Four Feathers by DJ666

Okay, guys, funny story that scared the crap out of me. Literally, LITERALLY minutes after I posted the last chapter, I was on GameFAQs and found out about a new game announced by SE: FF7 Dirge of Cerberus. It's a Vincent-centered sequel to the Advent Children, and although it's still ambiguous, early rumors put it as a DMC-esque action game… 0o

If this story suddenly disappears, you'll know why: THE PATRIOTS!

That's right, Metal Gear teh Solid 3 is out. And it kicketh ass. And The Boss kicketh ass. Much ass. Uber ass. Don't even try to fuck with The Boss. There's only three words to describe her relationships, and they're 'bondage', 'domination' and 'sadomasochism'.

Beat DMC today (and by the time this is posted, that will have been some weeks ago – pre-Halloween, last yearr. Wait a minute, didn't I have another Halloween ep…HAS THIS BEEN IN THE WORKS FOR MORE THAN A YEAR? Wow. Uh, anyway…) Mundus is freaking hilarious and awesome to boot. The ending is cheesier than cheddar cheese pie with cheese chili on top, whipped with cheese. But who cares? You play a Metal Gear game for story, not DMC. Now if Snake got a sword and demon powers…nah, never mind.

But FUCK IT ALL: HALO 2 IS OUT. Beat the shit outta that one, weeks straight. The Arbiter is t3h shizznat. Wrathful smitage occurs in the end-all be-all XBL weapon: the energy sword. It is whored like Babylon. Oh, and listen to the backmasking prayer past the honor guard in 'Whispers in the Storm'.

Content: FUNNINESS, BITCHES!

Disclaimer: Squirrelly wrath shall be visited upon he who pisseth me off…eth. FUN FACT: 'pisseth' is a real word. It's even in the Bible!

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Chapter Eleven: Copyright Infringement

"Um…so…Vincent."

"What is it, Yuffie?"

"What exactly are we…doing…to Ron. Ald McDonald. Again."

"We're just going r0xx0r his b0xXx0rzz a little."

"Wait, we're gonna give him webcam sex?"

"We're going to kill him, Yuffie. As painfully as possible."

"Kill as in…"

"Death."

"Right. Gotcha. Death."

Vincent counted off in his head. Wait for it…

"Death, as in…"

"Cessation of particular anatomical functions necessitated by the presence of life."

"Right. Gotcha. Cesspool function of nasty presidents' lives."

Vincent sighed exasperatedly and cocked his weapon once; Yuffie fell silent.

Vinnie, my main man. What be happenin'?

The gunslinger lifted an eyebrow. Chaos?

Aye aye, dude. Those were some pretty kickass moves back there. Who's your daddy?

Lacetaemon, the man answered laconically. (It's a DMC joke. Dante's father's name is 'Sparda', a play on the warrior-oriented oligarchic Hellenic city-state of Sparta. The Spartans themselves, however, considered themselves part of the general region of Lacedaemon. They went t- d. I went d- t. Geddit?)

Funny, dude. Very funny. I almost creamed your pants laughing.

Get to the point.

Bitchy today, aren't we?

Just motivated.

Well, I was wondering – can we do Yuffie?

I knew this was going to come up at some point.

Dude, so yeah?

No.

Look, you can just do your little "I'm too busy atoning to care" thing while I take care of the lady.

You know how my atone-o-meter works. Stuff you do transfers to me.

We don't have to actually to do it. We can just masturbate while pleasuring her with a sausage.

No.

Fine, we can use a hot dog.

No.

Well, dude, Chaos insisted, getting a bit angry, if you're not gonna do her then why the hell do you let her tag along everywhere?

She's useful in certain, particular, meatshield-related capacities.

So to you, she's a meatshield. A meatbag. Bags are sacks…MEAT IN THE SACK! Oh, I am good.

What are you, thirteen?

…thousand.

Right. Yeah. Why don't you go back to the Abyss or wherever you came from?

I got cold. And hungry.

Hurts jacking off with claws, huh?

Like the Dickens. Dickens as in dick…DICK IS A PENIS! Oh, I am good.

You've got to stop that or I swear I'll…

You'll what? Chaos pushed him. Kill yourself? Big whoop. You'll end up in hell, which we all know is just a massive, sweaty bondage orgy anyway. What you gonna do THEN?

Kill them all.

Chaos considered silently, then rejoined, You know, I have this terrible feeling that you probably would, so I won't push the issue. I'm just saying –

Okay, that's it. No more Halo 2 for you.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

No.

What the HELL did I JUST say?

