Disclaimer:- Anything that's copyrighted in this story is not owned by me.
Joe: Yes, I'm back. After about half a year.
You can kill me later.
Anyway, I actually have a half-decent excuse. I'm working on another fic, an action, called 'The Justice Within Two Evils'. Yeah, the title sucks, but there you go. I've received some very flattering reviews for it, so don't be put off.
This chapter is needlessly long, (Which qualifies as another reason as to why it took so damn long, I think), but go ahead. You can make it. I managed to write the thing (eventually).
So, here we go.
Ch. 10: Of Old Farts and Inhalers
Back to Present Day.
Trish sighed and smacked her hand over her face in exasperation as she watched over Dante's proceedings to rummage in the dumpster next to the Devil May Cry.
"Remind me," she suddenly called out to her business partner "As fascinating and undoubtedly exhilarating diving about a dumpster surely is, why?"
Dante poked his head out from beneath a stinking old box of Pampers nappies.
"Because, my absent-minded friend, I have run out of papers and I seemed to have insulted the paper boy," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice "So, we won't be getting anymore from him. I need to get some more."
Trish sighed and shook her head.
"Couldn't you just apologise for whatever you managed to do to offend the pimple-faced brat?"
Dante stuck his nose into the air in an attempt to be haughty.
"Of course not! I am of high lineage and blood! I will refuse to lower myself to apologise to such commoners!"
Trish snorted.
"Commoners?! Pray tell, which one of the two of you are currently waist deep in a dumpster?"
Dante's nose returned to earth, yet his face remained indignant.
"Completely beside the point."
And with that, he took a deep breath and submerged once again into the stinking pile of waste and rubbish. Raising her head and hands to heaven as if to beg for strength, Trish turned tail and walked back inside; she no longer had the willpower to go along with Dante any more.
She plonked herself on the couch, happily aware of Dante's absence from it, so she brought her feet up and flicked on the TV.
Outside, Dante was making slow progress, if any. He had successfully recovered somebody else's old newspaper, but discovered with horror that it was dated from the 60's. Holding his breath again, he dived in again.
Inside, he banged his head against something that solved all of his current problems. No, it wasn't a newspaper, but an inhaler. A rusted and old one. Normally, anybody else would have pulled a disgusted face and tossed away the manky old relic. But, Dante wasn't a normal person.
Climbing out of the dumpster with an ecstatic smirk plastered to his face, Dante polished the inhaler against his coat, then walked inside to show Trish his findings.
Dante didn't quite get the reaction that he had expected.
Dante's hopeful reaction (I think the diving in the dumpster thing had him dizzy for a while with the smell, so don't worry for his sanity):-
"Look what I found!" Dante exclaimed, kicking the door open, which magically stayed in one piece.
For some unknown reason, he became a few years younger, becoming 19 again. Outside, far into the underworld, the ruler of all evil committed suicide, deciding that he was tired of it all.
Trish turned to face him from the stove, a million warm chocolate cakes at the ready for eating. A smile of incredible happiness spread across her face.
"Well done, Dante!" she stated, pulling off her top "Now all of our problems are gone!"
Dante smirked as she leaped on him, then the two took it to bed.
Not much later, Dante won the lottery, and the two became instant millionaires. He didn't actually need the inhaler after all…
The actual reaction :-
"Hey, Trish, look what I found!" Dante exclaimed, kicking the door open, smashing it to pieces. He cursed to himself; he would have to buy another one…
Trish turned lazily to face him from the couch, the remote clutched in her hand, her face smeared with the remains of the last piece of chocolate cake that once resided in the fridge.
"What now, Dante?" she asked in an almost tired tone.
Dante waggled the manky old inhaler in her face, as if to answer her question.
With a scream, Trish smacked it out of his hand, sending it flying out of the window.
"Why in the blue hell did you bring that in?" she barked, her face that of a Nightmare with a headache, looking ready to make Dante join the inhaler.
Dante's expression drooped.
"You didn't like it?" he asked in a hurt voice.
"Why should I like it? It was a smelly old inhaler that some guy or girl with asthma shoved into their mouth!" she continued barking at him.
Dante closed his eyes and shook his head. If only this turned out the way he had planned it to. Things would be so much better that way.
"It's what the inhaler represents, Trish," he explained, as if it was obvious "Old people, you stupid woman! They're all probably loaded, with nowhere to put their money!…"
Trish simply wiped the chocolate off of her face, then smiled and nodded as Dante worked up into a frenzy of unyielding speech. It was sooooo much easier to humour him, rather than to ask how a rusted old inhaler made him realise all this.
