Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Knack and How to Get It ❯ The Knack and How to Get It ( One-Shot )

The Knack and How to Get It


Monday (With Your Shield, Or On It!)

The vision hit Crawford straight between the eyes at ten to eight on a Monday morning, while he was brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. A lesser man would have choked with his mouthwash. Crawford, being the strategic genius with the balls of steel that he was, calmly rinsed, flossed, devoted a moment to some existential contemplation of his life, followed by quiet despair, and went off in search for some hard liquor.

Crawford kept a half-full bottle of Jameson whisky, which Farfarello had brought back from a trip to Dublin, in his nightstand drawer. He poured himself a glass. He now realised he should have become an accountant. He liked numbers. He poured himself a second glass. Of course, he also liked unlimited resources of cash, power over the weak and stupid, ruthless games of mental manipulation and blackmail, the smell of Napalm in the morning, Armani suits with gold cufflinks and mint chocolates after dinner, but numbers currently seemed a perfectly acceptable alternative. Very wholesome, those numbers. Who needed cufflinks anyway? He poured himself a third glass. Of course, now it was rather too late for a new career orientation.

“Aw, fuck it,” Crawford said, tossed the glass aside and gulped down the rest of the bottle.

*

The dramatic revelation did not have the desired effect on the other three members of Schwarz. Crawford felt that the killing of his team and disposing of the bodies was too much work in his mellow drunken state, so he stoically watched them, as they flailed about the room, howling with laughter.

“Brad, you outdid yourself this time,” Schuldig wiped tears from his eyes. “Even better than when you told Farf he was destined to die if he didn’t do the dishes, for three weeks in a row.”

“Scrub the pots and pans well,” Farfarello mimicked in a deep voice, nodding gravely. “The powers of destiny, are not to be messed with. Make sure you use the wire brush.”

Crawford cracked his knuckles.

“Got to give Brad points for persistence though,” Schuldig wheezed, holding on to the wall for support. “After realising that ‘Wash the dishes, Farfarello, it hurts God’ didn’t do the trick any more, he immediately came up with a back-up plan.” He ducked the knife that Farfarello threw at him, and laughed harder.

“Or the time I was destined to die, if I didn’t do my homework. Trigonometry, Nagi, the powers of destiny are not to be messed with. And finish up your algebra.”

Crawford’s glasses glinted ominously.

“But this one tops them all. We are all destined to die within a week, Schuldig, if you don’t have sex with a Weiss. My sexual prowess is the key to the survival of Schwarz!”

“Who would have known your Wurst held the powers of destiny, mighty Schuldig?”

“Is it a bird, is it a plane? No it’s Schuldig’s--” Nagi gasped.

“My Wurst is omnipotent, younger and insignificant team members!”

Crawford took out his gun, and searched his pockets for a spare clip.

“Honestly, after all the times we were destined to die if we didn’t take out the trash, iron your shirts, work unpaid overtime, call you ‘Supreme Evil Genius’ or ’Great Golden God’ and hand over the remote control, did you think this would work, Brad?”

“Use your tele-pathetic, lobotomised, coked-up, pea-sized brain for a moment, Schuldig, and tell me then, what can I possibly gain out of it, this time? And it’s Great Golden God to you.”

The laughter slowly died down. Crawford put the gun back into his pocket, took off his glasses and sighed. “I should have become an accountant.”

*

Yohji and Ken struggled to push the sack of organic fertiliser through the Koneko back door. Aya watched them with crossed arms, in his typical mood: silent, stoic, eternally PMS-ing.

“Aya, will you give us a hand with the manure?” Ken shouted.

Aya shrugged and scowled.

“Aya, you silent yet deadly! If you’re done playing footsie with yourself, come and help with the bloody thing, it stinks!” Yohji shouted.

Aya examined his fingernails and yawned.

“Aya, you really aren’t going to help us with the manure?” Ken whined.

Aya turned on his heels and left.

“Aya, sing a song! Aya, do you like tomatoes? Aya, what’s your star sign?” Ken shouted after his retreating back.

Yohji grinned. “Bet he’s a Capricorn. Very smooth, Ken.”

“One day, I’ll get him to speak, and I’m winning the damn bet!”

Yohji was about to argue that Aya, who had been cultivating his strong and silent leader stereotype for years, was not going to say a word even if Ken committed hara-kiri wearing a tutu, much less answer questions about tomatoes, when the sack ripped, and they were suddenly knee deep in shit. An omen, for the metaphorical shit to come.

*

“Do I get to choose which Weiss at least? Or do I have to do them all for good measure?"

"Of course you don't get to choose, Schuldig. What do you think destiny is, your pick-and-mix bag? You have to sleep with the--" Crawford paused for dramatic effect.

Nagi found himself fervently wishing it was not Bombay, as he didn’t want to be the only virgin left in both groups, and mentally smacked himself for the thought. Then he realised somebody else had done the mental smacking.

/Ouch! Schuldig, what the hell was that for?/

/Which one is Bombay? And why not him? Does he have any diseases?/

/Not that I'm aware of, Schuldig/

"Do they have any diseases?" Schuldig asked hurriedly, looking more and more agitated.

"Whah--?" Crawford said eloquently.

"Scary itchy diseases, Brad!"

"Have you completely lost your mind, Schuldig? Calm down."

"Easy for you to say ‘calm down’. I'm the one doing all the work here, to save your asses, while it's my own poor ass on the line; it’s my precious ass doing all the work; it’s my dreamy rock-hard well-muscled ass in danger of scary itchy diseases and I swear to--"

"Schuldig, will you shut up for a minute about your lily-white arse! I don't know what Weiss carry in their pants, it's not my area of expertise. And a life with itchy…um… parts, is better than no life at all, so you have to sleep with the Balinese! Understand? It's an order!"

"The Bal-who?"

"Schuldig, you don't even know their names?" Crawford hissed. "Has it completely escaped your attention, that they are supposed to be our mortal enemies and it tends to be useful to have some basic information?"

"The florist assassins named after cat breeds are supposed to be my mortal enemies. My career as a villain is going down the drain. Makes me almost miss the Eszett glory days, when our enemies didn’t wear hotpants and trip over their own feet. And I do know their names, Brad."

"Really? What is the name of their leader then?"

Schuldig tried to scan it out of Brad's mind but he was shielding and so was Nagi, both looking mightily amused at Schuldig’s mental poking and prodding. Farfarello was not, but as he was currently daydreaming about killing bishops with Christmas tree decorations, he wasn't much help at all.

"Um, the red-head, um… right. Um... Australian? Wait no, Armenian?"

Crawford's glasses glinted. Not good, not good.

"Afghanistan?" Schuldig said in a small voice.

Crawford looked at him in disgust.

"I wasn't aware there was going to be a quiz! And I'm sacrificing my ass here, so back off. I'll sleep with the Balinese. And who the fuck is the Balinese anyway. Please don't tell me it's the psychotic closet case with the bovine stare!"

“Which one might that be?” Nagi wondered. “They are all psychotic closet cases with bovine stares.”

"Some are more bovine than others." Farfarello pointed out helpfully.

“You know, the one with the please-bleach-my-eyeballs dress sense!” Schuldig shouted.

“They all have a please-bleach-my-eyeballs dress sense. And also, hah, look who‘s talking!” Nagi said impatiently.

“You know, the one with the sister complex!”

“They all have a sist-- wait, that narrows the options down to half.”

"Curls, sunglasses, bellybutton." Farfarello yawned. He flopped back on the couch, and picked up his paperback copy of Being and Nothingness.

