Hello. Enjoy this. And such stuff-ness. I had to write this for school. The shorter version of a longer thingummy, cuz... I don't know. Some parts were not... school appropriate. And it's all wierd because it's supposed to be a... long story, instead of short story thing. Authors note, authors note? Wha?? I'm confusing myself. Huzzah. Oh, yeah, I forgot about Jean Prouvaire... but oh well. Let's just call him Jehan, shall we? My friend got mad at me for killing Joly. Joly-lovers, beware! He is the first to die! Before they even get to the barricades, poor guy. (Rhyme! Yay!) And I know, it's only in my mind, that I'm talking to myself! Is that not hilareous? That is hilareous. Hahahaha... yeah. Apologies to Anthony Warlow. I shamelessly plagerized for this, I admit. Forgive the 1-sentence paragraphs. I was high on Niel Gaiman at the time, if that explains it at all. Woo.
Gizzards
by Pongo Legume
Jean was drunk.
This is not too surprising. He usually was. Sometimes this created problems. On this particular night, it had got him thrown out of Corinth.
This actually wasn't too bad. He liked the alley. Fun to wander about in. Lit by a guttering old-fashioned street lamp beside the remains of an old dustbin. Occasionally he would stop and grin at it and blow it kisses.
Jean was not a particularly handsome young man. He was mostly brown. His eyes glittered an emerald green and his smile was an amazingly clean white, but that was about it. He badly needed a shave and a haircut. The tangle of shoulder-length hair seemed to always be wet. He wore a pair of muddy slacks, a very nice pair of muddy black boots, a muddy, torn shirt that was once white, and something resembling a trenchcoat.
He sang to the elderly lamp post. "Je suis petit oiseau…"
***
Corinth was famous for grilled kitten. All was bright and cheery. It was emptied but for a group of young students and their National Guardsman pal.
"So Chollers, " began the beautiful leader in the awesome red vest. "Lets have a war, shall we?" He mimicked twin pistols with his hands and waved them about. "Bang bang! You're all dead."
Chollerwocky seemed unamused. He was all decked out in his spiffy uniform, quietly drinking his mug of beer. Everyone else had wine of some sort. He wanted to go home. At home, he had a pet fox named Zeke. Zeke had a foot fungus that would one day contribute to an advanced Kleenex formula.
Chollers shrugged amidst the cries of approval.
"Sure," he said.
"Righto! Lets build a barricade!" ordered Enjolras, the one with the cool vest.
"We'll need a mattress," put in Bossuet, the only bald one of the group.
"Harr! An daisies!" cried an amazingly sober capital R.
They set about grabbing all moveable furniture, mattresses, and daisies and hurling it out into the street. Some went home for carbines. Some went home for something else.
Chollers headed out to gather his National Guards.
***
Jean was getting a headache. He couldn't find his way out. The street lamp's guttering had increased, and now there were a bunch of people screaming about a revolution.
Things were beginning to blur.
Shapes entered his line of vision, began tugging at the dustbin, and carried it off. Jean became greatly saddened, for he had come to be very close to that dustbin. And then a short man in a yellow vest appeared in front of him.
"Excuse me, sir," said Joly, "but let me ask you this," and he stuck out his tongue. "Does my tongue look funny?"
Jean had not heard a word and thought he was being mocked. He uttered a growl of rage and sent the hypochondriac sailing into a wall. Brains stained it a lovely color, which can still be seen to this day. Jean had about 12 seconds for his partially functional brain to think of finger painting before he was forced to embrace the ground as something that felt like a horse's hoof connected with his behind.
Close. A unicorn. White silken hide and single horn of steel, she tossed her head angrily.
"You killed him!"
Jean turned over warily and groaned. "Eh?"
"You killed the poor defenseless little hypochondriac!"
"Eh."
"You… you… murderer."
"Eh."
She glared daggers at him. "Is that all you've got to say for yourself?"
"Eh."
"Well!"
Little bits of light gathered around the unicorn and she disappeared. He might have been hallucinating.
A Police Inspector with big sideburns (who just happened to be Jean's brother) and a group of gendarmes rushed onto the scene. One of them took out a notebook and one of those pens with a bunch of feather sticking out of the end.
"Appears t' be a murder, sah," he told them, keen observer that he was.
