We last left the Nagi Family Soap Opera Sitcom with a homicidal telekinetic ready to maim himself just to purge his innocent and bewildered mind from the horrible, horrible, horrible images the bastard Schuldig had planted into them. Recap: Nagi. Handcuffs. Takatori.
I think this is justification for honorable suicide, wouldn't you agree?
Ugh.
Just when I was getting that off my mind, Schuldig made a comment about Farfarello's God fetish and its relation to the Pope. I thought wrinkles: wrinkles like prunes shriveling into raisins; wrinkles like Takatori's grandmother with a chin that sagged to where her breasts should be and breasts that sagged to where her knees should be and knees... well, let's just say I didn't know knees could sag until I met that old fossil.
Stupid Farfarello, I thought. Its all his fault. And it was easier to blame him then to go after Schuldig. One, because Schuldig knew when you were angsting over him and could use it against you; two, because Farfarello was an easy target. He grin and bared most of the abuse we heaped on him.
In fact, I think he liked it.
And bang, sharp corner around the hall and I'm suddenly nose to chest with the before mentioned psychopath. Farfarello had been coming from the kitchen, probably heard me scream at Schuldig and wanted to investigate.
He stared down at me with that gold raptor eye, that gaze that sent a dozen other assassins whimpering to their deaths because they were too frozen with fear to dodge him and his impressive collection of sharp pointy objects. That gaze that had bathed in blood and lapped it up laughing a dozen times over. That gaze that looked into the depths of hell's nine levels and... Well, you get the picture.
He might have been a little more intimidating if he didn't have a whip cream can shoved in his mouth like a baby bottle.
"Farf." I snapped, I had to keep from flinching at the tone. Cracked voice, damn puberty. Whatever. I snapped the can away from him and wagged my finger. "That's gross."
His head tilted to the side as his mind tried to process what I was telling him. "No it's not. It taste good. Here. Try." He took the can back and held the nozzle close to my mouth, I batted his hands away.
"No, now it has Farfie Germs. What have I told you about licking things you're suppose to share?"
"Yah, Farfie. You don't want to give us all AIDs, right?" Schuldig glided by hand settling on both our heads to give us a nice playful pat. For a split second my face and Farfarello's mimed twin expressions of grimaces.
"Liar." Farfarello snorted, looking dejected. "You're the diseased one. I'm just crazy."
Schuldig pulled a compact from his jeans - yes, Schuldig wore make-up, quite a lot of it. He just wore it in a way that you couldn't tell. Facial enhancement or something - and checked his hair. "Hah, with all that blood of the innocent guzzling I'd think you would have caught *something* by now, crucifix boy. And don't call me diseased, I'm very selective about who I rape."
In response, Farfarello tilted his head back, loaded his mouth with whipped cream, let it swish around in his cheeks for awhile, and stuck his tongue out at Schuldig. The German laughed and I began ranting at both of them like the bitch mother hen I was - when Crawford wasn't home to do it himself.
"And what a good bitch you make." Schuldig cooed. He reached forward to pinch my cheeks but pulled back when he caught the image of me sending his sexy dolled up telepathic ass soaring into the night from the living room window... right into heavy traffic.
It was nice to know he still had some instincts of self-preservation... the threat wouldn't have worked on Farf.
I got the cool brush off from the red haired snot. "Yeah, well, whatever, darling." He tried to throw the power of retreat into his hands. "I don't have time for this. I have places to go, people to fuck. You know how it is when you're just so god damn sexy and in high demand." He blinked. "Oh, I guess you wouldn't."
"Give my regards to your pimp." Was my flat reply.
Farfarello swallowed another mouthful of foamy sugar. "Don't get AIDs."
He gave us a murderous glare and flipped us off as he waltzed out the lobby door. To anyone watching it would look like we parted on an unfriendly note. Mentally we were all laughing.
