Title: Tagline
Words: 267
Summary: Strife Delivery Service – we deliver anything.
A/N: …no point, no sense… all is well then.
CRASH!
BAM!
"Cloud, do you always have to take your work home with you? This is the third time this month."
Tinkle!
"Rrgh-!"
SMASH!
"Sorry."
"Sigh… what happened this time?"
"(Nnrgh!) Wrong client, (huh!) wrong delivery. Illegal firearms this round."
"HAH!"
THUD!
"Another one of those, huh?"
THUMP!
CRASH!
Tinkle, tinkle…!
CRUNCH!
WHACK!
"That's for that one week's supply of beer you destroyed! And my windows! Dammit, repairs aren't cheap!"
Cloud winced as Tifa kicked another thug where it really hurt, sending him flying out the open door. With shattered glass, smashed bottles, broken glasses and shards of porcelain all over the floor, landing was bound to add to the pain of getting a kick or a fist where it shouldn't have belonged. That and also having to face the business end of a couple of very large swords.
Finally, the drove of gangsters that had been sent to harass Cloud and in the process, Tifa, were sent collectively limping, dragging themselves and running away with their unseen tails between their legs.
Tifa looked at the mess around her and placed a gloved hand to her forehead. "If Barret knew Marlene was just upstairs with Denzel while all this happened down here, he'd kill us."
Cloud sheathed his sword, cringing slightly at the thought. "At least they didn't have guns. Not like the last batch before this one."
She shook her head. "I just wonder why you keep getting all these dangerous clients lately."
He shrugged and Tifa sighed slightly.
"Maybe you ought to change your tagline. Delivering anything seems to bring a lot of trouble."
"Maybe."
.
End.