PLEASE READ! Bear in mind, this is not the original first chapter, this is the edited version.

Summary: In this chapter, Akira starts the first step of his plan by slipping his little capsule into Benitora. It is all set in the present time, not the past like the book.

Author's Note: I have no idea how I thought of this, but what the hey? I just kinda wanted to do something different is all. By the way, I altered a few of the characters, Akira has eyes and can see perfectly and Sasuke is still young but not twelve. Other alterations you may notice later on.

Disclaimer:I don't own Samurai Deeper Kyo, but I wish I did, oh yay. That's what I want for Christmas.

In The Tiger's Den

The garden outside was littered with beer cans and general waste, the overgrown grass full to the brim with weeds and patches of dead grass. A broken down house in possibly the worst part of the Suburbs, how anyone could live there and still manage to stay alive was a complete mystery. Akira sighed, walking down the broken pathway, stumbling slightly over the mismatched stones. His knees brushed off the lengthy grass as he reached the peeling brown door. He rapped his fist off the rotting wood and waited.

Akira tutted. One would think, being an artist, one would find the time to paint ones own front door? Then again, anything that involved physical labour was way beyond Benitora to so much as incline his head.

Physical labour also included answering aforementioned front door, Akira sighed and knocked, with a little less patience this time.

"Just a second!" He heard the muffled cry from beyond the decaying oak, along with a slam as Benitora stumbled on his way to the door, fiddled about with the rusty latch and swung it open.

Benitora, being nearly 6 foot 3", towered over Akira who only came to the man's chin, and being on the step, he only reached to an intricately tattooed pectoral muscle. Dressed in an unbuttoned, white shirt with rolled up sleeves, which was liberally splattered with many hues of blue, orange and purple, baggy denim flares (also ruined with paint) and an old pair of faded white running shoes, he tilted his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wore a wooden necklace and a red beaded bracelet on his left arm, the red clashing rather attractively with a tribal design that travelled up to his elbow and stopped in the middle of his bicep. He smelled distinctly to paint and turpentine, lightly tanned skin splattered with flecks of paint.

He laid a paint-covered hand to the doorframe and leaned against it, his face splitting into his trademark (if often lecherous) grin.

"Well, well, well! If it isn't Akira-han." Narrow eyes wandered lazily over him, taking in the old jeans and white rain jacket with blue stripes along the sides, then focusing on his face.

"Not busy I hope?" Akira asked, cocking his head to the side.

Benitora merely shrugged. "Not really," he said, shaking his head of fierce red hair, closely cropped and, along with the rest of him, splattered with paint. "You want somethin'?"

"Can I not simply want to come down to your lovely estate and visit you?" A slight edge of sarcasm laced his words.

Benitora stared pointedly at him. "Not unless you wanted something." He still grinned, but now the grin bared abnormally sharp canines and the stare became more focused. "So… what?"

Akira hung his head and sighed, forcing his cheek muscles down into what he knew looked like a frown. "Is there any chance we could talk inside?

Unknowingly, seeing the frown in turn made Benitora too adopt a serious facial grace and leaned in closely to better hear the blonde man.

"… Why?" He said quietly, sceptically.

Akira rubbed his forearms in what he thought was a self-conscious gesture and avoided eye contact. "It's kind of… a personal matter…"

A blink, a confused noise, then a shrug until he finally mutters; "Alright, come in then. And watch the stack."

Apparently the "stack" was a pile of old canvas packaging piled up in a precarious heap behind the door. Akira edged around it, and closed the door behind him, taking in the sudden ominous feeling of the latch clinking into place, watching 'Tora's back as he rounded a corner into the living room, and he smirked.

Let the game begin.

Following the Tiger's back, he came to the colourfully decorated living room. Nothing particularly special about the furniture, two brown leather sofas, a table and plasma screen TV, but something about the room jumped, as a party would but with no people.

Each wall was a splash of vivid colour, the remains of old paintings and unfinished work, of people and monsters and intricate designs like a foreign language. There were dragons and tigers protecting the fireplace, a beautiful tribute to 'Tora's own mind, and often silly obsession with the tiger; as both symbol and animal.

