Picture a meeting.
This particular meeting was held in a dilapidated classroom, filled with stacked desks and chairs. It's blackboard, covered with faded chalk marks, bears the words 'Plans For The Restoration of Order To The School Dance, aka, Buying The Prize' Next to it is drawn a large, blobby *thing* that may, in the furthest stretch of the imagination, may be considered to vaguely resemble a pack of Exodia cards. It is pink.
So is the room.
The president of the student council stood in the midst of the pinkness, twitching very slightly, holding a yardstick, which he tapped against the chalkboard, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He took a step forward, drew himself up in an important fashion and pointed the yardstick in a threatening manner at the treasurer, who simply sat in her cheap plastic chair, looking very unimpressed. She blew a perfectly round bubble of bright purple bubble gum, and simply stared.
He took a breath, suppressed the urge to move his yardstick just a half an inch closer, and began. "We," he began through gritted teeth, "Are utterly doomed."
"I gathered that." Remarked the treasurer, remarkably able to speak coherently through a mouthful of inflated candy. "You've been screaming 'doom' for the past hour. I have a Biology class next, you know. I'm beginning to run out of time to listen to your master scheme."
"It's not a scheme," answered the president darkly, generating his very own cloud of depressing, angsty, Poe-ish atmosphere as he began his explanation, "It's a plot. A brilliant strategy to save our very lives and careers."
The treasurer maintained the enormous bubble gum bubble as she wondered if the word 'brilliant' could ever really be applied to such a neurotic individual. Especially one whose idea of decoration included fuzzy dice and hamster posters. "Right," she said, eying the president warily. "It doesn't involve any dramatic music, does it?"
"No. The boom box broke and anyway we have no tapes that would match the mood." The president steepled his fingers and tried his hardest to look serious and foreboding, a task especially hard, as he hadn't the slightest idea what foreboding meant. "As I have told you, we have no Exodia cards. Therefore, we have no prize for the contest winner. This will result in a very, very angry person and that is not good. Not good at all."
"Couldn't we just make it so that no one would win?" inquired the treasurer tentatively.
"Molly! That would be dishonest and unethical!"
"We are a government."
"Well, that's true." There were a few minutes of brooding silence as the both calculated this. You must take a while to realize that these were the very people who organized and thought up of every school activity. You must also take a moment to realize that in every school, there are people like this and sadly, they are in positions of relative power that they will most likely maintain for the rest of their lives. It a sad and awe-inspiring thought, but there it is.
Finally, the silence was broken by the sound of the president slapping his yardstick firmly onto the cheap wooden table. "No," he said firmly, "it just wouldn't do. If we had no one win, then there would be no point in supplying other prizes, and if there weren't any prizes for the contest, people wouldn't dress up. This would result in chaos and general stupidity, and I get quite enough of that on a daily basis, thank you." He paused and took up his yardstick again. "And in any case, I already thought up a brilliant plan that's just dying to be used."
"Oh, it's dying alright."
"No obscure jokes, please. Anyway, I have drawn a quick mission summary." The president held up a piece of printer paper with a few scrawled lines hastily drawn across its surface. He wielded it with an expression of triumph and utmost joy on his face. He was easily amused.
There was another momentary lull in the 'conversation' as the Treasurer made a valiant effort to decrypt what she thought was a hidden message. Finally, she gave up.
"If you squint and close one eye, it kind of looks like a Scottish terrier," she commented.
He stared at her for a while, then gave a deep sigh, the kind of sigh you hear from people who have been locked away in a cubicle for eight years, and then discover that the coffee machine has run dry. "How did you ever get elected treasurer, anyway?"
"I was the only one running, you know that. And thinking's not my job, anyway."
"Right." He needed a change of subject, and fast. "The Master Plan!" he announced with a faint note of desperation, "I have decided, randomly, with the use of my magic eight ball, that it would be advantageous to send a helper out to assist us in our search for the cards."
"What you mean to say, dear president, is that you need someone to do the dirty work. And if he doesn't get the cards, you can just blame the lack of a prize on him, right?"
"Exactly so, dear Treasurer. And I have chosen just the right person to do this."
"And when you say that," she translated, "You mean that you got out your set of throwing knives, wrote out a bunch of names on a piece of paper, threw a knife, and picked which name the thing landed on, right?"
"You have been doing this a long time, haven't you?"
"Sadly, yes. How can you tell?"
"The hair. Anyways, Fate in her infinitely fickle ways has decided to bestow the honor of seeking the costume dance prize on this individual." He held up a photograph of a young man with pale hair, dark skin, and striking violet eyes. "Transfer student Malik!"
