Title: Tala's Newfound Burdens
Rated: R for language and the below
Warning: Language, Freaky Incidents, Indications to the British Monarchy, Fragments of Dr. Phil Advice
Summary: (See prologue)
Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade, Victoria's Secret, or the president of the United States.
Chapter I-
Dining Room Conspiracies
Inside the secluded hallways not a sound was heard except for the obscured noise of someone forcefully dialing a phone and cursing in rage as he tripped over his own feet for the second time in a row.
Holding a stolen wireless cell phone disturbingly coated in sugar pink, Tala quietly tiptoed into Voltaire's old office (now a broom closet) and shut the door with a soft click. After several minutes of waiting patiently and putting the finishing touches on his hair, he finally received a dial tone. A monotone female voice greeted his ears, instructing him to state the USA country code. Baffled with a lack of understanding, Tala randomly pressed a series of keys and waited again. His face immediately lit up as he felt a connection.
"Hello, Dr. Phil?" Tala lowered his voice to just below a mild whisper and listened as someone crunching potao chips grunted, finally wiping his mouth with the bag.
'What th- how ya'll get my home number?' The disgrunted voice at the other end demanded in a heavy Texas accent.
"Your number was posted on my mentor Boris Balkov's bulletin board."
Silence as scratching noises were heard coming from the other person.
'Sounds reasonable. You're lucky I gave out my number to that psyco. He needed some serious help. God, did you SEE what he was wearing! In my day, those things were illegal!'
More silence.
Apparently Dr. Phil didn't know that all this time Tala had been trying to shove all memory of ever seeing what Boris was wearing on that day out of his head.
'Before we begin, how old are you? Is this a long distance call?'
"15. I'm calling from Russia, sir."
'So let me get this straight. You're paying for this call, right?'
"I'm sure Bell Long Distance charged it to Robert Jurgen's account."
'Sound reasonable.' More crunching noises. 'What are your problems, little boy?'
"I have just one problem, sir." Tala said, successfully restraining from calling the man a bald eagle for addressing him as a 'little boy'. He was NOT a little boy. In fact, he was a MAN. Not just any man, but a good-looking, intelligent, don't-take-shit-from-nobody kind of man. No Russian should be mocked. Oh the absolute rudeness!
"I live in a gigantic abbey and these very annoying people moved in recently. I really, really hate them and I'm sure they will make my life more miserable than it already is. Also, an American girl called me a trans, which really hu -"
'Let me cut in, if I may. You stated beforehand that you had just one problem But now, you see, you just stated two problems."
Huh? Just what was this guy getting at?
"T-that's not the point, sir. I ha-"
'Are you in denial?'
"Yes - I mean no!" Tala suddenly regreted his decision to reach in his moment of crisis.
'I've met may cases like you,' Dr. Phil continued, the scratching noises reaching to their highest peak, much to Tala's dismay. 'The first step is admitting you have a problem - '
"Sir! It's them who I have a problem wi-"
'Let's not go pointing any fingers. Admit YOU have a problem!'
"What! I don't -"
'Your condition is worse than I previously thought! You are in the highes level of denial! Confront your problem!'
"No, its them-"
' - Confrontation is the key!'
Tala screamed in frustration and slammed down the cell phone on the nearest cardboard box.
Suddenly someone tapped lightly on his shoulder, causing him to lightly jump. Spinning around upon reflex, he caught a glimpse of a half-shadowed Enrique, who had a gleam of morbid innocence in his azure blue eyes.
"Lookin' good today, Tala." The blond Italian mused, winking in a rather demented way, giving his grimacing victim the forbidden gesture of apparent gayness. Before any inappropriate contact was attempted, Tala grabbed the door handle and weasled outside, dropping Robert's feminized celluar device in the process. He made it out just as an irritating cell phone tone commenced. Tala turned around out of morbid curiosity but was greeted with the unpleasant sight of Enrique interpretive dancing...
