Well, well. I'm glad to see people are still interested in this story (death threats to get me to keep writing? Huzzah.) And I'm glad 'Greg' has wormed his way into a few of your hearts. Just goes to show you that none can resist the draw of the loser-y OC. He just tries too hard (but I'll warn you, this chappy is a bit 'Greg' heavy, along with some references to some of his 'Super Friends). And now without further ado..... The 'rape in the bar' genre. This one goes out to you, Ardwynna, since you suggested it and all (yes, I pay attention to the reviews. And yes, the way this goes down, I remember seeing one that went down sort of like this, and it follows it closely for the most part. Big ol' WTF moment.). And uh, sorry the Christmas chappy was a bit of a bust.

.....Good Gravy. This can't possibly turn out well.

By the way, thanks for all the cool reviews (especially you loyalists. Every time Tifa and 'Greg' slog through another cliché, its because they love you guys.)

Disclaimer!

(This is so totally a page break)

The new, totally revamped door to Tifa's bar was shoved open, Tifa and 'Greg' trudging in, gasping for air and exhausted, covered in snow and shivering. Though despite the possible frostbite to all their naughty bits, they were in high spirits regardless. Tifa had knocked another cliché off of her list, and 'Greg' had been this close to being able to save the day as only an OC could do. Well, that, and he got to insult all of Tifa's comrades. He had really missed doing that since she had put him out of his job as an action/adventure/drama 'fic villain.

And he had gotten a B-B gun.

God it was great to be a whiny, OC tag-along.

Tifa collapsed into a seat at the bar, laughing so hard that her shoulders were heaving, a few coughs slipping in between her elated giggling. She slipped off the pilfered white duster they had stolen from Rufus and shook out her hair, her tresses damp from snow melting in it.

"Nice work, nice work. God, I knew there was a reason I wrecked up 'Jim-Jam' and not you." She sighed as their laughter eventually curtailed, causing him to stop laughing very, very abruptly, eyes widening a little.

"Uh....." He started uncertainly, blinking worriedly, not really sure what to say to that. "I thought you wrecked her because you were fed up with her inability to pronounce any 'w' sounds." He finished lamely, causing her to shrug, a grin still on her face.

"Well that, yes. And you realized that it wasn't your place to be prattling on and on about your angst-ridden back story that I couldn't care less about. But other than that, you're a cool guy. And I mean that in the loosest possible sense."

'Greg' brightened up visibly at that little, juicy scrap of praise, looking at her hopefully.

Could it be? Was he actually being hailed as 'cool'? I mean, by an actual, factual real Final Fantasy 7 character, and not just some other, lesser OC? And was she saying it without him having to use his UberGod-like powers to coerce her into saying it?

And was it really Tifa's opinion of him, or just the fact that it's all part of the dumbass author trying to convince everyone that the character she created really is the end-all be-all of Final Fantasy characters that never were, and (hopefully) never will be?

Well, of course I'm just trying to sway you into accepting the idea that 'Greg' is cool. Because, y'know, my already fragile self-esteem won't be able to take the crushing blow of knowing my original character really is total, unoriginal crap.

But come on, 'Greg' doesn't need to know that. Let him have his moment. After all, there's no chance for him to exist in the real world of fanfics. Tifa's Bogus Journey is all he's got. If you take that away from him, he'll go back to being nothing.

So go, my friends! Flood the review screen, lauding 'Greg' (and the cool-kid genius that came up with him –wink! Tee-hee!-) for being a stand out guy, and for being able to rock a semi-mullet and a soul patch at the same time.

Go! Let him have his moment in the sun. Let him bask in the fact he has a slim margin of acceptance.

And just remember, his name totally isn't Monta-

"Damn. I'm so cold you could use my nipples as an orange juicer." 'Greg' complained lowly, pulling his white duster closer around himself, shivering slightly.

And totally destroying all credibility of being a halfway decent OC.

God, you suck.