And the dramatic atmosphere was so thick, you'd need a diamond-tipped drill to pervade it.
Elsewhere, in the parking lot of a certain fabric store, our motley crew of would-be costume makers stood, rummaging through their purchases with a determined air. They plucked through the cheap, thin plastic of the bright red bags with a steely glint in their eyes. What they searched for, no one knew. Passers-by were amazed and inspired by the apparent dedication they had to the art of sewing. Finally, Yami raised his head and looked at the other two.
"You mean to tell me that no one bought any buckles?"
"Guess not," Tea answered, lifted what looked to be a yard of patchwork- patterned flannel. "Huh. And here I thought we bought some in the buttons department." The patchwork flannel was thrust back into the back and a few packs of cherry-colored buttons were pulled out and examined thoroughly.
"No, we bought those ducky buttons," Joey answered, dropping his bag next to him on the pavement and watching the yards of different-colored materials spill out of the sack, like intestines from a dissected frog. A bright red dissected frog, but metaphors are hardly ever perfect. "You know, the ones with the little blue bows."
"I never want to get into your mind, Joey." Tea said solemnly. "I might be devoured whole by whatever creature ate your intelligence."
"Huh?" Joey asked intelligently, playing with a small sack of ornamental gemstones. Ornamental gemstones were his secret obsession. He had collected fake jewels ever since he was four, and every now and then he'd take the crate out of his closet, pour the cheap shards of plastic around his room, pretend to swim in them, and then spend at least half an hour afterwards with a Scottish accent and a craving to wear spats. It goes to show you, you never can tell.
"Who cares about the ducky buttons?" Yami interjected furiously, "I NEED the buckles! Nothing I can wear can be buckle-less. It's one of my trademark things. Like short capes and hair dye. I really, really need those buckles."
"Buckle addict."
"I can give them up any time I please!" Yami stated with an insulted air. "I just feel more comfortable with them on." He started to fumble through his bag as he spoke. "And what, pray tell, are we supposed to be?"
"We're the three horsemen of the apocalypse." Tea said this proudly, no small feat when one is holding a few yards of crimson flannel and some pipe cleaners.
There was a momentary lull as Yami worked though this idea.
"By 'horsemen of the apocalypse', you mean 'War, Death, Famine, and Pestilence, am I correct?" Yami asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow at Tea.
"Yes, those are the horsemen I'm referring to."
"The four horsemen of the apocalypse, who foretell the end of the world?"
"That's right."
"Have you noted how I put special emphasis on 'four'?"
"Yes, it's a very nice emphasis, too."
"And it's especially interesting, seeing that we have three people as of now."
"Right."
"Three people."
"Yes."
"To be the four horsemen."
"Correct."
"Am I the only one noticing the slight numerical problem, here?"
Tea fidgeted uncomfortably with her crimson flannel. "I'll confess that I wasn't thinking very well when I chose the costumes," she admitted.
Yami slapped a hand to his forehead and collapsed onto the pavement, looking about ready to tear out chunks of his elaborately dyed and gelled hair. Joey chewed on a tootsie roll in a thoughtful manner. "Wait," he said in the air of one who has made a brilliant discovery, "This can be fixed. All we need to do is find some other guy to be the last horseman."
"Got anyone in mind?" asked Yami mockingly, "Or are you going to pull them out of your pockets? Let me count the people you know. Ryou, who is probably being dragged into some wacky scheme by that ninja-star flinging maniac of a yami he has, Kaiba, who is so out of the picture he's in the next art gallery, Mokuba, who will probably say no just to be annoying, and a large assortment of other random people who are either too old or far too young to be involved."
"What about Tristan?" asked Tea, who had been following Yami's little soliloquy with a vague feeling that she should feel insulted.
"No good." Joey mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate-flavored taffy, "He's away with my sister. He probably won't be available by phone or Internet. They take shag knitting very seriously."
Yami stared. "How seriously?"
"They formed the first and only Olympic shag knitting team, invented several new styles of knitting, and head an online shag carpet fan club."
Silence.
"Joey," Yami said, "I never want to know the intimate details of Tristan and Serenity's relationship ever again."
"Not even the whipped cream?"
Yami gave Joey a killing glare. One of Yami's killing glares was powerful enough to fell an entire pack of cheetahs in mid-leap, a fact he had learned of while on a hunt in Africa. Unfortunately, the glare didn't work on people, but it still looked pretty scary, if you ignored the fact that it looked as though Yami was about to pass out or explode.
