Title: Ham and Cheese
Author: DOKChairman
Time: No particular time frame. Assume everything that has happened up to the second season is fair game.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alias. If you really believe I own Alias, then I have some beach front property to sell you in Utah. No really, I do. Just give me a call at 1-800-333-SUCKER and we'll see about setting you up. Anyway, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted by whoever's reading this, you know who you are, J. J. Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, and ABC (Disney's front for their attempt at world domination) own Alias.
Dedication: To Angela and Jada. The craziest fans any guy could ever want. Thank you. I write this story for you.
A/N: Edele Lane, I will deal with you first before I get to Jada and Angela. Firstly, just because I love JG's smile doesn't mean I don't love her eyes. Believe me when I say that there is not a single thing about that woman that I don't love. Secondly, you really don't want to get in a debate with me on the finer points of JG's body. I could literally go all night. Thirdly, I'm sorry you don't like S/V but I feel the same way about S/W and S/S. I can't stand either one of those relationships. Mainly because I feel that S/W have no romantic chemistry and I don't like S/S because, well, because Sark is evil. Plus there is that pesky spec that a lot of people believe is true about Sarkie actually being Syd's little bro. S/S is a little too close to Hillbilly territory for me. No offense. To each his own. Whatever floats your boat. Ok, I think that's enough cliches for now. I hope you won't stop reading in some form of pissed off rage.
Now, onto the fun stuff. Angela I am so sorry that mean old Jada picked on you. She should be ashamed of herself for forcing you to drink soda. I too know the pain of carbonation burn. I will make sure she is properly punished. *Rubs hands together gleefully* I figured the ladies, you and Jada especially, would appreciate Indiana Vaughn. It is my way of making up for all the gratuitous references to Sydney's chest in Chapter 5.
Its nice to know that my version of Jack terrifies you all. That was my intention, because I seriously can't think of anything more scary than Jack as a clown. I actually had a nightmare about that a few nights ago and it still disturbs the hell out of me. Now if I can just get Jacko to start singing Pop goes the weasel his path to the dark side will be complete.
Jada, where do I begin? First I must express my rage at being sent a picture of Shirtless Sloane. It was only my laughter that prevented me from breaking down in horrified tears at seeing such a disturbing image. Second, I'm sorry I called you clingy. You know why? Because clingy is just not strong enough of a word to describe you correctly. I think words like deranged (delightfully crazy), scary (oddly compelling), mean (humorously willful), and obsessive (actually, this one is right on the money) are a more apt description. I think someone needs a very thorough spanking. Bad Jada. Now let me just bend you over my knee...
Jada, you know you totally love me. Don't fight your feelings. Its not healthy. They say repressed emotions can lead to emotionally damaging activities like sending pictures of Shirtless Sloane to people who provide you with enjoyment. I will stop my assault of Shirtless Noah pics if you promise to give me a proper peace offering.
Chapter 7: We are the Secret Agents who say...Ni!
Vaughn carefully walked up to the bridge keeper. He was an old man with a rough and weathered face, long white hair, and a hunched body. The bridge keeper stepped in front of Vaughn, blocking his path across the bridge.
The bridge keeper yelled at Vaughn in a high pitched voice, "Stop! Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see."
Vaughn squared his body and adjusted his hat. His right hand moved down his body to rest on his hip, and rested the palm of his hand against the end of his whip. Vaughn spoke with air of determination, "Ask me the questions, bridge keeper. I am not afraid."
"What...is your name?"
Vaughn blinked at the simplicity of the question. "My name is Indiana Vaughn of L.A."
"What...is your quest?"
"To seek the Jewel of Sydney and enter the Temple of Horniness."
The bridge keeper paused dramatically before asking his final question. "What...is the density of a Budweiser beer?"
Vaughn asked confusedly, "What do you mean? A regular or a light beer?"
Shock came over the old man's face and he stammered, "Huh? I...I don't know that! Auuuuugh!" The old man was suddenly thrown off the cliff and into the chasm. A loud explosion could be heard seconds later.
Vaughn just shrugged his shoulders and started to make his way across the bridge. After he had traveled only about ten feet, he heard someone yell stop from behind him. He turned around quickly, making the old rope bridge wobble dangerously.
At the beginning of the bridge stood an old man. Much like the one Vaughn had just previously confronted. In fact, he looked exactly like the old bridge keeper. It was almost as if the man had been cloned...uh...I mean genetically resequenced.
The old man was blocking the path of another man. Vaughn figured the other man must have been following him. The bridge keeper started to ask the newcomer the same questions the old bridge keeper had asked Vaughn. Vaughn thought the younger man looked very familiar.
That was when it hit him. The younger man was one of the Quebecers! Vaughn smiled smugly to himself. He had been right when he had said that the Quebecers weren't really dead. There was living proof standing no more than twenty feet away from him.