Schuldig's expression brightened up considerably. "The one who wiggles his ass when he walks?"

"Who might that be?"

"They all wiggle their ass." Crawford said thoughtfully.

“Observed their asses carefully, have you Brad? All part of the basic-information-over-mortal-enemies plan?”

“Schuldig, are you being deliberately obtuse? He‘s the one who keeps on shouting--” Crawford’s explanation was interrupted by Nagi’s melodramatic, ear-piercing scream of “ASUKAAAA!” He pulled at his hair for better effect, and fell to his knees sobbing.

“Oh, the wielder of the mighty dental floss,” Schuldig said, almost cheerful. "Okay, then."

"What, okay?"

"Okay, I'll make a sacrifice, nail Goldilocks and save your miserable existence, Brad."

“If only life would be that simple and your getting laid was that easy.”

“I will be magnanimous and not consider this an insult to my sexual prowess.”

“Schuldig, he has to sleep with you willingly. No tying up, no forcing, no direct blackmail, no threats to his life and the lives of his team-mates.”

“Now you’re taking the whole fun out of it.”

“No mental forcing, and prodding, and nudging, or even encouraging. You can’t read his mind at all, otherwise the delicate balance of the powers of destiny will be screwed, and we’ll be even more screwed by the end of the week.”

“You’re making this up as you go along, aren’t you?” Schuldig stammered, as Nagi turned pale and even Farfarello looked up from his Sartre.

“No. And now excuse me, I am going to go start on my will. I have a second-cousin in South Africa who is about to inherit my beige-suit collection.”

“We’re all doomed!” Nagi wailed.

“Can I kill God if I’m already dead?” Farfarello wondered. “It might actually speed up the proceedings, assuming that I’m due to meet God in the afterlife.” He glanced down at his book. “Sartre is no good for this, I need some Heidegger. And I got to brush up on my Nietzsche.”

“Well, thank you all for the vote of confidence. It’s going to be a piece of cake. Bal-whatever won’t know what hit him. You just haven’t seen me in full seduction mode before.”

“Praise the Lord, for small mercies.”

“Nagi, you blasphemer!”

“Sorry, I got carried away, I’m under duress here! I’m only sixteen! I don’t want to die a virgin!”

“Nobody is going to die. You all go write up your wills, read Nietzsche and try to lose your virginities, me and Little Schu are now on a mission.”

“Whatever you say, Romeo.”

*

Yohji ran, in customary Balinese mode, dressed in full assassin gear including badass croptop, wire out and ready, jeans cut so low he had to stop running from time to time and pull them up, the thud of his don’t-mess-with-me boots echoing loudly in the empty, dark, rat-infested, completely cliché warehouse. Yohji marvelled at the sheer number of empty, dark, rat-infested warehouses all over central Tokyo, and how, according to Kritiker data, their targets were always located in one of them. Couldn’t those evil crime lords for once afford to plot their nefarious schemes at a massage parlour, a spa resort, or at least at a perfectly respectable shopping mall with a good ventilation system?

Weiss had split up at the warehouse entrance in pursuit of the target, and Yohji had been unable to locate the others since. His transmitter had been buzzing with static for the past half-hour, and the last message he had overheard (“Watch out with those darts Bombay, narrow escape for my butt there,” followed by “Ooops, sorry!”) was not very helpful in indicating where the other Weiss were, or if the mission had been completely successfully.

Yohji turned round a corner running, and suddenly came face to face with a terrible dye job.

“Schwarz!” Yohji shrieked, flailing.

“Weiss!” Schuldig shrieked, flailing. He smiled, and it was not a nice smile. Then a fist came flying towards Yohji’s face, he had one last though to spare on his poor precious nose, and everything went black.

Schuldig slung Yohji’s limp form over his shoulder, staggering a little under the weight. “You need to cut down on the Pocky, Kudoh,” he panted. “Right, first things first.”

*

Yohji woke up several hours later, lying face down in a ditch. That in itself was not unfamiliar territory. Usually there was clubbing and booze and public restrooms involved, during the night before. Yohji couldn’t recall any clubbing and booze and public restrooms, but hey, that were hangovers for you. He wiggled his toes. No shoes. And was he actually wearing a hospital gown? The night must have been one of the kinkier ones. Tequila shots always got him in the mood for role playing. Hopefully, no incriminating pictures of himself playing doctor with the waitress would later pop up at the Kritiker headquarters.

But he couldn’t recall any tequila shots or a waitress. Or even a waiter. The last thing he remembered was turning round the corner of that abandoned warehouse and coming face to face with --- wait, was it his imagination, or did his ass hurt? Yohji screamed.

*

“Was this really necessary?” Crawford asked.

“Boywonder has had half of Tokyo. I’m not taking any chances. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want little Schu - you can refer to him as ‘my saviour’ Brad - getting itchy either. I’m sure you can add the medical expenses to the Eszett budget, work hazards et all. Plus, I got freebie condoms from the family planning clinic.” Schuldig grinned, juggling a few packets.

*

The wind blew, lifting the hospital gown, and exposing Yohji’s assets to the world. A couple of cars blew their horns appreciatively. Yohji flipped them off, and took the long walk home.



Tuesday (My Life with the Thrill Kill Cult)

Crouched on the rooftop, Nagi raised his binoculars to examine the touching scene unfolding a few metres below. Schuldig had trapped Kudoh in a dark corner of the alley, between a wall and an smelly, overflowing garbage can, smirking in a manner he apparently considered seductive. Trust Schuldig to try and flirt in such idyllic environments, and in the company of fish heads and rotten eggs. Nagi felt like weeping over his soon-to-be-lost youth. Schuldig tried to cope a feel. Kudoh kneed him in the balls. Nagi sighed. Schuldig sang soprano and retaliated. Gratuitous scenes of violence followed.

Naoe Nagi was not the most decisive of people, and had the tendency to be easily swayed, as the following (carefully interwoven into the plot by the author) flashbacks will now demonstrate:

Flashback Nummer Eins: “So you want to take merciless revenge at the society that wronged you, the parents that abandoned you and the kids at kindergarten that stole your lunchbox, and kill, kill, kill until every single one of those bastardly flea-bitten cunts are dead, dead, dead? Murder, anarchy, mayhem, lack of personal hygiene, despair, blood, squish, squash, slaughter, blood, KABOOOM?!”

“Mmmm’kay?”

Flashback Nummer Zwei: “So when all this is over, do you want to shack up with me, in a white house, with a picket fence, a pink door, a blue window, and the hairy mutated corpse of my daddy in a large pickle jar by the fireplace? We will raise bunnies, lose brain cells by the hour, I’ll teach you how to refer to yourself in the third person, and we’ll have matching umbrellas!”

“Mmmm’kay?”

Naoe Nagi, the eternal victim of circumstance.

But if there was one thing that Nagi was sure about, was that he really didn’t want to die a virgin. There were two options in avoiding that particularly dismal predicament. Option A was to assist Schuldig in getting laid and therefore avoid his imminent demise. Or failing that, Option B: Find some hookers.

Schuldig’s manhood had recovered admirably from the assault, and he had returned to the seduction business, staring at Kudoh with a ‘You might be playing hard to get, but I know you want to get your hands on little Schu’ look. Kudoh’s glare on the other hand, was more of the ‘I want to get my hands on little Schu, sever his ties with big Schu and then feed him to hungry piranhas’ variety.