Benitora was not only artistically gifted with both pencil and paintbrush, but with the hammer and chisel too. As Akira passed into the second hallway, he passed a large statue, about waist height, of a figure of a woman bursting fourth from the knarled trunk of a tree. The black marble set the piece off beautifully, it's rough design, often smooth only in places that were curved, with hard lines and roughly cut branches, it was a piece to be admired.

They stopped at a door with an intricate red design. After a few seconds of examination, Akira realised it was a tiger made completely out of red, orange and black hiragana sentences.

Shuffling around in his deep denim pockets, 'Tora retrieved a set of keys and jabbed a particularly fat key into the lock. He fumbled for a few seconds and opened the door slowly, before Akira realised there wasn't something quite right about him today.

Shaking hands fumbled with the keys and put them back into his pocket, a tattooed back was bent slightly and the bounce in his step was reduced barely to a shuffle.

Akira cocked his head to the side, and followed the other man into the large lofty space. The dull beat of Basement Jaxx quietly came from his 250-watt speakers. A shaking, paint covered hand switched the CD player off and ran through paint speckled hair for a second, before returning his tired gaze to meet Akira's.

But the blonde man's gaze was fixed on something different.

Fixed wasn't so much as utterly fascinated. His heart pounded fast against his ribs, baby blue eyes set bright and alight with endearment.

Magnificently, proudly standing three-quarters finished in an easel was a painting of a woman. She sat at a table, at a café or a restaurant perhaps, it didn't matter, holding a steaming mug of something, her green eyed gaze lingering out the window to watch the rain. She was dressed in a wine coloured shirt and black trousers, her long golden hair falling slightly over one shoulder and into her eyes. Her fingernails were painted a soft purple, and she sat, holding herself with an air of grace and beauty. There was a surreal glow to it, though unfinished, the lights above her head set off a certain… angelic nature about her.

Akira salivated with swallow, and edged closer to the paining, A1 in paper size and Benitora watched with interest.

"Yuya…" He breathed, hoarse and confined, her name leaving a lingering taste on his lips.

Benitora smiled and walked closer to the painting. "Is that… really who you see?"

He raised a paint-covered hand and lightly brushed over it, lingering on the places yet to be finished. "These oils I got, they really brought out the colour… But no, it's not Yuya-han."

Akira stared, a hand coming up to his chin in a thoughtful way, a light smile gracing his bow-shaped lips. He waited for Benitora to continue.

"You know… I saw this girl a few months ago. In a restaurant, I was looking for a place to bring Mahiro-han for her birthday. I… thought it was Yuya too, the first time I saw her. But it wasn't." He paused and let his hand fall to his side.

Akira had seen that look before, the same glassy-eyed, flushed sort of appearance, the look an artist gets once they have found a muse.

"Beautiful little thing, isn't she? At least I thought so at the time. Meh, well I took the anti-impressionists way out and took notes, then came home and just… started painting. Haven't been able to finish it though. There's something… something missing."

He stared for a moment longer, then shakily made his way to his desk and grabbed a large paintbrush and a can of grey paint.

Akira looked away from the painting, instead staring around the room, taking in the scent of pencil shavings and the sharp smell of oil, turpentine and paint, and strangely enough there was a strong scent of coffee. He stared around, until his eyes found the pot of coffee perched on a heating grill.

The floor was blanketed in white coverings, turned grey from use and liberally splattered in paint and littered with bits of pencil and old, hard paintbrushes. There was a couch, stained with flecks of paint and Akira sat himself down to watch the artist at play.

Not really paying attention to Benitora, who popped the lid of the can, dipped the brush in and began to paint on the large canvas at the opposite side of the room, he stared around, taking everything in.

You could tell a lot about a person by the way they lived, Benitora just so happened to be an easy subject for this sort of study.

Despite the erratic, and often random state of the room, Benitora liked thing to be in a certain order. For example, one side of the room held a side table with chisels; various sized hammers and curved chisel blades. The floor was littered with the remains of marble, granite and other types of stone. Blocks of unfinished sculptures stood in order of size against the wall.

Opposite that corner was a cupboard, around which stood canvases, both finished and unfinished. The cupboard doors were held together with a length of twine, while canvas material, wood and brushes protruded from the cracks in the wooden doors. Being around Benitora long enough, he knew that the bottom drawers of the cupboard held some of his more graphic and elicit drawings, sketches and paintings, including the storyboards for one of his current running hentai comics. One comic whom Akira vowed he would never, ever read.

