle-training which they discussed, do you like better the sword, or the spear, or the bow? After a time it was apparent that the evening was wearing on and they should return.

Over the first rise the women and their servants walked, neither walking faster than the others. They walked with dignity and grace, fair heads held high. Then they reached the second ridge and their pace quickened, each one glancing at the other to see their progress. After the third rise one after another broke into a run, startling the attendants who clambered to keep up. Catching up their skirts they tucked them into their girdles for easier running, and they dashed full-out. Cascades of hair streamed behind them, blonde and red and brown hair flowing in the breeze.

The last few hundred yards to the house was a blur of expensive cloth and long, white, supple legs pumping furiously. Screaming war-cries and nostrils flaring announced the tumultuous approach to the feasting-hall as they put on a last burst of speed, leaving the servants in the dust wondering what in the Underworld was happening. All the ladies could think of was Queen! Me! Queen!

Lean and lithe Emer reached the door-hole first but had her head yanked back by the sturdier and feistier Lendabair. Yes, she of the golden hair who had a handful of Emer's red-gold locks and screaming like a ban-sidhe. The other women running like the winds couldn't stop and slammed against the pair, slapping them all against the outer walls, too tight to fit into the door. One man later said that it was the noise like the rush of fifty chariots and whole kingly house shook with the impact.

In fact it was so loud and sudden that the champions took up their arms which they'd relinquished when entering the hall, thinking that the whole place was under attack or that the women had been ambushed. Clanging sword and spear against their shields they rushed out to see the huge pile of women in front of the door, still fighting amongst each other over who gets to be High Queen, silks, linens, jewelry and hair flying hither and thither and yon. And laughing so hard tears streaming down his cheeks was the well-dressed starter of troubles, Bricriu of the Poison Tongue.