As of right now, this story is now running on a 1:3 chapter to review ratio. That's good, but I want more!

Yep, the greedy little review pig. That's me, all right.

The greedy little review pig that just happens to be getting calls from hot guys! TEE HEE.


Ugh. I have no idea how Szayel can stand walking around with PINK hair. Doesn't it just embarrass the shit out of him? Well, of course, I'm sure that he just doesn't care. His hair is probably a by-product of one of his experiments gone sadly wrong. I mean, nobody just goes around with PINK hair. I can understand BLUE hair, because BLUE is actually a manly color when you think about it, but pink...pink is just not right for a man to have on his head. Or on any other part of his body, for that matter. And, I mean, I'm not gonna go pull down his pants because I'm convinced that his hair is a dye job. Seriously.

At any rate, I'm embarrassed as hell. You don't go around the block with PINK hair on a SATURDAY. I mean, really! This is really bad for my image! Not that I have an image...Well, an image that I'm sure only Ulquiorra knows about.

So, I'm at the nursing home now, and I'm not quite so embarrassed anymore. I mean, the only thing that could probably embarrass me further if some old gay dude wanted a look down my pants, and then he'd be all, "Whoa, hey, how do you have pink hair and blue hair at the same time? Are you...like, Superman or something?"

Now, please, I'm all for guys looking down my pants. As long as they're cute, hot, or sexy, and not an all around bitch when it comes to the morning after. Old gay dudes in nursing homes? Not so much. And I'm not inclined to answer the question of pink and blue hair at the moment.

Well, there's cyanide in my coat pocket. For all those who do not know what cyanide is, you'll be finding out later in this chapter, so just sit tight.

I've been assigned to the Alzheimer's ward. This is lovely. I mean, I know I'm not a very patient person, but if you stick me in a ward with Alzheimer's-affected people, I'm bound to go crazy. Heck, anyone would, with someone in their ear asking them what the square root of one was every three seconds because they're attempting to solve a Sudoku. Nobody really needs to know what the square root of one is anyway, to solve Sudoku. I mean, yes, I'm all for the elderly, I'm proud that they've lived their lives so long without anybody killing them off, but SERIOUSLY people! The Alzheimer's ward? Jesus, I'd rather have the ward full of mental people!

Anyway, there's nothing really interesting going on right now, except for handing the elderly people their prune juice and bedpans every now and then, so I'll write back when there's something really good going on. Something that involves me and a date with Mr. Cyanide.

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It's that time again. That time where someone's about to get killed. Don't lie to me; I know you like it.

At any rate, all the other attendants are somewhere else in the nursing home, probably trying to get free Lays out of the vending machine, and I'm the only one watching over 10 other elderly people, 9 of whom are asleep. The only one that's awake is someone that I didn't anticipate would be in this nursing home. But it's convenient for me that he's Szayel's father.

Szayel never had a good relationship with his old man, or so I've heard. I guess that he got busted for doing cocaine back in his youth, and he's hated his father ever since then. Of course, he still had to live with his dad, being that his mother had been some cheap hooker and ran away two years after Szayel was born, so I guess that gave the bad feelings quite a while to culminate. And the best part is, everyone knows it. Well, really, people who are famous or infamous in this place have, like, their own personal wing of the library. So it's no wonder that everybody knows that our very own dear mad scientist hates his dad's guts and can't wait for the old man to die so that he can get inheritance.

So, all in all, I suppose it's worth it that I went to get my hair dyed pink before I came to the nursing home. I mean, I highly doubt that Szayel's father would still accept me to be Szayel if my hair was still blue. I guess that Szayel's has multiple sets of colored contacts, so his dad won't be too shocked that I have blue eyes. I mean, when you've got a crazy mad scientist for a son, I guess you gotta learn to just go with the flow of things. Especially if you're locked up in a nursing home awaiting your deathday. Which, of course, happens to be today. Or, rather, tonight.

Szayel's dad's sitting, propped up on his bed, watching the liquid inside his IV bag drip into his veins. Supposedly he's on the brink of death, so I'll be doing him a FAVOR by killing him off before he has to suffer for too much longer.

Now. Even though the police department here are actually extremely stupid, stupider than they let the civilians here let on, I have to admit, they're extremely technologically savvy. They have these things, ReScoops, which are basically tools that they can use to replay the images that the person has seen in the last 24 hours. If I'm lucky, and if they're smart enough, they'll use a ReScooper on Szayel's dad, and see that the last image he saw, or one of the last, was of his son. Well, not exactly of his son, but of me dressing up as his son.

He's looking at me now, and apparently the disguise is working, because he tells me, "Son, come sit here by your aging father. It's not often that you come and see me here."

And then the old fool goes off into a long rant about Szayel's mother and about how she was a cheap whore and that Szayel should never have deserved the kind of upbringing that he had. Yeeeah. I mean, it's all great that the old man can relive some of his memories before he dies, but still. Nobody wants to hear about Szayel and his forays into the land of Gayness. Really.

Taking the syringe of cyanide out from my coat pocket, I watch as his eyes follow the needle.

"What is that, Szayel? Some disgusting concoction that you want me to drink?"

Smiling sweetly at him, I say, "No. I'll be doing you a favor. DAD."

Then I inject the syringe full of cyanide gas into the IV bag. And I watch, as his face goes from pale to 'pumped'. It's beautiful, how he starts to lose breath, starts to choke on his own saliva, how the veins stick out all over his body. But, eventually, it all culminates in a cardiac arrest, a heart attack that would, no, WILL be fatal for him. So, standing up now, I take leave, and let him live the last few moments of his agonizing death out in peace.

Hmm. Wonder what Szayel's gonna think when he's back from screwing some Russian ladies in Siberia?