*
My assassin instincts kicked in without warning. Behind me the lights flickered and a few plates rattled in the kitchen, my heart leapt a beat in warning and I had to pause from my task to take a few deep calming breaths. It's okay, I can kill this guy. I just can't splatter him. That would be loud and messy and Crawford would make me pay the cleaning bill.
Thank god we were on the phone and not standing face-to-face or Farfarello might have a new play thing.
"What do you mean," I hissed into the receiver, "you don't accept MasterCard?"
"I'm sorry sir," sighed the voice on the line, I could hear his patience waning. Well too damn bad. "we've had too many bounced and bogus accounts before. Credit cards aren't accepted if the price is over 58,500 yen."
Sitting Indian style on the kitchen table, Farfarello reached up and plucked the floating candle holder from the air.
I took another deep breath. "What do you accept then? Cold hard cash? That can be arranged. I can arrange that. It'd be laced with heroine and the bills would probably be marked, but hey, when you're carrying that much paper on you, you can't expect the money to be clean. What STUPID FUCK would spend that much money with anything but a credit card?"
Mr. Stupid Fuck didn't bother to answer. The line went dead and I began to hyperventilate. Must not kill. Must not kill. Must not... I stared at the phone book, scribbled down the address, and handed it to my one eyed teammate.
"You have my permission to hunt everyone at this address down. You have my permission to kill their mother. Kill their baby sister. Kill their dog..."
Farfarello giggled with manic glee.
If Crawford were home I'd push redial and hand over the phone to him. Fearless leader would get a hold of the manager and would make sure the annoy twit would never be able to work in Tokyo again.
Calm, Nagi. Calm.
I put my finger on the phone book and ran down to the next listing.
"Tsushiro's Take-out Okinomiyaki, how can I help you?"
*
"Lyssophobia." Farfarello said in-between a mouth of bean curd.
We were in Schuldig's room, 60,400 yenni worth of food spread around the carpet, the bed, the Jacuzzi planks. I sat facing the impressive television set, laptop glowing at my feet, weighed down by three bowls of various food stuffs. Farfarello laid half under the mattress frame, half across the carpet, picking at the tofu in his miso. We were watching some Spanish soap opera on the satellite.
"What?"
"Lyssophobia. An intense, morbid fear of insanity."
Farfarello was full of very useful information.
When I didn't respond, the madman frowned, his already thick lips spilling out slightly into an almost comedic pucker. I felt like rolling my eyes, but in his distraught mood that might prompt Farfarello to screech his Xena war cry and lunge at me. Then I would be forced to lock him up and be without company for the rest of the night.
Alone if you don't count the constant Instant Messages from ::Bombay:: screaming - WHO R U? as I plucked and rearranged the files in his hard drive. Vigilant fucker, most sensible people would have just shut their computer off by now or cut the internet connect - not that that would have saved them from any virus I could have planted, but it would have cut me from their sever - but no, Bombay was bloated with hackers pride and was trying to fix the problem with skills that when compared to mine were limited. Very limited.
_-Nyght_Chyld-_ : I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U.
Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U.
Etc. See, when your a super cool hacker like me you have to talk in computer ebonics and leave lots of annoying, repeated one lined messages to psyche out your prey. Kinda like Farfarello and how he launches into Bible verses when he's slaughtering people. And Alt Codes. You have to use lots of Alt Codes. It makes you look cool.
Bombay tried to counteract with a oh-so-clever firewall called, and I'm not joking, "Bomb-bay". Its so stupid I began snicker out loud and got a golden eye roll from my Irish companion. I guess he doesn't appreciate the hacker humor.
::Bombay:: : MESS WITH THE BEST. DIE LIKE THE REST.
"Tch." I muttered. Cliché. How did this guy become an assassin again? Oh, right. He's a Takatori.
My own software protection batted away the echo-virus he sent out at the same time my main programs dug into his computer's kernel. I responded to his last instant message by opening up his MP3 player, scrolling down the playlist and selecting a song that's lyrics started with "you ain't never gonna get it."