Nagi sighed again. No one had ever accused him of being an optimist, but anyone with a grip on reality could see that Option A was hopeless. So hookers it was. He wondered how much a lap dance would cost while mentally calculating his pocket money savings. Oh well, he could always steal Crawford’s wallet, or hack into a Swiss bank account if necessary.


*

Schuldig tackled Yohji to the ground and climbed over him, straddling his hips.

“So, Goldilocks. Tell me, how does this makes you feel?”

“Positively homicidal.”

“Hm, let’s try a different angle. What do you really want me to do right now? Search your innermost feelings.”

“I want you to die slowly and painfully.”

“Ah, predictable. The problem with you, Kudoh, is your lack of imagination. You need to think outside the box!”

“Die slowly and painfully, in a grisly manner that involves Medieval torture equipment?”

“Variations on a theme won’t give you any extra points for creativity. Kudoh, you must have realised by now that I’ve always liked you. You’re just my favourite of the whole Weiss bunch of incompetents.”

Yohji glared at him, trying to work his hands free. “I do realise, oh, you silver-tongued Schuldig. It’s just that special way you keep beating me up. What do you want, Schuldig? If you want to kill me, go ahead and try. I won’t make it easy for you.”

“Oh, I want many things. The question is, what do you want? We’ve always been enemies, but you can’t deny the air crackles with electricity when we’re near, with the undercurrent of that raw lust, that deep, animal attraction…”

“You have absolutely no grip on reality, do you, Carrot-top?”

"You’re funny. I think I like you, Goldilocks."

"Just go and lie down for a minute. I'm sure the novelty of it will wear off eventually."

“I think you like me too. No, you don’t just like me, you need me, you crave me, like a drug. This thing between us, can’t you feel it? This hot, hard, throbbing thing...” Schuldig pushed a hand between Yohji’s legs. Yohji yelped and tried to bite him.

“Hm, nothing hot and hard and throbbing down there yet. No problem, we’ll get to it eventually. You‘ve been having dreams again about me, haven‘t you? I know how attractive you think I am.”

“I think you’re as attractive as the bastard child of Skid Row and Pippy Longstocking. As if I’d ever sleep with a man wearing bandanas. And those white trousers…”

“Don’t like them? Shall I take them off?”

“Be my guest.”

Schuldig grinned, looking rather pleased with himself. Yohji waited until Schuldig was properly distracted with his zipper, then pulled an arm free and punched him in the face.

*

Crawford was in the middle of writing his will - would his second cousin be able to appreciate the real beauty of Crawford’s collection of identical green ties? - when he was interrupted by a short vision of fish heads and potato peels, followed by the sound of the entrance door slamming open and shut. First he smelled Schuldig, then he saw him. He looked like he had gotten into a fistfight with a trashcan and the trashcan won.

Crawford gaped. Schuldig plucked some eggshells from his hair and touched his blackened eye gingerly.

“What happened to you, did you insult some garbage collector wife’s honour?”

Schuldig walked straight to his room, his boots making unpleasant squelching sounds.

/Hatesex didn’t work as planned. And oh, when all this is over, after I nail the flossboy, I’m turning his brain into mashed potatoes, and will sell his liver in the black market for pocket money/

Schuldig appeared again, in full leather attire, with a slice of cucumber over his eye.

“Where are you going now?”

“Bar hopping. Just making sure that traitorous sonofabitch won’t cheat on me. You boys be good.” The door slammed again behind him.

“You realise we’re all going to die,” Crawford turned to Nagi and Farfarello. “ Of course, Schuldig is going to die first, because I’m going to kill him, but we’re all running out of time anyway. Perhaps we should try to use the remaining days for some team bonding. We could do all the things we always wanted to, and never had time. I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon,” Not that he particularly wanted to. Tourist banalities, Crawford was a much classier act. And he had a certain aversion to heights. And it was rather too far away at the moment.

“I’ve never got time for that philosophy PhD I was planning.” Farfarello said thoughtfully.

“I’ve never had cybersex!” Nagi wailed.

“I’ve never tasted human flesh.” .

“I’ve never had any sex at all!”

Crawford took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. This team bonding was going in all sorts of wrong directions.

*

Yohji was at his favourite bar, putting the moves on a cute blonde, when a warm hand fell on his shoulder, and a sickeningly familiar voice whispered in his ear: “What’s a nice Goldilocks like you doing in a place like this? Want to dance?”

“I’d much rather set my face on fire.” Yohji hissed, turning round to face Schuldig. He took in the leather pants, the leather jacket, the leather bandanna, the slice of cucumber and started laughing. “Even if I don’t take into consideration the fact that you’re my enemy, that I hate you, that you’re a bastard, that you have pieces of salad on your face, this lovely lady has already asked me for a dance, and I can‘t refuse.”

“What lovely lady?” Schuldig grinned.

Yohji turned round to see the blonde girl swiftly disappearing in the crowd.

“She was practically glued to my hip. What the hell did you do to her?”

“Me? Nothing! I can’t blame her though, she doesn’t want herpes. A partner with STDs is not exactly desirable.”

“I don’t have any STDs!”

“Well, that’s what she thinks now. As a matter of fact, that’s what they all think.”

Yohji looked around wildly, as people backed away from him, looking scared.

“You bastard!”

“Face it, Kudoh, I’m the one and only way you’ll ever get laid again. It’s either me, or the sexual arctic frost.”

Yohji beat his head on the bar counter. The bartender put on a pair of latex gloves before handing him his drink.



Wednesday (Invasion of the Body Snatchers)

Schuldig was a firm believer in the powers of persuasion and excelled in all its aspects, from the subtle and delicate art of mental nudging, to hardcore telepathic cattle prodding (see Sakura).

It had served him well to get ahead in life, get promoted, get laid, get immediate table reservations in restaurants with a three month waiting list no less, and occasionally to get Crawford off his back. So if his current predicament didn’t allow him to persuade Yohji in offering his (very dubious) charms to Schuldig, others could be persuaded to do the persuading for him.

*

Already an hour late for work, caffeine and nicotine deprived, with mismatched socks, a shirt buttoned-up wrong, and hair displaying a shocking lack of styling products, Yohji cracked up the volume of his car stereo, trying to focus his bleary eyes on the road.

The news presenter’s voice boomed through the speakers, informing him that it was exactly eight o’clock, that the day would be humid with possibility of rain in the late afternoon and that Germans were hung like horses.

Yohji crashed into a telephone pole. Suddenly, he was feeling quite awake.

Yohji was weeping over the state of his hair, his stereo and his Super Seven, when the traffic warden appeared and handed him Schuldig’s phone number instead of a ticket. Yohji looked at the very descriptive stick figure drawings at the side of the paper and decided he was probably still asleep and in the throes of a horrific nightmare.

He walked the rest of the way to the Koneko in a daze, pushing through clusters of businessmen discussing bandana fetish, and groups of school girls raving about the animal magnetism inherent in nasal voices. From time to time a complete stranger would pat him on the shoulder with an encouraging wink, and offer some advice regarding the state of his libido.

By the time he had reached the flowershop, Yohji had smoked half a packet of Marlboros, drunk two disgusting cups of takeaway coffee, buttoned his shirt up, got himself a black eye after an enthusiastic bookshop owner threw a hardback copy of the Kama Sutra right at his face, put two and two together and came up with Schuldig.

Yohji had to use all reserves of his willpower not to strangle Omi, when the youngest team-member greeted him with a chirpy string of complaints: Why was Yohji late, what the hell had he done to his hair, and why wouldn’t he sleep with Schuldig, since he was obviously the best Yohji would ever hope to have in his whole sorry life?

