Title: Tala's newfound burdens

Rated: R

Warning: Language, Freaky Incidents, A very vivid description of Voltaire's private chambers, Contents from Kai's diary

Summary: (See Prologue)

A/N: Hi, Sasha.

Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade, or Peter Pan. If I did, Peter would be very different.

Chapter IV-

Drunken Tales and Desperate House-Prisoners

Kai roamed the wintery streets (time passes quickly, ne), pining for the attention of several good prostitutes. Annoyed at the vacancy of the stale alleys, he settled down in a capacious alcove beside a Novosibirskian book store, drinking from a half-empty beer bottle. The satisfaction of depriving a bitch of her hair a day could not quench his thirst for hormone-inflicted needs. During that time he had seeked shelter in various hotels pretending to be the Grand Duke of New York. Tee he hee. How gullible Russians are.

The sky soon grew inclement as an abundance of frozen rain descended upon the bleary scene.

"Bah, humbagh.. ." Kai exclaimed rather loudly, weightless white clouds escaping from his grim O of a mouth. The lightpost beside the cohesion of the other stores started flickering in apprehension, and gradually dimmed due to the lack of minus-thirty-degrees-weather insulation. So Kai was left sitting under a dingy front step, wearing nothing but his usual supposed-cool-guy attire and a heavy wool coat of some kind.

"Bah, humbagh.. ."

And because the author does not wish to indicate any further reference to the copyrighted Hans Christian Anderson novels, the image of Kai shouting out a number of future 'Bah, humbags' has been sophisticated-ly replaced by happy spotted bunnies dancing amongst a background of white lilian flowers. Dance, bunnies, dance! Shake what your mama gave you! Yes, yes. Quite sophisticated, yesh.

Ah-hem.

Terribly bored, the sadistic-Russian-beyblader-turned-pro-American-malicious-hair-ripper casually glanced around the street, hoping to find anything of interest. Averting the eyes of a stray half-frozen cat sitting on a windowsill, Kai smirked an impeccable smirk of interest when he saw a group of small boys huddled beside torn cardboard boxes right beside the bookstore.

'How come I didn't see them before? Argh-ness. Knew I shouldn't have watched all those playboy movies! Eraghh.Feh. And it wasn't even good. The girls were obviously faking...'

Drawing hither to the boys, Kai noticed with growing interest that the children were cadaverous in build, a common trait of the poverty-stricken Soviet Union. Each were wearing dull gray slacks and ripped shirts, each crying out for serious fashion help. Short and emaciated, they sat crowded around a small fire, eating some rubber-like pinkfood. Kai sighed unceremoniously and proceeded to get their attention. He was drunk, after all.

"Heyhey... what's a pretty boyzz like you doin' in a place like this?" Kai asked giddily, saying the perverted statement well after hearing it from Voltaire for so many nights before. The boys, four in number, trained curious eyes on the newcomer. Kai sneered as he saw their puppy dog-like expressions. Taking a seat right in front of the pitiful fire, the ex-Bladebreaker started to laugh insanely. For quite some time, actually.

"Um, mister, sir..." One of the frightened boys asked gingerly, raising a pale finger as if asking for permission to speak. Kai chortled and managed to attenuate his laughter. Wrapping a heavy arm around the two boys closest to him, Kai started grinning even more broadly.

"Shazupppzz... lemme tell ya a little story.." He began, slurring his words due to the orgy drunken-ness. The dark eyes of the boy on his right side gleamed with newfound enthusiasm.

"Ooooooooo... tell us 'bout Peter Pan, mister!" The blond boy exclaimed, tugging on Kai's black t-shirt with brittle fingers. Kai laughed in an insane way for the second time, causing the little boy to be very scared. Finally, with tears brimming his eyes, Kai began again, this time managing to sound serious, as serious as anyone can be after engorging eight cups of the pre-Russian version of Smirnoff Ice.

"Okey dokey, ma pokey..." Kai snorted, gripping the two hapless boys more forcefully. "Sure thang miss thang. I'll tell ya 'bout our lil' Pervert Pan. Ya see, Peter Pan really does get around. Just the other day I saw him in the kitchen. Little tinkerbell.. the slut.. tried to rape him! But, since we all know Peter Pan is gay.. .he was a bit scared. He dropped his poor little green hat into the toaster. I wanted to get it out.. really I did.. but Tyson came in looking damn sexy."

The boys exchanged confused glances. "What about Hook and the lost boys?"

"Well, then. Hook never wanted to kill Peter.. no not at all. He just wanted to make him his love slave. But when Hook did get a hold of Peter.. well.. he kind of hurt himself in a not so nice place with his own hook. Gee... zippers and hooks do not go well together don't ya know!"

"As for the lost boys,"Kai snorted loudly. "Peter pervert Pan gave them quite show. And not one they needed, mind you." He laughed again and slapped his knee. Suddenly, Kai began to laugh. Laugh really hard. In this moment of insanity he hit the window behind him, causing snow to spray all over his back.

Another Hallmark moment brought to you by Yours Truly.

o.O

O.o

Tyson stealthy crept into Voltaire's secret chamber, followed closely by the torch-wielding American Idol reject (Robert) and fellow devoted interpretive dancer (Max).

