Title: Tala's Newfound Burdens
Rated: R
Warning: Language, Freaky Incidents, possible visual disorientation caused by some old guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt WITH orange Capri pants.
Summary: (See Prologue)
Disclaimer: I don't own Beyblade, the KFC corporation, or your sanity.
Chapter II-
The hostage, the dilemma, and the man who seriously needs a new wardrobe
Three hours.
Three hours, twenty-five minutes. Three hours, twenty-five minutes and counting. Three hours, twenty-six minutes. Three hours, twenty-six minutes and cou-
"BRYAN GET YOUR CHICKEN-INFESTED HAND AWAY FROM MY FACE!"
Even in the blinding darkness, the nefarious red head managed to redeem his chicken-loathing dignity by slapping the crap out of his snoring comrad's face while simotaneously knocking an innocent chicken wing bystander to the cobwebbed floor. The other boy barely managed to defend himself as Tala started whacking him with a broom stick in a futile attempt to make him sober. Bryan murmured some few unintelligible words before reaching for his trusty sidekick the fried poultry (Sorry Tala but you've just got reh-jec-ted) and sticking it back into his mouth.
His hapless captain flinched just as the drunken grin appeared on Bryan's face again.
"I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! We've been in here for four fucking hours! Who knows what kind of shit those idiots outside (especially Kai) is brewing?" Tala exploded, grabbing his roommate's furry shirt collar. The pallor boy looked up at him with sheepish eyes.
"Aw, wittle Tala you is afraid of them?" Bryan asked, grinning sheepishly.
"... What did you just call me?"
There it was again. That irritating buzzing noise, swarming around in his head. He was NOT a little boy. This is the second time someone doubted his manhood. First Dr. Phil and now the ex-most ruthless member of his team. Tala forced himself to wait for the boy to finish his rather incorrect sentence, surpassing much rage.
"Hehhh... mee thinks you is beauwtiful..."
"o.O!"
"Tala... you are beautiful..."
"O.O!"
"Lalalalalala... "
With that last piece of unwanted information, Tala let go of his teammate's collar and determined that Bryan was offically insane. With newfound bravado, he started feeling the walls for a possible trap door, something, anything that will help him regain his sanity and leave this Hell. A hard thing bumped against his arm, just as he was debating on whether to hang himself or hire someone with fingers to shoot him.
"Finally!"
He did not bother to hide his excitement as he tugged on the hard thing with both hands. Strange. The thing did not move. It felt... leathery. Because there was no artificial light in the room, he found it impossible to fully make out the shape of the object. So he poked it. Poke. Poke. Poke. Po- huh? It was warm. Almost like a...
Tala jumped back in complete and utter Oh-My-God-I've-Just-Skinned-My-Knee-And-Here-Comes-The-Lemon-Scented-Rubbing-Alcohol-Horror. Several grunts came from the object, grunts which possessed an uncanny similarity to Voltaire's humping sounds (long story). Backing up further against the wall, Tala noticed that it didn't just have a similarity to Voltaire, but that it was Voltaire.
"...S-sir? How did you get here...?"
As the man struggled unsuccessfully to stand up, Tala thanked the gods that the lights were still off.
"I...don't know." Voltaire exclaimed, in a matter-of-fact way.
From the feel of things Voltaire must have been sleepwalking. So Tala simply comtenplated that Voltaire drank too much white wine and started dreaming about being the Pink Ranger again. God knows he will need a HELL of alot Asprins by the time this week is over.
Bursting with unanswered questions, Tala cringed when he felt Bryan's hot breathing circling behind his neck and moved away, as far as possible when you're trapped in a dark ten square inch closet. Finding a suitable place, Tala crossed his legs and huddled in a corner.
"Damn you Mariah!"
The belittled boy uttered vehemently, banging his fists on the walls for emphasis. If it weren't for her he wouldn't be trapped here. Why did he have to pry the photo out of her hands? Why? Why? WHY!
"Get your groove on girl!"
