Due to a couple of positive reviews on my last Breakfast Club fic, I have decided to do another one, however I slightly had the idea to steal the general idea from the TV show "FlashForward", which was owned by NBC, and stick it into the middle of that Saturday morning, relatively soon after Vernon asks Bender where he'll be in 5 years time. I was having a shower & the idea just occurred to me, slightly like an epiphany, and I figured, hey what the hell, awesome twist would be awesome.
Oh & I totally still own The Breakfast Club. John Hughes gave them to me for Hannukah. I'm not Jewish. Nor do I own the Breakfast Club. However, feel free to believe that I am (and I do .)
As usual I'm gonna ask form reviews. To be honest, it's more like begging, but y'know whatevs :)
REVIEW PLEASE!
I only wrote this because of previous positive reviews... If enough of you talk nice things to me, who knows what'll happen next!
Yeah, but I guess I should put a few warnings here, just in case. Right, well, as in line with the Breakfast Club, there is a lot of swearing in this fic. Not enough to make it M-rated, but enough to offend people. Sorry, it's just how I roll XD
This is also kinda Bender/Allison fic. I still stand by the viewpoint that those two suited each other WAYY more than Bender/Claire or Allison/Andy. Maybe there's a tad of Andy/Brian if you squint hard enough, but it's just general Andy defended the neo-maxi zoom dweebie. *itzsoocute.*
Yeah, and I totally stole the general idea from FlashForward, but that show has been axed, so fuck it mwahaha! It however is not a crossover fic, because there is no actually characters or storyline from the show, just the general "see you life x-amount of time into the future" ideaology.
It's my longest ever one-shot, I would usually chapter a fic of this length, but I think it would destroy the illusion totally. So enjoy these 5,500-odd words :) I slaved hard over them!
I also blatantly paid homage to the wonderful show THE X-FILES (Notice the name & quotes of Brian's thesis? Slightly thieved from one Dana Scully) simply because a) I can, b) The X-Files is epic and c) I have no other reason, other than it's epic & that I can... so I bet I oughta disclaim that to one Chris Carter...
I've tried to keep it as in character as possible, but obviously it's going to differ slightly to the film, as the characters are experiencing different things, so y' & let live right?
Anyway, this is getting to be a really longer authors note, and it's like 01.56 in the morning, and I'm meant to be getting up at 06.30 (I don't see that happening to be honest. Maybe my new alarm clock will explode against the wall as beautifully as the old one did...hmmmmm) so I think I'm just going to post it now. Meh. This is totally un-betaed, and right now, in a alcohol & adrenaline fuelled state, my mad proof reading skills aren't really up to much, so any mistakes are all mine. You can point them out in reviews (pwetty pwease? *looks hopeful for reviews in any form*)
Enjoy!
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Another fucking Saturday morning in the pits of hell. John Bender slawmed across his desk, silently observing his fellow inmates. Great; a jock, a princess and an uber-nerd. Just fucking perfect.
And there was that weird chick who just sat there drawing every week. He didn't mind her too bad. It wasn't like she ever spoke or did anything. Just sat there. Didn't affect him in the slightest. Shame all the others were jockstraps. Fuck it. There was nothing better to do than wind up Vernon. But when was there anything ever better to do than wind up Vernon. Asswipe that he was.
It was quite pathetic how easy it was to get on his tits. It wasn't even fun anymore, the reactions were becoming too rehearsed and monotonous; it wasn't even as fun as pissing of the new losers in the dreaded "Saturday morning detention". Faggots.
Bender didn't even know why he even bothered to turn up anymore. It wasn't as if he was going to change who he was because he can't go out on a Saturday morning. Boo fucking hoo. When would they get that he just didn't care. What the fuck did it matter what he did, the end of the day everyone end ups up dead anyway. Fuck that, he wasn't going to work all his fucking life just to go and die before he could enjoy himself. You only get one chance at sorting your shit out in life; he wasn't planning on wasting it on education. Damn, if only he could blow this joint and get the hell out of Shermer for good. It wasn't like there was anything worth staying for.
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The dark charcoal smeared across the empty page. The image was slowly coming to life before her eyes, the waves were crashing across an empty beach, the silhouette of a lone surf cresting the horizon. Allison Reynolds had drawn the same picture so many times before that she could probably do it blindfolded. Always the same; an empty beach in the early morning, just as the sun gently peeked from behind the waves, casting the long shadow of the lone surfer far into the distance. It was always the same. It was her true home.
