Four Feathers by DJ666
And we come to chapter nine. Chapter eight turned out to be extremely important, so go back and reread it if you think that I care about any continuity subject at all. If something doesn't make sense, you should all know by now:
A wizard did it.
In any case, we finally have an address; or at least, we have Malachi, Mordecai and Bob leading us to Jim's house. This may include a confrontation – though not at all a final one – with JM himself. Expect a firefight. With actual fire. And fighting.
Content: Violence. Sex. Geekiness.
Disclaimer: PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME!
Chapter Nine: We Come to It at Last
"...the great battle of our time."
"Huh?"
"Yuffie, Cid – get ready. I fear that Jim McDonald may try to kill us if he discovers our intentions." Vincent racked Death Penalty's well-oiled bolt, with some satisfaction. "I can feel it in my bones; my honor is soon to be restored."
"Would you shut the fuck up?" Cid asked. "Fuck, I just wanna fucking get stored and you're all like, 'Fuck, I gotta restore my honor, blah blah blah, fuck'. Kind of a killer, wouldn't you fucking think so?"
"You should be quiet," Mordecai warned. "We draw near even now."
They were indeed close; before them stood a mighty building that looked precisely the way a pervert's house should look.
"This is it."
Many-pillared. Dark-windowed. Hot pink. Laden with sausage. All of these things described the great Romanesque mansion that rose from the earth in front of them like a thick, fleshy phallus pulsing with repointed brick veins. The place had an oppressive air to it, like – fascist Germany. One got the feeling that if you got too close, a demonic jack-in-the-box would shoot out of the bushes and set you on fire with the power of its coulrophobic...uh, power.
"Be careful," insisted Mordecai. "There may be traps."
Vincent pointed to himself. "Dude, I'm a vampire. Super-undead reflexes, you see."
"You appear to be stepping in dog poop."
"I've got more important things on my mind. Like Cid. Stop that."
Cid was trying to get high, again. It seemed that the abomination had necessitated the pilot's constant highness, because whenever he wasn't stoned off his ass he would be having nightmares. Every damned day, Vincent would wake up to the shrieks of "Ah, cobras! CO-BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!"
Weapons at the ready, the troupe edged its way forward, inch by inch. The attack dogs in the driveway were sleeping serenely, showing no signs of aggression; so Vincent quickly snapped their necks in rapid succession.
"Vinnie, you really need to stop killing stuff for no reason," Yuffie said.
"Yuffie, you really need to shut up," he replied. "I killed them. Okay? And now I'm gonna go kill something else. Because I like it. I like it like Lucretia, roller coasters and pecan pie, all at the same time. Have you ever had sex with a pecan pie at seven gees? It's like killing someone. It's goddamned amazing. Try it sometime. I have a Jim McDonald to kill."
"NO!" shouted a deep voice.
Vincent lifted an eyebrow inquisitorially. "Yes."
"NO!" shouted a deep voice once again.
"Yes!"
"NO!"
"Yes!
"NO!"
"YES!"
"NO!"
"YES!"
"NO!"
"FINE!" Vincent shouted at last. "Send Jim out to us! Now!"
"I can't!" replied the voice.
"This is ridiculous," the gunman muttered to Yuffie. "Why not? Who are you?"
"I am..." The voice faltered. "I am Jim's father. I am Ronald."
Vincent groaned. "Ronald."
"McDonald," the voice finished.
"Ronald McDonald. Fantastic. Whaddaya got for me, Ron?"
"I cannot surrender my son to you! You will kill him!"
Vincent was getting impatient. "Very perceptive of you, sir. But do you know what your son does? He writes smut!"
"It's called 'erotica'. He-LLO!"
"He writes it about me! I own the legal rights to my genitalia, and he used it without my permission! He needs to be punished."
"I don't care what he did with your genitalia, he's my son and I won't let you hurt him!"
Vincent grunted in loud frustration. "Damn it, I want that kid dead and I want him dead NOW."
Yuffie stepped up at this point, slightly irked at her companion's display of brutish anger. "Vinnie, Vinnie, Vinnie," she purred. "You can't just yell at the guy. He needs someone to be there for him. He's a very feely kind of guy, you can tell by the way he loves his baby boy. You need to be sensitive, Vincent. Like me. I think this needs a woman's touch."
"Yuffie, are you planning to get freaky with Ronald McDonald?"
"Yes, Vincent. Yes, I am. But just remember, Vinnie – I'm fucking that demented clown FOR YOU."
The shinobi considered for a moment, then shouted: "We need to negotiate!"
"YES!" the voice agreed. "We need to do this mouth-to-mouth! I mean, face- to-face." It cut off and added awkwardly, "Uh, you pick. Send to me the hottest member of your party!"
"Go on, Vincent," Cid prodded him. "That means you."
Everyone turned around to look at Cid.