Beside the couch was a desk and a swivel chair, above which was a clipboard covered in tonnes of sketches and notes.

The artistic world rarely held much money, Benitora being no exception. Though, one comic he made did rake in a fair bit of cash, at least enough to pay the electricity bill. A comic he lovingly called Hirokushimon, about a spear infused with the power of the sun, wielded by a dynast-king's heir. They story was solid and the art work; incredible, but the production line was weak and paid little. Benitora however, was just happy he got it published.

Again, Akira laid his attention to the red haired man, now none too carefully painting a large canvas infront of him of a massive white and grey design, shaped odly in the form of a flower. He watched the long arms flex back and fourth, with such expert sort of grace it was almost like a dance. But then there was a stumble and the paintbrush fell, landing with a messy splat on the floor.

Benitora smiled, weakly, and stooped to pick up his brush with a shivering hand. As he rose back up, his expression softened and his eyelids dropped. Akira leaned forward on the chair and watched as he raised a paint-covered hand to cover his dazed eyes, swaying on the spot.

"'Tora-san, you okay?"

"Wha…? Yeah, f-fine. I just need… need more coffee…"

He made his way to a heating grill beside his desk and poured the steaming brown liquid into a chipped mug, closing his narrow eyes as he drank, then sighed.

"How long have you been in here, 'Tora-san?" He said, smiling knowingly at him.

Benitora stared, then tutted and leaned against the opposite side of the couch, coffee mug still in hand. Still grinning cheekily, though it was a little faded, he drank more coffee and gestured to the canvas in the easel.

"About a week now, because of that."

Barely a year ago, Akira met Benitora, one of Kyo's "friends". Needless to say, they didn't exactly get along at the beginning, but as time went on, and they went out for drinks with the rest of the gang, Benitora forgot the past and grew a little closer to Akira, slinging a friendly arm around his shoulders with a smile and offering more beer. Akira, accepting the beer with a forced smile, understood that Benitora was here to stay, and kept a somewhat civil tongue.

He walked over to the coffee heater, topped up his mug and drank again.

"A week? Are you serious?" Akira exclaimed.

'Tora lay his mug on the floor and stretched with a sigh. "Yep".

Akira stared as his already lanky body lengthened to a considerable height. The white shirt flared open, the shoulders wrinkling as he raised his arms above his head. He caught the intricately designed tattoos on the man's bared torso, including the curling form of a tiger holding the sun in its left paw, right over his heart. As his abdomen stretched, Akira noticed how very thin Benitora had become, his ribs making jagged, unattractive ridges under his skin and his toned waist almost sunken in. Even his arms had taken on a thin appearance.

"'Tora-san… you can't keep doing this to yourself." He said slowly, quietly.

Wearily, Benitora flopped onto the couch opposite Akira with his coffee mug, once again raising the rim of the chipped mug to his chapped lips, avoiding the question and swung his long legs over the rest of the couch, the sole of his shoes barely missing Akira's jeans.

"Why do you do this? Don't you ever take a break in between, it's unhealthy not to!" Of course, he was referring to Benitora's painting habits. The man had a horrible habit of painting alone, without sleep and often food for days on end. His mood would become somewhat floaty, dreamy as he painted, yet unbearably quiet. And as he finished, he would be left tired and somewhat sated. He would retire, wash, eat and regain his strength and go out for a drink, of course, only to retreat back again, once another inspiration struck. Those so used to him being the loud, joking, flirtatious part of the group would often begin to miss his sunny attitude and wise cracking nature.

"I dunno…" He scratched the back of his neck in a typically self-conscious way. "Once I get going, I can't really stop."

Then there was silence. An uncomfortable silence.

Akira looked at his watch and timed himself. Five minutes…

Reaching into his jeans pocket, he took out a packet of chewing gum and took the capsule in between his teeth, rolling it around in his mouth for a few seconds before hiding it behind his molars, against the inside of his cheek. Starting now…

"Want one?" He gestured to Benitora with the empty packet.

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Akira?" Benitora started. "Why are you here?"

The blonde man stared at his earnest expression, then looked away and played with his fingers.

"Didn't you say," he continued his question, "you had something personal you wanted to talk about?"

