Themed Writing Contest #32: Of Alcohol and Robotic Cats
Mar 22, 2017 19:06:11 GMT
neonquincy1217, Csigabiga, and 1 more like this
Post by boogum on Mar 22, 2017 19:06:11 GMT
Read on FFN here.
Word Count: 1977
Oh, wait, that was a good Viking. Er, uh, he liked guns and cigars and—
…
Crud. Where was the guide Gin had given him? It was so hard to remember what a good criminal agent was supposed to do sometimes.
Anyway, the point was that no matter how much he studied and followed Gin’s Quick and Dirty Tips to be a BAMF: a self-help guide for the hapless criminal (split into ten, easy steps, and only 1000 yen for a limited time), Vodka could not overcome his curse of being a lightweight. Even the “prissy drinks”, as Chianti called them, got to him too fast. It was only thanks to Gin’s mothering—ahem, careful monitoring—that he had been able to avoid making a fool of himself so far or revealing his secret. Gin took his duties as Vodka’s mentor quite seriously. Though the silver-haired man did swear a lot when Vodka made mistakes. And threaten to withhold treats.
Vodka didn’t like it when his treats got withheld.
But he digressed. There was a reason that he was especially lamenting his curse on this fine Saturday morning. One: he had a hangover and the gap in the curtains was letting in way too much sunlight. Two: there was a naked woman in his bed. Vodka didn’t mind naked women per se, but he did mind this one. She had short red hair and a tattoo like a swallowtail butterfly’s wing on her left eyelid. Only a man with a death wish would welcome such a temperamental, trigger-happy woman into his bed. Apparently, being drunk had made him join the ranks of males with no sense of self-preservation. A sober Vodka would have fled for the hills the moment Chianti had shown even a hint of sexual interest in him.
Darn it, this was why he had not wanted Gin to leave on that trip. Vodka always managed to mess things up when left to his own devices. But Gin had told him that he was a big boy now and did not need a minder. Gin had wanted to relax on his own during the long weekend (being the BAMFiest of all BAMFs was tiring even for Gin, it seemed), so Vodka had been given no choice but to suck it up and deal with it. A part of him had even hoped to make his bro proud.
Except then Vodka had ended up getting roped into a nomikai with some of the other agents (he was still learning how to say “no”). And then he had been pressured into doing shots with Korn and Chianti (again, being able to say “no” would have helped). He thought he might have passed out at some point, because he’d later discovered that someone had drawn on his face in black marker to make him look like Doraemon. Verboobs had been nice enough to give him some make-up wipes to help get rid of the marker (though she had mocked him the entire time), but still. That had been embarrassing. Vodka regretted that he had not stayed home to marathon Korean dramas. He should have known a nomikai (at least without Gin to mother—er, watch over him) would only bring trouble.
Alas, Vodka had not listened to his instincts. Worse, instead of taking a taxi home after the Doraemon incident, he had got dragged off to a new bar for a nijikai (really, it was most inconvenient that he couldn’t say “no” to people). Granted, this had actually worked in his favour in the beginning. He won several arm-wrestling competitions and earned the title of Iron Arm the Unconquerable, so even though he’d still had traces of a robotic cat drawn onto his face, people at least stopped calling him Doraemon. Unfortunately, Chianti had then decided to take a fancy to one of the other pub goers (the sniper was very drunk by then and had reached what Korn called her “cat on heat” stage). It was also no surprise to anyone that she had got rejected (the guy had run away screaming that she was insane). Needless to say, all hell had broken loose.
Vodka wasn’t sure how Chianti ended up coming back to his apartment. He’d been awfully drunk and everything was rather hazy after she had smashed a table—yes, a table—over some guy’s head. But the fact remained that the redhead was now in his bed. Naked. It was most alarming. True, he was still wearing his underwear, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
He frowned at the woman sleeping next to him. Just what had happened after the nijikai to cause this unwanted coupling? He and Chianti were co-workers, but there had never been any sparks between them. Not that he thought Chianti was ugly. She wasn’t as nicely endowed as Verboo—er, Vermouth—but he still found the redhead attractive. At least when she wasn’t acting crazy or threatening to put a bullet through him. And maybe that was the problem. He knew Chianti too well. She was terrifying, temperamental; in fact, she was pretty much the poster girl for Girlfriend from Hell. Heck, even the random guys who took her fancy and had no reason to think of her as a trigger-happy psycho still sensed that she was the human version of a praying mantis.
Fact was, with Chianti it was always better not to “tap that”. Except it seemed that he had. Just the thought made him break out in a sweat. Chianti might look cute in his bed: all relaxed expression and creamy skin, but it was a ruse. A honey trap designed to ensnare. Vodka knew that he was a dead man. He would have already bolted if they weren’t in his apartment (he couldn’t exactly escape from his own house).