"…Are you ready?" Dante suddenly called out as he turned to face the door. Or, rather, the doorframe leading out of the building.
"mhm….wha?!" Trish blurted out. He had caught her off guard. All she had expected him to do was continuously blabber on, as usual, then eventually get tired.
She nodded, having no idea what they were about to do, then jogged after him.
Not much later, Dante found himself beside the owner of the retirement home, who looked like he would soon be joining it's residents. He was bald, with a snowy white beard below his chin, which spread all the way up to his ears. It covered pretty much most of his face, going over his mouth.
His name was Mr. Deek.
Deek was currently looking at Dante's forms, his eyebrows creased. Apparently, there was some information supplied that wasn't to his liking.
"Mr. Sparda, is it?" he asked. He had a thick, deep English accent.
Dante nodded and smirked at Trish, who was sitting on a nearby chair with her fist supporting her head.
"Well, Mr. Sparda, most of these documents seem up to scratch, and I will gladly hire you, but, your birth certificate is…well…untouched."
Dante's eyebrows raised.
"Untouched?"
"Yes. Not filled in, I mean."
Deek stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Yes. Would you like me to fill it in for you?"
Dante raised his shoulders in a non-committed fashion.
"Go ahead. Shoot."
Deek gave some information a further glance, then asked:
"Place of birth?"
"USA"
"Blood?"
"Red."
"…Right." Deek commented, but didn't press on the subject.
Trish inwardly sighed. When that question had come up, she had felt a little nervous. Dante didn't have a human blood-type.
"Sex?"
Dante held out his fingers, then seemed to count. He went over the same fingers a few times, running out of fingers to count with.
"42 times," Dante stated, grinning broadly.
Deek was speechless for a while.
"I…see…well, Mr. Sparda, you may as well go ahead, you have the job."
Dante smirked as Trish punched the air.
"But I must warn you, Mr. Sparda," Deek suddenly stated.
Dante's smile faltered.
"Yeah, against what?" he asked nervously. Until about a month or two ago, Dante was the fearless Legendary Devil Hunter, and would never even blink in the face of a large terrifying monster - but he had wizened. He had discovered the world of Lawyers, and suing and monetary matters and toddlers and fat Texan imitators. He was a changed man/devil.
"This is a retirement home," Deek explained "You must keep your patience at all times, as an argument might make the gentlefolk around here overexert themselves. I have seen that some of the documents had comments from past employers that you tend to lose your patience. That will need fixing."
Trish merely waved it off as Dante nodded indifferently. Old people? No bother. They were all into 'manners' and 'pronunciation' and the sort.
Trish and he had both dealt with children - and had miraculously survived - and old people were the exact opposite, weren't they?
Soon they would find out - old people were different; a new yet as evenly (if not more) evil breed of human.
"Oh, by the way," Deek said "There is a shift system here, only one of the two of you may work at one time - unless you are both necessary."
"You go first" Dante immediately said, microseconds before Trish managed to open her mouth.
Deek had already turned and left before Trish could object. Strange man, she thought, as she walked through the door leading to the sun room, where the old people were bound to be - it was a nice day, as Dante turned to the staff room.
The staff room was a small and dim room. The single window in it was pointing to the one place in the summer sky that was cloudy and overcast, making the atmosphere dull and soulless. There was a small fridge that may have been a tiny safe, a microwave with a hole in the glass, a TV with no colour and had a fuzzy sound blocking out most sound and a coffeemaker that frequently made a belching sound. Dante didn't dare approach it.
The walls were plastered grey, a dull and soulless grey like the atmosphere of the room, and was peeling off, showing the…wouldn't you know it - grey bricks beneath. Upon the peeling grey plaster was a horribly unimaginative grey design that sparked no interest upon any onlookers…of the grey wall.
Dante plonked on the gre-en (had you there) chair that was also peeling, showing the grey padding beneath. At least the most of the chair was green.
Dante yawned and looked up at the clock…on the grey wall. Broken. It still made an extremely annoying sound though, an incredible feat for a clock that looked as though someone had smashed a mallet into it - maybe the sound it used to make was more unbearably annoying?
Dante got up and searched the room for a remote for the TV, but found that there was none. He walked up to the TV and pressed the buttons.
Static.
Static.
