Your way
Whil-o-whisp
Starting time: 5:33
Ending time: 5:45
Fandom: South park, GregoryxZemole (christophe)
Word Count: 427
A/N: Lulz. Christophe has a dirty mouth again! Seems to be perpetual. Don't you just love it though? I was listening to Down with the Sickness by Disturbed while making this. Well, dirty mouth, Gregory being evil, you know the game. Lets play.
Disclaimer: I don't own South Park. Matt and Trey do!
Translation notes: Non French.
"Sheet!" Rocks and sticks sliced at him as he tumbled down the steep slope. How the fuck had he gotten into this fucking mess. Guard dogs. That was all he could remember. Fuck he hated guard dogs. He hated dogs in general. Rabid beasts, evil and mean and useless. Gregory would fucking pay for sending him on this suicide mission. It wasn't as bad as some of his other excursions the slightly younger man had given him but damnit he fucking hated guard dogs. Shit. Voices and yelling. He needed to move. As fast and as far away as possible.
He ignored the searing pain in his right side. A cut, no big deal. He'd had worse. That fucking bitch at home did worse. He purposefully kicked a hard rock. He DID NOT need to be thinking about her while he was running for his fucking life from crazy religious nuts who had gotten on the wrong side of somebody rich enough to ask for his and Gregory's help. Religious nuts. He seemed to be surrounded by them in that retarded little town. France was smarter. It'd take less people to take over South Park than it did to occupy Paris damnit!
He kicked another rock. He'd have broken toes by morning but he didn't care as he continued running, stumbling on a slope before emerging into a ditch right next to the road. A black car sat just ahead, a small light flaring and dying in the drivers seat. He scaled the side of the ditch, cursing Gregory, his descendents and ancestors. Fuck, he'd curse Gregory's dog right about now. Wait… He'd curse that stupid animal anyway. He stumbled on the hard asphalt before pulling open the passenger door of the black sedan. He slid into the seat, slamming the door closed and shoving away the pistol pointed at his eye. "Drive you piece of sheet, Drive!" he commanded the British boy sitting in the drivers seat, who put the car into gear and skidded away, fixing his rearview mirror and calmly turning on the radio.
"Have fun?" Christophe scowled at the British boy before promptly giving the British bird, and then the American one. "I fucking 'ate guard dogs, Gregory! Sheet!" Gregory laughed, not the least bit disturbed by the splattered red on Christophe's sweater and pants, knowing some of it was the French boy's, some of it was the target's. He hoped most of it was the target's, but knowing Christophe, he was wrong. "Can't always have our way now can we, Christophe?"
A/N: REVIEW!