Hmm. Well. I said I wanted to take a break from my other genres of fanfiction.
This is about as far away as you can get. This basically began as all of my other (two)
stories have started: bored, lonely and not wanting to sleep. However, I've been on a
Vasquez kick over the last few days, so this is what came out. I enjoy Johnny C., I enjoy
Jhonen's thoughts and theories on life. I do not like the idiots that think Johhny C. is a
role model. Or the dumbasses who take all of it seriously. Honestly people, it's a comic book.
It's dark, yes. But it's also fun and funny. So lighten up. And no, I am not advocating murder,
stalking or burning bushes with only the power of your mind.
So, here we go.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Jhonen Vasquez. All of it. Even my computer. And this site. And your eyeballs.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She flicked the remote control and the blue light responded in kind. She like
television light, it made her look unearthly, special. Even though she
knew there was no such thing as special. Never had been really. They were all
there for the same reasons, and each purpose was just as trivial and monumental
as the next.
But still, she liked to feel unique.
He watched her through the glare on the window. The grass outside was springy and soft,
the kind of nature that suburbanites want nature to be: pretty, welcoming, kind. He
hated it. He missed his basement. But those were subcutaneous thoughts, all flitting
through the black windmill that lived inside his skull. She occupied his attention, staring
at the great American god that was television. Offering her time, her friends, her sense
of life up on it's electronic altar. And yet...she did look beautiful bathed in the serene
blue. Her chin length brown hair was caught up in tangles pushed impatiently behind her ears. Large
amber eyes framed with black lashes and smudged eyeliner, left over form last night, clashed with the
button down flannel pajama and pair of blue jeans she wore, which effectively hid her curves
from sight. She had the look of a pretty girl who would never associate that word with herself.
He had a habit of making up stories for the people he spent a few minutes staring at. Now, he
worked up quite an interesting ditty about a dog that had bitten the girl on the right side
of her face, so the beauty he was seeing on the left would be perfectly balanced by hideous
scaring on the opposite side. He hummed gently to himself, enjoying the dramatic irony of his
little piece of prose while idly wondering if he'd remembered to turn off the Spasdo-metric-
Super-Amazing-Torture-Shocking-Thingy. He hoped he had. Otherwise, he'd have to start all over
again with someone else, and all he really wanted to do tonight was eat something icy, and
look at the bushes, wondering if he could set them on fire with only the powers of his mind.
In the room, the girl stood up, rather more ungracefully than he would have bet after seeing
the position in which she reclined. He watched her walk down the hall, probably going to the
bathroom. He gave a minute shudder. He really didn't like bodily fluids. Still wrapped up in the
unpleasantness of other people's personal liquids, he was caught entirely by surprise when a
voice came out of the darkness, low and sweet, but with a bite like whiskey.
"Nice boots. Why the hell are you on my lawn?"
Not much hostility for someone who had basically just caught a peeping Tom red handed. Up close,
the girl's attractiveness was only slightly less, and made up for by the wry smile that curved
her lips and sent a glint to the dark shadows that were her eyes.
He did the only thing that was sensible. He flung a knife directly at her middle.
Had she been standing a foot closer, she might have been in real trouble. But, as it was, her
eyes merely widened slightly as she threw herself out of the way. He groaned. This one was going to put
up a fight. Was it worth it, or should he just casually disappear over the neighboring hedge and
return to nail bunny and his bowl of ghettios? But there was a challenging air to her stance, as
though daring him to come at her. He didn't like to refuse a challenge.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
About half an hour later he lay panting next to the girl, each struggling for a breath that wouldn't
exacerbate their myriad of injuries.
"I'm...going...to...have to...kill........you." It had almost killed him to get so many words out
into the air.
"Go ahead...I'll just...kick you...in the balls...again."
They lay there in relative silence for a few more minutes, each testing the strength of their limbs, the
seriousness of their injuries. Then, almost hesitantly, her voice floated across to him again.
"If my self-defense class teacher...had told me how skinny...my attacker...would be, I would have
taken...an aerobics class...as well."
