Priest, Father Zane is running against Slaid in a political campaign for senatorial office of Domino. But there is something Slaid is hiding, and it lies in the mind of his deeply insane brother, Chazz… Rated for masturbation, suicidal references, language, blood, gore and yaoi.
AU. ChazzZane. ConspiracyPolitical
Author's Note: Well, hello. So let's see, I'm writing a million and five things, one of which is my own novel that seems to be making absolutely no headway. I like this, though, and everything else (except my novel) will take a back burner. Personally, I think that this fic is too much Law and Order SVU… but that's okay. Can never have too much Elliot and Olivia. Never. Grins
Disclaimer: I don't own YuGiOh GX or System of A Down or KoRn. Shame, though. Oh well… onwards.
Dedicated to my Zozo. The stock market has crashed, and the ice-cream is everywhere.
Look at each otherGo away…
Mutually, mentally molested children of a Mother
Mutually, mentally molested children of Sin
The ever so popular beating that took you under
The ever so popular beating that broke your skin
Free thinkers are dangerous
Blame, Hate, For Fate's Seed
Go away…
Need the ones you love and love the ones you need
Need the ones you love and love the ones you bleed
Lives rearranged and lives in my range, can you breathe?
Lives rearranged and lives in my range, can you see?
Free thinkers are dangerous.
Blame, Hate, For Fate's Seed
Why…
Gonna let you mother fuckers die
Why…
Look at each other...
"Father Truesdale, you are aware that many of Domino's voting populace think it ridiculous for a minister of the Catholic Church to run for senate-"
"Times are changing," Zane growled, pushing at another news crew member as he waded through the crowd of reporters, endless flashes illuminating the path to his apartment and blinding him. Didn't the fucking press go away? It was ten o'clock in the fucking night.
"And Father Truesdale, what are your views-"
"I don't know! Leave me alone, I want to get to my apartment!" he yelled angrily, pushing the journalist. She stumbled backward and dropped the camera. It fell to the floor with a heavy, metallic 'thunk', and the lens shattered instantaneously with contact.
There was somewhat of an uncomfortable elastic silence. The newswoman was looking up at him for her impromptu seat on the hallway floor.
Great. He lost another vote, and that paparazzi bitch was probably going to sue him for some sort of abuse. This was great for the campaign… just great.
Zane sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. How was he supposed to fix this?
He offered her his hand.
"Listen, I'm sorry-"
"No," she said coolly, evenly as she got up and brushed herself off. She was looking him daringly in the eye. "I'm just fine, thanks."
Flash. Flash.
Great, Zane thought grumpily, looking uncomfortably around as he shielded his face from the somewhat accusing, hungry flashes of the cameras, I can just see me in the tabloids tomorrow: Candidate Truesdale Strikes Reporter: The Inside Story of An Angry Priest.
He expelled another sigh from his body and walked briskly past her. He couldn't be bothered.
He took his keys out of his pocket and began to consistently sieve through, his hands stopping and inserting the key in the lock of his apartment door before turning it. The flashes, the clicks of the cameras, the whispers, made this moment sinuous, unabridged, and as long as an eternity. It's amazing how ashamed you can be while just opening the door to your fucking apartment.
You're another fuck up priest, Zane, he thought crossly as he jammed his hip against the door and it swung open into the apartment. The flashes cast his elongated silhouette in flickers on his carpet. His shoulders were slumped, slightly defensive, and the gait he had while walking into his apartment was somnolent: it was of a tired, angry man that just wanted sleep. The reproving, dazzling bursts from the cameras ceased when the door was closed, and the darkness stole and amalgamated into the shadows and finally consumed all as the door swung back to its frame with a resolute shut.
Zane sighed, it seemed to be a habitual greeting to the inanimate objects of his abode: the couch, the TV, the kitchen, his ruddy cat that had probably shit in his shoes again and was prowling around somewhere.
"Kitty," he called dryly, his hands groping along the wall in its customary gesture to search for his goddamn light switch. He found it, and he turned the dial marginally to the right so a dim light brightened the room: he honestly couldn't handle anything too bright at this hour. He had a headache, he was hungry, and he wanted a smoke.
