General Disclaimer: This story is based Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. Thoughts (and, I hope, grammatically-correct items) will be in italics. Subtitles set up each scene. I have given up on this story making any chronological sense. All you need to know is that it takes place at some point within the Space-Time Continuum. There will be controversial issues. There will be some smut. There will be vulgarity. There will be hockey. There will be amphibians.
Disclaimer: St. Cloud State University is a real school. The Husky is its real mascot. The colors really are cardinal and black. They really do have a hockey team. I am not certain about their hockey policies, but I am pretty sure their Varsity Team would not be co-ed, which is where the fiction part comes in. If you go to St. Cloud State University, and are easily offended by people using your school name for their creative purposes, skip to Chapter Two. I do not own St. Cloud State University, the stadium (with the name I couldn't find on the ambiguous hockey statistics website), the Penalty Box, Seat 38C, its mascot, its colors, its hockey team, and its policies regarding said hockey team. I do not own the Mighty Ducks. I do not own Norwick Lane (if such a place exists). I do not own Ewan McGregor (which has kept me awake countless nights with bawling and hormonally-induced hysterics), or Moulin Rouge (the rights or the film). I do not own HOTPOCKETS (and their history, described herein, is not meant to be construed as fact), IHO, Vigilante Justice, the painting with the same title as the one Dallas painted, Barbie, Bloomingdale's, the clothing stores and "Gothic" trends that inspired Manhattan's appearance, the song about "what the world needs now is love, sweet love," which inspired one of Phoenix's comparisons between Dallas and herself, the song upon which my "Must be the Money" subtitle is based, Bingo, a Senior Center, Swing Dancing, The Godfather (the rights or the film), Dr. Phil, the concept of monopoly, the cliché of the tall, dark, and handsome Prince Charming, or anything else you may attempt to sue me for. All I do own are my rubber-ducky-and-bubble-bedecked pajama pants and a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke.
"I'm NOT shallow! I just…left my depth at home." -Phoenix Drake
St. Cloud State University Rink: The Hollow Victory
In a blur of cardinal and black, she approached the goal.
Crystals of ice erupted in her wake.
Left.
Right.
Swivel.
A perfectly-choreographed dance.
Though her feet were occupied, her attention never strayed from the goalie.
And yet, she KNEW.
The puck would come toward her from the right.
Right about…
WHAM!
Effortlessly, she sent it sailing into the net.
The goalie collapsed to his knees.
Her teammates whisked her heavenward.
Jubilant, they deposited her upon their shoulders.
Mission accomplished.
At twenty-one, she was Captain of the Huskies Varsity Hockey Team.
She was also the only female in the history of St. Cloud State University to play at the Varsity level.
Now, in accordance with her decade-long tradition, she had scored the winning goal.
Naturally, she was overjoyed by the prospect of YET ANOTHER fifteen minutes of fame.
There was nothing she craved more than the thrill of victory.
At least, that's what she wanted to believe.
The bitter truth was: she needed someone to "get" her.
She needed someone to encourage her whenever her previous records remained unbroken.
She needed someone to snuggle with.
Most importantly, she needed someone to worship the ice she skated upon.
The universe owes me a MASSIVE favor, after all.
Any superficiality on my part is warranted!
And, in about fifteen seconds, Dear Reader, you will understand EXACTLY why I feel this way.
The instant she left the ice, HE would be ready to pounce.
St. Cloud State University Rink Penalty Box: Orchestra, Meet my Skate
Predictably, as she was unlacing her skates, HE plopped down on the bench beside her.
Jerome Kush.
He was breathtaking.
He knew it.
He had absolutely no qualms about tooting his own horn.
In fact, he didn't just have one horn.
He had an entire orchestra.
He attached himself to every female unfortunate enough to enter his line of vision.
Well, every female who wasn't her.
It wasn't that he hadn't made a valiant effort to win her affections.
He had.
His determination to woo her began when they were three.
Maybe his approach is the problem.
"Drake," he cooed.