Aya raised an eyebrow at that, and went back to sweeping the floor.

There was no willpower left to deal with Ken. The moment he entered through the Koneko back door, balancing a dangerously tilting tower of clay pots, Yohji smacked him at the back of the head.

“Ouchy! What was that for?”

“For the cretinous comment you were about to make on German studs!”

“We just worry about you, Yohji,” Omi interrupted sweetly. “That’s what friends are for. All this pointless anger is a sign of deep sexual frustration--”

“I’m not frustrated!”

“Well, you do sound rather frustrated--”

“There is nothing sexual about this frustration! It’s the completely non-sexual frustration, of a man waking up one day to realise that the entire population of his city has been abducted and replaced by pod people whose only purpose of existence is to pimp him out to his enemy or kill him with the unabridged version of Kama Sutra. There is nothing sexual about it, and fuck Freud and the horse he rode on!”

“Fortunately, your sex life is about to get better. Has Schuldig shown you that trick with a pair of tennis balls, a pair of handcuffs, a medium sized pineapple, a--”

Yohji whacked Ken again. “No, and I hope he hasn’t shown you either. Schwarzpuppets! Zombies!”

In just seven days, I can make you a man…

“Right, which one of you fuckers put the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack on?”

The Koneko fangirls giggled and pointed at each other.

Aya raised another eyebrow, and went back to sweeping the floor. Yohji turned to him.

“And you, floorsweeping eyebrow waggler, any wise advise to offer? Come on, after all this trauma, I should win the damn bet at least. Aren’t you going to tell me that redheads give the best head?”

Oops.

Aya’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Yohji forgot his sexual frustrations and ran for dear life.

*

“Nobody else will sleep with him. Half of Tokyo is trying to convince him we are soul mates. He’s already weakening, I’m wearing down on his defences. He’s cornered, he’s trapped.”

“Schuldig, you are wearing down his defences because he’s losing the will to live, not because he’s about to get jiggy with you.”

“What if I ambush him in bed with a medium sized pineapple?”

“Yes, because pineapple shock tactics are such a bulletproof way to get laid.”

Schuldig paced across the living room in frustration. “He looks likes a slut. He dresses like a slut, have you see those tops? His hips sway to the rhythm of ‘take me, oh, take me now, you manly man!’ He has probably slept with half of Tokyo already. Why won’t he sleep with me?”

“Beats me. He might be worried you won't respect him in the morning.”

“That’s it!” Schuldig punched the air victoriously. “He probably wants to feel special, and wanted, and unique, and all that sap. I can’t treat him like a piece of meat. I need the fluffy approach!”

Crawford covered his eyes with his hand. “I despair. Schuldig, the romantic hero. Makes me almost welcome the imminent hellfires.”

*

“So do you believe me now? I told you he is trying to sleep with me. And though I am fully aware I’m the stuff that wet dreams are made on, there must be something else going on.”

“Maybe they want to infiltrate our group, granting sexual favours to gain access to our secret plans,” Omi pondered.

“First of all, sex with him is not a favour of any sort. Secondly, the asshole-that-shall-not-be named is a telepath. He’s got access already. Thirdly, we haven’t had a mission worth shit in months! What secret plans? The Gardener’s manual?”

“Maybe they want to steal our weapons!” Ken gasped.

“Yes, that’s it. The powers of telepathy, precognition, telekinesis, super mutant power and so on are simply not enough. Omi’s darts are the key to world domination. The darts or our secret stash of organic fertiliser. No, it has to be something else. Aya, what’s your opinion?”

Aya shrugged, examined his fingernails and left.

“It was worth a try,” Yohji said unhappily.

Thursday (Here Comes my 19th Nervous Breakdown)

For some reason, Nagi had suddenly become obsessed over broccoli. He grabbed a Playboy from the floor and flicked it through. Nope, thongs just didn’t have the appeal they used to. Nothing mattered but broccoli. Then he realised what was going on.

/Schuldig! Get the hell out of my head!/

/I need help! It’s a known fact that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’m planning to cook him dinner, and you’re the only half-decent cook between us. Share the culinary secrets!/

“Schuldig, give up!” Nagi shook his head. Now his mind was full of lamb chops.

Crawford, suddenly hit by a vision of Kudoh in a hospital bed with a severe case of food poisoning, came to Nagi’s aid.

“Perhaps you could just get him a box of chocolates.”

*

The postman who brought a pink heart-shaped box addressed to Yohji from Schuldig with the morning mail, watched in confusion as the brave Weiss assassins scrambled for cover behind the counter.

After an hour passed and they found themselves still alive with all limbs attached, Omi braved an approach towards the harmless looking box, and discovered chocolates and not the expected explosives. They examined them for rat poison or aphrodisiac, but it seemed they only contained strawberry cream filling. Yohji wanted to give them to stray cats, but Omi was opposed to animal cruelty, so they tried feeding the chocolates to Aya instead, just in case they might make him talk. It didn’t work.

*

“I thought you were going for romance this time, Schuldig, as the hatesex approach didn’t work all that well.”

“I *am* going for the fluffy approach, Brad.” Schuldig grinned, dragging a huge bag to the door. “I’m taking him for a romantic drive, we will watch the sunset together, I shall woo him, flossboy will be overcome by my silver tongue and the musky scent of my masculinity and will fall over.”

Crawford eyebrows’ climbed to the top of his head and decided to remain there indefinitely.
“I miss the times when your idiotic optimism was a source of amusement.”

“Are you getting him flowers too?” Farfarello asked.

“Much better. I’m getting him beer.”

“Schuldig, what the hell do you have in that bag?”

/Curious, Nagi? Overnight supplies for my boytoy/

The bag magically jumped into the air, opened, and Schuldig’s supplies floated across the room.

“Hey!”

“The hell? What did you have in there? I thought you were going for the romantic approach, Schuldig, what do you need the handcuffs for? And the whip? And the cherry-flavoured --”

“Is that a pair of Lederhosen I see?” Farfarello asked, watching one of the orbiting objects in fascination. “Schuldig, you are one seriously disturbed individual.”

“What on earth is that? It looks like a studded cucumber!”

“That’s because it is one!” Schuldig grabbed the floating cucumber, and stuffed it back into his bag. “I need to be prepared for every eventuality.”

“The worst part of being a precognitive,” Crawford sighed, “is that you already know way ahead, all the things you really, really didn’t need to know. Schuldig, take your freakish mutant vegetables and get the hell out of here.”

“Take up thy BDSM cucumber and walk,” Farfarello yawned.

“Go get laid,” Nagi grumbled, and telekinetically threw everything back into the bag, hung the bag around Schuldig’s neck, opened the door, kicked Schuldig out, and slammed the door again.

/Way to treat your saviour!/ Schuldig screamed into their heads.

Crawford went back to writing his will. Nagi went back to his pornmag.

Farfarello went back to his book. “I give up. Kirkegaard can’t tell his ass from his elbow,” he grumbled. “Leader, can I take the evening off to kill a priest? I need to work off the tension.”

*

The evening was warm and balmy. The long, rosy and purple fingers of dusk sensuously caressed the darkening sky for the last time, before receding. The city lights glittered in the distance. Stars twinkled to the melody of tiny invisible violins. The scent of blooming night flowers wafted in the air, and mingling with the toxic waste fumes of a nearby nuclear power plant, created a powerful aphrodisiac that knocked every living being in a ten mile radius off its feet, and sent it off to breed.

