Title: Jam is Delicious, You Must Eat Eat Eat
Disclaimer: If I owned JTHM and Death Note…well…I don't know what I'd do, but it sure would be pretty dandy.
Genre: Crack
Sugar Consumed: 0 grams
poop emphasis.
Summary: Rue Ryuuzaki had to be the most condescending little shit Nny ever had the displeasure of meeting. Death Note/JTHM crossover. Disturbing references to BBxL. Because B is an L-sexual. :D
Little Note: I wasn't going to post this, but a conversation on the LJ Death Note Capslock community prompted me to do so. Edited March 25th to fix Johnny's "last name."
Chapter 1: Friends Forevar!!111
It had been a long-established fact that Johnny C. did not like people. Instantly, from the sound of his or her voice, from the way they talked to and looked at him, Johnny could tell he was not going to like whichever organism he was, at that instant, interacting with. Perhaps the cause of this conviction was his glands. Perhaps it was a smell said person was emanating. Or perhaps Johnny was an arrogant puissant who chose to believe no such person was entitled to a second chance to be welcomed into his good graces.
Whatever the reason, when Nny had to wait in line at the local 24/7 behind a shrieking young man, he knew some nameless person was soon to be added to his shit list…and, soon enough, to the growing mass of bodies in the underground tunnel.
Surprise, surprise.
"WHERE IS THE JAM?!" the boy (who couldn't be older than eighteen years) demanded, slapping his hand on the counter. His eyes were wild, literally red with rage and fu-
Whoa. Shit. They were red. And swirly. Those were some crazy lens.
The clerk stared at the boy with severe distaste, eyeing his inky-black shock of mussed hair closely. "Sir," he said tiredly, "please calm yourself. I am sure—"
"Jam. Jam. Jam, jam, jam, j-j-j-jam it in."
"—we will be restocked in jam tom—"
"PUT YOUR PEN0R TO MY VAG00 AND—"
"—orrow."
"--J-J-J-JAM IT IN."
Nny had been a loyal shopper at 24/7 for several years. He had seen clerks come and go. He had been the reason behind their coming and going. He had first-hand experiences with their crabby, grumpy attitudes.
This was the first time in his life he felt sorry for one.
The clerk seemed just about to collapse onto the counter and cry. It being 3:00 AM on a Friday that could have been spent drinking, smoking, and frolicking with friends, this was quite understandable. "Sir, please, if you do not have anything to purchase—"
"I require jam. JAM, YOU WAD."
Nny slowly moved to hide his plastic basket of jam jars behind his back. Normally, he wouldn't have cared if someone wanted to pick a fight with him. A few stabs to the jugular normally took them out. In his rush to get to the store, however, he had quite overlooked the fact he had stuck his favorites knives into the gut of that creepy necrophiliac who had been hitting on him the night before. Some chloroform, a trip to his house, a few stabby motions and voila—problem solved.
Nny frowned. He supposed he should be looking into the possibility of seeing a shrink like he had promised himself last New Years. He couldn't keep resolving his issues in such a thoughtless manner.
Just then, some stupid, stupid, STUPID man standing behind Johnny had had enough of the boy's flailing and bitching. He took one look at Johnny's basket, filled with sweet and colorful jams and shouted, "Hey, asshole! This guy has some jam over here, why don't you ask to take some out of his damn basket? He's got a shitload!"
Oh, come on.
The boy spun jerkily around, like a rusty crank. Saw where the STUPID MAN was pointing. Grinned widely.
"Oh, what fortune! Sir, I would be glad to take some of those off your hands."
The clerk gave Johnny a pleading look. Johnny was about to acquiesce on the behalf of the harried guy, when he noticed his lazy eye. He did not like lazy eyes.
"No."
As the wretched employee began to sob, the young boy glowered. He skulked toward Nny, back hunched, right hand in his pocket, and left hand glued to his lower lip. He ignored the homicidal shopper, staring down at the red basket lovingly.
"I will buy it all at a high price."
Maybe he could say "yes," lift one of the jars to the boy's face, allowing him to view his precious treat…and then smash the glass right on top of his head. He'd say something cool, like, "I hope you enjoy that," pay for his goods, and walk out of there with the image of brains spurting out of his skull painted vividly in his head. That would have been discourteous, though. And he did say "high price."
But, no. These jams were for his tarts: his tarts for the church social. He couldn't disappoint all those nice old ladies.
"They're not for sale," Johnny said evenly, and stepped forward to pay for his selections. As he waited in ire for the clerk to pull himself together, he suffered the smoldering assault of the boy's eyes, directed at the very base of his skull.
Shuffling out of the store hurriedly, Johnny clutched the bag of jam jars to his body, savagely protective. He had no way of defending himself, and that boy was practically on top of his ass.
No, no—he was on top of his ass. Snarling, Johnny smacked the youth away from his bony posterior and continued his mad dash to #777.
Fuck! The kid had grappled Johnny's sickly chicken legs. Nny desperately stomped upon the kid's puffy head. It was no use. The child's gaping smile remained on his face and his arms remained wrapped around his left ankle, even after Nny's left foot crashed incessantly upon him.
"The jam…" the boy whispered, "…Beyond Birthday is after Jam."
With admirable speed, Johnny plucked a jar out of his plastic bag. "You want your jam? Here! HERE, DAMN IT."
Glass sprinkled in shards and sparkling diamonds in the young man's hair, like crystalline (and rather painful) snow. He slumped forward, lying prostrate upon the sidewalk. Little red rivulets gurgled down his forehead along with globs of thick jam. Nny stepped back, watching the unmoving figure with a mix of disdain and vigilance.