Tea shook her head as if to clear any stray thoughts of shag carpet knitting from her mind. "That doesn't matter," she said firmly, "He's going to have to give it up for a while. We need him to be a horseman." She paused. "Friendship demands it!" she declared, and got to her feet, standing proudly. "We will go forth and gather Tristan, and then make costumes!"
"Out of ducky flannel?"
"Out of ducky flannel," she asserted, "The power of our friendship shall overcome all obstacles! Let's go!" She pointed dramatically at the horizon. "Everyone into Joey's car, and we'll get started."
"Hey, I just realized something," Joey said, turning an interesting light mauve color.
"What?"
"I don't have a car."
Elsewhere, in Pegasus's expansive mansion, our favorite one-eyed villain was preparing to kill someone. The whole day in general had not gone well for him. After several meetings with incredibly boring people from some incredibly boring companies, all he wanted to do was drink a cold glass of Pegasus's Famous Fruit Juice , sink into a very large, lavishly upholstered chair, and obsess over his dead wife. But it was not to be. For the mysterious powers that be had decided to involve him in the unfolding drama of the school dance. Life as Maximillion Pegasus knew it was about to take an abrupt left turn in a right turn only lane. Today, it all started with a single phone call.
"What do you mean my car is missing?" Pegasus yelled into the phone. Pegasus was the proud owner of the largest collection of lip-shaped phones in the known universe. In fact, he had bought out the entire company that produced lip-shaped phones. He owned phones in every lipstick shade and tint. The particular phone he was screaming into was a very appealing shade of magenta.
"I mean your car is missing," stuttered Croquet, staring at the empty space that had previously held Pegasus's car. The car had parked in an underground garage, surrounded by the very latest in technology. There were hundreds of alarms surrounding the entrance alone. A complicated maze of lasers and booby traps surrounded the parking spot itself. A single spotlight was mounted on the wall in case of a chase scene, because some standards simply had to be maintained. All in all, the chance of a thief breaking in and stealing the car were close to the chance of a potted plant in a nuclear reactor.
In laymen's terms, not damn likely.
"Allow me to rephrase that question," Pegasus said, resisting the urge to trample his magenta phone underfoot, "HOW is my car missing?"
"I don't know!" Croquet was in a state of panic. This had never happened before. Well, no, that was a lie. It had happened once before, but never on his watch. Now it was *his* fault that the car had been grabbed. He would receive the full might of Pegasus's fury. The last car-watcher had been tortured in such cruel and incredibly unusual ways, he still had trouble breathing and writing at the same time. Not to mention the fact that he had not received his Christmas bonus. "I-I just walked in here, and it was gone! POOF! The car has vanished! It is no more!" He started rambling. Where the hell was a deus ex machina when you needed one? Forget that, where was an actual alcoholic beverage?
"Never mind," came Pegasus's voice over Croquet's phone, which was not an appealing magenta color, "I don't care how it got lost. I don't care why. I want to know why I only have one car."
Croquet opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. The question was devastatingly logical. There simply was no answer. The silence curled around them like smoke from a Cuban cigar.
On the beltway, a couple hundred miles away from Pegasus's little island, a glistening red car was seen zipping through traffic like a very aerodynamic ladybug. It was playing heavy metal music at top volume, it's windows rolled all the way down. At the wheel of the car, a white haired-boy sat, holding a conversation with himself.
"What the heck were you THINKING? You just STOLE Pegasus's car!"
"He challenged me."
"How?"
"Through e-mail."
"What? I didn't see any e-mails from Pegasus!"
"Shut up. It doesn't matter. I was the best tomb robber in all of Egypt. I shall prove myself now as the best thief in the entire world. And then I shall steal the Exodia cards."
"I hate to break it to you, but good thieves don't get caught."
"It was an unlucky streak! I haven't got caught in this, have I?"
"Yet."
"Ryou, you're about three inches from being dangled over a flaming pit surrounded by enormous lava-eating rodents for all of eternity."
"Well, look, I don't see the point of stealing the car."
"I needed a getaway car. Bikes are so infantile. Besides, I can carry my post-its much better this way."
"I give up. Have fun running away from the cops."
"I'm not running away! I'm taking a strategic maneuver in the opposite direction."
"Hah."
"What was that?"
"Something in my throat."
"Considering the fact that we're sharing the same body, I would have known if you'd had dust in your throat."
"It was very deceptive dust."
