A/N: Wepdiggy. Now there's a name I haven't heard in a long time. Okay, so I probably messed that Obi Wan/Ben Kenobi homage up horribly. But something about tonight's Chuck made me want to do something I hadn't done in a LONG time. Write a fanfic. I don't know that I've ever written something in response to an episode so soon after watching it. Well, except for that whole Chuck Me Monday thing, but that was the point of that contest. Anyway, hi everyone. I'm Wepdiggy. Remember me? Hope you enjoy this new tale, about the cutest homicidal maniac in the history of fiction! Oh, and one more thing. For the record, this was written very, VERY quickly. Like, I started at 8:05 CDT, and finished it at 8:16. So, yeah, any mistakes and all, you understand, I'm sure.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, but dammit if the writers don't give me glimpses of something I wrote about long before it ever showed up on my television screen. Still, don't sue me, bro. And one more thing, I don't own the Seven Habits of Highly Successful People. Not even sure I exhibit them. Ever. So also don't sue me, successful guy.

Adorable Psycho: Seven Words of Highly Dead People

It wasn't some skanky skank being skankalicious. It wasn't someone blowing up her car (she'd even let that slide less than a month prior). It wasn't even someone directly threatening Chuck's life (somehow, she'd even let that slide just the previous day). No, it was none of those things.

It was seven words.

The old saying is, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." But whoever created that saying had never met a fully recuperated Sarah Walker. Whoever that silly man was, he didn't know just how hard a jealous, psychotic, sex-obsessed spy would hit when she fell off the wagon.

Thirteen months of five-day-a-week therapy, all down the drain with six words.

"Try not to drop the bomb, Bartowski."

When non-skank Greta said that, Sarah snapped.

Oh, she'd come close. Even lately. Chuck forced her into a three hour, marathon session with Doctor Keith after her little "we could cut off Casey's hand" slip. But this was on another level.

Later, Chuck would swear he felt the climate shift, even under his massive bomb suit. He would tell her he knew exactly what was about to happen, but he was powerless to stop it.

Which was, of course, only partially true. He could play final fantasy with her. And not that stupid video game. The kind that involved certain parts of Chuck merging with certain parts of Sarah. Okay, perhaps that's a bit vague. So, yeah, he could plow her. Good and hard. Like a farmer during, well, who cares about some stupid simile. He could distract her with sex.

Heh, that's one thing being an intersect could never help with. Only Chuck had that particular "power."

Anyway, back to the point. That horse-riding-jackass had to go and cross the line, and a fury was unleashed the likes of some nuclear bomb could never fathom.

It started with a quick shot to the back of his stupid, perfectly shaped head. Not even the intersect could help him move quickly enough to avoid it.

Then it was time for Captain Skankarella. Oh, she tried to act all hard, but Sarah knew she'd been looking at Chuck the wrong way (which in Sarah's mind was any look). Clearly Sarah had to defend her turf.

So Sarah took supreme joy in battling Blondie Greta, hand-to-hand.

"Holy shit!" the military slut gasped. "I'm flashing but it's not doing anything. She has some sort of super strength. Colonel, help me," she pleaded.

Casey grunted. Kind of laughed. Maybe it was a grunt-laugh. Whatever. But he wasn't getting involved. He'd seen Walker in full-on murder mode before. He wasn't getting involved.

It was a shame the pretty Greta had to die such a gruesome death, Sarah thought. In a different time and place, perhaps she could've warmed Sarah's bed. But unfortunately for Greta, someone else had now occupied that role. Permanently.

But there was a silver lining to it all. Greta had nice legs. Maybe, Sarah thought as she carved the bitch into disposable pieces, she could have one of them stuffed and made into a lamp. Like that delightfully silly movie Chuck insisted they watch during the holidays. Chuck would probably like that.

Or he'd be freaked out by it.

But wasn't Sarah deserving of at least one piece of creepy furniture? After all, she had an irrational fear of that tobacco store Indian Chuck insisted on keeping. Why couldn't she keep a trophy of a particularly satisfying kill? And it would be a lamp, so it would even have a function.

It may take some persuading on her part, but Sarah was fairly sure she could get Chuck to see things her way. Maybe some airplane sex? She'd have to talk to Beckman about a far-off mission, so she could make it happen. Surely the general would bend to her will on this one. Especially after hearing she'd slipped. Again.

It was kind of great. Two Gretas down, and even by the rules of the old contract that hadn't been enforced or needed in some months, Chuck couldn't deny her a good tumble. Ain't life grand?

Only, it was then that Sarah saw some asshole airport security guard putting a parking ticket on the Sienna. She'd always had a distaste for meter-maids, and this bitch totally had it coming.

So as she pulled a knife from her ankle sheath, and let it fly in the direction of the unfortunate patrolman, and she felt more alive than she'd felt in a long time, Sarah had but one thought.

I'm back, bitches.

A/N: So there it is. Short and sweet. And hopefully creepy? I was going for creepy. Like maybe A Confederacy of Dunces meets No Country. That was my goal, anyway. So how was it? I'm really interested in feedback, seeing as I've been away from the fandom so long. Okay, I'll quit pestering you lovely people for a response. You guys are awesome. Peace.