"And Zane said, let there be light, and there was light."
He smiled in spite of himself and just snickered. He looked at his ankles with distaste as a black cat came and began to rub its neck against his shin with feline languor.
"Are you hungry?" he asked it flatly, pacing to the couch and absently resting his keys on a table before he flopped down, forcing off his shoes with his feet, and they fell to the floor. The cat slinked towards them, and next thing the priest knew, the cat had sprung up with the fluidity of movement that only a cat could have, and it nestled itself almost possessively on Zane's chest. He smiled at it.
"Well, good for you, 'cause I'm out of cat food and no way in hell am I going to the corner store. Not with those bastards out there."
The cat seemed to know what he was saying, because its head jerked up from Zane's chest and its eyes narrowed at him.
"You know, I should name you," Zane mused, his mouth sort of tilting at the corners. The cat's eyes had become reproachful slits.
"How about Alice?"
The look the feline gave him seemed to be one of skepticism and loathing.
"Yeah, there's some whore in the church that keeps on hitting on me named Alice, I don't like her either."
Zane frowned as his hands dived in-between the cushions of the sofa to find the remote. He knew it was there somewhere.
"How about Julia?"
The cat continued its chary, languid stare. It licked the fur on its paw.
"Something tells me you don't like that one either," Zane chuckled, giving up on the search for the remote control, "I've never met a Julia, but from what I heard, they're supposed to be very nice…" He trailed off and his face screwed up in thought, and he spit out another name.
"How about Mary?"
The cat's facial features distorted in a hiss, and it got to his feet with slinky, cat-like speed and leapt off of Zane.
"Well, too bad," Zane called after it, his hand plunging into the gaps in the futon and finding the T.V. remote at last, "because that's what I'm calling you."
He was rewarded with another hiss.
"Yeah, you be like that, bitch," he yawned loutishly, scratching his private areas with one hand and channel surfing with the other.
His thumb became sore from channel surfing. He did not know when it flaccidly fell to his side or when sleep purloined his consciousness, but he knew one thing: Mary had probably run off to shit in one of his shoes again as revenge.
Heh, better watch which ones I'm putting on tomorrow.
Sighs and moans woke Zane up.
He cracked pen an eye to see a man and a woman engaged in what looked like greatly stimulating sexual activity. He sighed: good ol' porno.
Priests were vowed to celibacy, and Zane seemed a bit indifferent in his lack of a sex life. He went, watched his clergy members bitch at each other about the inconsistency of the attendance of the church's members, he walked outside the church and reporters bitched at him for God knows what, and after that, people against his campaign would bitch at him, and then he'd get to his office and his candidature secretary would bitch at him for not making a good campaign, and then he'd leave and the media would bitch at him some more with their cameras and their microphones that they persisted in shoving in his face…
And last but certainly not least, he would get home, and the cat would bitch at him. It would meow and hiss and stare and shit and just bitch. Those actions, they spoke a hell of a lot louder than words.
That, sadly, was his daily routine. That, sadly, was his life. Interjected marginally with little walks in the park where the media stalked him some more, and the times he managed to get his hands on a precious, blessed Pal Mal and smoke the living shit out of it, but more or less, the constant bitching was his life. More or less.
Zane yawned and watched the pornography disinterestedly. He thought that the man was raping the lady. She was taking it. Bent over. In this one they were vampires, he could tell by their lewd, sharp canines and incisors. Why did they try to give these things plots? It was senseless, mindless sex. Dirty, foul smut that polluted the airwaves in late hours of the night where teenage boys to full-grown men watched listlessly, their hands groping at their engorged phalluses.
Zane continued to watch the program impartially, scowling slightly as he realized that his hand was still in his crotch from the ardent scratching before falling asleep.
The frown turned upside down in a mere, fluid flex of the muscles in his face. The smile was subtle, slight, but it was there. And his eyes burned, very much alive and awake, and he chuckled softly to himself.
