Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Yes, here's the chapter you've all been waiting for… yellow snow cones will be consumed, I can guarantee you that (God, I'm so sadistic and the poor little Bohos have to suffer for it). But will Mark be the one eating the snow cones, or will plans yet again backfire? Read on to find the answer!
Shoulders squared, jaw firm, with an all-too-apparent 'man on a mission' demeanor, Roger strode down the sidewalk, eyes set on the park in the distance. His was a look of such determination that his fellow pedestrians stepped aside, not out of courtesy but fear of being plowed down by his unwavering gait. Little kids stopped their giggling to gape as he passed by, and elderly folk observed him with reverence. Had his life been a movie, this segment of Roger walking down the street would be backed by a cheesy yet inspirational and purposeful theme song.
That is, until he slipped on a patch of ice and fell down. Then it would have gone 'Wah wah wahhhh'.
"Holy fuck!" Roger yelped out in surprise as his back made contact with the very hard, very cold concrete.
Almost immediately a small face came into his line of vision, and Roger found himself staring up the snotty nostrils of a severely freckled six-year-old. "You okay mister?" he asked, sounding disgustingly congested.
Roger scrambled away, still on his back, beginning to regret even leaving the loft in the first place. The outside world wasn't a place for him; he should just turn around and go back. Mimi would be there, after all, and a couple minutes with her was always better than settling some weeklong grudge.
Forgetting his whereabouts for a minute, Roger closed his eyes and smiled in ecstasy at the very thought of Mimi, the way the sweat gleamed on her smooth skin after a strenuous session of lovemaking, the way she still had enough energy afterwards to engage in vigorous play-wrestling, the little birthmark she had on her-
Roger was jolted suddenly from his reminiscing by a blow from some woman's purse. "Fuck, lady!" he exclaimed after having his thoughts so rudely interrupted.
"What are you, some kind of pedophile?" the lady shrieked, eyeing Roger's lower region and clutching the six-year-old at her side.
"Jesus, no!" Roger defended himself, grabbing at the wall behind him and pulling himself to his feet. "Why are you even looking down there?"
Without answering, the woman dealt Roger another blow with her purse, thumping him violently on the nose before fleeing, grasping at the child's arm. Roger cursed again and cupped his hand over his nose, his vision beginning to dim. It was official; he was far too pissed-off to just retreat, crawl defeatedly back to the loft and wave the white flag. He needed to kill something, particularly a blonde-headed bespectacled something.
Well, maybe not kill. But he was sure watching Mark eat yellow snow would appease his anger better than any bloodshed.
Driven on by feelings of hostility, Roger set off once more towards the park, this time more determined than ever, if it even seemed possible. He entered the park and strode over to the swing set, where Angel sat, Collins behind her. Mark stood off to the side, his camera in his hands as he videotaped the smiling Angel while Collins pushed her on the swing.
Lips trembling with repressed feelings of malice, Roger forced a pained smile and muttered a greeting. Angel jumped off the swing, landing perfectly before Roger and saluting him with a giggle and a wink. At first he was confused, but then it hit Roger and he returned the wink. Another ally. This brought him reassurance, seeing as now his enemy was surrounded.
"Hey Rog," Mark chirped, lowering his camera to offer him a grin. "So you finally decided to show up?"
"No shit, Sherlock, I'm here, aren't I?"
Apparently Mark hadn't expected such an acerbic response because he suddenly took on a look of dread. Roger sneered in a self-satisfied way. He loved having the power to frighten Mark, to make him jump at the slightest glare or remark, and he used it to his advantage. "Well," Roger said, leaning over and scooping up a handful of snow, then molding it sardonically into a ball. "Shall we have a snowball fight?"
Mark began to shiver with fear of the inevitable, but this only fueled Roger to roll the ball tauntingly around in his hand before chucking it suddenly in Mark's direction. Squeaking, Mark leapt out of the way, and the snowball smashed to pieces against the slide a few yards away from him. "Come on, Mark, it's just a little snow, it won't hurt you," Roger jeered, picking up another hefty amount of snow and setting to work on it.
"Please, no snowballs," Mark whined, defeated.
With a look of triumph Roger allowed the dribbly snow to slip through his fingers. Angel, who was a lot better at feigning camaraderie towards Mark, raised her hand in the air to get their attention. "Well, snow balls are no fun, but what do you say to snow cones?"
Just to avoid suspicion, Roger answered with an utterance of "Uck".