'...His girlfriend must've dumped him real bad...'
Taking careful steps as to not trip over his feet for an untimely third time, the red head unceremoniously slid down the stairway handles, crashing head on with an equally unceremonious stairway-slider.
"Why hello...Kai."
Tala presumed as he wiped some dirt off his behind. The impact had sent them both flying towards the corresponding walls, knocking the entwined scarf off of Kai's neck. The other boy looked at his white-clad enemy through narrowing eyes, gritting his coleslaw infected teeth.
"..Tala." Kai said casually. Without a word he stood up and started wiping his behind that was covered in dirt with equal verocity. Tala seemed obviously pissed at his antagonist's attempt to out-wipe him and he began to wipe faster, much to Kai's befuddlement.
'Why that little girl bastard...how dare he think he can out do me...'
Severely irritated, the face-painted boy started working harder, until they both became an insult to the art of butt-wiping. Their actions did not cease even when a very bored Ray and Lee descended from the stairs, their apathy immediently diminishing. Silently, they stood at the center of the stairway, looking at what appeared to be two cross-dressers spanking themselves.
"I think we should be going now..." Lee stated, eyes still glued on two unerving Russians.
"...yeah." Agreed a cringing Ray.
"Let's just back away slowly then pick up speed while screaming our heads off."
"...yeah."
So the two Asians backed away slowly then picked up speed while screaming their heads off. Meanwhile, in the abbey's medieval-like kitchen, Tyson was getting restless as his Springtime fresh toenails just refused to dry.
"It takes time, Tyson..." Max mumbled, a hint of why-don't-you-just-throw-your-self-off-a-freaking-cliff-you-damn-toe-nail-painting-sissy-pants in his usually cheerful voice. The American had lost his faithful bunny toy Mr. Winky Binky the night before, and was maturely depressed because of it. Unfortunately for him the secured jam jar he was picking at refused to budge as his efforts to open it were not recognized.
"Oh you're one to say... at least you had that stupid bunny to play with! I'm stuck here painting my nails with Mariah's nail polish - "
"ARRRGHHHHH! JUST SHUT UP TYSON! Don't you dare call him a stupid bunny! I don't want to hear your ugly voice anymore!" Max screamed, taking up the trend of Emily's PMS-ing.
"I know my voice is ugly but did you have to make fun of it!" Tyson shot back, his tone quivering dangerously to that of a slapped three year old girl.
"I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!" With a blinding surge of pure strength, Max tugged open his mortal enemy (the jar) and accidentally dropped it on the floor, its glass contents shattering upon impact. For a few seconds the two BladeBreakers stood unmoving, eyeing the mass of red jam in its state of oblivion. As sudden as it happened, Max bent down on the floor, threw Tyson out the nearest window, and relived a scene from some 1980 Oscar Winning movie flick.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
His screams remained intact even after several painful minutes, when a fear stricken Bryan slid towards him from the stair way handle, a tenancy which all Russians possessed after witnessing Boris' unmasked face.
"What happened!" The pale, unusually affable Demolition Boy asked, viewing an emotionally deranged Max with strange sympathy.
"...The jam - i-it's GONE!" Max wailed, poking at the red substance with convulsing hands, too distraught to notice Bryan's out of place behaviour.
"There will be other jams, Max." A white hand was placed on his shoulder in a gentle yet masculine way.
"W-where do they go...when they are so prematurely killed...?"
"They go to jam heaven, where all the goodness of jams of all kinds will be fulfilled."
"B-but it was...STRAWBERRY FLAVORED!" Soon unnessacary tears flowed freely from a winkled up red face, tears in honor of an old stuffed animal and outdated food preserver.
"..W-why are you even doing this?" Max sniffled, finally realizing the hand on his body. That did not sound right.
