Stephen Harper is the Current Prime Minister of Canada.

Yay! Everyone wants Monica dead! :D

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Chapter nine: Usuratonkachi (Useless).

It was one in the morning when Mallory Higgens woke up on the Night Line bus. There was someone standing over her, speaking harshly, whispering something over and over again, but she couldn't focus her green eyes.

The bus was mostly empty, save the driver and a few tired people, but none of them seemed to mind the three year old sleeping by herself in the back. Or the strange old man talking to her.

"Wh... wh...?"

He loomed over Mallory, grey eyes spotted with yellow stains from years spent staring at the ocean, waiting for his father to come home. He grinned, and his teeth were black, cracked and misshapen, and his breath was rancid, filled with the rotting corpses of too many rats, too many lost feelings, too many withered screams because his mother wouldn't stop—

He rubbed her stomach and patted Mallory’s red head, bent at the knees to look into green eyes. "Are you lost... little thing?"

His voice, to Mallory, sounded like the Queen's from Snow White, after she'd gone mad with envy and turned into the witch. Mallory always had to hide in her daddy’s sweater when that part played.

"Y-y-y-yes," she squeaked out, eyes blinking sleep away above freckled cheeks.

"Got on the wrong bus... did you?" The old man curled tired grey fingers around Mallory’s thin arms, too tight. He spoke too slow. Mallory was used to her dad’s fast, smooth voice, not this monotonous slothy ring. "Did... you?"

Mallory shook her head. She'd gotten on the bus with her babysitter, Laura, but Laura had left with her friends. Mallory had been too scared to follow, too scared to ask someone for help—she wasn't suppose to talk to strangers, daddy said. What was this old man then? Wasn't he a stranger? But Mallory wanted to go home and sitting down wasn't working. Maybe it would be alright to talk to him, just this once, just so she could get home.

"L... l-l-l-lost."

"Ah..." the old man said, and sat down beside Mallory, fingers still clawing her skin. "You can come... you can come home with me... then... little thing." He grinned black. This child looked so much like him when he was younger, before his father wasn't home, before his mother had started going to that church—and it wasn't fair. This child had taken away the life he'd lost, taken it away with her bright green eyes and cute little fingers, taken his father away and killed him at sea, taken his mother away when he was twelve, not cancer but this child had taken it all.

It wasn't fair.

--

After being thrown into a frighteningly realistic mosh-pit wherein he'd lost his favourite shirt (and was thus forced to walk around half-nude), experiencing first hand what, exactly, drunk people do when given a trampoline, a pool, and a window, and after being purposed to for the eleventh time—Kyle was ready for bed. He grabbed Joey by the back of his yellow sweater, and yanked him harshly away from the small swarm of women demanding the right to kiss his ass. He wasn't the least bit happy that Joey continuously denied said women this right, that he had done so all night, really, and even if he had been kind of enjoying it, he still wanted to go to bed. Large crowds of people pissed him off.

Joey grinned when he was thrown into the elevator. Then his face dropped and he leaned to his left, whispering very not-seriously-but-still-seriously into Kyle's ear. "Are we going where I think we're going?"

Kyle pushed his head away. "If you shut up, then maybe."

Joey didn't say a word until they were standing outside of Kyle's bedroom. He had, however, demanded that Kyle hold his hand because the hallway was dark; though this demand was said through motions, which consisted of Joey shoving his hand into Kyle's and blatantly refusing to liberate it. Not that Kyle had put up much of a fight, which intern troubled our young blondie, whom was so used him at least trying to try to get away.

Joey squeezed his hand. "You crumble like a cookie."

Kyle couldn't be bothered questioning the use of such a stupid simile. He did, however, question what Joey meant by the crumbling of this cookie, because Kyle did not crumble, and if he did it, it would certainly be as something much more manly than some miserable pastry.

"We've known each other, what, five days?" Joey grinned, staring at Kyle's drained, jade eyes. "And you're already taking me to your room?"

Kyle sighed, tired, annoyed, and opened the door. He let go of Joey's hand, walked six steps, and fell onto his bed. He then pointed at the couch across the floor, mumbling something about it and Joey and sleep there, please, because if we sleep in the same bed god only knows what I'll do. There's too much he wanted to do, too young to do it. They were too new to each other, Kyle knew, and they'd gone too fucking fast. Something would break if they didn't slow down.

Joey walked six steps also, and fell to his knees. He kissed Kyle's furrowed forehead, kissed down his face, bare shoulders, bare chest, kissed his left hand and asked what was wrong, softly. He was then pulled just as softly on top of Kyle, body sliding slowly over the edge of the bed, covering a naked torso and continued kissing along Kyle's shoulders, around his neck, fingers playing in black hair. But that was it; something was wrong, and sex, foreplay, whatever, wouldn't fix that.

Eventually, Joey fell asleep, and Kyle rolled him to his side, pulled the sheets over them and prayed to god the house was empty in the morning.

--

Rick, Heather, and Lucy, due to the shitty quality of the public transportation system, boarded the one-thirty bus to Kyle's street at one-fifty-three. While complaining about said fact seemed like an obligated thing to do, they were actually very unaware of how lucky they were: for there sat little Mallory Higgens, about to be abducted by a dementedly old man.

Rick only recognized her because his girlfriend had invited him over while babysitting so many times. According to Laura, Mallory was a needy brat with a superiority complex far beyond her years, but Rick couldn't know. He'd never talked to her. However, it was indeed very odd for Mallory Higgens to be ridding the one-thirty Night Line bus, especially with an older man. Her grandparents were dead. He was sure of that much. So who was that beside her?

There couldn't be any harm in checking. But was it really his place? The chances of that sweet-looking old man being a crazy kidnapper were slim, right? Did he have any real reason to worry? Mallory looked okay enough, a bit tired, sure, but alright.

