"If I didn't laugh, I'd cry."
Who: Lock (guest starring Poe, his mother and Donna, his ex-wife.)
What: Some Lock flashbacks that focus around his most quotable quote, "If I didn't laugh, I'd cry."
When: Civil War through present day (Written 2004-2005?)
Rating: R for the war scenes and Lock's nasty mouth when he's around Donna.
There is one phrase in particular that the loved ones of Lachlan Tavorian Methric often hear... "If I didn't laugh, I'd cry." But what those closest to him don't know is the meaning behind it. Not his sons, nor his adopted daughter, nor even his fiance ever bothered to question it, just dismissed it as yet another random phrase that flew past that grin by that always even-toned voice. It was just all part of being insane, right? Crazy Lachlan, living out on Pluto, inhaling spaghetti with both legs wrapped around his woman. Was Lock always that crazy? Were his first words "watch out for flying ninjas"? Sure, Lock inhereted his father's ways, the sarcasm, the randominity... but there were certain points in his life where he put up a strong mask of humor to keep tragedy at bay. Well, most of the time. Lachlan was the theatre symbol, the laughing mask pushing infront of the crying one.
Lock started out just as normal as anyone could be, being born a Methric and right in the middle of the age of rampant slavery and prejudice across the country, not to mention that desire for blood that he was always feeling. Maybe that's what first pushed him to join the military to fight for the Union army in the Civil War. That, and rumor had it his dad was one helluva warrior. And Lock wanted to be like dad. But whatever the reason, he joined happily, was given his blue uniform, a rifle and that funny little hat that he was constantly making cracks about. He learned to march in formation, learned how to shoot with deadly accuracy... all without ever actually laying a hand on someone.
"I normally consider myself a peaceful person, but if the man with the sword says charge, oh comrades o' mine, all hell will break loose," Lock said while the unit he was with was settling down for the night in camp, to get up the next morning and continue their marching the next morning to head to the Confederates. Now, this unit was basically full of rookies, the ones that only fired at trees with deadly accuracy and ran across an open field in formation. Never hand to hand, never staring death in the face. That would all change the next morning.
The next morning the Confederate unit made their way in on the Union, and when the drummer, a young boy of thirteen, came running through the camp, giving warning about the approaching masses, Lock was one of the first to crawl out of his tent, before he held his rifle over his head and yelled, "bring on the rebels!" before being silenced by his unit's Commander. His unit stumbled around aimlessly to get into their lines, and Lock fell right into place, snapping to attention and a salute, in the second line from the front.
Forward, march! The command was given and they started off, the drummer keeping the beat for the marching band of blue uniforms, the commander infront with sword in hand, before it was raised to give the shot command. Through the playing on both sides, like the ultimate battle of the bands, a single shot rang out, though it sounded more like an explosion to Lock's ears. The first shot was fired, it was impossible to tell from which side. No one fell at first, but the reaction was wild fire. Before he even knew he was doing it consciously, Lock was loading the rifle, then cocking it back. A soldier fell from the front line, the others stepped over him. Lock did the same. More shots, now instead of explosions, like a string of firecrackers going off. More from the front line fell. Lock stepped over the man directly infront of him. The gun was aimed. Firecrackers. Depress the trigger. A man from the front line of the Confederacy fell from Lock's bullet. He winced. Reload. Firecrackers. Load the powder. Firecrackers. Depress the trigger. Front line fell. Firecrackers. Reload. Firecrackers. Load the powder. Firecrackers. A piercing pain shot through Lock's abdomen like wildfire and he doubled over. There was something of an uncontrolable sting in his eyes. "Oh yeah? ... this means war, buddy." Depress the trigger. Firecrackers. Front line fall. Reload. Firecrackers.
