InsaneJournal

Unethical
Murderface put the banana sticker on his vest a little absently. He looked down at his lap. The pungent smell of his urine filled the small, dark room.

"Oh, don't worry about that; that's normal. That can happen sometimes, when you relive the past like that. So don't worry."

Murderface slowly nodded, getting to his feet. The pee was running down his leg.

"Hang on. Here's some kleenex, Murderface." Twinkletits handed him a handful of kleenex straight from the box, a pitying expression on his face.

Murderface held the kleenex to his lap as he made his way toward the nearest bathroom.

Twinkletits waited in the room for his return, but he didn't come back.



He had other times with Murderface, of course. The whole band was working very hard and John was proud of them all.

"Sche wanted me to buy that baschtard a wheelchair. So I did. And what'sch the thanksch I get? She tells me I'm going to heaven or some bullschit! Yeah? I'd prefer it if sche went to heaven. That'sch a reward."

"Murderface, did you ever think that maybe he deserved a little something for helping raise you?"

Murderface's arms cross. "What did he ever do? Jescht schtood there while sche ruined my life."

"Ruined your life? Look around you. You're William Murderface. You're in Dethklok. Your life isn't so bad."

"No thanksch to them," Murderface grumbled.

"They did take you in."

"Yeah, 'causche their son wasch pschyco. Big deal. They had to."

"Did they?"

"Kyeah! They had to!"

"Did they?"

"Yeah!"

"Murderface," Twinkletits said softly. "Hey, Murderface. Did they have to do that?"

Murderface scowled. After minutes of sitting there, he finally said. "I guess not."



"You must have some good stories from when Murderface was a little boy."

"Who are you, the childhood nazi? Schit."

"You don't have a story? Even one? Even one little story for me that doesn't have, you know, death and destruction in it?"

"Well...I guess...I mean, I usched to be in boy shcouts. That waschn't so bad."

"Boy scouts! That's good. Boy scouts help with survival skills, and not just for the wild. For social situations. So, you had fun at boy scouts?"

"Sort of. I guesch."

He placed a hand on Murderface's arm. "Well, it's a start."



"Picklesch thinks I'm gay."

"Well, are you?"

"What the hell! Fhuck! You're my therapist—you're on my schide!"

"I just asked if Pickles was right. Jeeze, Murderface. There's absolutely nothing wrong with being a homosexual. Plenty of celebrities, even in metal bands, are gay."

"There'sch nothing brutal about taking it up the asch."

Johnathan raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"It'sch true!"

"Have you ever tried it?"

"No!"

"Then how do you know?"

Murderface's expression darkened. "I jescht know it! I jescht know."

"Okay." Twinkletits didn't fight him on it.



"So...I'm trying to write schomething for my side band, Planet Pisch."

"Planet Piss? Like, a planet of urine?"

"Yeah. What other pisch is there? Anyway...it's pretty hard to find inschpiration this day and age. I don't know how Nathan does it. I'm fat too. Where'sch my talent?"

"Do you feel jealous of Nathan?"

"Well yeah!" Murderface sat up a little straighter. "He writes totally aweschome songs, he bangs tons of chicksch, and everyone knows his name."

"People know your name too, Murderface."



"You know, Picklesch has had sex with guysch before. He told me. Well, he kind of didn't even have to—did you schee him in the 80s? Yikesch."



"Schometimes I just feel like no one will ever love me."

"What do you mean? The band is your family now, Murderface, and they look out for you."

"The band'sch okay. That's...no, I mean...I want someone who cares about how I'm feeling. Who doeschn't just want sex. Girlsch say they won't, but they usche me all the time. Shkwishghaar says I bring it on myschelf, is that...is that true?"

Twinkletits thought about it. "One of the hard things about being a celebrity is that people come to you for sex or money more often than just to really be with you."

"Nathan got a girlfriend. Everyone wants to date him!"

Twinkletits sighed. "I hate to sound so cynical, but they could be looking at your public persona and be seeing things you don't want them to see, things like irresponsibility or a big temper, and while people's opinions change, that doesn't happen overnight."

Murderface was quiet again. "Twinkle Tits...do you think I'm not cut out for a relationship?"

"No! No, everyone has the potential to really make a relationship work, if they really try."



"Schometimes I have this nightmare where I can see my dad do it. It'sch like...I'm schtill there, as a baby, but I'm there as a teenager too, and as an adult. And the other mes are trying to schtop it, even the baby, and the adult me, it jescht doeschn't care anymore."

Johnathan moved over to the couch, sitting next to his patient. He put his hand on the other man's hand, looking down for a moment at the two. His hand seemed very small in comparison. "How does that dream make you feel?"

Murderface surprised him, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. They sat like that for a while, for so long it would have been uncomfortable if it wasn't for the fact that it felt nice.

"Are you done now?" he asked softly. "Is Murderface done?"

Murderface shook his head, pulling him in a little closer.



It was on their last meeting before the band kicked him out of Mordhaus that things took the turn they had been quietly threatening to take.

It was the way they were looking at each other, the way neither of them were really talking for any reason but to hear the other listen, take it in, say something in response. They felt more like equals than a professional and his patient. Which was probably not a good sign.

When he was explaining that Murderface had a largely Sanguine temperament, Murderface scooched closer, looked him in the eye, and kissed him.

At first he tried to talk him down. "Murderface, what are you doing?"

"I," Murderface paused, looking a little lost. "I don't know. I thought I'd...try it."

"Why me?" Twinkletits pat the spot next to him, crossing his legs, trying not to let it get too awkward. "I'm doing my job. You know I'm just doing my job."

"So, what, you don't really care about my feelingsch?" He looked like he had a hard time believing that.

"Well, I do. Of course I do."

"So what'sch the big deal?"

"I'm your therapist."

"Right."

Twinkletits sighed. "Look. I'm flattered. But it's not okay to have sex with your therapist, Murderface."

Murderface crossed his arms, but said nothing.

"It's just plain unethical. And twisted. And...gay," he pointed out.

"Scho? You know scho much about me. I just...I mean, why not?"

"Murderface...."

"No!" He pushed himself to his feet, staring down at the therapist. "No, really. What'sch wrong with me? Too fat? Too ugly?"

"No, it's not that—"

"Is my breath too bad? Doesch my hair look too much like a triangle? Does the color of my eyesch creep you out?"

"No. In fact, Murderface, I find you pretty easy on the eyes. But you're going to have to stop trying to push me or I'll kick you out of the room and make sure to only see you in double sessions."

"Come on, what'sch the worscht that could happen?" He slowly slid the thick glasses off of the man's face. "Hm. You look different without thesche."



Murderface bit his lip, choking back grunts of pleasure as he held onto the arm of the couch. He knew he just had to try and Twinkletits would do it. He came in a flood, blood hot, skin covered with a light sheen of sweat, hair a little frizzier than usual.

Twinkletits hummed as he cleaned up the couch, sending Murderface on his way.

It wasn't until late that night that Murderface realized just how much of a sick, messed up shit he was.



It hurt to kick Twinkletits out of the house when he found out the guy was a psycho freak murderer, but it had to be done.

John's plot to take over the band was made alright again when he got his limbs torn off by the yard wolves. He and Murderface never had sex again, although they thought about it. They weren't lovers. They weren't doctor and patient. They were, in a weird sort of way, friends. Murderface even made sure they helped pay for the guy's robotic arms. They were even.