Nope, I don't own. If I did... Actually that's too scary to think about. ::Eye twitch::

Warning: Sick humour.

I need thirty-nine more words. So I'm just babbling here. In case you can't tell, I'm trying to make this exactly one thousand words.

Inspired by the second line of My Chemical Romance's "I Never Told You What I Do For A Living."

Review please! Please?

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A picture is worth a thousand words…

Unfortunately, sometimes none of those thousand words are ones that you particularly want to hear.

Such was the case on Monday morning in the Eastern Command Center.

Jean Havoc was attempting the impossible, something that he'd been trying (and failing) to do since he was had joined the military and been assigned to Col. Mustang's squad: Successfully smoke a cigarette, eat a sandwich, and curse that Bastard Col. (yes, that is capitalized.)…

Drum roll please.

…At the same time.

Needless to say, he was still failing, as you can't accomplish anything when you don't have your heart in it.

And really, who wants to cut their heart out and put it in a sandwich?

"I do!"

Go away, Davy Jones.

Sorry for any bad mental images, if you want to get rid of thoughts of telltale sandwiches, then just drink steak sauce and I guarantee that they'll be gone, replaced with something much, much worse.

Anyway, his heart wasn't in it figuratively either, he would rather just curse that Bastard Col. until the cows came home.

Ew, cows.

So why was he eating a sandwich that had been "borrowed" from Major Armstrong, you ask?

Well, it's funny how you can suddenly develop an interest in something when a trigger-happy Lt. is holding you at gunpoint, telling you to get over the fact that the Bastard Col. stole your girlfriend.

For the eighth time.

'God, this sucks,' he thought.

The sandwich was like ashes in his mouth.

"Has anyone seen my grandmother's ashes? I put them in a sandwich, according to the customs that have been passed down in the Armstrong family for generations, but I seem to have lost it…"

The previous statement caused him too do the spit-take to end all spit-takes, splattering bread, cheese (YAY, CHEESE!), and ashes all over the wall in a pattern vaguely familiar to the remains of the Nina-Chimera.

Not that Havoc really cared, since by then he had gone through eleven bottles of mouthwash and was making short work of the twelfth, screaming unintelligibly about flying monkeys and evil sparkles.

After finally calming down, he bought a sandwich from some random sandwich place that had conveniently popped out of nowhere.

Then he proceeded to eat it, although he did accidentally drop it onto his desk when Riza fired her gun at the Col., who had apparently not done his paperwork.

He then tried to pick it up, but kept accidentally pushing it across his desk while he attempted to capture it.

That was ok, though, as his desk was cleaner than usual, although the mayonnaise (Which I can spell without using spell check!) tasted funny…

Especially since he hadn't had any mayonnaise on his sandwich.

Oh, well, back to the point.

The janitor must be finally doing his job.

He thought, shuddering and dropping his sandwich onto his knees when he thought of what happened last week when the fuse blew.

Oh, God, why did The Bastard Col. have to look so much like Riza from the back?

Never mind the entirely different hair colour and style, height, general body shape, and the fact that if you snuck up on Riza in the dark and kissed her, she would most likely shoot you full of holes before you could say "udbdioimigbkj!"…

Not that anyone would want to say udbdioimigbkj.

(You gotta admit, those would be some pretty stupid last words.)

She definitely would not scream like a nine-year-old school girl and attach herself to the ceiling, refusing to come down until someone woke up the unconscious (and blushing) Havoc, and made him change the light bulb.

As he came out of the traumatizing memory, he realized that he had sandwich all over his knees, and hurried to the restroom to wash it off, leaving his desk unguarded…

When he came back, there was a very suspicious envelope with his name on it lying on his desk.

After making sure that it was not a bomb by pounding on it with a sledgehammer, he opened the by now slightly crumpled envelope and took out the photograph inside.

It had been placed in the envelope backwards, and the words, "There's a reason I didn't do my paperwork this weekend. Love, Roy Mustang." Were scribbled on the back.

With growing dread, he turned it over.

It was a photograph of the Col. and his, his, girlfriend on a desk doing various unmentionable things which I'm not going to mention. W00T! For redundency!

What, you want me to tell you? Have you no imagination? Well I'm not gonna tell you, so there. XP

Fine, they were fucking. Happy now?

Well, now that we've managed to kill any mood there might have been, back to the story.

Great, just what he needed to ruin his already destroyed life.

Then he noticed something familiar in the photograph.

Poking out of a drawer in the aforementioned desk was a package of cigarettes and a magic marker.

Funny, he knew the Col. didn't smoke, and neither did Laura.

Then he noticed the words carved into the wood of the desk: Havoc's desk, keep it the Hell here.

He looked up from the photograph and stared at the same words, the one's he had carved when the evil pixies kept stealing his desk.

So, that was…

His desk?

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Roy smirked at the scream of horror that came from the general direction of Havoc's desk.

The man was so easy to torment.

And it was amazing what you could do with a magic marker.