A Short Interlude: Part 3: And the Muses march on! Stop! Stop I tell you!!

R for language and some situations that some might find offensive.

STILL do not own. Farking, fraking...*Walks off grumbling*

Of Aliens and Sacred Objects:

She was at it again. It had become the afternoon ritual for the past two weeks. She'd only been there two months, 3 days, 14 hours, ten minutes and 30 seconds, (but who was counting?) and already she was developing annoying habits. He winced as he watched her fly through the office. Heard her boots hit the stairs, must've taken them two at a time, and he heard the TV click on.

2pm. Let the insanity begin. With a forelorn sigh, he settled into his chair and pouted. It was becoming as much his habit as her ritualistic afternoon TV schedule. He waited, counted: Three, two, one. And turned on the stereo in the office to eardrum blasting decibels. Anything to drown out the sounds of the soap she'd been drawn into like a moth to flame.

A few minutes later, as he happily let his mind drift to the sounds of the latest Indy band, he heard the microwave's door click shut and the beeping of buttons being pushed. A bit concerned, he turned the stereo down. This was a twist on the usual routine. Soon he was regalled with the tantalizing scent of popcorn.

Then his nose wrinkled, the scent had drifted from delicious and tempting, toward burnt. She had a thing for burnt popcorn or for that matter most anything burnt. Must be from when she resided in hell. He sighed and felt his stomach growl, then clench when the smell became overpowering. Beeeeeeeep! The door was opened, the scent became nearly nauseating.

*Slam. Thump, thump, thump, thump.* Back up the stairs again. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and vowed he'd not be a bit curious about what the draw was for her with afternoon soaps.

Nope, not a bit. He became fidgety. Fingers tapping the top of his desk. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, tried sitting back and putting his boots up on the desk, and losing himself in screaming guitars and howling voices raging against the system.

It wasn't working. With a groan, he got up and drug himself up the stairs. Five minutes, he promised himself. After all, there had to be SOMETHING about them that drew her in to the exclusion of all else. He just knew he could light a stick of dynamite under her, and she'd pay it no more attention than a fly buzzing in her face.

And the hell of it was, he actually COULD do that, and it wouldn't really hurt her. It was tempting, but he really liked his home/place of business intact. Once again as he stepped into the den, he saw she'd taken the position. Lying on her belly, feet up, boots, wait that was different. Not boots today. She was barefoot, and he did a double take toward her feet, she'd painted her toenails? Pink, hot pink, if he knew colors, which he did to some extent. Interesting. And no black leather either. Jeans, and a baggy, black, hooded, sweatshirt. And, not MY sweatshirt! He growled, she'd raided his closet again. Had his favorite sweatshirt on. That was crossing the lines.

There were certain lines a person did not cross: Lines that were sacred and sanctified in a man's world. One was his favorite clothing. One did NOT borrow, steal, tear into rags, or whatever else, any or all of his favorite clothes; without express written permission, typed, double spaced, in triplicate, signed in front of three witnesses, and notarized. That included the black, hooded sweatshirt.

The second was sacrosanct, and as sacred as the Holy Virgin's tears: His favorite furniture. She'd been griping about the ratty couch he had in his den. So? It was lumpy, and had a tendency to sink when one sat in the wrong place. Or shove a spring up one's ass if they sat on it wrong. What was wrong with that? He liked his couch.

In fact he was fucking going to marry it! If a person valued their life, they left the couch alone, and he was happy. Didn't matter to him it was a nasty call-back to that 1970's beloved color, burnt orange. Well dirty, burnt orange, since if a person sat on it hard enough, which he tended to do regularly, it would send a cloud of dust up that would encompass the entire room for about a minute.

He didn't ask for much. Not really. After all, he'd let her live with him, when he could have very well asked her to pack up and leave, after he'd discovered her lack of respect for All The Things Holy to him.

But nooooooooooooooooooooooo! He had to be a nice guy. Had to take pity on her. And dammit, he liked having her around anyway.

Most of the time.

Usually.

Right then as he sat on the so-called "Most sorry excuse for upholstery ever invented." (Couch Philosophy, according to Trish), and watched the drama unfold between various and assorted too rich, and tony for anyone but the most flaky humanity on earth, he sighed and was caught up.

Against his will.

This was insidious, it was a plot to corrupt and turn intelligent minds into worthless mush. And the kiss the current couple shared was almost too hot for R-rated movies, much less daytime TV. And then? The same couple floundered between the sheets, which of course being daytime, the sheets covered strategic areas of what would pass for nudity, leaving just enough to the imagination to see for one's self what may be happening under said strategically placed sheets. If he were rating the scene, being a fan of dirtier sorts of entertainment, he'd have to, grudgingly of course, rate it at least a 6 on a scale of one to ten. Christ! Who knew day time TV had so much gratuitous gropage?