Exactly. Now listen, here: we will not have sex with Yuffie. It is repugnant to me. Therefore we will kill Ronald McDonald, slowly and painfully, and then we shall have some Burger King.

But I like Pizza Hut.

Fine, Pizza Hut.

BITCHIN'!!!

Vincent stopped a few feet short of the door. Yuffie continued walking, actually slamming into the wooden portal before halting. "What now, Vince?" she asked, unsure of herself. The vampire frowned, licked his lips and said, "Okay. I need some duct tape, ammonia, a Zippo lighter and at least four Jehovah's Witnesses."

The ninja stared blankly for a second.

"FINE, Mormons will do!"

"Heretic!" called a voice.

……………

……………

Vincent looked up, annoyed and dangerous. "Speak, stranger." He had his sword low in a defensive posture and his gun on his shoulder – he mentally noted that he'd be stretching his triceps and losing muscle in doing so.

"Iconoclast!" shouted the approaching shade. "Apostate! Sue for mercy before God!"

The vampire did not respond.

"Spawn of Beelzebub! Seed of Belial! Long have I sought you since the destruction of the Holy Ikon of the West. Now you shall pay for your blasphemous sins."

Vincent narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"

"You know me. Do not be a fool."

"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

"You know quite well what you did."

"No, seriously. Sometimes my demons take over – "

"OH! RIGHT! 'THE DEMONS TAKE OVER'! Yeah, that will fly with me about as far as a turkey at a Turkish turkey-shoot on Thanksgiving Day." The stranger hefted a considerably large-ass blunderbuss. (It sounds dirty, but it's not. Tee-hee.)

Yuffie frowned. "Why would they have Thanksgiving in Tur – "

"SILENCE, KNAVE!"

"Okayfine."

The man turned back to Vincent. "Iconoclast, you know me. I am Shalashaska, guardian of the Holy Ikon. You took the Ikon and shattered it, long years ago. I have returned in order to restore the shards and defeat you in order to gain the power necessary to – "

"Okay, I've heard enough of this crap. How the hell long has it been?"

"Twenty-two years."

That made sense; back in his Turk days. "What have you been doing this whole time? Just looking for me?"

"Absolutely!" Shalashaska cried in return. "For twenty-two years I sought you. How did you elude me? No news of you for two decades – I scoured the whole planet – er, Planet. How did you elude me?"

"…Dude, I was in the basement."

The Mormon glared dumbly for a moment.

"…God damn it."

"Yeah, now, this Icon – "

"Ikon," the other corrected swiftly.

"…What?"

"There's a K."

"How – "

"Ask him."

They looked at me for a moment with expressions that shouted, "SHAMELESS SELF-INSERTION IS WRONG!"

Vincent suddenly glanced down and lo, his pants were on fire! Ye gads! They swiftly sorted out the short-lived garment blaze and returned to their conversation more mindful of the powers that be.

"Well, this Ikon then – what was it?"

Shalashaska considered Vincent gravely. With shrewd eyes he measured his man, and then at last he reach into his coat and pulled forth, most solemnly…

…a chain of wieners.

"That's a chain of wieners," Yuffie supplied helpfully. Her vampiric companion lifted an eyebrow and regarded her with awe. "Why, thank you. I hadn't noticed." Chaos was having hentai thoughts galore. "Now what exactly does a couple of phallic food items have to do with this sacred Ikon?"

"FOOL!" cried the accuser. "This IS the Ikon, holy avatar of the fertility god Amon!"

"Wait, your god is embodied in a string of interconnected dildos?"

"It's called the Sacred Lingam."

(Did I tell you guys the story of the giant flaming Hindu penis?)

"Whatever," the Gothic gunman returned decisively. "What does this have to do with me, again?"

Shalashaska looked gravely at Vincent once again. With the same reverence as before, he drew ANOTHER HOLY ICON from within his child-molester-style trenchcoat.

"DO YOU SEE NOW, ICONOCLAST?" he shouted, not really a question but a threat.

"I see you've made yourself a set of penis-chucks. Congratulations, you just wasted me three quarters of a page. Get to the point before I supplement the iron deficiency in your diet with a bar of steel." Vincent hefted his sword dangerously. "Something more to say? Or will you be letting your feet do the talking?"

"BASTARD!" ejaculated Shalashaska as Yuffie burst into laughter at my diction.

And lo! Her pants caught on fire!

"ICONOCLAST PIG! Can you not see?"

"…Define 'see'."

"The Holy Ikon is twain! And YOU severed it from – itself."

"Whoop. Dee. D." Vincent stared at his opponent intently.

"Ooh."