She remembered it vividly. As a small child, she could have been no more than 5 or 6, her parents took her to visit her grandparents down in San Francisco. The one night they had stayed for, she had sat out on the beach by herself for the whole night, mesmerised by the isolation and beauty. She had sat there and watched the sun set, and sun rise, lost in thought, her dreams feeling real. She was home.
Her grandparents had long since died, but that wasn't the point. She was with kindred spirits in California, people who understood her, people who didn't judge her. She was at one with the nature, the soaring seagulls, the sandy shoreline, the ocean.
She looked briefly her other piece of work - the mountains and forests. Shaking and scratching at her scalp she gave it a gentle coating of snow, before turning back to her real artwork. Satisfied with the coarse sand and her rolling foamy waves, she slipped it back into her folder, before anyone could ask her to explain it. You don't explain art, it just is what it is. You admire it's beauty, it's creativeness, it's individuality but you never explain it. To explain it was to take away the magic, and then what's left? A scarred piece of paper, with faded lines telling a story no-one wants to hear. No you certainly never explain art. Particularly not when it's private.
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"B-O-O-H-O-O" He'd had enough of this shit. For fucks sake, if Sporto had pulled his jockstrap out of his ears then maybe he wouldn't be in this fucking mess. Even if the dweeb had listened to him, there would have been a majority of three, and they could have ditched Cherry and Tights. It wasn't like anyone liked them here anyway.
But no, everyone had to listen to the Wrestling Champ, until it was just him & the weirdo. At least she'd stayed. But it wasn't like he could let the other three fuck up, when they'd just blow the whistle on his doobage to escape another Saturday morning date.
"Everything's a big joke, isn't it Bender?" Vernon was off on one of his fucking rants again. John drowned out the monotonous noise, desperate for the douche bag to fuck off. This Saturday was taking too long.
"The false alarm you pulled Friday? False alarms are really funny aren't they? What if your home, what if your family... What if your dope was on fire?" He'd had enough of this bullshit.
"Impossible sir. It's in Johnson's underwear" The look on the Neo-Maxi Zoom dweebie's face was priceless. It was even better when jockstrap got called out for laughing.
"You think he's funny? You think this is cute, you think he's bitchin', is that it?" Sporto shrugged. He was having his ass handed to him on a place by Dickweed Vernon. "Let me tell you something. Look at him, he's a bum. You wanna see something funny? You go visit John Bender in five years, you'll see how goddamn funny he is."
Now that was below the fucking belt.
"What's the matter John? You gonna cry?" Allison looked over to him, daggers in her eyes. At least someone was on his side.
"Get your FUCKING hands off me!" There was no way he was taking anymore of this shit. "I expect better manners from you Dick."
He whacked the glasses from his pockets onto Andrew's desk. "For better hallway vision." Now they knew he'd be back at least. He wasn't taking this shit lying down.
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He couldn't hit him. No matter how much of a prick Vernon was being, John Bender would not give him the satisfaction. He could kill him, but where would that land Bender? In some shitty jail cell for the rest of his life. No sir-ee, that wasn't his plan. 5 years time, he'd be somewhere, somewhere, anywhere but here.
He could go to New York, maybe write music. He enjoyed playing guitar, it was a decent career. Plus there was the bonuses of chick, drugs and the rock'n'roll lifestyle. He could be great, like Keith Richards or Eric Clapton. It was possible. He could get himself a van - wait no, he could just do up the rusty piece of junk in his garage. Give it a lick of paint, fiddle with the engine a bit, his dad was too drunk to even notice most of the time. It wouldn't take a genius to sort out. And if it did, his mate Max worked in a garage - sling a bit of weed his way and life would be sweet.
It was only 2 months until he graduated. Then he could get the fuck out of here. He'd show Vernon. He didn't need anyone, just him, his guitar and a van. He could go anyway he damn well pleased.
Lying back on top of the crap in the storeroom, John Bender closed his eyes. Anything was possible.
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He could hear the sea. And seagulls. And people, lots of people. Opening his eyes, John Bender found himself in the back of a parked-up van - it was his dad's van. Only, it was nice.
There were loads of pillows and intricately sewn blankets, pictures on the walls. He could smell the joint in an ashtray next to him. How did he get here? Where was here?