Akira continued playing with his thumbs, trying his level best to hide his predatorial smirk, then raised a thoughtful hand to his chin, his blonde hair falling into his eyes. Did you know, 'Tora, that when a tiger stalks its prey it hides, luring the helpless animal into a false sense of security? Did you also know that a tiger pounces only when its prey is most vulnerable, sinking its claws and teeth into its tender hide, ripping it apart inch by inch?

"They're… worried about you, 'Tora-san…"

"Hmm…?"

"Bon-san, Sasuke-san, Mahiro-san, Yuya-san…" he paused when he said her name and bit his lower lip, savouring the feeling, "even Kyo-san was asking about you. You've been gone for six days."

He raised his legs and kneeled up on the couch, shifting Benitora's legs to the side so he could fit. Leaning onto the back of the couch with his left arm, he turned to face the red haired man and stared down at him, with what he sincerely hoped was an honest, worried expression.

"Remember last time this happened?" He lowered his voice. "When Sasuke-san found you? 'Tora-san, he's only fifteen. He isn't used to seeing people unconscious. To be honest, I don't think anyone is. You went four days, four days 'Tora, without food and collapsed!"

Akira leaned in on the couch; Benitora shifted his weight to allow the other man more room.

"Does art really mean this much to you? That you would put yourself in danger for the sake of it?"

Benitora quirked a slight smile, holding the mug up to his face, resting his elbows on his chest. "You don't get it, do you?"

He sighed and drank his coffee.

"When I paint, I don't even notice the time go by. Hunger, sleep… doesn't affect me as much as you think, Akira-han. I don't really feel… anything when I paint. Sure I'm hungry now, but I think that's because I only ate yesterday, only because I remembered too, not because I wanted too."

Benitora looked at the ceiling, getting a glassy look to his narrow eyes and shifted his back so he sat a little further up the couch, resting his back against the arm rest.

"I… just loose myself… when I paint…"

"Well if you keep loosing yourself like this," his voice took on a dangerous edge, making 'Tora's head snap back to look at him, "and you'll start loosing a lot of precious things to you. And I'm not just talking about your health 'Tora-san. People are worried about you. Mahiro-san has been driving herself crazy with—"

"Hey, I told Mahiro-han I might be gone for a while to paint, she said she understood! She knows what I get like." He snapped.

"It's not just that," Akira edged closer, "you don't call, you don't answer your phone and then everyone starts getting worried sick over you. It's selfish."

"Sel… Selfish?" He snarled and raised his knees. "This is my job, Akira-han. Like it or not, I do this for a living!"

Akira edged in between Benitora's raised knees, who in turn raised the cup defensively to his face as the blonde man invaded his personal space. He pushed his head down towards 'Tora's, snarl set, yet still trying to look concerned.

Being this close to the man, he could see the skin on his face had become pale and gaunt. Dark circles framed his eyes; his hair lost its lustrous red sheen and became messy and limp. Akira could see the few freckles that dotted around the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, speckles of paint both in his hair and on the skin of his face in messy combinations of purple and brown and white.

"Does your job entail that you can't take a break?" He snarled defiantly down in his face. "Can't you call Mahiro-san once in a while, or let Sasuke-san know you're alright? They worry about you… so much."

"I…" Benitora stopped and frowned, breaking eye contact. He let his arms rest at his side, the cup resting against the edge of the couch, threatening to fall.

He looked at a loss for words, guiltily shifting his narrow eyes back and fourth, biting his lower lip. When he finally stared back, Akira still bent over him, still looking concerned, he spoke.

"Akira-han… what's this about?"

Akira stared back into his bloodshot eyes, then looked away. What he was about to do, he was not proud of, but he only had barely a minute left and it was now or never. He chose his next words carefully, thinking about what exactly he was here for and why he was doing this. His confidence grew, he knew it would work.

It had to work.

"Because I…" He moved in closer, so close he could almost count each little freckle on the man's face, whispering, "I worry about you, too."

Before Benitora caught the unaccustomed gleam in Akira's eyes, it was too late and he was already pinned under his hips with the blonde man's mouth, rather roughly, pressed against his own.

Out of utter shock he opened his mouth, eyes wide and they went even wider as the probing of a defiant tongue travelled through his lips and explored the inside of his mouth. A hand curled around his wrist resting against the side of the couch.

Somewhere, in his sleep depraved, food starved, coffee enhanced brain, a warning signal went off. Every inch of his skin crawled in shock; his heart played a fierce punching beat against his ribs.

