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. I have no words to adequately describe my feelings towards you.
A/N: It should be well known by everyone reading that in no way does this chapter mean that I have switched sides. I seriously wondered about myself for a few seconds though. I mean honestly, writing about another man in leather pants is something I really shouldn't, and don't by the way, enjoy. But it does tend to make someone wonder. God Edele, you damn well better appreciate this because I may not do this again. I am seriously in need of a JG in black lingerie fix right now. Thank god I downloaded "Phase One". I just love that scene with Jen and the whip. Talk about drool worthy action. Ok, I feel much better now.
Oh, and let me say that the number of girls out there who are so willing to express their lusty feelings for Jen makes my hormonal heart all aflutter. I thought I was the only one who appreciated Jen for the hottie that she is, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one. Please, girls, continue on with your thoughts. Except, more detail please. A lot more detail.
And I just wanted to say hi to all the new people out there. As you can see from my work, I like to include my readers in the whole fanfic writing experience. We're like one big, horny, unnaturally high group. Welcome!!
Laura, I agree with you about Spaceballs not being the funniest movie ever. It's one of my favorites but it is not the funniest movie I've ever seen. Many of the movies you listed are classics and deserve to be on any all time list.
Chapter 9: The British are coming! The British are coming!
"So, what you're telling me is that she's a man?"
"Unfortunately, yes. You couldn't tell?"
"Um...not really. I mean she's kind of built and her voice is kind of deep but no man has an ass that nice. And trust me on this, I happen to be an ass connoisseur."
"If that's true then you've been looking at the wrong asses."
"Hey! What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying."
"Why am I suddenly flashbacking to Ace Ventura?"
"I don't know. I think its more a 'Crying Game' type situation than an Ace Ventura situation. Although, I very well could be wrong about the whole thing."
"God, I hope so. The guys at work would never let me live this down if they ever found out. It would totally ruin my reputation."
"You have a reputation?"
"Yes, I have a reputation. I've certainly seen more action than my pathetic, pussy whipped best friend. I swear to God, if that boy don't get laid soon I'm going to go insane."
"I certainly hope not. I don't want him going anywhere near my daughter. Besides, doesn't he have a girlfriend?"
"That's funny, Jack. The only girlfriend Mike has is Lefty and Lefty's five friends."
"That's disgusting and more information than I wanted to know."
"Yeah, well, whatever. Thanks for the heads up, Jack. I think I'm going to go find out right now for sure. If Connie does turn out to be a man I think I might just shoot myself."
"One can only hope. Anyway, good luck on your endeavor. I'm going to go find myself a nice dark corner where I will continue to plan Agent Vaughn's untimely demise. Toodles."
And so ends my attempt at nothing but dialogue. God, do I suck at this shit or what? I think its time I got back to real storytelling. Hence, Sark the Pimp. Because nothing says legitimate storytelling like pimps, ho's, and gratuitous nudity (Actually the nudity is a lie, I just thought the word gratuitous would get your attention.).
The two old, rusting, metal doors opened outward with a grand flourish. Everyone in Mr. Fan's Deli automatically turned their heads to see what was going on. To their surprise, four people calmly walked into the store. Three of the people were very beautiful women. A redhead, a blonde, and a brunette. One of every flavor...The fourth person that stepped through the old doors was the last person anybody in the deli was expecting.
Eyes settled on the unnaturally good looking man (Speaking of which, the Hell? How does one get genes like those? You think that if I had my own Project Helix I could somehow superimpose his genes over mine? This is just one of many thoughts going through my head right now. Another being whether or not those bags of cheetos I saw the other day are still on sale.) and moved up and down his body.
He wore a purple and velvet fedora; the hat resting snugly on his head. Moving down his body, one could see a large, puffy, fur coat. The coat was white and liberally painted with blackish gold spots. The coat opened on his naked torso; the light from Mr. Fan's Deli glistening off his chiseled chest. Several gold necklaces were draped around his neck, including a large dollar symbol, and they added an illuminated quality to his presence.
The people in the deli continued looking over the fine specimen of non-British manmeat. By now, they had reached his lower torso. He was wearing black leather pants that were so tight they left little to the imagination. And I'm sure you girls have fantastic imaginations (that means you Edele!). One of the man's hands was resting on the crown of a long black cane. The cane was crowned by a solid gold ball that seemed to glow in the dim light of the deli.
The man struck out with his cane in front of him and sauntered towards the three slackjawed Quebecers. His three female companions scurried after him, fighting amongst each other as they jockeyed for position on his arms. In the end, the brunette hung off his right arm and the redhead off his left. The blonde was left behind, sullenly damning her fellow coworkers for beating her to the punch. She wanted to be an end of a Sark the Pimp sandwich!