Chianti made a soft sound and shifted in the bed. Vodka froze. Her eyelashes fluttered open and then her gaze zeroed in on him. There was a moment where they just stared at each other. Vodka was annoyed to feel his cheeks warm a little. He wasn’t used to this whole Morning After thing—especially not when the person involved was his co-worker.
“Uh.” He cleared his throat. “So, uh, er—”
He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. Did he wish her good morning? Say something about the sex he could only assume they’d had but which he couldn’t remember? If only Gin’s guide to BAMF-ness had a section on what to do for this scenario.
Chianti snorted. “You still have whiskers on your face.”
Vodka’s blush darkened and he rubbed at his cheek. The sniper seemed to think that was enough of a greeting, because she got off the bed—not even attempting to cover her body—and demanded to know where she could find the toilet. Apparently, her bladder was in need of relieving (though she phrased it in a less polite way). Vodka pointed out the door for her. Once he was alone, he struggled to pull himself together.
Maybe it was just his ego talking, but wasn’t she acting kind of weird? Chianti didn’t seem to care at all that they’d had drunken sex together. Even when she returned from the toilet, she didn’t bring up the matter. Instead, she declared that she was hungry and hoped he had some decent food in the house.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, still feeling a bit at a loss. “But—”
Chianti wasn’t listening. Her nose scrunched and she sniffed her arm. A word that sounded a lot like “buck” escaped her lips. “I still smell like vomit.”
Vodka blinked. Okay, he was glad that Chianti wasn’t about to turn all Praying Mantis on him; however, the fact she cared more about relieving her bladder or that she smelt like vomit was a little upsetting. He was still a guy with feelings. Just because he didn’t remember what had happened between them last night didn’t mean that he wasn’t troubled by it. Seeing Chianti dismiss the whole thing as nothing—not even worth talking about, in fact—was not helping.
“You’re really not going to say anything?” he demanded.
Chianti scrunched her nose even more. “Eh? What are you talking about?”
Actually, her question was more like “What are you CENSORED talking about, you CENSORED CENSORED?”, but that was beside the point. What mattered was that she was still playing dense.
He gestured between them. “Well, uh, normally wouldn’t this be an issue? We’re co-workers.”
“What? What do you mean ‘this’? And what does the fact we work together have to do with anything?”
(Again, censored words have been removed)
“I mean this.” He made more awkward hand gestures.
Chianti huffed in irritation. “Do I look like I speak the sign language of idiots? Stop pussy-footing around and get to the point!”
Now it was Vodka’s turn to get frustrated (and blush). He couldn’t believe she was making him spell this out. “I mean the fact we had sex last night!” he exclaimed.
There was a long pause. Chianti’s eyes widened, then crinkled, and then she burst out laughing. In fact, she laughed so hard that she clutched her stomach, struggled to breathe, and even got a few tears in her eyes. Vodka felt extremely annoyed. It wasn’t that funny, was it?
“You’re such an idiot,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “As if I’d have sex with a gorilla like you.”
Vodka opened and closed his mouth like a fish that had just been pulled out from water. “What?” he finally managed to say. “But you were naked in my bed, and—”
“You vomited on me,” Chianti said bluntly. “A lot. Vomited all over yourself as well.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re lucky I took pity on you. I was tempted to just leave you after you passed out.”
He floundered a bit more, not sure how to process this new scenario she had painted for him. “Then why were you in my bed?”
“I was drunk and didn’t want to sleep on the floor.” A shrug. “What does it matter? We didn’t have sex, so stop getting your panties in a twist like some over-sensitive virgin.” She turned away from him. “Anyway, I’m going to have a shower. I smell like vomit and that pisses me off. You can start paying me back for my kindness by making me breakfast and getting some clothes prepared for me.”
Vodka was still gaping like a fish when the bathroom door slammed behind her. Then he repressed a whimper. “Aniki, hurry and come back.”
Gin would know how to fix this problem. Because this was indeed a problem, regardless of what had happened last night. The fact remained that the redhead was in his apartment, had no qualms about bossing him around, and seemed to think he owed her favours. In short, she was a devil who had come to claim his soul through the guise of friendship, and he wasn’t sure how to get rid of her.
Vodka sighed and ran his hand through the bristles of hair that covered his head. Next time, he was definitely going to just stay home and marathon Korean dramas.
A “nomikai” is basically a work drinking party. You don’t have to drink alcohol at these functions, but it is pretty much expected you will attend. It’s also a chance for co-workers to let loose and enjoy each other’s company outside of the normal work routine. “Nijikai” is like an after party when people (usually) split off into smaller groups to get drunk(er) at another bar, etc.
“Doraemon” is a robotic cat from the popular manga series Doraemon by Fujiko F. Fujio.