Looking up at the artwork, he could see it was definitely original. There were pictures of him, and a chick, a face he couldn't quite make out. He recognised her though. She was beautiful, but in an odd, unique way. He couldn't help but smile, although he had no idea why. Right next to it was an amazingly detailed piece of work depicting the ocean. There was so much passion in that image, so much love. Carved into the backdoor was a heart, cut by his own hand. Inside it was "JB&AR" - it must be the chick in the picture.
Who the fuck was AR? Distracted momentarily, the knock on the side of the van made him jump out of his skin.
"John, babe, you awake?" He frowned. Whose voice was that?
"Jake from the bar said they made a killing 'cos of your gig last night. Apparently some producer guy was in there asking about you again this morning. You need to go talk to him hun', he wants to get you a record deal." He reached into his back pocket. Damn, that wallet was full! Jesus, where did all this money come from?
Bender's head was spinning; he could only just make out his trusty old acoustic guitar in the corner. He managed to grunt before his vision blurred again. What the fuck? Everything went black, as he fell back onto a pile of clothes.
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Allison rested her head on the desk. She idly wondered what Vern had done to Bender? Meh. Who cares, she rationalised. It wasn't like it was going to affect her.
Picking up her pen, she began to tattoo her arm thoughtlessly. Intricate tribal designs appeared, almost meaninglessly. Closing her eyes, a darkness consumed her. Colours swirled before her eyes. Everything seemed so vivid. It was like her dreams were actually happening. She could smell the salt of the sea, feel the gentle breeze caress her hair. She didn't want to open her eyes, in fear that the sense of peace deep inside would leave and she would be back in that stuffy library in Shermer.
"Excuse me?" Allison refused to open her eyes. She was comfy, and didn't want to face the reality of detention.
The voice came again, along with a tap on her shoulder, "Excuse me?"
Allison jumped up, "Sorry," she looked around. There was sand beneath her feet, the ocean mere metres away, and her hair was being blown around by the gentle sea breeze. The woman in front of her smiled ruefully.
"Hi, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I was just wondering if these-" the petite lady, who could be no more then 30, gestured towards the canvases propped up on multiple artists stands, "-were for sale?"
"Ermm, yeah, sure."She looked over to the pictures, the clean, white skins, scarred with the black ink, depicting beautiful scenes, mountains, oceans, cities, sunsets, crowds, lonely country views. She knew deep down that they were her work, but it was as if she was looking at them for the first time, they were so good, so much detail. Where did she learn to draw like this?
The mousey haired customer turned to her again. "How much for these two of San Francisco?"
San Francisco? She had made it? Allison's heart soared, she was home.
"$50 for the two." The words came from nowhere. Since when did anyone pay that much for some scrappy drawing she did. "No wait -"
The woman interrupted. "$50? For two? Are you sure? I'd pay $50 just for one! You've got yourself a deal!" a radiant smile passed over the strangers face. Allison accepted the money in shock, as a young girl, no more than 13, ran over to her.
"Ally, Ally, Jake told me to tell you to tell John that that man from the record company wants to talk to him," she panted. Allison frowned.
"Go, I'll look after the stall. You never charge enough for all your artwork anyway." She scolded in a friendly manner. Allison was frozen in place. What did she do? Who was this kid?
The young girl rolled her eyes and grabbed Ally's arm. "Look, the van's over there," she could see a black and white, abstractly painted van about 20 meters down the beach, "I could hear him playing his guitar about 10 minutes ago. He's awake. Go find him, before he comes to find you. Otherwise he won't make it back to the Surf Shack to talk to the man from the record company."
Allison smiled in confusion, as she was pushed into the crowd, merging its way down the boardwalk. Stopping momentarily to admire the art set in one of the shop windows, Allison Reynolds caught a glimpse of her appearance. God what had happened to her? She looked so much older, she must be 23 or 24. A beret adorned her hair, which was still in its traditional unruly mop, but her skin was tanned, and her black tank top fit her perfectly, highlighting her flat stomach and pert breasts. Her legs looked impossibly long in the paint-stained denim cut-offs she wore, teamed with the tireless black Chuck Taylors. She looked like an artist, a surfer, a young wild-child, her wrists adorned with bracelets, covering the scars from years of self harm. Beaded twine wrapped around her thin neck and a smile encompassed her face. Jogging over to the funky van, through crowds of young women roller-blading, and topless guys showing off tanned muscles, she rapped her knuckles on the van's back door.