Why not give it a go? See if all those sexless years in celibacy took away his good old masculine pride? Every man had it, it was deep down inside, when you were all alone, the darkness your only companion, your hand your best friend, masturbation your journey and ejaculation your final destination. The moans and sighs were the road humps, the little fantasies you entertained the pit stops at the side. But at the end, with the white stains everywhere, a small mental map was made of the night's ride, and the man held it close and held it tight, knowing that it was there, that it was secret, and that it was his. Each and every man was proud, damn proud, and they would look over the progress of the journey with savage satisfaction.
Zane began to rub, his hand encircling his hardening staff. He wasn't getting off to the porn; he was getting off to the fact that he just could get off. He grunted slightly, a violent shudder running down his spine, and his face twisted in a condescending sneer. It was solid-hard now. He began to laugh a bit, the nonchalance and arrogance growing with each chuckle. He continued to stoke it harder, faster, biting down on his lips so a cry wouldn't escape. It reminded him of a song he had liked in high school: Screaming to be the only way that I can truly be free from my fucked up realities,
so I turn and stroke it harder, 'cause its so fun to see my face staring back at me.
This was nothing serious, just a simple test run. Couldn't let it get too out of hand, he just wanted to see if he could… if the car could still start, if he could remember the dance steps, if he could still hit the high notes. That sort of thing.
His back began to acquire that sensual tickling sensation, causing him to reflexively arch his back forward, pushing his hips out slightly. He twitched and shuddered, letting a throaty moan escape, and he curled in somewhat defensively and began to rub faster. His eyes were shut, tight. Ugh. He couldn't stop. He turned his head into his shoulder and began to chew on the cotton of his white shirt. His hands were racing.
"Oh… God…" he groaned, his tongue suddenly feeling thick and somehow too heavy for his mouth. The tingling was everywhere now; it felt like little sexually sadistic ants were running all over his skin. He fought with all of his might, all of the will power that God had given him not to let his back go forward again. Part of his mind was telling him that this still was simple test run and that there was nothing serious about it, nothing wrong, but the cynical, logical part of his brain was telling him to fuck that and that he was going to cum soon.
That notion was met with a guttural moan. Zane slowly passed tongue over his cracked lips… and a throaty chuckle escaped his tapering throat.
Ha, he thought victoriously, the moans and screams of the TV in the background virtually unheard, not only can I still do it; I'm actually going to cum!
He decided to let his eyes crack open, to see the girl and the guy on the TV screen, screwing each other's brains out when a good couple o' years worth of semen shot out. He wanted the victory to be perfect, and though it was secret, though it was un-witnessed, he wanted the pride to be vast, to be condescending to those who thought that they could bitch at him, to compensate for all the nights like these that he never got to have over the years.
So he let his eyes ease open, and he steadied himself for the victory…
And he saw Mary looking at him severely.
He stopped stroking. He didn't cum.
"What… the hell…" he said through gritted teeth, his hand shooting out of his boxers. Mary did not move, but she stood boldly, looking up at him.
Oh, jacking off, are you? her eyes seemed to sardonically say, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, I just came to make your life miserable.
To judge you.
To bitch at you.
Zane sighed. He already felt his phallus diminishing in size between his legs.
"What do you want?" he growled at Mary, getting up to go make himself a cup of coffee. He consulted his watch. One fifty-two a.m. Good stuff. He was sure had had a pack of Pal Mal in the kitchen somewhere. It would take that and all the restraint he had not to fling the cat from his apartment and into the street.
It padded along stealthily beside him, looking up at him skeptically.
I told you already, it said, I've come to make your life a living hell. No heaven for you, priest-boy. Not while you're living with me.
"Why don't you just shut up?" he snapped irritably at the cat.
I can't shut up the feline retorted snottily, because I'm not talking. I'm in your head, you've cracked and you're imagining all of this. You're a little idiot, priest-boy, who thinks you can win a senatorial election against Slaid Princeton, who this, eloquently put, is going to kick your ass.
He turned and looked at Mary.
"What are you… the cat from hell?" he scowled.