Vaughn heard the bridge keeper shout, "Stop! Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see."
The Quebecer responded, "Ask me the questions, bridge keeper. I am not afraid."
The bridge keeper obliged him. "What...is your name?"
Sudden panic appeared on the freedom fighter's face. "What? I...I don't know that. He never gave me a name! Its not my fault! Don't kil-auuuuugh!"
The Quebecer went flying through the air, much in the same way the old bridge keeper had, and he exploded in much the same matter as well. Vaughn grinned and continued on his merry way.
"I'm telling you you need to stop Weiss."
Weiss sighed. "I know Sydney, I know. I just can't help myself sometimes."
Sydney patted the top of his hand supportively. "I know its hard Weiss, but as a woman let me tell you that we don't find guys who frequently masticate to be very attractive."
Weiss lowered his head in shame. "I try not to, but it can be so tough sometimes. I mean I'll just be sitting there minding my own business when it'll suddenly call to me. You know? And then all I can think about is reaching down there and just taking a bite out of it because it tastes so good."
"Have you talked to Vaughn about your masticating problem?"
"Nah. I've tried to bring it up a few times but he just gives me a hard time whenever I do. He thinks I should be able to control my masticating impulses." Weiss's voice was very pitiful.
Sydney scoffed, "Surely he masticates too? Doesn't everybody?"
"I guess...but Vaughn's a pretty low key guy. He rarely if ever masticates in public."
"Yeah, well you tell Vaughn the next time he gives you a hard time that its perfectly natural for a guy to masticate two or three times a week. Its not like its going to make you go blind or something," Sydney said firmly.
Weiss smiled faintly at Sydney and said quietly, "Ok. I'll try to remember." He then moved his right hand down to the table and picked up the long subway sandwich sitting there. He brought it to his mouth and took a huge bite out of it, letting out a contented moan.
Jean Cirac Paul-Bastiere Guitenau Montclaire Mureau quietly surveyed Mr. Fan's deli and all its inhabitants. The shirtless woman was talking to one of the shirtless men, the crazy clown Jacko was busy doing the clown shuffle for two kids, the other shirtless man was nowhere to be seen, and Jean seemed to be missing one of his fellow Free Quebecers. All in all, everything seemed pretty normal.
Jean knew he had never really been dead. The special clothes that he and his compatriots wore were specially made from the man eating silk worms of the Guatemala rain forest. The clothes had cost a lot of money, they had to pay extra because they were Canadian, but they were worth it.
Jean's face soured at the memory of what Jacko the Smiling Clown had done to him and his men. Luckily, Jean knew, the writer was trying to milk this story for all it was worth so he knew it wouldn't be ending very soon. He knew that he wasn't going to stay dead for very long. Hence, the Guatemalan clothes.
Jean tried to retaliate against Jacko but every time he got close enough to try, Jacko would smile at him in such a way that it would send shivers down his spine and cause him to break out into a cold sweat. The man was too scary and so Jean and the other Quebecers let him be. Besides, he was too busy making balloon animals and pulling scarves of cloth out of his clothes for Jean to bother.
Jean sighed. Things just weren't going as planned. He needed to change that if he ever expected his organization to ever succeed. The QLF, Quebecen Liberation Front, had been planning for this day for years. The day when they would make their message known to the whole world and win their freedom from English tyranny for forever.
Jean needed to have a meeting with his fellow Quebecers. It was time they got started. It was time they got serious. They would not go quietly into that smog filled night. Today was their Independence Day!
Jean slammed his hand down on the table and yelled out, "Quebecers! To me!"
The remaining two Quebecers came scurrying up, their recently reacquired guns slapping against their legs. They skidded to a stop in front of the sitting down Jean and hastily saluted. Their hands came flying up to their heads, one smacking himself in the eye, the other accidentally smacking his friend in the head.
Both let out cries of pain but quickly composed themselves at the look of disapproval that crossed Jean's face. They stayed quiet; both shooting venomous glares at each other.
Jean began speaking, "We have stayed complacent for too long. It is time for us to act, it is time for us to let the world know that Quebec must be free. Starting here today, in this most hallowed of locations, our crusade will sweep across this county like a towering wave of water, ridding this land of its debauchery, fast food, SUVs, and Anna Nichole Smith. This country will be what it once was. It will be free. It will be French!!"
The two lackeys, caught up in the rapture of Jean's speech, shot their guns into the air. They started yelling, "Free Quebec! Free Quebec! Free Quebec!" Over and over they repeated their mantra.
Jean stood up from his table and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Viva la France!"
Then the three Quebecers marched out into the middle of the deli. Jean swept his arm in a wide arc, encompassing everybody in the deli. "All of you people bear the honor of witnessing the beginning of the great Revolution. Someday you will tell your children of the day you saw Jean Cirac Paul-Bastiere Guitenau Montclaire Mureau lead his brave Quebecers into battle. This is your lucky day. Long live the revolut..."
