A Day in the Life (Yu-Gi-Oh!, PG-13, Chapter two is up)

[Kenny Bohner]

[spoiler=Character Roster & Character Wanted Message (Please Read!)]Okay, I'm writing a fanfic, and I need some characters. Please read the thread before posting. PM me (preferably) or post them, although I really wish you'd PM me with them. Please include a description of the character, as the ones below. I'll put the roster below as I recieve/think of it. Please, no Shadow Duelists. Thanks!

 

MAIN CHARACTERS

Kenny Bohner (Main Character): Age: 19 (From New York) Apperance: Strangely colored eyes; they look blue, but have a ring of yellowish green around the pupil. Dressed in an orange Mets baseball tee shirt, with an unzipped AC/DC hoodie over it, and white track pants, with a pair of black Etnies, a Battle City Duel Disk, and a black Mets baseball cap with a blue brim, with medium length dark hair underneath. Average height, a little under six feet tall. Build: Around average, not ripped, but not obese, either. Personallity: Always the first to crack a joke, rarely has a care in the world. On the downside, sometimes he doesn't take important things seriously, causing him to appear inept. Despite all of this, he is considered quite intelligent by those who know him well. Deck Type: Warrior. Signature Card: (Author's Note: He specializes in Tag Duels. And, yes, he's me. That's my real name.)

Joey Barone (Main Supporting Character): Age: 18 (From New York) but he was still in Kenny's class, due to a summer birthday). Apperance: Rough-cut, to say the least, with tussled blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a white t-shirt, with a mustard stain on the front, and well-worn jeans, and a pair of ancient white Nikes, and a Battle City Duel Disk. He's a little taller than average, at about 6' 1", and lean. Personallity: Relies too much on luck to do his work for him. He tries to have a good sense of humor, but often comes up with cheap puns, and terrible one-liners. Still, though, even though he's a clumsy, rough-around-the-edges, terrible joking, lazy sonofagun, he is considered to be a lovable oaf by most people around him. Age: 18. Deck Type: Dragon. Signature card: Victory Dragon (LIGHT, Dragon, LVL 6, ATK 2400, DEF 2000, If this card causes your opponent's Life Points to fall to zero, you win the Match). Relationaship to main character: Best friend/roommate. (Author's Note: He specializes in Tag Duels, and is Kenny [well, my] partner/friend. He is totally fictional, although I wish I knew him.)

Lisa Parker (Major Supporting Character): Age: 19 (Born in L.A., lives in New York). Apperance: Moderately short, at about 5' 8", at a proportional weight. Slightly longer than shoulder length dark hair, very dark eyes, almost black, with a partially unzipped navy Abrecrombe and Fitch hoodie, over a white, plain top, blue jeans, and black crocks. Her build: "ample." Personallity: Very on the ball. Fun to hang around with, but can be serious, when needed. Although she has many positive qualities, she has a mean temper, and can be overbearing, on occasion. She is Joey's girlfriend. Deck: Dark Magician Girl. Signature card: Dark Magician Girl. Relationship to main characters: Joey's girlfriend. (Author's Note: Fictional Character, although roughly based on a friend of mine.)

Ami (AH-me) Nara (Major Supporting Character): Age: 17 (Born in Seattle, lives in New York), but since her Seattle school didn't have a Kindergarten, and, due to academic sucess, she was boosted a grade, she, once transfered to PHS 157 with Kenny and Joey's class. Appearance: Tall-ish, roughly 5'9", at a slightly below average weight. Long, flowing, straight dark brown hair, going to about the small of her back. She's got deep, lustrous dark eyes, and distinctively Japanese skin, with a more-than-capable build. She wears a white American Eagle top, tight-fitting (Don't be a pervert; I just mean that it's not loose), with black jeans, and loafers. Deck: Not a Duelist. Signature card: Although she's not a Duelist, she was given one card by me (in the fanfic; this is fictional, remember), which is a blank. It's more symbolic than anything. Relationship to main character: Kenny's friend. (Author's Note: Fictional Character, although based on a friend of mine.)

NEEDED: Duelists. Please provide name, age, apperance (Pic would be sweet) deck type, and history/personality.

