DISCLAIMER: I don't own a damn thing worth noting, and anything relating to
the Metal Gear franchise is just one out of eighty gajillion of those
things.
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"A-ha!" crowed Rose, laying her cards on the table. "Full house. Fives and nines."
Snake studied the table balefully. He'd had two pair. Eights and jacks, too. He'd really had –hope- for that hand. Otacon and Raiden both had duds. It was a damn good thing they didn't play for money, he reflected, or he'd be flat-ass broke within a month. Rose always went home with most of the pistachios. It was just as well, because Snake hated pistachios, but it was the –principle- of the thing.
"Your shuffle, Snake," said Raiden. He sounded bored, poor kid. No bowling alley this week.
"Right." Snake picked up the deck, and shifted it vaguely from hand to hand. Right. Stay calm. Do not spray the deck over half the living room. If you do, Otacon will burst a capillary in his eye while trying to be a good sport and not laugh. –Calm-. With exquisite care he split the deck, tented the two halves against each other between his hands and the table's surface, and riffled up on the lower corners with his thumbs.
As usual, most of the treacherous little bastards squirted out of the deck into his lap. He could nail a moving target at thirty yards with a handgun, but he couldn't shuffle worth a damn. Sigh. It was just a lucky thing that he could make a living through activities related to nailing things with handguns without involving playing cards in any way.
He collected a loose double handful from his lap, and passed the whole mess to Otacon. Otacon straightened his green visor—yes, he had one, and persisted in wearing it occasionally—and set to work reassembling the deck.
"Still got a few on the floor there, Snake," he said, his voice –scrupulously- neutral. Snake scowled at him regardless.
"Goddamned lamination," he grumbled, and leaned down to pick up the friskiest of the deck. The small cluster of business-sized envelopes tucked into the deep breast pocket of his overshirt chose that moment to make a break for it.
Snake paused. He breathed deeply, eyes fixed on the neutral carpet. "Bastard. Goddamn. Mail," he said solemnly. "Goddamned bastard mail. Mail bastard goddamn."
"Whatcha got down there, Snake?" Raiden's shaggy head dipped under the table.
"Bastard mail goddamn," Snake explained, recollecting the envelopes.
"Anything good?"
"Bastard goddamn phone bill, bastard goddamn preapproved credit card…huh." He straightened.
"What is it, Dave?" Rose already had her cards in hand. "Are you trying to weasel out of playing?"
If looks could maim, Rose would have left Otacon's apartment in a dripping wicker basket. "No," said Snake in his best chilly badass voice.
"What –is- it, then? Because I have some –very- good cards here."
Snake brandished an envelope. "Grabbed it on my way out the door. The return address on this says 'SnakeCon'. Any of you guys know anything about it?"
Rose elbowed Raiden in the ribs and tapped under her ear. Both shared an abruptly uneasy look.
"Otacon?" Snake folded his hands in front of him. He felt a little like the Godfather. It was cool.
"No clue, Snake. Why don't you open it?" If Otacon was trying to keep a straight face, Snake decided, he was doing a better job of it than he'd ever done before. No, this was genuine ignorance. Raiden and Rose, on the other hand, looked guilty as hell. Of what, he didn't know. But he would.
Tucking a thick finger under the gummed flap, Snake tore the letter's top seam open. Inside was a single sheet of business stationery folded into thirds. He cast another stern look around the small square table before unfolding it. He really –did- feel like the Godfather. Fun. Almost made up for dropping the cards.
"Dear_____________________," the letter began. Someone with a feminine hand had written 'David Sears' along the line, then crossed it out and written 'Solid Snake' in increasingly tiny letters. Snake approved. Hardly anybody used his full name these days. He began to read aloud.
"It has come to our attention that among the Metal Gear fan community, a grave injustice has been committed. While we are inundated with tales of Otacon mourning Sniper Wolf, and of Solid Snake managing to thwart one terrorist organization after another, and of Snake, Otacon, and Raiden getting up to various dubious hijinks—"
Snake paused. This was –weird-. Still, if he could deal with Mantis, he could deal with a piece of perfectly ordinary paper. He read on.
"—and even, we daresay, a truly disproportionate number of accounts wherein Solid Snake and Otacon happen to be embroiled in a homosexual affair of one stripe or another—"
Otacon had gone deathly pale. "I-I'm not," he stammered. "Really. I don't know where they got that idea."
Snake eyed him carefully. Genuine ignorance, again. Raiden and Rose were still immersed in CODEC, and both betrayed definite reddening of the cheeks. "-This- weekend?" mouthed Raiden.
"—Solid Snake himself seems to be truly hard done by in the area of actual sexual relations. Very seldom indeed is he given a chance to indulge in carnal acts without someone dying, angsting at great length, or being used for cheap laughs. We, the organizers of SnakeCon, resolve to remedy this."
