Vitamin S: Chapter 2
by Creedog VanDrey
Rating: T (though like T winking at M at a respectable distance)
Summary: New Directions has itself some slushy treats and wild eschatological panic.
Spoilers: It takes place in some nebulous part of the second half of Season 1. After "Power of Madonna" at least.
A/N: Ha ha, crack fic is cracky.
Chapter 2: It's the End of the World as We Know It
Geez, how can these kids drink these things? I'm getting cavities just smelling this stuff. And I sincerely doubt that there is any food which is naturally this shade of cobalt blue.
But, you know, this is actually a metaphor. I wonder if my kids even realize what these slushies mean.
"You know, it's a testament to you guys that Sue has backed off of us. As evil as we may want to believe she is, I really think that this little peace offering shows that she really does have a heart, and your dedication to music has really touched her." Wow, this is one of my better speeches. I should write this stuff down. "I think that in us she must see the same drive that she and her Cheerios possess. I honestly believe that this is the start of a true era of cooperation between us."
I look up and see that the kids, while enjoying their drinks, really seem to agree with me.
: : :
I try not to roll my eyes. Great speech, Mr. Schue, we look really inspired. You think we've somehow touched Coach Sylvester's heart? I'm pretty sure she replaced it with a catheter so that she can pump protein shakes straight into her veins.
Ha. I should tell Tina that one. She rarely gets my jokes.
: : :
Mr. Schue was talking again, and I think I missed something, but something really important was distracting me.
Quinn finished her slushy before me and that just ain't right. I'm a dude. I'm 6'3", 16 years old, and athletic. I mean, food disappears in my presence. It's like, puberty, or something. At least that's what my mom says every time she comes home from Costco with both the trunk and the back seat filled with groceries. It's not my fault I can't sit down and watch a 30-minute show without eating a whole jumbo bag of cheese poofs.
It's okay; a girl finishing before me isn't like a threat to my masculinity or anything. Quinn's pregnant, so it's like cheating because the baby's drinking the other half, right?
Huh, what part of the baby is she making with a cherry shushy? The blood or something?
: : :
I love slushies. They taste like happy. Santana says that it's just sugar. But I'm pretty sure that sugar is just another word for happy.
I mean clouds are made of sugar and Heaven has clouds. Proof.
Wow, I finished before Finn again. Seriously, is he really afraid he'll get brain freeze.
Wait, one more drop…
I'm cold now. There was a little bit more than a drop in there. There was like… well, I'm not good at fractions, but I want to say less than one hat, but more than two Turks; maybe like five forks?
Fractions are weird.
: : :
The moment Brittany tilts her cup back, I'm reaching down to my purse, not even pulling my lips off my drink—yeah, I'm badass graceful like that, bitch—and pulling out some wet wipes.
I've been friends with Brittany for a long time, so I can usually predict these things—yeah, I'm badass prepared like that, bitch.
I'm starting to get brain freeze, but I'm not wincing, 'cause I'm badass hardcore. Bitch. Or whatever.
: : :
CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!
In the heat of battle, I lock eyes with my opponent Matt. He's drunk around half of his slushy without stopping. I've got to catch up.
Fifty percent… fifty-five… sixty…
: : :
I might be on the ground right now. My vision's pretty blurry, but I seem to recall the vague shapes moving in a rather upwardly direction. Do I feel the ground? I sure don't feel the plastic chair on my ass anymore. Still, I don't think I could even tell. I'm pretty sure my entire nervous—wait… yeah, nervous—system is devoted to processing the excruciating pain in my noggin and how I may never taste sweet relief again. Am I breathing? My chest is starting to ache a little bit. What's that sound? All I hear is this high-pitched tone that I'm not entirely convinced is not my brain screaming in agony. Oh, that's me laughing! Actually, it's just Mike. Nope, wrong again, it's me. It's definitely Mike; my voice is lower. Scratch that; it's both of us. And now my eyeballs hurt. Hopefully it's just the brain freeze spreading and not oxygen deprivation. And my cheeks feel like they are on fire. And my stomach feels like I just swallowed about a hundred marbles and…
Ow. Okay, so now I'm on the floor. Sheesh, did it take me that long to fall out of my chair? At least my vision's clearing up and I can see that Mike's on the floor with me, writhing in a combination of pain and laughter.