Javert snorted. "Of course," he looked down at his sibling haughtily. "Seems to be under the influence of alcohol."
Jean chose this moment to get up. He flopped a comradely arm about his brother's shoulders.
"Aww, dear offizah," he crooned, and as a disgusted Javert shoved him off, "Ah'm nay under th' affluence o' incol!"
They ushered him into to a waiting taxi.
As Feather Pen drove him off to prison, they passed a rather large dead-looking animal lying on the side of the road. Jean liked to think it was the unicorn. He was that kind of person.
***
Javert had a quest. Dispose of all Jeans, dispose of all Jeans: it echoed through his head, neverending. It may seem a bit much to dispose of someone just for his or her name, but ole Javvie never seemed to notice this. He really didn't like his brother.
The only thing he really did like was quiet moments with his snuffbox.
***
Santa Clause was hungry.
This is not too surprising. He usually was. Getting fed only once a year can be tough. But Santa was feeling hungrier than he had ever been in his life. His stomach had left the growling stage some time ago. It was screaming. Literally.
And so, walking past a brightly lit shop (7 Eleven) in the middle of the night, he felt his pockets.
Not a sou.
But then, further down the road, a certain Police Inspector sat his self down on a random bench, loosened his cravat, and grabbed a Snickers.
Mr. Clause (whose real name was Jean Valjean) grinned.
***
Jean was bored.
Raindrops raged war on the taxi. Feather Pen was belting out something about stars. The extreme off-keyness of his voice was giving Jean another headache.
Time to go.
Open a door, hop out, avoid becoming roadkill… easy.
***
Glass shattered.
A shriek of laughter split the night as Santa danced about the Snickers-munching Javvie. Surprisingly agile, that man. The Inspector's eyes just about popped out of his head.
"VALJEAN!!!!"
Santa giggled and ran off, a bloodlusting Javvie hot on his heels.
***
Jean stood on the side of the road, wiping rainwater off his face.
He was hungry.
Some time later, Jean stood in a large white room with padded walls, examining chickens, komodo dragons, and metallic red girls. The place was filled with the snoring of a single 12-foot iguana, chained to the ceiling. It was about a foot long, six including the tail.
A tall man wearing penguin-skin clothes was leading him away from #2, for she knew nothing in the ways of lipstick, and towards #9257401, a bald chicken with a glowing white eye and peacock feather hair. His lipstick outlined the eye to make him look more appetizing. He was, of course more expensive.
Jean shook his head and again eyed #2 carefully. True, she had too much lipstick in her ears but she was the only one there with bat wings on the sides of her nose. Her name was Cosette.
Jean licked his lips. He didn't really like feathers; they upset his circulatory system. And there was always the problem of their removal. He brought her home.
Well, almost.
On the way a rather silly little boy dropped one of his eyeballs and as he stooped to pick it up Cosette bumped into him and they ran (or rather, skipped) away into the sunrise to get married. Must've fallen in love.
Jean spent the rest of his morning plucking feathers out of live pigeons.
***
Chollerwocky awoke from his cucumber dream to the sound of a human exploding. Not really a very nice thing for one to wake up to.
The students on the other side of the 600-inch-high barricade (chiefly made up of refrigerators) were yelling and screaming for all they were worth; bombs that were not bombs went off; bullets rained on the pavement; the occasional mattress was flung over to flatten them; bouquets of white flowers showered down on everyone, sometimes to death.
In return, the Guardsmen fired baby ospreys out of cannons to bombard the structure. After impact, the ospreylets would attempt to devour people's eyes.
Blood squirted.
Chollers bent to tie his shoe; a ribbon-entangled daisy missed him by 12 miles. He shuddered. That was a bit too close.
Someone on his side of the barricade was yelling about upholding the republic. He glanced about curiously. Off to one side they had erected an abandoned mattress to shelter under. The shouting was being performed by a student dressed in rainbows. He called out a last "vive le vent!" before the idiots shot their prisoner. Chollers strolled over and silently pulled off someone's ears. He then wiped his reddened fingernails on his sleeve and relieved the late Prouvaire of his carbine.
***
"Would you like a carbine, mon chéri?"
Marius and Cosette were spending their honeymoon at the barricades. She smiled and batted her eyes at him. "Why, indeed! Thank you, monsieur."
