Notes: I'm not quite sure where this came from, but Yanni Yogi has actually always been one of my favorite characters, and I really don't consider him to be a villain – he's a victim, and a pawn. It's really, really sad to me. So here's to spreading the love and maybe giving a little insight to his character the way I see him.
The first time Yanni and Polly made love, it wasn't like a scene from one of those cheesy romance movies. There were no candles, or trails of rose petals leading up to the bed. Actually, there was no bed, because being the son of a single immigrant father and nothing but a part-time job at the court house to keep the money coming, Yanni could only afford a cheap one-room apartment with a sofa. It was okay, though – Polly didn't care about things like money. "If happiness was currency, I'd be the richest woman in the world, because I have you!" She would whisper in his ear as their nude bodies comfortably intertwined on the couch, and he promised her forever as he pulled out the engagement ring and made his new fiancé cry tears of joy.
Only months later, he would come home to find her lifeless body sprawled out on that very same couch, an empty bottle of sleeping pills in one hand and a note in the other that read 'I just can't take it anymore.'
"It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane."
Yanni had a new sofa now in the boat house (or pasta restaurant, depending on who was asking), a much smaller one than before, but it didn't matter because there was no more Polly to share it with.
"…How did it all go so wrong so fast?" He muttered to himself.
"SQUAWK! So wrong so fast! So wrong so fast!"
Yanni sighed, reaching for one of the bird treats he always kept in his coat pocket and gave it to his new Polly, along with an affectionate scratch on the head. His feathered friend might be annoying at times, but she was one of the only things that Yanni had left of his old life. Hell, he didn't even have his fingerprints anymore, but the pain of burning them off with acid was nothing compared to the ache in his chest that he felt every single day of his life since that fateful December afternoon.
Sometimes, Yanni wished he really was a senile old boathouse caretaker. Life would be a whole lot easier if he could just forget, but…
"SQUAWK! Don't forget DL-6! Don't forget DL-6! SQUAWK!"
…No, that would never happen.
When Yanni first receives the anonymous letter, complete with a fully detailed plan and a loaded pistol, the first thing that comes to his mind is that this is absolutely INSANE.
But then, he sits down for a while and thinks about it.
Is it really insanity when you've already lost everything in life that's ever mattered? When you live with the worst kind of guilt weighing you down every day because god damn it you were telling the truth all along but nobody believed you for even a second? When you don't even have your own identity anymore, because your name is so hated that living as yourself became a personal hell?
"No," he reasons. "It would be insane not to do this."
"SQUAWK! Insane! Insane! SQUAWK!"
For the first time in years, Yanni laughs – a good, hearty laugh from the bottom of what heart he has left.
"…Merry Christmas, Polly."