And yet for a second, his eyes slid shut, the cup he was holding fell and smashed on the floor, splattering coffee everywhere.

Confused, tired and hungry, his brain only registered warm skin, the smell of something sweet, the wet, erotic feeling of an intrusive tongue and the tingling sensation spurred by the feeling of the hips pressed firmly against his own.

And for a few blissful seconds, there was only feeling.

Until he heard the smallest hint of a groan, and the man above him drove the kiss deeper into his mouth, slanting his lips, a free hand coming up to run through the hair on the back of his head. It was then that Benitora realised exactly where he was, and who was ontop of him, playing with his mouth, tugging on his short red hair.

He pulled sharply away, the hand previously hanging over the edge of the couch pushing back on Akira's shoulders, only realising how truly weak he felt from lack of food.

Gasping for air, eyes wide, fearful, mouth swollen and red and still agape from its previous activity, he stared, stuttering out questions.

"Aki-Akira-han…? You… I n-never…"

But the lowered, suggestive look on the blonde man's face said he wasn't quite listening and he only muttered one hoarse word before moving closer, too close.

"Please."

And so the kiss continued once again when he pulled the back of Benitora's head closer, silencing any protests with mouth and tongue.

Benitora thought there was something positively sinful about the slick way Akira moved against his tongue, shuddering as he passed over a sensitive area at the roof of his mouth.

Only confusion remained at the edge of his brain, undecided whether or not he wanted to be here, kissing another man when he was clearly straight. There was something about it, something warm and inviting and dear God something strangely erotic about it too. Though he never took Akira to be the dominating type. Then again he never thought he would be in this situation with Akira before, not only that, but actually kind of enjoying it too…

But then another thought bubbled it's way to the surface, along with the guilt of him forgetting in his malnourished state. Mahiro…

He pushed up against Akira's shoulders, his trapped hand wringing for freedom, his head working to get away from the intrusive tongue. But it only heightened the feeling of the man above him, who kissed him just as roughly back and he could make no sounds at all to show he couldn't take what was being offered to him.

A slight "Hnng…." Was all that he could manage.

Slowly, he lost himself to it. For in his confused, terrified, deprived state, nothing else made sense but the feeling of it, the warmth… He felt his eyes roll back, his eyelids fluttered as the hips against his shifted.

That was until Akira adjusted his mouth and he felt his tongue slide to the back, pushing something small with it. It slid and fell down, and Benitora swallowed it before he had a chance to stop himself.

A drug…

Narrow eyes shot open, along with an electric jolt of fear coursing up his spine. He pulled viciously away, his long, thin fingers curling in the collar of Akira's shirt, pulling him up and off his mouth.

A goddamn drug!

Seething, after his throat had worked to try to force the pill back up and failed, the second Akira's lips had left his own, he uttered dangerously two simple, perfectly understandable words.

All this, just to drug me!

"Get out."

He felt the anger bubble up under his chest, his mind suddenly crystal clear, focused, ready, eyes narrowed into slits and Akira stared back, and for the love of God he smirked.

And then, he snickered.

"Why not enjoy your last moment's consciousness? Think I didn't hear you?"

The playful, taunting edge to the man's voice made the anger rise in him at a feverish pace. But then, he thought for a second…

Last moment's consciousness…?

The drug…?

"What did you do to me?" He snarled and attempted to push the other man off him, but their current positions held him firmly to the couch, the grip on his wrist becoming tighter.

He pushed his hips up, kicked out fiercely with his legs, but Akira rode each movement with an almost practiced ease, and his smirk, if anything, started to grow.

"Now now Benitora-san. You are not a five year old." He taunted, surprise gracing his features for a second when the frantic movements underneath him almost sent him careening off the couch. Luckily, 'Tora didn't notice.

Instead he snarled, struggling harder as Akira's free hand wrapped around his neck, holding him down against the armrest.

"You were never good enough, you know. Not for her, the only reason you have Mahiro is because she was the second best thing!" He paused, as the red haired man's struggling reached a feverish pace. "Even that canvas there. I know it's her, 'Tora, you can't get past me."

"Get past this!" Benitora snarled, and in a fear induced rage he broke free of Akira's grasp, locking his fingers in the youth's collar and jerking him down to meet him as he leapt up in a vicious head butt.