Lecherously, he waggled his eyebrows.
"This time, I'm gonna make you an offer you CAN'T refuse."
Well, there's a come-on I haven't heard since practice this afternoon.
Does he honestly believe stealing pick-up lines from the Godfather will get him laid?
"What offer am I expected to not refuse THIS time, Jerome," she indignantly spat.
He stroked her upper thigh.
"I'll show you my stick, if you show me your puck."
Before you unveil your stick, just let me get my magnifying glass.
THANK GOD you're such a dick!
Otherwise, I might actually feel guilty about busting your balls.
"Well," she huskily purred, "you sure know how to flatter a girl."
Puckering her lips, she brought her face mere centimeters from his.
Immediately, he inched his mouth closer… closer…ever closer.
She wielded her skate.
Smiling serenely, she bashed him, shoe-side-up, in the groin.
He cascaded off the bench, landing at her feet.
Tears cascaded down his cheeks.
He whimpered.
He moaned.
He gritted every cuss word imaginable.
It's a pity you're as deluded as you are handsome, Jerome Kush.
As if I would EVER be interested in someone who ONLY wanted me for my PUCK!
Head held high, she stepped over his prostrate form.
Triumphantly, she hauled ass to Seat 38C, where her sister was waiting.
St. Cloud State University Rink Seat 38C: The Justice of a Civilized Heathen
Dallas Drake, you are panicking without just cause.
Phoenix is NOT tormenting Jerome Kush.
They've known each other since pre-school.
Obviously, they have eighteen years worth of memories to bond over, and…
OH MY GOD!
What if she's FINALLY done it?
What if she's figured out a way to separate Jerome's ego from his body, and she's beaten him to death with it?
If she shows up wearing his testicles for earrings, Mother will NEVER forgive me.
Twenty-three-year-old Dallas shook her cascade of ginger curls in resignation.
Oh, Phoenix.
Why can't you give peace a chance?
Just ONCE!
If only for the sake of the SCSU Rink Janitorial Staff!
I highly doubt that they are compensated for being forced to clean around Jerome Kush EVERY time he tries to converse with you.
"Phoenix, it's appalling! It's ABSOLUTELY appalling! To be perfectly honest, it's BEYOND appalling that you always feel the need to…"
"Embrace Vigilante Justice," Phoenix panted, eyes twinkling merrily.
YES!
HER EARS ARE DEVOID OF TESTICLES!
Dallas retorted, as she always did, with exasperated grunting.
"Look Dal," Phoenix's teasing tone instantly grew serious, "I realize that Jerome has a reputation as a Manly-Man to protect, so I solemnly swear to you, on my hockey stick, that I will only beat his Punk-Ass down when none of his adoring fans are watching."
Dallas stifled a gale of giggles behind her hand, gulping, "At least you've progressed from Beyond Appalling to Civilized Heathen."
With a saucy wink, Phoenix hefted her gym bag over her shoulder.
Gallantly, she hooked her free arm through Dallas's.
They headed home, leaving Jerome Kush in a quivering, weeping heap.
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Unlike Dallas
As they strolled toward their residence on Norwick Lane, passerby halted in their tracks to gawk at them.
Phoenix was known far and wide for her heroics on the ice.
Single-handedly, she had put St. Cloud State University in the record books…numerous times.
Dallas, on the other hand, was known far and wide for her accomplishments in the galleries.
Dallas was an internationally-acclaimed artist.
Her first painting (Prelude to a Tempestuous Evening) had been sold, when she was eleven-and-a-half, to a foreign dignitary, for $12 million.
The ENTIRE $12 million had been spent on renovating Drake's Diner; this spontaneous decision would eventually come back to bite the lot of them in the ass.
Phoenix would have traded her celebrity status in a heartbeat for an ounce of Dallas's beauty.
Unlike Phoenix, whose broad shoulders and muscular legs could only be wedged into jerseys and gym shorts, Dallas's curvaceous, yet petite, figure made the T-shirts, patched overalls, and do-rags, she always wore seem worthy of being worn by royalty.
