Disclaimer: I remember, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far too close to
here to allow comfortable breathing space, there was a girl. Her name?
Why, it doesn't matter what her name is, though it starts with a 'C' and
ends with a 'hibikat'. Well, dear, sweet nameless girl decided that it
would be a jolly good idea to go on a murdering spree with a giant, foam
axe she found in her basement that had come from some sort of tackle-sport
game.
Of course, one can't really go on a murdering spree with a foam axe, so in the end she failed. Failed miserably.
. . . oh yeah, I don't own these characters! =D
Rating: For now, I'm giving it PG-13, however I'm sure I'll manage to jack it up to R once I'm through with this baby. Why? Because. . . I can.
Dedicated To: Louise. This one's for you. ^_~
Author's Notes: Here in front of you is the result of hanging around my friend Louise, ingesting an appalling amount of cola products (well, I did. Louise just drank milk. . . . yeah. O_o), running around Wal-Mart with only a twoonie in my pocket, and a song in my heart! (Those who are not Canadian may not know the joys of the twoonie. It is a two-dollar coin with a bear on it that looks like somebody took a washer and stuck a hunk of gold in the middle. Yay Canada.) Oh, and of course Tania. Dear, sweet Tania and her genius parodies of X-Men and Harry Potter. She owns me. Owns me like a pimp.
Anyhoo. This is basically a parody of your run-of-the-mill Sailor Moon/Ranma 1/2 crossovers that are horribly, terribly done. Except, of course, this parody is also horribly, terribly done, but in a far more different way. You'll see. Oh how you'll see.
Unless, of course, you've stopped reading by now. In that case, I could put whatever the hell I want here, like purple berries squeeze out of you the joys of knowing macaroni the wombat cries, cries for its Sephiroth, saying "WHY SEPHIROTH, WHY?!?" because it could never be with him, due to him being a wombat and Sephiroth being a human male. The concept of procreation would simply be mind-boggling.
. . . and now that I'm sure nobody is reading this, on with the show! =D
Quick Additional Note: This isn't meant to be offensive to anybody, FYI. This is all just in good, sick, demented, fun.
So here begins your journey into the madness of the mind, the superfluous syndicated story, the ambiguous. . . I don't know what. . . of-!
~*~
(Insert Title Here)
~*~
~This story is about love.
Not just any love, however; not the love between a newlywed couple, not the love between two best friends, not even the love between a man and a tall, cool glass of Heineken (and especially not that lite crap, either). No, this story is about a *different* kind of love - the kind of love that makes you want to jump, run, skip, and draw on the walls with crayons. The kind of love that is so awe-inspiring, so completely encompassing, so unbelievably, undeniably, irrepressibly, unconventionally, inquisitively, flatulently, unreliably, gorgeously, increasingly cost effectively large that it is indescribable.
So I won't even try.
But I did draw on the walls with crayons, and lo, it was very, very beautiful. There was a sun, and a house, and stick figures, and everything - not to mention the alligator that sits outside of my window, staring at me. Always staring, constantly its eyes bore into my body as I approach the expanse of window that rests within the wall of my room. It watches me, studying my every move.
Perhaps. . . it feels the love too. . . or perhaps it is waiting for its chance to strike, and gut me like the flopping fish that I am. Flop. . . flop. . . flop. . .~
"Argh, no no NO!" the boy yelled, scribbling madly upon his page with hard, angered strokes, attempting to send his words into oblivion with his ballpoint pen. He fumed, running a hand through his chestnut-coloured hair, sighing deeply.
Tatewaki Kuno, aged 17, was trying to write something beautiful and poetic, and it ended up sounding psychotic and with major leanings towards bestiality.
'Great', he thought, throwing the pad of paper and his pen into a corner of his domicile, 'now how shall I profess my undying love for both Akane Tendo and the Pigtailed Girl?' He paced the length of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, managing to cover the line of man-cleavage that could always be seen through the part in his yukata top.
Kuno found that, lately, when he had tried to sit down and write his incredibly moving and breathtaking sonnets and poems, all that he came up with was ideas that somehow managed to completely miss the point of what he was trying to say, and end up sounding a bit on the insane side. Not that he didn't do that often, but this time, it was profoundly *different*.
Something fierce was giving him writer's block, and his normal methods for dispelling the loathsome affliction had not worked. That day alone, he had gone outside to his backyard, set up his giant poster of the horrid sorcerer Ranma Saotome and pummeled it ruthlessly with his dear, sweet bokken, whom he had come to affectionately refer to as. . . Mr. Bokken. Alas, even after such a workout and the extended use of Mr. Bokken, the words that normally flowed out of him like so much water at the wet t-shirt contest down at the local strip club (that he did *not* sneak into frequently, thank you very much) simply refused to be brought forth and penned, penned for the world to see!
It simply would not do. Oh! Perhaps he could traverse over to the Tendo abode, and grace both his loves with his presence! Surely the words would come out better from his own tongue than the mouth of a lowly, ink-ly challenged pen made by that devious Bic company. Those Bic products were not to be trusted. . . he remembered once, not a terribly long while ago, when he was grievously accosted by one of their so-called "shaving" razors.
He would have his revenge. Oh yes. . . soon. . .
Kuno shook his head. Now was not the time to be plotting his glorious triumph over the weapons which had caused his features to suffer through the tortures of razor burn, and those annoyingly tiny nicks that he was forced to put small chunks of toilet paper over to stop them from bleeding! For now was the time of love! And love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!
He giggled to himself, and it was extremely disturbing. You see, there was a reason that the great Blue Thunder did not giggle in public; it was mostly due to the fact that seeing a boy - nay, a *man* - of Kuno's stature and height giggling like a little school girl was at once frightening and strangely entrancing, like seeing a pastor in the local 99 yen porn depot. Which Kuno also never, ever went to.
And lo, with his high-pitched squeal of a laugh, he took off from his room, waving his hands above his head in sheer excitement.
The alligator below his window watched. . . for he was *always* watching.
Always. . . watching. . .
~*@ SWIRLY SCENE CHANGE! @*~
"WHERE ON EARTH AM I *NOW??*" the Lost Boy yelled to the heavens; for he was a boy who was lost, ergo the term of usage being Lost Boy. Sweat dripped down his face, matting his thick black hair down to his forehead. The sun beat down upon his form mercilessly, his tight, black t-shirt damp with perspiration. He weakly shifted the heavy bag on his back as he trudged forward, his movements slow and sluggish.
He had been lost for quite a long time, now. . . usually he would have ended up back in Nerima by this time, however such was not the case. His entire body felt weak from lack of food - when was the last time head eaten? Three days? Maybe four? He couldn't rightly remember; all the days, they began to blend together after a while. All that mattered to him was that he had clothes on his back, and food and water to spare.
Which, of course, he didn't. It posed a serious problem.
He trudged around in his Chinese slippers which, by all means, were incredibly durable, considering they were slippers and he had bought them for the low cost of 900 yen from one of those newfangled Wal-Mart places in a city that may or may not have been Tokyo. He wasn't really sure. In fact. . . he really wasn't sure of much anymore, considering the world around him wouldn't, annoyingly enough, stop spinning.
He ceased motor control in his lower legs, thereby stopping, in the middle of the dirt road, staring at his blurring surroundings. Trees. Rocks. Sky. More rocks. More trees. More sky. An old, mysterious man that bore a striking resemblance to the illicit love child of Santa Claus and Scooby Doo. Yet more rocks.
The Santa/Scooby hybrid look-a-like man saw the tired, young, naïve looking boy who looked as if he would do anything - *anything* - for food, and smiled a smile so wide and with such bucked teeth that he ended up shaving off half his eyebrows in the process. He spoke to him as he stroked his long, dog-fur like grey beard that had been recently hacked at with a knife he found on the ground, which was also purchased from Wal-Mart by an American tourist who may or may not have been named Steve many a year ago.