A hand moved to where he felt the burning and a single finger felt like it sank in. He shook his head slowly, that funny hat he was making cracks about earlier fell from a matt of messy black hair. He never realized he was sweating. "Jesus Christ, somebody doesn't love me today..." His words were nearly choked. Another shot, one that made him actually fall over. One to right below the knee. He was stepped over. There was no more drum beat, just the sound of firecrackers, and then, an explosion. A real explotion. He could hear the sound of bodies fall behind him, one ontop of him. The body was simply elbowed off, before he spied the little drummer boy, trying to hurry to the sidelines while dragging a wounded soldier. Lock used his unloaded gun as a crutch, and started heading over, and from this point, was compleatly unaware of the fact that he was bleeding profusely from both gun shot wounds, and was unaware of his own immortality. He stepped up beside the drummer, and helped him to drag the wounded comrade over to the sidelines, so to speak. "For Chrissake, someone get Florence Nightingale!" The firecrackers and explosions weren't far off at all, but were still booming so much that he had to scream for anyone to hear him, just as the little drummer boy was screaming if Lock and the wounded soldier would be alright. The wounded man was turned over on his back and Lock fell to the ground next to him, hands moving over his mouth, neck and wrists to feel for signs of life. None. With a slow shake of his head, he turned the man back over.
The drummer boy couldn't understand that the man was already dead before he tried to save him, and vowed to make it up to him by killing the "rebel bastards". Without Lock being able to stop him, he grabbed his makeshift crutch and started running off for the battlefield. Very pale silver eyes blinked, then reached into the inside of his arm jacket to retrieve a small box that was essential for any soldier--- gun powder and bullets. "Hey kiddo, that gun's not---!" Fireworks. A cannon knocked the drummer boy right off his feet, right from his feet. Lock just watched, and once again felt those pale silver eyes sting. "...loaded."
~~~
He didn't notice, but he had passed out from the blood loss. He awoke in a hospital cot two days later, grinding fingers against the bridge of his pointed nose, trying to clear his blurred vision, that moved to an older, black haired nurse.
"Florence Nightingale?"
"Close enough. Do you need anything, mon chere?"
"Plenty of things. I'll settle for a few quick answers. How long was I out?"
"You were found unconscious... by the medics, of course. You were out for nearly the entire next day. We gave you the.. blood you needed to be sustained. You'll be just fine."
"...Did they bring any kids in here?"
"You are all children to me, mon chere. Is there anything else?"
"...Did you find my hat? I lost it."
~~~
Two weeks after the Civil War was declared finished, Lachlan took his compensation and went to purchase two things; a spot on a boat to Europe and a drum.
~~~
The wars and arguments that passed never surpassed that of what was called the bloodiest war in American history, aside from an instance in Germany during World War II. Lachlan had aged very gracefully, not looking a day older than he did nearly a hundred years before that. The only difference was that he began his tattoo collection. But the camoflauge hid them almost entirely as he headed with a group of about six other American soldiers into one of the newly liberated concentration camps. Death surrounded him and stared him down, and in the back of his mind, he saw that little drummer boy in the face of the tortured, young boys there. He swallowed hard, and felt a familiar sting in his terribly pale eyes, but instead of shedding a tear, he grinned brightly and widely, outstretching his arms. "Come one, come all, we have fried chicken, pork chops and corn in the truck. ...I know you can't eat the pork chops, kosher n' that, more for me."
~~~
"I really could give a fuck less if he's the father or not! I do NOT want that psychotic, evil bastard in here doing voodoo to my babies!"
"Somebody shut the cunt up and let me in! I don't want to see her cunt anymore than just to see my baby crawling out of it! Rip her a good one, scratch her, bite her, kick her head in! Wait, BABIES PLURAL!?!?!"
Even though the forces of evil were against him on that October day, he still put up a convincing argument to be allowed entrance into the emergency room at Mercy Hospital that Donna had just given birth in. Even though the Whore was screaming and degrading, he paid it no mind, as he was handed off first one boy, and then the second. As he juggled both of them, tears stung his eyes, and his voice lowered to a soft whisper, so that only those baby ears could hear him. "You're gonna be James, alright? James... you know... I'm pretty sure it means greatness. 'Cause that's what you gotta be in this world... And you, you're gonna be Niles. You know why? 'Cause when daddy needed some major downtime, he went to Africa and sat by the Nile river and talked to it. Yeah, your daddy talks to rivers. At least he isn't a cuntface." Both little boys were given kisses to the forehead before he looked at Donna, eyes narrowed to slits.
"Their names are James and Niles, cuntface, and they're going to be amazing. Because of me."
"I was going to name them Perry and Holmes!"
"You really are a stupid cunt! Those are the worst names I ever heard! I'm glad I won rock-paper-scissors!"
Notes: It didn't really have an ending, I don't get it. I thought about cutting out the WWII paragraph, but it was way too in character on a second thought. One of the many reasons I hate Lock, I guess you could say...