Unlike Phoenix, whose hair had the same color and luster as dirt, and fell in hideous, jagged chunks just above her chin, Dallas's ginger curls shimmered in every type of lighting.
Unlike Phoenix, whose eyes were the color of maple syrup, Dallas's eyes were golden, piercing, like those of a lion.
Unlike Phoenix, whose rippling biceps and intimidating quads were the envy of EVERY athlete at St. Cloud State University, Dallas's features were of the Barbie-esque variety that every woman secretly yearns for.
Unlike Phoenix, whose typical style of movement was the lumbering of a drunken elephant, Dallas floated, as if hovering on a cloud.
What they did have in common, to their constant sorrow, was the death of their father, Harold Drake.
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: The Crumbling of a Marriage
In his lifetime of seventy-four years, Harold Drake had been married twice.
His first wife was the heiress to the Harris HOTPOCKET Empire.
Marshall Harris had invented, patented, and owned, the first International HOTPOCKET Outlet (or IHO) in the world.
What began as a humble stand, on the corner of Thistle and Mulberry St., evolved into a single factory in downtown Sacramento.
Finally, as HOTPOCKETS became one of the world's most popular pastries, the single factory became hundreds of factories.
It was suspected, though this universal opinion was never voiced to Harold Drake, that Marshall Harris's daughter, Matilda, only married Mr. Drake to benefit the Harris HOTPOCKET Empire.
She encouraged Harold to sell his business to her father.
Harold Drake refused to part with the diner, which had been his entire life for twenty years.
Thus, the owner of Drake's Diner and the future-owner of IHO divorced, with as little media attention as possible.
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: To Lack Nobility and to Alter the Temperature
From his marriage to Matilda Harris, Harold Drake was blessed with a son.
With his disarming smile, wavy, honey-blond hair, and soulful, hazel eyes, which screamed, "I'm an angel," it was impossible not to trust Justin Drake.
At thirty-five, Justin was carrying on the Harris Tradition of Monopoly.
Following his grandfather's death, Justin had become the Head of IHO.
In his spare time, he plotted to franchise Drake's Diner, as soon as his father bequeathed it to him.
Under Justin's leadership, IHO seduced the smaller, newer pastry companies, with promises of profits beyond their wildest dreams, prior to devouring them.
To Justin's credit, he INTENDED to keep every promise he made.
Unfortunately, the vendettas of his wife never failed to lure him from the path of Ethical Business Practices.
Ferris Drake, thirty-three, was a vacuum of misery.
Inevitably, she sucked joy out of social gathering.
When Ferris entered a room, the temperature plummeted to sixty-seven degrees below zero.
Her platinum-blonde hair was religiously permed.
Her nails were so long, they had begun to curl at the ends, and so lethal, they had been known to draw blood.
Her eyes were steel-gray.
Her lips were thin and a perpetually twisted into a sadistic sneer.
Bits of food were incessantly stuck between her teeth.
Her ribs protruded.
Her knees were knobby.
Her breasts and her ass were practically non-existent, which was a constant source of comfort for Phoenix.
Being as cursed as she was in the Looks Department, it was suspected that Ferris Drake was dynamite in bed.
Understandably, rumors of Ferris's alleged sexual prowess failed to comfort Phoenix in the aftermath of her father's death.
When Harold Drake neglected to invest the $12 million, their already-limited finances steadily declined.
What sparse resources Harold had were willed to Harper.
The bubbly, jabbering, bouncy four-year-old had stolen his grandfather's heart.
Harper had insisted on toddling after Harold Drake wherever he went.
Harold's adoration for Harper completely blinded him to the needs of his wife and daughters.
Phoenix would spend the rest of her life wondering why her father had been more concerned about Harper than he had been about his daughters.
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Putting the Fun in Dysfunction
At sixty, Mrs. Drake had retired from teaching.
Harold had recently been diagnosed with lung cancer.