"Young man!" he called out, his beaver-ish teeth protruding from his mouth like chunks of moldy tofu (or, for you strictly Western-ized people out there, like a pack of Halloween Chiclets) stuck inside some sort of twisted, demented Jello mold, "I say, young man!"
With an astonishingly intelligent yet distinctly non-Canadian 'Eh?,' Ryoga weakly turned his face to the direction of the voice of someone who had far too much time on his hands and far too little money to do anything about it, in order to see what all the commotion was about.
"Santa?" he asked weakly, noting that the jolly fat man before him was not jolly or fat, but did carry the distinct air of a man who liked to have little boys and girls sit on his lap. Ryoga, having a good feeling about this guy, trudged towards him. The suspiciously dog-like man who burst at the seams with tidings of great joy scratched at his vaguely chest area, where curly and thick hairs protruded from the top of his beat-up t-shirt that proudly read "BORN TO BOOGIE" in large letters. Mustard, ketchup, beer, and disturbingly unidentifiable stains littered said shirt, and his pants were kept up by a hefty piece of rope that was frayed at the ends.
"Were you talking to me?" Ryoga asked, feeling hunger swirl in his stomach and lint balls roll around his brainpan. The pack on his back suddenly seemed much heavier than before; it must've been a combination of the oppressive hunger, thirst, sleep deprivation, and the vulture that had landed neatly on it, pecking at the back of Ryoga's neck. The Lost Boy swatted it away, where it landed across the road, looking at Ryoga with appraising, scavenger eyes. It made sense, considering vultures are, by nature, scavengers, waiting to leech off the dead, the dying, the stupid, and whatever they could get their mouths on - much like those contestants on Joe Millionaire. Which Ryoga never watched. For he hated all those reality shows, and they had nothing to do with martial arts, or contained a speck of interest or intelligence. They were all terribly contrived and annoying: shows like Fear Factor, and Survivor, and Temptation Island, and The Bachelorette which he had missed goddammit because he got lost before it came on!! Now he would never know if she gave that Ryan character the boot. . .
The strange, old, yultidely gay man was still staring at him. Shaking his head and nearly collapsing due to such a strenuous effort, Ryoga forced his thoughts away from the reality TV shows, which he absolutely did not watch or had previously participated in. The only reason he was ever on Survivor: Thailand was because he had gotten lost and ended up there.
Yes. *Lost.*
. . . why was the old man who just called him over still staring at him like that?
"Uh. . . hey, mister?" Ryoga inquired once more, looking ready to pass out. The man blinked in a way that reminded Ryoga of geckos, and smiled once more, however not nearly as wide as before, so as not to devour his nose and eyeballs in the immediate process.
"Hello there, young man!" the geezer said, his voice reminiscent of a Teflon frying pan being scratched at by an overeager child with scissors they had just finished proudly running with. He hacked and coughed soon after, phlegm spitting everywhere. Immediately after *that*, the old man took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up, took a drag, exhaled, and spluttered once more, with more phlegm splattering on the ground.
"Those'll kill you, you know," Ryoga pointed out helpfully to the man before him. He took an indignant drag of the little stick of chemicals.
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, you're not my wife!" he rambled, gesticulating with long, gnarled fingers and hands that were half-purple due to horrendous circulation. He then shot a look up at Ryoga.
"Unless you *are*. . ."
"Um-"
"Machiko, I knew you would come back to me!" he cried with joy, springing up to his feet. Which, in old people's terms, was really slowly making their way to their feet, listening to their kneecaps pop back into place, and various grinding noises from God only knew what. Indeed, no longer was this man "Born to Boogie", as his shirt said. Ryoga took a cautious step back, his eyes widening slightly.
"I'm not your wife, whoever you are!" The old man's face immediately fell.
"You mean you've found someone else?!" he wailed, hobbling backwards, his face a mix of horror and shame, "Was it because of my gambling debts?? Or because of that fling I had with that well-hung stable boy wh-"
"I'M NOT MACHIKO!" the Lost Boy yelled at him, really, *really* not wanting to hear the rest of the scary man's tale. He held his hands in front of him, hoping the man would keep his distance.
In turn, the senile old bat wagged his tailbone that, by all means, *was* a tail, and calmed down somewhat.
"Oh. Well then, young man, good to know," he said, straightening out his disgustingly stained shirt, and taking his place back at the side of the road, sitting. He looked down.
"So, you hungry? I've got a nice collection of rats I found out in the desert, if'n you want some good vittles," he said proudly, digging around his pockets. Ryoga, not wanting to acknowledge the fact that almost anything with meat on it seemed good right about now, shook his head no, still keeping his distance a ways away from the man who was originally Born to Boogie. The man took Ryoga's silence as an answer.
"No? Well, more for me, then!" he exclaimed, taking a honking big chunk out of the unsuspecting cooked rat's body. Ryoga made a face of disgust, backing up once more.
"Uh, l-listen, thanks but, ah, no thanks, I'm just gonna be on my way, okay?" Ryoga stammered out, backing away slowly, making sure not to make any sudden movements, lest the crazy man who eats rats tried to come after him. The dog/man/thing looked at Ryoga, his eyes wide.
"DON'T GO THAT WAY!" he cried out, reaching forward with his gnarled, bony fingers, half a rat's ass sticking out of his mouth. Ryoga blinked.
"E-excuse me?"
"*Never* go that way!" Ryoga, not sure of what to do, just sort of stood there, feeling the vultures pecking at his yellow socks, which stylishly co- ordinated with his yellow laces, yellow sweater, yellow (and black) bandana, and the yellow soles of his Wal-Mart purchased Chinese slippers.
"Just come, sit here with me, young man, stay awhile! You must've been on the road for so long, and," he began, smiling a bit, rubbing at his chest, "I can be *very* friendly."
His face draining of all colour, the Lost Boy's eyes widened substantially before he took off down the road like a wingless parakeet out of hell. Because frankly, why would bats want out of hell? I mean, it's all nice and dark down there, and quite warm and cozy, from what I hear of it. Ryoga looked more like a wingless parakeet anyway, what with all the yellow on him and the fact that he is, indeed, wingless.
The man watched him go, making a sound not unlike that a chicken would make whilst it's being strangled by a cat in heat.
"I told him not to go that way. He's going straight into that horrible Nerima place. . . oh, but he'll be back. They *always* come back."
With a loud, ridiculously phlegm-covered laugh, the man threw his head back and. . . um, laughed.
~*@@ YET ANOTHER SWIRLY SCENE CHANGE!! @@*~
He looked all around him, biting his lip as he did so; strands of ebon hair flowed around him, gracing his shoulders, his green eyes barely peeking out from behind his thick lenses that rested on his face. Though his vision was slightly blurred, it wasn't so horrible that he couldn't see if anyone was in the immediate vicinity or not, for what he required to do need complete and utter aloneness.
The Chinese boy snuck over to the doorway of his room (barely redecorated linen closet), looking out - indeed, no one was to be seen in the sliver of a hallway that sat before him like a splinter sticking up from an unstained deck in the millions of suburban backyards in homes that he could never, ever hope to afford in his immediate lifetime.
Sighing gently at this train of thought, Mousse turned back around, leaving the door to his closet room open. Stepping around his pristinely made bed, he made his way over to the small, overturned milk carton that also doubled for a desk of sorts; atop it sat what may or may not have been the oldest machine ever known to mankind. Dusty and dirty and in need of repair, it stared up expectantly at Mousse.
He knew what to do.
Clothed in only his boxers, the half-naked boy moved over to a pile of clothing in the corner of his room, running a hand through his shiny-yet- not-oily hair that needed about half a bottle of conditioner a day in order to keep its healthy looking sheen. His boxers, which had ridiculous- looking smiley faces all over the material, shifted against his relatively pale skin, well-toned muscles moving beneath the thin undergarments.