And suddenly Tsukiyono Omi, better known as the annoying Bombay, was off-line.
Aw. Guess his widdle system crashed.
I hate people who get things because their daddy's rich or famous.
I had to work to become who I am.
*
The next morning greets me with the sting of sunlight, a Code Red Mountain Dew hangover, and Crawford leaning over me, hand on my shoulder. Fearless leader fades in and out of my vision as I blink away the sleepiness. Before I can scream rape or at least 'where the hell am I?' I remember that I'm camped out in Schuldig's slut pad and forgot to give Farfarello his midnight medication. My last waking memory was choosing to download one more sailor moon episode off Kaaza before crashing on the floor in a catatonic slumber.
Crawford said something but I missed it, so I mumble an irritated "What?" And got a pissy arch of the Oracle's perfect American eyebrow in response.
Obviously he was expecting a reply from the well-groomed and subdued Naoe Nagi (assassin extraordinaire) that paraded around in the outside world like a sheet of angst throbbing black ice. Well... tough, Crawford, I don't have to act like that here.
As if he was the group's telepath, Crawford sighed and repeated his question, "I said, am I going to have to get you two a babysitter?"
I sit up and cringe as two or three empty candy bar wrappers slide off my chest. My laptop is still on, glowing blue with some weird German music playing. That's what happens when you have one playlist and it has more than two thousand songs. Its like the Energizer Bunny (keeps going and going).
I stared at the screen and winced; Chicken Bone. The lame songs are always on the bottom of the list.
Interestingly enough the room isn't splattered with carnage... or any remnants of Farfarello raging at his lack of medication and customary straight jacket. On the contrary, I find the spiky haired freak still snoozing a few feet from me hands wrapped around play station control, small smile on his face. The television's still on, of course, a large GAME OVER logo filling the scream.
...Devil May Cry 2. Nice choice.
See, we're very rich assassin teenagers that aren't allowed to leave the house very often. We have a lot of time on our hands. Time equals boredom. Boredom equals obsession. Obsession plus teenager often equals either A) building bombs in the basement B) an unhealthy attraction to animal porn or C) video games.
Not like I need to justify myself.
Or my screwed-up family.
Crawford practically picked up Farfarello and rattled him awake, earning a dozy, startled grunt from the Irishman followed by a muffled sentence that sounded Gaelic to me. He instinctively wraps a arm around Crawford's shoulder and allowed the Oracle to all but drag him out the door.
"Farfarello is taking a shower," Fearless leader elaborates. "I suggest you do the same. Eat some breakfast and clean up this mess. Schuldig shall be staggering home high and hung-over in a few hours and won't be happy to see what you two did to his bedroom."
Yeah. It's okay if the mess is his. But if anyone screws up his stuff... Whatever. "Okay." I say out loud.
"Nagi, tonight we're attending a banquet with Mr. Takatori. As you are in the same age category as Ouka, I expect you'll be there to entertain her. Weiss will also be there, I may need you to thwart them. Being as that is, you have to be in top shape by tonight. That means eat something healthy for breakfast and lunch, not Twinkies and soda."
Bwah?
But Crawford, don't you know a Twinkie contains three of the seven food groups? Out loud I say, "Okay."
"And Nagi..."
I buried the urge to twitch.
"...I've already arranged to have the door repaired and taken the expense out of your bank account. You'll find a receipt on the kitchen table."
My fist clenched and I reminded myself that no, Nagi, you cannot use the Hand of Death (tm) on Crawford. The bastard didn't even grace me with a smirk for his evil efficientness and exited the suite. I sank onto Schuldig's water bed, face set into a lovely frown. I remained there until Schuldig came back.
Crawford was right to describe his return as "staggering."
The flamboyant redhead collapsed against his doorframe, nostrils flaring reactionary at the mess that laid before him. Before he could launch into a bitch rant however, I offered a truce.
