Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz > Postcards From the Edge of Reason
Postcards From the Edge of Reason
5 reviewsSchwarz takes a lovely seaside holiday. Crawford contemplates mass murder. Serious crack.
5Funny
Postcards from the Edge of Reason
The town was hot and cheap and gaudy and everything, even the sea, was dirty around the edges. It was noisy and vulgar and smelt of brine and frying food... Crawford shuddered to think what a hell of fairy lights and lager it would become after dark.
If he hadn't already suspected that the place was Evil, he would have known it when he spotted Schuldig and Farfarello sprawled on a bench on the Promenade and /blending in/. They were shirtless and in floppy hats, the pink scars on the Irishman's arms looking weirdly festive, echoing the insane stripes on a nearby marquee. The sea breeze had whipped Schuldig's hair into a Lucozade-coloured froth, and his lips had a shiny glaze to them, giving his customary smirk a certain perversely-appealing stickiness.
"Braddo! Siddown, mate. Take a load off," the telepath suggested nasally, apparently in attempted imitation of the voices in his head, waving also-sticky fingers through the thick air.
Farfarello winced. "Don't DO that. You sound like a feckin Australian poofter. No one should sound like a feckin Australian who doesn't have to. And that's leavin out the poofter element entirely..."
"I'm standing over here and pretending I've never met either of you," Crawford muttered. "You've turned into morons. And what's that sticking out of your pants, for christ's sake?" It hurt to look at Schuldig, but he couldn't not... the sight had all the awful fascination of a motorway pile-up...
The Irishman glanced at his seatmate's cheerful crimson tracksuit bottoms. "Oo-er. Is that a Souvenir from Blackpool in your pocket or are you just glad to see him?"
"What, this?" Schuldig squirmed a little and pulled something the size and shape of a pink and white police baton out of some recess in the trousers. "It's a kind of local tradition thingy. And it's yummy." There was a powerful smell of peppermint as the telepath peeled the paper off it, and Crawford stepped back a foot or two.
"God. Are you telling me that something that looks like that is meant to be food of some sort?"
"It's rock, you poor ignorant Yank," said Farfarello, his eye glittering. "Give us a lick, then, Schu..."
"No," Crawford said, backing away. "Don't."
"The problem with you, mate, is that you don't know how to relax. Come on, Schu, we've got to get you prepped." The Irishman stood up and pulled on the t-shirt he'd had shoved down the back of his shorts. It read "Bikini Inspector #69." "It's the final round of the Lovely Legs contest down at the bandstand, and I'm backing the Kraut here to wipe the competition off the map."
Schuldig momentarily unwrapped his lips from the revolting sweet he was fellating. "Coming. See you, Braddo. I'll win you a teddy bear, /nicht wahr/?" The two of them sauntered away, disappearing almost immediately into the merry sunburnt throng.
Crawford stared after them, waiting for the overwhelming terror to pass off. Something soft slammed into him from behind, and turning his head, he found himself looking into the blank eyes of an enormous, unnaturally-coloured plush panda. Nagi was blinking at him from between its ears, some white unguent plastered over his negligible Japanese nose. "Crawford! They have a game here that involves knocking coconuts over with a ball...and I bought some very amusing postcards..."
The last bastion of sanity had fallen, swept away on a greasy tide.
The town was hot and cheap and gaudy and everything, even the sea, was dirty around the edges. It was noisy and vulgar and smelt of brine and frying food... Crawford shuddered to think what a hell of fairy lights and lager it would become after dark.
If he hadn't already suspected that the place was Evil, he would have known it when he spotted Schuldig and Farfarello sprawled on a bench on the Promenade and /blending in/. They were shirtless and in floppy hats, the pink scars on the Irishman's arms looking weirdly festive, echoing the insane stripes on a nearby marquee. The sea breeze had whipped Schuldig's hair into a Lucozade-coloured froth, and his lips had a shiny glaze to them, giving his customary smirk a certain perversely-appealing stickiness.
"Braddo! Siddown, mate. Take a load off," the telepath suggested nasally, apparently in attempted imitation of the voices in his head, waving also-sticky fingers through the thick air.
Farfarello winced. "Don't DO that. You sound like a feckin Australian poofter. No one should sound like a feckin Australian who doesn't have to. And that's leavin out the poofter element entirely..."
"I'm standing over here and pretending I've never met either of you," Crawford muttered. "You've turned into morons. And what's that sticking out of your pants, for christ's sake?" It hurt to look at Schuldig, but he couldn't not... the sight had all the awful fascination of a motorway pile-up...
The Irishman glanced at his seatmate's cheerful crimson tracksuit bottoms. "Oo-er. Is that a Souvenir from Blackpool in your pocket or are you just glad to see him?"
"What, this?" Schuldig squirmed a little and pulled something the size and shape of a pink and white police baton out of some recess in the trousers. "It's a kind of local tradition thingy. And it's yummy." There was a powerful smell of peppermint as the telepath peeled the paper off it, and Crawford stepped back a foot or two.
"God. Are you telling me that something that looks like that is meant to be food of some sort?"
"It's rock, you poor ignorant Yank," said Farfarello, his eye glittering. "Give us a lick, then, Schu..."
"No," Crawford said, backing away. "Don't."
"The problem with you, mate, is that you don't know how to relax. Come on, Schu, we've got to get you prepped." The Irishman stood up and pulled on the t-shirt he'd had shoved down the back of his shorts. It read "Bikini Inspector #69." "It's the final round of the Lovely Legs contest down at the bandstand, and I'm backing the Kraut here to wipe the competition off the map."
Schuldig momentarily unwrapped his lips from the revolting sweet he was fellating. "Coming. See you, Braddo. I'll win you a teddy bear, /nicht wahr/?" The two of them sauntered away, disappearing almost immediately into the merry sunburnt throng.
Crawford stared after them, waiting for the overwhelming terror to pass off. Something soft slammed into him from behind, and turning his head, he found himself looking into the blank eyes of an enormous, unnaturally-coloured plush panda. Nagi was blinking at him from between its ears, some white unguent plastered over his negligible Japanese nose. "Crawford! They have a game here that involves knocking coconuts over with a ball...and I bought some very amusing postcards..."
The last bastion of sanity had fallen, swept away on a greasy tide.
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