Following countless hospital bills, and a two-year-long war to find someone qualified enough to manage Drake's Diner in her husband's absence (she wasn't about to part with the business Harold had built with his own two hands, until she was forced to by law), Mrs. Drake applied for Food Stamps.
On the evening of his funeral, Justin, Ferris, Harper, and all of their possessions, materialized on Mrs. Drake's front porch.
Their intrusion, Justin insisted, was a gesture of sympathy.
Mrs. Drake was powerless to kick their asses to the curb.
She was also powerless to obtain restraining orders against them.
For better or worse, typically for worse, Justin was Harold's son, and she had to respect that reality.
Furthermore, the future of Drake's Diner depended upon Justin's whims.
There was a chance, supposing hell froze over, that Justin wouldn't transform Drake's Diner into a chain.
Mrs. Drake would be damned if she allowed her abhorrence of Justin to negatively affect the business that her husband had loved.
All she could do was turn to her daughters for support.
And, support her they did, in their own ways.
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: All You Need is an Oncoming Bus
Dallas was the Doctor Phil of the bunch, particularly where their mother was concerned.
It was she who convinced Mrs. Drake to refrain from clawing out Ferris's eyes, which Mrs. Drake threatened to do…whenever Dallas move, spoke, or breathed.
Dallas tackled this miraculous feat by constantly blathering that 'all you need is love.'
Phoenix wished she would borrow wisdom from someone who wasn't Ewan McGregor, preferably someone who advocated violence.
Not that I should expect anything else from someone who watches Moulin Rouge eighty-seven times EVERY week.
When times called for a positive, tree-hugging perspective, discussions with thirteen-year-old Manhattan were required.
Manhattan was famous for her neon-pink-and-black-striped socks, with triple sixes tattooed across the toe and heel.
She never left home without her combat boots.
Her miniskirts would have been more effective for blowing her nose than for covering her crotch.
Her tank-top collection ranged from "Punk Princess" to "Missing your balls? They're in this jar."
She was always turning heads, and dropping jaws, with her untamable mane of lime-green hair.
Nevertheless, Manhattan was an eerily-staunch advocate of frolicking-in-the-meadows-with-the-bunnies.
Phoenix blamed Manhattan's sunny disposition on the fact that her nose was always shoved into some G-rated, romance novel.
Excessive reading had brainwashed her.
She truly believed that hearts are never broken.
She truly believed that money never disappears.
She truly believed that people work because they love their jobs, not because they are forced to do so, just to make rent.
She truly believed that there is no mistake that can't be corrected and forgiven.
It was Manhattan's philosophy of forgiveness that convinced Phoenix NOT to throw Ferris into the path of an oncoming bus.
As long as Manhattan can dress like a tramp, while simultaneously maintaining her innocence, who am I to piss on her Goodwill toward Everyone parade?
It wasn't that Phoenix disliked Ferris.
She LOATHED her, with the flaming passion of an incalculable amount of suns.
Granted, she would NEVER turn her murderous thoughts into murderous actions.
Phoenix was a firm believer in giving EVERYONE (even the most vile, disgusting, revolting, loathsome, abhorrent CRETINS imaginable) the benefit of the doubt.
Once the benefit of the doubt had been abused; however, then, and ONLY then, would she feel confident in her decision to despise the aforementioned cretin for all eternity.
Eventually, her benefit-of-the-doubt philosophy would be decimated by the dogmatic stoicism of a decidedly-vapid young man.
For now, Phoenix was convinced that holding eternal grudges could ALWAYS be justified.
As far as Phoenix was concerned, she was the shade of gray between Dallas and Manhattan.
Like Manhattan, she was a romantic; just…not a HOPELESS one.
Manhattan was convinced that EVERY male who said so much as a "hello" to her was destined to be the man of her dreams.
Like Dallas, she was practical.
Occasionally, Dallas's practicality was overshadowed by her naivety.
Phoenix agreed with Dallas that what the world needed was love, sweet love.