Before I expand on what I said, I'd like it to be noted that a dark cloud of sullenness had graced half the city flooding the room with in eerily white light and gray shadows. The texture fell perfectly across my face, accenting it like Crawford's glasses did when they randomly glowed.
"Want to blow up Balinese car?"
Evil glint.
(...trademark)
*
See, blowing up somebody's car, especially a rare, custom made, expensive car, was probably one of the nicest and least harmful acts in the criminal world. Barring that the somebody whose car was being blown up wasn't in it at the time. That being the case the vehicles demolition sent out a clean and simple message. "I am annoyed."
Funny how leaving a decapitated horse's head at the foot of somebody's bed meant "I am pissed off." and blowing up their car meant "I am annoyed." I'm sure there was a less extreme way to convey this message in flower language. But we're Schwartz.
We leave that girly stuff to Weiss.
Schuldig and I all but skipped into the partial dinning room with big radiant smiles of promised destruction on our face. Crawford regarded us from the dining room table over the brim of his newspaper and snorted softly. "If you must do this during broad daylight, take these."
One elegant, manicured hand swept forward to gesture to the unopened package of ski masks that laid waiting in front of him and I felt the urge to scream and bring out the... you know... Hand of Death. Trademark.
Schuldig smirked.
He draped himself over the table and attempted to look sexy. "Why, thank you, my lover. Would you also have made us a car bomb by any chance?"
"No," He replied easily, "but I have called Schrient to testify as an alibi for your whereabouts if needed. Avoid the highway on your way back and for god sakes, where something less conspicuous than that tacky green blazer."
The tacky green blazer was an old worn out argument, the kind that became less annoying and less important with time. Instead of exploding like he might have if say, Takatori, or worse, Siberian or Abyssinian, had insulted him, Schuldig broke out into a dry chuckle. "Crawford." He purred. "You're so thoughtful."
He took the mask bag.
"All set, Naggley?"
I held up my video camera, always ready to capture the magic. "Roger that."
Why Balinese? Because I wanted to destroy something beautiful.
Insert shameless Fight Club reference here.
I think this is justification for honorable suicide, wouldn't you agree?
Ugh.
Just when I was getting that off my mind, Schuldig made a comment about Farfarello's God fetish and its relation to the Pope. I thought wrinkles: wrinkles like prunes shriveling into raisins; wrinkles like Takatori's grandmother with a chin that sagged to where her breasts should be and breasts that sagged to where her knees should be and knees... well, let's just say I didn't know knees could sag until I met that old fossil.
Stupid Farfarello, I thought. Its all his fault. And it was easier to blame him then to go after Schuldig. One, because Schuldig knew when you were angsting over him and could use it against you; two, because Farfarello was an easy target. He grin and bared most of the abuse we heaped on him.
In fact, I think he liked it.
And bang, sharp corner around the hall and I'm suddenly nose to chest with the before mentioned psychopath. Farfarello had been coming from the kitchen, probably heard me scream at Schuldig and wanted to investigate.
He stared down at me with that gold raptor eye, that gaze that sent a dozen other assassins whimpering to their deaths because they were too frozen with fear to dodge him and his impressive collection of sharp pointy objects. That gaze that had bathed in blood and lapped it up laughing a dozen times over. That gaze that looked into the depths of hell's nine levels and... Well, you get the picture.
He might have been a little more intimidating if he didn't have a whip cream can shoved in his mouth like a baby bottle.
"Farf." I snapped, I had to keep from flinching at the tone. Cracked voice, damn puberty. Whatever. I snapped the can away from him and wagged my finger. "That's gross."
His head tilted to the side as his mind tried to process what I was telling him. "No it's not. It taste good. Here. Try." He took the can back and held the nozzle close to my mouth, I batted his hands away.
"No, now it has Farfie Germs. What have I told you about licking things you're suppose to share?"