At first glance, the villainous Russian's chamber could have passed for Saddam Hussian's toilet had it not been so impeccably decorated with pink, uncharacteristic doilies and sprinkled with what looked like a substitute for fairy dust. There were no windows, and all other forms of outside communication had been cut off by the large quantities of strangely adorable novelty toys. Even the door had been nailed shut, a clear sign of paranoia and senility (this is where Tyson and a can of beans comes in handy). Several tubs of melted ice cream had been tossed in a webbed corner, collecting dust. The bed was in the far corner, not placed horizontally, but rather in a vertical, up-right vampire fashion. Anne Rice would have been in heaven.

As the three ventured into the gothic shelter, the displeasing scent of sour alcohol and various French perfumes caused stifled gagging noises to fill the polluted air. The floor was tainted in a strange sticky goo, producing unnecessary sound effects with each step they took.

"Bleh. It smells really bad in here…" The leader of the would-be assassination proclaimed, tiptoeing closer to the shadowed sleeping lump.

"Why thank you, Captain Obvious." Robert hissed under his breath, his non-torch-carrying left hand perched haughtily on his hips in copyrighted Marilyn Monroe fashion.

"Shut up, both of you. If it weren't for the breadcrumb trail left by Voltaire's previous victim, we wouldn't have found the entrance." Max retorted, and clawed through some more hideous doilies. "You do know that there's a line up to kill him. Just be happy that we beat the others."

In front of them, the slumbering man stirred faintly. Ignoring the sheepish words that erupted from the drool covered mouth, the intruders prepared to attack.

Unfortunately, like all assassinations go, there will always be an unforeseen, unplanned event that will result in serious emotional consequences.

"MR.WINKY BINKY?"

Max shrieked, pointing an inculpative finger at something ominously located in a spider-webbed corner. In the dispelling darkness, one could clearly make out the dismembered body of a stuffed bunny rabbit, its broken button eyes staring up accusingly.

First the strawberry jam and now this…

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE," The American screeched, nearing the chasm of moral insanity. Leaping off the ground with the might of an aroused politician, Max grabbed the still-sleeping (the man turned half-deaf after the Nirvana incident) Voltaire's neck and proceeded to strangle him. His companions watched with their mouth agape in awe and admiration as the infuriated boy continued to slash away at the guy's surgically preserved torso.

"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh," sighed Voltaire happily. No one had ever hugged him before. And to show his appreciation, he started to softly nibble on his "embracer's" arm, having somewhat confused the sweat-stained adolescent with the lead actress from Gilmore Girls.

"EERAAGGHHH," The blond victim of odious old man saliva groaned, trying to leap away but decided against it and tightened his grip on the neck in fervent devotion to his childhood snuggle toy. "HE'S EATING ME! Do something!"

After hearing Max's plea and verifying its sincerity, Tyson and Robert sprang into much anticipated action.

And thus, the dramatic adventures of Lard Butt Boy and Bad Fashion Sense Man ensues! While Voltaire was still engulfed by delirium, Robert climbed up from behind his coffin/bed and attempted to blind him with the discontenting sight of improperly worn polka-dotted German tights. But sadly, as his sugar pink stilettos were still in the Woman's Shoes Repair Shop, the blindness was only a temporary one. Next came Tyson, attempting a somersault for added dramatics before proceeding to park his most distinguishable asset onto Voltaire's unprotected face.

Someone's going to sleep well tonight.

------

New Years Resolutions:

1. Be more understanding

2.Get on the cover of Vogue Magazine

3. Make sure Bush doesn't get elected

Boris frowned and crossed off the last two goals. Hmn, better make that three.

Crunching up the yellowed scrap of paper and littering it in a nearby bush, he continued up the sidewalk.

People were staring at him again.

Inarguably irritated, the Biovolt scientist tried to compose himself in the most Boris-mature way possible (Which includes a chin held up in defiance, the struting of the rear, and several 'Hmmph's to top it off). But there comes a time in every man's life when such efforts to maintain one's nonchalance falls victim to rude little children with pointing fingers.

"What the hell are you staring at!" Boris screeched, projectiling a breath of non-digested fish sticks in the direction of a five-year-old boy who had been looking at him with curious eyes.

"WaahHHHHHHGGGGhhh! You meanie!" The boy bawled, lips quivering in accompliment to the tears spilling from his face. The boy's mother looked at the unpleasant man with daring eyes, before landing her hand onto his face in a forceful bitch slap.

"You should learn to watch your tongue!" The woman spat through gritted teeth before leading her emotionally weak son away. Boris spattered and stammered in rage. He grunted unhappily. He pulled his on his hair. He scratched himself in inappropriate places. How dare that impudent woman touch his smooth, well complexed face! And just after he had shaved! An absolute insult to his mandom!

"I'm gonna kill your ass..." Boris hissed under his breath. The woman's retreating back froze as she turned around in an intimidating fashion.

"What did you just say to me?"

