AN: Hey, Publisher, I've been wanting to talk to-
(Publisher's Note: Not now, Alucard. I've got a very important meeting to get to, and I can't be late.)
AN: Oh... fine, just leave. I'll talk to Editor instead.
Editor's Note: Umm, sorry, Alu-sama, but I have to run some errands. Maybe later?
AN: Maybe not. I guess it's just me and you, then, Tracy.
Critic's Note: Sorry, chum, no time to chat. I've got to see a man about a wallaby.
AN: Just what nationality are you? *sigh* Well, it's just me... all by myself... for the rest of this white space... Man, I really need somebody to talk to.
AN: HOLY CRAP, HOW THE H*** DID YOU GET HERE?
PIP: I don't know. I drank a lot of booze, zings got hazy, I ran into ze page border, and now I'm 'ere.
AN: You- just- NO! No, no, no, no, no, NO, get the H*** out of here RIGHT NOW!
PIP: Oui, but...
AN: BUT WHAT?
PIP: I don't know 'ow.
AN: This is definitely NOT what I wanted. Mercenary, find something to do while I write my entry.
So... I have been on this FREAKING boat for DAYS (actually, maybe not days, but I'm starting to lose track of time). The dumb thing won't move faster than two knots. I'm really starting to regret crashing that jet right into the deck, because the engine systems were completely obliterated, and this giant behemoth of an aircraft carrier is running solely on Alu-power. And since I'm in the middle of the OCEAN, ALL ALONE with a bunch of CORPSES, I'm not getting back any time soon.
Which really, really sucks, because I feel like I'm missing out on some major screen time here. How long have I been out of this thing? Two whole volumes, without the almighty presence of Alucard. Travesty.
I'm not really sure how I'm writing this entry; I'm not really sure how I'm doing anything at all, but we'll get to that later.
I suppose I should start with my landing. I finally arrived in London, but I was too late to help anyone. Millennium had attacked hours earlier, and the freaks roamed the streets, shooting puppy dogs and eating babies. Some of them were even telling retarded "dead baby" jokes.
"He, wie ist einen BMW anders von ein tausend toten Babys?"
„Ich weiss nicht."
„Ich habe keinen BMW in meine Garage."
Yeah. Crap like that. If you don't know what it means, that's good. You shouldn't.
So... where was I? Oh, yeah. The Nazis had already wreaked their havoc, and the Catholics were starting theirs. Maxwell had assembled some large army of freakin' KKK, and they were pretty much just shooting at everybody. No lie; they were legitimately Ku Klux Klan. Seriously. White hoods and everything.
The head crazy himself was standing in a glass box being dragged along by some helicopter. He had an ungodly amount of microphones, and was booming out death threats over some invisible speakers. I don't even know how that happened. Did he have them installed by ninjas or something?
Anyway, I decided to insert myself right into the middle of things. I jumped off a rooftop and flew into the middle of the KKK, a la Batman, and right then is when the sh*t started to hit the fan.
I suddenly saw a swirl of floating, glowing papers, and lo and behold, the Judas Priest himself was standing two feet away from me. I started to get ready to fight, but all of a sudden, that werewolf from Millennium jumped off a different rooftop and landed two feet away from me. I found myself at the head of a sick, bloody isosceles triangle, and I wasn't sure which side I should attack first.
Luckily, I didn't have to think much about that. Out of nowhere, I saw my Master Integra. I was ecstatic. "Your orders," I rasped. "Give me your orders, my Master Integra Hellsing!"
She did not disappoint me.
With just a few short words, my entire Control-Art Restriction System had been released. Do you know what that means? Well, I'm going to tell you.
It means that every single life I've ever absorbed in my 500-some-odd years on this dirtball came pouring out of me like some sort of bloody, nasty, writhing flood. Which, of course, also means that both Nazis and KKK alike were pretty much toast by that point. None of them stood any sort of chance against my God-mode army of pure, unadulterated freakin' awesome.
Since my restrictions were released, I decided to shift back to my original form. You know, the medieval Vlad Dracul one. Which meant I suddenly had very messy hair, a large moustache and at least thirty freakin' pounds of armor on me. I don't know about you, but I really hate armor, and I instantly regretted deciding to wear it. Do you have any idea how immensely difficult it is to take a leak in that kind of thing? For a human, it takes hours to get it on, and still more hours to get it off, because after whatever battle it was just in it probably got covered in mud and blood and pee from other similarly armored warriors who just couldn't hold it in anymore, most likely including the wearer. I started to have bad memories, so I decided that if it ever came down to an actual fight, I'd lose the suit.