So he sat down beside Heather, sighing.

And then he saw it.

The old man’s hand creeping up Mallory's left leg, too far up, way beyond a friendly-knee-pat, and an eerie black smile. Mallory jumping in her half-sleep, looking down confused at her skirt, blinking and not understanding what was going on; old fingers slipping under a pink sweater, Mallory laughing because it probably tickled, crude old eyes shining with pure delight at the fortune that had found him on the bus this evening, and a calm voice telling Mallory it was alright, little thing.

Rick's eyes fell open. While he wasn't very good at looking what he felt, which at this moment was extreme horror, he was certain that his eyes were wide, even if only a little bit wider than normal. His father had talked to him about it, after Rick had said for the hundredth time that he was fine and that the frown on his face was just the way his face looked, that there was nothing he could do about it, and to please stop asking, dad. But his dad had told him to practice, as to avoid serious misunderstandings within the outside world.

And considering the scene directly in front of him, right now was totally the ideal time to work on his facial expressions. Not. He should help, shouldn't he? But it wasn't like he really knew Mallory all that well, and it wasn't like the old man was physically hurting her—maybe they were just really really close family? (Yeah, that had to be it, because god forbid you do anything right, noble, or just.) It's wasn't his fucking problem! Who cared if Mallory got abducted and molested? Laura had said she was a little bitch anyway!

So Rick Coffman sat there, eyes closed, and let the old man walk off the bus with Mallory Higgens in his arms.

--

Grisha smiled with purely polite, hidden hatred at the Stewardess to his left, who wouldn't shut her howling screamer. She also, unfortunately, didn't seem to be able to comprehend the fact that he was Russian and therefore could not speak anymore than ten words in English. Not that most Russians couldn't; hell if he knew whether they could or not, he hadn't been home in eleven years. He did, however, know that his languages were limited to German and Lithuanian, which were two really pretty languages, sure, but not very practical when your parents decided that shipping their only son out West was the best idea sense Blitzkrieg.

"... has the best beaches and malls and—oh! You have got to see the giant theater on Jerome Street! It's got..."

Grisha tried to block her out, but his ears were too sensitive. He couldn't block anything out, ever. Sleeping was a nightmare, because if there was any kind of noise he'd lay awake all night, staring at blackness and listening to the hum of some assorted ventilation system. Soothing, low and monotonous to some people, maybe, but for him it was like a butter knife cutting metal. Impossibly executed, so it went on forever and ever, sharp and ridged.

"You'll just love your host family! I've met them! They live in this great neighborhood right next to the local high school, and you'll get to play with kids your age and no one will care that you're—"

"Gusch, bitte," he said, sighing.

The Stewardess looked down at him, and upon staring at his put-off, tired face, it clicked. "Oh! You don't speak English, do you?" Grisha could tell it was a question, but he merely shrugged and grinned. She patted his brown hair. "I'm sorry."

Grisha tilted his head up towards her, smiling lightly, because he knew what ‘sorry‘ meant. "Machen Sie sich k—" and he tripped, left foot missing the second step of the stairs off the plane, having no idea they were even there. He fell onto his face, nose hitting the edge of a step, breaking and bleeding. His forehead slammed against the side of said step, readying itself for a bruise, and the top of his head hit the railing as his body veered sideways, sliding down the wet stairs.

The Stewardess calmly, though embarrassed, ran down after him, holding her skirt in her fists. "Grisha!"

"Ich... bien fein," he mumbled into rainy, cold steel when the Stewardess placed a warm hand on his back. He tried to lift his head, but pure pain kicked at his neck, pulling him back down to the steps. He groaned. "Ungelogen."

"I'm so sorry! I forgot..."

How do you forget?

--

Porbeagle Shark

Mallory Higgens was asleep in Mr. Murden's (one keen old child-molesting man) arms. The air was warm, the month being June, and the moon was out, screaming its light across the ashen streets, stealing magnificence from the Allegory-telling fountain to their left. Water was spewing out of stone-Oedipus's eyeless eyes, around his ankles and drowning the people of Greece, his mother on her knees and crying. Apollo was above them, sun in one hand and harp in the other, smiling, laughing at poor blind Oedipus Rex.

Not that Mallory Higgens new anything of Greek Mythology, and even if she did—she was asleep. The fountain beside them would have merely been a weird bundled of stone and water to her, dazzling in the light of the moon and the warm haze of a Sunday summer night.

She yawned and buried her orange head into an old shoulder.

Mr. Murden cleared his thoughts. It was better not to think too much on what he was about to do. It wasn't like he wanted to—he had to. It was the only way to feel better. Feeling better was all that mattered now, the doctors had said, do whatever makes you feel better, Mr. Murden. So he was.

Kneeling quietly beside the lulling hum of flowing water, Mr. Murden began lowering Mallory toward the fountain, little fingers dragging along his wrinkled shoulders and orange head falling downwards. Mallory mumbled something in her sleep, face sharpening when her left cheek hit the cool water. Silent as a snail, helpless in her young years and completely unaware that she was going to die in her young years, she smiled.

"No... daddy..." Mallory tried to push away the water like it was a person, and she giggled. "No..."

Mr. Murden's face lit up and he pushed Mallory's head under, grey fingers retching through a few layers of skin, grinning when bright green eyes snapped open. Under the water, Mallory couldn't make a sound. Under the water, Mr. Murden would never get caught. Feeling better was so good.

"Oy!" came a sharp cry from behind him, wry and wrought with wit. "What're you doing?"

Mr. Murden ignored the voice. He smiled at Mallory's wide open mouth; breathing breathing...