However, unlike Dallas, Phoenix knew that love was not ALWAYS the answer.
After all, she was not about to grope a cactus.
And, she certainly wouldn't deny her mother the euphoria of mauling Ferris Drake!
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Must be the Money
Without consulting Ferris, Justin decided that it was his duty to pay rent for the sections of the house that he and his family would be usurping.
They had demanded ownership of the Master Bedroom, Master Bathroom, and any other room in the house that happened to please them, for as long as they decided to stay.
Mrs. Drake meekly suggested a figure.
Justin gallantly vowed to pay five times more.
Upon learning of their arrangement, Ferris murderously reprimanded him that family members, even family members who are only PARTIALLY-related to each other, don't force other family members to pay rent.
After all, Ferris had yowled, their son would never forgive them for frittering away money that could be better spent spoiling him.
Justin had then informed his wife that he would pay twice what Mrs. Drake had suggested.
Ferris imperiously roared that his sisters and their mother would take advantage of them.
Eventually, only a penny would remain in their bank account, if they weren't careful.
Justin panicked, declaring that they would pay $50 a year for rent.
Ferris countered that $50 a year would be better invested in Harper's College Fund.
Justin wholeheartedly agreed.
With his inheritance from his mother, Justin Drake was as far from impoverished as it is possible to be.
If Ferris hadn't wheedled him into taking the reins of IHO, Justin Drake wouldn't have worked a day in his life.
Harper could spend the rest of his days, doing absolutely nothing, in the lap of luxury.
Regardless, Justin was determined that Harper would graduate from college.
College, he believed, offers a man everything he needs to be successful in life: a tolerance for alcohol…and a foolproof method of impressing women.
"Females are much more likely to drop their pants for a man with a degree, Son," he'd announce, emphasizing his point with a Girls Gone Wild: The College Edition Marathon.
Ferris cackled inwardly.
THOSE TREACHEROUS SNAKES WILL NOT STEAL LUXERIES FROM MY SON!
She hissed that, as the FIRST child from a RESPECTABLE marriage, Justin was entitled to EVERYTHING.
Justin felt that truer words had never been spoken.
He would have hurled their asses into the street, without a second thought, if he hadn't sworn, while Harold was on his deathbed, to look after them.
Ferris menacingly thundered that taking care of them, certainly, had NOTHING to do with money.
They were Welfare Recipients!
Let the government worry about them!
He could lend a hand by taking out the trash.
He could change the light bulbs.
He could clean the garage.
He could repair the air-conditioner.
THEY WOULD BE APPRECIATIVE, DAMNIT!
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: He's a Bit too Produce-Like to be a Prince
Thus, they were all trapped in a house the size of a sardine can.
Ferris raged at Justin to do no favors for his sisters and their mother.
Manhattan devoured her romance novels.
Phoenix had her ass handed to her by Advanced Chemistry.
Mrs. Drake clamored to find a place of their own (preferably in an entirely different galaxy than Justin and Ferris).
Dallas, meanwhile, was rapidly falling in love.
The culprit who had stolen Dallas's heart was Garrett Frankford, the lawyer who handled Mr. Drake's will.
Garrett had been invited to ONE dinner, as a thank-you for his services.
But, following a single glance at Dallas, he proved impossible to get rid of.
He was flabby.
He was tomato-faced.
He was bespectacled.
He was short.
He was cursed with a toupee.
He had a horrendous taste in ties.
He tended to spit when he talked.
He was generous to everyone he knew well.
He was courteous to strangers.
He never failed to offer Dallas his coat.
He asked for Dallas's opinion about anything and everything.
He treated Dallas like a queen.
Nevertheless, Garrett Frankford's affection for Dallas repulsed Phoenix.
He's not tall!
He's not dark!
He's about as handsome as sewage!
I'M MORE OF A PRINCE CHARMING THAN HE IS!
Plus, he hasn't made any effort to even PRETEND to understand art!