The Lark grabbed the carbine, darted to the top of the barricade, and joyfully began to blow people's heads off. Unfortunately for the studens, she didn't seem to care whose.
Bullets whizzed by as Cosette somehow got hold of a machine gun. At intervals, she would fling out machetes and meatballs, though she ended up eating most of the latter. Grantaire watched sadly as Bossuet's intestines splattered over his wine bottle. Enjolras hid bravely behind Combeferre, who was serenely sitting eating a salad. "Écoutez le éternuement," he told them all wisely.
Then Jean entered the presence.
Through a curtain of bullets he saw his stolen breakfast standing at the top of a fifty-foot barricade and the curly-haired culprit trying to reach her and uttered something that was not very nice.
Marius was trying to climb. Up two feet, fall! Lose an eye in the process. Fun. No one else seemed to notice.
Jean pulled a dirty, trenchcoat wearing workingman into the only building not boarded up. This just happened to be your house. The man in the trenchcoat let out a startled yelp as his hat flew to the floor and an unruly mass of blue hair fell about his shoulders. Only then did Jean realize he was a she. And only about 6 years old. She stared at him sullenly. He stared at her angrily.
"Well. Mademoiselle," he began.
"Yeah?"
"You've been picked."
"Really?"
"What's your name?"
"Eponine."
"Kill someone."
"Pourquoi?"
"Don't-"
"Pourquoi?"
"I say!"
A pale-faced Enjolras stumbled in. He felt the need to kneel and pay homage to the Porcelain God. Certain amounts of blood did bad things to his stomach. Jean coughed. Feeling better, Enjolras grinned in a dopey-like manner and left. Jean turned back to the girl. "Kill the one with the loose eyes," he said.
"And you'll give me…?"
"Absolutely nothing."
She considered.
"Fine."
***
No one noticed.
A flash of blue here, a muffled curse there, Eponine made her way to Marius, dodging and colliding with bullets. She found him sampling the content of a refrigerator. Slowly chewing what he believed to be a stick of celery (really a leg of grilled kitten), he wondered if spaghetti could in any way boost his climbing ability. Then she jumped, and he was dead.
***
Cosette was having a grand time.
She'd reduced the students to five (Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Eponine), the Guardsmen to two (Chollerwocky and One-Ear). But then, strolling towards her through the smoke came young man she had never seen before. He didn't look like a student. He looked like the kind of person who carries large amounts of fruitcake in his pockets. Gunshots stopped, smoke cleared. Cosette blinked several times as Feuilly scaled the mass of refrigerators and mattresses.
And he was there beside her.
"Cosette my love! Marry me! We can make fans together!"
She didn't know how he knew her name, or what he meant by fans, but she told him she would and they disappeared.
(About 12 minutes later they both choked to death on fruitcake.)
All was still, and the silence so silent you could have heard it, had you been listening. For a few seconds anyway. The door to your house banged open, flapped in the breeze. Jean stood in the doorway, his face a peculiar shade of red. His mouth opened and out of it bounded something between a howl and a gurgle. Breakfast gone again.
He fled to the sewers to sulk.
"Zut!"
It was an angry Courfeyrac.
"Fearless leader, we appear to be deserted," cried Grantaire.
"Oh piff," said Enjolras.
"Sniper!" called Combeferre, pushing Enjolras out of the way. A poorly trained ospreylet rammed into him, sending sprawling on the cobblestones. The ospreylet shrieked in delight and clawed open Combeferre's chest, exposing a row of pearly white bones interlaced with red. Talons rooted about a bit until it found what it wanted and withdrew. Combeferre was to shocked to move. He was forced to watch his own heart being eaten with gusto (by Gusto too, for that was the bird's name), until the ospreylet remembered and alighted beside him to peck out his eyes.
Pain killed him 12 minutes later.
***
Courfeyrac was running about launching daisies at the two figures at the top of the barricade. One-Ear had run out of ospreylets; he was slinging back the old daisies and unused machetes. Chollerwocky sat quietly beside him, trying to figure out how to work the machine gun. A daisy hit it (perhaps accidentally) and it toppled down to Courfeyrac just as another daisy hit the trigger.
The amount of lead in Courfeyrac at the moment would have made him sink if placed in a vat of hardened cement. Which is exactly what he did. But not before killing One-Ear.
Chollers watched with interest, shrugged, and took his place.