In less than half a minute, the boy's head popped up, his eyes flickered to life, and he shambled over to Nny like an overgrown spider, smacking his lips obnoxiously.
"That is some high-quality jam," he stated, fixing himself to Johnny's spindly right leg. Nny stared, disgusted, at the…thing on him.
"I'm going home."
"Very well."
"I'm going to make sure I tread upon broken beer bottles with that leg."
"How very exciting! On with the fun!"
Well, he sounded so very unnaturally sincere that Nny had to hesitate, searching the comment for sarcasm. If he found any, he decided, he would indeed drag this boy's rear to his house and perform vivisection. He detected none.
He set off to his Fun Fun Underground Torture Chamber, hauling his burdened right leg behind him. The child has angered him enough to merit some lessons in carpentry anyway, and hey…vivisection was mad cool.
It was only fifteen minutes into Johnny's arduous journey that he found all pleasure cruelly sucked out of his endeavors to (violently) dislodge the strange little man from his leg. The trip was taking longer than usual, Nny found, because having an extra eighty pounds tacked onto you will do that. Nny almost sighed happily when he saw his home around the corner. Sweet roach-infested, dirt-encrusted edifice: he had missed thee.
"Your last name is stupid."
Johnny ceased his ambling, standing straight and still as a pole. This child, this irritating ragamuffin did not just offend him a total of five consecutive times today and survive. No. Not possible. And he had said it so simply, as if it were obvious to any bystander.
The ragamuffin continued. "It's terribly unoriginal and unappealing in its entirety, frankly. It hurts me to look at it. I mean, really, Johnny C--? C--? It hurts my mouth just to say it. It would be in your best interest to get a name change. It's such an irritating title."
Johnny's brow twitched.
"Just thought I'd let you know," the boy said, sticking that stupid, sticky thumb of his into his mouth.
The homicidal maniac ran, ran like several cheetahs on speed to #777. Shrinks be damned, if it was any problem that should be solved thoughtlessly, it was this one. Johnny, however, spared a thought only to ponder briefly just how the child had known his whole name.
(B.B.A.J)
"Rue Ryuuzaki," the boy said nonchalantly as he rooted through the bag of jammy treats. Nny stopped inspecting the body he had hastily shut up in the linen closet, this sudden statement sweeping aside his concern for his now bloodied bed sheets (which he had just washed that morning, damn it).
"What?" he asked, turning his focus upon the smiley face knife lodged in the necrophiliac's abdomen.
"My name. That's my name—Rue Ryuuzaki. You didn't even ask for my name, you know. That was kind of rude."
Nny seethed, jiggling and wiggling the handle furiously. The man's meatlard was making it hell to free it. Buh. Just…buh. "When someone is screaming about Danish preserves one minute and clinging to you all the way home the next, they're name is going to be the last thing on your mind."
"Shit! You got the currant! The black-fucking-currant! I'm going to have some, okay?" And, without being invited to do so, Ryuuzaki popped open the lid, dipped his whole hand into the black gelatin, and began to enjoy himself.
Nny tugged, almost on the brink of a boring and (he believed) impressive monologue. He just needed one knife.
Ryuuzaki looked around at his surroundings. It was a shit hole and a true dump. He had been used to clutter, having seen L's room before, but whoa. Whoa. He would have said something like "Your home has the welcoming atmosphere of a horse stable that has failed to be mucked," but he thought it unwise to jeer the other man further. Johnny had that look in his eyes, like the time Lawliet had been denied his Ferrero Rochers at Christmas. Ryuuzaki still remembered the screams that day, the raucous results of more psychological wounds than physical ones. So, he opted to instead compliment Johnny upon what he had done with the walls, which were caked with dirt, dust, and something that most decidedly looked (and smelled) like dried blood. And was that a hint of animal shit? He couldn't see Johnny's expression, but could imagine, from his rigid stance and the way his head swayed slightly, his bulbous eyes rolling madly inside his skull.
He did it for the lulz. Srsly.
Ryuuzaki had no time to be amused about this because he remembered. He remembered what he had missed, what he had lost, what he had fell short of grasping: he had forgotten to practice. How could he? How?! This annoyed him so much he almost flung blackcurrant at Johnny's filthy walls, but decided that the jam would be better off festering inside his tummy.
Ryuuzaki took out his iPod and speakers. "Mr. C--!"
"Ngh."
"I have a cosplay event coming up in about a week," he explained, hooking up the speakers, "so I simply must practice each day dancing to a song my group is going to do."
Johnny twisted the knife. Fucker was in deep—"Ngh?"
"So, please do not bother me, Mr. C--. This is very important to me." Ryuuzaki turned the speakers high, and selected the song.
Nny would have waved off this comment, would have continued extricating his beloved weapon…except he heard Ryuuzaki say:
"Ah. I would like the HaruHigurashi version this session."
"Ryuuzaki," Johnny said slowly, "what song is it, exactly?"
As the first screechy bleats of "Hare Hare Yukai" streamed through his speakers, Ryuuzaki thought he felt a bit of a breeze blow past his left cheek and slice the yellow ribbon tied in his hair. It almost messed him up on a crucial dance step, and so he frowned.
Funny, it almost looked as if Mr. C-- had thrown a knife at him.
(B.B.A.J)
LAWL, Johnny is enraged by "The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya." I also see B.B. as a huge otaku so…yeah.
"Fun Fun Underground Torture Chamber" and "lessons in carpentry" Oh boy! A "Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni" reference! Who cares?
More to come, I guess.