Tifa's jaw dropped slightly and she glanced at him in utter, abject horror, his comment hitting her like a boot to the face. She struggled to come up with some sort of reply to that. But honestly, not even the best of the best could come up with any sort of retort to that kind of comment.

"I'm..... I'm going to go take a shower....." She stammered, slipping out of her seat and backing slowly towards the stairs up to the second floor, eyes flickering around, trying to look anywhere but at his nipples. She really, really didn't need to know if his statement had any grain of truth to it.

And neither did the fine people reading this.

Way to go, dingus. You almost had her thinking you were cool. You're a disgrace to us both. Hell if you had gotten the nod of 'cool-ness' from Tifa, you might have been able to get a weird, laughable PWP with her. You know, the kind written by a twelve year old (or possibly a chimp) that knows nothing about sex, or writing about it for that matter (and they don't have much of a handle on grammar, punctuation, or spelling either).

But now, now you've embarrassed us both.

Just go and sulk for a while. I need to try and find a way to redeem myself.

And poor 'Greg' was left standing there, staring after Tifa, feeling dejected and alone all over again.

He had almost won her over. But now, just because he had felt the need to call attention to his alarming state of T.H.O., he was back at square one.

In fact, he was a ways back from square one.

Sighing morosely, he made his way over to the bar, setting his swag bag down on top of it and hopping over, looking for something that he could chug down while trying to drown his sorrows. Finding a bottle of Scotch, he leaned up against the counter, taking a long, mournful drought of it, hardly even blinking.

He was so lonely. It was as if his life had no meaning any more.

Clou- Er, I mean Tifa had become so distant lately, and without her around, it was just a moot point for him to even bother any more. If Tifa didn't want him, then who did?

Shaking his head disdainfully, he grimaced and thumped the bottle down on the countertop forcefully, shattering the glass decanter, cutting up his hand in the process.

Staring at his hand, blood and amber liquid swirling together, running over his lacerated palm and the shards of glass caught therein, he focused again on just how much he sucked at life.

I mean, he sucked so bad at life, he didn't even deserve to get stitches to close up the rather nasty flesh wounds he had just given himself. As he continued to stare with morbid fascination at the wound, he figured maybe, just maybe he could call up one of his friends. Maybe they would be able to help heal the crushing emotional blow that Clou- Er, I mean Tifa had dealt him.

Digging into his pocket for his phone with his ungouged hand, he pulled it out, seeing that it was broken.

Well, fuckin' fancy that.

Now he had absolutely nobody that he could talk to that would reassure him that he was an okay guy, and that he didn't need Tifa in his life.

He threw it aside with a heaving sigh of contempt. Not like there would have been much point anyway.

Honestly, the only friends he really seemed to have were the other ridiculous OC characters that were part of his 'super-secret, nigh unstoppable underground group of AVALANCHE hating badasses'.

And he really wasn't in any mood to call Krauser Kyllgrave up. Sure he had been the macho, leader-type of the group, but even if he called him up when he wasn't depressed it would have devolved into one of those 'what kind of pansy are you?' speeches that he was oh-so-loved for. And then he would just launch into one of those stories about when he had been in 'The War'. And 'Greg' never had any effing clue just what war he was even talking about. It was always "'The War' this" and "'The War' that". But he never even told anybody when 'The War' took place, or even who was involved. But no matter what the conversation, it always came back to that friggin' war, which, if his suspicions were correct, probably was all a lie just to try and give Krauser some phony credentials.

He didn't need to constantly hear about all the times that Krauser had killed a man with his bare hands. Big whoop. Back before the first chapter of this mess, he could kill a man with his bare feet.

But now look at him. Wearing sneakers like some kind of goddamn normal character. How humbling.

How depressing.