Mousse reached under the pile of laundry he really needed to do sometime this week, searching for it. He remembered putting it under his stuff so that no one else could see it, and that he would recall where he had placed it. It was far too rare an item to lose. His hands dove into his pile of soon-to-be-washed clothes, rummaging for that special something. . .
Ah hah! His hands closed around the thin, square object, pulling it out with a smile. Yes, here it was, all ready for him to go! Happily, he walked back over to the old doohickey perched atop the rickety Parmalait crate that he had found off the back of a truck. So it was old, big deal - the only thing that mattered was that it worked.
And work.
It did.
His fingers nimbly slipped into the jacket of the skinny, square thing in his hands, pulling out the large, black vinyl disk inside. He put it on the turntable of the old record player before him, switching it on, listening as it whirred to life. Smiling to himself and watching the record spinning before him, he placed the needle on the vinyl, hearing the static as the record began to play.
Mousse stood up, closing his eyes, stretching his arms above his head, going over to stand in front of his open doorway. He had to be in the right state of mind to do this, and he was just reaching his state of nirvana, not to be confused with the band of the same name.
The music began, piano hammering out on the opening chords.
~Da na na na NA NA NA NA!~
Smiling widely, he slid across the wood of the hall, listening to the sound of his bare feet against the scratchy floorboards as the piano paused for a beat.
~Da na na na NA NA NA NA!~
Then. . . the lyrics.
~Just take those old records off the shelf,
I sit and listen to them by myself!
Today's music ain't got the same soul -
I like that old time a-rock 'n roll!~
He danced sporadically to the American song that blared (well. . . churned weakly, really) from the record player in his room. His limb movements were reminiscent of patients in a mental ward after receiving electric shock therapy, however Mousse did not care. He was in his happy place, flailing about madly like horribly deformed fish out of water.
~Don't try to take me to a dis-co, You'll never even get me out on the floor, In ten minutes I'll be late for the door, I like that old time a-rock 'n roll!~
In fact, he even began to sing along in poorly accented English.
"Jas layke that ole tiyame lock in loll! That kind of mooseek jus soothe tha soa! I lemonees abow tha dayes of ole! Weeth that ole tiyame lock in loll!" To the untrained ear, he sounded as if he had wisely stuck his tongue in a toaster; however, it was really the fact that Mousse only *kind of* knew the weird, English words to the American song. Alas, he sounded very much like an Engrish spokesman on or severely in need of drugs. Come on, he's fluent in both Japanese *and* Chinese, give the kid a break.
Which is exactly what the impending staircase before Mousse attempted to do. "Dancing" as he was down the hallways and singing along to the gaijin words, Mousse was not exactly aware of exactly how close the proximity was from his a-stompin' feet to the a-waitin' stairs. The young Chinese lad in a state of near orgasmic thrashing and whirling continued to make his erratic way towards the stairwell, which was, in all likelihood, contemplating ways in which to inflict pain upon random people involving an asthmatic puffer and a well placed cantaloupe.
Sadly, it would never, ever have the chance, considering it was an inanimate fixture of the severely fire hazardous restaurant. That, and it was about to be rudely defiled by the tight, lean body of a scantily clad Asian man who wasn't terribly aware of his surroundings.
"Caw me a reric, caw me what you weer! Say I'm ole fashawn say I'm ovah tha hee! Tahday's moosek ain't gaw tha sayame soh! Ah layke that ole tiyam lock in lo-HUAH!" With his feet tripping out from under him after taking a dubious step forward, Mousse fell as gracefully as an obese plumber doing the squats to a Richard Simmons video. His black hair and frantically waving arms flying around him, his feet found no hold as they were swept out right under him by his own discordant accord. Down the stairs he toppled, making various, surprised grunts and high-pitched whines as he did so, thumping all the way.
~Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump!~
Normal people, many of them consuming the various Oriental foodstuffs, found themselves confused, and intrigued, and the younger/more open ones strangely aroused by the tough, smacking sounds that were definitely coming closer to the floor of the café, originating from the stairwell. Heads turned, conversations were cut short, break-ups and marriage proposals were put on hold, galaxies formed and imploded, and somewhere, somehow, a starving old man living atop a mountain with a herd of billy goats and his Pokemon card collection discovered the meaning of life. For a hint, it involves the original Batman theme song.
The quick, hard staccato sound of Mousse's body pounding and tumbling against the stairs certainly drew the attention of those seated and, of course, working currently in the restaurant area below. Shampoo, who had just exited the kitchen with a tray of various noodle products, looked towards the stairwell in a mixture of bemusement and annoyance.
"Aiya. . ." she whispered under her breath, anger beginning to etch itself onto her lovely face as she saw exactly who it was that dared to topple down the stairs at such speeds. The stairs spit Mousse out onto the floor of the Nekohanten, practically spread eagle on the hard surface of the ground, looking rather dazed and confused, like the movie of the same name. Nearby, a saucy young woman who was looking at the skin-tastic Mousse whispered to her equally saucy young woman friends, "Can I order *that?*"
Shampoo, looking very much like death eating a cracker, angrily slammed her tray of noodley goodness down on a table full of typical middle-aged business associates, who were balding, had 2.5 kids and were most likely going to die of a heart attack by the time they were 45. Spits of broth from the orders of udon soup on the tray splashed up onto the overworked, underpaid businessmen. Nobody really cared in the end.
"What stupid Mousse think he doing?!" Shampoo yelled in her copyrighted, patented, pidgin Japanese. Her voice shrieked across the not-so-wide expanse of the restaurant as she stomped towards the hapless boy lying on the ground. Bob Seger could still be heard chugging away upstairs, with "Old Time Rock & Roll" dying away slowly, much like Mousse feared he would be doing in the near future once Shampoo got her dainty little murdering hands on him.
"Sh-Shampoo!" he cried out, beginning to pick himself off of the floor, "I w-was just c-c-coming down to w-work, really my l-love!" She can tell he's lying, 'cause when he's replyin', stutter stutter, st-st-stutter, stutter. Damn that radio station in the background interrupting with the narrative. . .
"Shampoo just so sure!" the girl yelled back, sounding like a pissed off version of Disco Stu with her third-person references. For good measure, she kicked him one in his abdomen, causing the poor boy to recoil and gasp in pain. He looked up at her with pleading, slightly fuzzy green eyes, his bangs hanging cutely in his face.
"B-but Shampoo, I love you. . ."
The entire restaurant echoed with an 'Awww. . .' as the words left Mousse's mouth, some of the more romantic ladies (and gentlemen wearing silk panties) sighing wistfully.
However, there were other opinions to be had, as there always are in this day and age. A rather large woman wearing a once-baggy sweater stood up, as a random man with a microphone went up to her.
"You should leave his ass, honey! Just 'cause he says he loves you don't mean it give him the right to skip out on all the work!" she proclaimed into the microphone, snapping her fingers as she did so. The rest of the customers in the restaurant began to clap their hands and hoot in acknowledgement of this unknown woman. Yet another patron raised her hand. The mysterious man who held the speaking object went over to her table, where the new speaker was seated with three men who looked like they'd rather be somewhere else.
"Yeah, you go girl! Show him the girl power like it ain't no thang!" Again, this woman (who was not black, as it so happened) had her statement met by another round of applause. Mousse looked mortified and confused as to how such groupies managed to convene all in one place that was neither Oprah or the Jerry Springer show. Another mystery of life.
Shampoo nodded her head, huffing slightly as she glared back down at Mousse.
"Stupid duck boy what go put robe on and march out door! Shampoo no want see Mousse until he ready to come to sense and work again!" Mousse's eyes widened in horror.
"But Shampoo, I *am* ready to work, h-honestly!"
"Shut his ass *down*, girlfriend!" another spectator commented.
"Oh for the love of. . ." Mousse breathed, ready to crush, kill and destroy the customers if one more idiot spoke up.
