Fried Raiden for Breakfast

A nlovely fanfic I started writing years ago. Then I lost it, but for some reason I couldn’t get it out of my head so I rewrote it last week.

SO basically in an effort to lube up my desire to write and make myself think significantly less highly of my writing, I will be doing weekly installments of this dumb as shit series of Metal Gear fanfictions. I think this is perfect because Metal Gear’s already dumb as shit and treating it with a stream-of-consciousness Khonjin House-esque wacky tonality will be the perfect way to shit out something every week, because it can be the worst shit ever, and I can leave it wherever I want or make an episode as short as I fuckin’ need if I can’t find the time to write one week. Anyway, the point is, it doesn’t matter how shitty it is I’m gonna be shitting it out once a week because that’s what I told myself I’d do and if I start slowing down instead of speeding up then I’ll fall right off the train and onto the train tracks and it’ll be so easy to just sit there on the train tracks instead of catching another train so take it away Raiden:

The Raiden phone buzzed, alerting him that he must go to New Zealand for his new mission. Raiden checked the time. Yup, it was still the year 2033. He’d been contently fucking murdering people for 19 years. Making people stop living was a heck of a living, but he reminded himself that he was doing it all for his family, who happened to be living in New Zealand so he would get to see them while he was there so that was really good.

He took a public flight and had his knees cramped by the seat in front of him, so he stabbed his high frequency blade through the back of the cushion to kill the person sitting there and then chopped the seat up by its roots and kicked it away. A flight attendant reminded him that murder wasn’t actually legal. He excused himself by saying that he’d actually forgotten, since he was really used to murdering people basically weekly, and everyone found that understandable until he started arguing that since they were also over international waters the rules shouldn’t apply anyway. Considering there are no countries where murder isn’t legal, it didn’t seem like a defensible argument, and perhaps even weakened his original point. Raiden resisted the urge to murder them for attacking his opinions, and therefore himself as a person.

The plane touched down and Raiden sprinted to Rose’s house in a couple minutes. He kicked the front door off its hinges and shouted “RRRRRROOOOOOSSSEE????” From the kitchen, he heard a counter-shout, “No blood on the carpet!” He took mild offense that she would just assume he had blood on him, but he did have to swipe his sword outside the front door and paint the sidewalk and hedges with some chunky blood, so he didn’t utter a retort. Wait! That’s the only greeting he got??

“Rose, I- I’m home!” Stammered Raiden, attempting to catch a verbal consolation prize.

-To Be Continued