Mail Jeevas VS. Mello's Gun

Original Author: Seiren_Sekito . Any and all credit goes to her. Enjoy!!!

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Seiren's Special Note to Readers: Matt is supposed to be a little evil in this chapter. Even super heroes have their bad days. : )

Seiren's Disclaimer: Alas and alack, Death Note's copyrights I do lack. Oh, um, crap.

~Mail Jeevas Versus Mello's Gun~
(with Special Guest: The SPK)

Matt heaved a massive sigh, settling down into a nearby chair with a solid thump. He hurled Mello's handgun to the floor, where it landed with a loud, highly satisfying THUNK. The venerated gamer then proceeded to sit there and glare resentfully at the small silver weapon.

Mello's gun didn't care.

Matt's glare darkened behind his corrective lenses significantly, his upper lip curling into a half snarl, half sneer, his slender, shapely eyebrows tilting diabolically while his hate-filled eyes burned fiendishly beneath them. He clenched his gloved hands, tearing deep scars in the arms of the helpless chair. A deep, low rumble built slowly in Wammy's Third's throat, and the shadows in the room seemed convulse, swirling around him and welcoming him for what he was, a form of mortal who only made up 4% of the population of earth, a man who disliked the outside's light, darkness in human guise.

Mello's gun still didn't care.

The chair, however, decided that it had had enough.

One of the badly abused legs (tooth marks? Bad Matty!), collapsed without warning, sending its striped occupant headfirst into the wall behind him. The resulting dull thud and yowl.

"OW! Shit!" echoed loudly through the deserted apartment. Matt froze immediately, surveying the surrounding area to assure himself that none had witnessed his indignity. The gamer extricated himself from the ruins of the chair, glanced around once more, and then turned and gave it a vicious kick. The chair took up a new occupation—as kindling.

Matt gave a self-satisfied nod and turned sharply on his heel, the dirt and dust of the carpet kicking up flamboyantly around him. He was on his way out of the door, until he tripped over the former object of his contemplation. He turned back and stared at the gun, and then picked it up with another weary sigh. He settled down once again, this time on the floor. All of the furniture was out to get him…

Matt further examined the weapon. The trigger was stuck, well and proper. It was not, of course, his fault. The drama of the scene had required him to play around with the empty gun without his gloves having been properly wiped of lighter fluid. That, of course, had resulted in all of the fluid and other nasty gunk on said gloves drying—and thus becoming a rigid adhesive that shared most of the properties of super glue, though without the drying paint smell. The gamer took a deep breath and set about top solving the problem.

First, he placed one hand on the handle and the other's fingers upon the insulting limb of the gun. He flexed his arms impressively and began to pull, his taut muscles rippling, teeth clenching, and eyes squeezing shut with effort.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Matt swore softly to himself. He hated cleaning up his own messes! Someone else should do this for him! …But there was no way in hell that he was letting anyone else touch Mello's gun—not even Mello himself at this point. So he would do this on his own.

The gamer swiftly wedged the handle of the gun in the bedroom door and then dragged as strongly as he could upon the trigger. Once again—nothing happened.

Matt let loose an enraged shriek, scaring one of the poor innocent people passing by his apartment door halfway to death. While it made him feel much better, it did nothing to solve his problem. He thought for a moment, and then ran to the main door, drew it open, reached out, and snatched a hyperventilating passerby by the scruff of the neck.

"You..." he hissed softly, pausing for dramatic effect. The passerby squeaked a reply.

"M...M... M-me?" The poor man looked ready to wet himself, but Matt didn't care. On the other hand, perhaps he did... It would get on his nice shiny one-of-a-kind pair of boots. He sneered.

"Yes. You. I have a job for you." He paused once again for dramatic effect. "Get me..." Another pause. "Liquid nitrogen." He considered inserting a wicked cackle, but then decided that it would be too cheesy and Kefka-ish. Besides, the passerby was already sprinting down the hallway.

