Pity me, pity me.

Just a nobody that lives in the shoddiest house you've ever seen, spending his days wallowing in his misery and aches.

Shouldn't the happy and colorful outside world realize that life is nothing but a meaningless waste of time?

Or something like that, hell if I know.

I'm too damn drunk to think straight this evening.

Here I am, on my carpet, flicking at an emptied bottle of beer—who knows how many of these I've had tonight—cross-eyed as all get out.

I can't decide, do I want more alcohol?

Augh, why bother? All it does is make me drunk and cry.

I toss the bottle at my wall lazily, listening to it clatter as it hits the ground. Just like my life in general, almost.

I pick myself up from the floor, just so I can flop on my couch and stare at my television. Black screen reflecting a skeletal man with who knows how many inner conflicts.

I'm tired. But I don't want to sleep.

I hurt. But I don't want medicine.

I'm bothered; do I want to die, or do I want to stay alive and see if I can work my way through this shit?

The doorbell rings—who the hell is visiting me at this hour? Who is here at all?!

I don't want to see them.

Therefore I shall not answer.

They will leave on their own.

Yet the doorbell rings another time.

Why? Why are you bothering me, whoever you are?

"Go away!" I shout, "I'm busy!"

Oh no, they invite themselves in. My front door slams open and in strolls Mister Cool-and-Collected Eyeballs, burning my eyes with his happy green shirt.

"Oh yes, because sitting on your couch is busy." Luigi growls, closing the door and approaching me, "We need to talk."

"If this is about slapping your girlfriend, she deserved it."

Okay, I slapped Princess Daisy today. Big deal. She was being annoying as fuck.

"She's over that," he growls, "I'm here for your behavior today in general."

"Oh, who are you, my mother? I don't want to hear any more about your rules of the damn sports tournaments, okay? Now get the fuck out of my house."

Luigi seems a bit surprised at my words, but shakes his head and continues, "Waluigi, you must be aware that what you did today could have placed you in jail. You're lucky Daisy didn't press charges."

"Do I give a damn?!" I spit, "No! I don't! I don't want to hear any more of this 'you must be a good boy' bullshit!"

Luigi rolls his eyes, "This is why Peach just had to send me of all people. Look, Waluigi—"

"Big ass deal, you dress chasing hog. I get it. I pulled a stupid. But do I care? Zero percent! Am I apologizing? Never! She deserved it!" I stood up, taking a moment to gain my balance from the sudden change of position, "Now get the fuck out of my house, and go on with your happy ass life of carefree butterflies and cupcakes stumbling over your own two feet for a girl. Go on. Scram!"

Luigi balls up his fists, "Damn it, Waluigi, can I not—"

"No! Leave!"

"Waluigi—!"

"LEAVE!"

I stomp forward, shoving him by his shoulders towards the door, "Get out of my house and stay out!"

"You—"

I don't let him finish. I open my door and shove him outside, watching as he tumbles down my front steps and into the grass of my yard.

I wave at him, "Good day, ass hole." and then I slam my door and lock it.

Damn, if he was annoying.

But I knew he'd just be one of many visits from the others trying to come and tell me what I did wrong.

Hell if I care.

I'll toss them out just like I did Luigi.

But then I start to think about it. Why do they even bother to come and bother me at all?

Do they want me to be happy and friendly like they are?

My veins feel like ice at the thought.

No.

I don't want to be happy.

If I become happy...

...

...I don't know. The thought terrorizes me.

I enjoy being sad and wallowing in my own pity. I enjoy getting mad. I love hurting people to make myself feel better even for a little while.

So...

...what?

I'm suddenly confused. I feel helpless. Needy. Like I want someone to hold my hand and softly talk with me.

No.

I don't want help.

I want the world to leave me alone.

I don't even want to leave my house anymore.

Someone suddenly starts banging at my door.

"Waluigi! Open up!"

Mario. Even more self-righteous than his brother. I guess they both really want to scold me.

You know what?

That's it.

I can't take this anymore.

Maybe it's the alcohol getting into my head, but it's putting some very nice ideas in there.

"Waluigi! Open the damn door now!"

Why should I? The last number of times Mario has entered my house he has kicked me until I have to agree to never do whatever it was I did. Literally. He's abusive. I don't know why people love him.

The door shakes violently, "Waluigi! I'm gonna bust this door down!"

I don't care. I merely shuffle up the stairs to my bed room and close the door.

If I'm not behaving, the world gets mad at me.

If I'm trying to be nice, the world gets mad at me.

If I'm trying to defend myself, the world gets mad at me.

No matter what the hell I do, it always pisses off the world.

So, that must mean me being alive pisses off the world, correct?

Why not take care of that right now?

I keep a small handgun underneath my barely used bed. I crawl down, reach under and feel around for it until I palm lands on the barrel of the gun. I pull it out and look it over—dusty, but not much else wrong with it.

I wobble to my feet and glance at my desk. Ah, I forgot I had flowers in here. I also can't remember why I got them either. But either way, they'll do me some good.

I snatch one from the pile and hold it to my chest as I roll onto my bed, resting the gun against my head and wrapping my finger around the trigger.

This is good.

I'll be dead.

I won't have all of this to put up with.

I'll feel better. Maybe.

And hopefully the rest of the world will be happy as well.

I jump as I suddenly hear a loud crack from my living room—I'm guessing Mario got in.

"Waluigi! Where are you?! Come on, I haven't got all day!"

I sigh as I whisper, "Then leave my house and leave me alone."

My finger tightens around the trigger.

Sudden darkness.

"What was that?!" Luigi whimpers as he looks up the stairs, "Waluigi?!"

Mario groans and shoves his brother aside, "Why are we even trying to talk to him? Doesn't Peach understand it won't work?"

"I don't know..." Luigi slowly follows Mario up the stairs.

Waluigi's door is closed. Mario crosses his arms and stands in front of it, "Alright, you bastard, we're gonna talk whether you want to or not!"

He turns the knob and throws the door back, marching in with his finger pointed and mouth open, ready to fuss.

However, it clicks with Luigi quicker than it does Mario. The younger brother enters the room, sees the gun and the blood from Waluigi's head.

He covers his mouth, trying to silence his frightened wail.

Mario's hand slowly falls to his side as he looks at the scene in front of him.

It was the first time ever Waluigi had not been smiling while causing trouble.

**Yet again a dark one-shot. Nothing special, just a random little story. Okay, I guess not too much random. Last night I popped onto a website and read what this guy blogged about Waluigi. He wrote that Waluigi's creators said... um, something about the character having a bunch of self-pity for himself and a few other things that made me sad. I guess that's partially that inspired me to write this little story this morning.

Anyway.
Hope you somewhat enjoyed.