Disclaimer: Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.

Tight Pants Hurt...

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Which pair hurt God the most?

That was the question that ran through the rarely lucid mind of Farfarello as he gazed at the two choices of pants that lay before him. He was in the midst of an attempt to get dressed in apparel different than his traditional straightjacket. After all, those harsh, asylum-white tones went so poorly with his snow white hair. Erk, enough of that, he had to decide, not linger on the fashion presented to those that were certifiably insane.

Set before him were two pairs of pants, as aforementioned. The first was a pair of fine, tight-fitting, black leather pants. The second was a more comfortable selection of denim that hung loosely on his frame. Both were appealing to his offset tastes, so the madman had fallen back on the least sacred (and thusly highest held by himself) method of making his final decision: Whichever pair it was that hurt God the most would be the one he wore. It was, after all, his 'hobby' to cause Him pain, thus the decision would then be made while being perfectly in-character. So... Then, which pair was it to be?

On the scarred hand, he had the leather, which finely accented his scarecrow build. Fine bodily accenting encouraged random groping and unmarried sexual relations, which hurt God. Then again, any kind of sexual relations were the first step in reproduction, which pleased God. Unless it was that of two males, which often brought His wrath down upon them. Hmm... That would certainly be an accomplishment to add to his record if he managed that. Also, this pair of pants were made from true cowskin leather, which involved the wholesale slaughtering of God's innocent creatures for the specific service to man's undying vanity. In addition, tanning solutions often smelt bad and hurt the environment. Chalk up a further four painful points for the leather. And, to refocus on the more sexual points, tight pants were scientifically proven to decrease the sperm count of males, which therefore lowered the chances of successful reproduction, which, in turn, most assuredly hurt God. Then again, that was only true as long as the sex was not between two males, in which case more sperm might be preferred to promote mass waste of reproductive material. Yet... repeated sacrilegious acts of male sexual intercourse would make up for that lack thereof and further injure Him with the acts.

So, that was ten points for hurting God and one towards pleasing him in the closer inspection of the leather pair.

Next up! On the mutilated hand there was the pair of loose, denim pants. Denim being a fabrication of a loose society and provoking of licentious thoughts, and such immoral concepts were a double strike against Him. However, something that hung so loosely on his frame was not that encouraging of forbidden acts, an unpleasant point to him. Plus, apparel that was three sizes too large appealed only to the more punk variety of street gangs, which were good, generally, for only drugs. Such were painful to Him, but a more garden variety of pain, rather than the soul wrenching hurt that Farfarello preferred to inflict. Of course, there was the possibility that some random jerk on the street might decide to pull down such too-large pants, and if he chose to wear nothing underneath, that could lead to a public display of his, er, assets, which society would frown upon. Especially if such happened in a church; certainly that would displeasure Him.

Farfarello scrunched up his nose, pausing in his thoughts. Thinking this much always gave him a headache. And, in the end, who really knew that hurting God required so much damn logic?

Frowning in his characteristic, debating, psychotic fashion, Farfarello reached for the leather pants. They hurt God more. Yes, that was it. Tugging them on, he finished the outfit with a loose red shirt, the color of freshly spilt, delicious, gourmet human blood.

Finally satisfied that his apparel was sufficiently painful to God, the Irishman emerged from his combination cell and room (only $599 while supplies last!) and moved towards the kitchen. Perhaps an early morning electrocution would be a pleasant way to start the day... And the toaster was the perfect applicant to pull off such a feat.

Approaching the tilled food preparation area, the madman was greeted by the repeated sound of something striking flesh and a variety of interesting and unique German curses. Peering into the kitchen with his single amber eye, Farfarello was greeted with what could have been considered an odd sight, had it not been seen within the walls of the Schwarz household. Crawford was seated at the small dining table, trying to enjoy a cup of coffee, which was normal enough; it was that which was interrupting him that was odd. Nagi, his face the ever impressive mask of calm that it was, was standing by the refrigerator, his midnight blue eyes confused on a certain fire-haired telepath. Schuldich was, in turn, glaring between the telekinetic and his own hand, which was mysteriously and repeatedly raising to smack himself upside the head.

Farfarello resisted the urge to roll his single eye. It seemed that the German had opened his big mouth yet again and annoyed the Japanese boy. Also yet again. And whatever it had begun as, it had dissolved into an endless round of the boy causing him to strike himself, with each new hit eliciting a dead voiced repetition of the phrase 'Stop hitting yourself' and a sharp German retort, in most cases clearly meant to insult.

Moving past the odd pair, the renowned psycho paused long enough to look directly at Schuldich. "Self injury hurts God," he informed the telepath before continuing on to claim a seat at the table.

"Shut up, Farfa-jello!" Schuldich snapped in return, resorting to immature insults in his displeasure. Meanwhile, he seemed to also be concentrating on how to stop his hand from its constant assault on his skull. Hopefully he would not result to his usual method, for the doctors had assured them that, while they could and did reconstruct the bones of his hands the three times they had needed to so far, they could not do so if he shot himself a fourth time. Well, at least Crawford had not yet reached for the phone to call for emergency medical personal; that was one of the positives of having a precognitive leader was that he just knew when his followers were about to shoot themselves in the hand (again) and thus could call 9-1-1 beforehand to save time (and fingers).

"Nagi!" (fwap) "Mein Gott, little bastard!" (fwap) "Come on, stop!" (fwap) "Please?" (fwap) "Braaaaaaaaaaaadley!" (fwap) "Nagi's making me hit myself!" (fwap) "Again!"

Looking up from his coffee, Crawford had to bite back a sight. It just wasn't fair, honestly. Why did he have to get stuck with the three before him? Just... not fair at all. "Nagi, release Schuldich's hand," he ordered, eyeing the teen, who sighed and freed the German's hand. Cue one smug look from said German. "And Schuldich, desist in your teasing of Nagi and his 'supposed' XXX-chartroom fetish." Cue one pitiful German pout. "I mean it." Cute the puppy look, along with a poor, dejected sniffle. "Do not make me shoot you." Finally, cue one pale telepath's decision to retreat. There. Case closed. Perhaps now he could enjoy his coffee. Reading the paper was out of the question for the moment, for Farfarello had noticed the story on the pope and was slowly ripping the entire edition to shreds. Like he had said... It just wasn't fair. And there went his stock reports...

Spying the almost pained look at the destruction of the stock quotes, Farfarello reigned in a grin. It wouldn't do to have the insane one grin, after all. "Newspaper does not hurt God," he announced in simple explanation.

"On the contrary," Nagi spoke up, rescuing what remained of the paper with his telekinesis. "The newspaper displays untrue stories for millions to read and blindly hold as the truth. Such lies hurt God, thus the newspaper does."

Farfarello almost paled at that. Damn kid and his logic; he was right! Had the Irishman been Schuldich, he would have begun whining to Crawford about Nagi being mean and perhaps demanded make-up sex from the American. However, Farfarello was neither Schuldich not suicidal, so he merely stood.

"I am going to go hurt God now," he said simply, changing the subject. Seeing and hearing no complaints, he headed towards the door, cheering himself up by praising himself on his choice of pants.

Oh, yes, tight pants hurt God...

- owari -



Author's Note:
Heh, this fanfic idea came from a discussion between me and my sister about tight pants, which quickly turned into a Weiß discussion, considering my obsession. Thanks to Kirana (said sister) for helping me find words when I got stuck. *facefaults*