However, following the soothingly smart voice, came a loud, obnoxious one: "Hey, old man! The hell are you doing!"

He then found two hands on his shoulders, pulling him backwards. Mr. Murden fell to his rear, hands slipping from Mallory and onto the pavement. He looked up, Spiderman-and-Marry-Jane-kiss-style, into two pairs of hard eyes, one full of too much thought and the other quite obviously lacking therein.

The two boys, nearly men if only they'd stop fighting each other and maybe try fighting the bad-guys, glared down at him. The one with bright, off-blond hair, who in no way at all resembled a fox despite the six whisker-like scars on his cheeks, grinned happily at him.

"We'll be taking the kid, okay old man?"

The black haired, taller, angrier, and ironically sweeter one picked Mallory up from the water, holding her softly against his chest. She was crying. He looked down at the yellow haired boy, wondering why fortune always seemed to leave him empty. They finally get a chance to just be with each other, and they run into a child-molester. An old, balding, child-molester.

He rolled his dark eyes at life. "C'mon, idiot."

The shorter one stood up, Mr. Murden's blank eyes following him. "Don't call me that, bastard."

"Then don't be one."

He stared confoundedly at the backs of the two boys as the began walking away, shoulders brushing and witless comments flying back-and-forth like a tennis ball of bad humor. Then, before either ninj—I mean boy could notice, Mr. Murden ran out of the park, yellow eyes shrieking because he hated hated hated getting caught.

The taller boy, skin almost whiter than a lily-flower and definitely just as delicate, turned around. Reaching into his left pocket past the condoms and the kunai, he pulled out a white, boring plane ticket. The old man undoubtedly needed a trip to Hawaii more than he did, anyway.

“You—” he started, but Mr. Murden was gone. He blinked at the empty space.

The yellow haired boy turned around also; grinned and scratched his head. "He... he got away."

Mr. I'd-rather-be-molested shrugged and ripped the plan ticket in half.

Naru—uh, the blond stared in complete shock at his raven haired lover. He almost forgot how to speak, not that he was very clever at it even when he could remember, fighting a red haze over his scarred cheeks. "Y-you're... staying?"

Bitter calm black eyes met with blunt blue ones, and looked away as to refrain from melting into a puddle of endearing lust. "Shut up, idiot."

And Mallory Higgens burst out in tears.

--

Six hours and one very sexy dream on Kyle's part later, Joey woke up. Okay, okay, I'm lying. Correction: Joey woke up wrapped in a half-naked Kyle, breathing in the wonderful sent of man-chest, and wondering how much longer he had before Kyle woke up, because after he did, Joey was sure he'd be kicked out of this room faster than Stephen Harper could run from Global Warming.

He had to ask him something first, though. Hopefully Kyle would be too sleepy to refuse a direct answer. Or, if not, he would definitely be too under-Joey to run. Either way.

However, because this story needs to last a lot longer, Victoria came stomping down the hall and kicked Kyle's bedroom door open, Heather, Lucy, and Rick trailing behind her as she thoughtlessly entered the chamber. She grinned.

"Look who got hit with the gaayy stiiick!"

Lucy poked Joey's head, which was still buried Kyle's chest. "Looks like you bagged ‘im, sexually deviant twin of mine."

"How'd you know I's awake?" he mumbled, pushing himself away from Kyle.

She rolled her eyes. "We're twins. We have that special-mega-mind-bond-thing going for us, remember?"

"Ah, right." Joey moved to his back and propped himself up on his elbows, grinning with unsteady, dizzy eyes at Lucy. He yawned. "Well, if that's true, you should know what we did last night."

She put a finger to her head, titling it sideways, and stared at Kyle. Then she smiled. "Obviously nothing, or he'd be crying to Jesus Christ, asking why God made him such a dirty little homo."

Joey cracked up and fell back onto the pillow, eyes closed and laughing. It felt like forever sense he'd talked to Lucy. Actually, it felt forever sense he'd done anything but hang around Kyle. While this fact was great, unbelievable really when Kyle's general (pathetic, cookie-crumbling) homophobia was considered, Joey missed his sister, his family.

And his friends.

All three of them.

He'd have to make a point of finding them on Monday.

"Kyle..." Heather said softly, poking his black messy hair. "Hey, it's your big day... wake up." He swatted her long fingers away, groaning, and threw the sheets over his head. "Oh real classy." Heather smiled smugly at her apparently sleep-deprived friend. She turned her back to the bed, bent her knees, and sprang up and backwards with a girly squeal.

Kyle grunted like a female crocodile in labour when Heather landed on his stomach. "Fuck!"

"Happy Birthday!" She sang. Then Heather turned to face Kyle, sitting firmly on top of him, legs crossed over his stomach. "You're sixteen!"

"And you're dead!" He said, voice just as full of cheer but much, much more sarcastic. He sat up, and Heather intern fell back, head landing on the end of the bed, feet lost in the sheets that had once separated Kyle's bare belly from her ass.

Kyle turned to look at Joey, murky green eyes full of determination. He pointed at Heather.

"Sick 'er, boy."

Joey grinned and dived for her, pinching sides and grabbing for sock feet. Heather, however, being the superior tickle-fighter, over powered him and sent him laughing off the bed within seconds.

Kyle sighed and titled his head to look down at Joey. He smiled, lazy, lulling green eyes half-shut with sleep and a mellow tranquility. "You suck."

Joey felt his heart jump into his neck. How was he supposed to respond when Kyle was staring at him like that? He wasn't. He bloody couldn't. He simply stared back, smiled back, wondering if Kyle was feeling something, anything, because this was such a nauseating euphoria; watching him looking happy and wondering what he’s thinking about.

"As barf-worthy as this moment is," Lucy said, rolling her brown eyes at the boys, "I'm fucking hungry. Kitchen. Now."