Well, I pretty much demolished everything. Predictably, Maxwell was wigging out inside his floating glass box, and I think Rip van Winkle was bored, so she shot his chopper down. I'm not exactly sure what happened next, because there was a lot of mayhem going on around me, but I've got a pretty good idea of the sequence of events. The glass crashes, Maxwell's still alive and inside the box. It's made out of, like, the glass equivalent of adamantium or something, so my lives can't break in and he starts cackling. But all of a sudden, out of nowhere, this bayonet comes sailing in like three ships on Christmas day and breaks the whole thing down in one fell swoop.
I honestly was not expecting that, to tell you the truth. I mean, yes Maxwell's obviously going loopy here, but I would never, EVER betray my Master like that, even if I had free will. Even I'm not that heartless.
But I digress. So, my lives kind of pour into the broken box and start dog-piling on Maxwell. It was like an American football game or something, where there end up being so many people in a heap that you don't even know where the ball is anymore. It was rather ridiculous.
And with that, the Archbishop ended up impaled by far more stakes than was necessary, in my opinion, and there he died, like some sort of nasty shish-kebab. I've eaten almost everybody who's died in this story so far, but there was no way I was going near that guy's blood. Besides, I guess I owed Anderson at least that much. The guy was about to break down inside, I'm telling you. He went over and started to sit down by his former boss, so I decided to leave him alone for a bit and drop in on my Master.
She was with Seras, who had, it seemed, sucked the blood of Pip Vernedead and transformed into a true vampire. FINALLY. You know, after all the complaining, the blood, the tears, I've always been proud of her. This might be sentimentality talking, but hey, I've got nothing better to do... but we'll get there in a bit.
She, of course, had to have a little giggle at my moustache. I mean, really? It's a 'stache. They used to be high fashion for THE LONGEST time; I think someday I'll try to get them back in style. She has no right to laugh, and I think she realized it, too, because she seemed really nervous.
Now, I don't know why, but I was suddenly overcome with sentiment, so I reach out and patted her head. Then, I did something I've never done before. I AUDIBLY ADDRESSED POLICE GIRL BY HER REAL NAME. Seras Victoria.
I'm still not sure what came over me. Perhaps I felt that she'd finally earned my respect. At any rate, it seemed to make her happy.
However, the touchy-feely-warm-happiness-scene was not fated to last more than a couple of seconds before it was back to the violence and away we go. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw flying, glowing papers, and immediately drew my broadsword.
Sure enough, Anderson appeared above me, poised to attack. I raised my sword, grinning like a crazy Johnny Depp.
Little did I know that this was fated to be my last encounter with the Judas Priest. It would be a terrible, bloody struggle the likes of which are not likely to be repeated, one that will remain in the history books forever and ever, Amen.
I, however, have run out of room for it, so I'm going to wait until the next entry. I know, I know; you all really, really, really want to kill me right now. That's the point.
Editor's Note: WAAAAAHHHHH! MAXWELL-CHAN!
(Publisher's Note: You did such an awful job with his death.)
AN: Hey, I thought it was really touching.
Critic's Note: I have to agree with Publisher. Your literary tears seemed a little forced.
AN: Wait, what tears? Where are you getting this from?
(Publisher's Note: So, I heard you had some difficulties with a certain mercenary...)
AN: Oh, that. Turns out, he strayed outside the page border when he died. I had to remind him that he was supposed to be in Seras' arm, and forcibly shove him back into the story.
Editor's Note: *sniff* Could you do the same thing for Maxwell-chan?
AN: What, like bring him back to life by pulling him out of the story? Why would I do that?
Editor's Note: Because I'll kill you if you don't...
(Publisher's Note: Editor, that was very out-of-character for you...)
Critic's Note: Should I be worried about her..?
AN: You know what, just get on with your critic thing. There's no point in trying to understand the crazy around here.
*No language translators were used in the making of this entry. So if mein Deutsch ist falsch, please feel free to correct me.*