What: Some Lock flashbacks that focus around his most quotable quote, "If I didn't laugh, I'd cry."
When: Civil War through present day (Written 2004-2005?)
Rating: R for the war scenes and Lock's nasty mouth when he's around Donna.
There is one phrase in particular that the loved ones of Lachlan Tavorian Methric often hear... "If I didn't laugh, I'd cry." But what those closest to him don't know is the meaning behind it. Not his sons, nor his adopted daughter, nor even his fiance ever bothered to question it, just dismissed it as yet another random phrase that flew past that grin by that always even-toned voice. It was just all part of being insane, right? Crazy Lachlan, living out on Pluto, inhaling spaghetti with both legs wrapped around his woman. Was Lock always that crazy? Were his first words "watch out for flying ninjas"? Sure, Lock inhereted his father's ways, the sarcasm, the randominity... but there were certain points in his life where he put up a strong mask of humor to keep tragedy at bay. Well, most of the time. Lachlan was the theatre symbol, the laughing mask pushing infront of the crying one.
Lock started out just as normal as anyone could be, being born a Methric and right in the middle of the age of rampant slavery and prejudice across the country, not to mention that desire for blood that he was always feeling. Maybe that's what first pushed him to join the military to fight for the Union army in the Civil War. That, and rumor had it his dad was one helluva warrior. And Lock wanted to be like dad. But whatever the reason, he joined happily, was given his blue uniform, a rifle and that funny little hat that he was constantly making cracks about. He learned to march in formation, learned how to shoot with deadly accuracy... all without ever actually laying a hand on someone.
"I normally consider myself a peaceful person, but if the man with the sword says charge, oh comrades o' mine, all hell will break loose," Lock said while the unit he was with was settling down for the night in camp, to get up the next morning and continue their marching the next morning to head to the Confederates. Now, this unit was basically full of rookies, the ones that only fired at trees with deadly accuracy and ran across an open field in formation. Never hand to hand, never staring death in the face. That would all change the next morning.
The next morning the Confederate unit made their way in on the Union, and when the drummer, a young boy of thirteen, came running through the camp, giving warning about the approaching masses, Lock was one of the first to crawl out of his tent, before he held his rifle over his head and yelled, "bring on the rebels!" before being silenced by his unit's Commander. His unit stumbled around aimlessly to get into their lines, and Lock fell right into place, snapping to attention and a salute, in the second line from the front.
Forward, march! The command was given and they started off, the drummer keeping the beat for the marching band of blue uniforms, the commander infront with sword in hand, before it was raised to give the shot command. Through the playing on both sides, like the ultimate battle of the bands, a single shot rang out, though it sounded more like an explosion to Lock's ears. The first shot was fired, it was impossible to tell from which side. No one fell at first, but the reaction was wild fire. Before he even knew he was doing it consciously, Lock was loading the rifle, then cocking it back. A soldier fell from the front line, the others stepped over him. Lock did the same. More shots, now instead of explosions, like a string of firecrackers going off. More from the front line fell. Lock stepped over the man directly infront of him. The gun was aimed. Firecrackers. Depress the trigger. A man from the front line of the Confederacy fell from Lock's bullet. He winced. Reload. Firecrackers. Load the powder. Firecrackers. Depress the trigger. Front line fell. Firecrackers. Reload. Firecrackers. Load the powder. Firecrackers. A piercing pain shot through Lock's abdomen like wildfire and he doubled over. There was something of an uncontrolable sting in his eyes. "Oh yeah? ... this means war, buddy." Depress the trigger. Firecrackers. Front line fall. Reload. Firecrackers.
A hand moved to where he felt the burning and a single finger felt like it sank in. He shook his head slowly, that funny hat he was making cracks about earlier fell from a matt of messy black hair. He never realized he was sweating. "Jesus Christ, somebody doesn't love me today..." His words were nearly choked. Another shot, one that made him actually fall over. One to right below the knee. He was stepped over. There was no more drum beat, just the sound of firecrackers, and then, an explosion. A real explotion. He could hear the sound of bodies fall behind him, one ontop of him. The body was simply elbowed off, before he spied the little drummer boy, trying to hurry to the sidelines while dragging a wounded soldier. Lock used his unloaded gun as a crutch, and started heading over, and from this point, was compleatly unaware of the fact that he was bleeding profusely from both gun shot wounds, and was unaware of his own immortality. He stepped up beside the drummer, and helped him to drag the wounded comrade over to the sidelines, so to speak. "For Chrissake, someone get Florence Nightingale!" The firecrackers and explosions weren't far off at all, but were still booming so much that he had to scream for anyone to hear him, just as the little drummer boy was screaming if Lock and the wounded soldier would be alright. The wounded man was turned over on his back and Lock fell to the ground next to him, hands moving over his mouth, neck and wrists to feel for signs of life. None. With a slow shake of his head, he turned the man back over.
