Disclaimer: You wouldn't sue a poor, sickly orphan whose pet rock just died, would you? Not that any of that applies to me, but still.
Why am I writing this? Why aren't I posting the next chapter to my long fics? If I knew I'd tell you.
Riffsalong was coined by the lovely QueenCynder who so graciously gave me her permission to have a stab at writing for this pairing. She also owns the brainwashing angle, check out her fics; Insanity for Today and Possession for more - you won't regret it :D
And I'm renting Trust from the brain of opheliafrump in her story The Queen's Love Child. Go read it when you're done here.
Anyways, less schmoozing, more shutting up!
To Whom It May Concern,
In case you were not aware, my name is Riff Raff Vitus. I am a decorated military general, a well-respected scientist and a coveted seamstress. Don't bother checking for a pulse, I can assure that I am quite dead, having…
Riff Raff frowned and paused his furious scribbling…
How was he going to kill himself?
A laser seemed too ironic, a knife too overdone, poison too drawn-out, pills too crude, noose too complicated and unreliable… he could jump… if he weren't afraid of heights… he knew he'd never be able to suffocate and/or smother himself, so that was out, and he'd had to pawn his gas oven weeks ago, along with his car – so bye bye carbon poisoning… even if he didn't have a garage to fill with toxic fumes…
He looked around his dingy flat, hoping for inspiration. He wanted something simple and quick, poetic and original. Something elegant and dignified that would make people grudgingly admire him for his technique, make him a poster boy for suicides… not some pathetic old fool who got comically tangled up in his noose, whose poison gave him posthumous diarrhoea, who got arterial blood all over the new carpet.
Groaning wearily, he cracked his knuckles and collapsed back onto the decaying, old sofa. Although his flatmate was constantly nagging at him to get it cleaned (or preferably binned) Riff was loath to part with the flea-ridden thing. Each rip told a story, a tale of two young siblings playing pirates with bread knifes, each spill reminded him of a clumsy hand and a brimming wineglass, each stain whispered of passionate interludes between lovers…
…the cushions still faintly smelled of her rich perfume. Whenever he came home particularly drunk, he'd collapse onto the couch and shoot morphine, weeping and burying his head in the memories of the couch.
Riff Raff snorted sadly and shook his head, fishing down the sides of the cushions for the TV remote.
Maybe there would be some sort of suicide documentary, which would surely get the ideas flowing.
You are watching Dentonvale! Before the break we met Ted, an ex-con who was charged with attempting to murder his wife, rob an orphanage and kick a puppy, but admits that he just wants to be loved. Let's see what happens when we give him some pills and release him into the public!
Riff Raff blinked. So this was the infamous Dentonvale, that Earth show that everyone was in love with – especially his flatmate, who taped every episode and played them non-stop all night whilst Riff tried to sleep.
He watched in disbelief as a bunch of quacks appeared onscreen, shoved vat-fulls of pills down the bound and thrashing Ted before they untied him and lead him gleefully to be bathed as the studio audience cheered madly.
"What is this show?" he muttered in astonishment as Ted was led behind a screen, stripped, and unceremoniously dumped into an enormous foamy bath whilst the cast sang songs.
Keep your nose clean!
In all sense of the word!
Keep your nose clean!
And you won't be a hazard!
Society has given up on you
And now there's only one thing you can do
Keep your nose clean!
He'd never heard such a horrible and cheesy song before in his life – and he'd heard Frank's first draft of Sweet Transvestite.
"Wasn't that invigorating, Ted?" a beaming baldy asked whilst pretending to take notes.
"Don't you feel less likely to commit heinous crimes now, Ted?" a simpering redhead asked, her fake smile cracking a little.
Ted glared and rearranged the foam to try and preserve any remaining modesty as the "doctors" chuckled and their entourage cackled sycophantically.
And then, just as Riff Raff was contemplating a channel-change, she appeared…
"Hullo everyone! What's going on here, hm?"
Riff stared at the ditzy young woman as she inspected the scene, cheekily winking at Ted and flicking foam at a preening blonde.
"We're in the process of rehabilitating Ted until he's fit to re-enter society!" a grinning goon answered, the blonde dangling off his arm like a handbag that's in season.
"Neat-o!" the woman answered, a million-watt smile gracing her face.
Riff didn't know why he was so entranced by her. She was in no way his type, she obviously hanged around with the wrong crowd, seemed more empty-headed than Rocky, and her over-eagerness and nails-on-a-blackboard voice reminded him painfully of Columbia. But… there was a certain sadness about her… an aura of unfulfilled dreams and hopeless acceptance outlined her chirpy self. And Riff was fascinated by it.