Kyle stood up, head leaning forwards, dark hair curving down the back of his neck like melting ice, shoulders sagging—the air of his usual laziness amplified by a mere six hours of sleep. It wasn't enough, not for him. He needed at least twelve. He scratched his head. "I'm..." a long yawn. "...shower."

It was then, and not until then, that he caught sight of Rick. Questionably red hair, black eyes, rough face and a bony neck; taller and bored-looking. Always bored. Except, right now, Rick looked ready to kill him. Understandable really, considering Kyle had sworn he wouldn't turn gay on him after his mother left, and sworn again that he wouldn't, not after his brother was almost murdered for the eleventh time. But there Kyle was, standing naked next to a bed full of... Joey.

He tried to smile, but that glare was doing a lot to his happy-birthday mood. "H... hey."

Rick grabbed the door knob, took one final You're A Traitor From Hell And I Hate You More Than Hate It Up The Ass look at Kyle, and slammed the door shut in his face.

--

"Okay, look." Heather set her arms on the kitchen table, focusing in on a very confused Joey. "It's easy. You fill out an application, leave it here, Kyle's mom'll go over it, and if she likes you you're in. Simple. It requires very little effort on your part."

They'd been doing this for only twenty minutes, and Joey just couldn't seem to handle the complex world of Choose A Bride.

"But..." He slammed his blond head on the table, groaning. "What am I suppose to answer for: 'Why do you want to marry into the Shanning family?'" Joey laughed into the wooden surface, miserable. "I don't even know his family. I barely know him. And what about this one..." he shoved the fifth page of the application forum blindly towards heather, limp finger placed over question eleven:

How many offspring do you plan on producing?

Heather laughed and patted his fallen head. "Don't worry 'bout it." Joey looked up, hope in his brown eyes. "What you should be worrying about is that you're a middle-class boy trying to marry into one of thee richest families in the country. That looks bad from any angle." And he pathetically dropped his head back to the table.

"How m'I suppose to win at this...? There's no way she'll pick me..."

"Actually." Heather smiled and poked his neck. "You only have to make the top ten." Joey shot up, pure wonderment escaping his face. "Kyle's mom picks ten from the twenty-seven applicants, then Kyle gets to choose from those ten." Heather snorted. "Nice of her, huh?"

Joey sighed. "It's still impossible!"

"This isn't like you, queer." He shrugged and looked away. "You're usually so... full of yourself."

"Just tired."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Sure."

Short paused; awkward enough for a gay baby or two to be born.

Joey rested his chin in his hands, yawning. "How d'you know so much about this?"

Heather shrugged. "He's been talking about it with me for years. He's probably gonna be pissy all day."

"Hey, losers!" Lucy shouted from the other end of the kitchen, purple hair tied back and knife in her left hand. "You want some fuckin’ food or what?"

Joey smiled, sadly.

Lucy, Heather, Joey, and Victoria ate, rambling about whatever shit teenagers ramble about at eight in the morning, trying to ignore the fact that Kyle and Rick had been upstairs for more than an hour now.

They had stuff to work out, Joey figured; he didn't really know. He barely knew anything about their deep, life-long-buddy-buddy-corn-tasticly-platonic friendship. It wasn't that he didn't care, because he did, and he could fucking see how upset Kyle was about it, but Rick really really hated him. That was as clear as Jesus was black. So he was a bit timid, cautious. Joey didn't want to fuck up Kyle's life, but he didn't want to leave it either. Really didn't want to leave it.

"Hey, brotherin of mine." Lucy poked her fork into his arm. "Heather's talking to you."

Joey shook his head and stared wide-eyed at Heather. "Hn?"

She scoffed, light and snotty. "You're just as bad as he is!" He smirked, knowing she was referring to Kyle. "Anyway, I was saying that we're going shopping today, since I know you don't own a suit."

"Shopping?"

"Yes. Shopping." Heather rolled her eyes. "Like at a mall?"

Joey's face fell, inert dread filling his body to his toes. "Suit?"

Heather laughed. "Obviously! You can't expect to beat all those girls dressed like a gender confused hippie!"

"I don't dress like a gender confused hippie!"

She poked his nose, smiling. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"D'you think..." He looked to his left, batting her hand away. "I mean, would I look good in a suit? I'm sorta... not pencil shaped." Joey was surprised after saying this. Since when did he care how good he looked? Why did he feel so awkward? He wanted to win, sure, but where was all this self-conscious bullshit coming from?

Heather simply smiled again. "You'll look fine. Victoria's good at this stuff."

Victoria nodded, her mouth full of egg. "I ah I ah!" (I am I am!).

"I'm going too," Lucy said, waving a bored hand in front of Joey's eyes. "For, uh, emotional support."

"So you're going to throw in helpful comments like 'that one makes you look like a fifty year old pregnant woman'?" Joey asked, grinning at his sister.

"Yes." Lucy paused, pretending to consider the proposition. "That's it exactly."

Twenty minutes later, they were gone, leaving Heather alone in the kitchen.

She needed to talk some sense into her bothered boy friends.

--

"So..." Kyle said, sitting on his bed in nothing but a towel. "How's your dad?"

Rick glared at the ceiling, laying on his back on Kyle's couch. "Fine."

"Brother?"

"Fine."

"Um..." Kyle scratched his head. "I—"

"Don't."

Kyle sighed, angry. "But this is stu—"

"Don't."

"Well why the fuck did you come here if you don't wanna talk about it?"

Rick snorted. "I don't talk to faggots."

"Yeah." Kyle laughed. "And you don't bargain with zombies."