: : :
Huh, that's an odd expression Tina has. She seems… excited, but… terrified at the same time. Weird.
Oh, no. Uh-uh.
Something's wrong. Something's seriously wrong.
What the **** is wrong? And why can't I cuss in my own brain?
I grab her hand. "Tina, what's going on?"
: : :
Despair… oh, delicious despair.
Oh, no, this isn't good.
Terror… like I've never experienced before. It's orgasmic.
Please, spare us.
Mountains will crumble. Lakes will be filled with the blood of the innocent. The sky will rain fire…
: : :
(The WHMS Choir Room. Spotlight on RACHEL. She sinks into her seat. Bring up lights. The rest of NEW DIRECTIONS also sink into their seats. They appear fearful but RACHEL's expression turns from fear to weary confidence. She rises.)
I would like for everyone to remain calm. Those of you who are not as in tune with the astral plane as I am probably have a sense of foreboding that you cannot place. I would like to inform you that your fears are not misplaced. All around us, between the rays of light, are forces that we cannot comprehend, forces of good and evil, and I do believe at this time, they are preparing for the pinnacle of—
: : :
Seriously, Berry, at a time like this. Let me get to the point for you.
"The world is ending!" I cry.
: : :
I can't believe this is it. We haven't won Regionals yet. I haven't made love to Emma.
I haven't bested Sue!
So many regrets.
: : :
So many regrets.
I haven't bested Rachel. Or given some fine boy some of my chocolate lovin'.
It's been four days since I've uttered, "Hell to the naw!"
Okay, so the easiest item is crossed off my bucket list, despite lack of context.
: : :
What would a pregnant watermelon look like?
The fear in this room is palpable. In fact, it is near overwhelming.
Usually, the emotions around me, which are both unique and ever-present, are muddled by the chaos of my deficient cognitive processes. But suddenly I can sense the emotions of those around me quite distinctly.
Tragically, these feelings that my companions are experiencing, nay, are being overwhelmed by, are artificial, and I fear that only I have come to this conclusion. Though I possess the skills to examine for myself this torrent of counterfeit fear that attacks our senses, I am incapable of vocalizing my suspicions to others. I'm quite aware that my logical reasoning skills are inadequate and that fares poorly when coupled with my fragile speech capabilities. In addition, I lack the memory to maintain the larger vocabulary that it would require to express my conclusions. Or even my thoughts at this moment.
Lips are upon mine. Santana's. I am quite familiar with their texture and taste. She prefers lip gloss with tropical flavoring. I can feel her fear. I have no way to comfort her but to meet her fierce embrace. If I could communicate in this way, through gestures, perhaps I would not be considered such a fool. Alas, information is difficult to pass through a medium which is best suited for emotional articulation, so I do the best that I can: I pressed my lips more firmly upon hers, hoping that it will be enough to take the edge of her fear, that I might distract her long enough that she does not shut down from this alien sense of dread.
She mutters declarations of love. I consider responding in kind, but I know her mind is still too overwhelmed with the false terror to process any words I could provide. I pull her closer, invitingly. My touch has always been capable of shielding her from the outside world, if only temporarily.
She yet again tells me she loves me. She needs not do so. I knew her feelings long before she risked considering them herself. I slide my fingers under her uniform top and massage her waist. I do not know how long these emotions will torment her, but I do know that I must keep her attention otherwise occupied lest she succumb to desolation.
: : :
: : :
Artie is shivering in his wheelchair.
"I should be happy," I tell him, "the extinction of mankind is like my ultimate fantasy."
So what is my problem?
"Yet I'm still terrified… because it was always hypothetical. I have not once reconciled my desire for darkness with the desire to see my loved ones experience joy."
Artie, don't you understand what I'm telling you?
"Tina," his voice faltered, "you're freaking me out."
: : :
My girlfriend is freaking me out.
"Don't you understand, Artie?" she tells me in a tone I don't quite recognize, "Darkness will soon overtake the land and the seas will shine red. Do you know how much that turns me on?"
