Author's Note: the following story comes from a self-imposed challenge to portray the essence of Carly and Sam's odd-couple friendship in no more than 450 words, including this note. Standard disclaimer: I own nothing. Well, I do own some things, I mean. Food, for example, and clothing. Because otherwise, I would be starving and very, very cold, and it's hard to write efficiently under those circumstances. Not that I'm speaking from personal experience, mind you. But I did have this poet friend in Mumbai, who decided to…never mind. It's not important. What I mean, of course, is that I own nothing pertaining to iCarly, nor am I making any profit from it. In fact, quite the opposite. I work a job that pays an hourly wage, so every minute that I spend writing fanfiction represents irretrievably lost income. Do you hear that, Mr. Dan Schneider? How does that make you feel? While you're cozy in your Hollywood mansion, kicking back in your solid gold recliner and snacking on caviar-stuffed lobsters, I'm making huge financial sacrifices out of no other motivation than sheer love of your show. You're just riddled with guilt over the injustice of it, aren't you? If you'd like to assuage your conscience, just mail me several large buckets stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, and we'll call it even. On second thought, probably better not to do it by mail. Some of those Postal Service employees have awfully sticky fingers, you know. Why don't you just come round and drop the money off yourself? If I'm not at home, my valet, Stafford, will take care of it for me. "But how can you afford a valet on your measly wages?" you might well ask. It's a remarkable story. During the Great War Stafford was a corporal in my regiment, the Eleventh Royal Fusiliers, and he saved my life when I was wounded by an artillery shell at Passchendaele. Needless to say, I offered him a job after the war ended; and even though my family has since fallen on hard times (curse you, Crash of '29!), Stafford's remained stalwartly loyal to us. A fine chap indeed. You can most certainly trust him with the money. One caveat, though – whatever you do, don't let him talk you into playing foosball. He gets so horribly competitive, and if he loses a game he might whip himself up into a froth and start throwing things. I lost the most lovely Ming vase that way. He offered to pay for it out of his salary, but I didn't have the heart when I saw the tears forming in his eyes. A man's got to have compassion now and then, after all. But I digress. Now, on with our story:
One hazy August afternoon, Carly and Sam OH S&*T THE WORD LIMIT
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