 

[spoiler=Chapter 1] (Chapter 1) Wow. Talk about pressure. See, I'm in a duel, right? But, not just any duel... this is the one that counts, the grand stage, the big dance, the Mother of them All... the Kaibasus' Industrial Illusions Corporation World Championship... and, this isn't any ordinary Pete out there as an opponent, either... this is Sebastion Ecuban, who hails from London, England. The reigning champ was like a god to me; he was as big a hero to me as a sumo with a Thyroid condition, as cool as Elvis, Burt Reynolds, Adam Sandler, Superman, Darth Vader, Mike Piazza, or Ozzy Osbourne. And I was in the middle of a come-from-behind win! And, I had my ace card, Supreme General Ukitake, on the Field, who was more than capable of winning right here! "So, Sebastion," I said, a slight mocking tone in my voice, "Anything to say during your last few moments as champion?" His responce was... "Some dance to remember, some dance to forget! Yeah!" He then broke into an audible air-guitar solo. I then realized what had happened; it was time to get up. My eyes fluttered open to the chorus of "Hotel California," by the Eagles. Friggin' alarm clock... I thought as I blindly groped my nightstand for the evil contraption. I ended up knocking it to the floor, unplugging it. Well, I thought, That's one way to do it, I s'pose... I looked around, on my back, at my room. It really was crap. There was the moldy ceiling, which smelled a bit dodgy, the yellow-ish, peeling wallpaper, the once-white grey carpet, and the unblinded, curtain-less, cracked, half-boarded window at the far side of the room, which was so smeared and dirty that you could barely make out the fact that this was a fifth-floor apartment. All that you could really see was the distant outline of Citi Field, the Mets' new stadium. The only furniture was a thrid-or-fourth-hand bed, purchased from a thrift store two years ago, with it's plain white linnens, a make-shift nightstand, which was a few milk crates stacked on top of each other, with a dollar store lamp on it, and where the alarm clock used to be. The only personal touch was a Mike Piazza poster that I've had since Kindergarten, which hung on the door (which I suspect to be the incarnation of Satan). Oh, I hated that friggin' door... it was partially off of its hinges, to open it, you really had to put your back into it, and when you did, it made this horrible, terrible sound... it was like the claws of my seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Grantier's, fingernails scraping a blackboard from Hell. So, as gently as I could, I tried to open it, and, being Mr. Finess, it made a sound about like the one I described, mixed in with a Slayer song, and crashed to the floor. It not only woke up my roommate, and the guy across the hall, but, I'm willing to bet, Adolf Hitler. It was that bad. My roommate and best friend, Joey Barone, woke with a start from the pull-out sofa. He looked like he'd been through Rosie O'Donald's underwear drawer, he was so scared. "Dude, Kenny, what the hell just happened?!" He asked, mouth moving at roughly the speed of light. "Relax, man, that door finally gave out." "Good-freakin'-riddance, ya piece of crap." Yeah, it was about time, but I wasn't looking forward to replacing it. "So, uh, Ken, any particular reason you're naked?" I looked down, and remembered that I was only wearing a pair of Coca-Cola boxer shorts. I rushed to the other side of our sprawling, three-room metropolis, to the sole closet. I opened the door, found random pants and my favorite t-shirt, and slipped on the former first. They turned out to be white althletic pants. I then threw on my shirt, a white shirt with a hippie smiley face on it. It was so cool. I walked into the living room, which looked a lot like my room, but with a pull-out sofa, and a TV with a whopping 25-inch screen, with a V.C.R. Joey was already wearing some grey t-shirt (formerly white), a pair of jeans so threadbare and worn that my pants were a good bit thicker, and some ancient, faded grey Nikes, one of which was missing lace, and he was watching Goodfellas 9you (know, the Ray Liotta movie?). "Ya 'bout ready?" "S'pose... lemme get something to eat, though." I slipped on some socks and a pair of battered black Etnies, put my cell phone, which I won in a contest, in my pocket, and grabbed my Mets cap... only to find a pair of Joey's boxers in it. Oh, I thought, He'll pay for this... I walked over the aforementioned third room, which was a kitchen-dinette. What a freakin' joke. It sported an electric range top, a three-legged table, which was filled to the brim with junk, two white, Wal-Mart brand lawnchairs, with free stains, a dry faucet (we just used the bathroom's), and a whopping square yard of counter space, occupied by a mini-fridge with an old boombox on top of it. Joey was sifting through the pile of assorted crap on the table, and he found a box of Pop-Tarts. Satisfied, he started shoving the pastries into his mouth, one after a another. I saw my vengance, in the form of the Blizzard of Ozz, sitting next to the boombox. I set it up to Crazy Train, cranked the volume, and hit play. "ALL ABOARD! AHAHAHAHA!!!!" You shouldda seen it. Honestly. He jumped ten feet high, man. I wish you'd have seen it. He proceeded to put me in a fake headlock, saying, "Gonna kill you one of these days..." although he was laughing, too. He handed me my Duel Disk, which was on the chair. He was wearing his already. Oh, yeah, almost forgot; the reason I'm writing this is that we entered a tournament, the Big Apple Tagforce Blowout, which pitted the two of us versus all other dueling pairs in New York, for prize cards, which were blank cards, hung around the neck. If you got 100, you advanced to the finals. I looked at my friend. "You know, Joe, your shirt's on backwards." He checked, and sure enough, it was. "How'd you know?" "No mustard stain." Boy, were we a sight. There was me, standing at about 6', with my black-and-blue Mets cap, which struggled to conceal my dark dude-get-a-haircut mop top, the ghost of a moustache, an AC/DC hoodie, which was unzipped to reveal hippie smiley, my track pants, the black Etnies, and ny dinosaur of a Duel Disk. Then, there was Joey, who was easily three inches taller, with unkempt mid-length blonde hair, wild blue eyes, needed a shave, had a time-greyed mustard-stained t-shirt, ultra thin jeans, and those flippin' Nikes. He opened the door. "Let's roll." (Characters Introduced: Name: Kenny Bohner. Age: 19. Height: 6'. Weight: 210lbs. Hair: Dark, medium length, usually wears hat. Deck: Warrior. Name: Joey Barone. Age: 18. Height: 6'3". Weight: 235. Hair: Blone, messy. Deck: Dragon.)