There was a slam as their skulls met at a ferocious speed, leaving Akira dazed, seeing spots as he was thrown off the couch and onto the floor, narrowly missing the shattered cup.

He lay there for, well, he didn't really know how long. But once the dizziness had passed, he was greeted by a spluttering, coughing sound. He rose gingerly to his feet, stumbling slightly as the white covering wrinkled beneath his shoes.

"Ah yes," he said, "the effects."

He stared down at Benitora, who was hanging on to the edge of the couch seemingly for dear life. Clutching his ribs, his eyes were clenched shut, coughing, face becoming even paler and a slight sheen of sweat started to break on his forehead. A drop of blood rolled down his temple where the head butt had created a small, bruised cut.

Akira shook his head, raising a hand to his chin. "Hmph. I should have made the dosage a little stronger. No matter, you should be feeling- ah yes, of course." He paused to watch as Benitora gasped and wrapped his arms around his stomach. His eyes went wide, his face became so pale it was almost white and he struggled for air. "Nausea…"

Strangely, he had to admire the Tiger's strength. Even as he could feel the sensation of his insides becoming engulfed in flames, he still found it in him to glare defiantly up at Akira, who simply… smiled.

"But don't worry. Once the sickness passes you can have a nice…" He strode over and tilted his chin up, so he could stare back into that venomous glare, "long…" stooping, he planted a kiss between the quivering man's eyes, "rest."

With that, he turned on his heels and walked away, stopping to gaze back at the unfinished painting, frowning when he realised it would never be finished and strode into the hallway.

The sharp stab of pain built up in his forehead where his own skull connected with Benitora's, he raised a hand, feeling the side starting to swell. Taking his hand away, he found blood on his palm. He huffed disgustedly, having half a mind to back and kill the man where he kneeled, but, he supposed, he was probably in enough pain already.

Smiling slightly, he turned the handle of the front door and walked outside, feeling the gentle beginnings of rain starting to fall and slammed the door shut.

Walking down the mismatched pathway, he raised a hand briefly to his chin and thought about his next target.

The bartender…

Setting his watch once more, he walked passed the lengthy grass and pulled his hood up over his head, as the rain gradually got worse.

And poor Benitora, would you pity a man, confused, hungry, tired, drained, and possibly dying?

Feeling the rushing in his stomach as it boiled and writhed, he rose as quickly to his feet as he could and rushed upstairs to the bathroom, his shoulders hitting into the walls, he painfully banged his knee off the banisters coming up the stairs.

Throwing up had never been a great love of his, and now as he rested against the cistern of the toilet, there was a small hope of what Akira just shoved down his throat had come back up.

He shivered as the thoughts rushed back, sickening him and he felt his stomach twist again. Bent double, convulsing, shaking, he coughed, retched, but nothing made it's way up.

His body burned, the muscles in his abdomen clenched tight and a cold sweat broke on his forehead.

Resting his head on his hands, Benitora heaved, gulping for air and thought for a few moments, thinking about what just happened.

How could this have happened? He asked himself.

Technically, did this make him gay, or was he just confused? After all, it did feel kind of…

He blanched and threw up again, refusing to believe what he just mentally admitted to himself. After all, the blonde man just showed up uninvited, taunted him, kissed him, and then drugged him. That was enough reason or Benitora to feel hatred towards anyone.

He spat and gingerly rose from the bathroom floor, raising a hand to wipe away any tears that may have escaped. His head swam, the room spun and he stumbled, holding onto the side of the shower for support. Slowly he made his way to his bedroom where the sweet thoughts of sleep resided.

Slumping down face first into his soft mattress, he lay there, barely with enough energy to turn himself over onto his back. A fever burned away at his forehead, the paintbrush downstairs would start to go hard if he left it out but honestly, for once he couldn't have cared less.

Instead he pushed himself over, coughing when he felt a vice like grip on his lungs and fell uneasily into sleep, his last remaining thoughts of lips and the smell of blonde hair and Akira's aftershave.

Then one of how he had just cheated on Mahiro.

Notes: Edited yaaaaaaaaaaaay!!! I'm so glad I wrote this chapter out again, I re-read the first one and decided it sucked, so I edited. WOO. Read and review please, helpful criticism also greatly appreciated.