A/N: Ha! Alberta Eric strikes again. (He's my muse, y'all.) Finally got this out— and I think my toe is broken, but that's got nothing to do with it, really, and so its alright. And yes, I know that the chapter title doesn't make any sense. You really shouldn't expect it to, however.

Chapter Eight: Hushaby Twisted

"So," said Monkey (formerly known as OieCuite), starting a chapter off haphazardly, "anyone hear the latest rumors about Tom Cruise?"

Surprisingly, Charles Dance Erik was the only person in the room who raised his hand. He got a few blank stares before shrugging lightly and saying, "Are you going to blame me if I keep up on current affairs? It's a modern world, gentlemen, we might as well get used to it."

He was quickly despised amongst the Eriks for being a traitor to one of the basic codes of Erikdom (which are as follows: 1, mask at all times except for when the removal of said facial-adornment will further the plot. 2. name is spelt with a k. Not a c. A k. 3. left-handedness is a given. 4. an Erik must at all times have music thrumming through his body in a dramatic and fairly erotic manner. 5. Thou shalt not commit an act of sanity. 6. Must practice evil laughing at least thrice a day, preferably in the vicinity of impressionable ballet rats. 7. Red roses are acceptable; white roses are iffy; black roses are prime if you can swing it; pink roses are definitely not an option; orange roses only work for Random Battlecry. 8. No spitting in the lair. 9. Italics are a wonderful way to enforce your presence upon people, especially if they can't see whoever is italicizing at them, usually because he's behind a mirror or a wall or some such thing. 10. Never, under any circumstances whatever, pay the slightest attention to Tom Cruise.) and also for talking like a Las Vegas performer. (A word to the wise— or what passes for wise anyway— in order for this sentence to make sense, you may need to start at the beginning of this paragraph and skip the part in parentheses. You can even skip this part, if you want. It won't feel slighted or anything. It's a very well-adjusted parenthetical comment and will just get on with its life regardless.)

Juliet Norrington stared at Monkey. Monkey, however, didn't notice, until Juliet tossed a balloon animal at her. This elicited an "Ow!" and was then quickly followed by an involved discussion on whether or not balloon animals actually hurt, even when they are hurled at you. No satisfactory conclusion was reached, and eventually Crawford Phantom stood and, with the utmost politeness, clamped a hand over Monkey's mouth.

"Sorry, mademoiselle," he said to Juliet Norrington, who primped at his notice. "Were you saying something?"

"Yes, I just wondered what in the world Tom Cruise had to do with anything, and why the chapter started off like this. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me—"

"Its not supposed to," said Random, interrupting. She carried on with her explanation even as Juliet Norrington was jumped on by a few jealous Crawford phangirls, tied up, and shoved in a closet, where she joined Stalker Erik who had gone off in search of peace and quiet, and three of his phangirls who had gone off in search of Stalker Erik. "See, a few nights ago as I lay in bed, because I mean, really, what else does one do in bed? I mean— as opposed to standing on it, or something like that. Look, that's really another issue entirely. Take it as read that I was laying in bed and thinking, which I do, quite often, though perhaps not often enough; and I was very nearly asleep but I had a great idea for what should happen in the next chapter of TFAO, and I was working it out in my head and it all made sense, or, well, not exactly sense, but you know what I mean. And I thought, 'I'd better get up and write this down, there's no way I'm going to remember it in the morning!' but as I mentioned I was very nearly asleep and I was quite tired, and so I didn't, and sure enough, couldn't remember much in the morning. Except perhaps the basic gist. But the thing is, it was so late at night when I thought all this that it probably wouldn't have made sense in the light of day anyway, so what I'm saying is, perhaps everything works out for the best—"

No one was paying her the slightest bit of attention. Juliet Norrington had escaped the closet and was now engaged in a knock-down drag-out fight with several of the Writers, largely over the spelling of various bakery items. The various entities of Willow Rose were beating the crap out of each other over who was the dominant personality. MindGame and Color Me Gray were discussing the spelling of Erik's name. The Artists had finished their mural and were now plotting to take over the United States with Jennyfair as the President and Hoshi as the First Sock Puppet, which didn't make an awful lot of sense but they were clearly getting a lot of enjoyment from the discussion so it didn't really matter. Random blinked slowly at the marauding Writers.

