WARNING: This work of fanfiction contains scenes of strong sexual content between two male characters written to be stomach-churning on purpose, including genital/hole size mismatches, voyeurism themes, and a couple naughty words thrown in for good measure. If you're not physically, emotionally, and/or legally old enough to handle these concepts, do us both a big favor and press the Back button NOW.

I don't own Metalocalypse. Time Warner Inc., Cartoon Network, [adult swim], and their license-holding subsidiaries do. Characters and concepts are being used without permission. No profit is being made from this file. Continuity-wise, this story is set before the episode "The Metalocalypse Has Begun." Happy Fun Ball loves the smell of napalm in the morning (also, buttered pancakes).

Operation: Last Supper

by Apricot the Gerbil

The man in the plaid flannel workshirt slid to a stop on his side of the booth with a solid, heavy thumph. He eyed the sweater-vested octogenarian perched in the seat across from him, then adjusted the brim of his seedcorn-logo cap; the older man nodded faintly in return. They had not been followed here.

A full verse of "Horse With No Name" droned from the speakers overhead before General Crozier spoke up. "So. What've we got?"

Cardinal Ravenwood only stared guiltily into the remains of his Bacon Benedict Scramble.

Crozier narrowed his eyes. "I don't have time for this. What," he demanded.

"I have... been untrue to you, on the phone earlier," the Cardinal said. He bowed his head further, making his wattles flatten against his neck like a litter of mole rats huddling to keep warm.

America's rock ballad faded into something bland by Simon and Garfunkel (redundant as that might be). Crozier's death glare never wavered. "So that intel you had on Selatcia's birth certificate..." he began.

"...All lies. Forgive me. But I needed you here, regardless." Ravenwood reached to pick up his fork, revealing the rattling tremor that refused to let go of his hands. "The dreams... No, the visions-- I have not slept these past four days and nights! Selatcia-- I see him everywhere! In the sky, upon the ground, in--"

Crozier cut him off without a trace of pity. "You mean to tell me, the Dethwater concert is tomorrow and you dragged me out here to the middle of nowhere when we're on the brink of a full-scale WAR to say you think there's a goddamned monster under your bed?" His shoulders sank as his fingers came to rest on his temples and started massaging. No... no, he couldn't kill Ravenwood now. There was too much at stake, no matter how tempting that oh-so-snappable neck in front of him might look. "With all due respect, if you had one scrap of a notion what I had to do to slip away without having the others notice..."

"Yes, General, I believe I do," replied Ravenwood. The desperation in his tone made even Crozier's rage pause. "Only three times in my life have I experienced premonitions of this magnitude. At the births of three mortals." He held his fingers in a jittering bundle before him, lowering one with each name. "Yanni. Courtney Love... Yoko. Ono."

"Sweet yodeling Jesus..." Crozier checked the faces of the customers near their table, looking for the horror that would betray any eavesdroppers. When he found none, he continued, his voice dipping low and flat to hide his own unease. "All right, fair enough. What about these visions?"

"By sundown tomorrow, my God will have forsaken me. And in that moment, I will suffer a fate worse than death." His hollow stare leapt to meet Crozier's eyes. "I can barely explain it, but... I know it to be true as I have known nothing before. You will survive. But this... This is my last night upon this earth."

"You seem pretty confident." The General frowned. "And assuming you can't avoid whatever's about to happen, why the hell would you figure I can do anything to stop it?"

"There is nothing either of us can do. The favor I ask of you now has no bearing on my survival, but still, I..." Ravenwood trailed off shyly. "You see, General, mine is a life of many years, and yet I have but one regret. I have never, er... ventured to taste... sins of the flesh."

"I see," said Crozier, and nodded. He turned the idea over in his mind, piecing together a strategy with a speed any self-respecting member of the Tribunal would be proud to show off. "There's a place I know of called the Greasy Pole, just a few blocks down from here. If you ask for a gal by the name of Kitty, twenty bucks'll get you all the sinning you can--"

"No, no." Cardinal Ravenwood waved the idea away as though it was trying to sting him. "I was hoping for somewhat more of a-- well, a sense of... camaraderie, among equals, of..." His hand spasmed anew, but his eyes slunk back to his plate and stayed there. "Partnership."

An awkward silence hung between the two of them for a moment, despite the Beach Boys' best efforts to shoo it away.

"...Hm," Crozier finally replied.

The next waitress to walk past their booth stopped, startled by the arm the man in the farmers' flannel jerked towards her with Hitlerian enthusiasm. "Something I can help you with, sir?" she mumbled.

"The drinks you sell here. Z'there booze in any of 'em?" the man asked.