That's a look of arousal? So, I'm not going to lie, I'm a guy, and even though the world is ending, I'm kind of not caring at this moment.
Tina is now in my lap. The back of my brain is trying to recall some petty worry that I had a moment ago, which is rather irritating, because have I mentioned that an aroused Tina is now in my lap?
And now her lips are on mine. Like seriously pressing against mine. And her tongue is doing wear things and her teeth are scratching me a little but it's mostly tongue, so it's cool. And her fingers are in my hair and I can feel my glasses being shoved askew but **** my glasses and **** my inability to swear even in my own mind because now she's laying little playful nips on my lips and my ears and my neck and actually it kind of is starting to hurt more than feel good and I'm saying ow a lot now and she's not really stopping.
: : :
The Devil is here. He's in this room.
Is Rachel the Devil? Maybe.
Is Finn the Devil? It's not impossible.
Is Puck the Devil? He seems pretty evil. Maybe that's why he has a Mohawk. He's hiding the Symbol of the Beast. And his jersey number? Is it 6? As in 666? No, wait, it's 20. 20 + 20 + 20 = 60. Hmm…
Or maybe Mr. Schue the Devil? The Devil's the last person you would think, right? He teaches Spanish. And Spanish is like Latin. And Latin is what you use to summon demons, right? And he's the glee director. Songs are like chants. What if he's using us to summon demons… from Hell… when we sing? "Somebody to Love" is obviously a summoning song. Wait… raps are even more like chants…
What if it's Tina? Wait, too obvious.
Why doesn't Mike look afraid? Gasp. No. "Dude, are you the Devil?"
: : :
I am so baked.
Now Matt's asking me if I'm the Devil and… what? I can't even think straight. The idiot's been on the ground for the last… five minutes? Forty-five minutes? Two days? I can't tell anymore. Anyway, he's been muttering about who-and-who is the Devil or something and it's getting really kind of annoying and…
I need some dim sum like right now. I could marry a shrimp dumpling.
Oh, wait! When did I stop watching Santana and Brittany go at it? How could I forget the real-life free porn?
Whoa, it should not be this hard to turn my head and… wow, Tina is going to town on Artie. Why do white guys get all the Asian chicks? It's so not fair.
Huh, wow, Brittany, I see your hands are restless as ever.
Matt, goddamn it, stop asking me if I'm the Devil. He's hardly making sense anymore. "Can't fool me, Mr. Devilly Satan Beezlebub DeVille..." he tells me.
"Dude," I reply. He's still talking and he doesn't stop when I address him. I try again, though he seems to go through a lot of names before I can form the words, so either he's talking really fast—which is unlikely; we were friends for like three weeks before I realized he wasn't mute—or it's taking me a while to compose my words, which isn't unlikely since I'm totally frickin' blitzed and… now I lost my train of thought, because I'm drugged. Oh, yeah. "We're drugged, man. Can't you feel it?" I ask him.
He pauses. "Hey, you're right. You're so right. But this doesn't feel like the Chronic Lady."
He's right. This is something new and different and awesome but freaky at the same time, and not necessarily in a good way.
Matt's got another bee in his bonnet. "So, the world's not ending? The world should be ending. I feel it like the world is ending. And I'm pretty sure Kurt mentioned the world was ending. And…" He's not even taking breaths.
My eyes drift to the side and, whoa, Brittany has almost gotten Santana's top unzipped and I can't believe I forget that they were lezzing it up and…
Okay, Matt has chosen the worst possible moment to turn on the spigot that is his mouth and his brain is like a water tower that's been filling his entire life and damn I can't even compose a good metaphor because I am so scorched.
I reassure him, "No, the world totally is ending." Look, I can't lie to him, can I? He needs perspective, though. "But think about it like this: we're going out completely whacked, watching the two hottest cheerleaders at McKinley High rounding third base."
Oh, you think I stopped watching? Not this time, sir. Now the two of them are totally pulling the scrunchies out of their hair and I'm kind of pissed that the world is ending, because not even Heaven is going to be this amazing.