 

[spoiler=Chapter 2] So, we headed out the door. I locked the door behind me, when Joey said, "Toss me the key." I tried to turn around and toss it to him in one smooth, cool motion, but something went horribly wrong, and I fell, sending the key sailing into Joey's stomach. I pulled myself up as Joey bent down to retrieve the key, as we both prayed that no-one saw us. Except God. Hope he had a nice laugh. I called the elevator, pretending that none of that had happened. Joey hit the ground button, and the doors came shut. Oy, I hate elevator music. They were playing a Billy Joel song, slowed, with no vocals. It sounded like Captain Jack. When we stopped, and the doors opened, the lobby was a friggin' zoo. It was like we'd gone from the Sahara Desert to downtown Tokyo, the crowd was so thick. There was a general pushing for the front door, and we did nothing to resist the flow. I was going to get a Coke from the machine by the front desk, but now, I supposed it wasn't going to happen. I looked around, and it really was a nice lobby, competely betraying all of the apartments. I guess they were going to get around to fixing all of those out. As soon as I can afford a house... The walls had nice, glazed tiles, about the color of sand. The floor... well, for right now, the floor was an endless sea of feet, so that was indistinqueshable from a Foot Locker. Or a Lady Foot Locker. Either way. As we neared the front door, I had my first official senior moment... I saw a penny on the floor, and I bent down to pick it up. A-whoops. I tripped up the guy behind me, sending him into the guy in front of me, and then... Bedlam. I swear to you, it was just like friggin' dominoes. Once those two fell, there was me, Joey, some old man, and the woman behind the counter, who was laughing. Hard. I though that she was gonna burst. She was holding her stomach, with tears rolling down her eyes. Then, she, too, fell out of her chair. So, just the three of us, one of whom was a short, balding, hairy-armed middle-aged man, with a George Costanza hair-do going on, who yelled at us. Like, a lot. He was letting loose a steady torrent of swearing and obsentities of all sorts, language so colorful, you'd swear you were at a Pink Floyd laser light show. I couldn't help but laugh. Joey was as embarrased as if his pants fell down to reveal Bob the Builder briefs. We walked outta there in a hurry. As soon as we were outside, "Man, what is it today with you? First the door, then the key, and now this! What happened, anyway?" "Well, uh, I, er, found a penny on the groud, ya see, and, well, picked it up, and it, um, tripped a guy... or two." I couldn't read him here. He looked like he wanted to laugh, and stab me, all at the same time. Instead, he just shook his head, and said, "Man, I don't know about you sometimes..." We decided to walk to Citi Field, see if somebody wanted to duel. We needed tokens, bad. We started a little late, and the penny fiasco, with everything... yeah. So, we crossed my street, 109th, to Brooklyn Avenue, and we noticed an Internet cafe. "Dude," I started, "I'm getting thirsty; I was gonna get a Coke from the lobby, but I don't think that going back in there would be wise, do you?" "Nah, and, besides, there might be some duelists in there. Let's go." We opened the front door. It was okay inside. Nothing special. Plain green carpeting. Nice, white wallpaper. A counter, with a Hispanic girl behind the counter, who looked to be our age. There were a few PC's, and a drink cooler. There were only five people in here: Us, the lady behind the register, and two people, a man and a woman, both in their early twenties, who were talking, just inside the doorway. They didn't seem friendly. The conversation was clearly professional, and hurried. They seemed very serious. I walked over to the counter. Joey was just standing around, looking uncomfortable. I reached for the soda cooler- when I was cut off. "HEY!" Shouted the man, who had a stereo-typical pompus male voice. "Who do you think you are?!" I was, frankly, as confused as a redneck at the opera. "Pal," I say, "Are you talkin' to me?" "Who are you, Robert DeNiro?" "Possibly. Now, what's your problem?" "I'm the manager here, and I have the right to refuse the right to serve any duelist." I looked down an saw that he had a prize card case with him. "I see what this is about. I'll duel you, if that's necessary." I deployed my duel disk. "Not so fast. Let's raise the stakes." He waved his hand, beckoning the woman that he was talking with earlier to come over to us. Joey followed her. "So," he said, "A Tag Duel. The winners take the loser's aces. I'll go first." He pushed a button on his watch, deploying a regulation-sized Duel Disk, with a holographic computer monitor. The woman did the same. I looked around, as per my pre-duel ritual. There were me and Joey, with our dinosaur Duel Disks, and Mr. Gizmo-pants, with his cutting-edge technology. He appeared tech-savy, but not a geek. He had overly-neat shoulder length jet-black hair, with very dark eyes, that looked like cartoon character-esque solid black circles, hard set features, and a seldom-smiling