Word Count: 1977
Of Alcohol and Robotic Cats
Vodka had a secret. Despite being part of a criminal organisation with a penchant for naming agents after alcoholic beverages, he was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. The hard stuff went straight to his head. It was like being struck with the finger of Dionysius: one second sober, the next drunk off his face and talking to the ceiling like it was his best friend. Ah, not that he was the type to talk about Classical gods. He totally didn’t have a major in that. Because he was a good criminal agent who just liked weapons and conquering and pillaging and—Oh, wait, that was a good Viking. Er, uh, he liked guns and cigars and—
…
Crud. Where was the guide Gin had given him? It was so hard to remember what a good criminal agent was supposed to do sometimes.
Anyway, the point was that no matter how much he studied and followed Gin’s Quick and Dirty Tips to be a BAMF: a self-help guide for the hapless criminal (split into ten, easy steps, and only 1000 yen for a limited time), Vodka could not overcome his curse of being a lightweight. Even the “prissy drinks”, as Chianti called them, got to him too fast. It was only thanks to Gin’s mothering—ahem, careful monitoring—that he had been able to avoid making a fool of himself so far or revealing his secret. Gin took his duties as Vodka’s mentor quite seriously. Though the silver-haired man did swear a lot when Vodka made mistakes. And threaten to withhold treats.
Vodka didn’t like it when his treats got withheld.
But he digressed. There was a reason that he was especially lamenting his curse on this fine Saturday morning. One: he had a hangover and the gap in the curtains was letting in way too much sunlight. Two: there was a naked woman in his bed. Vodka didn’t mind naked women per se, but he did mind this one. She had short red hair and a tattoo like a swallowtail butterfly’s wing on her left eyelid. Only a man with a death wish would welcome such a temperamental, trigger-happy woman into his bed. Apparently, being drunk had made him join the ranks of males with no sense of self-preservation. A sober Vodka would have fled for the hills the moment Chianti had shown even a hint of sexual interest in him.
Darn it, this was why he had not wanted Gin to leave on that trip. Vodka always managed to mess things up when left to his own devices. But Gin had told him that he was a big boy now and did not need a minder. Gin had wanted to relax on his own during the long weekend (being the BAMFiest of all BAMFs was tiring even for Gin, it seemed), so Vodka had been given no choice but to suck it up and deal with it. A part of him had even hoped to make his bro proud.
Except then Vodka had ended up getting roped into a nomikai with some of the other agents (he was still learning how to say “no”). And then he had been pressured into doing shots with Korn and Chianti (again, being able to say “no” would have helped). He thought he might have passed out at some point, because he’d later discovered that someone had drawn on his face in black marker to make him look like Doraemon. Verboobs had been nice enough to give him some make-up wipes to help get rid of the marker (though she had mocked him the entire time), but still. That had been embarrassing. Vodka regretted that he had not stayed home to marathon Korean dramas. He should have known a nomikai (at least without Gin to mother—er, watch over him) would only bring trouble.
Alas, Vodka had not listened to his instincts. Worse, instead of taking a taxi home after the Doraemon incident, he had got dragged off to a new bar for a nijikai (really, it was most inconvenient that he couldn’t say “no” to people). Granted, this had actually worked in his favour in the beginning. He won several arm-wrestling competitions and earned the title of Iron Arm the Unconquerable, so even though he’d still had traces of a robotic cat drawn onto his face, people at least stopped calling him Doraemon. Unfortunately, Chianti had then decided to take a fancy to one of the other pub goers (the sniper was very drunk by then and had reached what Korn called her “cat on heat” stage). It was also no surprise to anyone that she had got rejected (the guy had run away screaming that she was insane). Needless to say, all hell had broken loose.
Vodka wasn’t sure how Chianti ended up coming back to his apartment. He’d been awfully drunk and everything was rather hazy after she had smashed a table—yes, a table—over some guy’s head. But the fact remained that the redhead was now in his bed. Naked. It was most alarming. True, he was still wearing his underwear, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
He frowned at the woman sleeping next to him. Just what had happened after the nijikai to cause this unwanted coupling? He and Chianti were co-workers, but there had never been any sparks between them. Not that he thought Chianti was ugly. She wasn’t as nicely endowed as Verboo—er, Vermouth—but he still found the redhead attractive. At least when she wasn’t acting crazy or threatening to put a bullet through him. And maybe that was the problem. He knew Chianti too well. She was terrifying, temperamental; in fact, she was pretty much the poster girl for Girlfriend from Hell. Heck, even the random guys who took her fancy and had no reason to think of her as a trigger-happy psycho still sensed that she was the human version of a praying mantis.
Fact was, with Chianti it was always better not to “tap that”. Except it seemed that he had. Just the thought made him break out in a sweat. Chianti might look cute in his bed: all relaxed expression and creamy skin, but it was a ruse. A honey trap designed to ensnare. Vodka knew that he was a dead man. He would have already bolted if they weren’t in his apartment (he couldn’t exactly escape from his own house).