After a brief conversation, with what she assumed must be a still sleeping John, Allison strolled back towards the beach. On the corner, a small gift shop filled with groovy, hip trinkets, cool stuff she would love to adorn a home with caught her eye. That was a question - where did she live? Gazing through the window, a poster grabbed her attention. "Johnny Jams at the Surf Shack - hit solo act does a private show, for only $10 per person". However, it wasn't the photo of some guy with longish brown hair and a bandanna round his boot, who looked ridiculously familiar, nor was it the title that engaged her. It was the small print, at the bottom.
"Come see him play, Wednesday 14th August 1990, The Surf Shack, on the beachfront, San Fran."
Some shirtless bloke stood next to her pointed at the poster.
"It was a good show last night - did you catch it?"
Allison couldn't breathe.
Today must be the 15th August 1990.
It was 1990.
Where had the last 5 years of her life gone?
1990!
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Allison shot up, her eyes peeled wide. What the fuck had just happened? She was, it was, 1985, no 1990, no wait, this was the library, what happened to being in Frisco, where was she... WHAT THE FUCK!
Her head span as she saw her fellow inmates in this detention of doom slowly wake from their slumber, confusion etched on their faces.
What had just happened?
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Brian Johnson straightened his tie in the mirror. A long white coat covered the pale blue shirt, floating out as he turned around to face the lab.
Wait, a lab? What had happened, he could of sworn he was just in detention.
No, that wasn't possible; he had seen the Harvard emblem on his dark blue tie - there wasn't such a thing as detentions at Uni. Not that he would even have to go to one if there were.
Physics apparatus surrounded him, depictions of the universe, to scale, Inductions coiled graced his desk, a mass spectrometer sat humming in the corner.
Brian smiled. He was so going to pass this semester. His dissertation "Einstein's Twin Paradox: A New Interpretation" was definitely going to get top marks. He was going to graduate with honours - he somehow knew he had passed.
He had attacked the theory from every possible viewpoint. He smiled as he recalled his opening statement; "Although common sense may rule out the possibility of time travel, the laws of quantum physics certainly do not." How could he fail with an intro like that?
Proudly, he quoted his words aloud to an empty room, "Although multidimensionality suggests infinite outcomes in an infinite number of universes, each universe can produce only one outcome."
Maybe that's what had happened - maybe he had just been at Shermer still, and the laws of physics had brought him here, where he was somewhere in the futures, miles away from his high school lifestyle.
Looking to the clock, he straightened his lab coat out. Somehow he knew it was almost the end of lunch, soon his classmates would be back and he would need to complete a presentation, on a subject he was yet to discover. He flicked through the pile of notes, his eidetic memory coming in handy. The words rushed across the page in front of him, making no sense, but easily readable, something he could look like he knew about. Maybe he could pull this off.
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Brian's eyes flickered open, and he recognised the wooden desk in front of him. He was in detention, but it had felt so real, it was just, so , well real.
He couldn't have just defied the laws of science. But how did he know about quantum physics? How could he recall every moment of the "dream" so intently?
If each universe could only produce on outcome, which universe was he in when he was at Harvard? His parents could never afford to send him out of state, never mind to one of the best universities in the country. He could only have got there through a scholarship. But that wasn't possible - he had got an E in shop, his grade point average was only a B now. Maybe he should have killed himself. One of the variables must have changed. Something must has changed his future, in order for the future to be possible in this universe.
He was over thinking it. The theory dictates that each universe can have only one outcome. Assuming that was a vision from this universe, it doesn't matter what happens simply because all the actions will have been accounted for in order for the single outcome. It was like Hess' Law, "The overall enthalpy change that accompanies a chemical reaction is independent of the route by which the reaction takes place, provided the initial and final states are the same."
Maybe he was over analysing it. Besides this was hardly the place to be thinking like that. Bender would probably beat the hell out of him for even knowing what Hess' Law was in relation to, never mind using it to sort out his own life.
He heard Allison muttering at the back of the room. Boy that was one weird chick! Well, at least it wasn't like she was going to bully him. Oh well.