Birds sat perched side by side on the tree branches and cooed at each other. Freakish mutant anime animals in shades of pink, green and blue, native only to Japan, chased each other playfully on the grass. Moles engaged in unspeakable acts, driven by pure lust. Deer abandoned all sense of shame and propriety. Across Tokyo, elderly retired couples watching TV, threw away the remote controls and groped their partners, not caring about the impending heart failures.

Schuldig scooted closer to Yohji in the car. Yohji bared his teeth.

“Oh, come on, this isn’t too bad. Romantic sunset, you, me, approximately fifty cans of imported German beer in the backseat. The possibility of tantric sex in the air, like a whisper, like a promise. You look tense. Want a massage?”

“Lay one tantric digit on me, and I’ll bite it off, Carrot-top.”

“I think the lady doth protest too much. You seem to be enjoying my company, I don’t see you leaving.”

“I’m handcuffed to the steering wheel, you moron!”

“Wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to throw yourself out of the car on the way here. I find the suicidal antics cute though, they add spice. So, do you want that massage?”

“You’re a telepath, you tell me what I want.”

“I’m not going into your head, I respect you too much to do such a thing. Okay, no massage. Have a beer. Here’s a straw. ”

Three beers later, Yohji’s simmering rage was replaced by helpless despair.

“Face is, Yohji, you want me, you need me…”

“The only thing I need when I’m around you is aspirins. Why me? Why must I suffer so? What have I done? Oh right, I’m an assassin. But what are you supposed to be, the sex-obsessed metaphorical cross for my sins and crimes?”

“Yes. Engage in sexual acts with me, and you shall be absolved, my child.”

“Bite me, holy father.”

Six beers later, Yohji’s helpless despair was replaced by increasing paranoia.

“Is this revenge for the time I almost strangled you?”

“You were not even close to strangling me, Tinkerbell!”

“Or are you Schwarz people planning to destroy Weiss by turning your scary hormones on us, until we are reduced to gibbering wrecks in lunatic asylums? What is the next stage, Crawford forcing Aya to tango dance with a carnation between his teeth? Farfarello ambushing Ken in the shower?”

“An attractive plan, but no. It’s just you and me, sweetcheeks.”

“Oh, ain’t I blessed. And take your hand off my knee!”

“I can’t help myself. You are the morning sun to the lonely sunflower of my crotch.”

“During the time you spent, practicing that line in front of the mirror, were you at any moment under the impression it was going to work?”

“Is it working then?”

“Dream on, Krautboy.”

Eleven beers later, Yohji’s increasing paranoia was replaced by drunken drunkenness.

“My life -- so many disappointments -- so much death and senseless violence -- Asuka -- dry cleaner ruined my leather pants -- your eyes are green -- like lichen reflected on tepid waters -- they are kind of pretty actually -- I’m feeling sick -- I should have become an accountant --”

Schuldig loud yawn interrupted Yohji’s incoherent babbling. He stretched his arms wide, letting one rest across the back of Yohji’s seat.

“Oh -- that’s just classy--”

“Shush. I’m going for the slow and romantic seduction here.” His hand curled around Yohji’s shoulder. Yohji banged his head against the steering wheel.

Schuldig decided to consider this an encouragement. He was obviously on the cusp of a breakthrough in the getting laid situation. He moved closer, and attempted a lustful gaze into Yohji’s eyes.

Yohji on the other hand, rendered helpless by the overpowering scent of Schuldig’s eau de cologne, blinked at him stupidly. Schuldig grinned, hooked one finger in the loop of Yohji’s belt and pulled him forward, waiting for a reaction. Yohji turned a rather unattractive shade of green and Schuldig got a reaction out of him, unfortunately not the desired one.

“No! Not in my car! Not on my shoes, dammit! That’s Italian leather, Kudoh!”

*

Schuldig was careful in his infiltration of the enemy territory. Stealthy and silent, he slid into the dark apartment, gun drawn and ready. If only he could reach the door at the end of the corridor without alerting any of the occupiers, salvation would be at hand. Piece of cake, for a tough-as-nails telepathic assassin with a broad knowledge of martial arts and above average intelligence, not to mention the cat-like grace and supreme gravity-defying hopping abilities. But his opponents were not to be underestimated, danger loomed everywhere.

Schuldig plastered himself against the wall, and took the first careful step, wincing at the creak of the floorboard beneath his feet. He looked up. And came face to face with the barrel of Crawford’s gun. Oops.

“You. Unbelievable. Idiot.”

“Aaaurgh!” The tough-as-nails telepathic assassin jumped three feet high in the air and fell flat on his ass.

“And what time do you call this, young man?” Crawford was in his dressing gown, pyjamas and corduroy slippers, a sight to behold.

“Funny, dad. Very thoughtful of you to wait for me. Can I go to my room now?”

Crawford’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I wouldn’t have been waiting for you, if I hadn’t I foreseen your car would need new upholstery. Your failures are becoming more and more spectacular. If my life wasn‘t depended on it, I would have gotten some popcorn and enjoyed the show.”

“Sure you can reclaim the dry-cleaning expenses from the Eszett budget, work hazards et all. Oh, and I’ll probably need new shoes.”

“Schuldig, are you aware of the fact that if we all shared your abilities in procuring partners, mankind would have become extinct?”

“The situation is rather more complicated, if it has escaped your notice. Dad. And where is the rest of our happy family, aren’t aunties Nagi and Farfarello going to come and tell the prodigal son off as well? Where’s Nagi?”

“Strip-joint. After stealing my wallet, the little shit.”

“Wha-- and Farfarello?”

“Midnight mass. You see what your inability to get laid is doing to the team morale?”

“I am about to get laid in the very near future! The romantic approach is working, I just need to persist. He'll soon be swayed by the fact that the sweeping tide of love I have for him remains just a strong and powerful and sweeping today as the day before yesterday. There was some definite progress today!”

“You call projectile vomiting ‘progress’, Casanova?”

“Hey!”

*

The phone rang. Yohji reached for it, knocking down everything on the nightstand.

“mpf?”

“Hello, Yohji.”

“Schuldig? Whah--? How did you get this number?”

“You gave it to me tonight, after a dozen beers. Yohji, I really don’t want to die. Help me, Yohji, you’re my only hope.”

“Schuldig, I’m not Obi-Wan Kenobi. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m in the middle of a hangover, a hangover that you have caused by the way. Are you planning to handcuff me and drag me off to see a romantic sunrise? If not, let me sleep.”

“You don’t understand. If I don’t sleep with you, I’ll die.”

Yohji’s was speechless. “Well, under less stalkerish circumstances, I would probably be very flattered, and well, we can probably go for a cup of coffee some time, if you promise not to handcuff me again, but Schuldig, you probably need to see a doctor, and work out those issues, and maybe try Feng Sui, or Yoga, or Ikebana--”

The line went dead. Yohji stared at it for a moment, then went back to sleep.



Friday (Said Maybe, You're Gonna Be the One that Saves Me)

“I’m the craaaazy badass Irish blood-thirsty assassin!” Farfarello screamed like a banshee, slicing through the air with his knife, his eyes shining feverishly. “Hand over the White Flossman!”

“Never!” Schuldig clutched the pillow to himself harder. “I will not abandon my Goldilocks! The love I feel for him has helped me understand the error of my ways. I will leave the path of darkness, and walk into the light, with him as my shining beacon - I like beacon, good phallic overtones there…”

“Schuldig, you vile traitor of the Schwarz clan! You are our sworn enemy now! Defend yourself! En garde!”

