"What's that, Conway?" Charles Offdensen asked his personal assistant.

"It's the results for the paternity test on that sick baby, sir," the blond said, opening an envelope.

"Oh, right. So, uh . . . is it Toki's?" the CFO asked.

Some puff piece had hit the tabloid news agencies about a newborn with a serious liver defect. Somewhere along the line the journalist – stretching the term to its breaking point – had learned that the child was allegedly Toki Wartooth's son and proceeded to trumpet this bit of info to the world while the poor mother had hung on her shoulder, crying 'You can't say that! I signed the paper! I'll get in trouble!' in Swedish.

Luckily for the mother, Toki had seen the news piece before Charles had. Being of soft heart, the Norwegian guitarist had wanted to know if the baby was really his.

"Did they ever find a donor liver for . . . him? It was a boy, right?" the manager asked as Conway pulled the papers from the envelope.

"No, apparently they haven't found anyone who's a match," Matthias Conway said, scanning the documents.

The blond's eyes widened. His jaw hung slack for a moment, then he bit his lower lip.

"Oh my God," he muttered, a grin creeping across his face. "Oh my God!"

The slight man burst out laughing, turning away from his boss slightly as he guffawed.

"What's so . . . ah . . . funny?" Charles asked.

"Oh shit, that's hysterical," Conway wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "I mean, what are the odds . . . well, I guess if you think about the numbers it's not that far out."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, the fans are a community . . . ."

"Conway!" Offdensen snapped.

"Ah, yes! Well, sir, Vandir Kron is the son of Toki Wartooth," Conway reported.

"What's so funny about that?" Charles asked.

"Vandir Kron is also the grandson of Skwisgaar Skwigelf."

" . . . . WHAT?"

"Oh shit, that's funny," Matthias repeated, looking through the other documents. "Apparently Ms. Kron is one of Skwisgaar's illegimate daughters. I wonder if she knows—"

"Skwisgaar's only thirty-four! How can he have a grandchild?"

"Well, Ms. Kron is only eighteen . . ."

"He would have had conceived her when he was only fifteen! That's not – well, we are talking about Skwisgaar," Charles conceded.

"Are you going to tell them?" Conway asked.

"Well, Toki will want to know. Skwisgaar definitely won't. It will tear him apart to learn he's a grandfather. So yes, definitely."

"Charles! You hears backs yet? Ams littles Vandir my boy?" Toki asked eagerly.

The CFO paused, looking around Toki to where the rest of the band lounged around their main recreation room.

"Ah . . . yes. Congratulations, Toki; you're a father," Charles announced.

He waited until Toki's squealing and cheering had died down a bit, then cleared his throat again.

"And congratulations, Skwisgaar," the manager added.

The lead guitarist gave Charles a puzzled look.

"Why de fucks you giveses to me de congraslulations?" the Swede snarled. "I nots no fathers of de baby."

The corner of Charles' mouth turned up for a second.

"Ah, no, that's true. Skwisgaar, little Vandir is your grandson."

Skwisgaar stared at his manager for a second longer, then fired a sentence at Toki in his native language. Charles only knew a tiny bit of Swedish, but he was pretty sure it meant 'Did he just say 'grandson'?'

"How the fuck does that work?" Nathan growled, looking up from his newspaper. "Skwisgaar's way too young to be a grampa."

"Well, apparently he conceived a child when he was around fifteen. That child – a daughter – grew up and . . . uh . . . got accepted by the . . . ah . . . the Skank Patrol and . . . was impregnated by Toki."

"I'msa daddy!" the rhythm guitarist cried in delight.

"Whats ain'ts no daughters mine grows ups fucking slut!" Skwisgaar roared.

"Hey, you nots talks abouts Skal dats way!" Toki yelled back. "She can't helps beings a slut; she takes after hers dad!"

Skwisgaar heaved his Explorer at Toki's head. Toki yelled something back in either Swedish or Norwegian and the pair went on full attack. Charles retreated to a safe distance as they brawled.

"Issat really true?" Nathan asked. "One of Skwisgaar's kids grew up and fucked Toki and had his kid?"

"It's really true," Charles confirmed. "The lab ran the test three times to be sure. The question is: where do we go from here?"

"You know . . . you know what we should do?" Pickles slurred. "We should like, find some more of Skwisgaar's girls an – an see if like . . . Yngwie Malmsteen or . . . or . . . Paul Gilbert or somebody would be interested in knocking them up."

"You want to start breeding guitarists?" Nathan asked.

"I wish I could say that's the worst idea of I've heard," Charles sighed.

Toki was now pinning Skwisgaar to the floor, popping him on the back of the head, and taunting him in their native tongues. Charles was officially lost, but he caught one word: 'morfar' which was repeated often and with great relish. The manager was pretty sure it meant 'grandpa.'

"It's a good idea!" Nathan protested. "I mean, fuck, Toki's little shitter's got the genes of the best guitarists in the world. He should have more kids with Skwisgaar's slutty daughter."