Disclaimer: I don't own The Rocky Horror Picture Show
A/N: Another story. Oh dear. I've just got so many ideas!
My name is Miss Lucy Jones, and I was precisely 20 years old at the start of this story.
You won't want to hear of most of my life for it is awfully dull. My father worked in law for many years, I shall say, and my mother did nothing that resembled work for all her years. Though I was born in raised in Surrey, at the time of this tale I resided in a nice flat in a respectable part of London.
I work as a typist-for-rent at a nearby publisher. That means I'm the gel that types up notes handwritten by various writers. People say a word processer will replace my work when they become more accessible to the general public, but I hope to be married by then. The young man I was going out with looked on the verge of proposal at that point. My life has been carefully plotted out.
Then there's my other life. My life as the lovely, mysterious Miss Liza Sternstaub. This life was perfectly spontaneous… and quite fictional. I wrote her stories under the name Patricia Dennis, you see. Nobody knew that sweet little Lucy Jones was living out her mad fantasies under that name. Even if I'd mentioned it to someone – say, my landlady – the person wouldn't believe me.
Liza could say all the things I couldn't. It was like what Dr. Jekyll meant to do with that potion of his. All the darkness, the naughtiness… Liza was my dark side. She was probably an alien – yes, I did steal a bit from Mr. Bowie's Ziggy Stardust persona – and lived in the not-so-great part of the city. There she gambled, wore fishnets, and kissed other young woman (as well as the usual men). Each story of hers involved her getting out of whatever horrid trouble she'd gotten herself into via clever remarks and her many 'contacts'. It was all terribly film noir. I wrote it as if I were writing a detective story through the femme fatale's carefully made-up eyes.
Since the stories were only popular with a very small audience I couldn't rely on them for steady income. Anyway, it seemed more respectable to keep going to my normal job. I wanted to reckless like Liza, but I knew I didn't have the stomach for half of what she did. Everything – even stuff that wasn't too bad – scared me.
The day our story begins was a Sunday. Now, I don't work on Sundays. I usually spend the day cleaning up my flat or working on one of Liza's little stories.
When I heard the knock on the door I'd just gotten up. It was nine (I try not to sleep in too far on Sundays) and a therefre strange time for people to try invading my flat. The shops aren't even open on Sundays at nine, and most are sleeping or at church. Neither were things I liked very much.
"Who is it?" I called, when I heard them knocking.
"It's me!" replied a voice I knew to be my landlady's.
Old Mrs. Hudson was a short, round woman with piercing gray eyes and gray hair she always wore pinned tightly. Like most people her age things like glam rock and made her nervous. This was one reason we got along so well. We both didn't really like what my generation liked. Mrs. Hudson claimed Ziggy Stardust made her feel a bit ill, though she seemed to like the earlier Beatles records fine. I was intimidated by the rebellious nature of a lot of the 'modern' things, while she just didn't like them because old fashioned was better to a little old lady.
Eventually I'd got by knit dress – knit was in style then – and it's matching hat on right. It was time to go see what Mrs. Hudson wanted. So, I left the bedroom and went to open the door (it was though the sparsely-furnished living room).
To my shock it wasn't just Mrs. Hudson who stood there. With her was a couple, probably in their early thirties or so. The woman was highly attractive, redheaded, and wearing a stylish black dress. The man was most likely somewhat older and dressed a bit like something from the late 1950s. He might've been bald, though it was hard to tell with the fedora hat he wore. She was smiling sweetly, while he looked terribly tired (or possibly pissed-off). Not to my surprise it was the former who first spoke.
"Hello! You must be Miss Jones. My name is Patricia Williams, this here is my husband Roderick Williams. We've just moved into the flat above yours with our daughter Laura," she said cheerfully, in a prim – and possibly rehearsed – RP accent. "How are you?"
I smiled nervously at her. "I'm well enough. Would you like a cup of tea? I was about to make some."
This was true, somehow. It was breakfast time and the only thing one can find in my pathetic little closet of a kitchen is a nice cup of tea and the occasional loaf of bread. I actually don't really care for tea. Though I'm English, so it's practically a requirement that I at least attempt to enjoy drinking our favorite drink.
"No, we don't like tea," Roderick said dully. "Anyway, Laura is trying to cook something and we need to make sure she hasn't caught this building on fire yet."
"Why doesn't Miss Jones go with us?" Patricia asked, still smiling.
Her happiness was beginning to bother me. It was like she was a lightbulb of cheer that wasn't going to be turned off soon enough. A blinding, attractive lightbulb of cheer…
Our landlady beamed. "That sounds like a nice idea!"
Being around the Lightbulb (as I'd decided to mentally call Patricia) would be weird, though I couldn't help but wonder what the daughter was like. Perhaps she was a cross between her parents. That is, a normal person.
"Alright," I said, simply.
A/N: You've probably already guessed who the "William" family really is (the aliens and Columbia). It's supposed to be at least a bit obvious. Though, if convention footage is correct, Patricia Quinn is more of a Lightbulb of Cheer than Magenta could ever be...
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