"Yah, Farfie. You don't want to give us all AIDs, right?" Schuldig glided by hand settling on both our heads to give us a nice playful pat. For a split second my face and Farfarello's mimed twin expressions of grimaces.
"Liar." Farfarello snorted, looking dejected. "You're the diseased one. I'm just crazy."
Schuldig pulled a compact from his jeans - yes, Schuldig wore make-up, quite a lot of it. He just wore it in a way that you couldn't tell. Facial enhancement or something - and checked his hair. "Hah, with all that blood of the innocent guzzling I'd think you would have caught *something* by now, crucifix boy. And don't call me diseased, I'm very selective about who I rape."
In response, Farfarello tilted his head back, loaded his mouth with whipped cream, let it swish around in his cheeks for awhile, and stuck his tongue out at Schuldig. The German laughed and I began ranting at both of them like the bitch mother hen I was - when Crawford wasn't home to do it himself.
"And what a good bitch you make." Schuldig cooed. He reached forward to pinch my cheeks but pulled back when he caught the image of me sending his sexy dolled up telepathic ass soaring into the night from the living room window... right into heavy traffic.
It was nice to know he still had some instincts of self-preservation... the threat wouldn't have worked on Farf.
I got the cool brush off from the red haired snot. "Yeah, well, whatever, darling." He tried to throw the power of retreat into his hands. "I don't have time for this. I have places to go, people to fuck. You know how it is when you're just so god damn sexy and in high demand." He blinked. "Oh, I guess you wouldn't."
"Give my regards to your pimp." Was my flat reply.
Farfarello swallowed another mouthful of foamy sugar. "Don't get AIDs."
He gave us a murderous glare and flipped us off as he waltzed out the lobby door. To anyone watching it would look like we parted on an unfriendly note. Mentally we were all laughing.
*
My assassin instincts kicked in without warning. Behind me the lights flickered and a few plates rattled in the kitchen, my heart leapt a beat in warning and I had to pause from my task to take a few deep calming breaths. It's okay, I can kill this guy. I just can't splatter him. That would be loud and messy and Crawford would make me pay the cleaning bill.
Thank god we were on the phone and not standing face-to-face or Farfarello might have a new play thing.
"What do you mean," I hissed into the receiver, "you don't accept MasterCard?"
"I'm sorry sir," sighed the voice on the line, I could hear his patience waning. Well too damn bad. "we've had too many bounced and bogus accounts before. Credit cards aren't accepted if the price is over 58,500 yen."
Sitting Indian style on the kitchen table, Farfarello reached up and plucked the floating candle holder from the air.
I took another deep breath. "What do you accept then? Cold hard cash? That can be arranged. I can arrange that. It'd be laced with heroine and the bills would probably be marked, but hey, when you're carrying that much paper on you, you can't expect the money to be clean. What STUPID FUCK would spend that much money with anything but a credit card?"
Mr. Stupid Fuck didn't bother to answer. The line went dead and I began to hyperventilate. Must not kill. Must not kill. Must not... I stared at the phone book, scribbled down the address, and handed it to my one eyed teammate.
"You have my permission to hunt everyone at this address down. You have my permission to kill their mother. Kill their baby sister. Kill their dog..."
Farfarello giggled with manic glee.
If Crawford were home I'd push redial and hand over the phone to him. Fearless leader would get a hold of the manager and would make sure the annoy twit would never be able to work in Tokyo again.
Calm, Nagi. Calm.
I put my finger on the phone book and ran down to the next listing.
"Tsushiro's Take-out Okinomiyaki, how can I help you?"
*
"Lyssophobia." Farfarello said in-between a mouth of bean curd.
We were in Schuldig's room, 60,400 yenni worth of food spread around the carpet, the bed, the Jacuzzi planks. I sat facing the impressive television set, laptop glowing at my feet, weighed down by three bowls of various food stuffs. Farfarello laid half under the mattress frame, half across the carpet, picking at the tofu in his miso. We were watching some Spanish soap opera on the satellite.
