Author's Note: Waiting Game absolutely refused to be written until I did this. . . I'm pretty sure people have gone to hell for less. As an added bonus, there are several jabs at Waiting Game written in. Hey, if you can't laugh at yourself. . .
Connor and Murphy MacManus crouched outside of the Kraplacistanian mobster's mansion, guns drawn, waiting for the perfect chance to break in and take them by surprise.
"Christ," Connor said, rubbing a cramp out of his calf, "I can't fuckin' believe we're starting another story like this. We've been waiting out here for an hour already."
Murphy looked at his brother and shrugged, "Look at it this way, at least we aren't havin' sex with one another this time."
"Good point," Connor said, feeling a little queasy at the prospect, "Very good point."
"Shut it, now," Murphy said, pulling his black ski mask over his face, "Now that we've been properly entered into the story we can kill these fuckers and go home."
"Aye, let's go."
Bursting through the door, guns blazing, the twins took out all 1,742 mobsters within an rather impressive 45 seconds.
Tugging a large handful of pennies out of his jeans pocket, Connor offered half of them to his brother.
"Ye know," Murphy said, awkwardly trying to grasp the mountain of change "This vigilantism thing is gettin' fuckin' expensive. We could have bought a car or something with all the pennies we fuckin' go through."
Connor nodded, "I know, but it's our trademark and we have ta. . . wait. . ." He tilted his head, listening, "I hear something over there."
Trudging their way over toward the sound, the brothers moved several bodies out of the way to find an unnaturally gorgeous yet somehow completely normal girl huddled in the corner, sobbing, blood coming from an ugly, but not too ugly, mind you, wound on her arm.
She had brilliant green eyes the color of a misty Irish morn, nevermind that misty Irish morns tend to be less green and more . . . well . . . misty, and the deep sorrow in them made it obvious that she had hundreds of thousands of life-altering secrets weighing her down.
Her perky young body was smushed into a leather bustier and she had shiny red hair that fell in perfect ringlets down her back. For being Kraplacistanian, she looked amazingly Irish.
"Fuck," Murphy muttered, "We've shot an innocent."
"I didn't fuckin' shoot her," Connor said, "you must have."
"Me?" Murphy said indignantly. "Why me?"
"Because, everybody knows you couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo."
"Actually, I jumped into the path of a bullet to save my father, who was the Kraplacistanian mafia boss, but he died anyhow." The girl said, her juicy red, glossy, pillow-like lips trembling with anguished emotion.
"Oh daddy, how will I ever go on without you?" she wailed prettily, throwing herself into Connor's arms.
"We have ta take her with us." Connor said to his brother and Murphy raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Connor grimaced, still gingerly holding the hysterically sobbing yet still unearthly beautiful, and awe inspiring young woman. "It says so in the rough draft."
Pulling the rough draft out of his back pocket, Murphy thumbed through the pages, "Oh," he said, dejected "So it does."
"Ye'll have ta come with us, Miss." Connor said, sighing "We'll take care of ye now."
"Okay!" said the girl happily, shoving Connor away and bouncing along in front of him. "Just let me pack a few things first."
"Hey," Murphy said, bewildered, "weren't you just grief-stricken over the death of your Da?"
The girl shrugged, "Naw, I never really liked him that much. Even though he was a doting father that loved me and gave me everything I ever wanted, deep down I knew he was evil. So you guys are the Saint's huh?"
"Right," Connor said, wringing out his shirt.
"I'm Mary-Sue." She said, "and although you just slaughtered my entire family, and everybody I've ever cared about, I totally trust you both because you're both complete hotties."
Murphy and Connor exchanged a swift glance then rolled their eyes. Sometimes it wasn't easy being a pair of dead sexy Irish twins.
"Let's get the fuck out of here." Murphy muttered, exasperated, shoving his guns back into a black duffel bag.
Once they got to the seedy motel where the brothers were staying, Mary-Sue winced prettily as she tore the sleeve off of her formerly sleeveless bustier.
"It doesn't look that bad." Connor said, dutifully inspecting the wound, "Actually it's just a scratch."
Mary-Sue gave a feline hiss of pain just to prove that was too that bad, and then sighed, disppointed that she wasn't going to get an 'iron scene'.
Closing her eyes against the agonizingly excruciating anguish she said. "I'm going to take a shower, today was so horrible and I'm all covered in blood."
