Warnings: Satire.
Psychology. Ensetophilia. (I rather like that word.)
Disclaimer: I can only
claim responsibility for this inconsequential, sense- and meaningless
little fanfic travesty, not Weiss Kreuz itself.
Kudou Yohji, Sex God of the Suburbs
It was Tuesday, and as always on Tuesdays, Yohji was horny. His first
thought was to find Omi, but the boy was nowhere to be found – not even
in his usual hiding places beneath the stairs or under the sink. Maybe
he was growing trickier with advancing age. Too bad, Yohji really liked
him.
Ken was out playing soccer or doing soccer players. Probably. Yohji
hadn't been paying attention when he'd rambled on about his plans for
the day over breakfast, but he figured that, since Ken mostly always
played soccer or did soccer players, it was a fairly safe assumption.
Aya was locked in his room, and apparantly he'd had a door with a steel
core and frame installed when Yohji wasn't looking. Very painful. Also
very frustrating, because – as Yohji found – even a severely bruised
shoulder doesn't do much to cool your ardor when your name is Kudou
Yohji, Sex God of the Suburbs (most clubs downtown had for some reason
begun to close for the night at the most unreasonable hours. Quite
unpredictable, too, because it seemed that no matter when he arrived,
they would just be closing down admission).
Anyway. Yohji didn't really like sleeping with Aya all that much – he
always wanted to dress up in his sister's school uniform, and Yohji had
standards. Aya's legs were terribly hairy, and rather knobby around the
knees – short pleated skirts were just wrong for him. And judging from
the smell of chemicals escaping into the corridor from beneath the
reinforced door, Aya was touching up his roots again, so he'd be all
red-eyed and puffy from the fumes. So really, no loss there.
What to do, what to do?
After short consideration, Yohji looked up Schuldig's address in the
phone book – good job there was only one "Schuldig, redh. Grm. telep.
assassin, by prior appointment only" listed – and took a taxi. Bad
luck, though – Schuldig wasn't home either, and it seemed like Yohji
had only just missed him because there was still a cigarette burning in
the ashtray on the sofa table, next to the mug of coffee and book.
Yohji helped himself to cigarette and coffee, but found the book much
less interesting than tying Schuldig to the curtain rods would have
been (apparently it was a psychology textbook – Schuldig had written
scathing comments in the margins and drawn jeering faces next to some
paragraphs with captions such as "like you'd know a borderline
anankastic personality if it bit you in the ass, you dumb fucker").
He'd gotten new rods, too, Yohji noted. Well, he'd kind of had to. They
looked much sturdier than the last set, but that one wouldn't have fit
the wider windows in the new apartment, anyway. A shame the man himself
wasn't there.
There was a banana skin lying on the sink in Schuldig's kitchen. Yohji
eyed it for a minute or two before going into action like the decisive
and flexible man about town that he was.
Improvisation and bold innovation were the key to success, after all.