"What?"
"Lyssophobia. An intense, morbid fear of insanity."
Farfarello was full of very useful information.
When I didn't respond, the madman frowned, his already thick lips spilling out slightly into an almost comedic pucker. I felt like rolling my eyes, but in his distraught mood that might prompt Farfarello to screech his Xena war cry and lunge at me. Then I would be forced to lock him up and be without company for the rest of the night.
Alone if you don't count the constant Instant Messages from ::Bombay:: screaming - WHO R U? as I plucked and rearranged the files in his hard drive. Vigilant fucker, most sensible people would have just shut their computer off by now or cut the internet connect - not that that would have saved them from any virus I could have planted, but it would have cut me from their sever - but no, Bombay was bloated with hackers pride and was trying to fix the problem with skills that when compared to mine were limited. Very limited.
_-Nyght_Chyld-_ : I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U.
Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U.
Etc. See, when your a super cool hacker like me you have to talk in computer ebonics and leave lots of annoying, repeated one lined messages to psyche out your prey. Kinda like Farfarello and how he launches into Bible verses when he's slaughtering people. And Alt Codes. You have to use lots of Alt Codes. It makes you look cool.
Bombay tried to counteract with a oh-so-clever firewall called, and I'm not joking, "Bomb-bay". Its so stupid I began snicker out loud and got a golden eye roll from my Irish companion. I guess he doesn't appreciate the hacker humor.
::Bombay:: : MESS WITH THE BEST. DIE LIKE THE REST.
"Tch." I muttered. Cliché. How did this guy become an assassin again? Oh, right. He's a Takatori.
My own software protection batted away the echo-virus he sent out at the same time my main programs dug into his computer's kernel. I responded to his last instant message by opening up his MP3 player, scrolling down the playlist and selecting a song that's lyrics started with "you ain't never gonna get it."
And suddenly Tsukiyono Omi, better known as the annoying Bombay, was off-line.
Aw. Guess his widdle system crashed.
I hate people who get things because their daddy's rich or famous.
I had to work to become who I am.
*
The next morning greets me with the sting of sunlight, a Code Red Mountain Dew hangover, and Crawford leaning over me, hand on my shoulder. Fearless leader fades in and out of my vision as I blink away the sleepiness. Before I can scream rape or at least 'where the hell am I?' I remember that I'm camped out in Schuldig's slut pad and forgot to give Farfarello his midnight medication. My last waking memory was choosing to download one more sailor moon episode off Kaaza before crashing on the floor in a catatonic slumber.
Crawford said something but I missed it, so I mumble an irritated "What?" And got a pissy arch of the Oracle's perfect American eyebrow in response.
Obviously he was expecting a reply from the well-groomed and subdued Naoe Nagi (assassin extraordinaire) that paraded around in the outside world like a sheet of angst throbbing black ice. Well... tough, Crawford, I don't have to act like that here.
As if he was the group's telepath, Crawford sighed and repeated his question, "I said, am I going to have to get you two a babysitter?"
I sit up and cringe as two or three empty candy bar wrappers slide off my chest. My laptop is still on, glowing blue with some weird German music playing. That's what happens when you have one playlist and it has more than two thousand songs. Its like the Energizer Bunny (keeps going and going).
I stared at the screen and winced; Chicken Bone. The lame songs are always on the bottom of the list.
Interestingly enough the room isn't splattered with carnage... or any remnants of Farfarello raging at his lack of medication and customary straight jacket. On the contrary, I find the spiky haired freak still snoozing a few feet from me hands wrapped around play station control, small smile on his face. The television's still on, of course, a large GAME OVER logo filling the scream.
...Devil May Cry 2. Nice choice.
See, we're very rich assassin teenagers that aren't allowed to leave the house very often. We have a lot of time on our hands. Time equals boredom. Boredom equals obsession. Obsession plus teenager often equals either A) building bombs in the basement B) an unhealthy attraction to animal porn or C) video games.