Perhaps he could use Tifa's phone, maybe give Ursellaine a ring. She had always been hanging all over him. Never could take the hint that he was totally and irretrievably obsessed with getting revenge on Tifa for having upstaged him all those years ago, and perhaps attempting to get some forced lovin' out of the other martial artist. But now, since his near-obsession with Tifa would most likely never be reciprocated, perhaps he should look elsewhere to gain some sort of..... 'comfort'. But if he called up Urs for advice on how to move on from this, she'd probably be right over with her crazy Half-Hispanic accent and her obnoxious blue eyes, which she always insisted had to be called 'cobalt orbs' or some dramatic shit like that. Honestly, he had called them 'peepers' once, and she had damn near bit him in half. Because she had a natural proclivity for biting..... and she was more than a match for Vincent, because she could transform into better monsters than him. Hell, she was so out of everyone else's league that her name didn't even have to coincide with her ethnicity. She wasn't really who he felt like crying to.

Well, that of course, and the fact that there was nothing too hot about her hot shorts. Honestly, he shuddered to think about it. In fact, just the thought made him throw up in his mouth a little bit.

And Fransozich, Januira, her twin sister Daisura, or even Gina weren't really worth calling up either.

Wait a minute here. An OC with a normal, four-letter name?

Well stop the Goddamn presses boys and girls!

.....But then again, Gina was a guy. So, of course, they all just called him Sepulcher. Because, you know, he liked robbing graves and hewing weapons from the bones of people he had killed.

And really, 'Gina The Bone Hoarding Creepazoid' just wasn't cutting it as far as over-the-top names went.

Even they had their standards.

Sighing, he tossed his phone aside, reaching instead into his swag bag, pulling out his newly acquired B-B gun.

Why not? Not as if anyone would miss him, right?

.....Well, except for people that actually would miss him if he thought about it for more than fifteen fucking seconds.

Regardless, he brought the gun up, sliding the barrel into his mouth, hooking his finger through the trigger, ready to just end it all. There was no real point to go on living. Clou- Er, I mean Tifa was going to be fucking sorry that she didn't reciprocate his feelings (as unwholesome as they might secretly be).

His glow-in-the-freakin'-dark eyes shining with tears, he looped his finger around the trigger, ready to-

Waaaaaaait a minute.

Had he just hopped them into another cliché while he was still a little tipsy after drinking so much Jager and drunkenly threatening her friends?

Was that why he was so suddenly off the wall?

.....Good Gravy. That would certainly explain things. How had he ended up in the 'Tifa-Suicide-Angsty-Crap-Fest-Piece'? In the 'Tifa' role no less.

Oh man he really needed to stop drinking so much.

He winced and pulled the gun from his mouth, head snapping up when he heard a soft chuckle.

"Hey there baby. I got something else you could wrap your lips around if that gun ain't big enough for you."

If he hadn't been so flummoxed by where the Generic Thug had come from, he would have certainly shoved the gun back in his mouth to erase that line from his memory.

But instead he just stared in abhorrent shock at the Generic Thug who was, by all accounts, as generic as a thug can possibly be.

You know, wife beater and jeans, pair of non-descript shoes. Sleazy looking black hair pulled back in a ponytail, few days worth of stubble on his chin.

I dunno, maybe he had a few prison tattoos, maybe some really bad, gaudy jewelry, and one of those sinister, leering grins. Oh! And the wife beater probably had some stains on it. You know, we need to establish that this guy is bad news.

"Uh, who are you? How did you get in? Why are you.... looking..... at me..... like..... that....." 'Greg' stammered nervously, swallowing hard as he dropped back a few steps, until his back was pressed up flush to the bottled of alcohol lining the wall, not sure of what he could do.

It was as if every ounce of fighting prowess was suddenly sucked right out of his body, and his strength and survival instincts were down to being non-existent.

There was no fucking way he could defend against a Generic Thug.

However, his questions weren't answered as the G.T. merely made his way up to the bar, leaning on it, watching him carefully, giving him a slow, leisurely once over.

"You a little cold there sweetie?" He asked in a low gravelly voice, causing 'Greg' to squeak, pulling his duster closed, hugging himself fearfully and twisting away.

His mind was spinning. If he hadn't ended up in the Tifa role of a 'Tifa-Suicide-Angsty-Crap-Fest-Piece', then what was this? What did the Generic Thug indicate? What did his sudden reduction of any and all skills mean?

