DOGS fanfic - Happy Fucking Valentines'
Fandom: DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13 for mature themes and 'cause Badou cusses a lot.
Summary: There's no way to be romantic the right way when you're a paranoid nicotine-addicted freak and your goddamned boyfriend is a homicidal goth club reject with rage issues, and neither of you gives a rat's ass.
Author's Note: I had writer's block all day on Valentine's Day, and this pops into my head around three in the morning. I blame Badou entirely. :p
Chocolates were right fucking out. Flowers too. If I came within thirty feet of my...whatever the fuck we are to eachother with either of 'em in my hands I stood the very real risk of getting laughed off the fucking face of the planet. Heine, in his usual emo-realistic, neo-nihilistic -- hooray for getting trapped in the library for ten hours on a stakeout, Encyclopedia Brittanicas are the fucking shit for bashing douchebags with guns over the head with -- way would probably ream me out in his clipped-but-angry way about how the so-called 'holiday' is some kind of shit gambit for florists and sweet shop owners to make up for lost profits, something I totally agree with. I kinda like the sentiment that kinda seeps through all the crass commercialization. I figure we'd all kinda like to have a good reason to just hole up in one place with the person we cared about, as sissy as that sounded.
Luckily enough, Heine was busy shooting big holes into bad people, so he wasn't there to give me that 'aww, you're such a cute little redheaded moron aren't you' look. Kinda pissed on the whole 'togetherness' thing at the same time, though. Fuck it.
With the idea of flowers and chocolates crammed into a far-flung corner of my mind -- and purged with salt and fire for good measure -- I started thinking about what else I might be able to do in the spirit of the holiday. Getting over to Heine's place wasn't an issue, I had a spare copy of the key in case shit got hairy and I needed to hide somewhere other than my own little apartment. The problems started coming up when I thought about what to do around the joint. The whole fucking place was tiled, so cleaning it up would be a waste of my time, considering Heine probably hosed the walls down every couple of weeks for the hell of it. Buying food was an exercise in fucking futility, since he rarely ever ate and his goddamned fridge was packed with gross things that were usually, but not always, floating in grosser jars. And it wasn't like I could cook anything for the moron, since his stove didn't work and hadn't worked for -- according to him -- as long as he'd been living there. It could've given up the goddamn ghost at any point, though, considering he'd only ever used the thing to boil water to drink and he'd switched to an electric kettle. Probably after he'd almost burned the whole fucking building down by getting distracted and letting a pot dry out, if the scorch marks on the kitchen ceiling were as new as they looked.
That just left me with practical shit. But again, the problem was he was starting to spend less and less time in his crappy little apartment, and more and more time in mine, which actually had the many wonderful marvels of working appliances, reliably -- or semi-reliably -- hot running water, and a fucktard who was willing to cook meals for him when and if he finally decided he was hungry -- i.e. me. So no bath shit -- though really, who the fuck gives out shower gel and shampoo and shit as presents? Totally gross. Might as well just tell whoever it is that they need to fucking bathe and get it out there straight -- and like fuck he'd wear any clothes I bought him. I don't even know where to start shopping for the trendy-ass jewelry he likes to wear, 'cause I've always figured wearing a ring or something for fashion's sake is just telling the goddamned world 'hey lookit me, I've got a couple extra fingers you can crimp off, just add pressure'. That just left me with the single-most practical thing I could think of for someone as fucking batshit as Heine.
Ammo for those goddamned guns of his wasn't cheap, but I had a little put aside. I got a hundred each for the Luger and the Mauser -- spent too much time watching him use the damned things not to know their make -- for all that I'd pretty much just shelled out two hundred bucks for one fucking gunfight and slogged 'em all the way down to Heine's apartment to find puppy out, exactly like I thought he'd be.
Well...it gave me the time to sit around and do the dumbass stupidest thing I could think of at the time.
I hadn't wanted to get a damn card, so I just dug a marker out of Heine's kitchen drawer -- there's all sorts of shit in there, which sometimes makes me think that he's a klepto when I'm not looking -- and I scribbled "HAPPY FUCKING VALENTINES'" on both boxes as neatly as I could without making it look like I'd put too much effort into it. And because I couldn't leave well enough alone -- and maybe because I'm just as fucking batshit insane as he is -- I fished a steak knife out of the sink, washed it off, and spent about ten minutes etching my name into one of the bullets from the Luger box -- because the Mauser was white and thinking about my blood on that seemed stupidly poetic even though I was totally putting too much thought into this. As an afterthought, I etched a crappy, lopsided little heart with an X through it on the other side.
As soon as I was done, I stood the bullet up in the middle of the table, in front of the two boxes, and got up and left, locking up behind me even though the damn door would probably pop open on its own if you put your shoulder to it. Not like Heine needed security, after all.
The whole way back up I wondered if I should've left the damn bullet sitting there. If he got the message...that'd be pretty great. And if he didn't he'd probably just lob the thing at my head the next time he saw me, so no harm really done, right?
But...I can't help but kinda hope his little doggie brain can wrap itself around the idea that when I go, I'd want to...y'know...be with him.
