The stage was set. Ah, yes, it was another typical day in the basement of just another teenager with a cable access deal.

“And we’re on!”

“Weiss World, Weiss World, party time, excellent!” The guitar riff that followed this stunning declaration was pure and classic ‘Weiss World’. The camera, manned by a young man, zoomed in on the two figures. One, holding the guitar, had short, dark hair and a grinning face. He wore a plain, short-sleeved black shirt and ripped jeans. And an orange sweatshirt was unaccountably wrapped around his waist. His eyes were tightly shut and his head thrown back as his fingers danced over the electric strings.

Next to him was the faithful sidekick to his cable access show. Tall and lanky, with unruly hair of blonde (extra frizzy), he casually sat, the essence of coolness as he gazed over the rims of his glasses with sleepy eyes. He was clad in jeans as well, an old white shirt, strangely cropped, and a long-sleeved flannel ordeal.

The riff ended. “All right, excellent,” Ken said, running a hand through his hair. “Party on, Yohj’,”

“Party on, Ken.”

They grinned at the camera, each flashing a victory sign. “Well, that’s the end of our show for today,” Ken said. “If you’re still there, thanks for waiting to see this pointless, thirty second ending.” Yohji snickered. “Join us again tomorrow when we introduce the new segment What Makes Yohj’ Go *Schwing*.”

He picked the guitar back up. “Party on.” He launched into the ending riff. “Weiss World, Weiss World, party time, excellent!” Yohji head banged and waved drum sticks like he was playing the drums rather… well, badly.

“… And we’re clear!”

Ken, running a hand back through his hair, set the guitar down at the admission.

“All right, good show you guys,” the camera man – er, boy, that is – said, stepping forward. He was short and had unseemly big eyes. Where he had been standing behind the camera were two phone books so he could actually reach the camera, which he loftily ignored.

The lanky blonde youth yawned. “Wanna head to the hangout?” The hangout, in truth, was a diner. ‘Hangout’ was the term for lack of a better word. After all, what respectable teenager cable access star wanted to go to the ‘diner’? They weren’t grandma’s, after all, they were macho youths! Then Yohji added: “then to the club?”

Ken nodded. “You go on,” the dark-haired teenager said. “I’ll catch up.” As his side kick, camera man, and two other members of the crew left, Ken motioned to the camera. “Come on, follow me.”

Slowly, he was panned after. “My name is Hidaka Ken. I live with my parents, but got this basement thing goin’ down here.” He grinned over his shoulder. “Pretty cool, ne? Me and my friend Yohji have this cable access show. Weiss World, it’s called. We’re pretty popular with the chicks,” he added proudly. He promptly smacked into a wall.

Cursing under his breath, he gave the camera a weak glance of chagrin and stepped sideways, to the foot of the stairs. He motioned. “Up here we have the kitchen. Essential. And then, of course, the garage.” Moving out the door, he revealed a … golf cart?

“The Cruiser,” he proclaimed. Big sweatdrop. Then he motioned hurriedly away from the strange golf cart-like vehicle and motioned to a classic, *old*, blue car. A white cross striped each side. “No, this,” he explained expressively. “That’s-” in reference to the golf cart “-for my part time job of flower delivering.”

Realizing how ‘manly’ that sounded, he coughed and opened the door. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he found Yohji already in the passenger side and three figures in the back seat: Omi, who was the main camera man, and the other two members of his crew, known as Nagi and Farfie. Farfie, who sat in the middle, was looking sick and slightly green. The one eye that was revealed – the other was covered by a patch – was unfocused.

Pulling out, the group began to cruise down the highway. Pausing at red light, Yohji exclaimed over the limousine stopped next to them. Grinning at each other, Ken smirked. He leaned over, past Yohji, and motioned to the man inside, with a receding hairline and apparently stately figure.

The man, frowning, rolled it down. Ken cleared his throat.

“Pardon me, but do you have any cheap, yellow mustard?”

He stared at them first blankly, then angrily. He waved a hand in a manner that was supposed to be threatening. Snickering, they sped off – well, as fast as the Cruiser could manage – when the light turned green.

Turning on the radio, they reveled in classic songs.

“…mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go…” The entire group lip synched. To any passing car, it was truly a disturbing sight. “…scaramouche, scaramouche…”

Pulling up at the diner that strangely resembled a flower shop, they passed through the drive in window. Everyone ordered, except for the one-eyed figure in the back.

“What do you want, Farfie?”

He lifted one eye. “Knife,” he wheezed. Everyone sweatdropped. Then Ken elected that to *really* mean ‘get me a chocolate milkshake’ and finished the order. When they received their food they drove off, heading downtown.

“Hey, this band can really wail!” They pushed their way through the crowd in the club, head banging as they moved. “Who is it again?”

“Abyssinian,” Yohji called over the noise to Ken. A girl passed them, in tight clothes and a short skirt, and two automatic *schwing’s* were voiced. Then they continued.

“All right! Excellent!” Ken head-banged his way to the front. Then he looked up toward the stage, trying for a better look, now standing where he could see…

*Ooh, Dreamweaver…* From out of Nowhere a song drifted. Ken’s eyes were glued to the figure on the stage. Someone out of his dreams, slender and tall, with broad shoulders, was on stage singing. The flashing lights caught red hair like fire, and a trench coat produced an unreachable quality of desire. And for one moment, as the singer, singing with a deep, entrancing voice, scanned the crowd, their eyes met. In those depths the teenager staring past dark bangs lost himself.