face. He wore a very dark navy blue Spandex tee-shirt, which really showed off how fit he was. He wasn't a body builder, but there wasn't an ounce of fat on him, so that he looked like an average guy, only every muscle was visible. He also wore tan khaki pants. His lovely assistant had a matching Disk, a very straight, moderately long, neat, coal hair, brown eyes, and she was very white. She'd be attractive if she'd only crack a grin once every millennium. She wore an unflattering, long-sleeved, uni-sex lab uniform, which was black (not a dog pun, as I hate dogs). She was probably around my age. Manager-pants drew. He set a face-down card, when a hologram of the back of a card shimmered into being in front of him. He set a monster, too, and ended his turn. It was my turn. I drew. Let's see what we've got to work with... hmmm... no, that's crap... er... ah-ha! I played one of my favorites: Obnoxious Celtic Guard. Him spawning into existance was amazing... a tall, celtic, elf, who held a sword, in his spiked green armor. "I summon Obnoxious Celtic Guard in attack mode, who already has fourteen-hundered attack, and equip him with Black Pendant, bumping him up to nineteen-hundered attack! I'll attack your face-down." It was, unfortunately, a Cyber Jar, which sent all monsters on the Field to the owner's Graveyards. His Life Points drained to 7500, because of the Pendant's effect. We picked up the top five cards of our deck, and Special Summoned all of the four-or-lower level ones. I ended up with a Goblin Attack Force, two Command Knights, and Gearfried, the Iron Knight. Condecending Pompus Man only had a defence-mode Cyber Prototype Dragon. I destroyed that with my nineteen-hundred attack Command Knight, who looked absolutely stunning during the strike. With a flash of crimson, she lept at it with her blade, carving it in half. Then, her twin did the same... to the manager. His Life Points fell to fifty-six-hundred. Gearfried, in his bulky, black armor, ran at him, and smacked him with a steel punch, dropping his Life to forty-four-hundred. Goblin Attack Force, with 2900 attack points, charged at him. They were a mob of short, green, very muscular people, with leather armors, and spiked clubs. There must've twenty of them, swarming him at once. His Points were no dangerously low; they were now at 1500. I was forced to end my turn with a face-down, even though my monsters were invincible (due to Command Knight). The woman drew. She activated Cyber World, turning the landscape around us changed to all black, with chains of green ones and zeroes flying about. It also allowed her and manager-pants to use Hack, Error!, and Cyber cards, with no sacrifice. She played Hack: Reverse Engineering, reversing their Life Points with mine. Uh-oh. Not good. They were back at full strength, and we were on the brink of failure. She also used Error! Sysetem Virus, which prevents Joey and I from retrieving cards from the Graveyard, and from increasing our Life Points. Oh, dang. She set a card, and ended her turn. Joey drew... and I saw that oh-so familiar look on his face. He set a face-down card, and ended his turn. I knew what was comming next. Spandex drew for his turn. He used Hack: Security Measures, allowing him to play two security tokens, each with 1500 attack. He nodded, and said, "I offer my two tokens, for Shishimi, the Tech Angel!" The two tokens, that looked like security bots in some futuristic bank, were transformed into digital code, which combined in the air, taking the shape of an angel, which slowly materalized before my eyes. It was a tall, robed, man-type... thing, with a metal face, with feathered wings, and a futuristic, two-handed laser sword. His effect was that when his owner had two or more machine-type monsters, whose combined attack is greater than the opponent's Life Points, you could offer them for him, with 3000 attack. Also, all other monsters on the Field are destroyed. This all happened. He then attacked, for the game, when Joey activated Clone Duplicate, which created a mirror image of the robed mech, right in front of him. It was equal strength. The manager ended his turn. I drew. I activated Reinforcement of the Army, allowing for me to play one level four or lower monster from my hand. I chose Familiar Knight, who looked like a dwarf in her usually intimidating armor, next to the two mechs. I tributed the two of them to summon my ace, Supreme General Ukitake, which allowed me to special summon Goblin Attack Force. I used the A-Forces, increasing the attack of both of them by 600. I then activated Fissure, opening up a huge crack under the robotic saint, sending him falling down, down, down, below the Earth. My General, with 3400 attack points, with his two blades, and his flowing silver hair, struck out at the manager, sinking his Points to 4600. Then, the juiced-up Goblin Attack Force attacked, swarming the two opponents. The duel holograms faded. We all put our disks on standby. I smacked Joey a high-five. We'd pulled it off. (Characters Introduced: Jonathan Alexander Tate, 22, Manager, Cyber Deck. Rebecca Johnson, 19, Manager's Aide, Hacker Deck.)

