Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note or Pulp Fiction

MISERLOU

"You see, this profession is filled to the brim with unrealistic motherfuckers. Motherfuckers who thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does. If you mean it gets better with age, it don't."

--Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames), Pulp Fiction

It was an old tradition among the family members for the fathers to bring their oldest sons along with them on the day they retired. That was how they first met, opposite each other on the inside pocket of the pleather booth on the west side of the diner, blurry doppelgangers of themselves on the thick glass window, like quiet ghosts of truth making mockery of the whole thing.

Matt remembered his father's shoulders the best; blocky and wide, and how when he was even younger he used to hook his knees around them and hold his arms out like plane wings, pretending he was a lookout on a crow's nest, his father's torso the mast, his medium strides toward the target creating ocean waves that bobbed him up and down like a buoy.

And he remembered the watch. It was an ugly watch, scratched and burnished brass, and the strap could easily loop twice around the circumference of Matt's wrist. Matt knew because he'd tried it on while his father was off putting bullets in other people's brains.

(Always the brain, Matt, he would say, clapping Matt lightly on the shoulder, because you can never be sure when you aim for the heart.)

Yeah, Matt had tried it on; the cool metal resting between the juncture of his hand and wrist, heavy with the weight of manhood, and Matt had felt very solemn.

Of course, what he remembered the most was that fucking brat across from him.

Matt had forgotten his name, even though his father said it was important. He had a mop of violently yellow hair, a stark contrast to the white of his cruelly sharp face. He was restless, this kid, and Matt watched him sway haltingly on the edges of his vision, which was concentrated on a certain spherical pink juggernaut inside his GameBoy. He kept kicking him incessantly, most likely out of sheer boredom, a barrage of hard young feet against his shins, until Matt got sick of it and brought his knees up underneath his chin. It was obvious the kid was an attention whore, and Matt just wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

There was a lull, where all Matt was conscious of was the low murmur of his father's voice, the even lower, slightly accented tone of the target, and his videogame, until he heard the distinct sound of glass sliding against formica.

He looked up, and there was that kid, that kid who had the audacity to drag Matt's chocolate milkshake over to his side of the table. He wouldn't though, but as soon as the thought flashed through his mind, Matt knew, just looking at this kid, that he would, and he did, right in front of him. He looked right at him, right in his eyes, and took a long deep gulp of his milkshake. He didn't even have the decency to get himself another straw; he used Matt's, and that just made his skin crawl. He felt violated just watching him, his long finger clutched possessively around the cold glass, the beads of condensation like the sweat of a hostage forced into compliance.

Matt narrowed his eyes at this arrogant little prick that was taking long, gratifying sips of his milkshake. Matt loved chocolate, it was his favorite, and he had always tugged wordlessly on the pucker of fabric by the elbow of his father's sleeve, eyes wide and longing at the bright, lustrous sheen of the chocolate bar wrappers while they stood in line at checkout.

He never did notice, though, his father. Either that, or he misunderstood Matt's yearning for impatience. He was always misconstruing Matt with his idea of was Matt should be. It seemed he was good at reading everyone else but his own son.

That little cock-monger was smiling now, his mouth a thin crooked line, stretched out ugly and smug around Matt's straw, and Matt had never been so angry in his young life.

There was a flash of light across the other boy's face, and then another a glaring play of white right in his stupid pointed face, making him blink in puzzled discomfort, the straw falling back into the drink when he winced.

Matt's father had adjusted his watch, (the signal) and Matt had felt a spike of pride for the watch, with its complicated, noble history. It was an heirloom that had been in their family history for generations upon generations, a good luck charm that had earned his father's liking (not like his son). He very rarely took it off, and kindly informed Matt, on a regular basis ever since he'd been born, that one day it would be his to pass on to his own firstborn son. Then he'd ruffle Matt's hair (which he hated) and bestow upon him a rare half-smile (which he loved).

Matt looked at the watch, grateful and affectionate, and then the next moment the world burst into red with a bang and the face of the watch was completely obscured with his father's blood.

Matt didn't remember what he thought, or felt, or even heard, immediately after his father's wise head had been shot off. He did remember, though, the sight of blood splattered all the way across the empty seat of the booth, dyeing the hard green pleather brown-red, and how his chocolate milkshake spilled sideways and combined with the flecks of blood and gore, flooding the white table all over with a thick chocolate swamp.

He did remember, once his ears had stopped ringing, the patrons of the diner's screams fading into the background while they fled.

And something slick, sickeningly warm, coursing it's way down his face, his neck, into his clothes, into his skin, where it would never wash out.

He remembered the kid, trying to stay as still as possible, his face covered in bloody freckles like some horrible skin disease.

"Dad says to tell you we'll meet again some day."

He brushed his yellow hair away from his face, staining it orange and smearing the blood into streaks along his temple.

"The two of us, obviously."

Matt didn't remember what he felt then, covered in hot blood.

"And I need that."

He had nodded toward his father's wrist.

And Matt remembered the feel of his father's dead hand beneath his own, still hot, wet with blood, how easily the skin moved. At the time he hadn't been able to speak the words, but he knew the message shone brilliantly out of his eyes, it was that strong; This watch is mine, it's my birthright, my father promised it would be mine one day, so now it is, and it will stay mine. It will always be mine, and father always s-said that trophy-takers like your own pathetic father were scum, and you're just as scummy as he is, and if you want this watch you'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands, you little brat.

The kid just spat on the floor, shrugging, and turned away. Matt didn't remember what happened afterwards.

Though he never did feel the same way about chocolate.

A/N: So I feel I owe everyone an explanation...OO

I was listening to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack and had this warped, psychedelic dream incorporating Death Note with Pulp Fiction and it was just so twisted and so AWESOME that it inspired me to write this.

Now this is in no way a crossover between Pulp Fiction and Death Note. Though there are definitely movie references/similar plot points (such as the watch)/soundtrack references (Miserlou is the name of the song that plays during the opening credits of Pulp Fiction). But there will be no Jules, no Vincent, no Butch, got it? Lovely.

((Oh and quotes, of course, because Pulp Fiction quotes are iconic.))

Ahem, yeah. :

Also, this first chapter is really, really different from the ones to come. This is really long, wordy, and descriptive, more my usual style of writing. All the other chapters are extremely vague and fast-paced, which is a writing style I've always wanted to try, and it suits the whole overall tone much better.

Comments make me ridiculously happy, and happiness is a warm gun, and as it is Americans' right to bear arms I'm about to take my warm gun and go find me a grizzly--provided there are comments to go on, yes, of course.