"Heh. Your people introduced me to this delightful yet flatulent-stimulating oil-baked food of the gods." Bryan held up a larege bucket of KFC chicken wings in the air as a sign of his reverence, going against every rule in the official 'Evil-dude-trying-to-take-over-the-world-because-mother-kicked-you-out-of-the-basement" handbook.
Max blinked simotaneously. "Erm, that's a Candian bucket of KFC. I'm American."
Bryan looked like he was about to barf.
"The inhumanity!"
The hand was removed and drawn back in defence as Bryan picked up his deep fried poultry and headed for the outside stairway, leaving Max alone to weep for his loss.
o.O
Much Later.. .
O.o
Tala sat on a nice, clean seat, made sure it was very far from Enrique, and glared at the person corresponding him.
Three hours ago they had hastily picked names out of Spencer's old Broadway hat (don't ask) to determine who would be forced to prepare dinner. Though it was not of Oliver's nature to decline slaying for countless hours inside a cockroach-infested cooking area involving the wrestling of a ravenous animal who probably has rabbies, the frenchman had been angry at Kai and Tala for starting their butt-wiping competition without him, and has now stubbornly refused to cook for them.
After what seemed like a day's waiting, Emily, the oh-so-lucky-NOT contestant vying for the taste buds of some rather unfortunate critics emerged from the badly furnished kitchen, bearing food and a smell that could have been bottled and sold as an offensive weapon. Immidentely upon her tramatizing arrival groans and green faces greeted her, covering their noses in a futile attempt to shoo her off. Emily ignored their protests and proceeded to position the 'food' onto the long, wooden table.
Tala looked at what was infront of him. Some sort of brownish substance, armed with a scent that could have killed off an entire army. A fried frog leg was poking out from under the bilious mass, still wriggling if he wasn't mistaken. For the first time in his life Tala wished he had Boris' cooking on his plate. No such luck as the ginger haired American pushed the plate towards him encouragingly.
"Do you seriously expect me to eat this garbage?"
Oops.
Wrong words.
The nerd girl's face started turning beet red, and gleamed with an ominous glow more evil than before if it were ever possible. Tala eased towards the window behind him. But before she could have slapped him or even worse forced him to read George Bush's bio, Enrique threw a plate at Emily's head, giving her a brain freeze (again don't ask).
Tala eased even more towards the window as the most probably deranged Italian closed in on him.
"I can't take this guilt anymore! I have a confession to make!" Enrique screamed, accidently (...or is it?) kicking Mariah on the face. Armed with newfound bravado, the blond boy managed to hurl himself up to the dinning table. He then turned to Kai, who sat silently at the corner of the table, though under that emotionless face lied a boy who really needed to use the bathroom.
"Kai... I am sorry but I never thought Hilary Duff was cool."
There was sudden tension in the air, as a shriek could be heard shattering the unlucky windows, this time done by something other than Boris' face.
"YOU TAKE THAT BACK!" Kai screamed, his eyes suddenly flaring as he jumped from his seat with a triple back flip that could have won gold at the Olympics.
Enrique took a step back towards the fallen Emily and tried to sound most apologetic.
"I'm really sorry..."
Voltaire's grandson, fuming, chair-deprived, and serverely stripped of his reputation as the classic cold, anti-social mature guy, prepared to launch an ardent case of the I-am-going-to-kick-your-ass-you-fucktard on the person who dared manage to insult his idol of so many years (Boris what did you do to him?)
"Hilary... is the best thing that happened to me ever since Mariah started taking anti-menstration pills!"
Kai screeched, held back from attempted murder by Gary's colossal grasp. Beside him Lee patted his back (doesn't he seem to be patting everyone's back these days?) , obviously bonded together with their love for an eight year old girl's pop idol.
"Yeah Enrique! Hilary Duff is the best! I am her number one fan -"
"NOOO!" Kai threw the Chinese boy off of him and sucker-slapped a face that cried out for shaving cream and a good razor.