***
Enjolras, Eponine, and Grantaire were preparing to propel a king-sized mattress into the National Guardsman. There were many reasons it didn't work.
Grantaire wasn't really helping. The last thing he saw was a cute little ospreylet with Combeferre's blood all over its head. This time Gusto did the eyes before the heart.
Enjolras could have done it without the grand R, but unfortunately he couldn't do it without his head. Chollers was still sending down objects with no sign of relenting, and Enjolras was shot by a machete. His head bounced off to some unknown corner.
Eponine was not very strong. She was, after all, only six years old. And so, unable to hold up a mattress 12 times her size, she was squished like a goat. The noise it made was beautiful. Her green blood oozed out in a puddle and drained away.
***
So everyone was dead. And those who weren't pretended they were. For the second time that day, all was silent. Again, it didn't last very long.
An old guy dressed in red dashed up the street, glanced about, and entered the sewers.
An hour later Javert arrived, chainsaw strapped securely to his back. The place was horrible. Dead lay everywhere, limbs askew, eyes staring, internal organs decaying. It stunk of rotting flesh.
Javert was hopping about like a mad toad, checking for pulses and other signs of life. Being the thickheaded Inspector that he was, he found none and vented his rage on the piles of rubble lying about, accidentally kicking someone's head. It sailed up into the sky, then down into Chollerwocky's arms. Javert mumbled something about his beloved snuffbox.
Noticing the sewer lid askew, he forgot about it immediately.
***
A head entered Chollerwocky's arms. He turned it over curiously. Brilliant sightless blue eyes stared up at him, fixed in the face of a god.
It was Enjolras.
Trying not to look at the neck, Chollers took it home and had it mounted on the dining room wall.
***
His breath smelled of wine. A liquidish substance dripped from the ceiling down the back of his neck. Jean reached a hand back and tasted it. Blood. Had there been any light, he would have seen it was green.
It didn't matter.
The distant sound of a chainsaw being started. The distant sound that a human makes when he is being disposed of by a chainsaw. Jean grinned. His teeth glowed. In their sweet light stood Javert. The giant chainsaw was ready, but at that moment it wasn't making any noise. Or perhaps no one was listening.
It didn't matter.
The brothers stood, watching. Jean struck a match. It glowed with purple flame. He silently counted to 12, and the universe entered oblivion.
The end.
La. I hate the end. I'll fix it sometime, don't worry. I was just in a hurry to finish it, you see. Yeah. My excuse.... fuuuuuuuun... pretty sunscreen... hello? J'aime mes petits canards. J'ai manger ma tante... or not. No! Really! I'm not that sick! Ha. This is fun.
Gizzards
by Pongo Legume
Jean was drunk.
This is not too surprising. He usually was. Sometimes this created problems. On this particular night, it had got him thrown out of Corinth.
This actually wasn't too bad. He liked the alley. Fun to wander about in. Lit by a guttering old-fashioned street lamp beside the remains of an old dustbin. Occasionally he would stop and grin at it and blow it kisses.
Jean was not a particularly handsome young man. He was mostly brown. His eyes glittered an emerald green and his smile was an amazingly clean white, but that was about it. He badly needed a shave and a haircut. The tangle of shoulder-length hair seemed to always be wet. He wore a pair of muddy slacks, a very nice pair of muddy black boots, a muddy, torn shirt that was once white, and something resembling a trenchcoat.
He sang to the elderly lamp post. "Je suis petit oiseau…"
***
Corinth was famous for grilled kitten. All was bright and cheery. It was emptied but for a group of young students and their National Guardsman pal.
"So Chollers, " began the beautiful leader in the awesome red vest. "Lets have a war, shall we?" He mimicked twin pistols with his hands and waved them about. "Bang bang! You're all dead."
Chollerwocky seemed unamused. He was all decked out in his spiffy uniform, quietly drinking his mug of beer. Everyone else had wine of some sort. He wanted to go home. At home, he had a pet fox named Zeke. Zeke had a foot fungus that would one day contribute to an advanced Kleenex formula.
Chollers shrugged amidst the cries of approval.
"Sure," he said.
"Righto! Lets build a barricade!" ordered Enjolras, the one with the cool vest.
"We'll need a mattress," put in Bossuet, the only bald one of the group.
"Harr! An daisies!" cried an amazingly sober capital R.