Matt apparently has one last question, though. "You think maybe Santana's the Devil? She strikes me as the Devil..."
He keeps elaborating on this point, and I answer him as I don't expect him to stop before the world gets swallowed up by a dragon. "Oh, without a doubt."
: : :
I don't believe in God.
Yes, my hands are clasped together, and I speaking to a hypothetical person, but I am not praying to God. Or any god for that matter.
And I'm not just playing it safe, mind you. This is not Pascal's Wager. I don't expect any magical being is hearing my non-prayers.
"Oh, Heavenly Father," I address the hypothetical being that I have no doubts is nonexistent, "I just want to take this time to remind You that I do in fact believe in Your existence," I lie, mostly because Mercedes is next to me and she'll be happier this way. "However, if it turns out that the conservatives are correct and that You find my life choices are abominable, I regret to inform You that we will be having a serious chat." So, yeah, it's more of an airing of grievances done in a satirical style. All that's left is a lightening of the mood, "And if you think I'm wearing a white robe, I'm just gonna have to treat you to a Project Runway marathon. I'm down the golden halo, though; it's a very retro-chic assessory."
I'm going to die a virgin. I'm going to die not knowing the sweet taste of another man's lips upon my own, the caress of strong hands, the feel of our sweat-coated bodies…
Okay, if there's anyone listening, this is a private moment, so I would ask that you listen in on someone else's thoughts. Thank you kindly.
: : :
Then the strong farmhand Finn gazed upon the heaving bosom of the famous starlet Rachel Razzberry from atop the stairway of her glistening mansion.
"Oh, Finn," she cried, as she rapidly descended the first step, "You know I dearly wanted to wait until we were married, but I must confess that I must have you now! Understand that if the farm were not burning—the farm that this mansion is situated upon despite the fact that we are in New York City—we would have done this the right way. I have not purchased a modesty cloak for you to tear from my shoulders. Wait, I mean: slowly untie and allow to flutter down my back. Also, we would have lined my bedroom with one-hundred and fifty-seven yellow roses, as you already know is the number of days that I have known you were my soul mate. And, most ghastly, we have not meticulously compiled a mixed-CD to play on the gramophone during our love-making. All this is only compounded by the horror that I have told you all of this instead of allowing you to come up with every detail of this scenario exactly as I would have."
As she rapidly descended the second step, she declared, "Alas, our time is nigh. Ravish me!"
: : :
So, Berry's talking like a mile a minute to Finn, and not really talking, but, like, reading from some nonexistent bodice-ripper about which she's not quite sure of the details.
She's jumped into his lap and now he's just got this glazed and confused expression on his face. Well, it's glazed at least. Dating him for a year was not enough time to distinguish between his normal expression and his confused one.
I better let her down easily, "You know, Froda Haggins, in the time you took just to say that, you could have gotten him off. Perhaps twice. He's got a hair trigger."
: : :
Rachel. Lap. Ravish.
Mailman. Mailman. Mailman. Mailman. Mailman.
: : :
Let's be clear. While it may appear that I am lying on the ground, sucking my thumb, I am in actually lying on the ground, sucking my thumb. But it's not because I'm a pussy; it's because I'm totally mentally preparing myself to ward off the zombie apocalypse that has started. All that Left 4 Dead time I clocked was good for something, Mom!
My girl, Quinn, seems rather unfazed for a skinny girl with no weapons. I wonder if she's planning on ripping off the zombies' arms and beating them into submission with them. That'd be so hot.
I imagine Santana would do the same thing. If she ever disentangles herself from Brittany. Not that I'm complaining!
I wonder if after Santana, Quinn, and I finished warding off a zombie herd, I might get a threesome out of it.
Dammit, zombies, get here quicker!
: : :
I don't feel lighter yet. Odd. I figure by now I'd be floating into the sky.
I wonder if LeHaye and Jenkins are right and I'm going to have to leave this outfit here. This is my favorite baby blue cardigan! Oh, well, there certainly must be a mall in Heaven. God did create American-style capitalism, after all.