Matt strode back into his room, looking quite pleased with himself. He had decimated one piece of furniture, terrified a neighbor, and was rapidly on his way to solving the dilemma of Mello's gun. Life was good, he decided, picking the stubborn weapon up off of the bedroom floor and heading into the bathroom. He crouched down next to his tub and clicked the drain shut, and then gently laid the small weapon into the large bathing apparatus.

A timid rap on the front door, signifying the random neighbor (let's call him Steve)'s return with the liquid nitrogen, drew his attention. Matt pivoted slowly and tiptoed over to the door, then crouched down next to it, waiting. Just as the tapping started again, the gamer flung the door open with such force that it cracked against the wall and loomed dramatically over the terrified Steve, his teeth bared in a snarl and his gloved hands tensed into frightening, monster-like claws.

"WHAT!" Matt bellowed. Steve's hair was blown back by the force of the redhead's roar, and, too frightened to speak, the poor Steve gestured frantically to the icy canister next to him while gibbering incoherently.

This, of course, made Matt very happy. Deciding to give the poor Steve a break, the redhead shooed the traumatized Steve off with one hand, grabbing the handle on the nitrogen tub with the other and hauling it inside. The gamer dragged it over to the bathtub, pausing for a moment to examine the situation. Reaching over, Matt gingerly plucked the gun out of the tub, deciding to dip the gun into the nitrogen rather than pour the nitrogen over it, in order to avoid damaging the grip. He set it on the floor next to the tub and reached back, grabbing the canister of deadly liquid and dragging it up to the rim. Matt lifted the entire container off of the ground and tipped its contents into the tub, moving with exact precision and catlike grace. After making sure that the last drops of the ominously steaming liquid had been leaked into the basin, Matt carefully tilted the canister upright again.

Until he dropped it on his foot.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure that we've all heard the term 'swearing fit to blister the paint off the walls'. While this is usually taken to be a highly exaggerated and greatly overrated hyperbolic phrase, it is said that the walls of Matt and Mello's bathroom were, after that day, a startlingly inexplicable shade of paint-less, and that the local garbage collector spent nearly an hour speculating as to why the community dumpster was stuffed with what appeared to be a large amount of charred paint peelings.

But moving on.

After having vocally made his displeasure apparent, Matt decided that more violent measures were required to fully vent his ire. After all, wreaking one's decor—while highly satisfying—was far to bloodless for his taste. Why bother having a temper tantrum if there was no one around to be terrified by it...?

Matt pivoted and snatched up the large mental jug, heaving it over his shoulder and stomp-limping towards the single, heavily curtained window that graced the living room. He ripped said curtains open violently, taking a secret delight in the noise of expensive cloth rending. Matt poked his head out of the window, searching the pedestrians below until he located a likely looking victim. After a few moments of calculation, he withdrew his head, closed the window, hefted the giant metal jug, and smashed it ferociously through the glass. Once the unfortunate capsule had made its exit, Matt stuck his head back out of the now pane-less window, watching with glee as it landed neatly and with a resounding CLANG on one of the many pedestrian below. He resisted the urge to cackle at the sight of the other passersby running around frantically, some trying to pry the man out from under the canister and others fleeing the area.

Matt decided that he should keep a stock of large, preferably metal, objects stacked by the window so that he would have a handy supply when Mello irked him up enough or when he needed target practice. Or just for when she was bored. The thought cheered him immensely.