Tala looked up, temporaily distracted. Apparently Boris wasn't the only one who went insane after Russia's loss...
"Pardon me sir, but what have you been smoking?" Tala asked upon impulse, rubbing his eyes to make sure his vision wasn't serverly screwed.
There was an awkward pause as faint shifting sounds were detected by his ears. The old guy infront of him seemed very pissed at his question, but stopped shouting American dance catchphrases altogether. Grumbling in irritation, Tala spoke again, this time with a different approach.
"What happened to you man? You used to be cool."
"I'm still cool!" Voltaire screamed corruptedly.
Tala shook his head.
"No way man, you've changed."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU LIE!"
"Scream all you like, sir, but that isn't gonna get your mojo back."
"But some home style coffee sure will!" Voltaire exclaimed triumphly, waving a distorted middle finger at his pupil's provoked face.
Tala sighed and bowed his head. Dammit, he'll have to surrender yet again.
"Fine. I'll get your coffee. But when I get back you'll have to promise me to get rid of the impudent intruders, so I'll be sane once more. Deal?"
"...no."
"Listen, sir - " Tala retorted rather rudely, using emphasis on 'sir' to hint out what would happen if things didn't go his way, " - I've already sacrificed 24 hours of a Boris-free zone just to be put up with another one of your pathetic ruses and I'm not gonna waste my time again just because Bryan is high, you have tenure, some weird guy is stalking me, and the abbey is filled with things worse than Kai (if there is any). So, if you don't agree to my requirements, I will be left no choice but to use the Force."
Reaching down into his pocket, the Demolition Boy pulled out a small eBay keychain (one of the many given to him for being the 2nd most powerful Beyblader in the world) and lashed it out, revealing a full sized, luminous, 24 inch Star Wars Lightsaber that gave off a creepy lime auora, immediantly dispeling the darkness.
"Gawk! The light! It burns!" Voltaire screamed, backing away and shielding his face against the pitiful green glow whose light was equivilent to that of a leaf. "I AGREE! YES! DAMMIT YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"
Meanwhile, some twenty meters away...
Johnny finally made it to the abbey gates, right after his horse-drawn carriage got thrown off course temporaily by a spontaneous hurrican the author put in this story for no reason. Yawning after a most troublesome journey, he did not ever get so far as into the front yard before Voltaire's screams echoed throughout his ears. And if there was one thing very true about Johnny, it was that he most certaintly hated a man whose scream resembled that of a constipated woman.
His eyes turned to slits.
He swalled his Dentyne Ice gum.
He gelled his hair.
His nostrills OPENED.
"That so did not sound right..."
----
Armed with enough spit on his face to last a lifetime, Tala curtly backed away from Voltaire's presence and felt somewhat satisfied at what he had just accomplished, saliva-covered or not. All he'll need to do now is go find a Tim Hortens place in the middle of Russia, hitchhike a random cab, go back to Moscow, the intruders will be gone, and everything will be back to normal. Booyeh!
Basking in a more happy mood, Tala smirked haughtedly and started picking at the doorknob again, approaching it in a more different way. Using little force, the door came open just as the light outside revealed something he had overlooked for a long time. Apparently he failed to see the 'Please Push' sign engraved in Bold Italics dangling just beside the doorknob...
----
Later in the day...
Max was tired.
Tired, hungry and possibly wearing a bra.
Evidently, his first days staying at the abbey was disasterous. He thought back three hours ago, when he was untimely forced to play the part of 'Juliet' in one of Robert's overly exaggerated Shakesparian plays in exchange for a beef jerky (Emily's food was literally inedible. Besides, she kept poking at the frog, as if to see, indeed, she had succeeded in murdering them) did not lighten his mood. So just as a spur-of-the-moment pleasanterie, he decided to walk along the abbey's very fun hallway, in hopes of being reunited with his bunny toy Mr. Winky Binky once more.
"Man, this BBA inspecting trip reeks."