"Are you okay, man?" Vincent had his gun out and was pointing it at the pilot's head. He didn't look stoned. "You didn't say 'fuck' in any way, shape or form there. And you just called me hot."
"Oh," realized Cid. "Fuck. FUCK. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. Fucking better, sossagae man? Do your fucking nipples taste like Canadian bacon, fucker? FUCK! THE FUCKING ABOMINATION FUCKED ME UP!"
"Do you see?" Vincent shouted. "Do you see? You've driven Cid insane! He can't even live his life anymore, now that he's read one of those Cid/Vin slash thingies. YOUR SON DESTROYED THIS MAN'S LIFE."
"Fine. Just send a negotiator."
"Yuffie..."
She turned around to look at Vincent.
"Godspeed."
And the door opened.
And it was at that instant that Reno, looking quite breathless, hacking and wheezing, tapped Vincent's shoulder. The vampire turned about to find a dying Turk smoking a cigarette at his feet.
"Jesus...gotta...hurgh...stop...smoking. Lungs...black...tar...sticky...death...imminent."
The vampire considered what to say, and settled on, "Need a light?"
"Unh...yeah...hook me up with some...flames...oooohhh..."
"So, Mr. Nevada. What brings a young new Turk to the center of Midgardian Judaeism?"
Reno had collapsed on his back, clutching his chest and weakly puffing on the cigarette flopping from his lips. He was gazing blankly up at the sky, and finally wheezed, "Don't...go...in."
"Don't need to," Vincent answered easily. "We sent Yuffie."
"NO!" the Turk gasped. "Not...Yuffie...bad."
"What the fuck's wrong?" Cid inquired, his own smoke filling the air about his head. "Little fucker's gonna get us that bitch Jim fuck and we're gonna kill the fucker! Yee-fuckety-HAW!"
"Hold onto your garters, Sundance Cid," Vincent remarked drily. "I'm not afraid of blasting one of those horns right off your head." The vampire turned back to the dying assassin. "Say, where's uh, Mr. Polite, there?
"R…Rude…gone…back…house…trapdoor…punji sticks..."
"The fuck, say again, all I heard was something about Rude sticking it in the back door," Cid supplied.
"Dear gods," Vincent realized. "Rude...he was stuck in a trap trying to sneak up on the house. Yuffie is in mortal danger!"
"Ye fuckin' GADS," the foul-mouthed pilot ejaculated. He he...ejaculated. It's not supposed to be dirty, but it is!
"I am here."
At a table sat a man. He was fat, and it seemed that all the hair on his head had been transplanted to the rest of his body. He was holding a garden hose. "What's happening, hot stuff?"
"Shut up, you misogynistic bastard, and get on with the dousing. My young, supple breasts are not to be kept waiting."
"I was talking to him," he explained. Yuffie turned around to find herself face to face with an honest-to-God Balrog of Morgoth. Durin's motherfucking BANE. The thing roared, and the ninja's eyebrows caught aflame; a quick douse from Ronald McDonald put them to steam.
"Why don't you cool your heels for a little while with a bit of whisky?" Ronald suggested. He pulled out two shot glasses of yellowish liquid; one had some pills in the bottom, powder on the top and a couple of thirteen- inch-long hypodermic needles floating around in it. He put the crackwhore's dream in front of him and pushed the normal beverage towards his guest. "Please, drink up."
Yuffie carefully glanced at both glasses. At long last she widened her eyes and shrieked, "Ohmygod, look over there – a diversion!", pointing wildly over Ron's shoulder. As he spun about to follow her gaze, the shinobi grabbed the two glasses and switched them around. Her host turned back warily. "I didn't see anything."
"Nothing," she replied, "just some Puerto Rican guy. Cheers." They lifted their glasses and downed them, Ron choking a bit as the hypodermics went down sideways. Then, Yuffie felt a bit woozy, and realized that something was very wrong.
"Ronald, pray tell me: are there usually three of you present at one time?" she asked.
"I'm sorry, miss, but one of me is missing. It's usually four, I swear it."
And then it struck her like a 400-pound linebacker on 'roids:
"You drugged your own drink." Even as she accusatorially lifted the Mighty Pointy Finger of Shame, Yuffie's head lolled back on her shoulders and her tongue shot straight up to the ceiling. Ronald McDonald laughed aloud. "You fool," he cried, "you stupid fool!
"They were BOTH drugged!"
He stood and laughed triumphantly.
"Wait, they were laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllll llllalalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaagagagaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaa..." "Okay," Vincent said, "we're going in. Reno, Cid: smoke. A lot."
"Will do," the Turk answered.
"While the lovely pot-smelling smoke wafts through the air, masking our movements and incapacitating Ronald, I shall enter the house and bring Jim to justice." Vincent checked Death Penalty's magazine and slammed it back in. "Are we ready? Lighters."
"Check."
"Cigarettes."
"Check."
"And weapons?"
"Lithuanian."