"Oh..." Her eyes glazed over as she began parroting the proper sales pitch. "Well, we have the Bahama Slam o' Rama, which has a mix of pineapple juice, rum, and orange--"

"Rum. That'll do," he said, and took a deep breath before rattling off commands with military precision. "Bring the bottle. Don't bother tossing any of that froo-froo garbage in with it. And get five empty glasses. Four for me, one for this guy," he added, gesturing to the other gentleman in the booth. "Make sure you put it on his tab."

- + -

As he followed Crozier's turn into the brick-walled alleyway, Ravenwood winced. Without a second thought, his hand went for his nose and plugged it. He grimaced at the overturned garbage cans sprawled across the stain-puddled concrete ground, then let his hand drop away... it really did nothing to help the smell.

A flash from a passing car's headlights flickered over the brickwork, then vanished. "Are you positive we will not be discovered here?" Ravenwood asked, glancing over his shoulder. The neon sign at the corner of the Burzums's parking lot was only a hazy glow in the distance, but it still seemed too close for comfort.

"If anyone shows up around this place, they're either trying to sell something illegal, or they're going to do what we're here to do," Crozier said matter-of-factly. "Easy targets for blackmail, if it comes to that. Now... You bring anything?"

The Cardinal looked at him blankly. "Any what?"

Crozier squinted. "Come on, you're not that stupid. Just because you're a man of the cloth, that means they can't tell you what lube is?"

"Oh. Oh, no... I'm afraid I didn't think of..."

He was interrupted by the General's gruff sigh. "You didn't think of it? You came up with this bright idea all by yourself, and you forgot the only thing keeping your ass from looking like you sat on a land mine?"

Ravenwood shrugged. "In truth, I expected you would be crushing my jaw against the sidewalk for asking in the first place, General."

"Yeah, well... Can't say I got up this morning waiting for the chance to stuff ol' Little Boy into the rear end of a guy who looks like a cheap rawhide chew, but..." Crozier dipped both hands into his shirt pockets, distractedly fishing through them one by one. "Hell, you're looking at the man who had a CIA coverup named after him in the university riots of '78. Took out two hundred and sixty-three hippies with my bare hands in under a half hour. If you think asking me to fuck you up the ass is going to scare me away, then by God, you're going to have to try a little harder." He withdrew a small tube from somewhere in all that flannel, flicked open the cap with his thumb, and squeezed a generous gob of bright red gel onto his palm. "You want to start greasing up the battlefield, or you want me to do it?"

Cardinal Ravenwood was at a loss for words. He stuttered through the gaps in his teeth at first, only to stop and take a deep sniff. "Is that... cherries I smell?"

"Strawberries," Crozier muttered, looking down at the glob in his hand. "It's strawberry flavored. S'what it said on the bottle, anyhow."

The Cardinal said nothing. 

Crozier read his expression like a field manual. He scowled at Ravenwood. "Yes, I carry it around with me. A good soldier's always prepared, and I did a lot of things over in 'Nam that I'm not proud of. You got a problem with that?"

Ravenwood blinked. "...No?"

"Good. Now face the wall and drop those pants," the General commanded, fumbling to unbuckle his own belt with one hand. "And make sure you spread your legs as wide as you can. This is going to sting at first no matter what you do, trust me."

Ravenwood hurried to follow his orders, unzipping his trousers and letting them bag at his ankles. He paused at Crozier's chuckle.

"Looks like you thought I'd agree to this more than you claimed," the General said, eyeing the bare buttocks that sagged from under Ravenwood's shirt and sweater-vest like a pair of deflated pancakes.

"I believe the practice is called 'freeballing,' General," the Cardinal declared adamantly. A small "mm--" left his lips as Crozier's hand sought out its target and started smearing the gel over the most prominent wrinkle Ravenwood's backside had to offer. "Er... you are not worried about... protection?"

Crozier snorted. "Said you're going to die tomorrow, didn't you?" he said, working his fingers deeper into the crack. "If you're telling the truth, the clap I picked up from that Canadian hooker back in '86 shouldn't bother you for long." He ignored Ravenwood's surprised hiss when he pulled his hand away; another squeeze of the tube, and he was back at it in full force. "You better not be lying about being clean, either. If I get some kind of... church pox because of this, I don't care if you're dead, undead, or whatever-- so help me, I will hunt you down and make you regret it!"

"...Understood," the Cardinal replied. 

The fingers slurped out from his hole again, but this time, they didn't return. Instead, Ravenwood was horrified to feel the size of the throbbing cudgel that pressed up against him in their place. "Good Lord!" he choked. "That's not...?!"

"Just Little Boy's way of saying hello," said Crozier with a smirk.

