wham, bam, thank you, ma'am / chapter one

Life sucks.

Really—it does.

And this is coming from one of those cheery chaps who thinks everyone should "live life to its fullest." Well, at least on ex-cheery-chap-who-thinks-everyone-should-"live-life-to-its-fullest." I spit on that idea now.

HAH!

…Ew.

But, you know, I'm a laid-back kinda guy. All I honestly care about it the booze, the bucks, and the breasts. See? I'm not really the spoiled type. I just go with the flow. Hell, 'Easystreet' is my middle name! My first name is Greed, if it matters. Greed Easystreet—hm. I'm don't think my species comes with last names. Can I make one up? I think I'll make one up.

Johnson.

Greed Easystreet Johnson.

Sweet.

With that out of my system, let's talk about one of my favorite things: women. You see, I get around. A lot. I've plowed more things than a freaking farmer. I've screwed so many women, I seriously have an eternal erection—IT'S ALWAYS UP. IT WON'T TAKE A BREAK. THAT IS HOW MANY TIMES I'VE HAD SEX.

And I don't even know half the women I've done it with. Honestly. But I just snap my fingers and they pretty much get the picture. Heh, it's wonderful being me.

So, naturally, something like THIS could've happened. What, you ask? Well. It's demonic, I tell. Cruel and unusual. Awkward as all of hell (and yes, I've been there—drunk). And if I tell you stuff like this, don't say I'm over-reacting or something. I'm not a thing like that fag Envy. Urgh. We're TOTALLY different, aside from we're both rather fond of leather. But, hell, who isn't?

…Okay, it's not THAT bad, but like, totally unexpected. Like a slap on the damn back.

It was a few weeks ago. I'm chillin' at the bar with my lackeys—err, sidekicks. They're getting me beer, I'm drinking said beer; all that jazz. I can always count of Loa, Dorchet, and Martel. But anyway, the doorbell rings (…what the hell is a doorbell doing in a bar, anyway?) and Martel goes and answers it 'cause she's a chick and that's what she does. As soon as she opens the door, we all hear this chattering and such, and I can tell from the back of Martel's head she's disturbed as hell.

Then, she turns around and looks at me. "Uh…Greed?" She's holding a piece of paper and motions for me to come over. Sighing, since I'm a lazyass, I get up and walk over. She gives me the paper and I read it:

Dear Greed,

This is probably unexpected, but…I'm dead. Really. I am! I sent a certificate, too, if you don't believe me! I'm not just trying to send these kids off or anything—! I'm not a cheap-o, just 'cause I happen to be a hooker. But anywho, if you get this, I have been tragically murdered by one of my costumers, or I've died of some STD or whatever. I leave these children to you. Take good care of them, okay? They're eight, nine, and three.

—Anonymous

P.S. Yes, you're a daddy. I know you're really busy doing nothing most of the time, but make some sacrifices, okay? THESE ARE YOUR CHILDREN, TOO, AFTER ALL.

P.P.S. …You owe me twenty bucks. Give it to one of the kids and they'll…uh, pray it to me. Yeah.

"'Kids'?" I repeat. "What the hell is this broad talking about…?" Martel points a thumb at the door, and lo and behold: KIDS. Three dirty little kids. One of them is picking their nose. The other is picking their ass. The other is picking their…well, what OTHER holes do kids have?

"…Yo," one of them mutters.

"So you're a father, eh?" Loa asks; everyone's surrounding me now.

"How UNSURPRISING," Martel mutters as she so elegantly facepalms. Always with the damn facepalms, this one.

"How many hookers have you gone down on?" sighs Drochet. "So we can have a fine idea of what free-loader dumped the kiddies onto you…"

"Lost count," I groan. Gah, I stopped tallying at ninety; I kid you not. But I know for a fact that whoever it was, I was like, their best costumer—my upper-body isn't the ONLY thing I can turn into stone. "It doesn't matter anyway—these kids are going back to the dump where they were conceived."

Now, yes, I HAVE slept with many people, which I've mentioned, say, countless times already. So everyone, including me, was thinking, 'About freaking time already.' If Pride can get a kid, so can I. Seriously. But, unlike him, I have a life. Pets are a waste of time, and canines give me hives.

"Oh, you can't do that," the one who greeted me said; we all looked at him like he sprouted three freaking heads and a tail (which, to us, is pretty normal, but metaphorically speaking). "You can't just give us up. I mean, you're our DAD—we want to spend time with you since, uh…"—he looked at his bare arm—"…our mom was tragically murdered by one of her costumers." The little bugger looked up at us with these bigass kitty eyes. I could hear Martel and the others submitting, but I didn't buy it for a second—Greed ain't a sucker. "And plus, you owe her like…twenty bucks or something."

I raised an eyebrow; that little speech had a chance to be profound. "Look, kid—"

"It's Remington; I'm the eight-year-old mentioned in the note." He pointed to the two kids next to him. "That's Tabby, the three-year-old, and Thor, the nine-year-old."

Like any other normal person (hah, I was about to say human, but then I realized I'm NOT—I'm a saint), my first thought was, 'Those are some effed-up names.' But for some reason, my crew looked willing to help the little bastards. It was freaking agitating knowing they believed I actually had an ounce of RESPONSIBILITY. I'm Greed, dammit—! My only job is to kick ass and take names…and be hot.

"Well, Remington, go scurry back to your mother and tell her to shove it."

"Oh, like you did to her?"

Smartass. And aren't little kids supposed to believe that stork shit?

And it ain't like he stopped there. He all crosses his arms now. "Y'know, Mom was telling us about you…about how you lacked discipline and everything…" Well, his mother was freaking spot-on then. "Heh, and I actually assumed you'd prove her wrong…You're just a no-show." Correct again. "…Like you could succeed in taking care of three adolescents for one whole day…Pft, I guess you're not as perfect as she said you were."

My ears perked up then. Perfect? Didn't he say perfect? I kinda blanked out on the part where he said his mom said I was a stupid, ADHD moron, but PERFECT? ANOTHER DEAD-ON ANSWER. And everyone knows I'm completely won over when complimented.

"OH, HOHOHO!" I cheer. "It's great you suddenly see my perfection!"

"…But—"

"Okay—get in, you little monkeys. And don't touch the beer. It's Daddy's beer."

Am I smooth or what?

So now I'm stuck with a trio of runts. It's freaking amazing, really. Who knew my sperm could create some…magnificent, SMART creatures? I'm looking forward to the experience a little—it'll be like my test subjects until I get something more important, y'know? Like a rabbit. Or a fish.

A/N: WHOO, A NEW CHAPTER FIC. Let's see if I can do this, mmmkay? I am a one-shot person, after all. But anyway, this fic was inspired by a conversation I had in a Fullmetal Alchemist guild on Gaia Online (The Seven Deadly Sins). I don't know how often I'll update, since I started high school a few weeks ago and it's KILLING ME AND OMFGWTFHELPMEOHGOD...but yeah. Hope you enjoyed it so far. :D