"Mousse no talk! Stupid duck boy get out - Shampoo no want see you for three day!" Mousse couldn't help but blink.
"Why three days?"
Shampoo seemed to be more enraged, and as such, kicked him once again, which was met by a round of applause from the idiots sitting at the various tables. One other audience member yelled out "Give him the chair!", but as fate would have it, Shampoo could not hear such a sentence.
Mousse decided at this juncture, he would be a true man, and take the true man's way out of this. Taking a deep breath, he slowly stood up to full height, staring directly at Shampoo, his head held high. He took a solid step forward, and. . .
. . . promptly turned to his side and raced up the stairs, grabbing one of the pairs of pants and his robe on the floor of his room, and dashed back down equally as fast, stopping suddenly in front of Shampoo, his eyes still begging and so deliciously deep.
"Shampoo, if you reconsi-"
"OUT!!"
Without another word, Mousse dashed for the doorway, running out of the café and into the streets, the door slamming shut behind him. The crowd roared at this, and Shampoo crossed her arms over her ungodly sized chest, looking proud of herself. The random man with the microphone turned to those sitting at the tables, holding cue cards in his hands.
"Now for my final thought of the show; to make a relationship work, whether in romance or in a restaurant workplace, both people have to truly work at it. I think what we saw here was a case of unwillingness on both partners' parts to accept each other, and their responsibilities. In the end, all it can do is hurt them, and those around them. I'm Jeri Sepuringa, goodnight everyone." Applause sounded immediately after this.
Outside the restaurant doors, Mousse felt dejected, every clap of the restaurant customers' hands sending sharp pains through his heart. It also may have been from the hard kick Shampoo had given him, and the strain was from breathing, but anything was possible, really.
Feeling alone and sad and missing his Bob Seger record already, Mousse dejectedly began to walk down the street, his one arm holding his bundle of clothes that he knew he should really put on in the near future. He realized this especially when a car stopped suddenly in the road to stare at him, causing the car behind that one to crash immediately into it, and the car behind *that* one to crash right into the second car, and for all three of them to burst spontaneously into flames.
~*@@ AREN'T YOU GETTING DIZZY YET? @@*~
She was laughing madly, despite the fact she really wasn't mad at anything at all, so the statement naturally couldn't apply to her. She sat on her throne, the sound welling up from deep within her gut as she stared ahead, feeling so dastardly evil that it was damned good.
"Yes!" she exclaimed, leaning forward, her black dress flowing around her as she did so, "soon we shall be within the orbit of. . . of. . ." She trailed off, blinking once. She bit her lip in thought, furrowing her eyebrows, her dark eyes focused on trying to remember a sort of important detail. The woman, her mirth now gone, sighed irately.
"SQUIDLEY!" she called out at the top of her lungs, crossing her legs, pounding on the arm of her black and red throne chair. The cushion under her bum, not to mention, was rather comfortable. The crown atop of her head, which was adorned with dark, glistening jewels, shifting a bit in her flowing, inky black tresses. The woman, obviously of importance if she was wearing a crown and sitting on a comfortable throne and laughing evilly, gazed around the dark interior of her super duper importantly important throne room of *death*. It consisted of her chair, and some random pumpkin masks she had stolen one year from unsuspecting young children in the spirit of Halloween.
"Squidley, where *are* you??" she demanded, looking around angrily once more. The woman in the dress huffed, her ruby red lips twisting in anger. Time for a different tactic.
"REPTILE!!" she screeched, pounding once more on the armrest of her chair, which, this time, broke off.
"Shit, not again. . ." she muttered, watching as the piece of wood and crazy glue fell dully to the linoleum floor. Her ears pricked up as she heard the distinct sound of feet against cheap tiles making their way towards her super duper importantly important throne room of *death*; the doors at the far end of the dark, barren place opened, shedding a little bit of light into it. The woman on the throne cared not for it, but knew she had to put up with it in order to take care of business.
Silhouetted in the light was the figure of a rapidly approaching man, scurrying forward, his arms behind his back in a gesture of humbleness whilst in the presence of the woman sitting currently on the throne before him.
"Reptile, what took you so long?" she ordered of the man who knelt quickly before her. The man's expression was almost unreadable as he looked up at her; this may or may not have been due to the fact that half his face was covered by a ninja mask. He shifted in his place, the frilly pink apron he wore over his ninja suit making him feel absolutely ridiculous. If one were to study this man further, they would come to the conclusion that he was indeed Reptile from the Mortal Kombat video games. However, he was wearing a frilly pink apron, so of course, he was not.
. . . or *was* he?
"Sorry, your Queenliness. I was attending to other duties." The queen scoffed.
"And what duty is more important than coming at my every call and whim?"
"Piloting the ship, your Queenliness."
"You could put it on automatic pilot."
"He deflated last week, your Queenliness."
"Hmm. . . yes, I *have* noticed a drop in altitude and my circulation lately. Don't be so lazy, Reptile."
"Yes, your Queenliness." The queen, whom was referred to as, obviously, your Queenliness, sighed, sitting back in her throne.
"Reptile, I demand you bring me Squidley! I need to consult him on a most important matter!" The man kneeling in front of the queen rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. He brought out his arms from behind his back, presenting the woman with what appeared to be a relatively small, bloated, and quite presumably dead squid in his hands.
"I presumed from you calls before that you would be looking for it, and-"
"*Him*, Reptile! *Him!*"
". . . I presumed you would be looking for *him*, your Queenliness, and as such, I brought. . ." He sighed once more. ". . . *him*. . . for you." The queen squealed in delight, taking the squid from Reptile's hands and holding the thing in her own gloved ones, cuddling it close to her face.
"Good jorb, Reptile! You may help yourself to a cookie from the cookie jar. All we have left are Viva Puffs, but they are the caramel kind. I know how much you love caramel."
"Um, actually, your Queenliness, I ha-" She began to look angry once more.
"I said, *you love caramel!*" There was a long, and very distinct pause, during which Reptile rolled his eyes once more, visualizing sweet fantasies that involved gore and a lot of acid.
"Thank you, your Queenliness. I love caramel Viva Puffs."
"Of course you do, Reptile. Now run along and fly our little ship." With that, the man stood up, straightening out his ridiculously magenta apron, muttering death threats under his breath as he turned around, stalking out of the cheaply built super duper importantly important throne room of *death*. Construction paper pumpkins looked on forbodingly.
The Lizard Queen (for that was her name, wouldn't you know it) paid no heed to any of this, for she now had her dear right hand man back with her, and such consulting was needed that it wasn't even funny.
"Squidley, I need to know what planet it is that we're invading. The name has temporarily slipped my mind." She held the squid up to her ear, listening intently. Silence reigned supreme in the room.
"Earth! That's right, how could I have forgotten? You're such a good evil assistant, did you know that Squidley? I'll have to get you some caramel Viva Puffs before the day is out, yes I will!" The Lizard Queen cleared her throat.
"For soon," she began, her voice turning (somewhat) menacing, staring at the front of the room where, if there was a camera, she would be looking straight at it, "Earth shall be in our grasp! Forever will it be a slave to. . ."
There was a dramatic pause.
"The kingdom of Badworld! No one shall be able to stop us! NO ONE! BWA HA HA HA HA - laugh with me Squidley - HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!"
The dark and evil ship continued to approach the unsuspecting people of Earth, who were too damned busy on their cell phones or downloading internet pornography to really care.
Ah, but perhaps The Lizard Queen was wrong. There were people capable of stopping the kingdom of Badworld from overtaking the Earth. . .
. . . but could they be awakened in time?
~(cue up philharmonic band in pit)~
DUN DUN DUN!!!
~*~*~*~*~
. . . yeah. That's basically a taste of what's to come. You kids have fun now, and please remember that this really isn't supposed to make a terrible amount of sense. I really like reviews, too! =D Praise and constructive criticism are very welcome, and if you seriously feel the need to flame, at least leave your e-mail address for Chrissakes so I can get back to you on that. Thank you, come again.