"Shut up.'
This particular meeting was held in a dilapidated classroom, filled with stacked desks and chairs. It's blackboard, covered with faded chalk marks, bears the words 'Plans For The Restoration of Order To The School Dance, aka, Buying The Prize' Next to it is drawn a large, blobby *thing* that may, in the furthest stretch of the imagination, may be considered to vaguely resemble a pack of Exodia cards. It is pink.
So is the room.
The president of the student council stood in the midst of the pinkness, twitching very slightly, holding a yardstick, which he tapped against the chalkboard, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He took a step forward, drew himself up in an important fashion and pointed the yardstick in a threatening manner at the treasurer, who simply sat in her cheap plastic chair, looking very unimpressed. She blew a perfectly round bubble of bright purple bubble gum, and simply stared.
He took a breath, suppressed the urge to move his yardstick just a half an inch closer, and began. "We," he began through gritted teeth, "Are utterly doomed."
"I gathered that." Remarked the treasurer, remarkably able to speak coherently through a mouthful of inflated candy. "You've been screaming 'doom' for the past hour. I have a Biology class next, you know. I'm beginning to run out of time to listen to your master scheme."
"It's not a scheme," answered the president darkly, generating his very own cloud of depressing, angsty, Poe-ish atmosphere as he began his explanation, "It's a plot. A brilliant strategy to save our very lives and careers."
The treasurer maintained the enormous bubble gum bubble as she wondered if the word 'brilliant' could ever really be applied to such a neurotic individual. Especially one whose idea of decoration included fuzzy dice and hamster posters. "Right," she said, eying the president warily. "It doesn't involve any dramatic music, does it?"
"No. The boom box broke and anyway we have no tapes that would match the mood." The president steepled his fingers and tried his hardest to look serious and foreboding, a task especially hard, as he hadn't the slightest idea what foreboding meant. "As I have told you, we have no Exodia cards. Therefore, we have no prize for the contest winner. This will result in a very, very angry person and that is not good. Not good at all."
"Couldn't we just make it so that no one would win?" inquired the treasurer tentatively.
"Molly! That would be dishonest and unethical!"
"We are a government."
"Well, that's true." There were a few minutes of brooding silence as the both calculated this. You must take a while to realize that these were the very people who organized and thought up of every school activity. You must also take a moment to realize that in every school, there are people like this and sadly, they are in positions of relative power that they will most likely maintain for the rest of their lives. It a sad and awe-inspiring thought, but there it is.
Finally, the silence was broken by the sound of the president slapping his yardstick firmly onto the cheap wooden table. "No," he said firmly, "it just wouldn't do. If we had no one win, then there would be no point in supplying other prizes, and if there weren't any prizes for the contest, people wouldn't dress up. This would result in chaos and general stupidity, and I get quite enough of that on a daily basis, thank you." He paused and took up his yardstick again. "And in any case, I already thought up a brilliant plan that's just dying to be used."
"Oh, it's dying alright."
"No obscure jokes, please. Anyway, I have drawn a quick mission summary." The president held up a piece of printer paper with a few scrawled lines hastily drawn across its surface. He wielded it with an expression of triumph and utmost joy on his face. He was easily amused.
There was another momentary lull in the 'conversation' as the Treasurer made a valiant effort to decrypt what she thought was a hidden message. Finally, she gave up.
"If you squint and close one eye, it kind of looks like a Scottish terrier," she commented.
He stared at her for a while, then gave a deep sigh, the kind of sigh you hear from people who have been locked away in a cubicle for eight years, and then discover that the coffee machine has run dry. "How did you ever get elected treasurer, anyway?"
"I was the only one running, you know that. And thinking's not my job, anyway."
"Right." He needed a change of subject, and fast. "The Master Plan!" he announced with a faint note of desperation, "I have decided, randomly, with the use of my magic eight ball, that it would be advantageous to send a helper out to assist us in our search for the cards."
"What you mean to say, dear president, is that you need someone to do the dirty work. And if he doesn't get the cards, you can just blame the lack of a prize on him, right?"
"Exactly so, dear Treasurer. And I have chosen just the right person to do this."
"And when you say that," she translated, "You mean that you got out your set of throwing knives, wrote out a bunch of names on a piece of paper, threw a knife, and picked which name the thing landed on, right?"
"You have been doing this a long time, haven't you?"
"Sadly, yes. How can you tell?"
"The hair. Anyways, Fate in her infinitely fickle ways has decided to bestow the honor of seeking the costume dance prize on this individual." He held up a photograph of a young man with pale hair, dark skin, and striking violet eyes. "Transfer student Malik!"
