A/N: Oh, tee hee hee. Or something. I wrote this quite randomly, and I'm kinda proud of it. I really wanted to post this Namine piece, but it's SO LONG. So, basically I thought about typing it up but never actually did. And yeah, it's not like I'm totally procrastinating on Euthanasia. I have (most) of the chapter written....sort of. And really, it's not Kairi bashing, I swear. I like Kairi. Not as much as Larxene and Olette, but well enough.

AxelKairi; easy street

should i be impressed by how quickly you undressed?

Hey, little girl. You, with the cheaply dyed hair and the too-high heels. With the tight, trendy clothes produced by some designers with an unpronounceable name. You—you and your mouth all greased up with dollar-store lipstick and god knows what else.

I wanna ask you something.

Who the hell do you think you're kidding?

Maybe they can't see your face beneath the pancake make up, but I can. You're so young, girl, too damn little to be on the streets, strutting around like you own the place. Like your pastel stilettos and brand-name handbag will save you when some guy faces you head-on. You'll choke on your Strawberry-Peach-Cherry-Jasmine-Vanilla-Sugar-Instant-Diabetes perfume. You'll turn blue, but not before he grabs your face and slams it into the pavement.

Your Gucci scarves won't save you then.

Little girl, you're just another mortality rate. Swaying hips and high-pitched giggles. Barely there breasts pushed and shoved and padded to the fullest extent. You stretch, bend, and wink at the men passing by, bend over a little. Whores have got more delicacy than you, sweetheart.

And you wonder why that lady spits in your direction whenever she walks past.

Baby, you're a mess. Your hair stinks of peroxide and it hurts to look at you. It's hard to watch you bat synthetic eyelashes at anyone who glances at you. To watch you ask for trouble with a lipstick-heavy pout and a cocked hip.

But you're so confident, so ready. You're licensed to drive, you've got condoms stuffed into your bra.

You're a legal adult, sweetheart, but you'd be surprised how little that means to a rapist. I see girls like this almost everyday but you? Baby, you're the absolute limit. You girls all think you're something special, but you're all the same cardboard-cutout dolls with blank faces.

(All of you girls are the same--wide grins and shiny lips and round hips, bumping and grinding all over the sidewalk. Those girls like you, they get raped in the back seat of a cheap car that doesn't have air conditioning. You've just some old man's fly-paper hands pawing you, and you realize that your lip gloss doesn't mean jack shit.)

You've got a daddy with a big wallet? You're a vegetarian? So what, princess?

SO. WHAT.

I don't care if you wake up in the morning and piss excellence; none of that shit is going to save your Gucci-Prada-Armani-clad ass when you get jumped.

(The worse part is, you look like a girl I used to know, but god I hope she isn't you.)

You saunter around the street corners, getting too close to people and twitching away when their hands stray towards you. You've got the nerve to act huffy when a boy places his hand on your bony hip, swatting him away. But don't think I didn't notice you practically pawing his hand as he slipped you his number. And oh, aren't you just precious—peace-sign tattoos and Magic Marker smeared on your pale thighs, proclaiming "LUV IS FREE".

(And love is cheap, if you're offering it.)

You toss you hair over your shoulder (another wannabe redhead; they're an inexhaustible species) and bare your teeth at me. You look like you could be shooting a toothpaste commercial, and god I sure hope you are 'cause there's no way in hell that could be a casual smile.

(People who try to hard reveal it all in the shiny showcase of teeth, despite everything. Lie all you want, but your lips and gums and molars say it all.)

"Hey there, boy." You laugh-stammer-beg, fluttering your eyelashes at me. "You look lonely. No one as cute as you should be looking' so down." And then you turn, wiggle your not-there-behind at me, and teeter off. Still laughing. Still parading up and down the street like you're hot shit.

(I'll bet you anything that you're just bored.)

"Girls aren't like they used to be." sniffs Lady Disapproval, shaking her jowls at me. I agree, eyeing you as you come sauntering back up the sidewalk. A quick flash of your Crayola tattoos—the left arm says, "PEACE IS LUV".

The right, "ASK ME ANYTHING".

Ask you what, girl?

Why you're imitating hookers, or why you're fake from hair to toes?

Why you're smile is so desperate, and why your laugh makes me want to scream?

Or why you're such a joke?