“You see the sacrifices I make for you, Yohji?” Schuldig pleaded to the pillow.

“There goes my pillow,” Crawford mourned, a moment before Farfarello’s blade sliced through it.

Farfarello and Schuldig bowed to the audience of Crawford and Nagi, who clapped half-heartedly.

“What do you think, will he fall for it?”

“I haven’t seen hammier acting, since Halle Berry in Catwoman.”

“Well, I’d like to see you try, Meryl Streep!”

“We might not need Farfarello’s acting skills after all,” Crawford said. “I just had a vision…”

*

Yohji blinked, dazed, licked blood from his lips and kissed his Kritiker bonus goodbye. He was really not in top form. A few days ago Yohji had looks, confidence, a bright future as an assassin and girlfriends who politely pretended to laugh at his jokes. Now he was the broken shell of a man, and the only thing he had was a migraine called Schuldig.

In retrospect, this solo mission, right in the middle of this horrible week, had not been the brightest of ideas. He had made some basic planning, but had not anticipated that the target would have a grand total of seventeen bodyguards, all built like small tankers.

The next punch hit him square in the face, throwing his sunglasses off. “Who do you work for?” one of the bodyguards growled. “Who sent you? Who are you?” He practically had no neck. All this endless weightlifting in gyms, honestly, no way to built an attractive figure. Yohji much preferred aerobics.

The gymbunny took one step closer to Yohji’s sunglasses. Yohji tensed. He wouldn’t dare. “These are worth half my car! I only got them last week!” The bodyguard grinned evilly. The crunch of designer eyewear death was mingled with Yohji’s helpless howl of anguish.

“Who sent you? Who are you?” the beefcake repeated. Not the brightest crayon in the box.

Yohji lifted his eyes, his gaze blazing with ice-cold righteous wrath.

“My name is Weiss. You killed my Ray Bans. Prepare to die.”

After the ensuing gratuitous scenes of violence and mayhem, there were only eleven gymbunnies left standing, all looking rather worse for wear. Yohji unfortunately, was now on his knees, hands tangled in his wire, and the barrel of a gun pressing against his forehead. Yohji closed his eyes and prepared for the inevitable. He was a brave man and not afraid to die. In the afterlife, he, Asuka and his Ray Bans would be reunited. His life started flashing before his eyes. It was fairly short, and had a disco soundtrack.

And then: “Let go of my Goldilocks, you oversized meatballs!” a familiar voice shouted.

Yohji opened his eyes, catching a flash of red hair in a dark corner of the room. His bloody knight in white armour, well, white suit.

“I would like to point out that I’m not his Goldilocks,” he said to no one in particular.

A violin suddenly flew across the room, spinning like a boomerang, and hit two bodyguards in the back of the head. They collapsed like logs to the floor, while the rest looked around them wildly.

Yohji sighed in defeat. “Please, just kill me now,” he begged the one still pointing a gun at his head. Then a harp fell from the ceiling, trapping another three, as the others scrambled for cover, while trumpets flew like missiles. It seemed as if they were all under attack by a really pissed off symphonic orchestra.

“Watch out for the accordions!”

“Hands off my Goldilocks, I said!” the disembodied voice commanded.

“Will one of you morons please shoot me, and spare me from further humiliation.”

“Call the boss!”

“And what should I tell him, the trumpets are out to get us?”

“You people are not very bright, are you?” Yohji bellowed. “Here is a gun, here is my forehead. What do you need, an engraved invitation?”

“No killing of the Weiss before I have sex with him!”

Yohji bristled. The remaining bodyguards laughed. Then the piano fell on them.

Schuldig emerged from the shadows, dusting his suit. “Don’t worry princess, you are safe now.”

“Ain’t I blessed. My hero of public embarrassment. Can you untie me now?”

“Way to treat your prince. I took care of your target too. Amazing what a flute can do in the right hands.”

“Interesting choice of ammo.”

“Brain control can be boring, guns are so passé. There was a music store next door. I felt creative.”

“Will you ever cut me loose? Thanks, Schuldig, I owe you one.”

“How about some hot monkey sex, to show me the depths of your gratitude?”

“Maybe later…” Yohji decided this was a good time to pass out.



Saturday (Another Bullshit Night in Suck City)

His mobile phone rang. Yohji looked at the caller ID and sighed. “Hello, you have reached the winter of my discontent. Good afternoon, Schuldig, the last person I‘ve ever expected to like, give my phone number to, or plan to go out with.”

“Well, life is a box of chocolates. Get ready Tinkerbell, we are going out clubbing. You, me, a few drinks too many, sinuous grinding of hips on the dance floor, lust-glazed stares, quickie in the bathroom stalls, okay?”

“Fine! But there will be no sinuous grinding of any sort!”

“Quickie is still an option then?”

“Don’t push your luck, Krautman!”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

*

Yohji lay on the bed panting heavily, while Ken and Omi loomed over him, their hands all over the zipper of his trousers. Aya leaned against the doorframe of Yohji’s room, watching the proceedings in disgust.

“Oh, ah, oh!“

“Harder, Ken, harder!”

“Yes, there, yes, yes!”

Ken and Omi whooped, and high-fived each other. Yohji continued with the panting.

“Zipper’s up Yohji!”

Yohji tried to get up and out of the bed, but the lower part of his body was numb and unresponsive. He rolled off the edge and fell to the floor with a thud. Omi helped him up.

“Oh, this is not a zipper, it’s instant castration. Adieu, mon chère manhood. I’ll never have children.”

“Do the trousers cut off your circulation, Yohji?”

“What circulation are you speaking of?”

“Can you breathe at least?”

“Breathing is never an option when I’m in clubbing gear. Oxygen and clubbing are mutually exclusive. It’s not possible to look good and still maintain all vital life signs. But I’ve never experienced this, the feel of my internal organs collapsing into each other.” Yohji took a tentative step. “Oops, there goes my pancreas.”

“But Yohji, why are you doing this to yourself? Do you really want to look that good for Schuldig? I know you’re starting to like him but--”

“What?” Yohji gasped. “Of course not! I’m just making sure my trousers are not going to come off at any point. I can be susceptible to flirting advances, especially after a few rounds of tequila, and prone to do something stupid I will regret in the morning. The trousers will protect me from the weakness of the flesh. Carrot-top will need a crowbar to take these extra tight babies off.”

Yohji took another stiff step forward.

“How do I look?”

You look very attractive, in a rather cheap, slutty way, and you walk like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz.”

“I’ll get used to it. Practice is the key. Soon I’ll have forgotten I ever had knees.”

*

Yohji slammed back his tequila shot, and crammed the slice of lemon into his mouth, his lips tingling as he waved at the bartender for a new round.

“Right, my turn. Best one-night stand.”

“Oh,” Schuldig said wistfully, licking salt from his fingers. “That’s a trip down memory lane. Stephan the Pyro, back at Rosenkreuz, when I was young and innocent. Well, innocent in the broader sense of the word. Innocent in the grand scale of things. Comparatively innocent. Compared to a Columbian drug lord, for example. Anyway, Stephan. He singed my eyebrows, set fire to the curtains, melt the rubber soles of my sneakers, but, oh, that boy had a mouth like a furnace. Yours?”

“Probably the mile high club, with the twin air hostesses. Nah, I had jet lag for days. Joshua, the contortionist. That man had thighs like a vice.”

Schuldig handed him the next round of tequila. The glasses on the bar counter were vibrating with the pulse of the bass. Yohji, much to his chagrin, was really enjoying himself.

