Disclaimer du jour: I don't own anything. Like most Americans, I bought everything on credit...
Fear and Loathing and Chocolate
"Paddle faster, I think I hear banjo music" - bumper sticker
Mello
It was a tough decision.
Mello was frozen into place. Literally, frozen with indecision. It was an important choice, after all, and not one he'd be able to take back or change once it was done. He could feel the beads of perspiration begin to crawl across his forehead like silent, slithery snakes as he carefully considered his options. This would be their last stop for a good long while: there was nothing in front of them now except miles upon god forsaken miles of the Mojave desert. The last stop before they entered Las Vegas. He was standing in the last little sanctuary of human comfort-a convenience store and gas station located just off of Highway 95. And now Mello was faced with a heavy, gut-churning decision:
Hershey's or Ghirardelli...
Mello stood frozen in the fluorescent, ghastly lit rainbow-colored haven that was the candy aisle. Chocolate. His own personal drug; his own personal weakness. Hell, chocolate had a similar effect to drugs: it caused the release of endorphins in the pleasure center of the brain, brought on feelings of happiness, made one high, soothed away stress...
And Mello was one highly stressed individual.
Mello needed chocolate the way other people needed coffee in the morning in order to just function. He was addicted to the stuff. Milk chocolate-y goodness-that was what he liked. Plain, no frills. But brand choice, that was a whole other matter. He typically preferred plain old Hershey's, laid out in perfect, snappable symmetrical squares. But the Ghirardelli seemed especially attractive today, done up in all its multi-colored wrappers, frilled out like a line of Las Vegas show girls...
Yey, Las Vegas!
Fuck, he couldn't decide.
"Mello, what are you doing?"
Mello barely twitched at the sound of Matt's voice. The red-head came ambling up behind him with a carton of Marlboro's tucked under his arm, an unlit cigarette already dangling from his lips. Mello knew that he'd start puffing away once they got outside the doors.
"I can't fucking decide..." he whined miserably.
"Decide what?"
"Which chocolate to get."
Matt rolled his eyes dramatically behind large, yellow-tinted frames. "Oh, for heaven's sake," he muttered, before reaching out and grabbing one of every plain chocolate bar that was on the rack. He then sauntered up to the check-out area and slapped them all down on the counter. The convenience store worker-notable for her massively teased and frosted 80's do-raised an eyebrow at all the candy, but said nothing as she rang him out. Mello quirked a small smile from the aisle. Leave it to Matt to handle the simple things. That was okay, beacause Mello had bigger issues to think about.
Like killing mafia bosses, securing his oath of Omerta in L.A., and executing a plan that would get him Kira...
Yup, it was safe to say that Mello had a lot on his mind these days.
"Damn Gary, look at that. Would ju say that wuz a boy or a girl?"
"Don't know, Frank. Looks like wun of those freckin' quares to me..."
Mello's head wheeled around at this snatch of conversation. Standing in front of the seemingly never-ending glass case of alcoholic beverages were three guys wearing baseball caps, decked out in varying-but weirdly similar-stained jersey shirts and jeans. One of them had a case of Bud Light tucked beneath his arm and all three of them were currently staring at Mello as if he were some sort of escapee from Area 51 (which was actually only just a few miles north of their current location). One of the men snickered and poked his neighbor in the ribs and mouthed, "Def-nitly a girl..."
"What the fuck did you just say?"
This was from Mello, who had gone as still as a waiting rattlesnake. Mello, who was beginning to seriously see red. Red, like a matador's cape being waved in front of the face of a crazed bull. Fucking rednecks, he thought. Alright, so with his clothes and hair, he was used to the 'girl' jokes. It wasn't the first time someone had dared to make that crack. But dammit, he could sure as hell make sure it was the last time someone made it.
And there was more than just one way to relieve stress. Like with a little display of spontaneous, unfiltered violence, for instance...
"Mello?"
Matt had come back up behind him, and there was a worried note in his voice. Mello didn't turn to look at him. He was too busy glaring at the stupid sons-of-bitches in front of the drink case.
"It really is a he," said one in a tone of surprise.
"I told you, Frank, he's wun of d'em quares. Look, he's even got a boyfriend."
More loud snickering.
"Listen, you missing-chromosome motherfuckers. I will make every single one of you wish you'd been born a woman if you don't shut your GODDAM IGNORANT TRAPS right now-"
At that, Matt had latched onto his arm. The three men in front of the case all jerked their heads back, no doubt taken aback by his response. Matt was tugging furiously at him. "Mello don't-"
"-and why the hell shouldn't I?" His voice was colored with a cold, calculating hostility. The sound of imminent violence.