Meanwhile, Jean Cirac Paul-Bastiere Guitenau Montclaire Mureau was not pleased. Once again, someone was interrupting his plans. It was as if nobody took him and his fellow freedom fighters seriously. For the life of him, he could not figure out why that was. Perhaps it was because he was too nice a guy. Or maybe it was because he was French-Canadian, and really, has anyone ever taken those guys seriously?
He had to put a stop to this flaunting of his power. It just wasn't right. He was the head Quebecer damnit! If he couldn't put this newcomer in his place, then it would just prove that a blind monkey that eats his own shit had more power than he (wow, that picture just reminded me of this ABC exec I saw the other day...). Everyone in the deli would realize the truth. Jean was nothing more than an annoying, impotent, moose loving Quebecer. He didn't want that.
Jean brought his rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at the strange blonde man with the crooked lip; his two companions did the same. He yelled out in an authoritative voice, "Stop right there! Who the hell are you, eh?"
The man responded calmly with a tip of his hat. He then brought his cane forward and rested both hands on it and stared at Jean with his icy blue eyes. "The name's Sark. You can call me Mr. Sark." Sark paused and then said in a contemplative tone, "I'd tell you to call me by my first name, but since it seems I don't have one, you will address me by my proper title."
Sark then added grandiosely, "For I am Sark the Pimp, and you my friend, are now my bitch. Lay down your weapons."
Jean did nothing of the sort. He merely glared. "You're British, aren't you?"
"What's it to you?"
Jean growled in his attempt at a menacing tone. "It is because of you British that Quebec is a subjugated land. If not for your defeat of the motherland, we Quebecers would be free!"
Sark just shrugged his shoulders, "Sod off. Don't bother me with your petty problems. I am a superior intellect and I could care less about you. Unless you have recently come into a large supply of cash recently and are looking to hire a ruthless but loyal lackey. Have you?"
Jean laughed. "I'm from Quebec, what do you think?"
Sark's face fell. He said sadly, "But I need somebody to tell me what to do!! I'm too used to driving cars! I've never had to actually do anything on my own before..."
Sydney, meanwhile, was still recovering from being ripped away from the love of her life. The lingering feel of Vaughn's lips on hers still left her dazed and disoriented. It wasn't until her arch-nemesis walked into the deli that she was able to shake off the affect of Vaughn's departure. I say arch-nemesis because everybody knows that every super hero needs an ultimate foe. Sark was as close as anybody would ever come to matching the Spy Barbie's amazing powers of strutting, primping, and posing. Formidable powers indeed.
Sydney watched the confrontation between the Quebecers and Sark play out in front of her. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. Jean, as usual, was powerless to stop any of the goings on in the deli from going on, and Sark, well Sark was being Sark. Although, the last time they met she didn't remember him being so pimptastic.
And what was with those women fawning all over him? It wasn't like he was all that hot or anything. Well, maybe that wasn't entirely true. He did have a certain unorthodox appeal to him. But it was one Sydney had no problem ignoring. Besides, she had Vaughn. Vaughn, that sexy piece of French pastry. Tasty on the outside, but incredibly creamy in the middle.
Suddenly, a loud bang went off and Sydney was shocked out of her thoughts. She looked up in alarm just in time to see one of Sark's ho's...uh...I mean "friends" fall to the ground. It was the blonde and she was bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound in her chest. Sydney could not believe that Jean had just shot the woman.
Sydney flew towards the three Quebecers and tore into them like an avenging whirlwind of destruction. Sark, looking to exact revenge on Jean and his band of "merry" men for killing one of his money makers, attacked the head Quebecer with his cane.
While Sydney was taking care of Jean's lackeys, Sark was handling Jean himself. With a harsh swing of his cane, Sark knocked Jean's rifle out of his hands. Jean squealed in pain and brought the fingers of his injured hand up to his mouth and sucked on his fingers sullenly. Sark merely looked at the man disparagingly and jabbed out with his crane. The crown of the cane impacted violently against Jean's stomach and Jean exhaled loudly.
Jean collapsed to his knees and Sark looked up to check on Sydney's progress. One of the nameless Quebecers was already writhing on the ground in pain. The other Quebecer was putting up a surprisingly good fight. An errant punch clipped Sydney on the shoulder and she spun 45 degrees to her left. Sydney retaliated with a backhanded fist to the man's face, knocking him to the ground. Sydney then kicked out viciously and nailed the Quebecer squarely in the face. He quickly succumbed to unconscious.
Sark used the crown of his cane to lift Jean's head until Jean could look him in the eye. Sark seethed, "Bitch! Whaz the fuck do ya think yuz whaz doing? Huh? Did I not tell you that you were now my bitch? Stand your punk ass up!"
Jean struggled to his feet and glared defiantly at Sark. Sark angrily struck out, bitch slapping Jean across the face. Jean's head lolled to his side and he collapsed to his knees. A man can only take so much punishment.
Sark glared in disgust and the pathetic man resting on his knees in front of him, and turned to face Sydney. Sark tipped his hat at her, "I thank you for saving my nizzle. This fool cost me a good employee, fo sure."