.....Oh God.

Oh God.

Please, please, please don't let it be true-

But his silent pleas went unanswered as the Generic Thug decided to not waste any more time with dragging this ill-contrived plot out any longer. He was here for one thing, and one thing only.

To rape our unwitting heroine, as some convenient plot device to get Cloud to come to her side and admit his undying devotion to her.

"Oh mother of Pearl!" 'Greg' all but shrieked as the Generic Thug handily overpowered him, not being able to do anything to fend him off. I mean, come on, he was only a well-trained and deadly assassin.

Nope. Can't do a damn thing.

Rough hands grabbed at the waist of his pants, tugging at the waistband and dragging them down over the sharp, protruding hipbones.

This wasn't friggin' happening. And he had to do something fast, before the 'tantalizing' 'risque' description was done with, and he just 'got raped'.

But just who in the Fuck would know what to do in this situation?

Nobody other than.....

"Tifa! Tifa! For God's sake, I need your help!" He screamed as the Generic Thug ran his hands across the flat planes of his scarred, washboard abs, moving lower, lower.....

"Yeah?!" Tifa's voice floated down from the top of the stairs, muffled slightly by a humming noise. It sounded like she was using her hairdryer.

"Hey, what do you do in those 'fics where some random guy comes into your bar and tries to rape you?!" He shouted back up, squirming and feebly trying to pry the Generic Thug's hands away from places they most certainly weren't meant to be.

"Umm....." There was a brief pause, as she mulled over the question, a bit taken aback by it "Oh! That's right! I usually just struggle feebly for a bit, get handily overpowered, then he just rapes me and never shows up again. Then Cloud'll show up, and admit he loves me, then things pretty much work out for themselves." She shouted back down, before turning her hairdryer back on.

Well, that's not so bad. Since they were breaking the cliché, all he had to do was get in a few good shots, hit him in any pressure points, or just snap his neck and get it over with really-

But that's when it hit him. This wasn't happening to Tifa. It was happening to him.

So that meant it wasn't cliché.

Oh sweet merciful crap. Talk about their master plan backfiring horribly.

For God's sake 'Greg', get out of there! Get out of there now!

But alas, no matter how hard he struggled, the Generic Thug still had him beat. And if he didn't do something soon, Cloud would be proposing to him post-rape.

There was only one thing left he could possibly do.

The Ultimate Gamble.....

The ALL CAPS SHOUT. With very, very liberal swearing.

That's right. Because nothing conveys pure abject horror, or poor knowledge of grammar and descriptive words that convey anxiety, like typing with the fucking Caps Lock on at all times.

"OH MY FUCKING GOD! TIFA, YOU HAVE TO FUCKING HELP ME OUT HERE! TIFA! I'M ABOUT TO GET FUCKING PLOWED BY SOME GENERIC THUG IF YOU DON'T-"

"'Greg', what the fuck's gotten into you?! Can't you just shout like normal people, by using exclamation points, and things like ''Greg' shrieked in pure terror' after the sentence? Fucking A, man, I leave you alone for twenty minutes and....."

She stopped dead, tirade trailing off, frozen in place as she gazed upon the unholy sight in front of her. It more terrible than any Yaoi doujinshi she had ever seen. And somehow, she owned a lot of those. Simply because most of her male teammates asked her to look at them, and tell them when they were being portrayed as 'Overly Feminine' or as a 'Creepy Dom'.

There were just no words for it.

Well none except for maybe-

"Good Gravy!" Tifa shrieked shrilly, voice pitched high enough to shatter most of the bottles of liquor. And she did it without doing that all caps thing. After a few moments of just staring in terror, she realized that 'Greg''s chastity was at risk, and sprang into action, kicking the ever-loving Hell out of the Generic Thug.

Meanwhile, 'Greg' crawled away from the scene of carnage, weeping bitterly, his skin getting cut up worse as he dragged himself over the shards of glass that littered the ground after Tifa's shrieking had broken the bottles.