But the scene was ruined for him when the stereotypical "Other" walked into the room, with the what had to be, a stereotypical expression of, shock, horror and BETRAYAL!

He snorted, said softly, and very sarcastically, "Honey I can explain...We were just...Testing the springs in the new orthopedic mattress. Honest!"

He got a piece of popcorn thrown at his face. He caught it with his mouth instead, and chewed thoughtfully, burnt popcorn wasn't too bad really. And of course he was starved anyway. There was left-over pizza in the fridge, but he was too interested in the unfolding scene of cheating spouse caught in the act, by unsuspecting spouse.

Drama unfolded, a gun was brought out. Waved about threateningly, lame dialog poured from the TV, "I've known about this all along. But I NEVER thought I'd actually catch you with HER in OUR bed!"

Oh the horror, the shame. OH THE HUMANITY!!! He felt the appropriately appalled expression come over his face. It consisted of, dropped jaw, and horrified expression, and disgust. At least it felt like it. The horror, and disgust weren't all feigned.

Apparently the woman was speaking to her husband...No, wait, she pointed the gun at HIM.

"Yeah, you go girl, shoot the worthless bastard, I'll take ya!" He said, with a sort of smug grin, "Hell, I'll take ya anywhere you want. I'd be better than him." Damn she was hot. Even for a soap star, long dark hair, and big brown eyes, and a body that screamed "come fuck me now!"

Then he swallowed somewhat distastefully, as the plot unfolded a bit more.

"I never thought you'd do this to me. To us, Sheila."

"Sheila?" He swallowed again.

"After all we've been through together. How could you! How could you with...with...HIM!"

"Oh...Christ..." He knew it was too good to be true.

"Danni, I've been meaning to tell you. It's over between us, it hasn't been the same for a long time."

"What the fuck is this? I didn't think they allowed THIS on daytime," he grouched.

"Shhhhhhh! Dammit! I knew this was coming." Trish turned, glared and stared back at the insuing drama.

"You KNEW this was coming? Well fill me in," he grumbled.

"After it's over. Now shut UP!"

"Yes, ma'am!" He mock saluted her, and settled back down and rested his chin in his hand, pretended interest.

"But Sheila, we love each other." The brunette had walked toward the couple sitting up in the bed, and she pointed the gun a bit more threateningly toward the man, who was yet unnamed.

"Probably something suitably stupid like Biff," Dante grumbled, noticed she really wasn't holding the gun right, rolled his eyes, "She's gonna shoot the ceiling before she shoots anything else."

A pink toe-nailed foot connected with his shin, and he bit back the yelp. "Ok, ok, I'll be quiet."

The hammer was pulled, gun was cocked, and was shakily pointed somewhere between the eyes of the yet, as unnamed male, and the wall above his head.

"Aim lower honey, his head's too small a target. Then again any lower, she'd miss entirely." Dante grumbled, sneering.

"Do I detect a little male envy?" Trish said without looking away.

He shrugged, and sent a nasty look toward her, camara zeroed in on trigger finger shakily and slowwwwwly, ever so slowly squeezing trigger, and? A commercial.

"Awwwww come on! I wanted to see if she blew his head off! Damn!"

"Wow, you were actually getting into this. I'm amazed." Trish turned and looked at him with a smug little smirk.

"No, I was wanting to see if she'd have the guts to blow Biff's head off or not."

"Biff?"

"Whatever his name is."

"Randy. Actually and he's the hottest thing on two legs or soaps at the moment." Trish knew that jibe would hit home. The male ego after all was a fascinating thing to behold when it was pricked. Especially HIS male ego.

"Don't tell me you'd want to be the other third in that little bi-sexual triad?"

"Wouldn't bother me one bit to be the other half of a pair with him." She popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth, chomped happily and turned back toward the TV at his obvious eye-roll.

"Yeah you just like him for his pecs."

"Oh and you liked Sheila for her mind? Puhleaze! And no, I happen to like his ass," she retorted. He lowered his head, and thought, I can't win.

"Well, actually I liked the brunette holding the gun, at least I liked her before I saw she liked women. I'd hate to have to worry about that."

"You'd rather worry about a woman fooling around with another man, than another woman? That's a rather odd way of looking at it."

"I could shoot a man. I wouldn't shoot a woman."

"I see. Double standard. Cheating is cheating no matter whom, or what." Again she popped popcorn into her mouth and turned again, when the commercial break ended.

"Besides two women having at it, not all that bad." He winked outrageously at her.

This time she rolled her eyes, "Hopeless."

His attention back on the TV, "What? They aren't going back to the Showdown at Notell Motel? What gives?"

She looked at him levelly, "Ever hear of cliff hangers? You know, tune in next week..."

"Shit! Now I'm gonna have to wait to see if she can even shoot."