"Not today, please?" begged Matt quietly by his ear. "C'mon, we're almost to Vegas..." Ah, Matt: the angel on his shoulder, the cool, dispassionate voice of reason, and-
"Fun-sucker," mumbled Mello, but he reluctantly allowed Matt to lead him away, out of the store. And bit by abrasive little bit, he felt the heady, attractive pull of violence begin to leave him, felt the intense, all-powerful urge to kill slowly begin to dissipate. And he was left with a craving of another kind instead.
"So...can I have my chocolate now?"
Matt
A day where Matt could keep Mello from killing someone was a good day indeed...
It took a lot of work, and it wasn't easy. Mello had always had a quick temper, and was often prone to acting without thinking. And he loved violence almost as much as he loved his chocolate. The great taste of two things that taste great together, he would often say. Oh, those three idiots in the store had no idea what he had just saved them from. They were completely clueless. Most people would consider a three-on-one battle an unfair fight, but those people didn't know Mello. They had never seen him action, had never seen what he was capable of...
Well, Matt had. And it was fucking scary.
Psycho Mello was not someone you wanted to be around. Not if you wanted to keep your limbs intact and the blood inside your body. Mello had no conscience when it came to murder, and he was a creative genius when it came to killing people. He was a Wammy's House kid, after all. And he studied hard, practiced hard. That hadn't changed at all, not since their school days-back when Mello would stay up all night studying in order to beat Near. Back when he'd been focused on becoming the House's number one. Well, they were no longer students at the House, but that didn't mean that Mello had stopped his grueling study regiment. Only now, he tended to focus on things that were a little less...legal. Back in Texas, Matt had stood idly by as Mello had plunked down a cool $1400.00 for an automatic rifle with a sight called a "Prairie Panther," some crazy looking device that looked as if it could take down an elephant. Mello's expression over the thing had been...rapturous. "A thing of beauty is a joy forever," he'd said as they'd walked out the shop's door.
"Well, who doesn't like a little romantic poetry with their assault rifles?" Matt had commented. And Mello had laughed musically at his words.
The gun had been stashed beneath the car seat. Hell, there was a whole cache of guns stashed inside their car, and it had become a daily challenge for Matt to make sure that Mello didn't get around to using any of them. Not an easy task, keeping a tiger on a leash. Matt only had his words for weapons. That, and sex and chocolate-the divine trinity of Mello-centered persuasion. Sometimes those things worked, sometimes they didn't. But Matt liked to think that the body count in Southwestern America was a little lower for all of his efforts.
The two of them exited the store and headed out to the car: a shiny, wine red 1970 Dodge Charger that made Matt sigh with pure bliss every time he laid eyes on it. If Mello's personal preference was for guns and chocolate, then Matt's own weakness was for cars and computers. Especially a car like this one. Matt ran a possessive hand over the hood as he passed, stroking it as he would the back of a favorite pet. Why did he have such a thing for shiny objects?
"You're fondling the car again. I swear you touch that thing more than you do me."
Matt looked up at Mello, who was leaning insouciantly against the passenger side door, the very picture of urban cool in his black leather pants and faded Clash T-shirt. Shiny objects, indeed, thought Matt. Sleek black leather gleamed against red chrome and a painted back-drop of fireball orange. The desert sky had turned into a luscious sunset-scarlet, swirled together with soft ribbons of deep violet. It was absolutely beautiful. Mello was beautiful. The car was beautiful.
Hell, Matt was one lucky man, to be surrounded with so much beauty...
"That is so not true," answered Matt.
"Prove it then."
"Is that some kind of challenge?"
"Always."
Matt wiggled his gamer's fingers in the air. "I have multi-tasking skills like you wouldn't believe."
"So make me a believer, genius..."
Mello
1 mile later...
The Dodge's restored engine was purring along like a happy kitten as they roared down an empty highway bookended on either side by pitchfork-shaped cacti and large craggy rocks. Mello had the passenger side window rolled down and his arm hung lazily out the side, fingertips skirting along the desert breeze. He lay slumped, supine on the black leather seat, head lolled back and a peaceful, contented smile on his face. His fly was open and Matt's hand was currently working its promised magic between his legs. The Dodge wasn't the only thing purring along like a happy kitten...
"Mmmmm..." Mello slid further down in the seat, arching into Matt's hand. The redhead didn't look at him, but instead focused on the road. Mello watched him carefully though, through half-mast eyes. Stared at the lit end of the cigarette dangling from his mouth, the line of ash that was getting perilously long. He watched as Matt, in one deft movement, took a hand off the wheel, flicked the ashes into the ashtray, and quickly replaced the cigarette. Mr. Multi-Tasker, indeed. At least he had the good sense to not take his hand off of him.
"Matt..." The name came out in a low gasp.
"Mm-hm?" A question formed around a cigarette.
"Pull the car over..."
Matt took the cigarette out of his mouth and set it on the edge of the ashtray. "No way. Uh-uh."