"Shut up!" His body became quickly erect, dark eyes wider than usual. "How many times do I have to tell you? They'll hear—"

Suddenly, like a conveniently placed interruption, Kyle's bedroom door flew open, slamming against the wall with a loud, wooden whack. Heather stormed into the room, long red hair trailing behind her like a cheesy cape and fists clenched, ready to hall some teenage-boy ass. Or talk maturely and rationally to the only two people she really considered friends. Whatever worked.

"Okay kiddies." She smiled, big and absolutely livid. "I'm sick of your little tiffy." She looked towards Rick, who was, at present, paused in mid-shock. "Let's start with you. What seems to be the problem, Reginald?"

Rick glared at the use of his whole name and sank back into the Kool-Aid blue couch. "Nothin'."

Heather snorted. "Riiight. And I'm the bloody Dali Lama."

A lazy finger emerged from the vast breaches of the couch, pointing towards Kyle. "I'm not saying anything to that ass-fucker."

Kyle's face reddened, taking no offence but plenty of guilt for the visual image that particular title implored on him. "I-I-I'm n–not—"

"Uh, yeah—you are." Rick's hand fell back into his stomach. "I was here when you woke up, remember?"

Kyle then, suddenly, found his own lap very interesting. "Y-yeah, but we didn't..." He stopped.

Rick stared boredly at the ceiling, feeling angry and stressed like a Med. student without coffee before MCATS. "Didn't what?"

"... you know."

"Nope. No idea."

Heather rolled her eyes and slapped Rick over the head. "Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not!" He sat up, face expressionless, but voice filled with an odd hilarity-horror ring. "You're the ones acting like idiots! Five days ago you were both on my side, and now... now you're off with those two!"

Kyle wanted to dive for his blankets and not come out until he was dead. He promised, years ago, that he would never do this to Rick. Not after his mother left. But he couldn't help it! Kyle tried to despise Joey with his entire being, tried to get away and not be kissed, but fuck! It was like suppressing a yawn, a cough, not blinking or breathing and stopping time all at once! It just wasn't possible.

Or so he told himself; after all, he'd given up within five days. Was he even remotely in control of his libido?

Heather sighed. "We're always on your side, Rick, don't be a jerk."

Rick Coffman couldn't take it. They were fucking lying! They weren't with him at all, they were off prancing around like little gay ponies and providing an overwhelming amount of corruption to small children everywhere. What could possibly be right with that? They'd both sworn they wouldn't support anything like this the night his mother left, because Rick wouldn't be able to handle it. He couldn't fucking handle it! His mother was dead because of bullshit like this! So how could his friends, if he bothered to call them that, do this to him?

Rick stood up, six-foot-two frame looming over Heather like a palm tree, heavy eyes focused in on Kyle because he might be super pissed, but he would never punch a girl. He took six steps to the bed, and Kyle stood up, being used to Rick's aggressive nature.

He swung for Kyle's face, but Kyle ducked, suddenly wishing he'd bothered to get dressed. It's not like he hadn't seen this coming. They'd always solved their problems by beating the living shit out of each other.

--

Victoria sighed, throwing another suit at Joey. "And this one..."

He jumped into the air, barely catching it with his head. Then, after a not-so-graceful landing, he toppled over sideways, suits and tuxes falling around him like badly pollution’d snow. "Oh, ow..."

Lucy snorted and kicked him lightly in the hips. "Dipshit."

"Shut up," he mumbled from beneath the mass of cotton-cloth and silk. It didn't matter if he hated this—and fuck did he hate this—he was going to beat every single goddamn female tonight and drag Kyle into holy matrimony.

And then it hit him.

Marriage.

If he won, and he would, what did that mean for his future? Would University even be an option? Or would the Shanning Clan simply store him away in that house for all of eternity? He had dreams of his own, plans and places he wanted to see, a life he wanted to live. Would being betrothed ruin that? Was he fucking signing his soul away here? Hell, could he really... give it all up? Joey wanted to see the world, do something with himself, not stand barefoot and pregnant in a kitchen the size of the Taj Mahal for nine months every year until he turned grey and started balding! But Kyle was so... what? Nice to be around? Not likely.

He shook his head and stood up. Might as well ask about it instead of losing brain cells trying to think of an answer he didn't know.

"How... how does this work?"

Victoria didn't look away from the racks of suits when she answered. "How does what work?"

"Like..." Joey bent down and started picking up the suits. "If I win, what happens?"

"You get married, you fucktard."

Joey sighed. "I know. But when? After high school? Next week? And, if I marry him, is that it? I just follow him around like a sheep until I die? Or can I still, like, go to Med school—o-or whatever..." His voice faded. Why was this making him so nervous? Wait, wasn’t that a stupid question? Getting married at fifteen would be crazy!

Victoria stopped raking through forests of suits, lost in thought. She smiled and shrugged. "I really don't know."

--

Kyle, while pulling up his jeans, threw his body left and dodged Rick's fist by two and three fourths of an inch. He grinned sadistically, dim eyes wide like headlights and muscles snapping like bubblegum as he ran across the kitchen, looking for his t-shirt. He'd managed to grab some clothes from the laundry room and haul his ass to the kitchen before Rick had found him again. Now all he had to do was get dressed without getting his face pounded in the floor like the first human nail.

"Stop running, faggot!" Rick barked, voice caught between anger and severely-out-of-breath-ness as he skillfully threw a third pillow in Kyle's general direction. Kyle dove under the table, and the pillow knocked over its center piece, glass falling in large chucks like coconuts from a palm tree. They hit the floor and shattered, only missing Kyle's eyes because he was somehow bright enough to close them, but mysteriously not bright enough to have caught the pillow in the first place.

His mother was going to kill him.

Unless Rick did first, however.

"You're both idiots," Heather mumbled from the counter, trying to stay out of the way.

