NaNoWriMo 2009 Official Status Report II
30275 / 50000 words. 61% done!
It's somehow harder to write NaNo this year... there could be many reasons why, with the most pressing being that it's been absolutely crazy and real life keeps gnawing at my foot, but I don't really know.
Thank god for porn, though.
This is a series of excerpts from Chapter Thirteen, which have been compiled for continuity.
Warning: Shamal is a pervert.
As if you didn't already know.
It was, perhaps, the best dream Shamal has ever had in his life.
He knew he was dreaming, of course, because he had been a doctor before he had ever become an assassin, and according to his last very clinical assessment of his physiological condition, he had been flat on his belly, snoring rather contentedly into his pillow and rather tragically without a woman under his arm (clean living and all, since he was currently under the Vongola Tenth’s roof). Hence, he was most definitely dreaming the whole sensation of waking up stark naked on a fluffy emperor-sized bed with busty boobsy school girls crawling all over him, tugging at him (him, and him-him, that is) with their manicured hands and calling him “Daddy”.
Perfectly all right with him, though, the whole dream sequence thing. He had a healthy mind, and therefore a rather vivid imagination. Whatever he cooked up in his head was nearly as good as the real thing at worst, and better than the actual at best.
And then, right before the prettiest of the lot was doing the whole Little Red Riding Hood litany on big things as she put her lips close to his family jewels, a distinct pain at the back of his head jolted him back to the real world, where he was currently sprawled on the floor, staring up at Sawada Iemitsu attempting to pull a Classic Godfather: furrowed eyebrows, crossed arms, glowering silence, lineface and all.
Sometimes, Shamal wondered why they were still friends.
“We’re late.”
“You mean YOU’RE late.”
That comment earned him a car keys whip to the face.
“You’re driving me.”
Who died and made you God?
Highly tempting to say, but probably not a good idea. Shamal knew, for a fact, that Iemitsu was perpetually armed and dangerous, and possibly more so at the moment, with less than ten minutes to move out and do the hour and a half-long drive to the airport.
“You owe me big for this, blondie!”
He planned on doing the whole fist-shaking thing, but Iemitsu was already long gone.
They had likely broken several hundred road rules on their way because Shamal had driven like a weasel on crystal meth in order to make them just a little less horrendously late than they already were, and the only thing that Shamal got out of it was Iemitsu slamming the passenger door a little too hard (“Oi oi oi watch it!!”) and getting ditched with little else beyond a barked instruction to keep the car where it was. He considered, for a moment, calling out a little friend and giving Iemitsu something excruciatingly painful and humiliating but ultimately non-lethal for the week, and then promptly decided that it took too much effort.
So he was stuck leaning against the hood of his car like any old friend turned chauffeur-for-the-day, puffing his way through the last few sticks in his pack. He would normally be occupying himself with dame-watching, except the airport was pretty short on decent eye candy at the moment, and going inside to see if his luck was any better within the four walls of the facility was not an option if he wanted to keep his balls intact for the next flavor of the day.
An hour later, after the cigarettes were long gone and his knee was starting to do the tell-tale woman-deprived, nicotine-short bounce bounce bounce against his hand, the glass doors slid open and Sawada Nana comes clip-clopping out, nose up in the air, pulling her pink little trolley bag along with her, looking mighty displeased. And then she noticed Shamal and it’s back to being cheerful super mom-and-sudden-wife-of-a-mafioso.
“Shamal! How could to see you again.”
With the way she was cooing over Shamal and smiling and laughing and talking about all of those sweet little housewifey slash old friend nothings, one would think that Iemitsu hadn’t come around in the next moment, weighted down by two suitcases. From the look on the face, Shamal can tell that prior to their stepping out, he and Nana must have been arguing, or maybe he had attempted at a little affection and she had outright ignored him, as she had taken to doing since she had discovered the truth about her family.
He might have felt sorry for Iemitsu, he really might have. Shamal, though, knew women better than they knew themselves, and if there was one thing a woman hated, it was being lied to.
He also knew, for a fact, that Iemitsu was an excellent liar, and Nana the kind of bird who couldn’t stand being made a fool of, even if it had been for her own good.
“…Ack! How silly of me, holding us up like this. Shall we go?”
“Sure thing.”
He winced just a little when, after making sure her suitcases were all loaded into the trunk, Nana nearly closed the door of the car on Iemitsu’s face.
Shamal decided that later, in the hours so far into the night they were pretty much morning, drinks were definitely in order.
They talk about small things, normal and pointless things like coffee and soap operas and the recession and climate change, because whoever wrote the Big Book on Mafioso Etiquette had not forgotten to emphasize how inappropriate it was to talk shop with a comrade’s wife, even if said wife knew exactly what was going on behind the scenes. Still, it’s awkward: awkward because Shamal and Nana are doing all the talking and Iemitsu might as well be invisible even when he actually tries to contribute something, awkward because Shamal’s got the luxury of the rearview mirror and he can see the gaping empty space between Nana and Iemitsu, a distance metaphysically larger than the actual foot and a half that spans across one side of the car to the other.
That, he realized, and not for the first time, was the reason why he kept his engagements with the fairer sex short and sweet, and why he nearly broke out in hives at the mere thought of marriage. Dames, they were too damned complicated, and no matter how tight the ass or round the hips or supple the mouth or nice the tits, they just weren’t worth the trouble in the long run. Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em: best policy to take for any sensible man who valued his skin.
…And acting like that, of course, made sure that there weren’t any unwilling victims. Sure, there was the possibility of losing a friend or two, or getting called to court, or maybe outright thrown in jail, but it was likely much better than fucking yourself up with the love thing, then fucking a dame up with the long thing, then fucking up the brats that will inevitably come into the world screaming their lungs out and grow up just enough to start looking like you and follow you both around once they can walk and keep on call you guys - heaven forbid - their parents. Shamal was not a fan of children (they pooped/puked/cried/talked too much), but he wasn’t entirely heartless. Mutts did not deserve to get kicked around for what they did not do, especially when they had far too much on their plate to deal with as it was.
“…Mom?”
And there was one right now, right on cue. Shamal truly loved his dramatic timing.
“Hi, Tsu-kun!”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Dad, did you know about this?”
“She wanted it to be a surprise.”
“You shouldn’t have. …Oh, man, I’m such an idiot… hold on, let me get someone to help you with your bags. And Kyoko has to know that you’re here!”
“No rush, sweetie. What happened to you? You look terrible!”
“Another fight with Hibari-kun, eh, son?”
“It’s the only way he’ll ever listen to me, dad - mom, stop fussing!”
“HUSH. That is NO way to greet me after I’ve pulled a sixteen-hour flight for you!”
With the way they were talking and laughing with their son, one would have thought that over the past ten years, Iemitsu and Nana’s marriage had taken to falling very quietly apart.