But none of it mattered. He just needed to crawl into a corner and hide, weeping until he could weep no more.

Why? Why, why, why? Things had been fun (albeit terrifying) before this one. It was all just so.....

The sounds of carnage died off after a while, and Tifa, spattered with blood and the pulp of what were once internal organs, made her way over to him, kneeling down, her face full of grief and remorse as she looked at his sniveling, broken state.

"Oh dear God..... Let's get you to a Hospital."

(Totally a page break.)

"So how do you do it? How do you put up with that kind of..... terror? It was like staring Death right in the face. Only in this, Death had a penis, and he was going to use it to do unmentionable things to me." 'Greg' was still shell-shocked, laying in his hospital bed, Tifa perched in the chair next to him, patting the back of his hand lightly, condolingly.

"It gets hard sometimes, I'll admit. But when you're as popular as I am, you end up in these situations sometimes. It's honestly best not to dwell on it. And to tell you the truth, after the twenty second time I ended up in this situation, I just got kind of desensitized to it."

"They made twenty two of those things?"

"Probably more. Hell if I know. I don't read 'em. I just-"

She was cut off as the door was pushed open, and none other than Cloud Strife stepped into the room, looking distraught, and carrying a bouquet of flowers. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he rushed over, taking her hand in his, looking at her dolefully.

"Oh my God Tifa! When I heard what happened, I realized I loved you more than anything, and I'm totally here to get you now, after you totally just got your life and happiness obliterated. I mean, this should like, counter-balance that part of it, right?"

The poor boy honestly seemed confused about it, looking at her earnestly, as he fished a velvet box from his pocket, holding it out to her.

"Look, Cloud, I-"

"So, you, like wanna get married now or something? 'Cause you know. You just got horrifically raped, but I'm here now, and I, like, totally care about you and stuff, so, let's go have a wedding, and then have sex. Because I know you'll totally be over this and be ready to give me some lovin' in, like, a few days. So how 'bout it, huh?" He flipped the ring box open, holding it out to her with a bright, cheerful grin.

A grin that quickly evaporated as she reached up and slapped the ring out of his hands, glaring at him.

"Now look here idiot. I didn't get raped for once. He went after my friend 'Greg' and almost raped him. So unless you almost want to propose to 'Greg', I suggest you leave." She sighed sternly.

Cloud paused, looked a 'Greg', seemed to consider it, moved to hand the flowers to him, stopped, considered it a little more, then shook his head, standing up.

"Well, uh, geez. Guess I have no reason to be here now. See you around then. I'ma go and hang out by Aerith's grave some more. Or maybe go pal around with somebody that has a similar name, appearance, and occupation as Aerith." He muttered as he headed out the door, head down in shame.

"See you around when it's a Cloti or ARF cliché!" Tifa called cheerily,waving to him.

"Wait a minute....."

Tifa and 'Greg' looked up as they heard a voice on the other side of the white curtain, dividing his hospital bed from that of the room's other occupant. A hand came up, gripping the edge of it, before the curtain was jerked back.

A young, shapely woman was in the other bed, staring at them, her brown eyes brightening up visibly as she got a look at them. Her head was shaved, and there were some staples holding her scalp together, but she seemed in high spirits nonetheless.

"Oh! It is you guys! That's fantastic! How's it going?! I haven't seen you in like-"

"Uh, sorry, but who are you?" Tifa cut in, exchanging a confused glance with 'Greg', who merely shrugged in confusion, having no idea who his fellow patient was.

"It's me!" She nodded, gesturing toward her face, smiling hopefully. At their blank stares she sighed, a slight frown coming to her face. "Y'know, 'Jim-Jam'? You kicked the crap out of me and left me for dead outside that Wutaian restaurant in the third chapter."

"But you don't look-"

"And your eyes-"

"But..... but..... You can pronounce 'w' sounds!" Tifa sputtered indignantly, knowing it had to be some kind of trick.

