Authors notes: A bit of explanation. One night, after several grueling hours of reading and studying Marxist and neo-Marxist theory, I took a break by watching the three Gatchaman OAVs. While I was watching, I noticed something - Ken actually had more clothes changes than anyone else. So that got me to thinking. Apparently in the OAV world, the team wasn't limited to their numbered shirts and bellbottoms during civilian mode. So, that meant a wardrobe. Which meant having to do laundry. In my experience, guys generally don't know how to do laundry. It's rather funny how many different ways that a guy can fuck up the first time that they try to wash their clothes by themselves. Anyways, this is the silliness that resulted from too many hours of studying Marx. Blame him. ^_^;
We join our erstwhile hero one night while he tries to do his laundry at the friendly neighborhood laundromat.
Ken Washio had faced off with countless Galactor goons, not to mention Berg Katze himself, numerous times. Ken had helped destroy dozens, if not hundreds, of stupid mechs-of-the-week. Ken could hot-wire almost anything with an engine and/or wheels. Ken could hack into any database within a few moments if he wanted. Ken was ninja, G-1, Owashi no Ken, Gatchaman. Ken couldn't figure out how to work the stupid fucking washing machine. Shimatta.
Ken had run out of clean clothes to wear earlier that week. He'd been rewearing socks two, three times. He'd been hand washing single pairs of underwear to wear the following day. Ken could actually begin to see why Joe slept in the buff. It was rather...liberating.
Ken stood looking at the stuffed washer and the little light that kept flashing, not knowing why it was flashing, much less what to do about it. He really wished that Jun were here. Hell, he wished that anybody other than himself were here. He started to bang his head on the top of the washer in frustration.
As if answering his wishes, someone walked in. Ken stopped banging his head as he heard that someone ask, "What the hell are you doing?" Unfortunately, that someone was Joe.
Ken looked up at Joe, hope in his eyes.
"Joe! You know how to do laundry?"
Joe gave him his best sneer.
"Yeah. Don't you?" and Joe started to sort his own laundry.
Ken watched a moment before asking, "What are you doing?"
"Sorting my laundry."
"Why?"
"So I don't overstuff the washer like yours is."
Ken looked at his washer, with the damn light still blinking at him as if in accusation.
"It is?"
"That's what the light's blinking for, stupid."
"Oh. Okay. Thanks."
Joe rolled his eyes and went back to his sorting.
Birds sing, bees buzz, and time passes.
"What the fuck are you doing?!"
Ken looked up in surprise.
"What?"
Joe crossed his arms and glared at him, "I asked what the fuck you were doing?"
Ken looked down at his piles of laundry. His little piles of shirts, pants, socks, underwear... He'd been sorting them. He looked back up at Joe to tell him that. Joe looked stunned for a moment as his gaze flicked back and forth, first at Ken, then at the little piles of clothes he'd organized on the washer.
Slowly, Joe's shoulders started to shake. Ken watched in confusion.
Joe started to laugh. Ken frowned.
Joe laughed harder. Ken started to glare.
Joe had to hold his side as a stitch developed. Ken threw the shirt he'd been holding at Joe's face.
Joe howled.
"What?"
Joe continued to laugh.
"What?"
Joe was practically rolling on the floor with laughter.
"What is so goddamn funny, Asakura?"
Ken threw another shirt at him.
Finally, Joe managed to control his laughter. He couldn't stop snickering though.
Ken continued to glare.
"Joe! What the fuck is so funny?!"
Joe tried to explain, snickering all the way.
"That's not what I meant by sorting, Washio," Joe snickered, "You're supposed to sort them by color, not by what type they are." Joe pointed at his own piles. "See. Whites with whites. Colors with colors."
Ken felt himself start to blush. ((The author takes a moment to admire the way the blush enhanced the complexion of the Eagle. *sigh* Oops, back to the story... ^_^; ))
"Oh. I see."
The wind blows, the sun moves across the heavens, and time passes yet again.
"Um, Joe?"
"Yeah, Ken?"
"What if they're white with colors?"
"....."
"Joe?"
Ken is answered by a snickering Joe, "You can put them in with the colors, or start a third pile."
"Thanks."
Ken's head snapped up as Joe continued to snicker at him.
"It's not that funny, Joe."
"Yes, Ken. It is." Joe gave Ken a grin, his face a mask of unholy glee. "Wait till I tell the others about this. Imagine! Sorting by what type of clothes they are! Ha! I doubt they'd even believe me."