The News - which suddenly became static.
What looked like a 50's movie - but it was hard to tell, the constant fuzzy sound coming from the speakers on the TV almost completely blocked out all sound.
Dante groaned and turned towards the coffeemaker.
Upon touching it, it exploded.
A slightly charred Dante then looked at the mini fridge. He opened it to find with delight that it was a drinks fridge - which was soon replaced with disappointment as he discovered that not one of the alcoholic beverages was distributed within the past ten years.
There was a whiskey there.
'That stuff matures, doesn't it?' he thought, reaching for it.
He sniffed it after opening it. It was old. Whiskey did indeed mature - and this one was obviously decades old.
He poured it down - half demons can handle extremely powerful alcohol easily.
But, he was disappointed immensely; although it was a whiskey bottle, there was no whiskey inside, just water that had long gone stagnant.
He spit it out onto the floor, along with some other contents of his stomach - that water was vile. He could have gotten typhoid or something from it. He peeked into the bottle and saw what looked like insects that were long dead in the drink. He got sick a second time upon finding the dead body of some form of vermin in the bottle.
He spent the next twenty minutes cleaning it up and clearing the smell. Even though it was the smell of sick, it was at least a smell - before he had threw up on the floor, there was absolutely no smell at all in the abysmally dull room.
The door leading from the sun room opened, and Trish hurried in and shut the door after her, then leaned on it, relieved.
"How'd it go?" Dante asked dully.
Trish's face jerked upwards to face him, as if she just realised he was here. Stray hairs were separating from the rest of her head, giving her the immediate appearance of a lunatic. There were also a few going into her face, increasing this affect.
"If I hear the words 'in my day' one more damned time, I swear…" she said hysterically, starting to strangle the air.
Dante chuckled and pushed her out of the way to go through the door.
"Trish?" he suddenly called out, his head appearing back from the door.
"What?!" she snapped.
"Have fun"
Before she could react, Dante slammed the door in her face.
It was fair to say that Dante was not greeted with enormous enthusiasm. The old people had long grown out of enthusiasm, instead resorting to the coldness and blackness that resided within their old, demented hearts. Yes, the old people had learned of annoying memories that were pointlessly long.
Fortunately, Dante had come prepared. Well, in a manner of speaking.
During his stay in the orphanage with Vergil, they had both managed to grow a resistance to yammering. For you see, the curator of the orphanage was an old fart. Literally. His hair was died a horrible brown, the same colour of his clothes (and he had the fashion sense of a fart as well, did I say that already?) and he stunk of baked beans and broccoli. A real, down to earth fart. What made things worse was the rather special noise his boots made when forced into contact with the ground, that sound something like 'pppttthhhhhh'. The sound made by farts. But the important thing was that he lectured people when they committed misdeeds, and Vergil and Dante weren't exactly goody-two-shoes. They had developed an immunity to the repeated and pointless chatter the old fart managed to conjure.
Well, these old people were of a similar breed (not of farts, but of people that yammered a lot), and they had long prepared themselves of the leeching and sucking of the soul of the person that was next assigned to take care of them. It was from these souls that kept them alive, and made them more unbearably evil.
Back to the less than enthusiastic greeting.
A clock on the wall, and the occasional cough or flatulent noise (Or fart).
'…tic … …toc… …tic… … cough …tic … … ppttthhhh …toc … … tic … … tic… … tic-tic-tic…tic-tic-tic-tic … tic-BOOM'
The clock managed to explode, due to Dante's growing annoyance. Because of the demonic blood in his veins, he somehow blew up the clock, and caused some excitement in the room.
And strokes, by the look of it.
…
Ah, no, wait, they're okay.
And they're complaining. Whoop-de-friggin super.
Actually, Dante could not even tell whether it was actually words coming out of their wrinkled old lips, but some form of incoherent babbling. It was a montage of a language constructed from parts of ET's home language (that stupid little evil bastard scared me as a child) , the noise that sounds (incidentally) like farts, a dog barking, some wheezing sounds, and the noise made from a Blade with constipation.
"Youha shtupid geoddamne paunksh - me ticker wash goinna loiyke dah!" was what one of them wheezed.
Now, the same lovely translator that interpreted Big Al's speech in ch. 7 made sense out of that for all of you people at home. How nice of him. Apparently, it went something like this:
"You stupid goddamn punks - my ticker was going like that!"
Incredible smart man, that translator. Back to the story.