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13 for mature themes and 'cause Badou cusses a lot.
Summary: There's no way to be romantic the right way when you're a paranoid nicotine-addicted freak and your goddamned boyfriend is a homicidal goth club reject with rage issues, and neither of you gives a rat's ass.
Author's Note: I had writer's block all day on Valentine's Day, and this pops into my head around three in the morning. I blame Badou entirely. :p
Chocolates were right fucking out. Flowers too. If I came within thirty feet of my...whatever the fuck we are to eachother with either of 'em in my hands I stood the very real risk of getting laughed off the fucking face of the planet. Heine, in his usual emo-realistic, neo-nihilistic -- hooray for getting trapped in the library for ten hours on a stakeout, Encyclopedia Brittanicas are the fucking shit for bashing douchebags with guns over the head with -- way would probably ream me out in his clipped-but-angry way about how the so-called 'holiday' is some kind of shit gambit for florists and sweet shop owners to make up for lost profits, something I totally agree with. I kinda like the sentiment that kinda seeps through all the crass commercialization. I figure we'd all kinda like to have a good reason to just hole up in one place with the person we cared about, as sissy as that sounded.
Luckily enough, Heine was busy shooting big holes into bad people, so he wasn't there to give me that 'aww, you're such a cute little redheaded moron aren't you' look. Kinda pissed on the whole 'togetherness' thing at the same time, though. Fuck it.
With the idea of flowers and chocolates crammed into a far-flung corner of my mind -- and purged with salt and fire for good measure -- I started thinking about what else I might be able to do in the spirit of the holiday. Getting over to Heine's place wasn't an issue, I had a spare copy of the key in case shit got hairy and I needed to hide somewhere other than my own little apartment. The problems started coming up when I thought about what to do around the joint. The whole fucking place was tiled, so cleaning it up would be a waste of my time, considering Heine probably hosed the walls down every couple of weeks for the hell of it. Buying food was an exercise in fucking futility, since he rarely ever ate and his goddamned fridge was packed with gross things that were usually, but not always, floating in grosser jars. And it wasn't like I could cook anything for the moron, since his stove didn't work and hadn't worked for -- according to him -- as long as he'd been living there. It could've given up the goddamn ghost at any point, though, considering he'd only ever used the thing to boil water to drink and he'd switched to an electric kettle. Probably after he'd almost burned the whole fucking building down by getting distracted and letting a pot dry out, if the scorch marks on the kitchen ceiling were as new as they looked.
That just left me with practical shit. But again, the problem was he was starting to spend less and less time in his crappy little apartment, and more and more time in mine, which actually had the many wonderful marvels of working appliances, reliably -- or semi-reliably -- hot running water, and a fucktard who was willing to cook meals for him when and if he finally decided he was hungry -- i.e. me. So no bath shit -- though really, who the fuck gives out shower gel and shampoo and shit as presents? Totally gross. Might as well just tell whoever it is that they need to fucking bathe and get it out there straight -- and like fuck he'd wear any clothes I bought him. I don't even know where to start shopping for the trendy-ass jewelry he likes to wear, 'cause I've always figured wearing a ring or something for fashion's sake is just telling the goddamned world 'hey lookit me, I've got a couple extra fingers you can crimp off, just add pressure'. That just left me with the single-most practical thing I could think of for someone as fucking batshit as Heine.
Ammo for those goddamned guns of his wasn't cheap, but I had a little put aside. I got a hundred each for the Luger and the Mauser -- spent too much time watching him use the damned things not to know their make -- for all that I'd pretty much just shelled out two hundred bucks for one fucking gunfight and slogged 'em all the way down to Heine's apartment to find puppy out, exactly like I thought he'd be.
Well...it gave me the time to sit around and do the dumbass stupidest thing I could think of at the time.
I hadn't wanted to get a damn card, so I just dug a marker out of Heine's kitchen drawer -- there's all sorts of shit in there, which sometimes makes me think that he's a klepto when I'm not looking -- and I scribbled "HAPPY FUCKING VALENTINES'" on both boxes as neatly as I could without making it look like I'd put too much effort into it. And because I couldn't leave well enough alone -- and maybe because I'm just as fucking batshit insane as he is -- I fished a steak knife out of the sink, washed it off, and spent about ten minutes etching my name into one of the bullets from the Luger box -- because the Mauser was white and thinking about my blood on that seemed stupidly poetic even though I was totally putting too much thought into this. As an afterthought, I etched a crappy, lopsided little heart with an X through it on the other side.
As soon as I was done, I stood the bullet up in the middle of the table, in front of the two boxes, and got up and left, locking up behind me even though the damn door would probably pop open on its own if you put your shoulder to it. Not like Heine needed security, after all.
The whole way back up I wondered if I should've left the damn bullet sitting there. If he got the message...that'd be pretty great. And if he didn't he'd probably just lob the thing at my head the next time he saw me, so no harm really done, right?
But...I can't help but kinda hope his little doggie brain can wrap itself around the idea that when I go, I'd want to...y'know...be with him.