Author's Note: AAAAAAAAAAAAngst. I wrote this in Florida with two little cousins hanging over my arm.

It's a pretty little eye. All bloody bloody red with black tomes spinning and whirring like gears in the parts of a massive machine.

Bloody bloody red for every corpse he's kicked aside, every body he's scrawled on a mission report, every pair of wide eyes staring in shock with the crackling energy of the Chidori emerging out the other side of their bodies.

The three little tomes spin round and round, dancing a sick little dance that signals impending doom.

Three little commas follow the missing nin's movements. Three spinning marks dance to the beat of a ninja's last steps. Three bodies fall, one by boulder, one by kunai, one by demon fox.

Three tomes spin, three bodies drown in a sea of red, crimson swirling like the eye of a hurricane as the commas dance, dance, dance a dance of death. Eyes follow an old path to a cracking fist of blue chakra.

The other hand grips the numbing and painful wrist. Tomes spin as he charges forward.
Twirling, twirling, dancing spinning, spinning a bloody river like streams of spun sugar.

The Lightning Blade crackles, slicing cleanly through the rancid enemy flesh, and the Mist nin's body slumps over his arm. He shakes the corpse forward, and it plummets to the ground, flopping like a rag doll.

She was a pretty little girl, and he was a pretty little boy. And Yondaime was a pretty, handsome man.

And it's a pretty little eye. But he still doesn't want it.

A/N: I have just pressed one of your secret Meridian points. This will cause you to press the purplish button down there, and send me an untruthful review, saying this was great. Review, please. For my hat. My little green fedora with the peacock feather. He wants you to review.