Mark, seeing that if Roger disagreed with it than it must be safe, was quick to assent. Angel pranced over to a small yellow plastic box and pulled off the lid, revealing an array of colorful snow cones. There was one for each of them, a pink one, a red one, a green one, and, of course, the fateful yellow one. At once Angel snatched the pink one for herself, and immediately afterwards Collins claimed the red one.
Now only the green and yellow cones remained. Roger found the green cone appealing, for he preferred the color green to yellow any day, but then he suddenly remembered the importance of getting the green cone. If Mark got to it first, Roger would be stuck with the piss-cone, and not eating it or trying to make Mark trade with him would be too suspicious.
Roger made a move for the green cone but Mark was already there, observing both treats meticulously. Before Mark could make his choice Roger snatched the lime one out from under his nose and even licked it in case Mark protested. Mark didn't seem to mind, and without an argument he picked up the last snow cone. The yellow snow cone. Everything was going according to plan.
"A toast," Roger proposed, holding up his cone, "to our good fortune." And by 'our', I most definitely don't mean Mark's.
Like a serpent of wickedness Roger shot his tongue out, savoring the flavors of lime ice and victory. He watched as, without hesitation, Mark delved into his snow cone, but his reaction was the farthest thing from what Roger expected.
"Mmm, lemon."
Roger stopped slurping to spit a mouthful of lime-flavored slush to the ground. "Lemon?" he hissed.
With a giggle Angel jumped gleefully into the air. "Collins told me that Roger suggested we make a special lemon cone for you!" Angel squealed giddily. "They said lemon was your favorite. I just knew you'd like it."
Collins was making the strangest face in Roger's direction, his eyes telling Roger clearer than words that the cone he had prepared for Mark contained canine urine, without a doubt. Yet here Mark stood, enjoying an undeniably lemon-flavored snow cone, with Angel, whom Roger mistook to be an ally, confirming that it was, in fact, a harmless, piss-free snow cone.
"Baby, are these the cones I made?" Collins asked in a controlled tone that denied his true feelings.
"Oh, honey, I threw those away," Angel said, wrinkling her nose as she recalled finding them in the freezer. "They smelled like piss."
Mark gasped knowingly and stared half in disbelief, half in relief at Roger. Without a second thought or explanation Roger threw his lime cone forcefully to the ground and stomped away from the group, avoiding even looking at Mark. Another plan foiled! I can never fucking win!
Roger journeyed back to the loft in a huff, his temper flaring up beyond its normal limitations. There was no possible way he could win. Either through the stupidity and carelessness of others or through Mark's random phases of cleverness, Roger's plans had failed. There was no fucking way to win this war. And he sure as hell wouldn't surrender.
Suddenly it struck him as he entered his apartment. "What am I doing?"
It was that severe of a realization that he actually found himself speaking it out loud. Why was he even in this war, anyway? It was Roger's sadism at its finest, just his tortuous personality getting a little out of control. But otherwise there was nothing to lose, nothing to gain… only a fool would continue fighting such a war. And Roger Davis was no fool. He knew that a situation like this called for a truce. It would save him the indignity of just surrendering, and if he could propose an armistice first then it would still prove him superior to Mark. I'm too damn merciful. Mark's a lucky bastard.
"Yes, honey, what are you doing out of bed?"
Roger jumped but quickly tried to guise it as a dance, because Lieutenant Roger the Merciful Yet Still Very Powerful was not easily startled. He waltzed toward Mimi, who was still groggy with sleep and had her blanket wrapped around her unclothed body. Taking Mimi's hands in his, Roger nimbly changed the waltz to a tango and led a disoriented Mimi back to the bedroom. "Ready for round two?" Roger purred, scooping Mimi off her feet and waking her up with a sensual kiss.
Now fully conscious, Mimi swung an arm around Roger's neck and allowed her other hand to wander the lower region of his body. Pulling his lips away to take a few short breaths, Roger took the time to grin at Mimi. "Thank you for making me stay home earlier," Roger said as he sat down on the edge of their mattress, Mimi still in his arms. "You were right, I was being completely immature. Sometimes I let the child in me take over."
"Well, I hope the child is gone now, because now it's the adults' turn for playtime," Mimi whispered, nuzzling her nose against Roger's neck like a cat in need of attention.
This war was a victory in Roger's eyes, and he enjoyed the spoils of war for the rest of the night.