“My turn, Goldilocks. Most creative weapon used in an assassination.”

“Well, I don’t think it can compete with your killer accordions, but here goes. Few years back, when we first started with Weiss, we had another rival group, called Blau or Lila or Yellow with polka dots, can’t remember. Anyway, they attacked our house one night, and one of them ambushes me in the shower. I didn’t have my gun with me - I used a gun back then - so I had to make do with what there was in the bathroom cabinet.”

Schuldig howled with laughter, falling off his chair in the process. Yohji felt a strange absence on his thigh, and realised Schuldig had had his hand on his leg the whole time.

“Don’t tell me, the dental floss! I knew it!”

“Well, it was that, the strawberry bubble bath, or the rubber duck. You know how hard it is to kill a man with a yellow squeaky toy? Anyway, gave me inspiration for a new weapon. I was a crap shot, anyway.” He waved at the bartender again, trying to catch his attention.

*

Schuldig half-dragged, half-carried a panting, glassy-eyed Yohji up the stairs to the hotel room.

“Schuldig, my shirt,” Yohji complained, as buttons popped and skittered across the corridor. “It’s a Dolce & Gabbana!”

“You probably got it off the sales rack. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new one…”

“You didn’t even buy me a tequila tonight, how am I supposed to believe you’ll buy me…Oh, god, I’m so drunk…”

Yohji trailed off, as Schuldig pushed a knee between his legs, and raked his fingernails down Yohji’s back. Yohji coiled and pounced, knocking them both against the door. Schuldig fumbled with the hotel keys, dropped them, swore, searched for them in the dark, with Yohji clinging on to him like a limpet all the while, gave up, took out his gun, and shot the door lock open.

“Can’t see, where the hell is the bed?”

“Why is the room swaying? Oh, floor’s just fine…”

“Rug burn! Rug burn!”

“Fine, you delicate damsel, no rug burn for your dainty ass. Move it!”

“Oh, do that again. Oh! No, not that, it tickles! No, not that either. Nope, not even close. The other thing, the one you did before the thing that tickled! Honestly, there’s something really wrong with your short-term memory. Now you’re getting it, almost there. Less teeth! Yes, that one, oh, that! Oh! Wait. Houston, we got a problem.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a virgin, it won’t sound very convincing.”

“No, but we need something.”

“No worries, oh… do that again… I brought supplies. Even got the studded cucumber.”

“The studded what? No, Schuldig, you pervert, we need a crowbar.”

“Yohji, you’re a kinkier puppy than I had imagined.”

“You don’t understand,” Yohji moaned, pulling at his trousers in drunken despair. “They won’t come off. It took four hours and the collaborative work of all Weiss to get them on.”

“What, afraid I was going to ravish you, and you couldn’t find a chastity belt on such short notice?”

“Yes, something like that. I‘m undergoing a certain change of heart though. Get them off, get them off, get them off!”

/Nagi!/ Schuldig screamed, giving everyone within a ten-mile radius a splitting headache. /Stop whatever you’re doing, I need help! I’m about to save your life here! Put down that pornmag, her tits aren’t even real. I need help with some leather trousers. How precise is your long-range telekinesis? Careful, don’t castrate him, I need all his bits intact!/

As if by magic, the button of Yohji’s trousers suddenly flew off and hit Schuldig in the eye.



Sunday (But It Was Only a Candle, a Roman Scandal, Oh, Oh, Oh)

Crawford woke up suddenly at three in the morning. Something was changing. He could feel the wheels of destiny changing rhythm, turning to the sound of creaking bedsprings. He sighed in relief, made a mental note to destroy his will first thing in the morning, and nodded off again.

*

Schuldig pulled the curtains away, and opened the hotel window, taking a deep, happy breath of Tokyo traffic pollution. The week from hell was over, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, the hills were alive with the sound of music, and Schuldig was alive as well, not to mention the triumphant sex god of the southern hemisphere.

“Hurrah! I had sex!”

A hickey-covered Yohji sat up on the bed, combing his fingers through his dishevelled hair. “Not exactly the reaction I was anticipating, but flattering none-the-less. It must have been years since you last had any.”

“Take that, powers of destiny! My sexual prowess is a mystic force to be reckoned with!”

Yohji lit a cigarette. “Your sexual prowess is a mystic force. What. Ever. On a scale of one to ten, I would give you a six if I was feeling particularly generous. Want to get some breakfast now?”

“Well, my initial plan was to have sex with you, and then, as a revenge for the hell you put me through, sell your organs to the black market, and your body to johns for tricks.”

“Wait, I was the one who put you through hell? Funny, it‘s a little different from my point of view,” Yohji drawled. He was going for flippant, but he had tensed up visibly, and was looking around the room for his wire.

Schuldig studied him for a moment thoughtfully. “But, I am experiencing a certain change of heart. So breakfast sounds good. Muffins.”

He pulled on his jeans and sweater, found his shades and put them on.

“I’ll be back.”

Yohji howled with laughter.

Schuldig stared at him in confusion for a moment, then poked into Yohji’s mind and scowled.

“Schwarzenegger is Austrian, you ass.”

“Same crappy accent. And hey, I thought you said you wouldn’t read my mind. And also hey, what the hell are you doing to my nipples?”

“Making sure I stay alive. Repeat performance to cement my survival and make sure the forces of destiny have been appeased.”

“What, the first seven times were not enough for the forces of destiny? You are a very strange man. Oh. Oh! Oooh! Look, the spirit is willing, but the flesh really can’t handle another round before breakfast.”

“Wuss.”

“Stop chewing on me! I thought you wanted muffins!”

Schuldig pinned down Yohji on the bed and straddled him, as Yohji’s cigarette fell from his hands. “You know, you’re actually my type,” he grinned. “Sarcastic, in my line of work, not entirely stupid, legs that go for miles, the whole shebang. I didn’t give it much thought before, as I was rather preoccupied with the threat of my imminent demise et all, but you actually are.”

Yohji felt himself going really hot, and worried that he was probably blushing. He would never live this down. Then he realised he wasn’t blushing. He was on fire.

“Ack! My hair!” He leapt up, batting at the flames with both hands and shrieking, until Schuldig covered him with a blanket.

“Am I still burning?”

“Calm down, it’s out! What the hell were you doing smoking in bed anyway?”

“What the hell were you doing, ambushing me while I held a cigarette? My hair! My pride and joy! Is it very bad?”

“Well, look at the bright side, you’ll be saving on hair products.”

“This is all your fault-- wait, is something still burning?”

They both turned to look at the bed. The sheets had caught fire, and flames were licking the wooden frame.

“Should we call the hotel security?”

“I think we should just leg it discreetly through the emergency exit and go get my muffin.”

Yohji looked at his trousers, piled haphazardly on the floor from the night before. He would never be able to get them on. He grabbed the one bed sheet that had survived the inferno, and wrapped it around himself, as Schuldig pulled him out of the door.

*

Schwarz were waiting at the side of the street. They took in Schuldig’s dishevelled hair and collection of hickeys, Yohji’s toga-party attire, the burning hotel behind them, and started clapping. Schuldig bowed graciously.

“Thank you, thank you, my adoring fans--” he began, when Yohji’s Super Seven suddenly appeared, screeching to a halt in front of him, as Weiss stumbled out of the car.

“Well, the shit has now officially hit the fan.” Yohji mumbled.

“Yohji! Are you all right? Did the chastity belt work?”

Yohji scowled, trying to hold his sheet up around his waist. “Another day, another public humiliation. What are you doing here, Omi? And did you let Ken drive my Super Seven?”