Kyle shrugged at her from under the table, grinned again, and dove over the glass for the oven. His fingers graced the hem of his t-shirt, the one with a piece of toast applying jam onto its toasty self, but Rick yanked it away.

"Come on Rick!"

"Do you give?"

Kyle stood up and glared. "No!"

Rick grabbed both ends of the shirt, pulling. "Are you sure?"

"Don't!" Kyle reached out for it, but Rick jumped back. Grinning, happy and angry and so fucking betrayed, Rick pulled just a little tighter. Kyle nearly hit the bottom of Jesus’s feet when the snap of thread hit his ears. "Stop it!"

Rick paused, cynical. "Do you give?"

"Fuck you!"

"It wasn't me you fucked last night!"

"We didn't do anything!"

"How m'I suppose to believe you, huh?" Rick grabbed Kyle's shoulder with his right hand, raising his left behind him, fisting. "You ass-fucker!"

Kyle didn't bother moving. He probably deserved this anyway. He let Rick punch him in the jaw three times before falling to his knees, and didn't budge when Rick pushed him to the ground, beating his face into the tiled floor like play-dough. He placed one knee on Kyle's stomach, grabbed his neck and pushed said knee into his gut seven times, heavy and thudding like a dull knife. Kyle was starting to feel pretty numb and his world began to look pretty black, something like when you just wake up and you stretch too hard, so when Rick missed his bruised belly by a few too many inches downwards, Kyle hardly noticed.

Five minutes of face-pounding later, in which Kyle was barely conscious and Heather had left sometime before, Rick stood up. He stared boredly at his handy work, being much less than able to concern himself with facial expression while such an ugly amount of hate raged around his fingertips, shutting off his brain from the world and darkening his eyes. Said handy work, Kyle, was passed-out on the white floor, nose bleeding, naked chest bruised, and also just as completely shut off from the world.

And Rick Coffman bolted out of the kitchen.

--

Laura fell off of the couch when her cell phone rang.

"Shiiiittt..." she whined, placing a sleeping hand on her head. She, while cursing God and all He stood for, pressed the talk button on her phone. "Who the fuck—"

"Laura," Ricks voice cut into her melodrama like rum to a pure tongue. "Where are you?"

Her mood brightening when she heard her boyfriend's voice. She smiled, yawning lazily as the sun filled the room and washed over he face. "'M at the brat's. Why? What's up?"

"Can I c-come over?"

She blinked when his voice cracked. "Uh, yeah sure. Are you—" but he hung up. Laura dropped the phone pathetically to her side, sighing and smiling. "Fucker."

--

"Can you tell us your mommy and daddy's names, dear?" A cop with a balding head asked Mallory, coffee-stained teeth staring at her like thirty-two cats who, due do the horrid stupidity of some people, had been allowed to ingest Viagra in great quantities.

She nodded. "M-M-Mark an'... um..."

"Yes?" The cop asked, kneeling down to look up at Mallory, who was seated on a green couch and wrapped in a blanket. "And your mommy?"

Mallory blinked up at him, unsure. She knew what a mommy was, sort of; Julia was like a mommy, right? But Julia didn't live with them, and besides, Julia was her aunt. Aunt Julia, not Mommy Julia, so who was her mommy?

Being unable to answer, Mallory pulled the thick blanket over her head and closed her eyes.

--

And by eleven-thirty, Rick was tripping through the door of Mallory Higgens's house, shaking. Why'd he have to be such an idiot, huh? What the hell was wrong with him? Beating the living crap out of Kyle because of something stupid like that! Wait, stupid? It wasn't stupid! Kyle fucking deserved it! That mother-slut-of-a-hooker's-dildo! (what?) Rick couldn’t handle it, hating his best friend, beating him into the floor and watching another faggot hurt someone he cared about. Except, Rick had hurt him, hadn't he? Had Joey ever? God, he'd break that kids neck if he had.

"Rick?" Laura called from the basement. "That you, babe?"

Rick smiled and sat on the stairs, looking down at her big blue eyes. "Yeah. Hey."

"Hey." Laura pointed at the couch. "Sit?"

He nodded, quite used to her talking to him as if he were a caveman. Single, short, simple as white-and-black words, topped with a cute smile and happy cheeks. That was Laura. Perfectly boring Laura Cain.

She flopped her head on his lap like a wet towel after he sat down, forcing his big hands in her brown hair. "So, what's up?"

Rick sighed. "D'you know... Kyle's gay?"

She jumped. "What?"

"Yeah..." He scratched the back of his neck, remember the bruise on Kyle's. He looked at the television to his left, awkwardly. "...Yeah."

"What the hell?" She snorted. "With who?"

"Uh..." He slammed his head to the spine of the couch, eyes closed. "That Joey... guy."

"And Heather's with his sister now, right?"

Rick wasn't sure, but he thought 'with' was a little strong. They seemed to more hate each other than anything, but he opened his eyes tiredly and said, "Yeah." because he didn't really care (you cared enough to almost kill—). What was the point? They could betray him. What-the-fuck-ever.

"I take it you're not doin' so hot, then." Laura frowned and poked his nose. "Don't worry 'bout it. I doubt he's really gay."

Rick suddenly wanted to punch her. That, however enjoyable, would've be mean (and you've been such a nice guy today). So he decided to voice his anger, though he couldn't explain its origin. "Wh—"

The electronically more-ruined (if such a reality were even possible) sound of Soulja Boy came flying out of her cell-phone before Rick could speak, however, filling the room and super-manning a few hoes—despite the fact that ‘superman’ is not a verb.

"Hello?"

"Hello. This is the local Police. Have we reached the cell phone of Laura Cain?"

