The Anime Bar, Chapter 2.

Me: I do not own any of the anime's that I have haphazardly thrown in here, nor do I own any of the Characters.

L: Iwouldn't have died if Thomas-sama did.

Light: And might possibly be able to fit my head through a door too.

Me: No Yagami-kun, I don't think anyone could change that.

Light: *sulk*

AND ON WITH THE FANFIC!

L sat patiently across from Yagami Light in their booth at the very back of the bar. Light was draining his fourth glass of wine that evening, and was, by now, quite tipsy. L hadn't touched his drink; he only ever drank alcohol on special occasions, because it interfered with his thinking process. The last time had been Watari's 60th, about 7 years ago, and he point blank refused to ever get drunk. Not after the time where he was forced to be carried back to Wammy's house in a complete stupor, by a much younger Mello and Matt, and one very annoyed BB, with a four year old Near watching. No, L much preferred to just sit and stir the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, around and around in his glass. L didn't have the bottle with him, nor had he even glimpsed it. But he was L, and he knew every last detail of the wine, its owner the owners entire ancestry, personal habits, favourite food, preferred choice of footwear, the exact number of headlice that had been populating the winemaker's son's head, exactly which Venetian stud his eldest daughter had been making love to, at the very second that the 417th grape which made up the drink, had been picked...all by looking at the glass.

Light finished draining his current glass of the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, and swayed a little in his seat, clearly the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, was going to his head. And High school age male brains weren't meant to handle 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot. Light regained his balance, barely.

"Are you okay, Yagami-kun?" Asked L, not looking up from his glass of slowly swishing 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot.

"Yeah...I'm *hic*...alri-*hic*...Ryu-*hic*-zaki...I feel *hic*...great!

"Good Good." L said aloud, what he was actually thinking in that complex, sugar pumped brain of his was more along the lines of: "Right, Kira, drunk...this isn't going to turn out well." Of course L had known from the beginning that Light was Kira, it was to cliché for him not to be. It just made good television to drag the investigation out over an entire anime series. But the point still stood. The one man in the world, with the potential to wipe out everyone who even so much as looked at him funny, provided he knew their name, and could remember their face, was drunk on 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, and now presently rummaging around in his schoolbag for a certain black notebook. Things were going to get high-strung, and L wasn't talking about the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot.

Light layed his notebook in his lap and proceeded to write 'stealthily.' What Light didn't realise was that the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, was playing mind games on him, and that he was writing so obviously, and with such huge gestures, that half the bar was looking at him, in fact Momochi Zabuza was positively death glaring him. But then, Zabuza death glared everyone. Light finished his haphazard scribbling and proceeded to lean back in his seat, putting his arms behind his head, a cocky grin etching its way across the Japanese teen's face, Light grinning was never a good sign. L mentally braced himself for whatever was about to go down, praying that it wasn't a heart attack. What actually happened was far more entertaining.

At that moment, a young, blonde Kunoichi walked past, her long ponytail swaying behind her, her purple outfit hugged her curves, pronouncing them lustfully, agile, beautiful, but noticeably muscular legs and ample breasts completed the image. Even L, who hardly ever looked at women, and thought he might never want to again after meeting Amane Misa, found himself quite turned on.

"Ah Ino-chan, how are you today?" asked Light, with as much charm as a man knocked off his face on 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, can muster. Ino turned around to her addresser, who gestured for her to come closer. She leant down, as the Japanese Student whispered in her ear for about a minute, interrupted at intervals by a hiccup caused by the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot. Until the latter finished his whispering, ending it with a seductive cocking of one eyebrow, that earned him a blush from Ino, and an eye-roll from the booths other occupant, who resumed looking intently at his glass of 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot. L looked up as the other two left, darting towards the stairs to the bedrooms above, Light swaggering under the effects of the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, before they finally managed to reach said flight of stairs and head up. As all the occupants of the bar returned to what they had been doing before Light's 'stealthiness'. L looked down at Light's seat. On it, was a small, black notebook, left open at its last used page. L picked the note up, and scanned the page, passing the names of terrorists, war criminals, petty thieves, rapists, paedophiles and the Jonas Brothers, until he came to the final name, which, due to the downers that an overdose of 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, tends to have on one's handwriting, took up half the page.

Yamanaka Ino; passes away in sleep, after going all night with Yagami Light, in the following positions...

As L read more and more of the list of depraved acts that the duo were at that minute performing upstairs, he finally took a sip of the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot. As L did with alcohol, on the incredibly rare occasions that he drank it at all, he savoured it, delicately sampling the taste of the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot. As the 1852 Venetian Wine, made on a small hillock, 2.07654 miles precisely outside of Venice, by a small, tanned man with a Joseph Stalin style moustache, and an apparent lack of any Beetroot, slid down his throat, his eyebrows shot up. He slowly picked up the bottle for the first time that evening (Light had poured him his glass) and read the label.

"Oh," he said. "It's Bordelino."

Me: WHAT THE BLOODY HELL, YOU HAD ME WRITING THAT SHIZZLE ABOUT 1852 VENECIAN WINE MADE ON A SMALL HILLOCK 2.0764 MILES EXACTLY OUTSIDE OF VENICE, BY A SMALL TANNED MAN WITH A JOSPEH STALIN MOUSTACHE AND AN APPARENT LACK OF ANY BEETROOT, FOR NOTHING!

L: ^^'

BB: NOOOOO, Why L, Why, how could you get turned on by Ino, you said you'd never leave meeeee!

L: I'm sorry my B-hime, I love you really!

BB: YAY *yaoi*

Me: Riiiight, that is going to haunt my nightmares for months now, thanks guys!

Sorry i haven't updated in yonks and yonks and yonks, all I can say is that GCSE's are sooo annoying! More soon hopefully, thanks for waiting