After she disappeared into the bathroom Murphy opened the refrigerator, grabbing a beer for himself and tossing another to his twin.
Connor popped the top of his can and took a long drink, glancing at the closed bathroom door. "I don't know why, but I get the feelin' that there's somethin' special about her, some dark secret she's hiding and we need to know about it."
"Aye. My gut says that she needs our help more than she's lettin' on."
Murphy shot Connor a sharp glance, knowing his brother all too well. "Ye love her don't ye?"
At Connor's uncomfortable silence, he made a frustrated gesture with his hands
"Fuck Connor, what's the matter with ye? Can't we rescue one fuckin' innocent without you goin' and fallin' in love with 'em?"
"Hey!" Connor snapped "Don't blame me; ye fuckin' fall in love with her in a couple of chapters too!"
"You can't be fuckin' serious," Murphy said, once again producing the rough draft and flipping through the pages. "Un-fucking-believable." He groaned, seeing that Connor was right.
A noise interupped them and both boys turned toward the bathroom door as Mary-Sue emerged wearing nothing but a skimpy hotel towel, her perfectly sculpted, angelic, classically modern, radiantly betwitching, poetically sorrowful, yet peaceful face flushed from heat of the shower.
There was a knock at the motel door and Da entered without waiting for a reply. "Boys I just got off the phone with Smecker and he says . . ." the older MacManus stopped dead at the sight of Mary-Sue and turned long-suffering eyes on his twin sons.
"Again?" he asked, sighing.
"It wasn't our fault this time," Murphy protested, "We were takin' out that Kraplacistanian Mafioso and she jumped into the crossfire."
"To save my darling father!" Mary-Sue cried, her exquisitely delicate, greener than the luckiest shamrock, luminously pulchritudinous, innocent, yet jaded eyes brimming with shimmering tears.
"Lads, ye can't just be takin' in every fuckin' innocent ye run across." Da said sternly, "ye remember what happened with the last one, don't ye?"
Connor and Murphy looked anywhere but at each other, embarrassed, "Yes, Da." They chorused.
"Good. Now, Smecker says that there's a group of Italian mobsters meetin' tomorrow plannin' some dirty deeds . . ."
"Done dirt cheap?" Murphy interjected, grinning and Connor chuckled. Seeing the look in their father's face they sobered, "Sorry, Da."
"Here's the address, ye boys are on yer own this time, I'm staying out o' the way until ye figure this mess out." With that Da lit a cigar and stomped out of the room.
"For Christ's fuckin' sake." Connor grumbled.
"Lord's fuckin' name." Mary-Sue said brightly, beaming when identical disbelieving stares turned her way. "You guys had better sit down, there's something I have to tell you."
"So, let me get this straight," Connor said, taking a long swallow of his beer. "Yer our long lost sister who just happened ta adopted by the Kraplacistanian mafia?"
"That's right." Mary-Sue said, tossing her brilliantly glossy, vitamin D enriched, lustrously red, perfectly-perfect in-every-way-without-any-styling-products-at-all hair over her shoulder, revealing a vigin mary on the side of her neck that looked suspiciously like it had been drawn on with a sharpie marker.
"I even have the same tattoos as you do." She said, prettily slugging her beer.
"So why are we just findin' out about ye now?" Murphy asked, compelled on only by morbid curiosity.
"Our Ma could barely afford you two and when she got pregnant with me, she knew she could never provide the kind of life I truly deserved, so she gave me up. I never met her, or our father."
"Well," Connor said, blanching, "That certainly puts page 42 into a different perspective doesn't it?"
Remembering page 42, Murphy turned an unhealthy shade of green "Christ, and I thought havin' sex with ye was bad enough."
The next night, Connor, Murphy, and Mary-Sue stealthily made their way to the address Da provided. Slipping in through the conveniently open basement window, they knelt, opening identical duffel bags and withdrawing their weapons.
Two handguns each with silencers for Murphy and Connor; a rifle, 6 hand grenades, 2 tear gas bombs, some ninja throwing stars, some nitroglycerin, and a bazooka for Mary-Sue.
"Come on," Mary-Sue whispered prettily, "I downloaded the floor plans for the house off of the internet while you guys were making breakfast. "I know exactly where to go."
