Blue Forest Banshee Diversions Part 40
ii kibarashi - Chillin'

Duo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music curling from the CD player. Every time he listened to this type of music he thanked Q for giving him the first CD way back when he first came to the Castle. He absolutely loved Strauss waltzes!

The day had barely dawned, but still Heero had to wait in line at the bank ATM. Weekends were sometimes busy, he had warned. Ordinarily, Heero seldom carried actual Human money; he preferred to use the credit card and pay the balance by transfer from Gringotts every month. Today, though, they were headed for a flea market which required cash.

"Yo."

Duo looked up to see who was speaking and found himself staring down the barrel of a very large gun. He blinked.

The guy on the other end of the very large gun was effectively indescribable in sloppy, over-sized clothing with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down to shadow his face.

"Um..." said Duo hesitantly.

"Nice ride," said the gunman. "Get out."

Duo blinked at him. "Why?"

"'Cuz I'm takin' it." He waggled the gun. "Get out 'fore I blow your head off."

Duo sighed heavily. "Aw, man; you don't want to do this. I mean, you really don't want to do this."

The carjacker snarled. "You nuts?! You wanna die?! Fine!"

He squeezed the trigger....

...and vanished in a skyward direction.

Duo shook his head and turned the key to start the engine. "Told you you didn't want to do that. Dumb ass."

The passenger door opened a few minutes later and Heero slid into the seat and reached for the seat belt.

Duo glanced at him as he pulled out of the parking lot. "You didn't kill him, I hope. The paperwork will take all day."

Heero snorted and smirked at his Banshee. "Of course not; that would make us late to the flea market. We just had a little discussion on the relative benefits vs. the drawbacks of his chosen career, and he decided to make a change."

"Oh. Well, that's good. The world can use fewer carjackers."

"That it can," Heero agreed.

~*~

In the bank parking lot, a young man in baggy, ill-fitting clothes sat on the asphalt, in a growing and rather aromatic puddle of his own making, staring slack-jawed at the very large gun in his hand. The very large gun with its barrel tied in a knot.

OWARI

 

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