"Th-there's no way that's going to fit!" Ravenwood sputtered, trying his damnedest to wriggle away from where Crozier had him pinned. "I had no idea you were so-- so...!!"

"Nonsense. If I could get it all the way inside that fifteen-year-old and her twin sister back when I was on shore leave in Seoul, it can sure as hell make it into you," General Crozier said. "Now calm down. You keep horsing around, you're gonna tear something fierce on entry."

The Cardinal heard another squirt from the lube bottle, then a light clop as it fell to the ground, but by now, the most protest his sleep-weary body could muster was shutting his eyes extra super tight. The sensation of slimy, half-cold gel oozing down his taint did little to help his nerves... nor did Crozier's hand, as it came to rest on Ravenwood's hip and ran a calloused-stiff palm along his thigh, guiding him into place. All Ravenwood could do was whimper and gulp for breath, not daring to even close his mouth, as what felt for all the world like the wrong end of a veiny baseball bat slowly began inching into his personal inner sanctum. If that thing was half as long as it was thick...

And the strawberries. That strawberry scent seemed to be coming from everywhere. If he lived to see the end of the week, he'd never be able to look at those damned things again.

He dimly heard Crozier's voice from behind him, coaching between the grunts. "That's it... Deep breaths. Take it like a man..."

Calling upon his last bit of willpower, Cardinal Ravenwood tapped a twitching fingertip to his forehead, then each shoulder-- the sign of the cross. He may've been suffering a crisis of faith lately, but it seemed unwise to abandon all hopes of there being a merciful God just yet.

Already, Crozier's thrusts were coming stronger. Ravenwood felt the stocky legs propping him up from behind move a few inches farther apart, enough for them to both stay upright when the General hefted Ravenwood even closer. The beer paunch Crozier's cozy Tribunal desk job was beginning to give him pressed its warm, hanging weight right up against the Cardinal's back, shifting lazily over the ridges of his spine like a lovesick water balloon as he kept on pounding. "Mm... I'm impressed. For a first-timer, you're doing really well," Crozier murmured through a smile. "See? Little Boy's not so bad, once you get to know him, is he?"

Ravenwood's only response was to rest the side of his head on the brick wall he clung to with both claw-hooked hands. Rest his head, and let himself be pumped along in time with Crozier's cock. And moan-- moan like the restless dead.

Lord help him, this was starting to feel so good...

"Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccand--"

The General stopped him in mid-confession. "Hey, hey! Enough of that!" he spat. "You want to holler when you're with me, you say it in English, got it? None of that Commie French stuff!"

"YOU HAVE BETRAYED ME!!"

Mr. Selatcia's voice. Ravenwood froze.

Oh, no. Not again. Not now.

"Whoa! Easy, easy there... easy," Crozier said, his harshness fading as Ravenwood gagged and trembled in his arms. He paused from grinding back and forth momentarily, seeing tears spill from the Cardinal's eyes onto the concrete. "Come on, soldier, don't clench up on me now!"

It's him! Selatcia! He's here! Ravenwood tried to say. All that came out of his mouth was a pitiful gurgling wail-- followed by watery vomit, as the pain of the premonition swallowed him whole.

"Damn it..." the General grumbled to himself. He knew better than to try yanking out from somebody's ass once he was rooted as snug as he was (that poor lonely Kuwaiti grandmother had never seen it coming), so he grabbed Ravenwood tight and held off on the hip-shoving until the old guy was done having his seizure, or whatever was going on. Not like the ground hadn't had worse hit it long before they got here, he figured.

Sure enough, Ravenwood soon shut up, sagging in the General's grip and panting for air through freshly bile-streaked snaggleteeth like a Chihuahua trapped in a microwave.

"This is going to sound bad, but... sure hope you don't plan on surrendering just yet," Crozier told him, letting a rare trace of sympathy sneak into his words. "I can tell you right now, it'll take more than you having a heart attack to make this boner back down before its duty's good and done."

"No... please, I beg of you," Ravenwood croaked. The image of blood fountaining from his own eyesockets was still nightmare-fresh, burrowing through his brain like a maggot on an all-night bender. He wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve, then reached behind him to tug weakly at Crozier's plaid shirttails with one hand. "Please. Keep going... Make me forget..."

"Heh. Now that's the spirit," said Crozier. He gave Ravenwood a grin of approval, then set about granting the old man's wish with gusto. Ravenwood, for his part, was content to stay silent and let his fellow Tribunalite fuck those painful visions away, or at least replace it with the strange, nice sort of pain he felt now, even if it did stink like fruit and fat-guy sweat-- offering an occasional "oh, General..." or moan of encouragement, cradled there against the alleyway wall.