"Are… …are you okay?" Dante asked hesitantly. He hadn't even been on the job for a day, and he didn't plan on anything harmful happening to the old people (well, not exactly).
The old man looked both left and right, as if he was about to cross the road. After a thorough scan of the room, he was comforted with the fact that there were no 'geoddamne paunksh' in the vicinity. He then stared at Dante for a long while with a peculiar expression on his face, as if he could not quite tell if someone was there.
With inhuman eyes, Dante could see that the mans eyes were slightly fogged. Cataracts.
Dante sighed and walked away from the old man, who did not seem to realise that Dante had left. A few minutes later, the man shook his head. He had been seeing things. He thought that he had seen a man in red in front of him. Old mind playing tricks on him.
"HELLO?" an old lady half-screamed "I NEED ASSISTANCE!"
Dante suddenly appeared by her side. "Yes?"
"AH, THANK YOU!" the old lady exclaimed loudly. Dante flinched as his ears throbbed.
"YOU'LL HAVE TO EXCUSE ME!!" she stated "MY EARS AREN'T WHAT THEY USED TO BE!"
"Okay" Dante said a little louder. Apparently it wasn't loud enough.
"WHAT!?" she hollered.
Dante almost fell over.
"I SAID OKAY!!"
…
"DID YOU SAY SOMETHING, DEARIE?!"
"YES!"
"OH, YES, I NEED SOME ASSISTANCE WITH… … oh, where was I…" she trailed off, her voice quietening down as she tried remembering something.
Dante turned around, about to walk away, when the old deaf lady piped up again, and had apparently forgotten the past conversation.
"HELLO? I NEED SOME ASSISTANCE!"
"YEAH, WHAT, YOU OLD HAG?!!" Dante yelled, losing his patience.
Dante couldn't contain himself, it just slipped out. He flinched immediately, expecting the worst as soon as the words left his mouth. And it was at that moment when the old lady was able to hear him.
Her face went red as her eyes bulged.
"How dare you!!" she said in an even louder voice "In my day we respected our elders, we would even…"
"yeah, yeah," Dante mumbled, knowing that if he didn't stop her now, he would have to stand through a long, long story "Sorry, what was it that you needed assistance for?"
Both Dante and Trish laboured all day over the old farts (Why is it that the word 'fart' seems to show up a lot lately?), never stopping or taking a break (as the only refuge from the work was the immensely dull staff room). Some of the old people were not as evil as the others, for instance; the man with cataracts, as he never really knew that you were there, so he couldn't call for anything. As far as he was concerned, the retirement home had yet to find someone to replace the old workers.
But, there was the other extremity. There was no middle in the 'bother' ranking in this retirement home. They were either angels or a bunch of flaming Phantoms, destroying whatever ounce of patience you once had.
A perfect example of this kind of old person was the almost-deaf lady, who never quite got over Dante yelling at her.
Even though Dante apologised, she still managed to go over her 'in my days' story. She was at least on her fifth time so far. It turns out that every old person in this place has an 'in my day' story of their own. Every single one of them pointless and boring.
But, as well as the 'extremely' annoying old people, there was the one that stood out from the others like an elephant in a matchbox.
His name was needlessly long, as he had won many titles in war, so neither of the two decided to call him by name. He was simply referred to as the 'WWII Guy'. The following is the tale that ruined Dante and Trish's sixth attempt to gain money.
"You're a whore…You're a whore"
Trish was getting more and more annoyed by the second as an old man's parrot squawked the words over and over again.
"Dreadfully sorry, m'girl!" stated the owner, an old WWII veteran "Don't know where he got those words from!!"
Trish grumbled to herself as she received the dinner choices from the seniors. It was between Shepherds Pie and Roast Chicken. She knew full well that Parrots had to be taught words, or to overhear them to speak the words themselves.
The words had obviously originally came from the old soldier, talking about Trish..
Trish went to walk into the kitchen, when she was knocked over by old Bill, the drunk.
"Get off me!" she snapped, pushing him as she got to her feet.
Old Bill attempted an apology, but the alcohol distorted his words, making it into incoherent nonsense. The caretakers really didn't know where he got the beer from. He must have a stash of beer bottles somewhere. Whatever the case, he always had a bottle in his hand, and became violent when someone tried to take it away from him.
"You're a whore!" the parrot chirped enthusiastically.