"Um, I said I'm glad you have a killer ass." Responded Boris casually, giving off the impression that he was a heterosexual, which is most definately not true (Quote: "I like little boys who dance disco!" Tala better watch out .o') He then proceeded to make puppy dog panting noises to further emphasize his fabricated explanation, crossing the borderline of faking masculine passion. The woman seemed satisfied by his answer, and walked away proudly, holding the hand of a son that had just been visually scarred for life.

From behind them, Boris wallowed in his triumph. 'You still got it, old man! Still adept in the departments of lying, performing evil deeds, and dancing disturbingly!'

Without further encouragement, he let his head slant backwards to let out a tastefully malevolent 'Mawhahahahahahahaha'.

-----

Meanwhile, Tyson and Co. dragged the unconscious Voltaire into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on Creative Mode.

Armed with the imagination of a three-year-old on crack, they were more than prepared to inflict unspeakable injuries on their slumbering victim. But it wasn't until the arrival of a particular Chinese entity when they were all thrown into a turbulent panic. Afraid of getting caught with a half naked middle aged man who had been the result of Max's lesser known beautifying skills, Robert and Tyson hastily emerged out of the bathroom, shut the door, and waited to confront Ray's infinite curiosity.

"Hey. Can I use the bathroom?" The clueless Asian asked, making his way towards the door. The expression on the two gaurding the door told him otherwise.

"Oh. Is someone in there?" Ray asked, peering over Robert's shoulder.

"Um.. . Yes." Tyson stated unprofessionally, arousing suspicion.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. Max's just using the toilet. He'll be out soon." Robert chirped, starting to vaguely push Ray away from the scene. The intruder was just about to leave until a loud moan erupted from within the bathroom.

"Is he okay in there?" The feline inquired, trying to free himself from the German's grip.

"H-he's just got diarrhea. It's really awful - he's been in there for ages." Tyson improvised wildly.

Ray edged towards the door, ignoring Robert's desperate efforts to 'protect him from the smell'. "Max, can I get you anything? Some ice water?"

From the bathroom came a yell and an accompanying crash of china. "OH NO YOU DON'T! Aaargh! Oh yeeeruch! Stop it!" Evidently Voltaire had recovered from the Tyson episode.

"What is he saying?" Ray pressed his ear to the door. "Who is he talking to? Stop what? What is he doing in there?"

"It's...urm...very violent." Tyson grabbed the confused boy's arm. "The diarrhea, I mean. Don't worry, I think he's nearly over the worst of if."

"Not on my trousers!" Wailed Max. "Be still, dammit! Don't make me use force! And don't hiss!"

"Hiss?" Said Ray. "What... .?"

"It's the gas," Explained Tyson, steering the still oblivious Ray towards the alcove and down the hallway. "He's awfully flatulent, poor Max. And he's probably hallucinating...could you find him some more toilet paper? I'll go try to get him in bed."

As soon as his ex-teammate had vanished, the two conspirators opened the bathroom door and was greeted by a most displeasing scenery.

"I think you're going to need more than that.. ." Max stated quietly, wiping off some of the saliva/foam/vomit which Kai's grandfather had so generously tainted him with.

-----

Mariah and Emily were frolicking in the laundry (the only fun thing to do at Balkov Abbey) when a small blue book in Kai's room/dungeon caught their eye.

"What's that?" The American female asked, walking towards the door. Picking the notebook up from beneath several unmentionable materials, she started to open it when Mariah came running towards her in a seemingly idiotic fashion.

"You shouldn't do that. It's probably been boobey-trapped!"

"You're right. They're Russian, after all. Very suspicious of their visitors.. .. but let's open it anyways for the sake of boredom."

So they sat down on the cheaply varnished ground and started to remove it's cover, oblivious to the atrocities about to grace their eyes.

----

Sum it up in one word: Hell.

The one television program that has just the right amount of drama and flair… GONE. In Russia? That is beyond my level of comprehension.

So much to bitch about… lord, where do I begin?

Tala. Like always.

HIS CHEEKS. Enough said. Goddammit, grow a mustache!

Does he want to look like a five year old until he die? His baby-face is an insult to the manly-hood of the Abbey! Damn Tala and his girlish figure. I hate how this makes me sound. No, I'm not jealous. NO. NOT ME. That's right, Kai, denial. Denial is the KEY to any successful life. Right.

But his CHEEKS—

So pudgy.

So pinchable.

So pixie. Oh crap. Did I just think that!

Arghhh.

Wish I had the courage to pinch them. But he'll probably just run away. Like everyone else when I try to secretly pinch their baby-like cheeks. God, I'm lonely.

Whatever. Moving on…

---

Emily and Mariah exchanged horrified glances before bursting into synchronized laughter.

"This .. . is.. . GOLD!" The red head exclaimed behind a face streaked with tears. Behind her, Mariah seemed to have gone intimate with the floor as she rolled around chortling.

"We have stumbled upon something incredibly dangerous. We must protect it with our lives if we ever want to see daylight again. The information contained in this mere notebook is too nefarious for words. We must sacrifice it in a makeshift volcano on some desert island in the name of all that is private and humane."

"Or we can just read some more and see who wets their pants first."

"Fine with me."

And thus, the drama prolongs...

O.o