 

[spoiler=Chapter 3] I don't think that our manager friend had ever lost a duel before. He wasn't a sore loser, he just seemed... shocked. He handed us the prize cards. We now had four. Only 96 to go! Woo-friggin'-hoo. I turned to leave. Joey did the same. "Wait," the manager said, "My name's Alex." ...Okay. "That's nice..." He sighed. I wondered if he weren't socially retarted. "Rebecca, shut down." Oh. She was a robot. That explained a lot. We walked out the door. "What was up with him?" I asked. "Dunno, you're supposed to be the smart one." We crossed back over to my street. As we passed the alley between our building and this "legitimate hostel," which is, apperently, some Scandanavian dilect's way of saying "crackhouse." I looked over, by chance, and saw the Dumpster... with a pair of human legs sticking out of it. I stopped and stared at it. Joey noticed that I had stopped, and he watched, too. We both stood, dumbfounded, as the man inside did a backflip out of the thing, and landed on his feet. The most impressive part was that the guy was easily fourty. The guy looked kinda rough. He had long, greasy, dark hair, that looked like it hadn't been washed in ten years, a ragged, scraggly, beard, which made him look like the result of ZZ Top going camping. He had wild, blue eyes, and a tattered military uniform, which just looked like a bunch of dirty, loosely stiched rags, covering soiled long-johns. He held a sign, which said, "Food is great. Beer is good. Change is welcomed. Hugs are appreciated." Although we hadn't spoken, I knew, immediately, that I liked him. "Well, what're you lookin' at? Never seen such an athletic, handsome hobo before?" "Actually, no..." "Good. Now I feel special." He noticed my tee-shirt. "Hey, right on, soul brother! Power to the people!" I figured that he was stoned, drunk, or crazy. Hell, he could've been stonkzyed. But, I thought I'd humor him. "No jive! Stick it to the man, man, night and day!" Joey looked like he wanted to die. He was laughing, almost literally, his guts out. "Sorry," the hobo said, "My name's Bob. I sometimes forget my manners when I'm really stonkzyed." Knew it. "I, uh, live in that box over there." He pointed to a moldy refrigerator box. "Times are tough... I had to take out a second-mortgage on it." Joey spoke up. "Hey, man, it's been real, but, we gotta go." "Alright." We turned to leave. "Oy!" He said, "What're your names?" I told him. "I'll remember that..." (Will Finish Later)

 

[Weather Report - Stand]

ARGH! IT'S SO FAT!! Just to save time and effort, I'll try to break your story into paragraphs. Please open it to read a review.