Sighing to himself, the blond American briefly scratched his nose before crawling up the second flight of stairs. The walls corresponding him were grey and dull, with Ikea coat racks everywhere (finally, the mystery of why Boris and Voltaire only wear coats is revealed/Readers rolls eyes). The sound of fierce wind blowing outside the cracked walls sent shivers down his spine, for not only did it remind him of Tyson passing gas, but also reminded him that he was not in the U.S. bounderies anymore. Needless to say, he was feeling mighty homesick.
Loud rock music, faint yet close, suddenly throbbed in his ears. So, doing what any sensible teenager would do when the sounds of Nirvana erupted from the middle nowhere, he decided to followed it. Soon he came towards a baronial metal door, the first of ten rooms lining along the thrid floor wall. Max paused just as he placed a finger on the metalic doorknob. His conscience emerged. Remember what they taught you in kindergarten class, Maxie. It is wrong to take things that doesn't belong to you. It is wrong to tell lies. It is also most definately very very very very wrong to explore a room with unappealing signs such as 'KEEP OUT' and 'ENTER AND YOU WILL BE FORCED TO EAT BRUSSEL SPROUTS' plastered over it. Such acts of definace may lead to - Ah to Hell with it all!
Casually, he opened the door, using much force.
A large, open room greeted his bleary eyes.
The spacious yet uninviting interior seemed to have been rearranged, and the chrome furniture inside seemed oddly out of place. Kai, Mariah, Enrique and Emily were dispatched inside this newly decorated room, doing some very peculiar things. Enrique was playing the role of Luke Skywalker while Emily huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth in paranoia. Mariah as always was reading some outdated English fashion magazine. Kai was just standing there just standing there just standing there just standing there just standing there just standing there just standing there just standing there. A black boombox was positioned near the cracked windowstill, where several hard rock CDs were displayed beside.
Another. Boring. Room.
Max was on the verge of a mental breakdown, this time caused by something other than the sugar packs he stole from MacDonalds.
"Why do you mock me, God!" He shrieked, as if his voice alone will provide an asylum from the boredom.
Suddenly, a sound came from … ABOVE!
Everyone looked … ABOVE!
Something dropped from ... ABOVE!
I just typed the word ... ABOVE!
"Egads! He has answered my lonely prayers!"
Everyone looked as some humanoid figure dropped from the badly patched ceiling and onto the floor. There was a slight hiatus of three minutes before anyone could make out the new arrival's shape.
"No offence... but I always thought God was male...?" Max said uncertaintely.
The figure immediantely sprang back to life, or better yet, charged at him with alarming agility.
"I AM MALE YOU BASTARD! " A bedraggled Johnny screamed, tackling at his blond friend's neck and shaking him by the throat.
"Let go of me! I was only judging by chest size!" Max coughed, struggling against Johnny's robust grasp. The Scottish boy did not stop whacking him.
"You idiot! Now you've given me an even bigger reason to strangle you!"
"Arghh!" Max finally overcomed the odds and head-bumped the boy on top of him. Johnny glared at his American antagonist with bloodshot eyes. Then, with his right hand, he wiped some blood from under his victimized nose.
"You faggot." Max said, sneering and backing away.
His hot head enemy looked back at him, only this time, with watery eyes.
"Shut up, just shut up... you had me at hello!" Johnny cried and secured Max in such a passionate hug that it could give any sensible witness the shivers to this day.
Emily, Mariah and Kai shuddered and walked out of the room.
----
Back to the Oh-so-exciting chronicles of carrot head and kid-who-still-wears-a-furry-coat-even-though-its-summer…
----
"Are we there yet?"
"No."
"How 'bout now?"
"NO."
"Now?"
"If you talk to me again Bryan I swear I'll use your skin for my next sacrifice to Boris and save myself from another toilet-scrubbing job."
"...Oh. So are we there yet?"
Tala barber slapped Bryan across the face.
Unfortunately, Bryan appeared to have liked it.