"Why not?" The words were a petulant whine. Matt's hand redoubled its efforts, tugging harder, distracting his thoughts. Mello moaned a low moan, writhed like a speared jellyfish in the seat.
"I am not-repeat not-cleaning this upholstery again. Christ, if someone came and shined a black-light in here, it would look like a freakin' crime scene-"
Low, evil laughter issued from Mello's mouth. Laughter which abruptly stopped at the sudden loss of contact between his legs. "Hey!"
"You know what-I'm gonna make you wait 'til Vegas. I've spoiled you way too much on this trip."
"You're joking right?"
"No."
Mello narrowed his eyes in a predatory, calculating manner. He slid over to the driver's seat, pushed Matt's hair back, and whispered in his ear, "But we haven't christened Nevada yet..."
"Vegas is in Nevada. And watch those hands. Do you want me to wreck this car?"
"Pull over and you won't wreck it..."
"No."
Mello's eyes narrowed again. "Can you at least finish the hand job then?"
"Well, aren't you Mr. Romance?"
"No, right now I'm Mr. Blue Balls. Care to do something about that?"
Matt sighed, but placed his hand back between Mello's thighs. Mello slid back down in the passenger's seat, grinning a Cheshire Cat's grin of triumph.
"Oh, Matty," he sighed happily. "You're too good to me. You know what, when we get to Vegas, I'm gonna-
WHAMMMMMM!
Matt
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!"
There was the unmistakable crack! of metal on metal, and both he and Mello were thrown violently against the dash, with Matt hitting the steering wheel hard enough to jar his solar plexus, hard enough to knock the air right out of lungs. Yet, he still somehow managed to maintain control of the car, managed to somehow get it back into alignment with the road. And from the passenger seat, he heard Mello's voice say darkly, "It's them."
Matt's yellow-tinted vision flicked up to the rear view mirror, to a large blue Ford pick-up truck that was currently hot on his heels. So...the three assholes from the gas station. Matt felt his own vision switch from yellow to metaphorical red. Matt was not a naturally violent person, was in fact a known pacifist, but no one-absolutely no one-fucked with his car.
"They're coming in for another go," warned Mello.
WHAM!
"Those goddam assholes!" cursed Matt, as he heard what he knew to be the wretched scrape of metal-on-asphalt as part of his bumper made contact with the road. Matt gritted his teeth in anger. "Alright, that does it."
Instead of speeding up, Matt swerved the car into the other lane, decelerated until he was side by side with the pick up, and then he banked the wheel into a hard right-
CRUNCH!
Mello cackled wildly as their car slammed mercilessly into the truck, nearly knocking it from the road. His face was aglow with violent delight. "Oh, Mr. Jeevas! How you can still surprise me after all these years..."
WHAM!
"...you should have let met take care of those guys back at the store, and then your precious car would still be in one piece..."
CRUNCH!
"Shut up, Mello!" gritted Matt. Mello merely shrugged in response. Meanwhile, there was yelling from the pick-up's driver side window.
"Hey! You crazy feckin' quares! Look what ju did to ma truck!"
"Look what you did to my car, you fucking asshole!" Matt yelled back across Mello's lap-Mello, who was still cackling like a lunatic, laughing as if this was the most entertaining thing he'd ever witnessed.
"We're gaw-na kick your pansy ass, you stupid faggot!"
Mello stopped laughing long enough to stick his head out the passenger side window. "No, this faggot's gonna be kicking your ass, you genetically challenged jackass! You ruined my goddam hand job, and for that, you're gonna pay." Then, in complete seriousness, Mello said, "Matt, pull the car around behind them."
Matt watched as Mello dodged a beer bottle that was thrown against the passenger's side rear view mirror. He simply ignored it as it shattered into a dozen burnished, sun-lit pieces. Matt knew that look on Mello's face, knew it far too well: it was the emotionless, cunning look he wore whenever Psycho Mello was getting ready to come out and play. Oh, those three assholes were in for it now. They were going to be turned to friggin' toast.
And Matt was going to help him do it...
Mello
"Hey crank this song up-I like this one!"
As soon as I get my head round you
I come around catching sparks off you
I get an electric shock from you
And that second hand living, it just won't do...
And the way I feel tonight
I could die, and I wouldn't mind
And there's something going on inside
That makes you want to feel
Makes you want to try
Makes you want to blow
The stars from the sky
And I can't stand up
I can't cool down
I can't get my head
Off...the...ground...
The Dodge decelerated and lurched into position behind the pick-up. Mello reached beneath the seat and pulled out the "Prairie Panther." He felt giddy, like a kid in a toy store-a decidedly lethal toy store. He grinned maniacally as he grasped the passenger's side roof and hauled himself out the window.
"Holy shit," cried Matt in alarm, and he lunged and grabbed hold of one of Mello's ankles. He was half in and half out the car. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Playing," he answered, though his tone was deadly serious. He pried the sight off the top of the rifle and threw it in the back seat.