They set about grabbing all moveable furniture, mattresses, and daisies and hurling it out into the street. Some went home for carbines. Some went home for something else.
Chollers headed out to gather his National Guards.
***
Jean was getting a headache. He couldn't find his way out. The street lamp's guttering had increased, and now there were a bunch of people screaming about a revolution.
Things were beginning to blur.
Shapes entered his line of vision, began tugging at the dustbin, and carried it off. Jean became greatly saddened, for he had come to be very close to that dustbin. And then a short man in a yellow vest appeared in front of him.
"Excuse me, sir," said Joly, "but let me ask you this," and he stuck out his tongue. "Does my tongue look funny?"
Jean had not heard a word and thought he was being mocked. He uttered a growl of rage and sent the hypochondriac sailing into a wall. Brains stained it a lovely color, which can still be seen to this day. Jean had about 12 seconds for his partially functional brain to think of finger painting before he was forced to embrace the ground as something that felt like a horse's hoof connected with his behind.
Close. A unicorn. White silken hide and single horn of steel, she tossed her head angrily.
"You killed him!"
Jean turned over warily and groaned. "Eh?"
"You killed the poor defenseless little hypochondriac!"
"Eh."
"You… you… murderer."
"Eh."
She glared daggers at him. "Is that all you've got to say for yourself?"
"Eh."
"Well!"
Little bits of light gathered around the unicorn and she disappeared. He might have been hallucinating.
A Police Inspector with big sideburns (who just happened to be Jean's brother) and a group of gendarmes rushed onto the scene. One of them took out a notebook and one of those pens with a bunch of feather sticking out of the end.
"Appears t' be a murder, sah," he told them, keen observer that he was.
Javert snorted. "Of course," he looked down at his sibling haughtily. "Seems to be under the influence of alcohol."
Jean chose this moment to get up. He flopped a comradely arm about his brother's shoulders.
"Aww, dear offizah," he crooned, and as a disgusted Javert shoved him off, "Ah'm nay under th' affluence o' incol!"
They ushered him into to a waiting taxi.
As Feather Pen drove him off to prison, they passed a rather large dead-looking animal lying on the side of the road. Jean liked to think it was the unicorn. He was that kind of person.
***
Javert had a quest. Dispose of all Jeans, dispose of all Jeans: it echoed through his head, neverending. It may seem a bit much to dispose of someone just for his or her name, but ole Javvie never seemed to notice this. He really didn't like his brother.
The only thing he really did like was quiet moments with his snuffbox.
***
Santa Clause was hungry.
This is not too surprising. He usually was. Getting fed only once a year can be tough. But Santa was feeling hungrier than he had ever been in his life. His stomach had left the growling stage some time ago. It was screaming. Literally.
And so, walking past a brightly lit shop (7 Eleven) in the middle of the night, he felt his pockets.
Not a sou.
But then, further down the road, a certain Police Inspector sat his self down on a random bench, loosened his cravat, and grabbed a Snickers.
Mr. Clause (whose real name was Jean Valjean) grinned.
***
Jean was bored.
Raindrops raged war on the taxi. Feather Pen was belting out something about stars. The extreme off-keyness of his voice was giving Jean another headache.
Time to go.
Open a door, hop out, avoid becoming roadkill… easy.
***
Glass shattered.
A shriek of laughter split the night as Santa danced about the Snickers-munching Javvie. Surprisingly agile, that man. The Inspector's eyes just about popped out of his head.
"VALJEAN!!!!"
Santa giggled and ran off, a bloodlusting Javvie hot on his heels.
***
Jean stood on the side of the road, wiping rainwater off his face.
He was hungry.
Some time later, Jean stood in a large white room with padded walls, examining chickens, komodo dragons, and metallic red girls. The place was filled with the snoring of a single 12-foot iguana, chained to the ceiling. It was about a foot long, six including the tail.
A tall man wearing penguin-skin clothes was leading him away from #2, for she knew nothing in the ways of lipstick, and towards #9257401, a bald chicken with a glowing white eye and peacock feather hair. His lipstick outlined the eye to make him look more appetizing. He was, of course more expensive.
Jean shook his head and again eyed #2 carefully. True, she had too much lipstick in her ears but she was the only one there with bat wings on the sides of her nose. Her name was Cosette.