Jean was cut off by Jack, a.k.a. Jacko the Smiling Clown, who was clapping his hands together excitedly. The three Quebecers turned to face Jack, who was rocking up and down on the back of his heels. Jean angrily confronted him, "What the hell are you doing, eh?"
Jack just grinned, the lips of his big red mouth turning upwards. "It's a party! Do you want me to make you a balloon hat for the party?"
Jean sputtered, "What? No!"
Jack frowned. "You don't want a hat? But Jacko makes such nice hats." His eyes widened and his mouth again formed a smile. "Perhaps you boys would like for me to sing and dance for you? I know a surprising amount of show tunes!" Jack paused and then starting belting out, "If I were a rich man, ya ha deedle dee-"
Jean couldn't scramble fast enough to plug his ears. "Stop! Please for the love of God stop!" Jean and the three Quebecers collapsed to their knees. Jean started begging, "Please stop. I'll do anything!"
Jack stopped abruptly. He contemplated Jean's words. "Anything huh?"
Jean, along with the two nameless Quebecers, nodded their heads profusely. "Anything!"
Jack smiled a huge grin and his eyes lit up with an evil tint. "All right then. There is something I want you to do. I want you to find Vaughn and..."
Meanwhile, back in SpyFantasyland (a.k.a as Disneyland. Let's not forget that ABC is owned by the Mousketeers) Vaughn lifted his hat out of the stream and poured the water over his head. Of course, due to the laws of gravity, the water got all over the rest of him as well. The water soaked Vaughn's tan shirt in porn-like slow motion, which had three buttons undone and was already glued to his chest with sweat.
Vaughn shook his head, spraying water all over the place. He then ran his hand through his hair, tousling it and getting any excess water, before placing his hat back on his head. Vaughn sighed as he felt the coolness of the fresh spring water coat his body in wet comfort. The water felt great on his partly bare chest.
Vaughn then got down on one knee and cupped his hands in the water. He brought the cool water to his lips and drank, satiating his parched throat. He groaned low in his chest at the feeling and smiled lazily out at the forest path he was traveling on.
He was close. So close to finding the Jewel of Sydney and the Temple of Horniness. All his long years of waiting, furtive glances, ambiguous declarations of feelings, and constant chickenshitting was about to come to fruition. He just had to stay on the straight and narrow path and he was sure he would enter the Promised Land. Vaughn got to his feet and set off once again down the path.
After walking for about five minutes, Vaughn was suddenly set upon by four men all dressed in black. Not just any black, no, but black tactical gear. All four men were wearing black pants, black shirts, black shoes, black ski masks, black Kevlar vests, and more than likely black underwear as well but there was no way of knowing for sure. Oops, I almost forgot to mention they were all holding submachine guns. Black of course.
One of the men in black stepped forward and said, "We are the secret agents who say...Ni!"
The three men behind him echoed, "Ni! Ni! Ni! Ni!"
Vaughn gasped, "Not the secret agents who say Ni!"
The lead man laughed, "Ha! The very same!"
Vaughn took a step back from the four men he was so shocked. "This can't be!"
The lead man nodded his head gravely (Well actually I don't know if he did, seeing as he was wearing a mask, but lets just assume). "Yes! The secret agents who say Ni demand a sacrifice if you wish to pass."
"What kind of sacrifice?" Vaughn asked intrigued.
"We want...a jar of mayonnaise."
Vaughn stared at the secret agents who say Ni! "What!? A jar of mayonnaise?"
The lead man nodded his head. "Yes. A jar of mayonnaise. It doesn't have to be a big one. Or even a brand name jar. Its just that we need some mayo for our lunches. You can't make good tuna without mayonnaise."
Vaughn put his hands on his hips. "So what you're saying is that if I get you a jar of mayo you'll let me continue?"
"Yes. Bring us a jar of mayonnaise and you may continue along the path. Not bring us a jar and we the secret agents who say Ni! will continue to say Ni until you do."
The three men behind the leader echoed, "Ni! Ni! Ni! Ni!"
Vaughn cringed and said hurriedly, "Ok! I'll bring you you're jar. Just stop!"
The three secret agents shut up immediately. The leader spoke once last time. "Go! Bring us a jar of that which we seek and you will be allowed to pass."
Vaughn tipped his hat to the four secret agents who say Ni! and made his way down the path. Before he knew it, he was back in the deli. It was almost as if he had never left.
P.S. Let me ask you guys something. Do you think I could lower the rating of this story to PG-13 or should I keep it R? I have a feeling I could expose this too a much wider audience if I lower the rating. But I don't know. Tell me if you think it deserves its R rating.