Ken was feeling incredibly stupid, and put upon.
Joe was being exceptionally obnoxious.
Ken needed an outlet for his frustrations with the damn laundry.
Joe was there.
Laughing at him.
There was only one way to handle this.
Ken threw a punch with the expected result: a no holds barred throw down brawl between Joe and himself.
Ken found himself feeling much better.
After a few minutes of brawling, an unspoken agreement was reached. The fighting stopped. The other customers of the laundromat sighed in intense relief. One old woman quickly gathered her clothes into a basket and hurried out, muttering, "I'm too old for this kind of shit." the entire way.
Ken and Joe looked at each other and burst out laughing. Joe threw back the shirts Ken had tossed in his face.
"So, bro, if you don't know how to do laundry, how you been getting by all these years?"
Ken grinned as he caught his shirts and started sorting his laundry again. The right way.
"I usually have this agreement with Kyle, one of the guards at the ISO building. He does my laundry every two weeks, and I give him flying lessons when I can. Last month he got transferred to Anderson's guard detail, and I haven't been able to find someone else who's willing to trade doing my laundry for something."
((The author pauses to reflect that she would be extremely happy to do the laundry of either the Eagle or Condor for any number of ... um... services...*ahem* they could perform. ^_^;; ))
"Finally got desperate and decided to try it on your own, eh?"
"Yeah. I never knew it would be this confusing."
"Heh. Imagine, the great Gatchaman not knowing how to do his own laundry."
"Aw, shut up Joe. It's not my fault Nambu never taught me how to do laundry."
"It's a good thing Katze's never come after us with a giant washing machine, or we'd be in trouble."
Ken grinned and raised a warning fist, causing several of the other laundromat customers to drop their clothes and look around for cover.
"What, you looking for another ass-whuppin'?"
Joe answered with that vicious shit-eating grin that had Galactors everywhere, and not to mention the hapless customers of the laundromat, run for their lives screaming at the top of their lungs. ((And probably has females swooning. ^_~ *BONK* Joe: Will you stop with the commentary, woman?! It's bad enough being in this silly 'fic of yours without subjecting the rest of us to your lascivious thoughs. Shit.))
"You and what army, pretty-boy?"
"Ooh, them's fighting words!"
"That's right, so whatcha gonna do about it?"
Ken dropped down into a fighting stance, grinning like a maniac, "I'm gonna kick your sorry Sicilian ass."
Joe produced a feathered shuriken from... ((the author gets a sly grin)) ... from his a- ((and prudently decides not to continue that line of thought. Never know who could come by for revenge, after all. Heh heh. ^_^;; Joe: *growling* You're smarter than you look, woman.)) ...who knows where he got it from, actually... and stuck it in his mouth, raising his hands in a come-and-get-me motion.
"Let's get it on, mama's boy."
Here, the author lets the reader imagine the incumbent fight, since she can't really describe a fight worth a damn. Imagine MTV's Celebrity Deathmatch. Imagine the taunting that goes on in said Deathmatch. Now imagine the incredibly stupid, yet incredibly funny, moves that are prevalent in said Deathmatch. The reader has then captured the nature and spirit of the fight. Thank you. ((The author takes a few moments to indulge in a fantasy of the Eagle and Condor mud wrestling... oops, did the author actually write that? *ahem* ^_^ ;; *BONK* Ow! Joe: K'so. What was that I said about the commentary, stupid girl?))
And a pleasant afternoon was had by all at a local, neighborhood laundromat..
THE END
((The author gets some severe glares from the other patrons still hiding under the tables, behind convenient walls and doors, and some really flexible patrons that managed to hide inside the washers and dryers. Heh heh.)) Well, almost everyone in the laundromat.
THE END, AGAIN.
((The author looks for a place to hide herself as said patrons all start running after her, screaming bloody murder.)) Oh all right, a pleasant afternoon was had only by the Eagle and Condor - beating the tar out of each other. ((Sheesh. No sense of humor...))
THE END, REALLY, TRULY, CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO DIE. SO NYAH!!!!
Endnotes: Now I realize that this didn't really make much sense, or have a point. But it wasn't supposed to. I also realize that I was playing kinda fast and loose with characterization, but that's an author's prerogative, right? And in case you were wondering, this was based on a true story. My brother and his roommate actually sorted their clothes like that once. Heh. Boys. Hope you enjoyed this foray into silliness!