THE NAKED TRUTH

By Rubious

 

Rating: PG-13

Warning: Angst, violence, nausea, nudity, OOC

 

Trigun is © Yasahiro Nightow. Calico and Sokoke are © Enigma and are used with permission. This story is a work of fan fiction and is for entertainment purposes only.

 

//thoughts//

 

Notes: “The Naked Truth” occurs after “Come Dancing, in which Wolfwood and Milly arranged an evening out for Vash and Meryl. It is now the next morning. Wolfwood is feeling the effects of his actions of the night before.

            This story is a gift for my good friend and favorite author, Enigma, whose specialty is angst-filled Weiß Kreuz and Gundam Wing fics. So I wanted to surprise him with an angsty tale that is a departure from the romantic comedies I normally write.

 

Chapter 1: Night of the Llamas

 

            Yanking the shower curtain closed with a stronger than usual clatter, Nicholas Wolfwood stepped into the shower. He stood in the spray, the cold water stinging his skin like pesky mosquitoes. The prickliness matched his mood as he reflected on the events of the previous evening.

            “Damn you, Vash the Stampede,” the preacher cursed. He turned the shower taps to a hotter setting, hoping that the warm water would wash away the anger he felt toward the affable gunman. Wolfwood vigorously rubbed the bar of soap on his body, producing a large amount of sudsy lather. His angry mood had become more a feeling of betrayal. Vash’s actions dismayed him. “Why, Vash?” He asked himself repeatedly. You’re supposed to be Mr. Dependable. Why didn’t you back me up?

            Wolfwood poured a small amount of shampoo into his hand, which he then rubbed into his scalp in an attempt to rinse away the residue from the night before.

 

[FLASHBACK]

 

            Vash and Wolfwood had joined the insurance girls, Meryl Stryfe and Milly Thompson, for an evening out in JR Town. Vash’s mood had improved dramatically from the despairing mentality that he had felt before they had gone to a more carefree attitude.

            After dining and dancing at Club Noir where an encounter with Midvalley had ended with the Gung Ho Gun skulking away in embarrassment after failing to woo Meryl, the quartet ventured to the Angst Theater, “Zero Hour” was the featured attraction, a soul-stirring film about a young man’s dilemma in making critical choices in his life. The trailer for “Skill With A Blade” entranced Wolfwood, who loved swashbuckling adventure.

            Vash the Stampede felt upbeat that evening. He was grateful to his friend for suggesting the night out with the insurance girls. It had cheered him up immensely. The movie, the meal, and the company, particularly the petite insurance investigator, were enjoyable. Wolfwood laughed at the notion of Vash comparing the gum-filled candies at the concession counter to jelly donuts. The preacher smiled, glad that his friend was feeling better. He wouldn’t admit to his complicity in fixing up Vash with Meryl.

            The trip back to New Oregon was uneventful. After dropping the women off at the boarding house, Wolfwood and Vash returned the “borrowed” hearse to the F&F Mortuary. He breathed a sigh of relief knowing that the vehicle didn’t show any indication that it had been used temporarily for their evening out in JR Town. The hearse would be needed the next day for the funeral of a well-known local merchant.

            Craving a drink, Nicholas Wolfwood opened a small compartment in the Cross-Punisher that he had unslung from his back and took out a small liquor flask. He offered some to Vash, who declined. The preacher took a few swigs of whiskey from the flask. “I didn’t know you kept liquor in there,” Vash commented, nodding towards Wolfwood’s weapons arsenal, his eyebrows arched in amusement.

            “You’d be surprised. This thing is filled with a lot more than mercy,” the preacher replied with a chuckle. Not having had any booze during dinner conflicted with his habit of hard drinking and Wolfwood wanted to go on a bender. His alcohol-free evening had been imposed on him by Milly in his role of designated driver. Now that his duty had been fulfilled, he was free to drink to his heart’s content.

            The men returned to the boarding house. Wolfwood entered the building and came out with a container of rotgut. He joined Vash on the front porch.