[spoiler=Chapter 1] (Chapter 1) Wow. Talk about pressure. See, I'm in a duel, right? But, not just any duel... this is the one that counts, the grand stage, the big dance, the Mother of them All... the Kaibasus' Industrial Illusions Corporation World Championship...

 

I like how you put the pressure on the reader from the hero's view.

 

And, this isn't any ordinary Pete out there as an opponent, either... this is Sebastion Ecuban, who hails from London, England. The reigning champ was like a god to me; he was as big a hero to me as a sumo with a Thyroid condition, as cool as Elvis, Burt Reynolds, Adam Sandler, Superman, Darth Vader, Mike Piazza, or Ozzy Osbourne.

 

Nice use of celebrities, but I don't know too much about him, yet.

 

And I was in the middle of a come-from-behind win! And, I had my ace card, Supreme General Ukitake, on the Field, who was more than capable of winning right here! "So, Sebastion," I said, a slight mocking tone in my voice, "Anything to say during your last few moments as champion?"

 

I still like the 'in the moment' feeling, but what does Ukitake do?

 

His responce was... "Some dance to remember, some dance to forget! Yeah!" He then broke into an audible air-guitar solo. I then realized what had happened; it was time to get up.

 

THAT was confusing.

 

My eyes fluttered open to the chorus of "Hotel California," by the Eagles. Friggin' alarm clock... I thought as I blindly groped my nightstand for the evil contraption. I ended up knocking it to the floor, unplugging it. Well, I thought, That's one way to do it, I s'pose... I looked around, on my back, at my room. It really was crap. There was the moldy ceiling, which smelled a bit dodgy, the yellow-ish, peeling wallpaper, the once-white grey carpet, and the unblinded, curtain-less, cracked,

half-boarded window at the far side of the room, which was so smeared and dirty that you could barely make out the fact that this was a fifth-floor apartment.

 

Such...a big..sentence. It tired me...out just...reading it...But you do a great job of describing.

 

All that you could really see was the distant outline of Citi Field, the Mets' new stadium. The only furniture was a thrid-or-fourth-hand bed, purchased from a thrift store two years ago, with it's plain white linnens, a make-shift nightstand, which was a few milk crates stacked on top of each other, with a dollar store lamp on it, and where the alarm clock used to be. The only personal touch was a Mike Piazza poster that I've had since Kindergarten, which hung on the door (which I suspect to be the incarnation of Satan).

 

Oh, so he lives in the New york in Yu-Gi-Oh! I get it! But seriously, good job on giving a real location. And now Mike Piazza scares me, thanks dude.

 

Oh, I hated that friggin' door... it was partially off of its hinges, to open it, you really had to put your back into it, and when you did, it made this horrible, terrible sound... it was like the claws of my seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Grantier's, fingernails scraping a blackboard from Hell. So, as gently as I could, I tried to open it, and, being Mr. Finess, it made a sound about like the one I described, mixed in with a Slayer song, and crashed to the floor.

 

Ha! That part was funny! You made it seem like the door was real with all of that effort put into it. But how you compared it to Mrs. Grantier...hilarious!

 

It not only woke up my roommate, and the guy across the hall, but, I'm willing to bet, Adolf Hitler. It was that bad. My roommate and best friend, Joey Barone, woke with a start from the pull-out sofa. He looked like he'd been through Rosie O'Donald's underwear drawer, he was so scared. "Dude, Kenny, what the hell just happened?!" He asked, mouth moving at roughly the speed of light.

 

Adolf Hitler? You're a satirical comic genius! And the Rosie O'Donald thing disturbs me.

 

"Relax, man, that door finally gave out."

 

"Good-freakin'-riddance, ya piece of crap."

 

Which guy says this part?

