Element Four. The Ghost of Punnage Past.
'Twas with a heavy heart that Marcia paused in her merry mirth, suddenly taken with an ... illustrious idea. Spinning back 'round she grasped her keyboard firmly within her well-calloused fingers and began typing, committing errors that even the most lenient of English instructors would have felt faint at. She whipped off a tortured tale of wisecracks and whatnot, mostly revolving around Knives, who was her least favorite Trigun character. She despised him because she thought she understood him, although on average she was about as out of the ballpark as the city limits were. For all that, she thought she was dealing with his angst on very decent terms, and was in fact as pleasant as it was possible to be with a character one loathed and scorned on many levels. It was a relief for many Trigun fanatics that Knives was merely fictional, and could not sense the horrible abuse that this M. L. Writer sent him through.
Then again, if he were real, he would have creamed Marcia into itty-bitty subatomic dust. So some Trigun worshipers prayed for his sudden existence in this realm, and were constantly disappointed in his non-appearance.
But Marcia was satisfied, and to her mind that was all that really mattered.
With a sigh of gratification, she rose from her chair and took to her bed like a large, overfed whale. Marcia pulled the floral and plaid blankets up about her chin and awaited the arrival of dreamland, which was always an excellent source for more undeniably Marcia-ish fic concepts. She rolled on her side and conked out within minutes, unremarkably without the aid of the tranquilizer dart that the Ghost of HFR had so yearned for.
And that was when the sounds began again, pealing more obnoxiously this time, and accompanied by some sort of odd "whoosh whoosh" breathing. The words "I told you so, girl! You shall know! You shall know!" which repeated endlessly like a bad case of an annoying commercial jingle caused the sleeping Marcia no end of discomfort, and she tossed and turned like the sea under a hurricane. With a whimper and a squeak, she fell to the floor and opened her eyes.
She gazed upon a pair of pale feet, more than a little perplexed and completely tangled within her cocoon of paisley sheets. "How ... how did you get in here!?" she cried, unable to believe that this was happening again. This was no Ghost of HFR. This spirit looked nothing short of livid, and despite her short stature, one got the sensation that a harangue from her ravened tongue would scrape at least two layers of skin off the eardrum.
The wraith suddenly seemed rather tired. "You left the front door unlocked," she shrugged.
Oh, that was it for Marcia. This spirit world had crossed the line! She rose to her feet like a mighty Titan and stormed towards the petite blue shadow, hollering things like "get losted" and "you ... you ... you" at regular intervals and high octaves.
"I think not," said the ghost as she raised a hand and sent Marcia flying back to her bed. "For you see, I am the Ghost of Punnage Past, and I am the first of your instructors ... nay, masters in this long November eve."
Marcia blinked and began to sniffle, but the Ghost of Punnage Past would have none of it. A thin beam of yellow light erupted from the crown of her small head, and she latched tightly onto Marcia's trembling wrist. "We shall first take a journey," murmured the spirit authoritatively and mysteriously, "to the scene of your latest crime. Refusal," she said as Marcia had dug her heels deep into the carpet, "is not an option."
With a tug she easily disengaged Marcia from where she stood stuck, and strode purposefully towards the window. Marcia balked.
"Your not real," she said. "Can't we just use the door?"
The Ghost of Punnage Past raised a silver eyebrow. "For that misuse of language," she intoned, "however slight, we shall indeed go through the window."
