Disclaimer: I don't own V for Vendetta. Unfortunately. Or Vogue, for that matter. Or Tampax.
A/N: I saw the movie and this idea somehow got into my mind… I have no clue from where.
In Which V Gets Bored
It was official. V was bored. Yes, bored in the Shadow Gallery, one of the most interesting places on Earth.
He'd tried everything. He wasn't in the mood for music; he didn't want to risk a fatality by opening the closet which contained some old(er) books, and the Old Bailey explosion was already planned out, and the bombs ready. Even fencing didn't appeal to him at that moment. So he made himself a tea and sat on the couch. Looking at the carpet, he saw a copy of Vogue.
What's that doing there?
Then he remembered: he had 'acquired' it from one of Sutler's delivery trucks. Hoping it belonged to a female living in close proximity with Sutler and not Sutler himself, he set his cup of tea aside and took the magazine.
Let's see what pure drivel the fairer sex enjoy.
Telling himself that this was an experiment and nothing more- men didn't read Vogue, not even sword-wielding, ass-kicking, politically-correct terrorists!- he opened the magazine on a random page. V blinked multiple times at the title of the article: 'Why you aren't getting orgasms: your fault or his?'
Good Lord.
He rapidly closed the magazine, and then briefly wondered whether to read the article… for future reference, of course. Not that the situation was likely, but still…
The highly articulate V found that he had talked himself into a corner. He most certainly will not be reading that. He opened the magazine again, it was a clothes catalogue. Taking into account the fact that it was women's clothes, he took a look anyway. He had to admit to himself that some of these clothes were quite nice… he made a mental note to get a brown dress he saw in the catalogue.
For Valerie, of course.
He was about to put the magazine away when he spotted a page with the title: 'What Makes You You?'
That got his interest. He was getting worried that all women cared about was sex and clothes. Apparently what they really cared about was the following, in this order: themselves, sex, and clothes.
He read the article: 'Everyone is unique, and skilled to a certain degree, some more than others'. Thank you, ladies. 'If you are in need of a self-esteem boost, try some of the following exercises.'
This couldn't hurt. It isn't as if I have anything else to do.
'One,' the article said, 'Write down your birth date to find out your birth number, and see if it correctly analyses your personality!'
V skipped that one. He didn't believe in coincidences of any kind, after all. Including such nonsense.
Birth numbers? Bah.
'Two. Write all of your skills in this column, and find out what they say about you in the opposite page!'
He skipped that one too. How do you analyze a person through their skills? What's more, the column was preposterously small! Only twenty-five lines!
They need the spare space for advertisements, I guess.
He cringed at the advertisement dividing the article: Tampax. He hurriedly turned the page.
'Three: Use the space below to write a description of yourself to read whenever you're upset, to remind yourself how special you are!'
Hmmm, could have fun with that one…
VvVvVvVvV
Many, many hours and pieces of paper later, V looked down at his work with pride. It had taken him ages, and some parts had gotten him rather frustrated, but there it was in its full glory:
'Voilá! In view, a humble vagabond virginal vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the voyeurisms vicissitudes of fate. This verucca visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is the variegation vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vintage vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vernacular vexation, stands vertical vivified, and has vowed to vide vanquish these venereal venal and virulent ventriloquists vermin van guarding vino vice and vulgarizing vouchsafing the violently vigilant and virtuous vicious and voracious violation of vulv –(V, don't even go there) volition. The only verdict is Valium Viagra vengeance, a vineyard vendetta, held as a votive in vain not in vain, for the value and villainy veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vicious and voracious vigilant and virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most vindictively virulently verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honour to meet you and you may call me Bond. James Bond. V.'
The Vogue lay, forgotten, on the floor amid a sea of paper. Satisfied, V went to the kitchen to make himself something to eat. The thought of memorizing his 'speech' came to mind.
Maybe later.
A/N: Please review! I'll give you a cookie if you do! Oh, and… I'm not woman-bashing in this (I am one!), I'm just assuming what V would think about us if he was exposed to the females I know… Oh, and in the 'original copy' of the V speech above, pretend that every 'wrong' V word has a strikeout through it, cos itsomehow failed to make it show up…