 

Yeah, it was about time, but I wasn't looking forward to replacing it. "So, uh, Ken, any particular reason you're naked?" I looked down, and remembered that I was only wearing a pair of Coca-Cola boxer shorts. I rushed to the other side of our sprawling, three-room metropolis, to the sole closet. I opened the door, found random pants and my favorite t-shirt, and slipped on the former first. They turned out to be white althletic pants. I then threw on my shirt, a white shirt with a hippie smiley face on it. It was so cool.

 

That was kinda random, unneeded, but still adds flavor into the tale. And that shirt IS pretty cool.

 

I walked into the living room, which looked a lot like my room, but with a pull-out sofa, and a TV with a whopping 25-inch screen, with a V.C.R. Joey was already wearing some grey t-shirt (formerly white), a pair of jeans so threadbare and worn that my pants were a good bit thicker, and some ancient, faded grey Nikes, one of which was missing lace, and he was watching Goodfellas you (know, the Ray Liotta movie?). "Ya 'bout ready?"

 

Woah! It's like a real living room!

 

"S'pose... lemme get something to eat, though." I slipped on some socks and a pair of battered black Etnies, put my cell phone, which I won in a contest, in my pocket, and grabbed my Mets cap... only to find a pair of Joey's boxers in it. Oh, I thought, He'll pay for this... I walked over the aforementioned third room, which was a kitchen-dinette. What a freakin' joke. It sported an electric range top, a three-legged table, which was filled to the brim with junk, two white, Wal-Mart brand lawnchairs, with free stains, a dry faucet (we just used the bathroom's), and a whopping square yard of counter space, occupied by a mini-fridge with an old boombox on top of it.

 

Are you being paid to endorse in this story?

 

Joey was sifting through the pile of assorted crap on the table, and he found a box of Pop-Tarts. Satisfied, he started shoving the pastries into his mouth, one after a another. I saw my vengance, in the form of the Blizzard of Ozz, sitting next to the boombox. I set it up to Crazy Train, cranked the volume, and hit play. "ALL ABOARD! AHAHAHAHA!!!!" You shouldda seen it. Honestly.

 

He jumped ten feet high, man. I wish you'd have seen it. He proceeded to put me in a fake headlock, saying, "Gonna kill you one of these days..." although he was laughing, too. He handed me my Duel Disk, which was on the chair. He was wearing his already. Oh, yeah, almost forgot; the reason I'm writing this is that we entered a tournament, the Big Apple Tagforce Blowout, which pitted the two of us versus all other dueling pairs in New York, for prize cards, which were blank cards, hung around the neck. If you got 100, you advanced to the finals.

 

Cruel joke! Plus, we finally get to see how Yu-Gi-Oh fits into this story. I live in NY, and I'm surprised to see some huge tourney RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE!! Well, I don't REALLY live near wherever it could be held...

 

I looked at my friend. "You know, Joe, your shirt's on backwards." He checked, and sure enough, it was.

"How'd you know?" "No mustard stain." Boy, were we a sight. There was me, standing at about 6', with my black-and-blue Mets cap, which struggled to conceal my dark dude-get-a-haircut mop top, the ghost of a moustache, an AC/DC hoodie, which was unzipped to reveal hippie smiley, my track pants, the black Etnies, and my dinosaur of a Duel Disk.

 

Then, there was Joey, who was easily three inches taller, with unkempt mid-length blonde hair, wild blue eyes, needed a shave, had a time-greyed mustard-stained t-shirt, ultra thin jeans, and those flippin' Nikes. He opened the door. "Let's roll."

 

I like these guys, I really do. You managed to get me to like characters the minute they're introduced. Thank you, but we didn't get to see so much Yu-Gi-Oh! as some sort of sitcom here. But this IS the first chapter, and you didn't disrespect pacing. Sadly, not EVERYTHING in this first chapter is necessary, but it adds to the flavor. Just try not to do it TOO much, since people may lose interest. I'm glad that you were able to bring two worlds together, and I'll support this fic...as long as you use more paragraphs(Joke).

 

(Characters Introduced: Name: Kenny Bohner. Age: 19. Height: 6'. Weight: 210lbs. Hair: Dark, medium length, usually wears hat. Deck: Warrior. Name: Joey Barone. Age: 18. Height: 6'3". Weight: 235. Hair: Blone, messy. Deck: Dragon.)

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[Nexev]

I like it, however I will request you break it into paragraphs like weather report says. Do that and you have a real winner here.