sermocinare: (OzyCom)
[personal profile] sermocinare
Fandom: Watchmen
Pairings/Characters: Adrian Veidt, Edward Blake
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Adrian and Eddie start a prank war, but when the Comedian goes up against the World's Smartest Man, things turn ugly pretty quickly.
Warnings: none
Author's note: Originally written for the kinkmeme. This one, I did purely for the lulz. Which is probably why I love it. 

The two men in front of his door are wearing crisp, immaculate uniforms which Adrian immediately recognizes as those of the US Marines. Both of them appear to be in their mid-forties, and from the medals on their chest, he assumes that they have completed several successful terms of service for their country.

“Let me just say how very pleased we are that a man such as yourself wants to defend his country and all of the free world in these times of need,” the first one says before even introducing himself, and his smile is that of someone who isn't exactly used to smiling.

Adrian just blinks at him. “Excuse me, Mr... ?”

“Second Lieutenant McDeery. Our country needs men like yourself.”

This is quickly getting annoying, and confusing on top of it. What is this man going on about? Adrian has made it very clear that Veidt Enterprises is not open to military contracting, but this doesn't even sound like they want his money. If they had wanted that, they would have sent a Colonel, at least. And someone with more social skills on top of it.

“I'm very sorry, but you have kind of lost me there, Lieutenant. What is it that you want from me?”

Now it is the uniformed men's turn to look confused. They shoot each other a glance, his reaction clearly not like anything they were expecting.

“Well,” McDeery says, his smile faltering, a sharp crease appearing between his brows, “you sent a letter to our recruiting office stating your intent to join the forces and...” Met by Adrian's icy stare, the man's voice falters, and he swallows visibly. “Didn't you?”

“I most certainly didn't. I am a pacifist, as I am sure you have heard somewhere or other in the press.” Adrian presses his lips into a thin line, trying to keep his anger from becoming too visible. “I'm afraid we all have been the victims of an unfortunate prank. Gentlemen.”

With that, Adrian closes the door in the recruiter's faces before stalking over to the windows and drawing a few deep breaths to calm himself. He knows exactly who is behind this. It's not that hard to figure out, really. How very childish of the Comedian.

Well, two can play this game.

When the first letters begin to arrive, Eddie just tears them up and throws them away. Hey, it's a big apartment complex, there's got to be one or two queers in here, and Eddie's probably just getting their stray letters. Same with the phone calls. Eddie just tells them they got the wrong number, stupid fags, he ain't got no gay porn. Only the kind with tits in it, if they'd like to try? Then he laughs, and hangs up.

But then they start sending pictures. Gross ones. Jesus, who in their right mind would get a boner from seeing that? And the phone calls keep on coming, until late at night, the voices on the other end of the line anything from friendly to what probably falls under seductive in those circles. Some of them sound like they're panting, and for once Eddie wishes his mind wouldn't come up with pictures for goddamn everything that has to do with boning. He yells at them, threatening to smash their fucking teeth in, rip out their balls and bash in their brains, but it just doesn't stop.

In the end, Eddie moves into a different apartment and gets a new phone number. One that's not listed. Not that he really thinks that would throw that bastard off his trail.

Well, he's got one up his sleeve for Ozy. The little bitch shouldn't have messed with him.

It's a public relations nightmare. Hundreds of people, expecting prizes from a lottery that Veidt Enterprises never held. But it all looks very genuine, and it's apparently been going on for weeks right under his nose without him even noticing. He's been had, and what's worse, he cannot admit it without losing face and reputation, the two things his whole business career is built on. It would be impossible, unthinkable for Adrian Veidt, smartest man in the world, to have been bested by someone with a lot of spare time, some misguided creativity, excellent forgery skills and access to Veidt Enterprise's trade secrets.

So Adrian has to bite the bullet and see how he comes up with the prizes as quickly as possible. The vacations and cars and houses are easy, even if they rip a hole into his finances. The special prizes, though, are a bit more complicated. A trip to the moon with Dr. Manhattan. A life-sized gingerbread house. A purple lynx.

In the end, he manages to fulfill each and every one of the tickets. He keeps the second lynx, and vows that this time, the Comedian is not going to have the last laugh.

It's impossible that all of these kids are his. Yeah, he's fucked around a bit. A lot. And he didn't care if the girl in question might get a bun in the oven. But he's pretty damn sure that even if he assumes that he fucked at least three women on each and every one of the benders he's been on and that he can't remember shit about any more, he wouldn't be able to come up with that number.

But they've done these new-fangled paternity tests where they look at your gens or whatever that shit is called, and those say that all of those bastards are his. Great.

And if that weren't bad enough, Richard Nixon, the goddamn president of the US of A, had called Eddie into his office and ripped him a new one. Apparently, from now on, even Eddie's dick is property of the state, and won't go anywhere Uncle Sam doesn't want it to be.

Great. Just fucking great. He has no clue exactly how Veidt pulled this one off, but he's the only one with the resources to have done so. Well, him or the Sovjets, and the Sovjets, they have better things to do than this kind of shit.

This time Blake has gone too far. Adrian is in his private gym, beating up a dummy until his knuckles bleed and imagining himself turning the Comedian into a pulp. If he were the kind of person who liked guns, he would be at a shooting range right now, putting holes in photograph after photograph of Blake's nasty visage.

This one could have cost him his company, landed him in prison. It was only because Adrian noticed Eddie's plan before it actually came to fruition that he had prevented that from happening. Forging a lottery was one thing, but forging evidence that Adrian was in fact a Russian sleeper agent? Even if it had been ludicrous, even if Adrian would have been able to refute it in the end, that was the kind of accusation that just stuck. No one would have trusted him afterwards. Which, apart from everything else, would not have bode well for the execution of his master plan. Everything depended on the public trusting him. On him being beyond the shadow of a doubt.

This had to stop. Now.

“It's a joke. It's all a joke.”

“No, Edward, I'm afraid this time it isn't. But still, I guess I have to thank you. Without you and our little feud, I would never have gained enough practice to pull off something of this magnitude. So, in the name of myself and the whole world, I thank you. Goodbye, Eddie.”

Adrian watches the man fall for a second or two, but turns away before the Comedian's body hits the ground. A small smile is on his face, and he almost giggles as he whispers to himself: “Still. I win.”

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