Post by Bee on Sept 3, 2009 0:58:05 GMT -5
So V loses his fingers. Here's how! One boy. One bander. One epic confrontation.
______
It was, he believed he could say with some degree of certainty, the tastiest cake in the history of cakedom, moist yet firm, its raspberry filling fresh, its buttercream frosting smooth. Other cakes looked upon it and felt their cakish testicles shrivelling and hearts sickening with envy. This cake could conquer countries.
(He was entirely unaware that the habit of bringing homemade confections to assauge family-avoiding guilt was in fact genetic, and that in two days Mom would be coming home from the Diamond Court for a visit bearing enough cupcakes to feed a moderately-sized orphanage.)
All that he was aware of was that giving Auntie Minh and the baby sister a tasty treat would make him feel better for not having spoken to either of them in some months, though he was certain they hadn't missed him. There was a decent possibility that they did not remember who he was.
He set the Ultimate Cake down on the table after letting himself in.
"Aunt Minh? Thalia? Anyone?"
No answer. He called again. And again and again. He thought he heard crickets chirping. He heaved a large sigh--right, of course, two geniuses in the house, and somehow the two didn't have one grain of common sense or courtesy between them--and started wandering in search of them, through the random staircases, the trap doors, the rope ladders and sliding poles.
Nothing! Not even in their labs. What the deuce could they possibly be up to? He probably didn't want to speculate on that, actually. It was never a good idea to inquire into the activities of Corvies. He often lost his lunch, and sometimes a little bit of his soul.
Feeling quite put out--of course, no one was home to see him, that would be preposterous wouldn't it--he wandered back to the kitchen. To top it all off, his spine ached. Of course, he finally achieves a face card rank, and becomes fucking allergic to himself. Well, his tattoo, technically, but he couldn't remove it. How else would he talk to Venka?
His paws hit tile. And there, using his Perfect Cake as a swimming pool, was Monty. S/he was covered in frosting, flinging hunks of cake against the wall, rolling in filling, having quite simply the best of times. Hir face was covered in raspberry filling, like blood. It was gruesome. S/he bared hir teeth at Vishne, blue eyes narrowed and challenging.
Vishne huffed, but made no move. Truth be told, he was terrified of Monty, and always had been. Monty was a force of chaotic evil, like Mom. There was no predicting it. There was no stopping it. You just had to slump your shoulders and cower, and pray to be spared.
"Monty, bad," Vishne said, by way of expressing his deep disapproval and anger.
Monty turned and wiggled hir frosting-clad ass, by way of expressing hir utter contempt.
Vishne became bellicose. He wished he had the courage to punt that bander out the top-floor window. He would be doing the world a service. No more bites and scratches. No more missing pets. No more fear.
"Monty," he said. "That was a perfect cake. Get out of it. You've done enough to defile it."
A chunk of cake hit his face.
That was it. That was the last straw. Vishne went through most of his life happily taking shit from other people, but this, his own cake thrown in his face, he would not abide. He would make an example of Monty. Anyone else who ever thought of so much as smudging his frosting would know what happened to people who crossed him.
He made an incoherent sound of rage and, for one of the few times in his life, took decisive action, flinging himself at Monty with righteous anger.
Several things happened in quick succession: he hit the table, the table toppled over, there was something furry and screeching latching onto him, there was horrific pain in his left hand as Monty bit down and tore. And then he saw blood and cried, as two lumps slowly lumbered down Monty's throat, one after the other, his fingers. Oh god, there was no putting them back now, it was all over.
Monty stalked casually over and stood on Vishne's chest, staring down at his face triumphantly, like a predator standing dominant over its prey. Right before Monty gleefully stomped off and Vishne scrambled to stop the bleeding, he wondered what the hell he had ever done to deserve being Fate's chew toy. It wasn't even romantic suffering. It was just indignity.
But then, he really should just be used to it by now.
______
It was, he believed he could say with some degree of certainty, the tastiest cake in the history of cakedom, moist yet firm, its raspberry filling fresh, its buttercream frosting smooth. Other cakes looked upon it and felt their cakish testicles shrivelling and hearts sickening with envy. This cake could conquer countries.
(He was entirely unaware that the habit of bringing homemade confections to assauge family-avoiding guilt was in fact genetic, and that in two days Mom would be coming home from the Diamond Court for a visit bearing enough cupcakes to feed a moderately-sized orphanage.)
All that he was aware of was that giving Auntie Minh and the baby sister a tasty treat would make him feel better for not having spoken to either of them in some months, though he was certain they hadn't missed him. There was a decent possibility that they did not remember who he was.
He set the Ultimate Cake down on the table after letting himself in.
"Aunt Minh? Thalia? Anyone?"
No answer. He called again. And again and again. He thought he heard crickets chirping. He heaved a large sigh--right, of course, two geniuses in the house, and somehow the two didn't have one grain of common sense or courtesy between them--and started wandering in search of them, through the random staircases, the trap doors, the rope ladders and sliding poles.
Nothing! Not even in their labs. What the deuce could they possibly be up to? He probably didn't want to speculate on that, actually. It was never a good idea to inquire into the activities of Corvies. He often lost his lunch, and sometimes a little bit of his soul.
Feeling quite put out--of course, no one was home to see him, that would be preposterous wouldn't it--he wandered back to the kitchen. To top it all off, his spine ached. Of course, he finally achieves a face card rank, and becomes fucking allergic to himself. Well, his tattoo, technically, but he couldn't remove it. How else would he talk to Venka?
His paws hit tile. And there, using his Perfect Cake as a swimming pool, was Monty. S/he was covered in frosting, flinging hunks of cake against the wall, rolling in filling, having quite simply the best of times. Hir face was covered in raspberry filling, like blood. It was gruesome. S/he bared hir teeth at Vishne, blue eyes narrowed and challenging.
Vishne huffed, but made no move. Truth be told, he was terrified of Monty, and always had been. Monty was a force of chaotic evil, like Mom. There was no predicting it. There was no stopping it. You just had to slump your shoulders and cower, and pray to be spared.
"Monty, bad," Vishne said, by way of expressing his deep disapproval and anger.
Monty turned and wiggled hir frosting-clad ass, by way of expressing hir utter contempt.
Vishne became bellicose. He wished he had the courage to punt that bander out the top-floor window. He would be doing the world a service. No more bites and scratches. No more missing pets. No more fear.
"Monty," he said. "That was a perfect cake. Get out of it. You've done enough to defile it."
A chunk of cake hit his face.
That was it. That was the last straw. Vishne went through most of his life happily taking shit from other people, but this, his own cake thrown in his face, he would not abide. He would make an example of Monty. Anyone else who ever thought of so much as smudging his frosting would know what happened to people who crossed him.
He made an incoherent sound of rage and, for one of the few times in his life, took decisive action, flinging himself at Monty with righteous anger.
Several things happened in quick succession: he hit the table, the table toppled over, there was something furry and screeching latching onto him, there was horrific pain in his left hand as Monty bit down and tore. And then he saw blood and cried, as two lumps slowly lumbered down Monty's throat, one after the other, his fingers. Oh god, there was no putting them back now, it was all over.
Monty stalked casually over and stood on Vishne's chest, staring down at his face triumphantly, like a predator standing dominant over its prey. Right before Monty gleefully stomped off and Vishne scrambled to stop the bleeding, he wondered what the hell he had ever done to deserve being Fate's chew toy. It wasn't even romantic suffering. It was just indignity.
But then, he really should just be used to it by now.