The drummer boy couldn't understand that the man was already dead before he tried to save him, and vowed to make it up to him by killing the "rebel bastards". Without Lock being able to stop him, he grabbed his makeshift crutch and started running off for the battlefield. Very pale silver eyes blinked, then reached into the inside of his arm jacket to retrieve a small box that was essential for any soldier--- gun powder and bullets. "Hey kiddo, that gun's not---!" Fireworks. A cannon knocked the drummer boy right off his feet, right from his feet. Lock just watched, and once again felt those pale silver eyes sting. "...loaded."
~~~
He didn't notice, but he had passed out from the blood loss. He awoke in a hospital cot two days later, grinding fingers against the bridge of his pointed nose, trying to clear his blurred vision, that moved to an older, black haired nurse.
"Florence Nightingale?"
"Close enough. Do you need anything, mon chere?"
"Plenty of things. I'll settle for a few quick answers. How long was I out?"
"You were found unconscious... by the medics, of course. You were out for nearly the entire next day. We gave you the.. blood you needed to be sustained. You'll be just fine."
"...Did they bring any kids in here?"
"You are all children to me, mon chere. Is there anything else?"
"...Did you find my hat? I lost it."
~~~
Two weeks after the Civil War was declared finished, Lachlan took his compensation and went to purchase two things; a spot on a boat to Europe and a drum.
~~~
The wars and arguments that passed never surpassed that of what was called the bloodiest war in American history, aside from an instance in Germany during World War II. Lachlan had aged very gracefully, not looking a day older than he did nearly a hundred years before that. The only difference was that he began his tattoo collection. But the camoflauge hid them almost entirely as he headed with a group of about six other American soldiers into one of the newly liberated concentration camps. Death surrounded him and stared him down, and in the back of his mind, he saw that little drummer boy in the face of the tortured, young boys there. He swallowed hard, and felt a familiar sting in his terribly pale eyes, but instead of shedding a tear, he grinned brightly and widely, outstretching his arms. "Come one, come all, we have fried chicken, pork chops and corn in the truck. ...I know you can't eat the pork chops, kosher n' that, more for me."
~~~
"I really could give a fuck less if he's the father or not! I do NOT want that psychotic, evil bastard in here doing voodoo to my babies!"
"Somebody shut the cunt up and let me in! I don't want to see her cunt anymore than just to see my baby crawling out of it! Rip her a good one, scratch her, bite her, kick her head in! Wait, BABIES PLURAL!?!?!"
Even though the forces of evil were against him on that October day, he still put up a convincing argument to be allowed entrance into the emergency room at Mercy Hospital that Donna had just given birth in. Even though the Whore was screaming and degrading, he paid it no mind, as he was handed off first one boy, and then the second. As he juggled both of them, tears stung his eyes, and his voice lowered to a soft whisper, so that only those baby ears could hear him. "You're gonna be James, alright? James... you know... I'm pretty sure it means greatness. 'Cause that's what you gotta be in this world... And you, you're gonna be Niles. You know why? 'Cause when daddy needed some major downtime, he went to Africa and sat by the Nile river and talked to it. Yeah, your daddy talks to rivers. At least he isn't a cuntface." Both little boys were given kisses to the forehead before he looked at Donna, eyes narrowed to slits.
"Their names are James and Niles, cuntface, and they're going to be amazing. Because of me."
"I was going to name them Perry and Holmes!"
"You really are a stupid cunt! Those are the worst names I ever heard! I'm glad I won rock-paper-scissors!"
Notes: It didn't really have an ending, I don't get it. I thought about cutting out the WWII paragraph, but it was way too in character on a second thought. One of the many reasons I hate Lock, I guess you could say...