            After downing half of the jug, Wolfwood glimpsed a pair of yellow eyes peering at him from the porch railing. Vash sidled over and petted the purring feline. “Hello, kitty,” the outlaw said softly. Wolfwood thought he was hallucinating. //Is that the same cat that spoke to me while I was playing checkers in a saloon one afternoon last week?//

* * *

Across the street in front of a fabric store, a group of thugs hassled an adolescent boy with curly brown hair and a bad case of acne. The boy cowered in the presence of the thugs’ orange-haired leader. The thugs were members of the Angry Llamas gang. They wore black leather jackets with their emblem, an irate animal, emblazoned on the back of the jacket. The boy dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of double-dollars and gave the money to the dealer. “Aye, here’s your Pseudodreine, laddie,” the lead thug said in a lilting accent.

            The Angry Llamas operated the largest drug trafficking ring in the region, selling the specialty drug, Pseudodreine, to unsuspecting users, who quickly became addicted to the mind-numbing stimulant. Corrupt authorities kept a blind eye to the Llamas’ illicit activities.

            Wolfwood witnessed the transaction between the leader and the teen from his vantage point on the boarding house’s porch. He imagined the youngster as one of the kids in the orphanage he supported with the donations he collected from hearing confessions and felt outraged. //This is wrong. Those goons are taking advantage of the kid. I gotta put a stop to this.//

            Emboldened by the alcohol that also hindered his judgment, Wolfwood stumbled across the street in an unsteady gait to confront the Llamas. “What the fuck are you guys doing with this shit?” he demanded, words slurring as he spoke.

            “And who the fuck are you are you to stick your holier-than-thou nose in our business,” retorted the lead Llama.

            “My name doesn’t matter, your dirty scumbag.” Wolfwood’s voice rose in volume as he tried to convey a threatening posture.

            “Look here, buddy. It’s none of your damned business. The Llamas do as they damn well please. No drunken preacher is gonna stop us,” the orange-haired man said in a mocking tone of voice.

            Wolfwood regarded the man through narrowed eyes. His adversary seemed somewhat menacing, but it might be a façade. The dealer’s bright orange hair was slicked back, parted on the right side. Hazel eyes glared back at the fool who dared to interfere with the Llamas. The man, who was about as tall as Wolfwood, had a thin build and was clad head-to-toe in black leather. A razor-tipped cat-o-nine-tails hung from his belt and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if the situation called for it. A golden earring and a gold necklace accented the darkness of his outfit and his attitude.

            The inebriated Wolfwood paused before replying. “Wanna bet?” As he spoke, he realized he had made a dreadful mistake in forgetting to bring the Cross-Punisher with him and regretted his words. //Oh, shit! What have I gotten myself into?//

            “Should we teach this guy a lesson, Cal?” asked one of the Llamas. Cal nodded. Two burly Llamas grabbed Wolfwood, pinning his arms behind him. Cal punched the preacher in the stomach. The thugs let the man crumple to the ground in a heap. Wolfwood gasped as he fell then he vomited in the dirt and on himself, staining his black suit.

            A honey-blonde woman wearing the Llamas colors emerged from the rear of the group and latched onto the leader’s arm. “Way to go, Cal! Can we get some pizza now?” she said sarcastically. The woman looked at the barf-encrusted Wolfwood and sneered in disgust, “Ewwww! That’s gross.”

            Cal pulled the blonde to him and whispered in her ear, “Coco, next time don’t come with us when we’re collecting.”

            The Llamas laughed at the sight of the beaten drunk. “You’re pathetic. What a loser!” As a final insult, Cal spat on the prone Wolfwood as the thugs turned to leave for more lucrative dealings in Southpointe.

           

            After playing with the cat on the porch, Vash had gone into the boarding house to make some coffee in order to sober up his friend. Coming outside, he looked for the preacher and was alarmed to see Wolfwood sprawled in the street. The Stampede hurried over, lifted Wolfwood to his feet, and helped him back to the boarding house. Vash gently teased his friend, “Wolfwood, you’ve dishonored the booze.”

            Wolfwood muttered, “Bastards.” The image of the grinning Cal remained etched in his memory.

            Vash removed the soiled jacket from Wolfwood and placed it over a chair. The black-haired man collapsed on the bed, emitting a groan as he hit the covers. He soon fell fast asleep.

[END OF FLASHBACK]

 

            He washed the shampoo from his eyes as he winced at the stinging sensation of the suds and the betrayal he felt inside.

 

AUTHOR’S NOTES

[1.] The narcotic Pseudodreine is produced by Enigma Labs and is fully credited to its creator.

[2.] I wholeheartedly recommend Enigma’s latest effort, “Cold November Rain”, which can be found at fanfiction.net under “E-sama the Llama”.

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