"Don't kill them," Matt pleaded.
"Fine, I won't," said Mello. "I'll just make them wish they were dead." He then hoisted the rifle and fired-
-and the truck swerved wildly in front of them as the blown tire flapped uselessly on the rim. The truck then pinwheeled off the side of the road, and came to a lurching stop amidst the cacti. The Dodge cruised idly past.
Mello slid back down into the passenger's seat. "Turn around," he said.
"Are you sure you wanna do this?"
"Isn't that your bumper I hear scraping the road?" remarked Mello.
Mello watched Matt clench his teeth. He really was pissed about the car. "Alright, alright. I'm backing up..."
Matt
Matt pulled the Dodge over to the side of the road. Mello was busy digging around the back seat-busy with his "toy box" as he called it. Matt didn't look to see what he was pulling out of there. He figured he was better off not knowing.
Matt watched as Mello exited the car, watched him saunter across the desert like a panther on the prowl. He had what looked to be a fishing line slung over one shoulder, and a dangerous looking Bowie knife clasped in his right hand. A gun was tucked in the back of his belt, its handle flashing ominously beneath the swiftly setting sun. Things were about to get ugly.
Matt grabbed the tire iron out of the trunk. Just in case, he told himself. He then glanced at his poor dislodged bumper and sighed. He took off across the sand to catch up with Mello.
CRACK!
Matt jerked to a sudden stop at the sound of a bullet being fired. And yet, from where he stood, he never saw either of Mello's hands move. Matt felt a creeping coldness begin to seep through his chest, felt a wretched uncertainty begin to take hold...
"Mello?!" Matt broke into a run.
"Fucking asshole!" A second shot was then fired, and a pain-filled scream pierced the air. Matt came to a halt next to Mello. A bright red stain stood out against the side of his golden hair. "Motherfucker clipped me in the ear," he said angrily, gesturing to the man who was now screaming on the ground. The man's right hand was a bloody mess, and Matt was suddenly reminded of Mello's fondness for hollow point bullets. That still didn't stop Matt from doing what he did next-
"Asshole!" and Matt kicked the downed man right in the jaw, watched his head snap back on his neck. Okay, so messing with his car was one thing, but messing with Mello was a whole other thing entirely...
And what if that shot had been on target?
"Hey, faggot!"
Matt felt something heavy barrel into him, felt himself crashing to the ground. His round white frames fell into the dust as he struggled with the two-hundred pound man who was on top of him, struggled even as he felt his windpipe being choked off. His vision went from bright, sunset orange to a disconcerting black and then-
And then suddenly the weight was gone...
More screams ricocheted through the valley. Gasping, Matt hauled himself to his knees. His red and white striped T-shirt was covered with dirt, dirt which he half-heartedly tried to brush off. He squinted into the distance. And what he saw there had to be mirage, but the screams coming out of the man's mouth suggested otherwise.
The second man had been lashed to a tall, prickly cactus with Mello's fishing line-which was actually towing line-and was now howling away in animal agony. Mello stood in front of him, his voice low and taunting:
"That's what you get for daring to lay a finger on him. It really is a pity that the only thing you guys had on you was that pathetic .22. Now that's what I call a faggoty excuse for a gun..."
The third-and the last-of the three rednecks was silently creeping up on Mello mid-rant. And ranting Mello didn't notice anything. Which left Matt with just one option...
Mello
CLANG!
Mello turned idly at the sound behind him. There on the ground was the last of the three men, blood gushing from his mouth. And behind him stood Matt, with a raised tire iron in hand.
"Oh, good-you're okay," Mello remarked dryly.
"You were about to get clocked," observed Matt.
"Was I? Oh, well then...it's a good thing you've got my back."
"I always have your back."
Mello smiled, a devilish gleam in his eye. He grabbed the back of Matt's head and laid a sloppy kiss on his lips. "Hmmm, I think we're almost done here."
"Just almost?"
Mello nodded, and he practically danced his way back to the Dodge. Ah...kicking the shit out of those good-for-nothing rednecks had been so much fun, and he felt positively high on the ensuing adrenaline rush. Mello hummed merrily to himself as he pulled a dark bottle of liquor from the backseat of the car. He then tore off a piece of an old t-shirt and stuck it down the neck. He turned and sauntered back over to Matt, where he slid a teasing hand seductively down his side, slid it down low until he reached his pants pocket...
...where he plucked the waiting lighter from Matt's pocket. And then, with a sinister, all-too-happy grin, he lit the cloth stuck in the bottle and flung it over his shoulder toward the wreck. The bottle burst on the truck's seat and a small fire began. But it wouldn't remain small for long...
"C'mon," said Mello. "Let's go to Vegas!"
End/Fin.