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: To Silence an Asparagus
On the fourth month of her relationship with Garrett Frankford, Phoenix decided that the time had come to educate Dallas on the twisted-inner-workings-of-the-male-mind.
She'd been in many a locker room.
As such, twisted males were her specialty.
"Garrett couldn't tell an abstract painting from an asparagus," was Phoenix's blunt observation.
"Garrett may not have a Doctorate in Art, but he appreciates MY work! When was the last time you took an interest in someone else's hobbies, Phoenix," was Dallas's harsh retort.
"Manhattan reads those borderline-trashy novels. You do that thing, with those brushes, that makes pictures appear on your paper somehow," was Phoenix's awkward defense.
"What's the plot of Manhattan's current 'borderline-trashy novel'? What's the name of my most recent painting? And, don't bother giving me those wounded-puppy eyes, Phoenix. The point is… I know every team you've ever been on! I know the name of every teammate you've ever had! I've been to all of your games! I cheered you on at every Awards Ceremony you've ever participated in! You have always been first for me! Why is it so impossible for you to, just this ONCE, remove your head from your ass long enough to give a damn about someone VERY important to me?"
"There has to be a simpler way of admitting that you love someone."
Silence descended.
"I love him," Dallas squeaked, petrified.
"Sucks to be you," Phoenix gently quipped.
"But…I…NO! I can't love HIM," Dallas melodramatically shrilled, "He can't tell the difference between an abstract painting and a fucking asparagus."
"Maybe love isn't about having absolutely everything in common," Phoenix dreamily philosophized, "Maybe loving someone with different interests will actually bring you closer. You can share your passions with him, and he can share his passions with you, and you will both, consequently, arrive at this plateau of intimacy that neither of you knew existed."
Dallas, who had been absentmindedly slathering cream cheese on a bagel, throughout this entire exchange, obliviously hurled the bagel against the wall.
"You don't have to tiptoe on eggshells with me, Phoenix," she declared, ever ignorant of the bagel's fate, "If I wanted assurances that true love conquers all, I'd be having this conversation with Manhattan. I want to know what YOU think, not what you think I want to hear."
"I don't understand why you are lusting after Garrett Frankford. I don't think I will EVER understand why you are lusting after Garrett Frankford. However, if you were into someone who was exactly like you…that would be a little bit too much like masturbation. Basically, your happiness is more important to me than whether or not you get it on with an art expert," patiently, Phoenix separated the bagel from the wall.
"Thanks, Kiddo," Dallas affectionately tousled her hair, "Except for, well, the part about masturbation."
"Dal, you're first for me, too."
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Swing Dancing Your Way to Developing Some Balls
I realize that I should be MUCH more supportive of Dallas's taste in men, but…
GARRETT FRANKFORD?
Gag me with a pitchfork!
Garrett Frankford is the reason tomatoes and walking-fashion-disasters shouldn't reproduce!
Unfortunately, Garrett Frankford is also the epitome of a Mama's Boy.
At thirty-seven, he still lived with his mother.
He ran errands for her.
He accompanied her to Bingo and Swing Dance Lessons at the Senior Center.
He endured her pinching his cheeks and cleaning his face with her spit.
Patiently, he accepted her chastisement that he wasn't sitting straight enough.
He never argued when she sent him to bed at nine o'clock, sans dessert.
His alliance with 'THAT PAINT-SPLATTERED HUSSY' had cost him desert for four months.
Author's Note: Hey Loyal Reviewers and Lurkers, this is the FINAL posting for OTI, which basically means thateverything I held back in the first posting, it's ALL here. It's crude and it's long-winded and it's random and it's bitter and it's an excuse to vent about lifeand it's me on paper. You have been warned!
Non-damsel: For reminding me of how much I adore these characters, I kind of love you. More or Less, RANNY, Kadrien, Fight Fair, Sawnon, Shanyid COMMUNICATION, Sawyer's tent, Kate's guns, Jack's q-tip-shaped head, Charlie's addiction, Claire's peanut butter, and Hurley's dudes!