Snake paused again. He was going to get some?
"We have assembled a full cast of characters in a positive environment for the sole purpose of allowing Solid Snake to relax and have genuine, hassle- free sex to his heart's content, from Friday, September 23 to Sunday, September 26 at the Doubletree Inn on 15867 East Marginal Way, near the airport. Feel free to call their customer service center for directions and further information, at 1-800-999-5555."
Snake stopped. He was. He really was. And today was…what, the twenty- second? He didn't think he was scheduled to thwart anybody for a few days at least. But there was one more paragraph before the final signature.
"We would also like to specify that Otacon will not be attending SnakeCon this year, as nobody wants to hear him whining about it all the damn time. Welcome to SnakeCon!"
"…signed, The Management. Whew." Snake leaned back in his chair. "Otacon, you hear that?"
"I heard it," said Otacon nervously.
"Raiden, did –you- hear that?"
"..yeah. Um. We have to go." Raiden stood up. Rose was already halfway to the door with coat in hand.
"Go where? We've still got some pistachios."
"Gotta pack," he said, and ducked out without another word.
"Jesus. Well, I guess I'd better go throw a few things together myself." Snake grinned from ear to ear. "God. What a great world we live in."
…And Snake went to the con and had happy yowling sex with Decoy Octopus and Psycho Mantis and Fortune and Liquid Snake and Fatman and Mei Ling and Stillman and Raiden and Colonel Campbell and Solidus Snake and Revolver Ocelot and Vamp and Rose and Emma and Special Agent Ames and Naomi and Big Boss and the President of the United States and Olga and Sniper Wolf and Sniper Wolf's dogs and any number of random grunts and sentries…
…but not Otacon, because nobody wanted to hear him whining about it all the damn time.
THE END!
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Author's Note: Hey, everybody's writing lemons. I wouldn't be able to look myself in the mirror if I didn't at least –try-. I confess to also noticing a distinct dearth of Snake getting any from anybody other than poor Hal, so I thought I'd help him take the edge off a little. Thanks for reading!
Additional Note: There is, or will be in a matter of a few hours after posting, at least one picture to go along with this story. No, you won't get to see Snake's Mr. Floppy. Or anyone else's, for that matter. Strictly PG-13 stuff. Feel free to e-mail forthrightness@hotmail.com if you're interested!
***********************************************************
"A-ha!" crowed Rose, laying her cards on the table. "Full house. Fives and nines."
Snake studied the table balefully. He'd had two pair. Eights and jacks, too. He'd really had –hope- for that hand. Otacon and Raiden both had duds. It was a damn good thing they didn't play for money, he reflected, or he'd be flat-ass broke within a month. Rose always went home with most of the pistachios. It was just as well, because Snake hated pistachios, but it was the –principle- of the thing.
"Your shuffle, Snake," said Raiden. He sounded bored, poor kid. No bowling alley this week.
"Right." Snake picked up the deck, and shifted it vaguely from hand to hand. Right. Stay calm. Do not spray the deck over half the living room. If you do, Otacon will burst a capillary in his eye while trying to be a good sport and not laugh. –Calm-. With exquisite care he split the deck, tented the two halves against each other between his hands and the table's surface, and riffled up on the lower corners with his thumbs.
As usual, most of the treacherous little bastards squirted out of the deck into his lap. He could nail a moving target at thirty yards with a handgun, but he couldn't shuffle worth a damn. Sigh. It was just a lucky thing that he could make a living through activities related to nailing things with handguns without involving playing cards in any way.
He collected a loose double handful from his lap, and passed the whole mess to Otacon. Otacon straightened his green visor—yes, he had one, and persisted in wearing it occasionally—and set to work reassembling the deck.
"Still got a few on the floor there, Snake," he said, his voice –scrupulously- neutral. Snake scowled at him regardless.
"Goddamned lamination," he grumbled, and leaned down to pick up the friskiest of the deck. The small cluster of business-sized envelopes tucked into the deep breast pocket of his overshirt chose that moment to make a break for it.
Snake paused. He breathed deeply, eyes fixed on the neutral carpet. "Bastard. Goddamn. Mail," he said solemnly. "Goddamned bastard mail. Mail bastard goddamn."
"Whatcha got down there, Snake?" Raiden's shaggy head dipped under the table.
"Bastard mail goddamn," Snake explained, recollecting the envelopes.
"Anything good?"
"Bastard goddamn phone bill, bastard goddamn preapproved credit card…huh." He straightened.
"What is it, Dave?" Rose already had her cards in hand. "Are you trying to weasel out of playing?"
