Summary: Ever wondered how the heck a drunken party's worth of YGO characters could possibly turn into a semi-gory horror story? Here's your answer. Two hour speedfic. Hinted Puppyshipping, if you squint.

Prompt: "Drunken Cab Ride Home" – So, it's been a crazy night and a few drinks have been guzzled down, so what happens when it's time for the party to leave the club? You can be very inventive with this one guys, seeing how character(s) act in a drunken state, the taxi isn't essential it's more of a prompt for you.

Handicap: Spooner-set handicap: Use a weirdo format.

And according to the rules: 'Gore is also allowed, however considering the themes I would be very impressed to see how someone would make something happy-go-lucky a horror.'

…Well, you asked for it, mate – I hereby declare a drunk–fic to be a horror-dark affair. Can a writer who usually shies away from dark fics write a nice murdery horror...?

Length: 2,200 words.

Time Limit: A two hour speed-fic.

If there was one thing Seto Kaiba simply could not stand, one thing even worse than the paparazzi, it was them - the horde of preachers and priests who followed him about everywhere, stalking a millionaire, and insinuating that his life was somehow not as good as theirs, because they believed in something. What this something was, he could not fathom; encased as it was in a cocoon of cheesiness that seemed to switch the young CEO's ears off whenever they heard the word that appeared to encompass the heart of their ridiculous beliefs; but it was evidently (a) something worth their believing in, and (b) given their peeling sanity and presumably low marks in school, not worth his time.

At first, they and their hokey religion had come across had been laughable - these mere ants honestly felt that they could possibly rise above him, what a joke - but when they had stuck, he found himself fast becoming irritated with them. Repeated attempts to brush them off, however, were futile; they clung to him, responding to angered words with sad looks perhaps reminiscent of a small, recently orphaned puppy, but always refusing to leave his side. They wanted to change him, perhaps to make themselves feel important and influential , but the simple fact was that Kaiba didn't want to change; didn't want to play along and let the idiots feel good, didn't want to live in a cardboard box as he suspected at least one of them did. He shot them glares, then promptly wished that he hadn't; for when he did this, their stares grew only sadder, if that was even possible. Irked as he was by them, he found out the hard way that anger, for once, was not the answer to making them shut up, go away, and leave him in peace.

Well, he had tried to avoid them after this revelation; never giving them time to speak, rushing around as though he were a small - yet thoroughly dignified - hurricane. This behaviour had even extended to the classroom, where he hunched over his desk more than usual, trying to hide behind his books - good lord, the great Seto Kaiba was hiding - but somehow, somehow, they had always found him, preached to him, annoying like the fly in a cow's ear; always talking, never slowing in their speech, as they 'educated' him with meaningless babble, the stuff of nostalgia and argh so annoying- but he couldn't react with anger, they would surely have used that against him.

He had eventually dropped school altogether, retreating to the comforts of the world's most advanced security system, sheltered by vigilant bodyguards and soundproof walls, and thought he might have been safe there. Unfortunately, he soon found that he was under siege, the believers hanging around the front of his mansion-turned-corporate building; neon signs bearing messages of friendship and hope set up seemingly with the express purpose of spoiling his view from the window of the office, little pamphlets somehow finding their way to his office (or worse still: handed to him by blank–eyed bodyguards, the blonde Arab of the coven always smirking a little his way afterwards) - in short, they were just asking for a restraining order. But then again, to take them at all seriously would surely be to acknowledge that they were a problem; and Kaiba refused to believe that for a minute. So, he stayed in his building, and waited for them to give up; they had to eventually.

…They did, right?

It took them a while to do so - months, in fact. To be honest, Kaiba nearly considered moving to a city other than Domino several times; the only thing preventing him from doing so being his stalwart determination to beat these preachers, even if it killed him. But eventually, October came round – and much to his delight, the priests began to sally off, one by one, claiming that they were off on a mission to fight away both ghoulies and non-believers. The preachers followed along mutely behind, as though they were naught but pet, not allowed to speak - and eventually, the twenty-fifth of the month crawled in with not a single member of the little cult in sight, hovering as they once did around the stairs of the KaibaCorp building. Kaiba was well pleased with this outcome - it meant that at last, for the first time in years, he had something to celebrate on his birthday. The day was beautiful; productive, perhaps even more so than average, and Mokuba left him alone for the most part, occupied as Kaiba's younger brother was with building some sort of birthday present for him with matchsticks and glue.

Evening fell, the darkness repelled by the fluorescent lights of the company, and still the CEO worked; it was a labour of love indeed, as he found himself imagining how exactly he could beat those ridiculous priests into next week with his latest gadget, if ever they dared to set foot on his turf again.

And then, just as he was settling into his seat, a mug of hot chocolate in his grasp-

-well, that was when the music started; loud and pounding, the whole building vibrating to the sound of heavy bass growls and wild whoops and yells.

Looks like the cult's having a party.

He's that raggedy guy, shabby t-shirt and torn jeans, and he's not wearing them because the clothing happens to look good on his slender frame. They say his dad's a heavy drinker, kicks him out of the house; to be honest, the cardboard box is more welcoming.