"YOU HAVE INCURRED THE WRATH OF AMAN FOR THIS ACT OF BLASPHEMOUS HERESY! Not only did you EAT the first Ikon, but you broke the second and slew its holy sentinels!"

"For the love of – holy sentinels?"

"Yea, verily. It was they as are called Robert the Lion-Farted and Stephen Coldbear."

Vincent's eyes widened suddenly and his cool demeanour fell away. Then his visage twisted into a statuesque depiction of concentrated rage, and words were torn from his foaming lips:

"BOB AND STEVE."

Kisaragi regarded her comrade in confusion. "Bob and Steve?"

"They made me take them to your house."

"Why?"

"So they could have sex with you."

"Why?"

"Because they knew you were a porn star."

"Why?"

"Does it have to do with your pent-up Oedipal frustrations?"

"Why?"

"Because you asked."

"Why?"

"Because you're an idiot?"

"Why?"

"Bad genes."

"Why?"

"Because they were ripped." (Get it? Genes / jeans. Please do not attempt to wear a unit of heredity in lieu of pants.)

"Why?"

"So that human beings would be driven to ensure the propagation of their genes, which may or may not be parasites using the human organism as a vector, like a virus themselves, seeking as all things only for their own survival."

Yuffie nodded silently.

"Wait, why?"

"IT MATTERS NOT!" cried Shalashaska. "We must do battle now, for the power to reunite the Sacred Ikon resides only within you."

"Really." Vincent wasn't too convinced. "If that's so, why can't I just do it myself?"

"W – well, because…urm, yeah. Because – because – "

"Wait, let me guess: your real name is Inigo Montoya, and I killed your father. Shall I prepare to die?"

"DAMN STRAIGHT." Shalashaska hoisted his blunderbuss like some kind of crazed Pilgrim with a score to settle and declared, "Let us do battle!"

There was a sound not unlike that of a cow in the act of spontaneous combustion. The business end of the blunderbuss shattered outward and did a fairly good impression of Weird Al Yancovic's hair at 2 AM on a Friday. The business end of Shalashaska plopped to the dirt and did a fairly good impression of two hams being dropped from an overpass onto unsuspecting motorists. And the business end of Vincent's sword finagled its way through the blundering blunderbussier and out his backside.

Run through.

Quite dead.

"You suck," declared Vincent, with a kind of mortal finality to it. Shalashaska gasped, grabbed his assassin's collar, tried to say something, and collapsed, most anticlimactically. However, much to everyone's surprise, rather than gloating over the slain, Vincent plunged forward and kissed him.

"OHMYGODVINCENTAREYOUGAY?" Yuffie shot out, breathless.

"Whmhm mhmwm," he replied.

"WHATISTHATAYESORNOT?"

"I said, 'Rigor mortis'. He grabbed my throat and dragged me down."

"Damn." So much for hot guy-on-corpse action.

The gunman lifted his blade and hewed the offending arm, freeing himself from his compromising position. Yet as he did so, a bit of paper dropped from the clutching hand – a note.

"Lookie here, Yuffster. I think we have a winner."

"But he died," the young shinobi pointed out.

"The note."

"How can a piece of paper win anything?"

"Yuffie?"

"Vinnie?"

"LOOK! A DISTRACTION!"

"Oooh!"

In the moments the blonde-esque brunette took to find the distraction, Vincent opened the letter and began reading.

Sir Inigo Montoya:

"I knew it!"

I am sure you understand that I go out on a limb to settle our plans, and Jim's, upon you. It is well known that you suck at killing people; in essence, j00 phil. Please do not suck at killing Vincent Valentine, however, or we shall be sure to kill what remains of you after you've been shot eighty times in the face. Ta.

Please don't suck,

Dick

P.S. j00 phil

"Jim," said Vincent, slowly. The prey. Jim. In league with the vampire's enemies. And why had he killed Bob and Steve? Why? WHY? ARGH, THIS WAS ANNOYING.

Dude, calm yeself.

Chaos.

Dude, focus on ye task.

Oh, yeah. And that was – what again?

Smitage of yonder dude.

Oh, yeah. Sweet. Let's kill something.

Aw-RIGHT! And Pizza Hut afterwards.

Indeed, Chaos. Indeed.

Sword at the ready, Death Penalty forward, Vincent advanced. Ronald McDonald had better start running.

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W00t. Done-ness. I just experienced a horrific graphical glitch in Halo 2: an entire starship ceased to be for the first four seconds of its act. Its poor pilots sat in the midst of the sky, ready to be annihilated, had the thing not popped into itself a moment later. Ouch.

So, what think we? More McDonald? More Jim? More Yuffie? More buttsecks? I'm working, I'm working, I'm working!