Twin Devils

Through Jaga's Eyes

Twin Devils

Jaga’s point of view.

(Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING)

 

(A/N: Alright guys. This is a special character chapter. It still affects the story, but it is more focused around the character. Now we get to see the underbelly of the life of Jaga… :3

Remember. This chapter is going to be all about my character Jaga Akuma. That being said, I do have a few side notes to throw in.

1.     This chapter is going to be very graphic. WARNING! IF YOU DO NOT LIKE BLOOD AND GORE, YOU ARE ADVISED NOT TO READ THIS CHAPTER.

2.     I’m writing from a twisted point of view, trying to get you in the mind set of a gang member, so this chapter involves gang members, gangs, gang violence, prostitution, drugs, alcohol, blood, gore, threatening, burning of people, torturing, interrogations, gambling, illegal gambling, lots of illegal stuff, shirtless Jaga, Jaga’s tattoos, bad grammar, hot Jaga, sweet Jaga, people getting mauled by a jaguar, sad backstories, overwhelming feels, emotional stuff, complicated plot lines, and excessive fangirling. You have been warned.

Hope you enjoy!)

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            I remember that day clear as can be. The day I was assigned to Haruhi.

            It just so happened to be the day I was to start attending that wretched school full of princesses and daydreaming idiots. What a waste of time. Why do the rich need to be separated from the poor? It’s not like hanging with a few mutts is going to make a purebred act like a hound. And vice versa. If a mutt gets to eat with a purebred for a few meals, it won’t start to expect it. Can’t we all just get mashed into one daft looking building and get taught another brain numbing subject by a monotone robot together in peace and harmony for a dull eight hours? If it were my opinion, there wouldn’t even be any type, form, or fashion of schools. Honestly. What good does eight hours of reading, writing, and arithmetic do that properly supports humans now of days? I mean, last week, there was this banker that I had to tail as part of my mission, and look at this big shot. He had spent most of his life in schools, training, studying, and learning. He had a squeaky clean school record, got every single academic award that was achievable, and had never even been to the principal’s office before. Even when I followed him into his home, I remember seeing that he went all out, going to some fancy college in the states, obtaining five degrees in the randomest of research areas.

            Yet, when I had him cornered up against a back alley wall, on his knees, kissing my boots and begging for his life, groveling, and pleading like the pathetic pig he was, he never used a second of the training that he had learned in the schoolhouse. Whenever I had beaten him into submission, and he had crawled across the ground, spitting out blood about how he had a family at home, friends at work, and a life to live, but not once did he say that he had to live in order to learn more in school. In that hour that I spent torturing that fat slob, he never once murmured an algebraic equation, not once did he state the first lady of the 15th American President, and not once did I hear the significance of the Nile River spill from his lips. So when I had my goons put him up on the wall in front of me, his gut hanging low since he was held upside down, his plump little face red as his beaten mug yelled up at me, trying to bribe me to stop. So when I dug my silver claws into his soft underbelly and tugged suddenly down, a satisfying ripping noise filling the air as his guts spilled out on the cold midnight pavement, finally ending his weak willed utterances. Pity he wasted his time in school reading about the effect of pheromones have on animals instead of learning how to be street smart. Shame.