Thank God for commercial breaks, Ansalong thought as the cameramen talked amongst themselves and the cast dispersed. Unlike normal TV stations, Denton TV's commercial breaks lasted up to ten minutes at a time, so desperate were they for money.
The young nurse exhaled and gently took off her smile, tucking it behind her ear for later use. Ever since Brad and Janet and co. had escaped Denton, things had quickly gone downhill.
Cracks started to form, Macy wasn't as popular as Janet, and was quickly dropped from her position as Miss Mental Health as ratings drooped. Neely, Nation and even Ansalong herself had been given a trial run at the position, but none worked out and they were swiftly dismissed and the gimmick abandoned. Faith Factory failed to live up to the hype and after various makeovers and attempted revivals, was cancelled for good and became one of the biggest flops in TV history.
Marriage Maze was struggling to stay afloat, the Denton Dossier was briefly brought back, and just as quickly given the boot, Happy Homes was on an indefinite hiatus and Dentonvale was barely keeping its head above water.
Reformatted beyond recognition, it had now become a dumping ground for the axed cast of Denton TV's failings. Ralph, Macy, Bert, The Weisses, even Neely (who was even more bitter after her pilot was attacked by critics) and many others were all crammed into Dentonvale – the credits lasted longer than the show!
Ansalong shuddered and looked around vacantly at the crumbling empire around her. That same TV audience from the glory days were still there. Straight jacketed, drugged up and chained to the seats. Ansalong was sure that if one of them died, it would be months before anyone noticed.
The décor seemed to be absorbing the mood, the wallpaper was torn and picked-at, the paint was crackling, and little flecks would stick to your clothes if you leaned on it. The floor was marked and dented and littered with plastic cups and debris, the cleaning crew having been admitted to Dentonvale during a particularly dry season for the show. Everything had a dusty, unused feel around it, a kind of sad desperation, like an out of work child star or a tranished Christmas bauble. Everything except that big sign that Farley had locked himself up in. Only that, it seemed, was valuable enough to deserve monthly maintaining and care. Farley said that it was a beacon of hope for everyone. That it was iconic, like the Statue of Liberty, and therefore, had to be preserved. Farley, it appeared, liked talking bullshit.
She didn't know why she hadn't left yet, or why no one else had, either. Every time she managed to accumulate enough resolve to march up to the increasingly more deranged Farley, he'd look her straight in the eyes and a kind of calm indifference would flow through her. He'd ask her softly not to leave and she'd suddenly get this intense blank, obedient feeling. And that would be it. She supposed it was some kind of brainwashing fandango, but that was just her imagine talking – although conspiracy theory nut Ricky claimed otherwise. Then again, he often used brainwashing as an excuse for his infidelity with Macy. And Neely. And Emily. And anyone else who happened to look at him twice.
Feeling significantly more depressed – something that had seemed impossible five minutes ago – Ansalong had shuffled over to Kirk's bagel stand. She didn't know why she bothered calling it that, he didn't sell bagels anymore. Just liquor.
"Hey Annie," he beamed brightly, his pupils unnaturally dilated.
"It's Ansalong, Kirk," she said flatly, studying the selection of bottles and cans.
"Yeah, that's what I said," he said absently, staring at her chest as if there were fire alarms going off and the safety procedures were printed on her breasts.
Ansalong shuffled uncomfortably. Another change to Dentonvale had been her uniform. With every rating drop, her clothes had gotten sluttier and more revealing, until she was wearing nothing more than a turquoise bra and pants, with stockings and suspenders and other naughty little add-ons. Her make-up had also gotten noticeably thicker, her nature more dim-witted and bimbo-like, she had also been offered as bait to lure people into participating in the show more than once.
"I'll have a double scotch, please Kirk, if it's not too much trouble," she said sharply, trying to keep her blush under control.
He happily obliged, throwing in some cigarettes and a little baggy of white powder for luck.
"On the house," he said as she got out her purse, "My house to be exact, or well, in my house… on my bed… (in my bed?)" he rambled on for a while, trying to master a come on as Ansalong swiped the cigarettes and the drink (but left behind the bag – 'just say no' and all that) and, feeling guilty, dropped some notes into the till and scarpered.
Halfway back to her room, she bumped into Nation, who was looking furious and had a clump of Macy's hair extensions in her hand.
"Hey Nat, I got you something," she tossed her the fags, Nation smiled gratefully and hurriedly lit herself one, nodding her thanks.
"Oh," she said as Ansalong continued to her room, "If I were you, I'd wait outside," she exhaled, blowing smoke all over Ansalong, "Ricky's in there, 'Just helping Macy find her tan lines'," she used her fingers to make air quotes as her voice got steadily more sarcastic and sing-song.