Laura blinked. "Um, yes. Wha—"

"Are you aware, Miss. Cain, that the child you are suppose to be watching is currently with us uptown?"

"What?" Her mouth fell open and she sat up, away from Rick. "No way. She's in her room."

The male cop on the other line snorted, and assumedly passed the phone to someone.

"H-h-hello, Laura," Mallory Higgens said, clearly crying her crystal green eyes into pools of salty terror.

Laura froze when a car pulled in the driveway.

“Oh shit.”

--

Joey Klein, having been not much of a girly-guy and more of a meterosexual with homosexual-visual interests, such as Kyle Shanning or Viggo Mortensen (but yet not enough of a metrosexual-homosexual to be considered a hypersexual menace to society), had found himself quite lost in the River Court Mall. This horrible, though expected on his part, reality occurred sometime between lunch and Victoria saying don't move your blond ass we'll be back in a second. He had, after thirty minutes, decided to ‘move his blond ass' in hopes of finding a phone, before realizing that his cell phone was in his pocket.

He had pulled it out, and it rung.

It had been his dad. Mr. Kline, in a panicked voice think with sleep (or lack thereof), told Joey to hurry to the hospital because Alison was sick again last night, and he had no time to take her home this afternoon. Joey grumbled, agreed, and after getting a retail clerk to point him out of the mall, headed toward the hospital.

It wasn't a big deal. Alison got sick a lot—almost twice a week—but it wasn't good, and Joey knew that. His mother had had the same thing when she was little; constant ear infections, flues, head colds, anything minor like that, but in huge quantities. It was nerve racking the first three times, but after two years Joey had gotten used to it, rushing to the hospital from school to pick her up because dad had work and mom was 'busy.'

He sighed and flopped down in the reception room, looking from light blue wall to dark blue wall, waiting.

--

"Sh-sh-shit, Matt. We don't—"

Matt placed a rough hand over darker lips, pressed his mostly-naked body into a darker clothed body, against a green wall and under René Magritte's The Son of Man. He kissed a black hair covered forehead, held Darel's arms just below the elbows and whispered but I love you about six times before Darel couldn’t take it anymore and latched his fingers around Matt's waist, pulling him closer and staring with quiet, angry want.

He was only angry because they didn't have time to be doing this, and Matt knew that, and Darel knew Matt knew that, but he was still shoving him against the wall like a fucking Hungry Hungry Hippo.

"Matt," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady, but it cracked.

"Darel." Matt smiled, blue eyes clear but clouded like the ocean, blond hair crimped and curled and short, wavy like heat-waves on a Sunday afternoon. Darel thought he looked like a Barbie most of the time, especially times like this, except unambiguously male and veracious, substantive, veridical, allegiant—real. So atrociously, honestly real that Darel could almost ignore the fact that he was, in actuality, a dirty butt-slut with a libido bigger than the Japanese Alphabet.

"You're—" Matt leaned his head down and kissed Darel, fingers kneading up the back of his green t-shirt, which plainly showed Lorenzo Romano Amedeo Carlo Avogadro di Quareqa edi Carreto's number under a grinning purple mole, and Darel shivered. Matt backed off a little and sucked on his bottom lip, slid both hands from Darel's back to his butt and grinded their hips together, pushing Darel into the wall and also successfully pushing his ass into his hands.

Darel grunted, sort of mad but mostly turned on, and placed a milato hand on Matt's naked chest, lightly. And when the nipples on said chest indurated and Darel's fingers felt them do so, he blushed. But he stood on his toes and leaned into Matt's lips, trying to be forward because he knew he could be—that he wanted be. When Matt's fingers went to unbutton his jeans, Darel's head was forced to his chest, and he could hear Matt's heart, thudding quickly; excitement growing like the weed in Amsterdam.

Matt stopped just to look at him, lucid eyes focused on black ones. "Fuck..." He swallowed. "Darel, I—"

Their precondition, prerequisite, necessity, want, desire, formal-foreplay before fornication—whatever—was interrupted, along with Matt's poorly-constructed-due-to-a-very-hard-erection sentence, however, by the phone.

Matt's eyes went from can I please have you? to a deadpanned fuck the world before the end of the first ring, and while Darel blinked his euphoria away, Matt yanked the Nintendo-controller belt fully off of Darel and threw it at the pissy box emanating ring! ring! ring! ring! ring! ring!

He laughed and pulled on Matt's hair. "Ignore it."

"We can't." Darel fell against the wall and traced circles on Matt's stomach, black hair covering his think-rimmed glasses. Matt's voice was still shaking. "It's probably the airport. We have to pick the Russian kid up, remember?"

Darel looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Actually, I couldn’t tell you why, but it completely slipped my mind."

Matt commented on the unhealthy effects ODing on irony could have on a person, especially one who lacks any normal amount of coolness, such as Darel, and picked up the phone.

It was the hospital. Apparently, Grisha had broken his nose.

--

The same time a nurse came downstairs to tell Joey he could pick up his sister, Joey's phone rang. She then told him that if he wanted to use his cell phone, he'd have to take it outside. So now Joey was outside, sitting on a bench, pressing the talk button.

"Hello?"

"Joey!" Lucy shouted, excitement stabbing her voice like forks into a Christmas Stake, because a bad simile was the only was to describe her enthusiasm. "Guess what!"

Joey grinned, having an idea. "What?"

"You maadde it!"

"Top ten?"

"Top ten."

Victoria's voice came next. "But now we've gotta train your ass."

Joey blinked. "Eh?"

"Just be home by three, okay?"

He said okay and was promptly hung up on.

Three minutes later he was holding Alison in his arms and told to get out of the hospital, please, because we know you're gay and probably full of AIDS. At least, that was the feeling he got from all the glares and that one old man spitting on his heels, but who knew? Maybe they didn't like his hair.

