never written wk before, don't own it, wish I could own ken and youji, lemme know what you think
He didn't get it; he just did not understand. What was this thing that caught his fascination so? What was it about this endless game of chase? Predator v. prey. Cat v. mouse. Roadrunner vs. Coyote.
Nagi Naoe sat hunched in front of the tv, huge eyes staring intently at the wide screen. Both hands were clasped firmly and tucked under his chin, elbows balanced precariously on knees. His entire posture was one of absolute focus and concentration. He hadn't moved from the couch for nearly the entire day, ever since yesterday. Yesterday, that fateful, blessed, curse worthy day when Crawford, with Schuldich's help and Farfarello's encouraging 'Yiyiyiyiyiyi!', had installed a satellite dish. Actually it had more involved Crawford ordering black suited, sunglass wearing, near faceless lackeys around with Schuldich tormenting anyone in his reach, but really it all amounted to the same thing - a widescreen television which took up nearly the entire wall. On the new tv were over a thousand different channels, broadcasting from all over the world, and nearly half of it were these insane, inept, wonderful, maddening American cartoons. Granted most of them were in a foreign language, dubbed incredibly badly, but there they were - the staples and backbone of American culture. They weren't anything like the anime Nagi would flip through. No, these cartoons made no pretenses at intricate dialogues, twisted family trees, strange powers, or even the generic formula of good v. evil. These American cartoons existed in unabashed primary colors, with tin can orchestral scores, and weird fuzzy animals that wore no pants. The fuzzy animals also had the apparent intelligence, maturity, and attention span of a typical four year old.
An almost nostalgic look had passed over Crawford's face. Almost. Then their resident American adjusted his glasses, the glare on them eliminating any passing sentiment from being viewed. Not that Schuldich hadn't tried, he had dived right into their dark haired leader's psyche with glee. The red head then walked away within a minute, mumbling something about dead zones and the need to go read 'War and Peace'. Farfarello had watched for nearly half an hour, whining excitedly whenever a flat object, blunt object, heck *any* object had in some way hit, dropped, or injured the fuzzy animals. Finally, he too had wandered away, licking a dvd of "Akira" and complaining about visual anemia.
So here he stood, or rather sat, the last member of Schwartz.
And he just did not understand. Why did people watch this? Coyote running after roadrunner only to get blown up, smashed, flattened, thrown, fried, electrocuted. Cat chasing after mouse only to get well… blown up, smashed, flattened, thrown, fried, electrocuted. Cat chasing after bird… The finite number of ways they could maim each other played on in an endless waltz of ineptness, temporary amnesia, and phenomenal healing abilities.
Nagi drummed impatient fingers on his chin. How could he understand this? How could he even begin to discern a way? What was the point of the bat, the bombs, the dishes, cannons, the flower pot…
A flower pot…
Most recently, he had begun delving into scientific reasoning. The cartoons were an unknown quantity. The flower shop boys who laughingly called themselves an assassin group, Weiss, were a thoroughly researched and well known quantity. The formula was contained within the cartoons - predator v. prey. Cat v. mouse. Weiss v. Schwartz. It just needed the introduction of a flower pot into that familiar equation.
This could work. Nagi nodded in satisfaction and made to rise. His body protested vehemently. With a little whimper, he collapsed back onto the couch. Start experiment *after* making sure muscles were in working order. Ouch.
Comments? Questions? Mail me! firstname.lastname@example.org | back