Total contrary, priest-boy, the cat said, licking its paw, I'm God, and I've come to tell you that you cant jack off in the night because you're a priest, and you cant win this election because you're a priest, and that people are going to bitch at you for your whole life because… guess what? You're. A. Priest. The cat stopped its licking and glared up at Zane, who was looking at Mary in pure hatred, Any questions?
Zane was about to open his mouth to give this cat version of 'God' some choice expletives when the phone rang.
Zane swore and fumbled hastily for the phone. Who the fuck was calling him this early in the morning? He thought that that little reporter girl could wait until the morning to press her goddamn legal charges.
He finally managed to attain purchase on the phone's handle, and he put the receiver to his ears and greeted gruffly and rather rudely, "What?"
What he heard next made him slightly frantic. It was one of the main problems he had in his brief time in the priest hood as well.
Zane Truesdale was not good with the crying people… which always made him wonder why he became a priest.
A small, breathy sob came from the other line and the person said, "Father… Father, please, father please don't let them get me tonight, I don't want to, I don't want to play anymore…"
The 'please's sounded exceptionally desperate, and the voice, which Zane deduced to be a teenaged male, had adopted an eerie juvenileness that as profoundly disconcerting.
"What… who the hell-" Zane started, his groggy crossness coming before his premature instinctual priesthood reflex.
"I don't want to play," the voice said distraughtly. Zane could visualize a faceless, shadowy figure, hunching in a corner, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, convulsively pulling at their hair.
All that Zane could construe was that this person was resolved in their desire to not participate in some game. He hoped to God this wasn't a prank caller fucking with his head. Not this early in the morning.
But this person actually sounds… Zane started, and he felt his face contort in extreme concern. He wasn't able to finish the sentence.
"What do you not want to play?" Zane tried to say as gently as possible, his hands beginning to fiddle with the pages of the phonebook. He felt Mary's tail brush his ankles, but he dared not give her any of his attention. An irrational fear had thieved over his sleepiness that if he afforded anything else his concentration, even minutely, something very, very bad was going to happen to this little boy.
A particularly loud sob.
"No…" the boy moaned, "NoOoOoOoO…"
Zane felt his heart begin to beat, and his throat was beginning to close for the second time that night.
"What's happening?" Zane said urgently, "What's your name? What do you not want to play?"
"Father!" he screamed softly, the tears finally causing his voice to crack. His voice had still retained its uncanny puerility, which gave Zane goose bumps, "They… they're gonna get me and make me play-"
"You have to tell me what-" Zane nearly yelled.
"I'm a little teapot, short and stout," the boy whispered with a childish sing-song voice that made Zane's blood crawl, "here is my handle… here is my stout…"
"You're not making any sense!" Zane fussed, anxiously wringing his hands. His eyes nervously darted about the room.
"Why don't you play a game with me?" the boy asked quietly, the despondency in his voice incredibly potent, "Why don't you-"
"You little fuck!" someone said hoarsely from the background. The boy screamed, and a thud was heard. Zane's eyes widened, and he was clutching the receiver so much that his knuckles had gone stark white.
" Father!" he shrieked, " Father, they're going to make me play-"
The line went dead. Zane stood there, the dial tone in his ear, and the sighs and moans of the ongoing pornography serving as white noise.
He shakily replaced the phone in its cradle and went to go find some Pal Mal's to smoke off what had just happened.
Hm. End seemed a little watered. Oh well.
I love Mary. Haha, don't you?
I have a small policy: if you hit it, review it. Simple. I accept anonymous ones. Just tell me what you think. I want to know.
Its 1:12 a.m. I've been writing this since around nine.
Hardest part, you say? Not the masturbation, but the phone convo. Son of a whore, that phone convo was. Gr.
And yes, Zoe dearest, I went with my little crazy idea and I made Zane a priest. Not like how we giggled about it like idiots, but I made him a priest because him with the priest outfit with the little cross is just really sexy for some odd reason…
Well, whatever. Expect chapter two soon… I hope sweatdrops.
Ja-neeeeeeeeee.
Ki-chan/Evanescent Whisper/ Kenny/ Sunshine/ Keena/ Keens/ Goth Girl #1 (sweatdrops urg, Craig…)
