Disclaim: I don't own KHII. Trust me.

A/N: The fourth donut in the Baker's Dozen, Vexen, the aspiring Edgar Allen Poe. I actually like his setting; this was the very first oneshot to actually gain it's name...I happened to be watching VH1 the day I wrote it and the music vid came on and...yeah. I dont like the band or the song, but it just fit a little too perfectly into Vexen's implied character. Eh-heh..

Enjoi,
-Ethe

.:I Write Sins Not Tragedies:.

Tuesday, Nov. 14, 2006. 7:47 AM.

That guy on the end landed on the ground pretty hard... Well he did take six shots of Bacardi... "You going to leave him there?" I asked Xaldin, looking up at the taller male. "Nah...I'll get him..." He sighed deeply as he opened the small door that lead into the bar, and looked down at the man on the ground. "He's out like a light." "Here, I'll give you a hand." I suggested, kicking off of my stool and standing next to them both. Xaldin grabbed his arms and I carried his legs to a long booth at the edge of the bar, and we set him down easily. Xaldin sighed again. "You didn't cut him off, did you?" "Forgot." He proceeded away from the booth and back to his counter and I followed.

He grabbed one of the six dirty glasses from where the passed out man had been sitting and started to wipe them clean. I sat back on my stool and sipped my Smirnoff again. He stayed silent until I finished my drink, and I sighed. I grabbed my wallet, and dug around for something under twenty, but higher then a five... Sure enough I found a ten, and I set it on the counter and put my wallet away. "You know you do have a tab, right?" "Tip." "Oh..." "For your trouble in helping me on my poem. Thanks a lot." I stood up from my seat, and walked up to the double doors, pulling them open and closing them behind me.

My apartment was not very far from the bar, so it was only a short walk. I trudged up the annoying old steps with the small creak every third step out of the twelve. Yes, I get bored enough of the those cursed stairs to count them as I step. I sighed, picking up the newspaper in front of my door, pulling out the key and stuffing it skillfully into the lock. One turn to the left let me pass into the usual dark and lonely room. The blinds were pulled shut, and the only light that was ever allowed to be on was the over hanging lamp in the kitchen, strategically placed right over my chair so I can concentrate and not get sidetracked. I always get heacaches sitting underneath there, but I always just took a pill and it was gone.

Anyhow, I needed to get back to business. This book was due to be published in twenty-four hours, just after one that was put into print only a week before and was now turned into massed production last Friday, and I was still on the last poem. I named the book Cambria, after what is now known as Wales during the Roman empire...or something like that. I don't remember why. I just know now that it's used as a poetic appellation, and it suited the many outrageous and touching things I tend to write sonnets about. Shakespeare has nothing on me.

I wasnt always a Edgar Allan Poe inspirationist. I first read The Raven when I was twelve, and that's what really got me hooked. I was the one through grammar school to never really interact with anyone. I'd get what I had to done, and go home and study to be sucessful. They thought I was weird. They didn't taunt me or anything, and I was thankful for that. Though it bothers me that sometimes I conclude that they were afraid of me in a way... I wasn't scary. They were just being egotistical in front of their friends to make them laugh or something.

I pitied them.

After high school, I moved here, still chasing my dream to become a more modern-day dark and obscure writer like my idol. Reno, Nevada...this was what some would call a hell hole, and some suspected that the city was driving itself mad. Some implied that it would get back on it's feet someday. I was neutral. I had no say, I only lived here, within it's boundaries.

But enough about that, I had to get my poem written. I took my coat off, and sat in the chair with the overhanging lamp only shining it's luster on me. I set the paper down, and picked up my first draft of the troublesome poem I called Lent and read over the lines again.

Lent

I had gone too far this last time,
And straight to Hell I was sent.
It was just one little slip on Lent,
Which is why I made this rhyme.
During my forty days' promise of abstinance,
During which I promised to give up adultery,
Ever Sunday I made an acquiantance
With a willing partner, surely.
Sunday was a holy day,
A day, in which I've soiled
But what the hell can I say?
I guess I'm not that loyal.
The day I died, I was asleep
In the bed I shared with my wife
A woman in which I would spend the rest of my life?
The love we shared was not as deep.
Giving up sex outside my marriage was not so smart,
No doubt it was dumb
But how could I resist the sweet little tart
With the nice bum?
This last time, I had gone a little too far,
And that night, at Midnight, I was gone...

And this was where the trouble had begun. I would somehow have to give Xaldin some sort of credit in the growing dedication page. I had a little too many people to thank and dedicate the now one-hundred and fourty-two page book.

Turned into a lonely star,

And that's where Xaldin's line was placed.

Taken from the bed I slept on.

And one more four-set...

Do not turn out like me,
Because straight to Hell, I was sent.
So, I hope now that you see,
Don't stop something hard on Lent

Well that part wasn't so hard...Hmm. As you can safely assume, I'm not trying to capture the old-day presentation my idol did so potently, I'm writing about sins, not tragedies. I smiled happily to myself, putting the paper and the pencil down, and picking up the newspaper. I snapped off the rubberband and unfolded it, and looked on the front page. CRASH KILLS THREE PEOPLE, ONE SURVIVER it read...oh, how tragic. There was a picture on the front of a man with chestnut colored hair. He seemed a bit bigger than the average man, and looked as though he never had very much to say; one of the quite giant types.

I glanced down at the caption, Two women and two men captured in drunk-driving accident. One survivor, who wishes to have his name witheld, his wife and two friends killed in tragic accident. I glanced up at the picture again...he did look somewhat familiar...I just couldn't place a finger on a name... I sighed, dropping the paper back onto the table and concluding that I needed coffee. I stood up wearily, and thanks to practice dogded the overhanging lamp and found the coffee pot. I yawned, and glanced over at the clock...

Hold on...wasn't the same guy that...?

-End-

A/N: Cookies for those who can name the band who wrote the chapter title's song!

Ok, now Vexen's poem is COMPLETLEY mine. I wrote it. all ME! I swear too...I did! Um...and a cliffy ending, because you'll find out soon enough why. Feh. The inspiration bunnies are being fairly good and only filling my head with ideas that I NEED rather than WANT...