“He will be mine. Oh yes, he will be mine.”

Someone was tugging his arm. He suddenly realized this fact, and turned, blinking, but still seeing the figure on stage surrounded by a fluffy, white clouds. “Hai?” he inquired.

Little Omi was looking up at him, annoyed. “I’m supposed to remind you about the meeting next week!” the boy shouted over the noise. Ah yes, the meeting. Someone was interested in their show, and they were to conduct a meeting concerning something along those lines. But his mind was still back with his newfound dream.

“Hai,” he agreed, and then let Omi walk away. He pushed closer to the front of the crowd. The song ended, and he cheered as loud as the rest of them. The singer for Abyssinian started down the stairs at the front of the stage, and some people yelled compliments. He accepted them gracefully.

Upon reaching the ground, however, and beginning to walk back to the bar, he happened to waltz, unfortunately, into a fight. One burly man was shoved backwards and ran headlong into the slender figure.

Anger flashed in plum colored eyes. Drawing a katana as the man turned around to apologize, the singer smoothly lopped off the man’s head.

Everyone sweatdropped, then prudently ignored the corpse. Two people in black shirts with the white block letters Clean-up Crew ran forward and dragged the body away. And the dancing and talking resumed once more.

I like a man with power, ran Ken’s dreamy thoughts.

Ken trailed like a hopeless puppy after the katana-wielding singer. He approached, running a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture, and leaned against the bar next to the singer.

“You can really wail,” he told the redhair. < And you can really make lopping a head off sexy > he added mentally.

“Doumo.” The response was spoken like velvet. Ken almost died. Mental *schwing*.

“So,” Ken continued, attempting conversation. “How long has your band been together?”

“A few years now,” was the casual reply. Ken opened his mouth to continue, but someone tugged incessantly on his arm. He turned to see Omi by him again.

“Gomen, Ken-kun, but Farfie’s sick.” He blinked. “Farfie is barfy,” he said. He giggled. Ken sweatdropped.

He frowned. Curse that Farfie. But he sighed. “All right, Omi.” He cast a final, longing glance at the slender figure at the bar and vowed to meet him again.

“Ne, how’s Farfie?” Ken inquired, running a hand through his hair as they entered the small diner… that smelled of flowers.

“He’ll survive. We gave him a knife to make him feel better,” Yohji replied. The teenage cable star nodded, and they sat down at the small, yellow table.

“The meeting’s next week,” Ken commented.

His frizzy-haired friend nodded. “Aa. What do you think it will be about?”

“Beats me. Hey, Yohj’-” He cut off, blinking. Yohji’s eyes had fixed somewhere beyond him. “Yo~hj’…” He waved a hand in front of the blank face.

But the lanky youth didn’t respond. There was a woman who had met his glance, captured his eyes. Bright eyes graced a beautiful face, complete with red lips and a orange-red scarf – no, wait, that was her strangely cut hair. She only glanced in his direction once, but Yohji felt himself shiver.

*Schwing-ing-ing… dies into echo for fantasy sequence…*

Suddenly he heard bells and doves. Surely a sign of love...!? Wait, no, that was an electric guitar and Jimmy Henderix…. Yohji was standing at the jukebox. The song slowly began to play, with the electric growl of the guitar slowly growing louder.

She turned on her barstool, and when she caught sight of him, standing there coolly, blinked those deep orbs that were her eyes. He began to approach her.

*You know you’re a cute little heartbreaker, huh * He made fox ears and teeth. *Foxy* A slow smile came to her lips.

He threw his sunglasses off on a random urge. *Foxy lady. I’m comin’ to get’ya!* He took another step, getting closer (if only in his dreams). *Crunch* He cringed, and the music faltered. His glasses were crushed beneath his feet. He still managed to make a fool of himself, even in his fantasy. The vision ended with a pop.

Ken was staring at him strangely. “Hey, you okay there, Yohj’?”

The other youth nodded, grinning dazedly. Despite the glasses-mishap, his fantasy had still been nice. “Let me tell you something about women, Ken,” he said, leaning forward confidentially. Ken blinked. Yohji really didn’t have lucky with the ladies. “They want you to come get them. They *love* it.”

“Hai…”

“We’re pulling over here,” Ken said suddenly, swerving off the road. Something had apparently caught his eye, and the others all looked to see what it was.

“*Again!*” Yohji demanded. The dark haired boy only nodded, his eyes fixed on the window of a shop nearby.

“But we’ve already been here once today…!” Omi wailed. Ken ignored the short boy, getting out of the car instead, transfixed. He plastered his face to the window, and if anyone were to look out, it would truly be a frightening sight.

*Angle voices resound…*

Behind the glass there was sitting the guitar of his dreams. It was white, complete with any and every addition imaginable... and had tiny black and white soccer balls painted across it’s smooth surface.

“It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.”

Everyone sweatdropped, and, with concentrated effort, managed to get him back inside the Cruiser and drive them all home.