Not like I need to justify myself.
Or my screwed-up family.
Crawford practically picked up Farfarello and rattled him awake, earning a dozy, startled grunt from the Irishman followed by a muffled sentence that sounded Gaelic to me. He instinctively wraps a arm around Crawford's shoulder and allowed the Oracle to all but drag him out the door.
"Farfarello is taking a shower," Fearless leader elaborates. "I suggest you do the same. Eat some breakfast and clean up this mess. Schuldig shall be staggering home high and hung-over in a few hours and won't be happy to see what you two did to his bedroom."
Yeah. It's okay if the mess is his. But if anyone screws up his stuff... Whatever. "Okay." I say out loud.
"Nagi, tonight we're attending a banquet with Mr. Takatori. As you are in the same age category as Ouka, I expect you'll be there to entertain her. Weiss will also be there, I may need you to thwart them. Being as that is, you have to be in top shape by tonight. That means eat something healthy for breakfast and lunch, not Twinkies and soda."
Bwah?
But Crawford, don't you know a Twinkie contains three of the seven food groups? Out loud I say, "Okay."
"And Nagi..."
I buried the urge to twitch.
"...I've already arranged to have the door repaired and taken the expense out of your bank account. You'll find a receipt on the kitchen table."
My fist clenched and I reminded myself that no, Nagi, you cannot use the Hand of Death (tm) on Crawford. The bastard didn't even grace me with a smirk for his evil efficientness and exited the suite. I sank onto Schuldig's water bed, face set into a lovely frown. I remained there until Schuldig came back.
Crawford was right to describe his return as "staggering."
The flamboyant redhead collapsed against his doorframe, nostrils flaring reactionary at the mess that laid before him. Before he could launch into a bitch rant however, I offered a truce.
Before I expand on what I said, I'd like it to be noted that a dark cloud of sullenness had graced half the city flooding the room with in eerily white light and gray shadows. The texture fell perfectly across my face, accenting it like Crawford's glasses did when they randomly glowed.
"Want to blow up Balinese car?"
Evil glint.
(...trademark)
*
See, blowing up somebody's car, especially a rare, custom made, expensive car, was probably one of the nicest and least harmful acts in the criminal world. Barring that the somebody whose car was being blown up wasn't in it at the time. That being the case the vehicles demolition sent out a clean and simple message. "I am annoyed."
Funny how leaving a decapitated horse's head at the foot of somebody's bed meant "I am pissed off." and blowing up their car meant "I am annoyed." I'm sure there was a less extreme way to convey this message in flower language. But we're Schwartz.
We leave that girly stuff to Weiss.
Schuldig and I all but skipped into the partial dinning room with big radiant smiles of promised destruction on our face. Crawford regarded us from the dining room table over the brim of his newspaper and snorted softly. "If you must do this during broad daylight, take these."
One elegant, manicured hand swept forward to gesture to the unopened package of ski masks that laid waiting in front of him and I felt the urge to scream and bring out the... you know... Hand of Death. Trademark.
Schuldig smirked.
He draped himself over the table and attempted to look sexy. "Why, thank you, my lover. Would you also have made us a car bomb by any chance?"
"No," He replied easily, "but I have called Schrient to testify as an alibi for your whereabouts if needed. Avoid the highway on your way back and for god sakes, where something less conspicuous than that tacky green blazer."
The tacky green blazer was an old worn out argument, the kind that became less annoying and less important with time. Instead of exploding like he might have if say, Takatori, or worse, Siberian or Abyssinian, had insulted him, Schuldig broke out into a dry chuckle. "Crawford." He purred. "You're so thoughtful."
He took the mask bag.
"All set, Naggley?"
I held up my video camera, always ready to capture the magic. "Roger that."
Why Balinese? Because I wanted to destroy something beautiful.
Insert shameless Fight Club reference here.