"Internet?" Connor said disgusted,"We don't even own a fuckin' computer!"
"Just go with it Con," Murphy said, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Otherwise we'll never fuckin' get out o' here."
"Let's go, then."
Kicking down the door, Connor and Murphy burst into the room, taking out several of the appropriately stunned mobsters, while Mary-Sue prettily used her extensive samurai training and her experience in the Kraplacistanian military orphanage to open a regular can of Whoop-Ass, screaming insults in 56 different languages as she did.
Once the dust had settled, Mary-Sue surveyed the scene, her hands on her well-rounded, yet still delicately feminine hips. "Good job, boys." She said, producing a radio from only God knows where and flipping it on.
"Alpha team this is Red Leader. We have secured the area, you have permission to proceed."
Connor and Murphy both suppressed a groan, holstering their guns and turning resigned eyes to Mary-Sue.
"Well?" Murphy said through a sigh.
"The FBI caught me hacking into the floor plans and recruited me through the internet. I'm taking Smecker's place from now on." She said batting her super luminous, emerald-as-the-emerald-isle-itself, uber sparkly, stain resistant, exquisitely sublime eyes at the twins and flashing her newly laminated FBI badge.
"What the fuck? We don't even own a computer . . ." Murphy started, but an unexpected twist of desire stopped him cold. Apparently his chapter had come.
"Fuck." He said weakly and Connor snickered.
"Let's get the fuck out of here."
It was then that the Kraplacistanian mafia, having read page 42, decided that Agent Mary-Sue MacManus and the Saints had to die.
Sending there best soldier, Dulce de Leche, the overconfident mobsters were certain that it wouldn't take long to complete their mission.
Connor and Murphy were slumped on the couch, watching TV and enjoying a blissful reprieve from killing random mafia thugs when Dulce de Leche burst through their door, guns drawn.
"Fuckin' hell!" Murphy cried, diving behind the couch grappling for his gun.
A bullet whizzed by Connor's ear and he wasted no time in joining he brother behind the couch. "There's no way we're gettin' our fuckin' deposit back now!" he shouted, wishing for Mary-Sue's bazooka.
Right on cue, the youngest MacManus appeared in the hall, clad only in a filmy piece of lace and stilettos, (because who doesn't sleep in stilettos?) tossing a hand grenade casually from hand to hand, holding a gun with her other hand and aiming her ninja stars with yet another hand.
But she never had the chance to her use arsonal.
Murphy, struck with a sudden fatal lack of common sense, hurtled the couch, racing to protect the creamy-skinned, Irish, red-headed, bubblegum scented, now lower calorie, preshrunk, FBI agent.
Dulce de Leche jerked his gun, aiming for Murphy and with a rather pretty scream of rage, Mary-Sue dropped her weapons, mashing Connor's head into the carpet as she darted in front of the speeding bullet meant for one of the men that she loved most in her charmed, mysterious, tormented, turbulent life.
The bullet tore through the filmy lace thing, through flesh and saline implant lodging itself into her already broken heart.
Dulce de Leche, his mission mostly completed (the Kraplacistanians not being the most ambitious of criminals) holstered his guns and strode out the same door he had just kicked down, humming to himself.
Connor and Murphy crowded around the dying Mary-Sue as a puddle of blood spread out around her. "Don't ever stop." She choked, prettily, "Promise me you'll never stop."
"She's stealing Rocco's lines." Connor whispered angrily and Murphy nodded, some people just had no decency.
Finally the light went out of her dayglo green, 1000 watt, crispity, krunchity peanut buttery, shimmeringly luminescent eyes and her last breath came out a dramatic, yet heart-wrenching sigh.
The twins exchanged a glance, "Now what?" Connor asked quietly.
"The rough draft says that we spend the rest o' our lives taking out evil but now we do it in the name of Mary-Sue. We pine for her until we die and even add her inta our family prayer." Murphy read and Connor made a face.
"How about we get a pint at McGinty's instead?"
"Amen to that." Said Murphy, sharing his brother's unspoken relief that Mary-Sue was gone, saving them from the undesirable fate of page 42.
Together the brothers stepped over the lifeless yet still wonderfully vibrant, peacefully divine, patent leather, delicately facinating, all natural, completely organic, baked not fried body of Mary-Sue MacManus, and went to get a pint.
And it was just another day in the lives of the Saints.