Sometimes he sleeps at a friend's, sometimes he lives on the streets; it changes with the seasons - but no matter what, two things will always stay the same: One, his name is Katsuya Jounouchi, and two, he's always cheerful; hopeful that even if it didn't go quite right before, it will go right again someday. He decided to make these things into truths a long time ago, the first time he realized that his mother and sister were leaving and really weren't going to come back. It's a promise, then; a promise that he won't let his hardships change him, for the better or the worse. And he's as stubborn as they come, too; unlikely to back down in the face of adversity.

He's the one who chose the music, the one who's jumping up and down before the KaibaCorp building shouting 'Happy Birthday, Kaiba!' in that nasal voice of his. He knows he's the most irritating for the CEO they follow around; so while he's not the leader by any stretch of the imagination, he takes up a role most vocal in the group's targeting of Seto Kaiba. He's a true follower of the religion; he only wants Kaiba to change, and honestly believes that the man can change, realize the real value of friendship; and though it will be hard to make the brunette learn that lesson, the blonde is determined. He's been focusing his efforts on Kaiba lately; the CEO has become Jounouchi's specialty, after all – and someday, someday, he will be converted by the blonde.

Seto Kaiba, he's decided somewhere along the line, is his.

And that's why he's leading this party, that's why he's the one doing the goofy chicken dance out the front, the guy singing horrible karaoke at the top of his lungs and knowing that it sounds like a cat being annihilated – not just because he's the best one for getting on Kaiba's nerves and knows it, but because he's got a decision to fufill; he's not letting one of the others take the credit for this conversion! That being said, Jounouchi's still as cheerful as ever, in the prime of his life and loving every minute of it, the butt of everyone's jokes, the heart and soul of the party, even if he won't drink but for orange juice (he's on medication, has been for years, not that he's told anyone because depression is for weaklings)-

-and that's why he doesn't taste the alcohol someone's slipped into his glass, it's just unusually flavoured juice to him.

Delicious; he licks his chops and asks for some more.

Deadly; not that he realizes it

until it's far, far too late


and he's going



That does it!

Apparently the party had now turned into a rave without anyone really asking for it; the yahooing outside had somehow become screaming, the pitches shrill over the ever–pounding bass, the resulting wall of sound rattling Kaiba to his core. He sent men to deal with the rowdy cultists, however they did not return, seemingly swallowed up by the party – the CEO smelled a rat immediately, but could not possibly bow to their level and acknowledge them with, say, a small twitch of the emerald curtains of his office.

The intercom system, then, proved to be useful – the young man's bellows echoed far and wide across the whole of Domino City, as he gave a rousing lecture upon the legalities of loitering. In this way, he was hardly commenting upon them and their party per se; he was merely making it rather obvious that such behaviours similar to the ones they currently exhibited would not be tolerated; so he was still able to sit back down at his desk and pretend that the cult did not exist. This was fine, then; now everything could go back to normal, the noises would stop, the music would stop, and–

–only it didn't.

In fact, it went on and on and on, annoying Kaiba no end; and further attempts with the intercom proved futile. No–one was listening to him, that was the problem, and a problem that sent Kaiba into a simmering of angry emotions, the high pitches of the screams only encouraging the pot to boil over, until he at last found the remedy to the problem. Without further ado, he made his way down steps innumerable, his coat flapping behind him in and invisible gale, face twisted with a cold fury as he prepared his thunderous roars in his own head, steeling himself for whatever the heck those idiots were doing outside.

He's always out the front of the party, so it's no surprise that he still is when the first cramps start; his whole body doubling over mid–dance. He takes a step to the side, bends at the knee before the silver terrace–

He's throwing up.


Kaiba's yelling at him and his friends over the intercoms

and something's wrong

wrong with him

Jounouchi can't quite put his finger on it

but something's


He clutches his stomach, he holds his head in his hands and


No, he doesn't, he…


He can't focus

Because of the bubbles

Bubbles everywhere

Bubbles in the air

in the drink

which is not meant to have bubbles

it's water

not water


...oh no.





echo in the night

not his

but theirs

the pocket knife

cutting through flesh

with surprising efficiency

drunks falling on the blade

'til they've all fallen over

No, they've all fallen

all dead


red vision

Maybe, maybe, if only Seto Kaiba hadn't thrown the door open at that point with an angry snarl reminiscent of a Siberian tiger, if only he'd come before the cult had been massacred (or maybe after, when Jonouchi had left the gruesome tableau), then he would have lived. As it was, the young man raged worse than a bushfire in an Australian summer, he ranted and yelled about the noise, the noise, someone make it stop

–and only when he stopped did he realize that there was silence. There had been silence for a while, actually, save for the gentle plip–plip–plip of rain trickling from the wet ground, into a gutter. Jounouchi stood there, silent and staring and soaked to the bone with rain, rain all over the little pocket knife he held, glistening off the blade…

Only it wasn't rain, but blood; the pavement smeared with red, as though someone had given a five–year–old a box of crimson crayons and let them run wild – red all over Jounouchi, red all over the bodies, over the knife – the knife!

And it was too late for him, because now the once blonde was coming at him, blood all through his hair, with this wild look in his eyes

(they're up against the wall)

and Kaiba realizes

(as the knife meets his throat)



with Jounouchi's blood

the alcohol in his blood

it's killing him


killing Kaiba


(it goes in deep, it comes out)


but there's no point

in stopping now

can't stop


(The ground is red, salty to taste)

he's drowning in himself


blood through his windpipes


on liquid red always red


sirens in the air but too late

he's drowning in himself


death by drink