Puck is looking at me like he wants to have intimate relations with me. I think. We've only been dating for three months, and I haven't learned to distinguish between his normal expression and his aroused one. Doesn't he realize our coupling has had its intended effect? His illegitimate child grows in my loins as we speak?
: : :
I'm beginning to feel a bit like a chew toy, so I push Tina away. "Wait, Tina, this isn't working."
Tina takes a few steps back, looking like she's close to crying. She asks me, "What's wrong, Artie? Is there someone else?"
Silly girl. "No, Baby, it's not that at all. I'm crazy for you, but I want to show it. So, I am going to walk to you and giving you the loving you deserve."
I dramatically take off my glasses, and push myself up in my chair. Ha, this apocalypse will be good for something. Listen up, legs!
And I'm up. And now I'm not so up. And, yeah, I'm definitely falling. And that's the ground and…
My nose hurts and I'm pretty sure I heard my glasses clunking away.
: : :
The poor fool falls to the ground. It may be the grandest gesture I've ever witnessed.
But this just will not do. This isn't right at all. I kneel to the ground, telling my beloved Artie what he needs to hear with all my heart, "Oh, Artie, I'm sorry; I just can't do it like this."
I hope he understands.
I roll him over onto his back with a mighty push. That's better. I add, sweetly, "There we go; I can work with that."
And, boy, can I.
: : :
This may be my last chance. I make my way to the front of the room. I know I should feel embarrassed, but I don't. All life will be wiped away at any moment, after Jesus calls me home. I feel nothing but pride.
Mr. Schue is slouched over the piano, looking disheartened. I take his usual place at the front of the room.
No one seems to have noticed that I've gotten up from my chair. And left all my clothes behind.
With nary a stitch on me—okay, so I left my hat, because it's a fly hat—I announce bravely, "Can I get everyone's attention?" They are slow to respond, but I push forward, "I would like for all of you to take this in." I gesture to my exposed body. "This is what a real woman looks like. Her belly is not shaped like a bar of soap. Her legs do not look like toothpicks. Her breasts do not resemble the little hats that you see on Santa's elves. The color of her skin lies somewhere between a glass of milk and a cup of coffee, never in the realm of a citrus fruit. Soak it in."
I splay my arms wide.
Why isn't anyone looking? Oh, wait, him.
: : :
Black chick is freakin' nekked.
She's not my usual cup of tea, but, man, this is something new.
My ear itches and sure enough when I turn, I see Quinn shooting daggers at me. I'm halfway through an apology that all fat chicks are equal in my eyes before I realize that it's probably a dumb thing to say.
Okay, so maybe that realization didn't occur until after my head was snapped sideways by Quinn's surprisingly fast hand. It's the baby hormones, I swear: super-speed, super-strength, just like on Heroes.
Speaking of Heroes…
: : :
Before a red mark in the shape of my hand has even risen to his cheek, Puck's already talking about Santana and Brittany for some reason. I regret looking, because they are currently engaged in abominable debauchery. I was wondering what those unfamiliar sounds were. I take a proper prayer pose because witnessing a sin is the same as committing that sin. It's in the Bible.
I realize that my work is not over.
: : :
Hands. Hands in new places.
Rachel. Lap. Hands. Mailman.
"Hey, Finn," I hear Quinn greet me.
My eyes widen at this new development, which is kind of surprising, because they were already as wide as those little dwarf plates that British people put their teacups on, and now I figure they must be as big as the plate I usually eat dinner on. I wonder if my eyeballs are going to fall out…
I feel Rachel pull away and at first I think she's going to be mad that I'm looking at Quinn, and I realize that hoping that the Earth cracks open and swallows me is actually not unlikely at this point. But she's not. She explains in too calm of a voice, "It's quite understandable, Finn. In this time of desperation, I understand that I may not be able to fulfill your needs fully. Quinn, I would be happy to allow you resolve your issues with Finn. I feel that sharing him might even help to alleviate our mutual dislike of one another."
Huh? What? Huh? What?
Quinn sneers, not that that's not uncommon for her. "Ew, gross. I'm not getting involved in that kind of depravity."