But she merely smiled, shrugging.

"Well, you see, after you kicked my ass, stabbed me in the eyes with chopsticks, broke my jaw and kicked me through a plate-glass window, I was just kind of laying there in a near-coma. Of course, I eventually was taken to a hospital. They were going to let some med students dissect me. But when they found out I wasn't dead, they fixed me up."

"But that doesn't explain the fact that you're, well, not 'Jim-Jam'." 'Greg' pointed out, not knowing who this cunning con-artist really was. It couldn't have been 'Jim-Jam'. She had those hideous eyes, and that hideous hair, and that accent.....

"Well, you see, they had to cut a hole in my skull because my brain was swelling up and I had glass embedded in my scalp. So they had to cut off all my hair. Since my eyes were skewered, they found me a new pair off of some cadaver. And you won't believe this, but when they re-set my jaw, it turned out that when you broke it, it knocked it back into its right position and fixed my speech impediment! Now I'm about seventy-nine percent less hideously obnoxious! And, I have a normal looking wig to cover up these staples."

Tifa and 'Greg' were speechless.

"So, can I hang out with you guys again? Please, please, please? I'll prove I can do it. Listen, listen. 'Which way would waxy white worms wiggle'. See, I can do it! I can make 'w' sounds!"

"Well fuck. I'm convinced!" Tifa nodded, giving her a thumbs up. "Welcome back aboard."

"All right! Yeah! So what are we going to do next?" She asked excitedly, already moving to get out of her hospital bed, giddy with being accepted by Tifa, and because the martial artist had inadvertently fixed her demeaning speech impediment.

But the martial artist shook her head, putting her hands up, motioning for her to stay in bed.

"You guys aren't going anywhere just yet. You need to rest up for the next time you get caught in the crossfire. I'll go this next cliché alone." She nodded solemnly.

Very, very, dramatic.

"But how are you going to get anywhere? I-"

"Dude, this is 'Tifa's Bogus Journey'. I've got it covered." She nodded, pulling out her PHS, dialing a number, waiting for the person on the other end to pick up. "Hey, Rufus, can you send a phone booth over for me? Yeah, yeah, no. No, I really don't need to go pick up a bunch of famous historical figures....."

In a flash of bad graphics, a phone booth appeared, smoking slightly, with neon colored sparks shooting from the top of it. 'Wild Stallions' was written across one of the windows in magic marker, and who appeared to be George Carlin was standing in there near the phone.

"See you guys later. I'll pick you up when I'm done." Tifa nodded, waving farewell as she stepped into the phone booth, pulling the door shut.

"Where are you going?" 'Jim-Jam' asked worriedly, causing Tifa to pause, shrugging slightly.

"Wherever a plot has been used too many friggin' times. Wherever things play out the same way once again. Where-"

"You don't really know, do you?" 'Greg' interjected skeptically, frowning, seeing the way her shoulders sagged, as she gestured vaguely with her left hand.

"I dunno. I guess I'll go check the reviews page or something. Its as good a place to start as any."

With that she slid the door shut, and picked up the phone, dialing a number, before the phone booth disappeared in another flash of bad graphics.

'Greg' and 'Jim-Jam' were left staring at the empty spot that Tifa had just been, not knowing what was going on. Things were just getting more bizarre by the minute.

"What the Hell is a review page?" 'Jim-Jam' asked after a moment, only getting a bewildered little shrug from 'Greg'.

END NINE

Woot. 'Jim-Jam''s back. With less annoyance for sure.

God, I need to pull this 'fic back together. Though, I did make a Bill and Ted reference like Malz mentioned. Please people, send 'Greg' a Get Well card. Poor boy is traumatized. (And review. Call me narcissistic, but getting 100 reviews by the time I hit 10 chapters would make me feel like my losery memory of clichés is doing some good).

And we also got to hear a little more about the guys 'Greg' and 'Jim-Jam' associated with before all of this. Bad names and clichés abound.

But hey, what do you really expect out of me?

I was in The War.