They all looked at Reno. "It was a joke," he said. "Czech, Czech, Lithuanian. Small European countries, in the – never mind."
"That was really fucking uncool, fucker."
"Yeah. Yeah, it was."
"Okay, everybody shut up, I'm going in. Start smoking."
Vincent sat on a stone as his companions lit up. This story (and Vincent's life) was quickly turning into a surgeon general's nightmare: cigarettes, drugs, alcohol, depravity...the list went on. If only they'd HAD a surgeon general all those years ago. Surgeon General's Warning: Sleeping with the pregnant wife of an insane scientist as he shoots steroids and fluid rock into her fetus is inadvisable; severe depression, chafed penis and living death may initially occur.
FOREVER.
Geez. How long had it been since he'd gotten laid? He'd been...twenty something when he went into the coffin, thirty years since, and two...four, since Sephiroth fell? God, he couldn't remember. The years were blurring, he was getting old, the author was waxing philosophical. It struck Vincent then what was happening:
He was dying.
Not soon, not imminent. But he was mortal. His demons could not save him from death. Would they too die when he passed into oblivion?
No.
"Chaos?"
Yes.
"What are you doing? Whatever it is, LEAVE MY BRAIN ALONE!"
All I'm doing is making you look like a complete jackass.
Vincent slapped his head when he realized that his friends had been sitting there, smoking, as he screamed "LEAVE MY BRAIN ALONE!" to the thin air. He explained the situation and resumed the conversation.
"So what do you want?"
Nothing, really. I was getting a bit lonely up here.
"Don't you have three demons up there to keep you company?"
Oh, yeah: Baby Blue, Frankenstunned and Leatherface-Ripoff-Man. Great company, bud.
"Not my fault."
Hey, Vince, listen up: women do not just fuck themselves, okay, someone's gotta do it for them.
The vampire considered that statement and tactfully replied, "Have I introduced you to Yuffie Kisaragi?"
Oh, crap.
"What?"
Someone's saying something to you. And indeed, it appeared that Reno was trying to communicate with Vincent. Quick, nod and act like you know what the hell's going on.
"SHUT UP!" shouted the Gothic gunman, heavily offended.
"WELL SORRY VINCENT, BUT WE NEED TO GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!" Reno spat back.
"Oh, you're right. Sorry." The sniper held Death Penalty at the ready and crept forth. "Here we go."
He plunged into the smoke. Inside, Jim shouted to his parents. "Daddy! Mommy! Where's my socks? Daddy?"
The fattish forty-year-old, balding and oily and preoccupied with KFC food, scampered down the stairs to find his father, a supple Yuffie Kisaragi, and Durin's Bane sitting at the dining room table, out cold with drugs in their veins. A joint poked out of the Balrog's mouth, constantly going out and relighting itself due to the heat of the creature's body. And Jim realized that just outside, right then, would be Vincent Valentine himself, doubtless bearing a well-oiled and full-loaded Death Penalty, his dark bangs falling before his face and scarlet raiment sweeping about him, his figure like that of Red Death.
The writer scampered upstairs, grabbed his precious belongings: first the laptop, then the PlayStation, then the game itself. He could hear his mother's voice in his head, shouting, "Did you pack clean underwear, sweetie? You always forget clean underwear. I won't let you go around with schmutz in your yarbles, okay, so you be sure to pack clean underwear. And leave those dirty magazines at home, or your underwear will be covered in schmutz too soon." And that reminded him to pack clean underwear, as well as some po – uh, erotica. For inspiration. He slung it all over his shoulder, hobo style, and made for the Merovingian's chateau. Vincent found his path hopeless. The smoke obscured everything on the property; Reno and Cid were remarkably efficient at getting stoned together. "Damn it!" he shouted, irked at his inability to find the house.
"Hello?"
A voice called out from the smog. Vincent groped out and caught a balding guy by the shoulders. "Hey, could you help me, here? I need to get to the McDonald house."
"Uh, yeah," the guy said. "It's just up ahead, keep going straight – Vincent Valentine?"
"Jim McDonald?"
They regarded each other in silence for several moments.
And then Jim shrieked like a little girl as he waddled away, clinging to his hobo-sack. The vampire lifted his weapon to fire, but found his path blocked as a new face swam into view...
"Vincent?" wondered Reeve.
Oooh, creepy. Five people stoned out of their wits and Vincent about to kill someone…who could have seen that one coming? No battles…well, not yet. The Balrog has yet to wake up.
Um, what's up for the next chapter? Good question. I think the gang will be together now…not much else I know. The randomness is so random even I don't know what the hell's going on.
Oh, yeah. Sorry about the breakup of the story, but this new-fangled system won't keep my cool little asterisk-line-thingies up there, so it's all screwed over, and the spaces won't stick at all so it just runs together. Trust me, I'm working on it, but I'm trying to get a chapter up post haste, so here it is.
