[FFML] [Ranma/OMG] [Revised] NaRT4 II - Omake

Sun Sep 14 11:43:05 PDT 2008

NaRT4 - Part II: Omake

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Ranma ½ © Rumiko Takahashi, Oh! My Goddess! © Kosuke Fujishima, as well as any local licensee affiliates. However everything of my own creation connected to this story, including scenarios, titles, dialogue, text, and any original characters are © to myself, and may not be used without permission. Any similarity to existing people or organisations is entirely coincidental, beyond archetypal significance. No animals were harmed through the writing of this narrative. Constructive comments & criticism are very appreciated.

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Warning: 
The story will contain a great deal of potentially offensive, politically incorrect, unfamiliar, or emotionally challenging material, including disturbing characters and philosophies, swearing, layers of irony, and occasional graphic violence. Much of the text incorporates sweeping, tongue-in-cheek, over-the-top satire. Please use personal discretion, and do not enter without a sense of humour. If you can stand watching South Park or even the Simpsons, this likely shouldn’t present too much of a problem.

It’s also using a loose timeframe between scenes, much like the manga itself. Jumps may imply anything from a few hours to several days. The portrayals are almost exclusively matter-of-fact referenced in the source material, rather than any derivatives. 

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Like fingernails on a chalkboard. 

(Leave your trenchcoats and flyswatters by the entrance)

The tall dark stranger kept watch by the barely lit bar, as enigmatic figures of shadows and light interacted within the backdrop, barely tamed beasts caged by the violent smatter of pouring rain. He savoured mouthfuls of heavy smoke while awaiting his assignment. Pansies stuck to cigarettes. He knew better. Passive smoking was far more dangerous. He liked dangerous. 
A slinky dame strode in like she owned the floor, wearing a red tight dress, soaked and clinging to her every curve, and high, high heels to wade in through the ensuing puddle of drool in her path. An infant was stuck comfortably between her massive mammaries. It wore diapers, green-speckled, army-camouflage khaki-diapers. The stranger grunted in acknowledgement, sipped from his shaken, but not stirred, Jolt-spiked Dry Martini, and gave the blonde ice-queen a suave wink to thaw her cold, frozen heart. She sat down, mere inches away. He read her like a book. She was thrown aside, taken advantage of, forgotten, and needed strong male arms to protect and give her respite from this hard, cold, grim, rotten, ugly, twisted, pitiless beat that is life, to make a joint gravelly, hollow, numb, bitter guffaw at the great cruel joke, and chill demons to the core of their spines. He knew what she wanted, moved his arm behind her damp shoulders, passing much needed
 warmth to her chilled supple skin, held his lips next to her ear, and slapped her behind. Thank Chthulhu; he was so going to score some wanton horizontal nihilism-mambo.
The babe had a deceptively powerful right hook.

Hayato pushed himself up from the floor. “Yo V. mah homey! Whazzuuuup u magnificent archetypical bastard u! Howzit hangin’?” He vainly attempted to do a high-five.
The baby ignored the outstretched hand, and continued to guzzle from a small milk bottle leisurely kept within a completely toothless grin. “I have a job only you can do... classified, and highly illegal work.”
“Roxxxorz! Oy’ll go all Counterstrike on them punk camper asses yo! U lookin’ at da rooling champeeen yo’ mama taunt-feedflash über-pwnage sniper-stalker-terrorist-gangsta! Boom! Fyuh! Heeelp meee! Brrrrrrrrpppp-pichouw-pichouw! Aaah-haaa! Schmexxyyyy! Mama’s boy beeyatch pussies go beddy-bye wid frag-grenades. Nyeeeehhh!”
“Boy, do not talk the talk unless ya have any idea what the hell you are saying, and seriously reprioritise the things that bring ya pride. Now I ask ya: Have. Ya. Got. What. It. Takes?”
Hayato absentmindedly tried to fondle a booby. “Sure V-man, sure, whatevah u say. Wouh! Wouh! Bobobobombom! Sweet mama-jama! Oy = teh hotness!111 xD Realise! Pimp meee out ra-ta-tat!”
“DO ya?”
He dragged himself up from the floor again. “Wtf? Awright, awright, chillout, and unlag. Whachu bizniz gig ‘xactly? Oy gonna hax-bust some major stock-exchange databases, and send lame-o economies in a tailspin?”
“Naw, I just need an assistant old enough ta buy out whiskey and cigars. I tell ya, this reincarnation stuff really grates on ya after a while.”