PS: I know the formatting's kind of screwed. I've yet to figure out Word on my Mac. God help us all. x_x
~Chibikat
Of course, one can't really go on a murdering spree with a foam axe, so in the end she failed. Failed miserably.
. . . oh yeah, I don't own these characters! =D
Rating: For now, I'm giving it PG-13, however I'm sure I'll manage to jack it up to R once I'm through with this baby. Why? Because. . . I can.
Dedicated To: Louise. This one's for you. ^_~
Author's Notes: Here in front of you is the result of hanging around my friend Louise, ingesting an appalling amount of cola products (well, I did. Louise just drank milk. . . . yeah. O_o), running around Wal-Mart with only a twoonie in my pocket, and a song in my heart! (Those who are not Canadian may not know the joys of the twoonie. It is a two-dollar coin with a bear on it that looks like somebody took a washer and stuck a hunk of gold in the middle. Yay Canada.) Oh, and of course Tania. Dear, sweet Tania and her genius parodies of X-Men and Harry Potter. She owns me. Owns me like a pimp.
Anyhoo. This is basically a parody of your run-of-the-mill Sailor Moon/Ranma 1/2 crossovers that are horribly, terribly done. Except, of course, this parody is also horribly, terribly done, but in a far more different way. You'll see. Oh how you'll see.
Unless, of course, you've stopped reading by now. In that case, I could put whatever the hell I want here, like purple berries squeeze out of you the joys of knowing macaroni the wombat cries, cries for its Sephiroth, saying "WHY SEPHIROTH, WHY?!?" because it could never be with him, due to him being a wombat and Sephiroth being a human male. The concept of procreation would simply be mind-boggling.
. . . and now that I'm sure nobody is reading this, on with the show! =D
Quick Additional Note: This isn't meant to be offensive to anybody, FYI. This is all just in good, sick, demented, fun.
So here begins your journey into the madness of the mind, the superfluous syndicated story, the ambiguous. . . I don't know what. . . of-!
~*~
(Insert Title Here)
~*~
~This story is about love.
Not just any love, however; not the love between a newlywed couple, not the love between two best friends, not even the love between a man and a tall, cool glass of Heineken (and especially not that lite crap, either). No, this story is about a *different* kind of love - the kind of love that makes you want to jump, run, skip, and draw on the walls with crayons. The kind of love that is so awe-inspiring, so completely encompassing, so unbelievably, undeniably, irrepressibly, unconventionally, inquisitively, flatulently, unreliably, gorgeously, increasingly cost effectively large that it is indescribable.
So I won't even try.
But I did draw on the walls with crayons, and lo, it was very, very beautiful. There was a sun, and a house, and stick figures, and everything - not to mention the alligator that sits outside of my window, staring at me. Always staring, constantly its eyes bore into my body as I approach the expanse of window that rests within the wall of my room. It watches me, studying my every move.
Perhaps. . . it feels the love too. . . or perhaps it is waiting for its chance to strike, and gut me like the flopping fish that I am. Flop. . . flop. . . flop. . .~
"Argh, no no NO!" the boy yelled, scribbling madly upon his page with hard, angered strokes, attempting to send his words into oblivion with his ballpoint pen. He fumed, running a hand through his chestnut-coloured hair, sighing deeply.
Tatewaki Kuno, aged 17, was trying to write something beautiful and poetic, and it ended up sounding psychotic and with major leanings towards bestiality.
'Great', he thought, throwing the pad of paper and his pen into a corner of his domicile, 'now how shall I profess my undying love for both Akane Tendo and the Pigtailed Girl?' He paced the length of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, managing to cover the line of man-cleavage that could always be seen through the part in his yukata top.
Kuno found that, lately, when he had tried to sit down and write his incredibly moving and breathtaking sonnets and poems, all that he came up with was ideas that somehow managed to completely miss the point of what he was trying to say, and end up sounding a bit on the insane side. Not that he didn't do that often, but this time, it was profoundly *different*.
Something fierce was giving him writer's block, and his normal methods for dispelling the loathsome affliction had not worked. That day alone, he had gone outside to his backyard, set up his giant poster of the horrid sorcerer Ranma Saotome and pummeled it ruthlessly with his dear, sweet bokken, whom he had come to affectionately refer to as. . . Mr. Bokken. Alas, even after such a workout and the extended use of Mr. Bokken, the words that normally flowed out of him like so much water at the wet t-shirt contest down at the local strip club (that he did *not* sneak into frequently, thank you very much) simply refused to be brought forth and penned, penned for the world to see!
It simply would not do. Oh! Perhaps he could traverse over to the Tendo abode, and grace both his loves with his presence! Surely the words would come out better from his own tongue than the mouth of a lowly, ink-ly challenged pen made by that devious Bic company. Those Bic products were not to be trusted. . . he remembered once, not a terribly long while ago, when he was grievously accosted by one of their so-called "shaving" razors.
He would have his revenge. Oh yes. . . soon. . .
Kuno shook his head. Now was not the time to be plotting his glorious triumph over the weapons which had caused his features to suffer through the tortures of razor burn, and those annoyingly tiny nicks that he was forced to put small chunks of toilet paper over to stop them from bleeding! For now was the time of love! And love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!
He giggled to himself, and it was extremely disturbing. You see, there was a reason that the great Blue Thunder did not giggle in public; it was mostly due to the fact that seeing a boy - nay, a *man* - of Kuno's stature and height giggling like a little school girl was at once frightening and strangely entrancing, like seeing a pastor in the local 99 yen porn depot. Which Kuno also never, ever went to.
And lo, with his high-pitched squeal of a laugh, he took off from his room, waving his hands above his head in sheer excitement.
The alligator below his window watched. . . for he was *always* watching.
Always. . . watching. . .
~*@ SWIRLY SCENE CHANGE! @*~
"WHERE ON EARTH AM I *NOW??*" the Lost Boy yelled to the heavens; for he was a boy who was lost, ergo the term of usage being Lost Boy. Sweat dripped down his face, matting his thick black hair down to his forehead. The sun beat down upon his form mercilessly, his tight, black t-shirt damp with perspiration. He weakly shifted the heavy bag on his back as he trudged forward, his movements slow and sluggish.
He had been lost for quite a long time, now. . . usually he would have ended up back in Nerima by this time, however such was not the case. His entire body felt weak from lack of food - when was the last time head eaten? Three days? Maybe four? He couldn't rightly remember; all the days, they began to blend together after a while. All that mattered to him was that he had clothes on his back, and food and water to spare.
Which, of course, he didn't. It posed a serious problem.
He trudged around in his Chinese slippers which, by all means, were incredibly durable, considering they were slippers and he had bought them for the low cost of 900 yen from one of those newfangled Wal-Mart places in a city that may or may not have been Tokyo. He wasn't really sure. In fact. . . he really wasn't sure of much anymore, considering the world around him wouldn't, annoyingly enough, stop spinning.
He ceased motor control in his lower legs, thereby stopping, in the middle of the dirt road, staring at his blurring surroundings. Trees. Rocks. Sky. More rocks. More trees. More sky. An old, mysterious man that bore a striking resemblance to the illicit love child of Santa Claus and Scooby Doo. Yet more rocks.
The Santa/Scooby hybrid look-a-like man saw the tired, young, naïve looking boy who looked as if he would do anything - *anything* - for food, and smiled a smile so wide and with such bucked teeth that he ended up shaving off half his eyebrows in the process. He spoke to him as he stroked his long, dog-fur like grey beard that had been recently hacked at with a knife he found on the ground, which was also purchased from Wal-Mart by an American tourist who may or may not have been named Steve many a year ago.
"Young man!" he called out, his beaver-ish teeth protruding from his mouth like chunks of moldy tofu (or, for you strictly Western-ized people out there, like a pack of Halloween Chiclets) stuck inside some sort of twisted, demented Jello mold, "I say, young man!"
