Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Yohji's Bad Day ❯ Bad Day Lamented ( Prologue )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimer: Weiß ain't mine. 'nuff said.


Yohji's Bad Day


I was having one of those days.

You know the kind I'm talking about. Like when you where back in high school. You'd accidentally oversleep, miss your ride, lose your homework, only to arrive at school to discover that today's the day of the big midterm, which you'd conveniently forgotten to study for. And then (oh yes, there's more) you'd finally make it to lunch and think, "Thank god, I can finally start to relax," but along comes your best friend who announces that his parents have decided to move to Calcutta because (this is the best part) they think you're a bad influence on him and want to get him as far the hell away from you as they can.

Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe you are one of those people with sickeningly perfect lives who have never had a bad day in their existence. The type who considers a stressful day one spent trying to decide whether to use pink or blue stationary while writing their 'thank you' notes (yeah, you know who you are.) Well if that's the case, then get the fuck away from my story, because it's not for you. Go find something else to read, like "Chicken Soup for the Kid-Whose-Goldfish-Died's Soul" or some other inspirational crap like that.

I digress.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was probably having the suckiest day of my life. Now don't go bringing up stupid obvious points like (insert sarcastic whiney voice here) 'Gee, what about when Asuka died? That must have been a worse day, huh, Yohji?' Well, duh. Of course that sucked more. But I'm trying to play up the sympathy here, ok?

I'll just skip past the gory details and bring you to the present where you'll find one very disgruntled Yohji Kudoh sitting dejectedly at the Koneko's kitchen table.

The first thought that goes through my head is, "God, I need a cigarette." My hand instinctively raises to my shirt pocket where the box of heaven-sent-chemical-bliss-sticks usually resides. Nothing. I scan my surroundings in hopes of discovering that I had absent-mindedly left them lying about. All countertops are devoid of my cancer-causing friends. Hmmm. As a last resort I check the junk drawer into which all lost articles seem to migrate. After about 20 minutes of futile searching I have no choice but to conclude that they are not there. Damn. That could only mean...I peer down the dismal opening of the kitchen sink's garbage disposal, and as I suspected, am met with the tragic view of shredded paper and water-logged tobacco.
"Fuck."
That genki brat might as well have left a note that said "love Omi" or something down there with them.

Ok, time for plan two. Where's the caffeine? The coffee pot is predictably empty. I mean, come on, did anyone really think that my day was going to pick up that easily? When a day goes this wrong, it's never satisfied until your entire life is in shambles. It's some obscure law of physics, I think.

A strip search of the cabinets reveals that we are all out of make-able coffee; fresh, freeze-dried, or otherwise.

Soda! Soda has caffeine! Please god, have mercy on my soul and let there be some sort of caffeinated beverage in the refrigerator.

I hold my breath as the door swings open. My hopefulness is rewarded by a pitcher of green tea and a plate of carrot sticks. Great. Just great. Aya was obviously in charge of groceries this week. Wonderful.

So lets see…Omi failed me. Aya failed me. That leaves Ken. My good ol' buddy Ken. Ken will come through for me for sure. I happen to know that Ken keeps a shoebox under his bed which is always filled with chocolate confections. Just what the doctor Yohji ordered.

Why does Ken keep his sweet addiction hidden in a box under his bed? To avoid the berating and teasing he'd receive from yours truly on how a star athlete ought to worry about his figure, etc, etc.

Heh. Is it any wonder I was the private detective out of the bunch? Nothing gets past me in this house.

So here I am congratulating myself on my keen detective skills as I sneak up the stairs towards Kenken's room. I stop at his door and listen. Not a sound. He's either asleep or out. Excellent. I take care to oh-so-carefully turn the doorknob, ensuring that I will not disturb Ken, if by chance he's present and sleeping.

And the room is empty!
Score Card:
Bad Day: 215, Yohji: 2
Things are looking up.

Within minutes I have retrieved the glorified box from under his bed and am in the process of analyzing its contents. It's about twice as full as usual. Ken you glutton. Ah well, all the better for me. He's less likely to notice my raid. I break a square off a Meiji bar and pop it in my mouth as I sort though the loot. Hey! Coffee flavored chocolate! Put another mark on the Yohji score card. Ken, you are a lifesaver.

As my hand digs through the heavenly stash, I am met with something hard and flat. Weird. The box seemed bigger than that. I shouldn't have hit the bottom already? The box is quickly overturned and a shower of shiny wrappers fall to the floor. Thud. Several heavier objects land on top. They look like…magazines.

Magazines? Why would Ken keep magazines hidden in a box filled with secret candy? Interesting, interesting. I must investigate. Spreading the magazines out, I take a closer look.
The first thought that enters my mind is, "Damn. Those are some UGLY wenches!" The sex god that is Yohji Kudoh was not meant to look upon such ugly women. It's like, sacrilegious, or something.

The second thought that enters my mind is, "They're not just ugly, they're flat as boards! Don't magazines have any standards these days?"
The third thought that enters my mind (and this one's a dozy) is, "Ohmygodthosearen'tbroadsthey'reMEN!"

Score Card:
Yohji: -2, Bad Day: 38527.

Now, before you get on my case, let me say this. Considering the effeminate state in which Japanese celebrities seem trapped these days, is it really that surprising that I mistook these guys for gals? I mean, look at that Gackt guy. He's popular as all hell, and he wears makeup! Man, I swear. That dude is not a dude.

A quick flip-through confirms my suspicions that these periodicals where of the sketchy pornographic nature (not that I'm an expert in that field or anything, mind you.)

Oh. My. God.

Ken. Innocent, naïve little Ken. Reading porn filled with ugly dudes. Has the world gone mad?

A picture of Ken dripping in blood with bugnuks extended flips through my mind. Ok, maybe he's not that innocent. But you know what I meant.

I hear the downstairs door slam shut. Shit. Someone's home, I'd better cover my tracks.

The box's contents are quickly replaced, minus one sketchy mag.
I keep one for closer inspection at a latter date.
Yeah, yeah. Curiosity killed the cat, I know. But I want to find out to just what sick level of corruption my poor little Kenken has sunk.
Evidence of my activities covered, I make it safely to my room undetected.
The door locked, I toss the confiscated magazine onto my bed.

So much for nothing in this house getting past me.