Authors Note/Disclaimer: I don't own Wild ARMs 3. It belongs to Media Vision/Sony. I also don't own the songs Break it to Them Gently by Gil Grand/Burton Cummings and Baby Poo, yet another Arrogant Worms song. And OC Ravendor belongs to Black Waltz 0, and is used with permission. Thank you! ^_^

I'll just take the time now to say a few things. First, to Aya-Yahiko: I'll give a run down of all the songs I've used and who they're by at the end of the fic for ya, but if you check the disclaimer, they're listed there, too. ^_^ And Hypes: I WOULD write more of the Memory Figure series, but my inspiration for that one dried up LONG ago. But if I ever get another idea, I won't hesitate to write it. ^_^ And to everyone else who's reviewed: Thank you! ^_^ I love getting 'em and I'll continue to write as long as you continue to read. ^_^

Chapter 5- Break It To Them Gently

The crowd rumbled, eagerly awaiting the next draw. Von held out the box and pulled another scrap of paper out. Unfolding it, he read the next name aloud.

"Clive Winslett!"

At the table he was sharing with the others, Clive's expression darkened. "No."

Kaitlyn looked up at him in puzzlement as Catherine gave him a severe look. "Why not, daddy?"

Clive shook his head and crossed his arms stubbornly. "I refuse to step foot on that stage after it has been sullied by that man."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Would you grow up already, honey?"

"I will when he does." Clive gestured to Ravendor, who was sitting aways away, barely noticable and easily missed through the crowd. The black haired man didn't notice, and contined to ignore him.

Gallows was snickering at Clive's behaviour, imagining how Halle would be whacking him with her cane if the green haired sniper were related to her instead of himself. Jet just shook his head at the childish display and propped his feet up on the table again, before Virginia pushed them back off.

Up on the stage, Von repeated the call. "Will Clive Winslett grace the stage for us?"

"Oh, come on." With that, Catherine took a firm grip on Clive's arm and began to drag her husband up onto the stage, Clive protesting the whole way. The crowd laughed at the spectical, although most of them assumed Clive was just being overcome by stage fright.

"Now behave and sing, okay?" smiled Catherine.

Clive huffed. "Fine. But if I contract some disese and die, let it be on your head."

Catherine fixed him with another withering glare and left the stage to rejoin the others. Von handed Clive the microphone and inquired about what he was planning to sing. Clive grumpily informed him, and a country beat filled the air.

Break it to them gently when you tell my Mom and Dad

When you see my baby sister be as kind as you can

And break it to my Grandma, who said "That boy's wild and bad"

Break it to them gently when you tell them that I won't be coming home again

Cause I'm running with a gun and it isn't any fun as a fugitive

Fightin for my life and I don't know if I'll make it alone

Running with a gun and it isn't any fun as a fugitive

God I wanna go home

Lord I wish I was home

When you see my lady with the twinkle in her eyes

Tell it to her softly and hold her if she cries

Tell her that I love her and I will til the day I die

Tell it to her gently when you tell her that I won't be coming home again

I got in too deep with strangers

Thinking they could help me find my way

But nobody warned me of the dangers

And it's always the young and foolish that have to pay

So break it to them gently when you tell my Mom and Dad

Thank them for the good years and all the lovin that I had

And break it to my Grandma, who said "the boy is wild and bad"

Break it to them gently when you tell 'em that I won't be comin home again

I got in too deep with strangers

Thinking they could help me find my way

But nobody warned me of the dangers

And it's always the young and foolish that have to pay)

You gotta break it to them gently

Gotta really try to roll 'em

Gotta break it to them gently

Gotta really try to soothe them

Gotta really try to roll 'em

You gotta roll it to my Mother

Gotta roll it to my Grandma

Gotta roll the old lady

Roll it to my Grandma, she's damn near eighty

Roll the old lady

Virgina could hear sniffling coming from some of the people in the audience. Clive's voice was nothing special, good enough to get by, but not to be making any record deals, but the lyrics were enough. It was a bit of a surprise to her when a refined voice piped up with a suggestion.

"That was awfully depressing. Perhaps you should sing something else, to lighten the mood?"

Virginia saw Clive scowl at the man who'd made the suggestion, and she saw Ravendor smile sweetly and wave back as the crowd began to chant Clive's name, encouraging him to sing again.

"Oh, fine." Clive motioned to Von and named another song. "This is not quite as appropriate now as it was several years ago, but I shall sing it anyway."

I used to talk about politics,

Politics, politics

I used to talk about politics

But I don't anymore

I used to talk about communism,

Socialism, capitalism

I used to talk about all those isms

But now I'm a dad and all I talk about is

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

I used to rant about traffic problems,

Fender benders, stupid signs

I used to fear an accident

But now I stay at home and talk about

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Sometimes it's all brown and gooey

Sometimes it looks like dijon mustard

Sometimes it's like melted crayons

Sometimes it just smells like poo

I used to talk about philosophy,

Kafka, Descartes, Socrates

I used to think metaphysically

But now I think the world revolves around

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Sometimes it feels like stucco

Sometimes it feels like Jello pudding

Sometimes it's like avocado

Sometimes she just pees on me

I used to be real interesting,

Discussing about the issues of the day

But now I call up my MP

And tell her all about my baby poo

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

Baby poo, baby poo

All I talk about is baby poo

The song got mixed reactions. Most laughed, but there were those few who were offended by the nature of the song, or just plain weirded out by it. Clive made his way back to his table and sat down, glaring at his friends, still irritated.

"I am NOT going back up on that stage."

The others merely laughed at him as he continued to scowl.