With an astonishingly intelligent yet distinctly non-Canadian 'Eh?,' Ryoga weakly turned his face to the direction of the voice of someone who had far too much time on his hands and far too little money to do anything about it, in order to see what all the commotion was about.
"Santa?" he asked weakly, noting that the jolly fat man before him was not jolly or fat, but did carry the distinct air of a man who liked to have little boys and girls sit on his lap. Ryoga, having a good feeling about this guy, trudged towards him. The suspiciously dog-like man who burst at the seams with tidings of great joy scratched at his vaguely chest area, where curly and thick hairs protruded from the top of his beat-up t-shirt that proudly read "BORN TO BOOGIE" in large letters. Mustard, ketchup, beer, and disturbingly unidentifiable stains littered said shirt, and his pants were kept up by a hefty piece of rope that was frayed at the ends.
"Were you talking to me?" Ryoga asked, feeling hunger swirl in his stomach and lint balls roll around his brainpan. The pack on his back suddenly seemed much heavier than before; it must've been a combination of the oppressive hunger, thirst, sleep deprivation, and the vulture that had landed neatly on it, pecking at the back of Ryoga's neck. The Lost Boy swatted it away, where it landed across the road, looking at Ryoga with appraising, scavenger eyes. It made sense, considering vultures are, by nature, scavengers, waiting to leech off the dead, the dying, the stupid, and whatever they could get their mouths on - much like those contestants on Joe Millionaire. Which Ryoga never watched. For he hated all those reality shows, and they had nothing to do with martial arts, or contained a speck of interest or intelligence. They were all terribly contrived and annoying: shows like Fear Factor, and Survivor, and Temptation Island, and The Bachelorette which he had missed goddammit because he got lost before it came on!! Now he would never know if she gave that Ryan character the boot. . .
The strange, old, yultidely gay man was still staring at him. Shaking his head and nearly collapsing due to such a strenuous effort, Ryoga forced his thoughts away from the reality TV shows, which he absolutely did not watch or had previously participated in. The only reason he was ever on Survivor: Thailand was because he had gotten lost and ended up there.
Yes. *Lost.*
. . . why was the old man who just called him over still staring at him like that?
"Uh. . . hey, mister?" Ryoga inquired once more, looking ready to pass out. The man blinked in a way that reminded Ryoga of geckos, and smiled once more, however not nearly as wide as before, so as not to devour his nose and eyeballs in the immediate process.
"Hello there, young man!" the geezer said, his voice reminiscent of a Teflon frying pan being scratched at by an overeager child with scissors they had just finished proudly running with. He hacked and coughed soon after, phlegm spitting everywhere. Immediately after *that*, the old man took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up, took a drag, exhaled, and spluttered once more, with more phlegm splattering on the ground.
"Those'll kill you, you know," Ryoga pointed out helpfully to the man before him. He took an indignant drag of the little stick of chemicals.
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, you're not my wife!" he rambled, gesticulating with long, gnarled fingers and hands that were half-purple due to horrendous circulation. He then shot a look up at Ryoga.
"Unless you *are*. . ."
"Um-"
"Machiko, I knew you would come back to me!" he cried with joy, springing up to his feet. Which, in old people's terms, was really slowly making their way to their feet, listening to their kneecaps pop back into place, and various grinding noises from God only knew what. Indeed, no longer was this man "Born to Boogie", as his shirt said. Ryoga took a cautious step back, his eyes widening slightly.
"I'm not your wife, whoever you are!" The old man's face immediately fell.
"You mean you've found someone else?!" he wailed, hobbling backwards, his face a mix of horror and shame, "Was it because of my gambling debts?? Or because of that fling I had with that well-hung stable boy wh-"
"I'M NOT MACHIKO!" the Lost Boy yelled at him, really, *really* not wanting to hear the rest of the scary man's tale. He held his hands in front of him, hoping the man would keep his distance.
In turn, the senile old bat wagged his tailbone that, by all means, *was* a tail, and calmed down somewhat.
"Oh. Well then, young man, good to know," he said, straightening out his disgustingly stained shirt, and taking his place back at the side of the road, sitting. He looked down.
"So, you hungry? I've got a nice collection of rats I found out in the desert, if'n you want some good vittles," he said proudly, digging around his pockets. Ryoga, not wanting to acknowledge the fact that almost anything with meat on it seemed good right about now, shook his head no, still keeping his distance a ways away from the man who was originally Born to Boogie. The man took Ryoga's silence as an answer.
"No? Well, more for me, then!" he exclaimed, taking a honking big chunk out of the unsuspecting cooked rat's body. Ryoga made a face of disgust, backing up once more.
"Uh, l-listen, thanks but, ah, no thanks, I'm just gonna be on my way, okay?" Ryoga stammered out, backing away slowly, making sure not to make any sudden movements, lest the crazy man who eats rats tried to come after him. The dog/man/thing looked at Ryoga, his eyes wide.
"DON'T GO THAT WAY!" he cried out, reaching forward with his gnarled, bony fingers, half a rat's ass sticking out of his mouth. Ryoga blinked.
"E-excuse me?"
"*Never* go that way!" Ryoga, not sure of what to do, just sort of stood there, feeling the vultures pecking at his yellow socks, which stylishly co- ordinated with his yellow laces, yellow sweater, yellow (and black) bandana, and the yellow soles of his Wal-Mart purchased Chinese slippers.
"Just come, sit here with me, young man, stay awhile! You must've been on the road for so long, and," he began, smiling a bit, rubbing at his chest, "I can be *very* friendly."
His face draining of all colour, the Lost Boy's eyes widened substantially before he took off down the road like a wingless parakeet out of hell. Because frankly, why would bats want out of hell? I mean, it's all nice and dark down there, and quite warm and cozy, from what I hear of it. Ryoga looked more like a wingless parakeet anyway, what with all the yellow on him and the fact that he is, indeed, wingless.
The man watched him go, making a sound not unlike that a chicken would make whilst it's being strangled by a cat in heat.
"I told him not to go that way. He's going straight into that horrible Nerima place. . . oh, but he'll be back. They *always* come back."
With a loud, ridiculously phlegm-covered laugh, the man threw his head back and. . . um, laughed.
~*@@ YET ANOTHER SWIRLY SCENE CHANGE!! @@*~
He looked all around him, biting his lip as he did so; strands of ebon hair flowed around him, gracing his shoulders, his green eyes barely peeking out from behind his thick lenses that rested on his face. Though his vision was slightly blurred, it wasn't so horrible that he couldn't see if anyone was in the immediate vicinity or not, for what he required to do need complete and utter aloneness.
The Chinese boy snuck over to the doorway of his room (barely redecorated linen closet), looking out - indeed, no one was to be seen in the sliver of a hallway that sat before him like a splinter sticking up from an unstained deck in the millions of suburban backyards in homes that he could never, ever hope to afford in his immediate lifetime.
Sighing gently at this train of thought, Mousse turned back around, leaving the door to his closet room open. Stepping around his pristinely made bed, he made his way over to the small, overturned milk carton that also doubled for a desk of sorts; atop it sat what may or may not have been the oldest machine ever known to mankind. Dusty and dirty and in need of repair, it stared up expectantly at Mousse.
He knew what to do.
Clothed in only his boxers, the half-naked boy moved over to a pile of clothing in the corner of his room, running a hand through his shiny-yet- not-oily hair that needed about half a bottle of conditioner a day in order to keep its healthy looking sheen. His boxers, which had ridiculous- looking smiley faces all over the material, shifted against his relatively pale skin, well-toned muscles moving beneath the thin undergarments.
Mousse reached under the pile of laundry he really needed to do sometime this week, searching for it. He remembered putting it under his stuff so that no one else could see it, and that he would recall where he had placed it. It was far too rare an item to lose. His hands dove into his pile of soon-to-be-washed clothes, rummaging for that special something. . .