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Hayato was getting wise in the ways of the world, as he travelled between nations. The dark, ominous and disgusting things he had to do would make grown men turn and twist in terror in their sleep.
“Hurry up, will ya! We’ve got places ta go, and people ta see!” Hayato steeled himself, plugged his nose, and started to change the diaper.

Sometimes, in the afternoon, just before his daily bedtime story at 6 pm, The Veteran would share some suspicious nuggets of random impulsive dementia. 

“It is said that ‘evil’ must be preserved ta maintain the balance, so we’re basically doing a community service. If anyone asks what said ‘balance’ is in a mathematical sense, why they never heard of this renowned scientific thesis, and how that works if ‘evil’ is a subjective definition, shoot the wise guy in the face.”
“Roflmao!”

“Power liberates.”
“Oy thought that saying went “corrupts”?”
“Same difference.”

“Pain is rage without energy. Meaning, it’s basically a sin in itself, and should be wiped out the hard way. The more ya cause, the more justified ya get.”

“Always have the utmost respect fer other people's crackpot beliefs. A target is a target, is a target. I don’t discriminate.” 

 Naturally Hayato eventually wanted a bigger piece of the action. “Fuck mah gaaaaawd! He-he-ha-ha! Bam! Oy wanna frag ‘em... Oy wanna frag ‘em... Wanna, wanna, wanna, wanna. Gonna mess them uuup!”
“I’m supposed ta be the greedy little kid here. Good things come for those who wait.”

And didn’t take well to the bouts of monotony: “Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere… Loookie theeere…”
“Kiddo, I know that the compulsively obnoxious nasal little douchebag bit runs strong in ya, ta the point where yer not even aware of doing it, but I’m this close ta putting ya out of everyone’s misery, and adding another chunk of medals to the collection.”

But eventually got cleared for some practice: “Look sonny, I’m not exactly in a position to judge, but what’s the point of carving “Kick me, I'm French!” “Whip me softly with a chainsaw.” “Hobo-culling in progress. Please stand by.” “Recipe for pancake: See below.” “Battlefields are operating tables, and the surgeon is in.” “You think that you had a bad hair day?” “The H-Man wuz here, but I wouldn't pay his beer.” “Unbreak my heart, and good luck with mopping up the mess.” “I'm a feeble grubby widdle whiny-boy brat. Mock me or fuck off!” “Blood for oil! Blood for oil! I’ve saved up a couple of gallons!” “Eeyy fugly faggot-nerd zero zero zero! Yo mama's so fine fer a 10-cent bitch!” “Mind your language. There are ladies present.” “Annoying? How gauche. I wouldn't wish to be annoying. Oh wait, I do.” or “Candygrams for Mongo.” into the bloodied backs of all these downed bastards, and rigging
 their orifices with explosives?”
“He-ha-hihf-hf-hf! Any artist worth his salt is insane, and Oy’m one of the best.” Hayato picked up a severed arm, along with a similarly detached head, did the “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.” squeaky voice, and used it to repeatedly slap the departed former owner in the face. “Stop hittin’ u’self… stop hittin’ u’self… stop hittin’ u’self. Ay-hu-ha-he-hi-he! Too-cool. ? Juust caaall myyy naame, caall myy name… Nuclear, Hitman Buddy Nuclear with license to thrill.”

The diminutive Veteran shook his head from the sidelines. “Naw trooper, there’s a certain rhythm ta these things. First make a pose, then torture and rape, then sermonize, then kill, and then make a snappy joke. Not the reverse, and frankly necrophilia is a tad disgusting. It’s do it right or die time.”
“Hayato stood straight, arms crossed over his chest, and his back facing the rising sun. “Do u feel lucky punk? Huh? Do u? Fuck dat shit! Rockin’ yo’ worl’ da retro way.” A violent beating with the shaft of a Colt Magnum ensued, whereupon he shifted the target to its stomach, and picked up a small triphammer… the less said the better regarding what followed. “Crime never pays bitch. The Great Old Ones bless us all.” He shot the unconscious man in the head. “In yo’ face muthafucka! Rest in pieces! And stay dead fool!”
“The punchlines need some serious work boy.”
“Everyone’s a critic man.”

“Khaaaaaaaaaaaaan!”
“That’s a pretty darned lousy war cry. It takes way more dum-du-du-dum.”
“Tetsuuuuo!”
“Naw.”
“Kaneeeeda!”
“Still no go.”
“Geronimo?”
“Too hackneyed.”
“THIS IS SPARTA!”
“Better. It hits all the right xenophobic and anti-academic strings.”

This was neural-fed VR. This was experience-point overload. This was n00b-pwning at its finest.

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