“We were worried, you didn’t come back last night!” Ken lunged himself at Farfarello, bugnuks out. Farfarello sidestepped, pulled out a battered copy of Sein und Zeit from his pocket, and started reading.

Nagi ducked Omi’s darts and yawned. “Do we have to be here for this, Brad? Debbie does Dallas will be on cable in half an hour.”

“Hold your positions, we’re not out of danger yet,” Crawford said sharply. A fire engine drove past them, stopping in front of the burning hotel. “Okay, now we are out of danger.”

“What, that was it?” Schuldig asked. “We’re not going to die any more? Did it work?”

“Wait a minute, are you serious? Did you really think you were going to die if you didn’t sleep with me? That’s the only reason you’ve been after me?”

Yohji sounded hurt, and Schuldig shrugged apologetically. “Yohji, it’s not exactly like that.”

“It’s exactly like that. If we were not here, arguing over your sexapades, we would be standing over there, and the fire engine would have hit us, killing us instantly.”

“The fuck?” Schwarz said in unison, staring at Crawford.

“Why would we ever be anywhere around this place, if it wasn’t for the horny duo? Why would the fire engine ever be here, if it wasn’t for the horny duo? I’ve been reading Existentialists the whole week long, for this?”

“The workings of fate are mysterious.”

“Why couldn’t you just tell me to push the fire engine out of the way? I’m a telekinetic, remember? I’ve been agonising over my deflowerment the whole week long, for this?”

“The workings of fate are mysterious.”

“Why couldn’t you just tell us to look left and right before crossing the street? I’ve been buying flowers, and chocolate and popping Viagra like candy the whole week long, for this?”

“The workings of fate are myst-”

“Shut the fuck up already, four-eyes!” Aya snarled, pulling his katana out of its sheath. “I’ve heard enough about the bloody workings of the bloody fate!”

Omi, Ken and Yohji gaped.

“It’s alive, it’s alive!” Yohji croaked. “It speaks!”

Ken and Omi fished out their wallets and handed the bet money over to Crawford, shaking their heads. Yohji automatically tried to reach for his wallet as well, and then remembered he was pant-less, and therefore wallet-less by default. Aya lunged himself at Crawford.

“Afghanistan, my man!” Schuldig whistled. “You show him! Putting me through all this torment, for nothing!”

“Really?” Yohji hissed. “Sleeping with me must have been real torment. You’re lucky I forgot my wire at the hotel.”

“Yohji, I didn’t mean it like this.”

“Save it,” Yohji huffed, and tied up the sheet around his waist again. “My sexual promiscuousness and smoking in bed has saved the lives of my mortal enemies. I’m out of here. I’ll give up smoking and go join a nunnery.”

“Wait, sugar, don’t be like this! Wait, you idiot, you’re naked!”

Schuldig chased after Yohji, as the remaining Weiss and Schwarz joined forces and chased after Crawford, their eyes alight with the joy of murder.

*

The dramatic chase down the street was followed by an equally dramatic confrontation with lots of shouting and arm-waving. Schuldig was forced to stop every few minutes and wipe the memory of every passer-by, to make sure that any embarrassing public apologies wouldn’t later become prime blackmail material at the Eszett headquarters.

Yohji didn’t look as if he wanted to bludgeon Schuldig to death any more and was just beginning to smile, when the sheet he wore got caught in the sidewalk and was torn in pieces. Schuldig had to wipe everyone’s memory again. With a little mental nudging, a man walking his dog suddenly felt the urge to take off all his clothes and offer them to Yohji with a courteous bow. But his shirt was lime-green and polyester, and Yohji was having none of that.

Thirteen men had stripped to their underwear and shoes until Yohji felt he had created an acceptable ensemble, and by that time Schuldig was feeling peckish. Then Yohji stepped on some glass and remembered he wasn’t wearing any shoes either. Thirteen men stripped to their underwear and socks, and stood shivering in the morning breeze. Yohji complained about not being able to find his shoe size in Italian leather, while Schuldig’s belly rumbled. Thirteen men took dazedly off in various directions, realising a few seconds later they were half-naked in the middle of a busy street and tried to cover themselves with their briefcases. Schoolgirls shrieked. Old women ranted about exhibitionist perverts and the decadent state of today’s society, all while trying to cope a feel. Schuldig dragged Yohji off to a junk food stall.

They sat on a park bench with their hotdogs, Schuldig’s broad grin terrifying the few brave ducks who had approached in hope of breadcrumbs. Yohji was scowling and pulling at his clothes in irritation.

“This pullover is itchy. It’s not 100% cashmere no matter what the tag says. And I swear the jeans are imitation Armani, lousy fit around the waist.”

“See how much I care. The novel of your suicidal antics is wearing off. Next time you run into incoming traffic in toga-party attire, I’m pushing you under a lorry myself.”

“You just have no appreciation of style, bandana man.”

“Said the assassin with the crème brulée hair.”

“My beautiful hair,” Yohji mourned, running a palm over the crispy-fried leftovers. “How do I look?”

“Cute, in a burnt-alive-hedgehog kind of way. You might want to invest in a hat.”

“Hmmm.” Yohji tilted his head back, picturing himself in a cowboy hat.

Schuldig shuddered. “Let’s not rush into life-altering decisions so quickly. You don’t wear cowboy hats, they wear you. Alien life forms colonising the top of your head.” He wiped mustard from his chin. “ We should have gone for the muffins. These hotdogs are disgusting. I’ve got the evening free. If your Weissmates are still busy arguing with my Schwarzmates on who gets the pleasure of killing Brad, and you don’t have any targets to assassinate, I’m taking you out for some proper Wurst.”

“Not with the Wurst! I can’t handle any more Wurst!”

Schuldig grinned again, scaring some nearby children who ran crying to their mothers. “Consider it a gift from me to you, a lesson in appreciating German cuisine. Least I can do, since you’ll be cooking from now on for me.”

“Really, don't put yourself out on my account-- hey, wait a minute! I’m going to be cooking for you?”

“It’s the natural progression of a relationship. Boy meets boy. Boy buys boy flowers and chocolates. Boy takes boy for romantic drives. Boy saves boy’s life by killing his enemies with trumpets. Boy sleeps with boy. Boy respects boy in the morning, and proves it by buying food the next day. As a sign of admiration for all these sacrifices, boy spends the next twenty years cooking, cleaning up, and bringing boy his slippers.”

Yohji gaped. “This domesticated nightmare is wrong on so many deluded levels, I don’t even know how to begin to answer. Sure. What. Ever. Anything you say, stud muffin.”

“Cook wifey, or I‘m not having sex with you again.”

“A truly tragic turn of events, but somehow I think I’ll manage to gather the broken pieces of myself, gaze into the future and survive.”

Schuldig polished off his hotdog, yawned widely and leaned back. He stretched across the bench, laying his head on Yohji’s lap, and grinned up at him. Yohji pulled a dry leaf from his hair, combing his fingers through the red strands absent-mindedly.

“But what a bleak and desolate future it would be, without hopes of any true sexual gratification. Do you want to make out now, like horny teenagers, and then carve a heart with our initials on the bench, Yotan?”

“Don’t call me Yotan!”

“Get over it, Yohji, you just can’t resist me. After all, I’m the best you ever had.”

“I’m putting out my cigarette on your nose, jackass.”

“Admit it, I am.”

“Shut up,” Yohji laughed, and then yelped when Schuldig pushed a hand under his not-cashmere sweater.



The End