Tangible Schizophrenia


Mission Statement

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG, PG-13 depending on how much you get from innuendo
Pairing: El/Sands
Disclaimer: Never mine, always R. Rodriguez's, dammit.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Notes: Yet another gratuitous crossover, 'cause permetaform wanted funnies. Go watch Blues Brothers, then read this. //words// in Spanish. Could fit in 'Archetype'-verse.
Summary: Sands does more corrupting. El gets even cooler.


The butler didn't know quite what to make of them. And that was saying a lot, given his experience. But in all the solicitors, girl scouts and gunmen that, at one time or another, had knocked on the door that was his responsibility, he had never, ever seen anything like these two men. Completely discombobulated, he fell back on his training and asked in his most snooty voice, //And might you state your business with Mr. Moco?//

It was the shorter one that answered, sunlight beaming cheerfully from his large sunglasses. "We're on a mission from God."

Ah. Insanity. Well, the butler could deal with that. He said politely, //Please wait here, sirs//, and turned to grab the sawed-off shotgun in the umbrella rack. Except a very large, very shiny gun nudged his hand aside. The taller one, impassive behind his black shades, commented, //I do not think that is a good idea, sir.//


"Sands. Sands," El called, raising his voice as he wended his way between the puddles of blood and shit. "Can I take these off now?"

Popping his head out of the next room, the American looked quizzical. "Why? You look good in them," he shot back.

"I hate sunglasses," El muttered, stepping next to Sands. Snorting, the other man grabbed his wrist and began dragging him further into the house. "Wait-where are we going?"

"Pool," Sands answered happily. "These motherfuckers always have one. And then I'm gonna show you exactly what those sunglasses are good for."


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