Sark paused and got a contemplative look on his face and looked Sydney up and down appreciatively. It was then that Sydney realized she was still only wearing a bra and leather pants. She suddenly became self conscious and blushed profusely at Sark's gaze. "You know, Sydney, you would make an excellent addition to my harem of hunnies. You interested in tasting my pimp juice?"
Syd glared at Sark (there seems to be an awfully lot of glaring going on. Perhaps I should come up with something new...) and said angrily, "Why you cocky, little, bastard! Not even if you paid me millions of dollars would I join you! I'll never join you!."
Sark raised an eyebrow. "First off, it's not my fault I'm full of cock...um...I mean cockiness. Second, I ain't little and if you give me the opportunity, I'd prove it to you! Thirdly, you'd be worth ever piece of bling bling I got to get a taste of yo flavor." Sark then grinned lasciviously.
Sydney groaned in disgust, turned around, and strutted away. Sark's eyes were glued to her swaying ass the whole way. Hmmm, he thought, he was going to have to come up with some truly masterful plans if he was ever going to get Sydney to work for him. He was going to have to become the master of his domain.
With a disdainful look at Jean, Sark said scornfully, "Get up bitch. It's time we heazy fesheazy over to my booth. We must discuss how you're going to repay me for killing one of my girls."
Indiana Vaughn stared in awe at the gleaming jar of white sitting on the stone pillar in front of him. He brought his right hand up to wipe the sweat off his brow as he used his left to part the cobwebs. He was so close! The Lost Jar of Mayo was right there! It was just within his grasp.
Vaughn moved carefully forward, watching his footsteps as he maneuvered across the temple floor to the pedestal. He had to make sure he stepped on the right stones. A wrong step might mean death, and Vaughn was too pretty to die. Besides, he hadn't made any SpyChillin yet with the super sexy Sydney Bristow. Who wants to die before having sex with the woman you love? During, well, that's another matter entirely. What a way to go!
Anyway, Vaughn was so close. He could practically taste the creamy goodness that jar in front of him contained. Just a couple of steps more. Right foot forward, left foot to the side, right foot forward again, left foot to the side again, right foot forward, left foot to... And so on and so on.
Is this scene really necessary? I mean really, is it? Wouldn't you get the same idea if I just showed him standing in front of the pedestal with his shirt undone and sweat dripping down his chest. I mean, wouldn't you? I know I would. Perhaps I'll put the man in a nice pair of stilettos and have him go prancing around the temple chamber. Perhaps not.
Vaughn tentatively reached out his hand and reverently stroked the jar. He was one step closer to the Jewel of Sydney and the Temple of Horniness (To stem confusion, Vaughn is currently in the Temple of Lost Jars and Not Quite as Horny Secret Agents. Hope that clears things up.). He would just grab the Lost Jar of Mayo, take it to the Secret Agents who say Ni, and then be on the path to paradise.
Vaughn pulled the replacement jar of pickles (Mmmmm, pickles) out of the bag at his side with his right hand and firmly grasped the top of the jar on the pedestal with his left. He would have to make the exchange quickly. One second of delay could mean certain death. As opposed to uncertain death, which seems to happen quite frequently on this show...er um....I mean story. Yeah, story.
Vaughn took a deep breath and then calmed his nerves as best he could. With a swift movement of both hands, Vaughn replaced the Lost Jar of Mayo with the Generic Jar of Pickles and breathed a huge sigh of relief when nothing happened. He placed the precious jar into his bag and straightened up. He took a step back and took his hat off his head to run a hand through his hair. He had done it! The Jewel of Sydney would be his for sure now.
Vaughn turned around to make his way out of the temple, when to his utter surprise he came face to face with a man dressed in a tuxedo and holding a really small gun. With the surprise evident in his voice, Vaughn asked, "Who the hell are you?"
In an overly exaggerated British accent, the man replied, "My name is Flinkman. Marshall Flinkman. And I believe you have something I need, Mr. Vaughn."
Things to look forward to in the next chapter: Vaughn and Marshall have a bit of a tussle, Sark the Pimp tries to put the moves on Sydney, Jack continues planning his attempt on Vaughn's life, and Sark and Vaughn have the most ambiguously gay KY wrestling match in history.
P.S. I blame any and all Sark inspirations on the song "Pimp Juice" by Nelly. I listened to the song and I just knew I had to write Sark the Pimp. Sark the Pimp is a work in process. I hope to get much better at writing him as the story moves along, but it always takes me a few chapters to get the feel for my characters. As it is now, I already have to many. I hope you like my version of Sark and I hope that I didn't offend any Sark fans out there. Actually, that's not true. I could care less about offending anybody. I think I will make Sark into an evil pimp in the next chapter. After all, he is evil on the show. I think that's a great idea. A pimp with dreams for world domination. Every country would go Dutch! Amsterdam here we come.