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Claire shivered as a cool breeze caressed her bare shoulders. Where was she? There was no way that this was detention. Hmmm, whatever it was, this was nice. Claire relaxed as someone rubbed her feet, feeling calm and content with her world. She could smell a hint of lavender from the garden, through the open French doors. Somehow, she knew that in the kitchen there was a chef, making tonight's meal, as, she, the hostess got a manicure & pedicure. Her husband's business partners were coming for dinner tonight, so she had to look her best.
It was nice being the wife of a successful lawyer. Even if she was just a trophy wife, which she knew she was, Claire had all the freedom and time she needed. She could buy whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She was pampered and cared for every second of every day. She played Tennis at the club on a Tuesday, and every weekend Scott and herself went out on the yacht, and watched the sunset over New York.
It was wonderful to live in Martha's Vineyard, and to be married to such a young, handsome, clever, hardworking man was just bliss. They had a small mansion, complete with staff and white picket fence. Yes, life was good, and she had everything she needed. This was where she belonged, now that Shermer was long behind her. Forget about detention, because she was at home.
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Andy's feet pounded the track tirelessly. If only he could cut 2 seconds off of his time, he would be able to beat the current state champion. Then this sports scholarship he was taking advantage of would be secure for the next year, no matter what. He could quit wrestling and running and football, and just pig out on crisps and junk food, and yet his college payments would still keep flowing in.
His degree was almost complete - just one more year and he'd be home free. He could join the cops, or the fire service, maybe he could even move away from Shermer, away from the dick Vernon, who never ceases to remind him about taping that kids ass up.
He still felt guilty about that. He could see that detention as if it was yesterday, that he had sat at that desk with the group of losers, pondering life. Hell, it felt as if he had only just been there, seconds ago. Sitting at that damned desk. But then, how did he get here?
He needed to concentrate on his damn. Damn daydream was just distracting him from his goal. It was unacceptable. it doesn't matter if he was there yesterday, or 5 years ago. Right here, right now, that's what mattered. If he could just shave off those 2 seconds...
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Andy's and Claire's heads shot up at the same time, as they both looked at each other in shock. What the hell had just happened, why were they at high school still, what the...?
Confusion covered everyone's faces as each gaze swept across the room looking for answers. No-one spoke. Whatever that was, it, it wasn't normal. It wasn't something they were about to discuss with near enough complete strangers. Particularly strangers who already judged them.
A loud crash echoed through the empty school, as one of the ceiling panels fell, plummeting to the floor.
A limping John Bender dusted white plaster off of his shirt. Looking up guiltily, he smiled at Allison, before shrugging.
"I forgot my pencil"
His strained voice broke the silence that hovered over the room like a cloud of death. A simultaneous sigh fell across the four other students, as the spell was broken. Brian reached into his pants.
"Your, your pot Bender," he managed to stutter his way through the sentence. Well, half a sentence really.
John just grinned, and grabbed it, as he peered through the open door.
"What a fucktard. Vern's asleep in his office. Responsible adult or what?"
Andy glanced around, uncomfortably. "Yo, wastoid, you're not gonna blaze up in here!"
Bender grinned. "Or what?" he repeated, challenging the state wrestling champion. Allison giggled quietly, causing Brian's eyes to pop out of his head in shock. The gothic girl just glared at him creepily, until the nerd lost his cool and diverted his gaze, anywhere but at her. Silence fell over the room again, as Bender grinded his pot with a smirk.
Her voice was thick and husky.
"You saw it too." It was almost like she was daring them to lie to her. "All of you. It was the 15th August. It was 1990. We were 5 years away from here. We all blacked out at the same time. We all woke up again at the same time. Don't even try to deny it."
Claire shuffled in her seat anxiously as John looked over to Allison lazily.
"Oh yeah? So what did you see then?"
"I saw who I was on the 15th August 1990."
Her answer was no nonsense and direct. John chuckled.
"Well you can't challenge us to tell you what we saw, if you won't discuss your dream-thing. This is a two-way street honey." He lit the beefy spliff from his shoe, a trick he had learnt behind the bleachers when he was just a freshman, determined to make an impression.
"I was running," Andy announced. "I had to run, or I'd lose my scholarship. I had one year left at college, and I was on the track, panting and panicking, because my dad would, will kill me if I don't have the scholarship."
Brian looked over to the jock, obviously weighing up the pro's and con's of digressing his flashforward.
"I was at college too. I was in a physics lab-"
"Figures," Bender snorted, causing Andy to glare at him in anger.