The driver seated infront of them smirked, and seemed to enjoy their awkward conversations. Well as much as he could when three people and an extra set of luggage are crammed inside a small, bad-hygenic cab.
"So... youse boys ees guuing to zee International Airport, yes?" The driver asked in his Macy Gray voice, his breath possessing all the qualities of a German who hadn't washed in a month. Tala wrinkled his nose before answering, surprising his implicit desire to stuff white tube socks in the guy's mouth.
"Yes."
"I see...youse boys ees some schort oof models, yes? Might I awsk youse, what type oof hair gell do youse use?"
Tala cleared his throat and tried not to sound offended. Even from the back, he could clearly see the cab driver's small brown eyes trained on him from the rearview mirror.
Scary.
"No. We are not models. And I don't use hair gell. I use Marc Anthony's crystalizing hair spray, for stylish, shiek, sexy hair."
"Hehh...yess. Youse got zee sexzy part right." The middle aged man winked at the once again terrified boy, making sure his gesture of perversion was percieved fervently. Bryan, half asleep, sneered and nudged at his teammate's motionless arm. With a quick "He's coming on to ya, Tala" the lavender haired blader jumped infront of his captain and grabbed the driver's wheel and turned sharply to the right, throwing the man out the car (More emphasis on how bad the condition of Russian vechicles are). Tala watched from the window as their ex-driver's body tumbled out onto the frozen road, accompanied by a few sluring giggles.
"Now what was that?" Tala demanded, pulling at his teammates ear from the back seat.
"I know we both wanted to kill him, but we have to surpress the urge! It's the same when you're with Tyson!" The other boy glanced at him sincerely. Then jumped into the driver's seat. Soon they were wizzing down the driveway in a cab without a door at 125 miles per hour. Ultimately being high didn't quite aid Bryan in getting a driver's lisence. And his latter was helpless to stop him.
"Look out for that fire hydrant -- no Bryan, don't hit it! What th-- where'd that cat come from? Oh great now this shi -- NO DON'T HIT THAT MAN! Huh? - Wait --- it's KAI! OK OK YOU CAN HIT HIM - HIT HIM BRYAN! LOOK HE'S TRYING TO RUN AWAY! HIT HIM, DAMMIT! I COMMAND YOU TO --"
"-- The hell?"
"I SAID HIT HIM, YOU -- AH CRAP!"
----
Five hours later...
...At the International Moscow Airport ...
"It was sure nice of that angry cop to give us a ride to the big place, eh Tala-pal?" The pale youth grinned, nudging his twitching captain on the stomach as Hilter would have done to a Jew.
"Ow! What the hell was that for!" Tala spat, pushing the other boy away from him.
"To check if you were alive, whatnot."
"Fuck off."
"Make me!"
"I don't make dogs, I train them."
Bryan paused at that distraughtful remark before turning away from the other face that possessed all the characteristics of a person who could have won against both Kerry and Bush in a two-on-one debate.
".. Damn you, Tala."
"Stupid Russian."
"What are you talking about? You're Russian too!"
"Yeah but one the dub I don't sound like it!"
Sudden shouting and pushing gave way to a series of unfortunate events. First it seemed only like an innocent loss of balance done by an old lady standing infront of the two bemused boys, but when the simple task of getting up on both feet again evolved into slapping and bitching, Tala knew something was wrong. The other passengers, who were once standing within the confines of the airport in an orderly fashion, started rioting for some unknown reason. Luggages were thrown from afar, one hitting on Bryan's head and knocking him out. The old woman who continued to hurt Tala's feelings with completely blatant insults such as "Are you related to Martha Stewart" and "Go back to Canada" bickered at him continously.
"Bryan! Where are you!" Regrettably, Tala's voice was dangerously quivering along the tone of helpless begging, leaving him to slap himself for sounding like he did. Dropping the luggage, he ran from the wailing old woman who most probably was a psycho housewife and made his way out of the turbulent affraying in Terminal "A". Unfortunately for him, he bumped head first with a man who's stomach could have passed as the storage for several watermellons and stumbled backwards.