Trish murmured profanities under her breath as she strolled into the kitchen. She'd make that parrot die, one way or other, eventually…
She stepped inside yet another dreary room, complete with grey wallpaper. The place smelled like Father Time's crack house, if there was such a thing, but of course there isn't (ahem).
She flicked on the oven to start it up. It would be around ten or so minutes before it was properly heated up. She sighed as she grabbed a decade-old magazine (which the front page boasted: Who is this New 'Ian Mckellen?' Find out inside!) and sat down on a gnarled old chair.
Five minutes of utter boredom pass.
"You're a whore! You're a whore!"
Trish jolted up. The damned bird had apparently escaped it's confinement and flew into the kitchen.
Her eyes immediately found the parrot perched on top of the counter. She let it be and started reading again. It wouldn't come to any harm. She felt her eyes getting heavier as she flipped over the page to read an article on 'the major increase in the price of telegraph messages lately'.
"You're a whore. You're a whore! YOU'RE A WHORE!" the parrot squawked, then suddenly raising it's pitch an octave.
Old Bill lurked in, clutching a large thermos of vodka, looking less than pleased.
"Wha'd you call me, you goddamn bird?!" he barked at the parrot.
"You're a whore?" the bird replied in a frightened tone.
Old Bill placed the Vodka on the counter and clumsily attempted to take a swing at the bird, which promptly flew off to Trish's shoulder. Trish jumped in shock, having been oblivious to the past few minutes (she had dozed off). Bill looked at her, then decided that it would be better not to try and beat up the bird while it was on Trish's shoulder.
"Yer lucky dah yer blonde 'un was there fer yeh, yeh stupid lih'il bugger…" he stated to the parrot, then he turned to the door and left, grumbling.
Trish looked at her watch. Oven should be heated by now. She sighed and got up and glared at the bird, which somehow took the hint that it had better leave it's resting spot.
She opened up the freezer, took out the breast of chicken and placed it in, then placed the shepherd's pie on a different shelf. She sighed and looked at her watch again.
No, the day hadn't magically passed away.
Then, something came to her attention. Something that would help all the boredom go away. A lone bringer of hope for the day, a saviour to her amusement. Yes, the thermos of vodka still lay on the counter.
Thanking whatever forces that was currently above, she grabbed it and drunk deeply, then plonked herself back on the chair, no longer feeling the need to read more about the happenings of decades ago.
A long while later…
The buzzer on the oven activated.
Once again, Trish jumped due to a cause of noise. She hiccupped as she check her watch again, but for some strange reason it was blurred to the point where it was a strange alien dialect written around the clock face. She flung open the door of the oven and took the chicken and shepherds pie out, and started to work on the vegetables. She grasped the amulet around her neck.
It really helped having the soul of a housewife around, especially when cooking needed being done.
She somehow now knew how to properly prepare vegetables in a suitable manner for old people.
Another while later, she handed them to Dante to serve. Thinking that the job was done for the day, she plonked herself back on the chair, which now had a print of her ass on it, then dozed off, snoring loudly.
After what seemed like barely ten seconds to her, Dante's head poked in through the empty doorframe.
"Hey, Speaking Beauty!"
Trish jumped in her chair, then eyed Dante with extreme annoyance. "The Term's 'sleeping beauty', you dolt, and what?!"
"Whatever. Old General guy never got any chicken. Demands that you make another full one so that he can have some."
"He wants a whole chicken?" Trish asked disbelievingly.
Dante shrugged. "Don't know what he's going to do with it all, he just wants it."
The head disappeared from behind the door.
Trish looked back and faced the oven, then sighed.
More cooking. Just great.
She took another gulp from the thermos and looked around the kitchen, everything suddenly seeming distorted.
She found to her amazement that another chicken breast was waiting for her on the counter.
She reached for it, but it somehow managed to peck her in defence.
She frowned. Chicken breasts didn't even have beaks. They were chopped off long before you could buy one.
She tried again, and grasped the lump of meat firmly in her hand, and sent a powerful wave of electricity into it. It let loose a horrible final squawk, then went silent. That should stop it from pecking her.
She shoved it into the oven and took another gulp of vodka. A feat that would have done severe damage to a human.
She turned to the chair again, and found to her delight that it had transformed into a comfortable-looking leather seat. Her eyes shut almost as soon as she sat down.
Minutes later, for the last time she woke from the chair, this time with a hangover.
"Ohhhhhh…" she groaned as she came to terms with where she was, and why she was there.
She very, very slowly got up, and stumbled over to the oven, and pulled out what she expected to be a chicken breast.