Ah hah! His hands closed around the thin, square object, pulling it out with a smile. Yes, here it was, all ready for him to go! Happily, he walked back over to the old doohickey perched atop the rickety Parmalait crate that he had found off the back of a truck. So it was old, big deal - the only thing that mattered was that it worked.
And work.
It did.
His fingers nimbly slipped into the jacket of the skinny, square thing in his hands, pulling out the large, black vinyl disk inside. He put it on the turntable of the old record player before him, switching it on, listening as it whirred to life. Smiling to himself and watching the record spinning before him, he placed the needle on the vinyl, hearing the static as the record began to play.
Mousse stood up, closing his eyes, stretching his arms above his head, going over to stand in front of his open doorway. He had to be in the right state of mind to do this, and he was just reaching his state of nirvana, not to be confused with the band of the same name.
The music began, piano hammering out on the opening chords.
~Da na na na NA NA NA NA!~
Smiling widely, he slid across the wood of the hall, listening to the sound of his bare feet against the scratchy floorboards as the piano paused for a beat.
~Da na na na NA NA NA NA!~
Then. . . the lyrics.
~Just take those old records off the shelf,
I sit and listen to them by myself!
Today's music ain't got the same soul -
I like that old time a-rock 'n roll!~
He danced sporadically to the American song that blared (well. . . churned weakly, really) from the record player in his room. His limb movements were reminiscent of patients in a mental ward after receiving electric shock therapy, however Mousse did not care. He was in his happy place, flailing about madly like horribly deformed fish out of water.
~Don't try to take me to a dis-co, You'll never even get me out on the floor, In ten minutes I'll be late for the door, I like that old time a-rock 'n roll!~
In fact, he even began to sing along in poorly accented English.
"Jas layke that ole tiyame lock in loll! That kind of mooseek jus soothe tha soa! I lemonees abow tha dayes of ole! Weeth that ole tiyame lock in loll!" To the untrained ear, he sounded as if he had wisely stuck his tongue in a toaster; however, it was really the fact that Mousse only *kind of* knew the weird, English words to the American song. Alas, he sounded very much like an Engrish spokesman on or severely in need of drugs. Come on, he's fluent in both Japanese *and* Chinese, give the kid a break.
Which is exactly what the impending staircase before Mousse attempted to do. "Dancing" as he was down the hallways and singing along to the gaijin words, Mousse was not exactly aware of exactly how close the proximity was from his a-stompin' feet to the a-waitin' stairs. The young Chinese lad in a state of near orgasmic thrashing and whirling continued to make his erratic way towards the stairwell, which was, in all likelihood, contemplating ways in which to inflict pain upon random people involving an asthmatic puffer and a well placed cantaloupe.
Sadly, it would never, ever have the chance, considering it was an inanimate fixture of the severely fire hazardous restaurant. That, and it was about to be rudely defiled by the tight, lean body of a scantily clad Asian man who wasn't terribly aware of his surroundings.
"Caw me a reric, caw me what you weer! Say I'm ole fashawn say I'm ovah tha hee! Tahday's moosek ain't gaw tha sayame soh! Ah layke that ole tiyam lock in lo-HUAH!" With his feet tripping out from under him after taking a dubious step forward, Mousse fell as gracefully as an obese plumber doing the squats to a Richard Simmons video. His black hair and frantically waving arms flying around him, his feet found no hold as they were swept out right under him by his own discordant accord. Down the stairs he toppled, making various, surprised grunts and high-pitched whines as he did so, thumping all the way.
~Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump!~
Normal people, many of them consuming the various Oriental foodstuffs, found themselves confused, and intrigued, and the younger/more open ones strangely aroused by the tough, smacking sounds that were definitely coming closer to the floor of the café, originating from the stairwell. Heads turned, conversations were cut short, break-ups and marriage proposals were put on hold, galaxies formed and imploded, and somewhere, somehow, a starving old man living atop a mountain with a herd of billy goats and his Pokemon card collection discovered the meaning of life. For a hint, it involves the original Batman theme song.
The quick, hard staccato sound of Mousse's body pounding and tumbling against the stairs certainly drew the attention of those seated and, of course, working currently in the restaurant area below. Shampoo, who had just exited the kitchen with a tray of various noodle products, looked towards the stairwell in a mixture of bemusement and annoyance.
"Aiya. . ." she whispered under her breath, anger beginning to etch itself onto her lovely face as she saw exactly who it was that dared to topple down the stairs at such speeds. The stairs spit Mousse out onto the floor of the Nekohanten, practically spread eagle on the hard surface of the ground, looking rather dazed and confused, like the movie of the same name. Nearby, a saucy young woman who was looking at the skin-tastic Mousse whispered to her equally saucy young woman friends, "Can I order *that?*"
Shampoo, looking very much like death eating a cracker, angrily slammed her tray of noodley goodness down on a table full of typical middle-aged business associates, who were balding, had 2.5 kids and were most likely going to die of a heart attack by the time they were 45. Spits of broth from the orders of udon soup on the tray splashed up onto the overworked, underpaid businessmen. Nobody really cared in the end.
"What stupid Mousse think he doing?!" Shampoo yelled in her copyrighted, patented, pidgin Japanese. Her voice shrieked across the not-so-wide expanse of the restaurant as she stomped towards the hapless boy lying on the ground. Bob Seger could still be heard chugging away upstairs, with "Old Time Rock & Roll" dying away slowly, much like Mousse feared he would be doing in the near future once Shampoo got her dainty little murdering hands on him.
"Sh-Shampoo!" he cried out, beginning to pick himself off of the floor, "I w-was just c-c-coming down to w-work, really my l-love!" She can tell he's lying, 'cause when he's replyin', stutter stutter, st-st-stutter, stutter. Damn that radio station in the background interrupting with the narrative. . .
"Shampoo just so sure!" the girl yelled back, sounding like a pissed off version of Disco Stu with her third-person references. For good measure, she kicked him one in his abdomen, causing the poor boy to recoil and gasp in pain. He looked up at her with pleading, slightly fuzzy green eyes, his bangs hanging cutely in his face.
"B-but Shampoo, I love you. . ."
The entire restaurant echoed with an 'Awww. . .' as the words left Mousse's mouth, some of the more romantic ladies (and gentlemen wearing silk panties) sighing wistfully.
However, there were other opinions to be had, as there always are in this day and age. A rather large woman wearing a once-baggy sweater stood up, as a random man with a microphone went up to her.
"You should leave his ass, honey! Just 'cause he says he loves you don't mean it give him the right to skip out on all the work!" she proclaimed into the microphone, snapping her fingers as she did so. The rest of the customers in the restaurant began to clap their hands and hoot in acknowledgement of this unknown woman. Yet another patron raised her hand. The mysterious man who held the speaking object went over to her table, where the new speaker was seated with three men who looked like they'd rather be somewhere else.
"Yeah, you go girl! Show him the girl power like it ain't no thang!" Again, this woman (who was not black, as it so happened) had her statement met by another round of applause. Mousse looked mortified and confused as to how such groupies managed to convene all in one place that was neither Oprah or the Jerry Springer show. Another mystery of life.
Shampoo nodded her head, huffing slightly as she glared back down at Mousse.
"Stupid duck boy what go put robe on and march out door! Shampoo no want see Mousse until he ready to come to sense and work again!" Mousse's eyes widened in horror.
"But Shampoo, I *am* ready to work, h-honestly!"
"Shut his ass *down*, girlfriend!" another spectator commented.
"Oh for the love of. . ." Mousse breathed, ready to crush, kill and destroy the customers if one more idiot spoke up.
"Mousse no talk! Stupid duck boy get out - Shampoo no want see you for three day!" Mousse couldn't help but blink.
"Why three days?"