And the dramatic atmosphere was so thick, you'd need a diamond-tipped drill to pervade it.
Elsewhere, in the parking lot of a certain fabric store, our motley crew of would-be costume makers stood, rummaging through their purchases with a determined air. They plucked through the cheap, thin plastic of the bright red bags with a steely glint in their eyes. What they searched for, no one knew. Passers-by were amazed and inspired by the apparent dedication they had to the art of sewing. Finally, Yami raised his head and looked at the other two.
"You mean to tell me that no one bought any buckles?"
"Guess not," Tea answered, lifted what looked to be a yard of patchwork- patterned flannel. "Huh. And here I thought we bought some in the buttons department." The patchwork flannel was thrust back into the back and a few packs of cherry-colored buttons were pulled out and examined thoroughly.
"No, we bought those ducky buttons," Joey answered, dropping his bag next to him on the pavement and watching the yards of different-colored materials spill out of the sack, like intestines from a dissected frog. A bright red dissected frog, but metaphors are hardly ever perfect. "You know, the ones with the little blue bows."
"I never want to get into your mind, Joey." Tea said solemnly. "I might be devoured whole by whatever creature ate your intelligence."
"Huh?" Joey asked intelligently, playing with a small sack of ornamental gemstones. Ornamental gemstones were his secret obsession. He had collected fake jewels ever since he was four, and every now and then he'd take the crate out of his closet, pour the cheap shards of plastic around his room, pretend to swim in them, and then spend at least half an hour afterwards with a Scottish accent and a craving to wear spats. It goes to show you, you never can tell.
"Who cares about the ducky buttons?" Yami interjected furiously, "I NEED the buckles! Nothing I can wear can be buckle-less. It's one of my trademark things. Like short capes and hair dye. I really, really need those buckles."
"Buckle addict."
"I can give them up any time I please!" Yami stated with an insulted air. "I just feel more comfortable with them on." He started to fumble through his bag as he spoke. "And what, pray tell, are we supposed to be?"
"We're the three horsemen of the apocalypse." Tea said this proudly, no small feat when one is holding a few yards of crimson flannel and some pipe cleaners.
There was a momentary lull as Yami worked though this idea.
"By 'horsemen of the apocalypse', you mean 'War, Death, Famine, and Pestilence, am I correct?" Yami asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow at Tea.
"Yes, those are the horsemen I'm referring to."
"The four horsemen of the apocalypse, who foretell the end of the world?"
"That's right."
"Have you noted how I put special emphasis on 'four'?"
"Yes, it's a very nice emphasis, too."
"And it's especially interesting, seeing that we have three people as of now."
"Right."
"Three people."
"Yes."
"To be the four horsemen."
"Correct."
"Am I the only one noticing the slight numerical problem, here?"
Tea fidgeted uncomfortably with her crimson flannel. "I'll confess that I wasn't thinking very well when I chose the costumes," she admitted.
Yami slapped a hand to his forehead and collapsed onto the pavement, looking about ready to tear out chunks of his elaborately dyed and gelled hair. Joey chewed on a tootsie roll in a thoughtful manner. "Wait," he said in the air of one who has made a brilliant discovery, "This can be fixed. All we need to do is find some other guy to be the last horseman."
"Got anyone in mind?" asked Yami mockingly, "Or are you going to pull them out of your pockets? Let me count the people you know. Ryou, who is probably being dragged into some wacky scheme by that ninja-star flinging maniac of a yami he has, Kaiba, who is so out of the picture he's in the next art gallery, Mokuba, who will probably say no just to be annoying, and a large assortment of other random people who are either too old or far too young to be involved."
"What about Tristan?" asked Tea, who had been following Yami's little soliloquy with a vague feeling that she should feel insulted.
"No good." Joey mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate-flavored taffy, "He's away with my sister. He probably won't be available by phone or Internet. They take shag knitting very seriously."
Yami stared. "How seriously?"
"They formed the first and only Olympic shag knitting team, invented several new styles of knitting, and head an online shag carpet fan club."
Silence.
"Joey," Yami said, "I never want to know the intimate details of Tristan and Serenity's relationship ever again."
"Not even the whipped cream?"
Yami gave Joey a killing glare. One of Yami's killing glares was powerful enough to fell an entire pack of cheetahs in mid-leap, a fact he had learned of while on a hunt in Africa. Unfortunately, the glare didn't work on people, but it still looked pretty scary, if you ignored the fact that it looked as though Yami was about to pass out or explode.
