Chapter Text
“So as you can see, I’m more than qualified for this position.” Magnus leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Hmm…” The interviewer scratches the stubble on his neck as he scans his eyes over Magnus’ application. “How do I say this…”
Magnus’ jaw clenches.
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s just…” He sighs. “We here at Rock-a-Rooni Fantasy, well, we have certain standards we have to meet. And, to be honest, man, I don’t think you fit all of our qualifications. Sorry.”
“ I don’t fit your qualifications?” Magnus snaps. “I’ve been playing the guitar since I was six! I actually have training. I studied theory!”
“Yes, you said all of that in your cover letter and resumé.” He frowns. “But…”
“But what?”
The interviewer hesitates.
“No one knows who you are.”
Magnus’ eye twitches and a long-dormant rage starts to course throughout his body, partially clouding his mind. But he still has enough lucidity to take a series of deep breaths, and allows his emotions to settle before speaking again.
“I’ll have you know…” His voice is still tense. “That I’ve had quite an expansive career.”
“Like what?”
“Well, in the late 80s I was in a punk band called Underground Victims.”
“Never heard of them.”
Magnus bristles.
“Then, uh, I played guitar in Void, which was a local grunge–”
“Never heard of them either.”
“Afterwards, I founded an Armenian folk punk band called–”
“Never heard of it.”
Magnus’ frown deepens.
“I didn’t even say the name of the band.”
“Doesn’t matter. I guarantee that none of our campers heard of them.”
Magnus scoffs.
“I don’t see how your campers being uncultured is my problem.”
“Well, it is. Because right now, I don’t think you’re fit to be a counselor. If we let any guy off the street with a guitar have a counselor position, it would defeat the purpose of the camp. The point of Rock-a-Rooni Fantasy Camp is to give our campers the chance to play with real rock stars. And, buddy, I don’t get ‘rock star’ from you.” The interviewer steeples his fingers. “So, is there anything else I’d know you from? On the off chance that you’re not completely wasting my time.”
Magnus feels a chill run up his spine.
Should he?
No. He doesn’t have to rely on them. That’s the whole point of this.
“I’m not nobody.” He insists. “People know ‘Magnus Hammersmith’.”
“Another obscure band?”
“No–” Magnus stares at him, bewildered. “That’s my name. It’s…it’s on my application!”
“Still haven’t heard of it.”
“I…” Magnus groans and holds his face in his hands. “I’m somebody , goddammit!”
“I’m sorry, man. I don’t think this is the place for you.”
The interviewer makes a move to stand up, while Magnus’s hands clench into fists. He’s going to fail his objective if he doesn’t do something. There’s no other option. He’s going to have to…
Magnus mutters something under his breath, and the interviewer stops in his tracks.
“What was that?”
“I said…” Magnus closes his eyes and sighs. “I was the original guitarist for Dethklok…”
He sits back down, mouth agape.
“Are you being serious?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Magnus mumbles. “I still have credits for The Hammer , if you want to look it up.”
The interviewer pulls up a copy of the CD, which of course he had readily available, and begins flipping through the liner notes.
“Holy shit. That’s you?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Magnus brow furrows as he keeps his gaze lowered.
“Why wouldn’t you open with that?”
“I thought my previous training and skill would–”
“I can’t believe this. You were in Dethklok!” The interviewer laughs giddily. “I always wondered: is Skwisgaar really that tall?”
“I never really noticed.” Magnus grumbles. “Can we continue the interview?”
“Fuck the interview: the job is yours!”
“But…” Magnus stares down at his application. “Isn’t there some kind of…I dunno, background check process?”
“Nah, not for former Dethklok members.” The interviewer stands up and extends a hand. “Welcome to Rock-a-Rooni Fantasy Camp!”
Magnus stares at the hand, dread trickling up his spine. Accepting his offer this way would only be sacrificing his artistic integrity. Surely there must be a way to fulfill his end of the mission while keeping his dignity intact.
“You know,” Magnus offers. “My poetry collection has been quite well-received–”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. You can write all the poetry you want once you get started.”
“I’m just saying that I’m known for plenty of things other than Dethklok.”
“Uh huh.”
“Just don’t make being in Dethklok ‘my thing’, okay?”
“Alright, yeah. We’ll work all this out with marketing.”
Magnus frowns, takes a deep breath, and shakes his hand.
Only a few minutes after signing the appropriate paperwork, Magnus is ushered into another room to get his photo taken.
“Smile!”
Magnus doesn’t, but the photographer takes the photo anyway.
The following week, Magnus finally receives his copy of the brochure in the mail.
Plastered right there on the front page is his blank, mildly-annoyed face, under the words:
Ex-Dethklok Guitarist
Magnus chucks the brochure into the trash and screams into his pillow.