Quiet partner or no, it was still enough for Crozier to need to force out a strained "Okay-- s'do or die time! Y'want... in or out of ya?" before long, adding urgently, "Better say quick--!"

Few of Ravenwood's own liturgical prayers ever carried an ounce of the fervor he showed right then. "God, yes, in me-- General, come in me!"

A huff, and a grunt-- and another grunt, lower this time, much longer. Ravenwood felt Crozier's belly shudder and go rigid as the General spent his ammo in one thick, gooey load.

...Another hip-buck. Make that one and a half loads.

"There. You're welcome," Crozier said, his face reddened and flecked with beads of sweat. He took a cautious step backward, braced his arm against the brickwork, and promptly began easing out his equipment, one slow, sliding tug at a time. Regarding the blood-marbled muddy froth glazing his dick with the same stern-lipped calm of a father tossing a bag of kittens into a stream, he asked, "So, what's it feel like, living with no regrets?"

Once General Crozier's softening meathammer was dislodged from him at last, Ravenwood gasped, wincing until his powers of speech returned. "It feels... like I am about to defecate my intestines. But not in a bad way."

The General nodded proudly, gazing off into the distance. "Yeah... you never forget your first time, that's for sure." He pulled a small, folded rag from another pocket and began patting off the mess clumped at his loins, pausing to watch Ravenwood stumble to his feet like an eightysomething newborn foal. Straightening his jaw, he walked up to dry the fake-strawberry grease leaking in steady drips from the Cardinal's ass as well... then stopped stock-still at the sight of the old man's crotch. Below the civilian shirt and vest, Ravenwood's stub of a penis still shivered at a dark pink half-mast.

"You didn't finish," Crozier said. He didn't bother hiding his disappointment.

"Do not... trouble yourself," Ravenwood wheezed... and groaned anew, as Crozier's fingers settled around the offender and started stroking.

"One thing I can't stand, it's a martyr," Crozier grumbled.

It didn't take long. Ravenwood's face tensed up, sucking his lip into that ragged skein of teeth until blood trickled down his chin-- and his guttural "ngh," as four long days of exhaustion left his body in a dribbling, milky arc...

Pause. Zoom in on Cardinal Redwood's face. 

Rewind.

Ngh.

Rewind.

Ngh. Pause.

"Mmn-- that's it do it you worthless traitor bitch fucking do it--"

Rewind.

Ngh.

Senator Stampingston jerked forward in his seat, his voice strangling into a snarl as he felt the first hot bursts of semen spill into the tissues clutched around his cock. "Fucking-- YES-- uhh..!!" he growled, hunching his free arm to cushion his head against the desk until the violent shaking passed. "Ahhh..."

He waited there for a minute or two, at first. Staring at the wad of stained Kleenex cooling in his hand, then tossing it in the wastebin to join the small mountain of its dried cousins. Smoothing away the wrinkles in his suit jacket. Finger-primping his saltpeppered hair back into place. No sense in calling your boss when you were out of breath, the Senator figured... especially when that boss was accommodating enough to keep assigning surveillance duties to a man whose years of peeping scandals (men or women, all his interns soon grew skittish when nearing their designated bathroom stalls) had nearly lost Stampingston his seat in Washington more times than the Senator himself preferred to count.

Still, as he picked up his desk phone's receiver and punched in a short sequence of star and pound keys, the smirk that crossed Stampingston's face hinted at levels of schadenfreude that only true career politicians can ever hope to attain. This latest footage was even better than the time that wretched clown character let himself be double-teamed by a pair of the Tribunal's more weak-willed underlings for an extra bag of blow-- ducking into Stampingston's own office to do it, no less. (That reminded him, he should really dig that tape out again sometime soon...)

No time to think of that now, though. "Mr. Selatcia? Yes, it's me," he said to the phone calmly. "I'm afraid your suspicions were correct." 

He paused, listening to the gravelly whisper at the other end. "No, they haven't mentioned any specific plans as of yet, but I can assure you, they're both definitely in cahoots. In fact, the last hour or so of their security recordings have been... most illuminating indeed."

- + -

"Hey," Crozier said, almost shouting this time. He poked a booted foot into Ravenwood's side.

Cardinal Ravenwood didn't move. Just laid there on the concrete, snoring away in a puddle of his own drool.

"Son of a bitch," muttered Crozier. He searched his pockets for his walkie-talkie, scratching under the collar of his workshirt while he was at it (damned civilian uniforms, they always got so uncomfortable before long)... frowned at Ravenwood again...

"That does it," Crozier said at last, and began his hasty retreat towards the Burzums's parking lot. "They're finding you here without your pants."

-fin-