Tea shook her head as if to clear any stray thoughts of shag carpet knitting from her mind. "That doesn't matter," she said firmly, "He's going to have to give it up for a while. We need him to be a horseman." She paused. "Friendship demands it!" she declared, and got to her feet, standing proudly. "We will go forth and gather Tristan, and then make costumes!"
"Out of ducky flannel?"
"Out of ducky flannel," she asserted, "The power of our friendship shall overcome all obstacles! Let's go!" She pointed dramatically at the horizon. "Everyone into Joey's car, and we'll get started."
"Hey, I just realized something," Joey said, turning an interesting light mauve color.
"What?"
"I don't have a car."
Elsewhere, in Pegasus's expansive mansion, our favorite one-eyed villain was preparing to kill someone. The whole day in general had not gone well for him. After several meetings with incredibly boring people from some incredibly boring companies, all he wanted to do was drink a cold glass of Pegasus's Famous Fruit Juice , sink into a very large, lavishly upholstered chair, and obsess over his dead wife. But it was not to be. For the mysterious powers that be had decided to involve him in the unfolding drama of the school dance. Life as Maximillion Pegasus knew it was about to take an abrupt left turn in a right turn only lane. Today, it all started with a single phone call.
"What do you mean my car is missing?" Pegasus yelled into the phone. Pegasus was the proud owner of the largest collection of lip-shaped phones in the known universe. In fact, he had bought out the entire company that produced lip-shaped phones. He owned phones in every lipstick shade and tint. The particular phone he was screaming into was a very appealing shade of magenta.
"I mean your car is missing," stuttered Croquet, staring at the empty space that had previously held Pegasus's car. The car had parked in an underground garage, surrounded by the very latest in technology. There were hundreds of alarms surrounding the entrance alone. A complicated maze of lasers and booby traps surrounded the parking spot itself. A single spotlight was mounted on the wall in case of a chase scene, because some standards simply had to be maintained. All in all, the chance of a thief breaking in and stealing the car were close to the chance of a potted plant in a nuclear reactor.
In laymen's terms, not damn likely.
"Allow me to rephrase that question," Pegasus said, resisting the urge to trample his magenta phone underfoot, "HOW is my car missing?"
"I don't know!" Croquet was in a state of panic. This had never happened before. Well, no, that was a lie. It had happened once before, but never on his watch. Now it was *his* fault that the car had been grabbed. He would receive the full might of Pegasus's fury. The last car-watcher had been tortured in such cruel and incredibly unusual ways, he still had trouble breathing and writing at the same time. Not to mention the fact that he had not received his Christmas bonus. "I-I just walked in here, and it was gone! POOF! The car has vanished! It is no more!" He started rambling. Where the hell was a deus ex machina when you needed one? Forget that, where was an actual alcoholic beverage?
"Never mind," came Pegasus's voice over Croquet's phone, which was not an appealing magenta color, "I don't care how it got lost. I don't care why. I want to know why I only have one car."
Croquet opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. The question was devastatingly logical. There simply was no answer. The silence curled around them like smoke from a Cuban cigar.
On the beltway, a couple hundred miles away from Pegasus's little island, a glistening red car was seen zipping through traffic like a very aerodynamic ladybug. It was playing heavy metal music at top volume, it's windows rolled all the way down. At the wheel of the car, a white haired-boy sat, holding a conversation with himself.
"What the heck were you THINKING? You just STOLE Pegasus's car!"
"He challenged me."
"How?"
"Through e-mail."
"What? I didn't see any e-mails from Pegasus!"
"Shut up. It doesn't matter. I was the best tomb robber in all of Egypt. I shall prove myself now as the best thief in the entire world. And then I shall steal the Exodia cards."
"I hate to break it to you, but good thieves don't get caught."
"It was an unlucky streak! I haven't got caught in this, have I?"
"Yet."
"Ryou, you're about three inches from being dangled over a flaming pit surrounded by enormous lava-eating rodents for all of eternity."
"Well, look, I don't see the point of stealing the car."
"I needed a getaway car. Bikes are so infantile. Besides, I can carry my post-its much better this way."
"I give up. Have fun running away from the cops."
"I'm not running away! I'm taking a strategic maneuver in the opposite direction."
"Hah."
"What was that?"
"Something in my throat."
"Considering the fact that we're sharing the same body, I would have known if you'd had dust in your throat."
"It was very deceptive dust."
"Shut up.'