There's a crash at the back of the room. Every muscle in my body's already tense, so my head twists so fast I get a crick in my neck. Mike and Matt are kneeling over the back of the risers, watching something, cheering. Did Santana and Brittany just fall over the side? Why are parts of some Cheerio uniforms lying on the chair in the middle row…? Unless…
I wonder if this is what a stroke feels like.
: : :
Finn has fainted.
Rachel's still looking up at me with this super-eager expression, not that that's uncommon for her.
I tell her, "Look, just hand him over when you're done. I'd go and get a sip of water from the fountain if I thought it'd take that long. I have a sneaking suspicion that he might have some Episcopalean blood and I would like to perform a soul-cleansing." I add, "You're beyond hope."
I walk over to Mr. Schue and ask him if he's accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.
: : :
I hear Quinn's voice saying something to me, but I can't make it out with my hands on my ears.
Maybe she's asking me how this apocalypse is affecting me? "Dammit, I love her. I love Emma. But I'll never get to tell her."
"Why not? She's just down the hall," Quinn replies, looking at her watch forlornly.
That's right! And her office is the cleanest part of the school? Of course she'll make love to me there. I race out the door. Emma, here I come!
: : :
Deviants, all of them.
: : :
Mailman. More than one mailman. Hundreds of mailmen just lining up for me to crash into. Like Grand Theft Auto.
I'll never get to play a GTA marathon with Mike and Artie again! Oh, cruel world!
: : :
I'm coming down hard off this high.
Santana, on the other hand…
: : :
If Brittany's the Devil, I'm becoming a Satanist.
: : :
I fear that I can no longer keep Santana's mind occupied. She's begun to shiver in fear and—
My mind begins to cloud again and… words… love… lady fingers…
I never knew my shoulder blades were so ticklish.
I hope I didn't lose my rainbow socks. They have little pockets for all my toes and I like it when I look like I belong on Sesame Street.
I wonder if Oscar is always in that trash can because he's naked and he's embarrassed that his junk is green. After that Play-Doh incident, I can relate.
: : :
Love. End of world. Wedding. Fire. Slushies. Brittany.
Where's my skirt?
I'm pretty sure Mike and Matt will be treating me and Britts to at least four dinners at Breadstix. And I'll be treating them to one of Santana Lopez's epic threats about keeping their traps shut. Because I'm badass in charge, bitch.
But, seriously, why did Brittany only remove one of my shoes?
: : :
I'm going to die a virgin. Because if this is what Tina considers second base, I'm not sure how I'll survive third.
: : :
This is the act of love. This is what sonnets are written about. When people talk about soul mates, they are imagining moments like these.
: : :
I am woman. Hear me roar. McKinley High, you've gotten your first taste of Mercedes Jones. I know your appetite has been whet. You'll be getting more very soon.
: : :
Bow chicka wow wow. Chicka wow chicka wow chicka wow.
How did the Puckinator get so little play during the zombie apocalypse?
: : :
"Somewhere That's Green"
Key of B-Flat
He rakes and trims the grass
He loves to mow and weed
I cook like Betty Crocker
And I look like Donna Reed
There's plastic on the furniture
To keep it neat and clean
In the Pine-Sol scented air
Somewhere that's green
: : :
So the last thing I ever hear will not be Rachel singing, so I head to the piano.
It takes me a minute to get into the proper frame of mind, but soon enough, I make history.
"And it seems to me you lived your life / Like a candle in the wind / Never knowing who to cling to / When the rain set in / And I would have liked to have known you / But I was just a kid / Your candle burned out long before / Your legend ever did…"
: : :
So, now Emma's crying. This idea seemed so much better five minutes ago.
: : :
I'm so proud of her. "So, you think you know what you need to do to get back at that dyslexic who won't let you cheat off his Lit essays?"
"Yes, ma'am," Becky Jackson proudly declares. I swear, this is what educators are referring to when they talk about touching kid's lives. This is Sue Sylvester making a difference and being a role model.
I hand The Littlest Cheerio That Could a bag of chopped-up green Vitamin S. "That's my girl."
A/N: It took me a while to get this chapter where I wanted it. It wasn't until I changed the format that it really started working.