Tales of the Parodyverse

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Manga Shoggoth
Wed Oct 11, 2006 at 04:10:36 pm EDT
Subject
Typing Eros - a Tie-in to Dancer #38, without the Complex Numbers this time.
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The Ghost Writer sighed heavily. Sabotaging this production was turning out to be more difficult than he had thought.

First, the problems he had had while trying to deal with the Producer. All his attempts to bring her down had been thwarted by blatant random chance, due, doubtless, to her friend Dancer.

Then the attempts on the other people. He had stolen an advance copy of the programme ("Suddenly, an errant breeze blew one of the freshly-printed programmes out of the window"), and started working his way down the list of unfamiliar names.

All his attempts at disruption had all gone wrong, sometimes in strange and sometimes horrific ways. The worst being when he had tried to expose a Mr van Risoy to unbearable embarrassment to break his confidence and so ruin his act. It had been embarrassing indeed.

He shuddered at the memory.

Still, he had to soldier on. He leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily, his fingers steepled about his nose as he tried to attune himself to the narrative flow. Darktree, Songs from Nubilia (wherever that was). He could feel his victim, but it seemed as if she was a long, long way away.

He poised his fingers over the typewriter, and began to type.

"Darktree rose from the hot pool, the water running in rivulets down her smooth, dark flesh..."

He stopped typing. Not that he wasn't interested in the scene, but he wasn't here to be distracted by voyeurism. He waited a few minutes, then tried to attune himself to his target again. Ah good, she appeared to be rehearsing, with some form of audience (although he had trouble sensing them).

"Darktree sings a flat note."

Blast. Nubilia obviously used an atonal scale.

"Darktree sees the audience clearly, and is struck by chronic stage fright."

No effect. If anything, she seemed to be slightly more relaxed.

"The audience starts jeering and throwing rotten fruit."

No effect whatsoever, apart from a damp sensation in the fold of his shirt. Investigation showed that he needed to be a little more careful with his lunchtime BLT.

Well, if Little Miss Darktree was of the coloured variety, she would understand the irony of the next one...

"Darktree suffers from a wardrobe malfunction, in the full view of the audience."

Actually, he was amazed that there was any wardrobe to malfunction. The woman's outfit seemed to be made out of golden hoops, feathers and not a lot else. One of the more important hoops broke, and the ensemble started to slip to the floor.

And then, under the eye of the audience (somehow he could sense a lot of eyes, and had a vague feeling that it would not be a good idea to sense any further), the broken loop quickly repaired itself.

Right. Enough was enough.

"Darktree is atakdb h s-ain ij rii FedTi."

He stopped and looked at the typewriter. For some reason the keys had started jamming. That was the problem with these old typewriters. Dust, inky ribbons, jammed keys and protoplamsic slime pouring out of the mechanism???

He stared in unnatural terror at the creature that was oozing out of his typewriter.

I am trying to listen. burbled the slime. Go away!

When, at length, his heart rate had gone down to a more sensible level, Ghost Writer looked at the typewriter. Twisted, covered in slime, the paper wrecked and the tab stops torn asunder.

He sighed, cleared his desktop as best he could, and dug out his spare typewriter - the one with the dodgy R and the missing X. Hopefully he would have more luck with the next victim.

It was going to be a long night.




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