If looks could maim, Rose would have left Otacon's apartment in a dripping wicker basket. "No," said Snake in his best chilly badass voice.
"What –is- it, then? Because I have some –very- good cards here."
Snake brandished an envelope. "Grabbed it on my way out the door. The return address on this says 'SnakeCon'. Any of you guys know anything about it?"
Rose elbowed Raiden in the ribs and tapped under her ear. Both shared an abruptly uneasy look.
"Otacon?" Snake folded his hands in front of him. He felt a little like the Godfather. It was cool.
"No clue, Snake. Why don't you open it?" If Otacon was trying to keep a straight face, Snake decided, he was doing a better job of it than he'd ever done before. No, this was genuine ignorance. Raiden and Rose, on the other hand, looked guilty as hell. Of what, he didn't know. But he would.
Tucking a thick finger under the gummed flap, Snake tore the letter's top seam open. Inside was a single sheet of business stationery folded into thirds. He cast another stern look around the small square table before unfolding it. He really –did- feel like the Godfather. Fun. Almost made up for dropping the cards.
"Dear_____________________," the letter began. Someone with a feminine hand had written 'David Sears' along the line, then crossed it out and written 'Solid Snake' in increasingly tiny letters. Snake approved. Hardly anybody used his full name these days. He began to read aloud.
"It has come to our attention that among the Metal Gear fan community, a grave injustice has been committed. While we are inundated with tales of Otacon mourning Sniper Wolf, and of Solid Snake managing to thwart one terrorist organization after another, and of Snake, Otacon, and Raiden getting up to various dubious hijinks—"
Snake paused. This was –weird-. Still, if he could deal with Mantis, he could deal with a piece of perfectly ordinary paper. He read on.
"—and even, we daresay, a truly disproportionate number of accounts wherein Solid Snake and Otacon happen to be embroiled in a homosexual affair of one stripe or another—"
Otacon had gone deathly pale. "I-I'm not," he stammered. "Really. I don't know where they got that idea."
Snake eyed him carefully. Genuine ignorance, again. Raiden and Rose were still immersed in CODEC, and both betrayed definite reddening of the cheeks. "-This- weekend?" mouthed Raiden.
"—Solid Snake himself seems to be truly hard done by in the area of actual sexual relations. Very seldom indeed is he given a chance to indulge in carnal acts without someone dying, angsting at great length, or being used for cheap laughs. We, the organizers of SnakeCon, resolve to remedy this."
Snake paused again. He was going to get some?
"We have assembled a full cast of characters in a positive environment for the sole purpose of allowing Solid Snake to relax and have genuine, hassle- free sex to his heart's content, from Friday, September 23 to Sunday, September 26 at the Doubletree Inn on 15867 East Marginal Way, near the airport. Feel free to call their customer service center for directions and further information, at 1-800-999-5555."
Snake stopped. He was. He really was. And today was…what, the twenty- second? He didn't think he was scheduled to thwart anybody for a few days at least. But there was one more paragraph before the final signature.
"We would also like to specify that Otacon will not be attending SnakeCon this year, as nobody wants to hear him whining about it all the damn time. Welcome to SnakeCon!"
"…signed, The Management. Whew." Snake leaned back in his chair. "Otacon, you hear that?"
"I heard it," said Otacon nervously.
"Raiden, did –you- hear that?"
"..yeah. Um. We have to go." Raiden stood up. Rose was already halfway to the door with coat in hand.
"Go where? We've still got some pistachios."
"Gotta pack," he said, and ducked out without another word.
"Jesus. Well, I guess I'd better go throw a few things together myself." Snake grinned from ear to ear. "God. What a great world we live in."
…And Snake went to the con and had happy yowling sex with Decoy Octopus and Psycho Mantis and Fortune and Liquid Snake and Fatman and Mei Ling and Stillman and Raiden and Colonel Campbell and Solidus Snake and Revolver Ocelot and Vamp and Rose and Emma and Special Agent Ames and Naomi and Big Boss and the President of the United States and Olga and Sniper Wolf and Sniper Wolf's dogs and any number of random grunts and sentries…
…but not Otacon, because nobody wanted to hear him whining about it all the damn time.
THE END!
***********************************************************
Author's Note: Hey, everybody's writing lemons. I wouldn't be able to look myself in the mirror if I didn't at least –try-. I confess to also noticing a distinct dearth of Snake getting any from anybody other than poor Hal, so I thought I'd help him take the edge off a little. Thanks for reading!
Additional Note: There is, or will be in a matter of a few hours after posting, at least one picture to go along with this story. No, you won't get to see Snake's Mr. Floppy. Or anyone else's, for that matter. Strictly PG-13 stuff. Feel free to e-mail forthrightness@hotmail.com if you're interested!