"NO ONE LOVES HILARY MORE THAN I DO! DIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Nearly in tears, he started acting more aggressive, if you call replacing your fighting fists with a girl's hand bag (for the third fricking time, don't ask) aggressive.
Perturbed by the sudden twist of events, Ray, who sat at the far corner of the room, looked up from his special edition of Victoria's Secret.
"I have a confession to make too!"
He turned to Tala, who had his face buried in his arms once more to avoid further embarrassment.
"This is ... the mostawesome house I've ever been too! This is so much cooler then the time I stayed over at Queen Elizabeth's palace!"
Mariah gasped, dropping Enrique whom she had secured in a firm headlock.
"Gasp! You CHEATED ON ME!"
... . Now why does she sound so surprised?
"Of course not!"
Raytried to run away before the full effects of the female's corruption were unleashed, but whensomeone'shairy armpit is blocking your only escape route one tends to think otherwise.
"Admit the truth Ray... or I'll show you this very recent photograph of Kenny in a swimsuit!"
"GOD NOOO! Now you've gone too far!"
With impeccable timing, Tala, wreathed in an early mid-life crisis, or maybe just very irritated at the fact that someone had even dared to bring in a photo of Kenny to the dinning room table, reluctantly came to Ray's defense and tried pry the picture from the Asian's now ex-girlfriend's hands.
oO
Oo
Tala awoke in the doom and gloom of a stuffy room, his eyes slowly adjusting to the blackness. The back of his head was trobbing. So dark was this room that when he opened his eyes he felt as if he was looking into the pits of Hell. Or Balkov's bathroom.
Pullling back a strand of hair which dangled pitifully about his eyes, the estranged Russian opened his mouth to utter the most sensible thing on his mind, and what was usually on his mind during all the years he had lived in the Abbey.
"What the fuck?"
Someone (or rather, some group of people who were all on crack) had locked him in a pitch black broom closet. Or maybe it was when he tried to part Mariah from her eye-damaging weapon did his plan backfire. Judging from the reddened mark of a slap he recieved on his left cheek, and the aroma of cheap perfume dangling around his clothes did he realize what had really happened.
'That bitchy Chinese girl... she'll be the first person I'll have the pleasure of killing when I get out of this place...'
Thinking of his revenge brought a long awaited smirk onto his face. Torturing a pink-haired female feline will be fun. At least now he'll find some use of the super glue and grey wig he stole from Voltaire so many nights ago.
But she can't be the only one to get a taste of his mentor's unorthodox nature. No, she couldn't be the only one who was involved in the conspiracy of trashing him in his own home. Why in Tala-logic, because his weight was raised due to the various cyborgnetic implants he's recieved, Mariah couldn't have been the only one who tried to get rid of him by carrying him into this room.
"I'll get rid of you... and make you pay for ever touching me." Tala vowed out loud, making no comment as to how wrong that sounded.
Something poked his back.
Something.. . pointy.
Then, to his aghasting horror he realized that it was not just any broom closet, but the same place where his mentor kept his collection of female bathing products.
"Muahhh! Meish gotish company, yesh?"
The strands of his hair suddenly stood on end. Warm breathing was literally cycling through the dense air, and with intense realization Tala realized that he was not alone in the darkness. He had been so wrapped up in revenge that he had not yet detected the strong aroma of KFC swarming through the room. But Tala recognized that voice.
Slowly he turned around.
...It just CAN'T be him...
But it was.
Bryan.
A fried chicken wing was gripped forcefully in his right hand, and a very scary smile was plastered over the part where his once impassive scowl should have been. Tala glared at the other prisoner, wondering if it really was the same emotionless, phlegmatic teammate he had known half his life. Coming to the conclusion that Boris's drugs must have been worn off by now, something the lavender-haired boy was consuming caught his eye.
"Don't tell me you got high eating KFC ... "
Damn Canadians and their overly delicious fatty food acids.
Bryan said nothing, but continued to grin at him.