"Hehe what do we have here? Shome sort of boyish figure...most likely a boy..."
The middle-aged man's beer-stained breath circulated around Tala's face before forcing him to run in the opposite direction.
---
Later that Night…
Tyson emerged from the open gates, dressed in a chic wolf fur coat lined with Spainard diamonds. He gracefully glided through the door wearing Victorian style loafers, designed by Yours Truly. Waving one of his clean, ringed hands that most certainly hadn't been used to dig around Boris' food box all day, he flung off the golden tiara he had been wearing upon his neatly trimmed hair that smelled of Summer Blossoms as a series of white doves flew up from behind his shimmering aura, their pure cashmere feathers only a --
O...kay. That so didn't happen.
What did happen was that Tyson had finally slumped off the sofa after regaining his 'fatass' title once more. Vowing revenge on Max for throwing him out through the window without a 'Sorry' or 'Someone held a gun to my head', he grudgedly made his way to the kitchen. As there was no one there to stop him, he opened Balkov's refrigiator and took out the can of American beer. Clicking it open, he was just about to take a sip when a distint 'booming' noise aroused his attention.
"What was that?" He asked to no one in particular, with the exception of his imaginary girlfriend. The Bladebreaker glided towards the doorway on freshly stained socks as he griped the can forcefully in his right hand. The sound grew more intense with each step he took. Finally, he got to the next room. Raising his left hand, he gingerly risked stumbling upon the site of someone making out, and threw open the door.
There, staring back at him, was ... A PLATE OF CRISPY DONUTS!
"ARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH - Boris!" Tyson backed away in evident fear as he glared at the newly tanned guy wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. The man smiled, causing his skin to snap back like a deformed Halloween mask. Wiping some dirt only visible to him from his orange capri pants, Boris picked up his llama-covered suitcase. Evidently he had finally defeated Micheal Jackson in the "Most Freaky Cross-Dresser who is NOT Jesus" category.
"Why my dear boy, I do say, that is a most insolent way to treat your caregiver, don't you assume?" Speaking in a freakishly British accent, Boris threw his suitcase towards a beddazzled Tyson, who caught it with surprise. As Tyson grudgedly carried it off to the coat racks, Boris opened the kitchen door, taking a bite of the crispy donuts.
"And where might my dear Kai-boy be?" The man asked. Tyson spat on the floor upon hearing that name.
"Feh. That show-offy bastard? He left here hours ago."
"Really? He left?"
"Yeah. He left after Ray told him that Russia doesn't get the O.C on cable."
"Hmm... I see. I think I'll go look for him."
"What? You can't do this to me!"
Boris sneered impassively. "To YOU? I don't even know YOU. Why don't you go dress up as Jerry Springer and start performing the art of love making on your stuffed animal toys?"
"You shut up, no matter how true it is!" With that incentive, Tyson ran from the living room, taking the plate of crispy donuts with him. Boris smirked and revealed yet another plate of crispy donuts and prepared to go out into the world again and make his presence felt...
----
Tala awoke.
"Ow. What the f--"
Some sort of frozen meat storage room, bleak and bleary, greeted his half frozen eyelids. A large man-like animal sat beside him, gently STROKING his hair. Tala jumped back with a start and scrambled as far away from this rather touchy-touchy creature as he could possibly be. The burly figure grunted a grunt of protest before scratching his hair.
"What da matter little boy? You're worth alot, you know." Tala winced at this uncanny remark, turning away from the mould of flesh that passed for human structure and prepared to find the exit. A thought suddenly hit him. This wasn't just any mould of flesh... this was a ... kid-napper!
His mother (Fine, Boris) once told him about these 'Kid-nappers'... they come out of their hobo second identities and hide in public airports during the day. They then catch an unsuspecting boy and forces sedative on them. After that they STROKE their hair while they're sleeping and the next day they... SELL THEM! Or use them as fire kindling. Which ever one is more worth it.
"Whats wrong, little boy... are you afraid?"