But, as luck would have it, she saw something completely different.
A charred dead parrot.
She gasped. She suddenly understood why that chicken had managed to peck her. It was the WWII guy's parrot, concealed behind her drunk eyes.
"Dante!" she screamed.
The red-clad devil hunter was at the door instantly.
"What is it?" he asked urgently "You sounded desperate."
She pointed at the parrot to reply.
Dante just stared at the blackened carcass for a while, looking slightly green.
There was a pause for a while.
"You know what this means…" Dante finally commented "… …we're going to lose our jobs again… …but…" he halted, a smirk spreading across his face, a smirk that Trish didn't like "…it's your fault this time."
He suddenly started laughing, an evil sort of laugh that befitted the devil part of him.
"Stop it!" Trish moaned "This can't be happening, we just got this job…"
"Well, either we lose our jobs, or we get to see an old guy eat a parrot," Dante stated "Seems like a win-win situation if you ask me, 'cause you won't hear me complaining if we lose this job"
Trish thought about what Dante said for a while. Maybe the old guy wouldn't realise that he's eating his beloved parrot. Dinner time was directly after medication time. He could be really drugged up.
Minutes Later…
Dante walked into the dining area pushing a cart with a silver platter on it. He passed by the tables, until he came to the old WWII veteran, then delicately took the platter off, showing the dead parrot beneath.
The man said nothing, merely looking at his meal with an odd expression.
Dante scooped up the dead parrot and placed it on the guy's plate.
The guy merely stared at it for another while, silently.
"Bon apetit" Dante declared.
The guy stared at the parrot for another while.
Dante cursed inwardly. The guy knew full well that his parrot lay before him.
"Is that…" he managed to whisper, barely audible "Is that my dear Paul?"
"…bon apetit?" Dante repeated.
The man's face seemed to swell, and go red rapidly.
"You…You killed Paul…you killed Paul…"
A nearby nurse called over.
"He's not supposed to get angry! He has a heart complaint!"
"A what?" Dante exclaimed. He looked at the old guy, who suddenly clasped his hand to his chest "Ah, damn it."
Needless to say, the man got landed in hospital, and Dante and Trish had to pay compensation.
The conversation explaining this to Harrington was not a happy one.
"Let me get this straight, Mr. Sparda… you got fired by trying to feed a pensioner his parrot, which you killed and cooked in the oven?"
Dante sat with a grim face in front of Harrington, with his arms crossed defensively.
"That's the general idea, yeah."
Harrington put his fingers to his eyes in irritation.
"Mr. Sparda, are you trying to do this? Are you trying to repeatedly get a job, then lose it within the next few hours? Or, are you just a natural?"
Dante remained silent, like an unruly schoolboy before his headmaster.
"Have you tried getting a job that doesn't involve much communication with others? Your downfall seems to narrow down to losing patience with others. And I strongly recommend contacting a therapist after this last feat."
Dante came to full alertness suddenly.
"I don't need a shrink! I'm fine!"
Harrington looked at him sympathetically, almost pitying him.
"I wouldn't say so, Mr. Sparda. As far as I know, you were raised in an orphanage. Maybe the loss of parents…"
"I'm fine!" Dante repeated, only louder. Harrington had touched a nerve. "And I can take whatever job I damn well please! My communication skills are fine!"
Harrington studied him for a while, only feeling more strongly that Dante needs a therapist.
He reached across his desk and took out a log-book, and searched through it for a while. After finding what he was looking for, he ripped a piece of paper out and scribbled a phone number on it, then handed it to Dante.
"Here. Just do me a favour, then, and give this guy a single try. You only have to go once. It's just a favour."
"But I don't need a shrink!" Dante said loudly.
Harrington never answered to this, and merely showed Dante out. Dante stood at the door for a while.
"… … …I don't need a shrink…"
He then fell back into his haughty tone, suddenly sounding like Vergil.
"I am of high blood and lineage, I don't need a shrink…"
Joe: Sorry, that last bit was a little boring. But, I hadn't put Harrington in any chapters for a while, and decided it best to put him back in.
Review, please.
Oh, and could you all look into that action fic of mine, if you get the time?
"The Justice Within Two Evils", it's called (And any ideas for a new name are welcome).
I know you all like action, Devil May Cry is an action game.
Well, whether or not I update soon, I will update. And, I think the next one will have Dante as a door-to-door salesman.
Ciao.