"Again?" she asked, more exasperated than angry.
Nation held up the blonde strands and raised an eyebrow, "Ralph's joining in this time, this is his," she threw it to Ansalong, who caught it one-handed and realised that it was, indeed, Ralph's toupee, not Macy's rats tails.
Ansalong shook her head, "I'd better go tell them that we've got five minutes until we've got to be back on the set."
"Ooh, they'll be able to do it twice more!" Nation said, faux-enthusiastic as Ansalong gave out a weak chuckle.
"Ricky could never do it twice," she called as she made her way to her room, regretting letting Ricky share it with her now.
Trust tromped into the flat and heaved a great sigh, bellowing, "Riff! Why am I not smelling a delicious home-cooked meal?" he looked around, and spotted a note on the table, "Oh no," he murmured, getting panicked, "No, no, no. He wouldn't. He wouldn't!" Riff had been dropping dark hints of his impending doom ever since the fifth anniversary of Magenta's death had passed. Trust sprinted over to the table and almost collapsed in relief after reading it.
Trust,
Have popped down to Earth for some more milk (cow juice to you, you weirdo) will be back soon.
Sincerely, Riff
Still feeling shaken, he poured himself a drink and hopped onto Riff's smelly old couch before turning the TV on.
"Ooh, Dentonvale!" he smiled as the announcer filled him in on what he'd missed, "Huh," he frowned and squinted at the screen as the show started, "Is that… Riff?"
"Ansalong?"
Ansalong growled softly to herself and spun round. A really pale and dishevelled man was squirming nervously as she appraised him with a wary eye. He was as skinny as he was creepy and looked similar to Edvard Munch's The Scream as far as inner turmoils go, "Yes?" she asked, really not in the mood for sinister passes from sinister guys.
"I'm Riff Raff," he stammered awkwardly, looking at the ground as she glared suspiciously at him, "I, er, I saw you on TV…"
"Did you also see me using your eyes?" she asked, the sarcasm half-hearted, the quip feeble, yet sharp enough to make Riff wince.
"I just thought that you looked…"
"Beautiful? Ravishing? Breath-taking? Easy!" she snapped, having had more than her fair share of stalker-ish jerks who came out of the woodwork to proposition her, "Listen, pal, this is a medical drama, not a commercial. I'm not for sale, ok?" she yelled, spinning round and marching briskly to the set.
Riff blinked. She had seemed so naïve and sweet on TV, he'd never expected someone so young to sound so bitter and world-weary. He couldn't not follow her, there was something very Magenta-like in the way she so cynically pegged him.
"Ansalong! Wait! I didn't mean it like that!" he called, rushing after her.
No one stopped him as he ran onto the set. The crew members stared blearily at him but made no comment. The security yawned and picked at their fingernails.
"Get lost, creeper!" Ansalong shouted as he grabbed her arm and made her face him, she was very aware that the cameras were rolling.
"Ansalong, listen," he commanded as she struggled, "I'm not some sleaze who crawled out of the primeval swamp to make a pass at you. I'm just a suicidal cynic who turned on his TV and, not only saw you, but also saw a reason to live!" he declared, feeling uncomfortably out of character and awkward at the cheesy proclamation.
Ansalong raised her eyebrows disparagingly, "Seriously? That's the best pick-up line you come up with?" but it was much softer and teasing than her earlier tone.
Riff's lip twitched, "Well… I've never exactly been gifted at improvisation…"
Ansalong rolled her eyes and almost smiled, "I can tell. Listen," she whispered, "You may be painfully cheesy, but you seem like a nice guy, I kinda want to talk to you, I have a feeling you're an interesting bloke. Wait for me in my room, it's the first one on your right if you take that corridor over there," she pointed to a door backstage, "Just don't do anything funny like rifle through my underwear drawer, ok?"
He nodded earnestly and awkwardly shuffled away, suddenly noticing the running cameras and goggling cast members.
"Riff, old boy," Trust spluttered admiringly from the couch on Transsexual, "You've still got it!"
Would you believe I was staring at my Jack Skellington poster and my James Dean poster and wondering what their lovechild would be when I thought of this? Although, it was originally a fic about Riff seeing Nation on TV and pursuing her, but I couldn't be arsed starting another multi-chaptered fic. I like this better :D
I can't remember what that TV show Janet's parents won is called - and I really don't have time to watch the whole of Shock Treatment just to find that one scene. Is 'Happy Homes' right? If anyone knows, it would really help me out if they corrected me (OCD tendencies are a bitch :P)