Chianti made a soft sound and shifted in the bed. Vodka froze. Her eyelashes fluttered open and then her gaze zeroed in on him. There was a moment where they just stared at each other. Vodka was annoyed to feel his cheeks warm a little. He wasn’t used to this whole Morning After thing—especially not when the person involved was his co-worker.
“Uh.” He cleared his throat. “So, uh, er—”
He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. Did he wish her good morning? Say something about the sex he could only assume they’d had but which he couldn’t remember? If only Gin’s guide to BAMF-ness had a section on what to do for this scenario.
Chianti snorted. “You still have whiskers on your face.”
Vodka’s blush darkened and he rubbed at his cheek. The sniper seemed to think that was enough of a greeting, because she got off the bed—not even attempting to cover her body—and demanded to know where she could find the toilet. Apparently, her bladder was in need of relieving (though she phrased it in a less polite way). Vodka pointed out the door for her. Once he was alone, he struggled to pull himself together.
Maybe it was just his ego talking, but wasn’t she acting kind of weird? Chianti didn’t seem to care at all that they’d had drunken sex together. Even when she returned from the toilet, she didn’t bring up the matter. Instead, she declared that she was hungry and hoped he had some decent food in the house.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, still feeling a bit at a loss. “But—”
Chianti wasn’t listening. Her nose scrunched and she sniffed her arm. A word that sounded a lot like “buck” escaped her lips. “I still smell like vomit.”
Vodka blinked. Okay, he was glad that Chianti wasn’t about to turn all Praying Mantis on him; however, the fact she cared more about relieving her bladder or that she smelt like vomit was a little upsetting. He was still a guy with feelings. Just because he didn’t remember what had happened between them last night didn’t mean that he wasn’t troubled by it. Seeing Chianti dismiss the whole thing as nothing—not even worth talking about, in fact—was not helping.
“You’re really not going to say anything?” he demanded.
Chianti scrunched her nose even more. “Eh? What are you talking about?”
Actually, her question was more like “What are you CENSORED talking about, you CENSORED CENSORED?”, but that was beside the point. What mattered was that she was still playing dense.
He gestured between them. “Well, uh, normally wouldn’t this be an issue? We’re co-workers.”
“What? What do you mean ‘this’? And what does the fact we work together have to do with anything?”
(Again, censored words have been removed)
“I mean this.” He made more awkward hand gestures.
Chianti huffed in irritation. “Do I look like I speak the sign language of idiots? Stop pussy-footing around and get to the point!”
Now it was Vodka’s turn to get frustrated (and blush). He couldn’t believe she was making him spell this out. “I mean the fact we had sex last night!” he exclaimed.
There was a long pause. Chianti’s eyes widened, then crinkled, and then she burst out laughing. In fact, she laughed so hard that she clutched her stomach, struggled to breathe, and even got a few tears in her eyes. Vodka felt extremely annoyed. It wasn’t that funny, was it?
“You’re such an idiot,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “As if I’d have sex with a gorilla like you.”
Vodka opened and closed his mouth like a fish that had just been pulled out from water. “What?” he finally managed to say. “But you were naked in my bed, and—”
“You vomited on me,” Chianti said bluntly. “A lot. Vomited all over yourself as well.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re lucky I took pity on you. I was tempted to just leave you after you passed out.”
He floundered a bit more, not sure how to process this new scenario she had painted for him. “Then why were you in my bed?”
“I was drunk and didn’t want to sleep on the floor.” A shrug. “What does it matter? We didn’t have sex, so stop getting your panties in a twist like some over-sensitive virgin.” She turned away from him. “Anyway, I’m going to have a shower. I smell like vomit and that pisses me off. You can start paying me back for my kindness by making me breakfast and getting some clothes prepared for me.”
Vodka was still gaping like a fish when the bathroom door slammed behind her. Then he repressed a whimper. “Aniki, hurry and come back.”
Gin would know how to fix this problem. Because this was indeed a problem, regardless of what had happened last night. The fact remained that the redhead was in his apartment, had no qualms about bossing him around, and seemed to think he owed her favours. In short, she was a devil who had come to claim his soul through the guise of friendship, and he wasn’t sure how to get rid of her.
Vodka sighed and ran his hand through the bristles of hair that covered his head. Next time, he was definitely going to just stay home and marathon Korean dramas.
A “nomikai” is basically a work drinking party. You don’t have to drink alcohol at these functions, but it is pretty much expected you will attend. It’s also a chance for co-workers to let loose and enjoy each other’s company outside of the normal work routine. “Nijikai” is like an after party when people (usually) split off into smaller groups to get drunk(er) at another bar, etc.
“Doraemon” is a robotic cat from the popular manga series Doraemon by Fujiko F. Fujio.