Jean licked his lips. He didn't really like feathers; they upset his circulatory system. And there was always the problem of their removal. He brought her home.
Well, almost.
On the way a rather silly little boy dropped one of his eyeballs and as he stooped to pick it up Cosette bumped into him and they ran (or rather, skipped) away into the sunrise to get married. Must've fallen in love.
Jean spent the rest of his morning plucking feathers out of live pigeons.
***
Chollerwocky awoke from his cucumber dream to the sound of a human exploding. Not really a very nice thing for one to wake up to.
The students on the other side of the 600-inch-high barricade (chiefly made up of refrigerators) were yelling and screaming for all they were worth; bombs that were not bombs went off; bullets rained on the pavement; the occasional mattress was flung over to flatten them; bouquets of white flowers showered down on everyone, sometimes to death.
In return, the Guardsmen fired baby ospreys out of cannons to bombard the structure. After impact, the ospreylets would attempt to devour people's eyes.
Blood squirted.
Chollers bent to tie his shoe; a ribbon-entangled daisy missed him by 12 miles. He shuddered. That was a bit too close.
Someone on his side of the barricade was yelling about upholding the republic. He glanced about curiously. Off to one side they had erected an abandoned mattress to shelter under. The shouting was being performed by a student dressed in rainbows. He called out a last "vive le vent!" before the idiots shot their prisoner. Chollers strolled over and silently pulled off someone's ears. He then wiped his reddened fingernails on his sleeve and relieved the late Prouvaire of his carbine.
***
"Would you like a carbine, mon chéri?"
Marius and Cosette were spending their honeymoon at the barricades. She smiled and batted her eyes at him. "Why, indeed! Thank you, monsieur."
The Lark grabbed the carbine, darted to the top of the barricade, and joyfully began to blow people's heads off. Unfortunately for the studens, she didn't seem to care whose.
Bullets whizzed by as Cosette somehow got hold of a machine gun. At intervals, she would fling out machetes and meatballs, though she ended up eating most of the latter. Grantaire watched sadly as Bossuet's intestines splattered over his wine bottle. Enjolras hid bravely behind Combeferre, who was serenely sitting eating a salad. "Écoutez le éternuement," he told them all wisely.
Then Jean entered the presence.
Through a curtain of bullets he saw his stolen breakfast standing at the top of a fifty-foot barricade and the curly-haired culprit trying to reach her and uttered something that was not very nice.
Marius was trying to climb. Up two feet, fall! Lose an eye in the process. Fun. No one else seemed to notice.
Jean pulled a dirty, trenchcoat wearing workingman into the only building not boarded up. This just happened to be your house. The man in the trenchcoat let out a startled yelp as his hat flew to the floor and an unruly mass of blue hair fell about his shoulders. Only then did Jean realize he was a she. And only about 6 years old. She stared at him sullenly. He stared at her angrily.
"Well. Mademoiselle," he began.
"Yeah?"
"You've been picked."
"Really?"
"What's your name?"
"Eponine."
"Kill someone."
"Pourquoi?"
"Don't-"
"Pourquoi?"
"I say!"
A pale-faced Enjolras stumbled in. He felt the need to kneel and pay homage to the Porcelain God. Certain amounts of blood did bad things to his stomach. Jean coughed. Feeling better, Enjolras grinned in a dopey-like manner and left. Jean turned back to the girl. "Kill the one with the loose eyes," he said.
"And you'll give me…?"
"Absolutely nothing."
She considered.
"Fine."
***
No one noticed.
A flash of blue here, a muffled curse there, Eponine made her way to Marius, dodging and colliding with bullets. She found him sampling the content of a refrigerator. Slowly chewing what he believed to be a stick of celery (really a leg of grilled kitten), he wondered if spaghetti could in any way boost his climbing ability. Then she jumped, and he was dead.
***
Cosette was having a grand time.
She'd reduced the students to five (Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Eponine), the Guardsmen to two (Chollerwocky and One-Ear). But then, strolling towards her through the smoke came young man she had never seen before. He didn't look like a student. He looked like the kind of person who carries large amounts of fruitcake in his pockets. Gunshots stopped, smoke cleared. Cosette blinked several times as Feuilly scaled the mass of refrigerators and mattresses.
And he was there beside her.
"Cosette my love! Marry me! We can make fans together!"