"Quiet, this part was just getting good. I want to find out if Mark was really abducted by aliens or if he just ran off to become a Tibetan Monk."

"Aliens? You've got to be kidding me."

"SHUT UP! Please, this is my time here."

Once again he settled into his bored posture. Then sat up and crossed his legs, fidgeted again. Not quite as interesting as the whole, woman cheating on woman with a man thing. He yawned and the pizza beckoned him. He stood up, stretched and walked out, leaving her to her whatever the hell she wanted to call it. Probably something appropriately found in Glamour, or some other fashion girl type magazine, "Me time." Or, "How to Spend Quality Time With Yourself." Yeah there was another name for that too. But mental masturbation didn't have quite the same ring to it. He almost laughed at that. He did however congratulate himself on such a witty thought.

He went downstairs, slapped a slab of pizza onto a paper plate, shut the microwave door, punched numbers randomly and had just heard the oven kick on when she came back down. And sniffed the air appreciatively. "Oh pizza!"

"No, it's mine. You can't have any." He spotted her pout, and sighed, "So did what's his name get abducted, or what?"

"Hmmmmmmmm..." She'd sidled up toward him, it made him nervous, "No, he went to Tibet."

"Awwwwww no alien abductions, I'm disappointed. It's sad to know that TV has taken such a downward turn. I guess there would be no alien experiments on unsuspecting humans."

"Nope. Not today anyway. Now about that pizza?" She batted her eyes at him. Saw his own narrow suspiciously.

"There's more. Heat it yourself. You probably like that burnt too. And what did you mean not today?"

"That was last week, on My Life As I Know It. Danny was abducted, and brought back. But..." She held up a hand for dramatic pause, "He wasn't the same. Turns out he was a clone of the real Danny. Shame, he was really cute until he turned into some evil mastermind of some plot to overtake the city's pillars of society and he hypnotized and messed around with Carol, the wife of a respected businessman dying of cancer. Now, Carol's given birth to an alien baby. It was born with...Ummmmm....not quite human features."

"What?" He shook his head, "You lost me after the whole clone thing there."

"You'll have to watch it sometime."

"I don't think so. I mean, alien abductions, and clones, and what's his name being...Wait. Let me get this straight, what's his name was abducted, and cloned, then the clone was sent back to earth to pull some sort of trick on the unsuspecting...Jeez. I suppose they also did the torturous anal probes and so on, that aliens supposedly perform on the poor unsuspecting human specimens? That's fucking trite, Trish."

She stood away from the counter and looked at him a bit wide-eyed, for a man who rarely spoke more than one sentence at a time, and usually three words constituted a sentence for him, that was an awful lot. "Danny."

"Whatever."

"That's more like it. Oh and your pizza?" She watched as he opened the microwave door, smoke rolled out, and he looked at her.

"Damn!" He yanked the paper plate out and stared down at the smoldering remains of what had at one time been a respectible, double pepperoni, sausage, extra cheese, quarter of a large pizza, it had burned, "Here, it's burnt. Just the way you like it."

She grinned..."I won that round."

"That was all planned out? You made all that up?"

"Oh it happened, but I knew if I distracted you long enough, I'd get your pizza." She took a bite, closed her eyes in ecstacy and watched as he walked out of the kitchen toward the office.

"Point two for me. Rule two: A woman can always, always outsmart a man."

"Trish?"

"Yes?"

"You touch my sweatshirt again? I WILL shoot you."

"But you said you wouldn't shoot a woman."

"In your case? I'll make an exception."

And as she stood there mouth hanging open, he winked, clicked his tongue and pointed at her, "Gotcha babe. He shoots, he scores!! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

He was dancing down the hallway. "And the crowd rises in a collective standing ovation!" He made the so-called crowd noises, "GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!!!!"

She rolled her eyes, and heard him say very quietly from the end of the hall, "Rule one point OH one: Touch a man's sacred things, and die."

And so ends the tale...Did what's her face, shoot what's his face? Was Danny's baby really an alien child? Will the world ever know?

Do we even care?

*Smacks announcer down again.* I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE! *Grabs the FOOT OF GODZILLA, and *WHACK!* There! You were warned! *Evil Laugh* Mwahahahahahahaha...ha...ha...ha..he..eh...Gulp.

*Stomp* *Click* *Stomp* *Click* *Stomp* BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!! Snort. *FOOT OF GODZILLA is grabbed from author's hands by none other than Godzilla himself on crutches*

Oh hi! Thanks for letting me use...."BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!" Lazer attack... *Squeak* *Squeak* *Squeak* *Squish* *Godzilla snorts out sulferous smoke* *Stomp* *Stomp* *Stomp* *Stomp* *Stomp*

*Author climbs out from behind smoldering desk, blows smoldering hair out of eyes*

And, *swaying* that's the end... *Passes out* *Thud*

Owwwww....