The gamer turned and strode arrogantly back into his bathroom, feeling fully optimistic about the upcoming confrontation with his friend's irksome weapon. He strutted into the now colorless tiled interior, dust from the previous section of flooring billowing behind him as he kicked the door shut with one foot, the force of his stomp nearly cracking the frame. He paused for a moment, surveying the situation, before taking a large, confident step towards the tub, reaching out to grasp the gun with his left hand—

Imagine his surprise when he was jerked back violently, the corner of her specially-made, dry clean only fuzzy tan vest that had caught in the door arresting his momentum sharply and causing his feet to skid out from beneath him on the slick tile floor. The next few moments seemed to take place in slow motion for the master video game champion;

the nitrogen-filled tub approaching his face at a highly alarming rate—

his grasping hand catching on the shower curtain, checking his fall moments before a fatal plunge into a tub of -364 F liquid—

his awkward, left handed-hold on a shower curtain located to his right causing his body to twist about—

his right hand flailing wildly for a moment before his elbow painfully whacked the rim of the tub—

and his body finishing its 180, leaving the back of his head hovering inches above the basin of liquid death.

Matt remained frozen for several moments, barely daring to breathe for fear of loosing his tenuous grip on the shower curtain. He cautiously leaned forwards, tilting his torso inch by inch until his head was well out of danger. He sat on the floor for a moment, weak with relief that he was still Mail Jeevas, and not the large chunk of ice formerly known as Mail Jeevas. Once ascertaining that he was unhurt, and taking several moments to breath in that wheezy, squeaky, 'oh my god I can't believe that just happened' manner that often follows near-death experiences or conversations with Mello, the redhead promptly shrugged off the incident and leaped to his feet. The moment he was standing, however, he noticed three very odd sensations—that, in his opinion, he really shouldn't be experiencing.

One; his head felt strangely heavy, as if there was a large block of ice glued to the back of his skull.

Two; his neck felt very, very cold above his vest collar—once again, a feeling that reminded him of having a large block of ice glued to the back of his skull.

Three; there was a decided lack of hair brushing about the back of his neck.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, remember that a person often encounters many situations where having well taken care for and prided in hair can be both a jinx and detrimental to one's health. Thus, any person who takes the time to style, maintain, and protect such hair must be both extremely fond and extremely proud of it.

Thus the earsplitting scream that reverberated through the whole city of LA, and then some.

~oOo~

Matt faced Mello, Near, and the rest of the SPK, his hands clenching the haft of Mello's gun as he glowered desperately at them.

"Stop that, dammit!" he bellowed at the group of five, his left eye twitching spasmodically in his ire. "It's not funny!"

Mello had collapsed and was laughing with the group, clutching his stomach at the sight of his best friend.

"I said STOP!" the gamer roared, sure that once he let the full extent of his rage known three out of five of them would return to their normal patheticly dumb selves. He was cordially ignored.

The tall blond had propped himself up on his desk, bent over double as he gasped for breath between wheezes of laughter. The blonde woman was screeching with delight, the high sound grating Matt's nerves. The black-haired man was rolling on the floor, laughing, gasping, and making movements with his hands that spoke of Matt.

The gamer glanced around frantically, trying to find something to lessen the humiliation of the sight of his shiny hair frozen into a rigid, slightly steaming chunk sticking out at a rigid angle. His goggled eyes settled on the last member of the group in a sort of desperate plea, sure that the stoic, white-clothed teen was too serious to find humor in such an incident—

—only to have his hopes and his dignity shattered at the sight of the L-successor's face. His teeth were sunk into his bottom lip, his face contorted in a heroic attempt to avoid joining the rest of the group in hysterics. Once he noticed Matt's horrified expression was directed at him, however, all was lost, and the normally unfeeling Near buckled over, choking with silent laughter.

Matt let loose an enraged snarl and fled, unable to bear the embarrassment any longer.

"Just you watch Mello, I'll-" The full effect of the threat, bellowed over his shoulder, was utterly lost as his turned head caused the awkward chunk of ice that had once been one of his pride and joys to clang loudly against a very inconveniently placed metal wall, the pointy tip of the block snapping off with a resounding ping.

Silence fell for a moment, everyone staring, only to begin laughing twice as hard all over again at the cherry-red faced gamer and his ungainly block of hair.

Matt decided on a long vacation in Death Valley.