She didn't know how he knew her name, or what he meant by fans, but she told him she would and they disappeared.
(About 12 minutes later they both choked to death on fruitcake.)
All was still, and the silence so silent you could have heard it, had you been listening. For a few seconds anyway. The door to your house banged open, flapped in the breeze. Jean stood in the doorway, his face a peculiar shade of red. His mouth opened and out of it bounded something between a howl and a gurgle. Breakfast gone again.
He fled to the sewers to sulk.
"Zut!"
It was an angry Courfeyrac.
"Fearless leader, we appear to be deserted," cried Grantaire.
"Oh piff," said Enjolras.
"Sniper!" called Combeferre, pushing Enjolras out of the way. A poorly trained ospreylet rammed into him, sending sprawling on the cobblestones. The ospreylet shrieked in delight and clawed open Combeferre's chest, exposing a row of pearly white bones interlaced with red. Talons rooted about a bit until it found what it wanted and withdrew. Combeferre was to shocked to move. He was forced to watch his own heart being eaten with gusto (by Gusto too, for that was the bird's name), until the ospreylet remembered and alighted beside him to peck out his eyes.
Pain killed him 12 minutes later.
***
Courfeyrac was running about launching daisies at the two figures at the top of the barricade. One-Ear had run out of ospreylets; he was slinging back the old daisies and unused machetes. Chollerwocky sat quietly beside him, trying to figure out how to work the machine gun. A daisy hit it (perhaps accidentally) and it toppled down to Courfeyrac just as another daisy hit the trigger.
The amount of lead in Courfeyrac at the moment would have made him sink if placed in a vat of hardened cement. Which is exactly what he did. But not before killing One-Ear.
Chollers watched with interest, shrugged, and took his place.
***
Enjolras, Eponine, and Grantaire were preparing to propel a king-sized mattress into the National Guardsman. There were many reasons it didn't work.
Grantaire wasn't really helping. The last thing he saw was a cute little ospreylet with Combeferre's blood all over its head. This time Gusto did the eyes before the heart.
Enjolras could have done it without the grand R, but unfortunately he couldn't do it without his head. Chollers was still sending down objects with no sign of relenting, and Enjolras was shot by a machete. His head bounced off to some unknown corner.
Eponine was not very strong. She was, after all, only six years old. And so, unable to hold up a mattress 12 times her size, she was squished like a goat. The noise it made was beautiful. Her green blood oozed out in a puddle and drained away.
***
So everyone was dead. And those who weren't pretended they were. For the second time that day, all was silent. Again, it didn't last very long.
An old guy dressed in red dashed up the street, glanced about, and entered the sewers.
An hour later Javert arrived, chainsaw strapped securely to his back. The place was horrible. Dead lay everywhere, limbs askew, eyes staring, internal organs decaying. It stunk of rotting flesh.
Javert was hopping about like a mad toad, checking for pulses and other signs of life. Being the thickheaded Inspector that he was, he found none and vented his rage on the piles of rubble lying about, accidentally kicking someone's head. It sailed up into the sky, then down into Chollerwocky's arms. Javert mumbled something about his beloved snuffbox.
Noticing the sewer lid askew, he forgot about it immediately.
***
A head entered Chollerwocky's arms. He turned it over curiously. Brilliant sightless blue eyes stared up at him, fixed in the face of a god.
It was Enjolras.
Trying not to look at the neck, Chollers took it home and had it mounted on the dining room wall.
***
His breath smelled of wine. A liquidish substance dripped from the ceiling down the back of his neck. Jean reached a hand back and tasted it. Blood. Had there been any light, he would have seen it was green.
It didn't matter.
The distant sound of a chainsaw being started. The distant sound that a human makes when he is being disposed of by a chainsaw. Jean grinned. His teeth glowed. In their sweet light stood Javert. The giant chainsaw was ready, but at that moment it wasn't making any noise. Or perhaps no one was listening.
It didn't matter.
The brothers stood, watching. Jean struck a match. It glowed with purple flame. He silently counted to 12, and the universe entered oblivion.
The end.
La. I hate the end. I'll fix it sometime, don't worry. I was just in a hurry to finish it, you see. Yeah. My excuse.... fuuuuuuuun... pretty sunscreen... hello? J'aime mes petits canards. J'ai manger ma tante... or not. No! Really! I'm not that sick! Ha. This is fun.