"I - I had err, just finished my dissertation on Einstein. It was all about the possibility of quantum physics and time travel, and err, I had to give a presentation. I think it was lunch time."
Andy smiled, encouragingly, as Brian struggled to complete his story.
A silence crossed the room again.
"I was an artist." Allison announced. "It was the 15th August 1990, and I was living in San Francisco and people paid lots of money for my artwork."
Bender eyed her suspiciously.
"How'd you know it was 15th August?"
"I saw a poster advertising a gig for the 14th, and someone asked me if I had been there last night."
"Yeah, but how'd you know it was 1990?" He wouldn't let it drop.
"It said."
"What did?"
"The poster." Allison frowned at the relentless questioning.
"Why, what did you see Bender?" Andy butted in, as Claire watched silently, her baby blue eyes occasionally widening at the details.
"I was in the back of a van."
"What sort of van?" Andy smirked. "You been arrested?"
"Fuck you Sporto. I was on tour."
"A tour of what, the prisons of the United States?"
"Fuck. You. Sporto. Do I need to knock the shit outta you?" Bender growled. "I was chilling out in this cool looking van, talking to some cool chick."
Claire smirked in disbelief. "Whatever."
"Oh, so what did you see Cherry? Was Daddy dearest treating you to a shopping trip to the mall? Or had you popped out those puppies and grown into fat Claire, the girl you know is inside?"
"Screw you Bender. I was married, and it wasn't to some screw-up like you!" The redhead's voice raised an octave as she yelled across the library.
Silence once again reigned supreme.
Finally the hours wore by, as everyone kept their silence, and sat in solitude, surrounded by strangers. As the day wore on, Vernon strolled through.
"Right everyone. Essays on this front desk and you can go. I'll see you next week, Mr. Bender."
"I'll make a note of it Dick," Bender grinned pulling on his glasses and marching out, crunching a ball of paper in his hands.
Silently, they all queued to get out; Brian desperate to hand in all 3 pages of his work, Andy dying to get to training, and Claire, just wanting to get out of the hell-hole, in which she did not belong.
Finally Allison walked to the front, laying down a sketch of her dream. A young woman, surrounded by sun, sea, sand and art.
Vern picked it up and snorted.
"What's this meant to be Reynolds?"
Allison squeaked slightly, as she looked around nervously. "You asked us to tell you who we think we are." She shrugged slightly and fiddled with the sleeve of her coat. "This is who I am."
"Looks like you'll be joining me next Saturday after all then, Miss Reynolds."
Allison squeaked again, before turning on her heel and leaving the room.
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Bender leant against the store room door as everyone filed out, his hallway vision glasses perched keenly on his nose. As Allison trailed out at the back of the straggling group, he grabbed her arm, spinning them both into the janitors closest.
Pulling of his shades, he looked straight into her mahogany eyes.
"Your dream-vision-thingy? You think it means anything?"
Allison shrugged in confusion. "I hope so. Why?"
"Because... Because I think you were part of mine." He grunted, trying to keep his cool.
"The... the van...? John? Was that you?"
"There was loads of artwork inside the van. And, and one the inside of the back panel, it said 'JB&AR' inside like a heart thing... You're AR right?"
Allison reached up and stroked Benders stubble, as she nodded slowly.
His strong arms pinned her to the wall, as his mouth crashed down on hers and their tongues danced and duelled for dominance.
Panting he pulled away, his eyebrows raised. Allison just grinned impishly. Reaching into one of his many pockets, she pulled out a carton of cigarettes mischievously.
John laughed, before pushing the paper ball into her free hand, and with a mysterious smile, was gone. Just like that.
Unravelling the papery mess, Allison saw a simple sketch, not very talented or detailed, but plenty good enough to recognise herself, and Bender, grinning like idiots. Idiots in love. Or at least the idea of love.
The picture felt strangely familiar, despite the fact she was positive no such picture could exist. Not yet, anyway.
Scratched into the bottom of the drawing was a short note.
"How good are you at painting vans? My place? 9pm tonight? JB"
Allison smiled, as she slipped the note into her bag. Looked like she was going to need her spray paint.
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Hope it was up to your high standards... I'm considering writing a sequel just involving Bender/Allison & the future, but I'm not sure if I could even keep it vaguely true to form. We'll have to see how this one went down.
Anyway bubss, I'm off to catch some zzzz's, because after all this hard work, I am well & truly beat!
Keep Cool x