Shampoo seemed to be more enraged, and as such, kicked him once again, which was met by a round of applause from the idiots sitting at the various tables. One other audience member yelled out "Give him the chair!", but as fate would have it, Shampoo could not hear such a sentence.
Mousse decided at this juncture, he would be a true man, and take the true man's way out of this. Taking a deep breath, he slowly stood up to full height, staring directly at Shampoo, his head held high. He took a solid step forward, and. . .
. . . promptly turned to his side and raced up the stairs, grabbing one of the pairs of pants and his robe on the floor of his room, and dashed back down equally as fast, stopping suddenly in front of Shampoo, his eyes still begging and so deliciously deep.
"Shampoo, if you reconsi-"
"OUT!!"
Without another word, Mousse dashed for the doorway, running out of the café and into the streets, the door slamming shut behind him. The crowd roared at this, and Shampoo crossed her arms over her ungodly sized chest, looking proud of herself. The random man with the microphone turned to those sitting at the tables, holding cue cards in his hands.
"Now for my final thought of the show; to make a relationship work, whether in romance or in a restaurant workplace, both people have to truly work at it. I think what we saw here was a case of unwillingness on both partners' parts to accept each other, and their responsibilities. In the end, all it can do is hurt them, and those around them. I'm Jeri Sepuringa, goodnight everyone." Applause sounded immediately after this.
Outside the restaurant doors, Mousse felt dejected, every clap of the restaurant customers' hands sending sharp pains through his heart. It also may have been from the hard kick Shampoo had given him, and the strain was from breathing, but anything was possible, really.
Feeling alone and sad and missing his Bob Seger record already, Mousse dejectedly began to walk down the street, his one arm holding his bundle of clothes that he knew he should really put on in the near future. He realized this especially when a car stopped suddenly in the road to stare at him, causing the car behind that one to crash immediately into it, and the car behind *that* one to crash right into the second car, and for all three of them to burst spontaneously into flames.
~*@@ AREN'T YOU GETTING DIZZY YET? @@*~
She was laughing madly, despite the fact she really wasn't mad at anything at all, so the statement naturally couldn't apply to her. She sat on her throne, the sound welling up from deep within her gut as she stared ahead, feeling so dastardly evil that it was damned good.
"Yes!" she exclaimed, leaning forward, her black dress flowing around her as she did so, "soon we shall be within the orbit of. . . of. . ." She trailed off, blinking once. She bit her lip in thought, furrowing her eyebrows, her dark eyes focused on trying to remember a sort of important detail. The woman, her mirth now gone, sighed irately.
"SQUIDLEY!" she called out at the top of her lungs, crossing her legs, pounding on the arm of her black and red throne chair. The cushion under her bum, not to mention, was rather comfortable. The crown atop of her head, which was adorned with dark, glistening jewels, shifting a bit in her flowing, inky black tresses. The woman, obviously of importance if she was wearing a crown and sitting on a comfortable throne and laughing evilly, gazed around the dark interior of her super duper importantly important throne room of *death*. It consisted of her chair, and some random pumpkin masks she had stolen one year from unsuspecting young children in the spirit of Halloween.
"Squidley, where *are* you??" she demanded, looking around angrily once more. The woman in the dress huffed, her ruby red lips twisting in anger. Time for a different tactic.
"REPTILE!!" she screeched, pounding once more on the armrest of her chair, which, this time, broke off.
"Shit, not again. . ." she muttered, watching as the piece of wood and crazy glue fell dully to the linoleum floor. Her ears pricked up as she heard the distinct sound of feet against cheap tiles making their way towards her super duper importantly important throne room of *death*; the doors at the far end of the dark, barren place opened, shedding a little bit of light into it. The woman on the throne cared not for it, but knew she had to put up with it in order to take care of business.
Silhouetted in the light was the figure of a rapidly approaching man, scurrying forward, his arms behind his back in a gesture of humbleness whilst in the presence of the woman sitting currently on the throne before him.
"Reptile, what took you so long?" she ordered of the man who knelt quickly before her. The man's expression was almost unreadable as he looked up at her; this may or may not have been due to the fact that half his face was covered by a ninja mask. He shifted in his place, the frilly pink apron he wore over his ninja suit making him feel absolutely ridiculous. If one were to study this man further, they would come to the conclusion that he was indeed Reptile from the Mortal Kombat video games. However, he was wearing a frilly pink apron, so of course, he was not.
. . . or *was* he?
"Sorry, your Queenliness. I was attending to other duties." The queen scoffed.
"And what duty is more important than coming at my every call and whim?"
"Piloting the ship, your Queenliness."
"You could put it on automatic pilot."
"He deflated last week, your Queenliness."
"Hmm. . . yes, I *have* noticed a drop in altitude and my circulation lately. Don't be so lazy, Reptile."
"Yes, your Queenliness." The queen, whom was referred to as, obviously, your Queenliness, sighed, sitting back in her throne.
"Reptile, I demand you bring me Squidley! I need to consult him on a most important matter!" The man kneeling in front of the queen rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. He brought out his arms from behind his back, presenting the woman with what appeared to be a relatively small, bloated, and quite presumably dead squid in his hands.
"I presumed from you calls before that you would be looking for it, and-"
"*Him*, Reptile! *Him!*"
". . . I presumed you would be looking for *him*, your Queenliness, and as such, I brought. . ." He sighed once more. ". . . *him*. . . for you." The queen squealed in delight, taking the squid from Reptile's hands and holding the thing in her own gloved ones, cuddling it close to her face.
"Good jorb, Reptile! You may help yourself to a cookie from the cookie jar. All we have left are Viva Puffs, but they are the caramel kind. I know how much you love caramel."
"Um, actually, your Queenliness, I ha-" She began to look angry once more.
"I said, *you love caramel!*" There was a long, and very distinct pause, during which Reptile rolled his eyes once more, visualizing sweet fantasies that involved gore and a lot of acid.
"Thank you, your Queenliness. I love caramel Viva Puffs."
"Of course you do, Reptile. Now run along and fly our little ship." With that, the man stood up, straightening out his ridiculously magenta apron, muttering death threats under his breath as he turned around, stalking out of the cheaply built super duper importantly important throne room of *death*. Construction paper pumpkins looked on forbodingly.
The Lizard Queen (for that was her name, wouldn't you know it) paid no heed to any of this, for she now had her dear right hand man back with her, and such consulting was needed that it wasn't even funny.
"Squidley, I need to know what planet it is that we're invading. The name has temporarily slipped my mind." She held the squid up to her ear, listening intently. Silence reigned supreme in the room.
"Earth! That's right, how could I have forgotten? You're such a good evil assistant, did you know that Squidley? I'll have to get you some caramel Viva Puffs before the day is out, yes I will!" The Lizard Queen cleared her throat.
"For soon," she began, her voice turning (somewhat) menacing, staring at the front of the room where, if there was a camera, she would be looking straight at it, "Earth shall be in our grasp! Forever will it be a slave to. . ."
There was a dramatic pause.
"The kingdom of Badworld! No one shall be able to stop us! NO ONE! BWA HA HA HA HA - laugh with me Squidley - HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!"
The dark and evil ship continued to approach the unsuspecting people of Earth, who were too damned busy on their cell phones or downloading internet pornography to really care.
Ah, but perhaps The Lizard Queen was wrong. There were people capable of stopping the kingdom of Badworld from overtaking the Earth. . .
. . . but could they be awakened in time?
~(cue up philharmonic band in pit)~
DUN DUN DUN!!!
~*~*~*~*~
. . . yeah. That's basically a taste of what's to come. You kids have fun now, and please remember that this really isn't supposed to make a terrible amount of sense. I really like reviews, too! =D Praise and constructive criticism are very welcome, and if you seriously feel the need to flame, at least leave your e-mail address for Chrissakes so I can get back to you on that. Thank you, come again.
PS: I know the formatting's kind of screwed. I've yet to figure out Word on my Mac. God help us all. x_x
~Chibikat