He wasn't sure how to respond to this. It wasn't often that a person evaded his attempts at capture, and
even less often that they complemented his killing skills. Still, he was essentially a nice boy, except
for the hundreds of gruesome murders under his name, so he responded quietly and modestly,
"Oh...well. You know...you always get a certain rush of...energy. Something to do with ATP...I think.
Plus...I ate half a bowl...of spaghettios...right before I came here."
His breath was coming back. Good.
"Ghettios...the breakfast of...serial killers?"
"How'd you know I was a serial killer."
"Well," and now the smile was evident in her voice "the boots are a dead giveaway...And the hair.
And, like I said...the unhealthy lack of body fat. All adds up. Plus, you had a...grenade launcher
in your trench coat and I didn't even notice it until it was pointed...at my head."
"Yeah...I had a grenade launcher...I'd like it back, too. Where'd you throw it?"
"Neighbors. Serve them right if it blew them all up. Damned nosy bastards." she said, throwing a lazy
middle finger in their general direction.
"Oof..." The sound rushed out past her lips as she forced herself agonizingly to her feet.
"Well, that was fun, but this grass is giving me a headache. I'm going inside." She turned her
back on him and, without once twitching or quickening her step, she strolled calmly to her front door.
Only then did she stop to peer back at him.
"Hey!" she called. "Are you coming or what?"
"Uh..."
What to do? Compromise his values and take advantage of the girl while she was being nice? Put on the old
suave and try to charm her onto his knife blade? Oh, the conundrum, the mind bending puzzle in which he now
found himself. Why? Why must he always face these decisions? Why couldn't his like be simple, uncomplicated,
as easy to understand as....
"I have spaghettios."
"Coming."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Right. Well. I enjoyed writing that immensely. Might be a stand alone, might not. But it is definitely
enjoyable writing from this perspective. A nice change from Harry Potter fics. Well, as always, you
review mine and I'll review yours. Let me know if I should write some more, or just kill this thing all
together. Ciao, kids.
This is about as far away as you can get. This basically began as all of my other (two)
stories have started: bored, lonely and not wanting to sleep. However, I've been on a
Vasquez kick over the last few days, so this is what came out. I enjoy Johnny C., I enjoy
Jhonen's thoughts and theories on life. I do not like the idiots that think Johhny C. is a
role model. Or the dumbasses who take all of it seriously. Honestly people, it's a comic book.
It's dark, yes. But it's also fun and funny. So lighten up. And no, I am not advocating murder,
stalking or burning bushes with only the power of your mind.
So, here we go.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Jhonen Vasquez. All of it. Even my computer. And this site. And your eyeballs.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She flicked the remote control and the blue light responded in kind. She like
television light, it made her look unearthly, special. Even though she
knew there was no such thing as special. Never had been really. They were all
there for the same reasons, and each purpose was just as trivial and monumental
as the next.
But still, she liked to feel unique.
He watched her through the glare on the window. The grass outside was springy and soft,
the kind of nature that suburbanites want nature to be: pretty, welcoming, kind. He
hated it. He missed his basement. But those were subcutaneous thoughts, all flitting
through the black windmill that lived inside his skull. She occupied his attention, staring
at the great American god that was television. Offering her time, her friends, her sense
of life up on it's electronic altar. And yet...she did look beautiful bathed in the serene
blue. Her chin length brown hair was caught up in tangles pushed impatiently behind her ears. Large
amber eyes framed with black lashes and smudged eyeliner, left over form last night, clashed with the
button down flannel pajama and pair of blue jeans she wore, which effectively hid her curves
from sight. She had the look of a pretty girl who would never associate that word with herself.
