Stroganoff
Fourth Wheel: Beef
Disclaimer: If I claim to own Saiyuki, then I would lay claim to expensive lawsuits. That is all.
Thanks to all my reviewers. Thank you sf for recommending my fic on your LJ.
I agree the style has sort of changed since the last few chapters. Evolution: lovely. Here's the last (tragic?) chapter I suppose. There might be a fifth wheel (epilogue) to fit in Goku, depending on the response. Enjoy.
***
The body floating among the cherry blossoms in the harbour was unmistakable. Painfully alabaster; tinted with blue that blesses only the dead, an exclusive testament to the cold that possesses lifeless flesh. The undertow must have strangled this one. Water: slick on the sodden deck is clouded with blood.
A bell tolls, dragging dulled tintinnabulation through the quivering air. Solemnly beatifying
The coroners mill around, dragging body bags in a frightful quiet crescendo of rasping polyethylene, conducting their dreadful service in an altitude of indifference. They package it like a dead fish and ring up the scales. Paid for every pound that they process.
But this is a small one, and they know its weight will be worth only a cup of feathers. Strangely, they do not remove the articles bound on the body. They suspend the black bag by a hook attached to a feeble scale, ignorant of the smell and the soiled water dripping from the tears. A few interesting oddities tumble out onto the dirty pier.
A hand shoots out to collect them eagerly. Understandably: they are shiny and well cared for, and so, meriting some attention from the scoundrels that police the place. The officer tending his mug of beer trots over and bundles up the catch with a gleam in his clever eye. You know nothing would be going anywhere until the black notebook and the razor tooth smile vanished faultlessly.
Long-nails stab at the muddied clipboard dancing haughtily with numbers in varying stages of illiterate scrawls, angrily, then at the informant. The weight was far too low to buy charter. If it had not swallowed that much water then they should have found it a week later--to get a better price. No one had even come to claim it since this morning.
The muscle would have bulked up the numbers by more than enough but it had not yet reached adulthood and its prime weight. The soggy cloth had a capacity for water more than the owner and the weapons were worthy lumber to jack up the scales. The problem then, lay with the body itself. They would not pay for the cleanup unless the numbers fell within the documented range. The log could not be slipped either--the officer on duty had to be bribed or jerked-off to compensate for their day's wages.
A glass ring flashes in the odorous sunlight. The bastard was married: he would be missed.
He makes a concession then. He would pay the men what extra weight was needed to ensure the proper processing followed through. One more body clogging up the stinking river would not look good on his beat record.
Flashbulb. Overexposed retina. Dental records would be returned later so that the bureaucratic whine could continue, away from the polluted scene. The Polaroid was gummed into the empty space and the cause of death panel checked next to drowning.
It did not smell: the cruel harvest of decay had yet to arrive, it looked preserved perfection. Petals of blood touch the blue-clouded lips like a bitter price tag; cunningly studied in death. Sallow golden hair decorates leaden violet eyes: clear signs of divinity better appreciated at close range (when it was dead)--it did not give you such a chance when it was conscious. The affable, innocently available smile dealt damage unchallenged by any bullets. The bag is turned over, zipped up, catching strands of blonde hair that is soon ungraciously plucked out and flicked away.
"Pity, such a beauty had to drown."
He walks away as they haul it away into the blissful confines of the mortuary freezers and spray it down with formaldehyde.
Fourth Wheel: Beef
Disclaimer: If I claim to own Saiyuki, then I would lay claim to expensive lawsuits. That is all.
Thanks to all my reviewers. Thank you sf for recommending my fic on your LJ.
I agree the style has sort of changed since the last few chapters. Evolution: lovely. Here's the last (tragic?) chapter I suppose. There might be a fifth wheel (epilogue) to fit in Goku, depending on the response. Enjoy.
***
The body floating among the cherry blossoms in the harbour was unmistakable. Painfully alabaster; tinted with blue that blesses only the dead, an exclusive testament to the cold that possesses lifeless flesh. The undertow must have strangled this one. Water: slick on the sodden deck is clouded with blood.
A bell tolls, dragging dulled tintinnabulation through the quivering air. Solemnly beatifying
The coroners mill around, dragging body bags in a frightful quiet crescendo of rasping polyethylene, conducting their dreadful service in an altitude of indifference. They package it like a dead fish and ring up the scales. Paid for every pound that they process.
But this is a small one, and they know its weight will be worth only a cup of feathers. Strangely, they do not remove the articles bound on the body. They suspend the black bag by a hook attached to a feeble scale, ignorant of the smell and the soiled water dripping from the tears. A few interesting oddities tumble out onto the dirty pier.
A hand shoots out to collect them eagerly. Understandably: they are shiny and well cared for, and so, meriting some attention from the scoundrels that police the place. The officer tending his mug of beer trots over and bundles up the catch with a gleam in his clever eye. You know nothing would be going anywhere until the black notebook and the razor tooth smile vanished faultlessly.
Long-nails stab at the muddied clipboard dancing haughtily with numbers in varying stages of illiterate scrawls, angrily, then at the informant. The weight was far too low to buy charter. If it had not swallowed that much water then they should have found it a week later--to get a better price. No one had even come to claim it since this morning.
The muscle would have bulked up the numbers by more than enough but it had not yet reached adulthood and its prime weight. The soggy cloth had a capacity for water more than the owner and the weapons were worthy lumber to jack up the scales. The problem then, lay with the body itself. They would not pay for the cleanup unless the numbers fell within the documented range. The log could not be slipped either--the officer on duty had to be bribed or jerked-off to compensate for their day's wages.
A glass ring flashes in the odorous sunlight. The bastard was married: he would be missed.
He makes a concession then. He would pay the men what extra weight was needed to ensure the proper processing followed through. One more body clogging up the stinking river would not look good on his beat record.
Flashbulb. Overexposed retina. Dental records would be returned later so that the bureaucratic whine could continue, away from the polluted scene. The Polaroid was gummed into the empty space and the cause of death panel checked next to drowning.
It did not smell: the cruel harvest of decay had yet to arrive, it looked preserved perfection. Petals of blood touch the blue-clouded lips like a bitter price tag; cunningly studied in death. Sallow golden hair decorates leaden violet eyes: clear signs of divinity better appreciated at close range (when it was dead)--it did not give you such a chance when it was conscious. The affable, innocently available smile dealt damage unchallenged by any bullets. The bag is turned over, zipped up, catching strands of blonde hair that is soon ungraciously plucked out and flicked away.
"Pity, such a beauty had to drown."
He walks away as they haul it away into the blissful confines of the mortuary freezers and spray it down with formaldehyde.