Author's Note: I'm just curious here - why is it that whenever I publish something silly like this, everyone and their mother crawls out of the woodwork to comment, but if I actually put effort into a fic, the same three people read it? Are fics that I write off the cuff really that much more interesting? Teh mystery of teh ages...
Anyway, on with the Javert!abuse.
Marie-Suzette-Angeline was just another secretly virtuous prostitute trying to hack in it Paris in the 1830s. She was not a great beauty, but she attracted customers with the unusual color of her mysterious violet eyes. Why her eyes were so unusual in shade, nobody knew, although her mother did try - already from her death bed - to tell her dear "Gigi" something about a curse cast upon her by an evil Gypsy fellow while she was pregnant. But then she had gone off on a tangent about the birds and the bees, and the explanation degenerated into a paroxysm of cough - her last one, as it happened. (The "curse," as Marie-Suzette-Angeline discovered during her first examination with the police doctor, turned out to be a heritable and particularly virulent form of pox, and it took five months of aggressive mercury treatments to bring it under control enough for an official permission to ply her unsavory trade on the streets of Paris.)
Marie-Suzette-Angeline's hair was raven black, lustrous and silk to touch, even though she was secretly pushing forty under all the powder and rouge caked on her face and had no access to any hair care products containing non-abrasive detergents. She wore a whalebone corset, of course, as all women did in those backward times, but when danger reared it's ugly head, she could bravely outrun any man on her swift gazelles' feet. (She also shot from a rifle like a Green Beret in frilly lace, even though she didn't tell anybody, because she'd get put in prison for doing stuff when women weren't supposed to do stuff.)
One night she was returning home from a particularly satisfying orgy (she liked to take occasional breaks from her rather dull working life to indulge in some casual sex with a couple of her more virile johns), when she noticed something on the bridge in the distance. It was a long something - about six feet long. It's top end seemed to have some sort of fluff on it; it's bottom half was split in two from the middle on downward. It also had two similar, but shorter protrusions protrude from its top half. It seemed to be bilaterally symmetrical. It looked pensive.
While Marie-Suzette-Angeline pondered the Mysterious Object, its spatial configuration suddenly underwent a dramatic change: it tipped over, did a somersault in the air, landed with a big splash and became immediately submerged in the roaring, foaming, rain-swollen waters of the Seine.
The realization struck the young girl like a lightning bolt. The mysterious object had been a man!
"Oh my God what the fuck bar-b-que!" exclaimed Marie-Suzette-Angeline in her angelic voice evocative of silver bells and dashed off towards the bridge at a brisk unladylike trot.
The object, which had fallen into the water, was already drowned. Lucky for it, Marie-Suzette-Angeline knew CPR and took life-guarding courses at her local community college. She quickly stripped, taking care not to strip too much, lest she offend some random passer-by's proto-Victorian sense of propriety, and dove into the water, raising almost no splashes and making no noise, as though her curvaceous figure was as ethereal thing, made of moonlight or something.
The water hit her lungs like a barrage of icy cold rocks. How Marie-Suzette-Angeline manage to swim back up to the surface with both lungs filled with river water and the man in toe - she was almost certain now that it was a man, because her sharp eyes discerned a moustache on his face, boots on his feet, and a highly intriguing bulge in his trouser pocket, - she did not know herself. She came to on the bank of the raging river, struggling for breath as waters redolent of sewage poured off her creamy shoulders. When she had recovered some of the lung capacity she had enjoyed prior to her selflessly brave and daring rescue, she gazed longingly at the fellow she pulled to the surface. (The longing was pre-emptive: he was still soggy and sort of dead-looking, but she figured it would be better to put her best business face on first and then give first aid. Plus she's always sort of had a thing for tall dead guys.)
After several long, intense minutes of mouth-to-mouth…
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"
Kindly keep your silence, monsueir! I am trying to express myself here!
Anyway, after several minutes of mouth-to-mouth/enthusiastic snogging, Marie-Suzette-Angeline spat out the last of the river water she had sucked out of the inspector's lungs…
"How did she know I was an inspector?"
You are wearing your uniform. Now,..
"What uniform, you jade? The only uniformed police in Paris are sergeants-de-ville, the soldiers and the National Guard! Inspectors are…"
I don't care what the inspectors are, gosh! It's only FANFICTION! Kindly shut you're whole and let me write!
"I don't think so."
The inspector rose, pulled some clinging reeds off his sleeve and firmly pushed out of his way the half-nude female with bosoms the size of overripe melons and the eyes of a syphilitic guinea pig. Sticking a hand into his trouser pocket, he pulled out his silver snuffbox and glumly shook out of it several brownish clumps of what was once excellent tobacco. Then, ignoring the moans and sobs issuing from the lily-white throat of the woman and barely evading her grab for his trouser leg, Javert headed back upstream.
What? Wait, whe, where the heck do you think you are going?
"Away from you and back to the bridge."
Huh? Dude, what gives? You're supposed to go back with Marie-Suzette-Angeline back to her poor-but-clean-and-tastefully-furnished hovel and have wild monkey sex!
"Why?"
Why, what do you mean, 'why'? She just saved your life!
"Hmm. You know, Valjean saved my life earlier today, too – oughtn't I give him first dibs?"
NO, you sick perv! Look, she's sweet, she's strong, she's ready to overhaul her shameful lifestyle, she loves Jesus, and she's awash in feminine mystique – she's perfect for you! She'll make all your troubles go away!
"My only trouble is your damn voice inside my head. I don't know what sort of suicides you are used to, mademoiselle, but where I come from, people who try to kill themselves quietly in the dark of night actually want to die. What made you think I'd appreciate being revived by some two-bit whore, and in such a foul manner to boot?"
But… but she's a hottie!
"And I'm a fifty-two year old virgin. Believe me, it wasn't meant to be."
Behind him, the buxom half-nude female let out a lusty bellow that would put a cow in heat to shame. Javert quickened his pace.