He had a habit of making up stories for the people he spent a few minutes staring at. Now, he
worked up quite an interesting ditty about a dog that had bitten the girl on the right side
of her face, so the beauty he was seeing on the left would be perfectly balanced by hideous
scaring on the opposite side. He hummed gently to himself, enjoying the dramatic irony of his
little piece of prose while idly wondering if he'd remembered to turn off the Spasdo-metric-
Super-Amazing-Torture-Shocking-Thingy. He hoped he had. Otherwise, he'd have to start all over
again with someone else, and all he really wanted to do tonight was eat something icy, and
look at the bushes, wondering if he could set them on fire with only the powers of his mind.
In the room, the girl stood up, rather more ungracefully than he would have bet after seeing
the position in which she reclined. He watched her walk down the hall, probably going to the
bathroom. He gave a minute shudder. He really didn't like bodily fluids. Still wrapped up in the
unpleasantness of other people's personal liquids, he was caught entirely by surprise when a
voice came out of the darkness, low and sweet, but with a bite like whiskey.
"Nice boots. Why the hell are you on my lawn?"
Not much hostility for someone who had basically just caught a peeping Tom red handed. Up close,
the girl's attractiveness was only slightly less, and made up for by the wry smile that curved
her lips and sent a glint to the dark shadows that were her eyes.
He did the only thing that was sensible. He flung a knife directly at her middle.
Had she been standing a foot closer, she might have been in real trouble. But, as it was, her
eyes merely widened slightly as she threw herself out of the way. He groaned. This one was going to put
up a fight. Was it worth it, or should he just casually disappear over the neighboring hedge and
return to nail bunny and his bowl of ghettios? But there was a challenging air to her stance, as
though daring him to come at her. He didn't like to refuse a challenge.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
About half an hour later he lay panting next to the girl, each struggling for a breath that wouldn't
exacerbate their myriad of injuries.
"I'm...going...to...have to...kill........you." It had almost killed him to get so many words out
into the air.
"Go ahead...I'll just...kick you...in the balls...again."
They lay there in relative silence for a few more minutes, each testing the strength of their limbs, the
seriousness of their injuries. Then, almost hesitantly, her voice floated across to him again.
"If my self-defense class teacher...had told me how skinny...my attacker...would be, I would have
taken...an aerobics class...as well."
He wasn't sure how to respond to this. It wasn't often that a person evaded his attempts at capture, and
even less often that they complemented his killing skills. Still, he was essentially a nice boy, except
for the hundreds of gruesome murders under his name, so he responded quietly and modestly,
"Oh...well. You know...you always get a certain rush of...energy. Something to do with ATP...I think.
Plus...I ate half a bowl...of spaghettios...right before I came here."
His breath was coming back. Good.
"Ghettios...the breakfast of...serial killers?"
"How'd you know I was a serial killer."
"Well," and now the smile was evident in her voice "the boots are a dead giveaway...And the hair.
And, like I said...the unhealthy lack of body fat. All adds up. Plus, you had a...grenade launcher
in your trench coat and I didn't even notice it until it was pointed...at my head."
"Yeah...I had a grenade launcher...I'd like it back, too. Where'd you throw it?"
"Neighbors. Serve them right if it blew them all up. Damned nosy bastards." she said, throwing a lazy
middle finger in their general direction.
"Oof..." The sound rushed out past her lips as she forced herself agonizingly to her feet.
"Well, that was fun, but this grass is giving me a headache. I'm going inside." She turned her
back on him and, without once twitching or quickening her step, she strolled calmly to her front door.
Only then did she stop to peer back at him.
"Hey!" she called. "Are you coming or what?"
"Uh..."
What to do? Compromise his values and take advantage of the girl while she was being nice? Put on the old
suave and try to charm her onto his knife blade? Oh, the conundrum, the mind bending puzzle in which he now
found himself. Why? Why must he always face these decisions? Why couldn't his like be simple, uncomplicated,
as easy to understand as....
"I have spaghettios."
"Coming."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Right. Well. I enjoyed writing that immensely. Might be a stand alone, might not. But it is definitely
enjoyable writing from this perspective. A nice change from Harry Potter fics. Well, as always, you
review mine and I'll review yours. Let me know if I should write some more, or just kill this thing all
together. Ciao, kids.