Joey smiled at his little sister, who was giggling and drooling up at him. "Looks like you get to meet Kyle, Ally."

--

Mr. Higgens tripped into his front indoor-patio at two-forty-five, landing face-fist into a pile of dirty-magazines which he'd asked his boss to please take back, because he lived with a three year old girl and she was a very impressionable three year old girl. But his boss hadn’t, and she never would. She seemed to think he needed porn to relax, that he was tense and neurotic, and he definitely wasn't! He wasn't lonely either, but she'd never accused him of that.

He just wasn't over Emily yet.

"Mal? You awake, hun?"

Something was wrong. Mallory always came running at him, full speed ahead, face covered in boogers and slime from god knows where. But the blue kitchen was silent, still, and more disturbingly, it was clean.

"Mallory? Laura?"

Mr. Higgens, at a debatably healthy thirty three, jumped when Laura stepped into the room, eyes dark.

"I, uh..." She looked to her left. "I fucked up, Andrew."

--

Monica almost did three consecutive back flips when she saw Joey Kline walking down her street with a baby in his arms. She'd been thinking the entire day about how she was going to win Kyle, what should could do to get Joey kicked out because he was a guy and guy's couldn't be brides. Kyle didn't deserve to be shammed like that, after all—clearly it was her duty to save him!

And this was just so perfect.

"Joey!" she called, white hand cupping the side of her mouth. She waited until he looked across the street, brown eyes landing on her head hanging out of an open window. "C'mere a sec!"

Joey, being ever-so-sweetly-trusting and a bit of an idiot, walked across the street in pure curiosity, because didn't Monica hate him?

"Whassit?"

She smiled and placed her head in her hands, sighing. "D'you need a ride to Kyle's?"

Fighting the urge to ask her if she intern needed to be more fake, Joey shook his head. "No thanks, I have to go h—"

Monica grinned, evil and, well, evil. She placed a thin hand over his mouth. "Let's try this again. D'you need a ride to Kyle's?"

Joey blinked, felt Monica grabbed for Alison, and suddenly understood.

Her hand backed off and Joey nodded, slowly. "Yeah, sure."

--

Kyle rolled to his front and felt his bloody nose sting with the dust in the air. Three things were eating at his brain: One, where was he? Two, why couldn't he see? And three, where did everything smell like Joey?

He groaned and sat up, hoping someone would hear him. Wait a fucking second, was he wearing shorts? He reached down and grabbed his thigh—short shorts? What the hell?

"Kyle?" Lucy's voice, softer than usual, floated to him. "You awake?"

He snorted. "What am I wearing and why can't I see?"

Lucy snorted back. "You're welcome."

"Eh?"

She shook her head, the act meaningless. "We're in Joey's room. Don't ask beyond that. Heather said it was safer here. Safe from what? I'unno."

Kyle threw himself back into what he assumed was Joey's bed, taking a deep breath because he was tired, not because it smelt erratically intoxicating. "What... ever."

Lucy grinned. "And you're wearing his clothes because Heather thought it would be funny." She laughed at his red cheeks. "He'll be here any minute, you know, and then you'll get to see him all decked out in a tux, just for you."

Kyle smirked. "I'd be careful, Ms. Kline, about how much you piss me off."

"Eh?"

"I know every little thing Heather thinks about you." He sat up again. "I might just decided to never let any of it slip, if you keep going like this."

She laughed and sat down beside Kyle, brown eyes gleaming at him. "And I know every little thing Joey thinks about you, Mr. Shanning. In fact, I know every little thing you think about him, too. So shut up."

"Bullshit." Kyle folded his arms. "I don't—"

Heather kicked the door open, out of breath, red hair frizzing over he warm cheeks. "We need to move."

"Eh?" Kyle and Lucy said at the same time.

"Kyle, take that blindfold off. What were you two doing? Playing S&M again?"

"You don't play S&M, Heather." Kyle grinned, childish, especially in the shorts. "You live it."

"Shut up, shut up!" Heather shook her head, needing to focus. "We have to go!"

"Why? What—?"

"Monica got to him before I could, Luce. He's..."

Kyle remembered Monica. Oh, he remembered her alright. Ms. Here Let Me Choke Your Boyfriend. Monica Anna-Lynn was the best candidate for him to marry, Kyle knew, and that pissed him off. She was perfect for him; well-off and pretty, smart, funny, perky and absolutely conniving. The best wife for any rich-man. She'd do anything to get her way, leech up the social-latter like a snake with Prada shoes and feet to fill them, up his back like a monkey with a bell ringing in his ear every single goddamn day. Reminding him that he was owned by this perfectly terrifying bitch.

Monica would also, he didn't doubt, be very quick to figure out that yeah, Kyle liked Joey. She seemed quick like that. And what would she do with this easily acquired information?

Kyle knew.

"Where the fuck is she?" Heather and Lucy blinked at him, sitting blind-folded on Joey's bed, jaw pulled tight and head pounding with his heart. "I'll break her fucking neck if she touches him."

I uh... yeah. 9700 hits for this story. O.o Why do you people like it? It's so... un-realistic xD I mean, buses that run at two in the morning? Betrothed at sixteen? Whaa? It's fun to write, though. I'll keep going if even only one person likes it. It's harder now, because I need pretty marks to get into grade eleven, but I'll always update. I am also beta-less again, so if it's not rude of me to ask, any takers?

Oh, anyone who can tell me the names of the ninjas in this chapter… gets… um… my next one-shot dedicated to them? Yeah. Or I can read something for you—unless you find my writing atrocious.

(Disclaimer to borrowed anime characters goes here.)

Thanks for reading and please review!

—Insomiak(heart).