"Guys?"

Honeybee danced past her, waltzing with Erik Destler. The rest of the Eriks were once again seated and looking absolutely furious. Random blinked a few more times at everyone and then quietly left the premises.

The chaos continued to ensue without a pause. No one, in fact, even noticed that she had gone. There was dancing going on, there was flirting, painting, necking, drawing, stripping, building, hostile-takeovering, and then—

There, suddenly and without much fuss, was Terik.

He glanced around the room a little and, without hesitation, displayed The Pout.

There was a cry of delight from Circe Rose, and she rushed forward to hug him; Kay Erik, who was understandably peeved to the breaking point by this time, tripped her with a malicious, bitter smile; she went down on her way to Terik and ended up clutching his knees with a grip like death, except more amorous. Terik looked down at her and managed a smile.

"Is this sort of thing going to happen a lot?"

"Next time," vowed Circe Rose, "I won't miss."

There was a slight popping sound and the Gerry version of Red Death appeared. He looked around him, seething with barely-controlled and very-sexy anger, almost sniffing the air (actually this isn't quite true. He was sniffing the air. Its called breathing. Just you try going without it for a while, it will prove disastrous. Red and peeved and sexy Red Death Gerry might be, but he wasn't an idiot), searching for—

Phoenix Angel 13 made a noise that sounded exactly like the squeal of tires as a motorist, recently distracted by his sultry bride who sits next to him in the front seat (she'd been making faces at him), suddenly comes back to reality only to realize that the object in front of him is, yes, a dog, and as he desperately swerves to avoid it he realizes further that the lack of object in front of him denotes that, yes, they're about to go off a cliff, which means he will never again get to enjoy his wife's faces, and as he hits the breaks, they, for lack of a better word, squeal.

For the sake of journalistic accuracy, the sound shall be herein denoted:

It sounded, mostly, exactly like this.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Except with more punctuation.

Phoenix Angel 13, too, lunged forward at Red Death Gerry. Kay Erik tried to trip her as well, but failed, mostly because her feet didn't even touch the ground.

There was a series of pops now, and suddenly Becky was hugging William Shakespeare ferociously, Bee was sandwiched between Erik Destler and Baldwin the leprous king, Fallen Angel Boy was drooling down Emmy Christine's cleavage and, basically, requests were being filled all over the place, indiscriminately, chaos-inducingly, seemingly at random.

Actually, exactly at Random.

Kay Erik took the floor.

"This is ridiculous!" he said, and then had to say it louder because, over the squeals, no one could hear him. "This is ridiculous!" he said, louder, and then had to scream it, because he was being ignored.

"I totally agree," said Random, wandering back in with her notebook in hand. "But isn't it worth it to see them so happy?"

Kay Erik glared down at her, thunder in his face and lightening in his eyes and rain streaming from his nose. "Tell me, mademoiselle, do you make a practice of pleasing people?"

"If I can swing it, yes."

"Then could you not also please me, hmm?"

Random opened her mouth and then very quietly shut it again. She lifted the pen and held it poised over the notebook. "What is it that you want, Kay Erik?"

"I want to know what this is all about," he said. "I am sick of futility— sick to death. If you could kindly, mademoiselle, point out to me what the driving force behind all this is, why I have been drafted, against my will, into a million stories written by half-witted writers, why I cannot simply be left in peace— that is what I want."

She eyed him narrowly for a second.

"There you go being all four-dimensional again."

Kay Erik heaved a gusty sigh and sank back into his seat. "Perhaps it is pointless for me to wonder."

"Yes," said Random, kindly if not encouragingly, "it is." She glanced back up at the highly-pleased Writers, and snapped her fingers. The fulfilled requests disappeared at once, leaving the Writers to glance around themselves unhappily. A few of them started crying.

"If you like," said Random, "I can arrange for you to get them back at the end. Almost like party favors. But for now, Kay Erik grows weary. And if Kay Erik ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. Got it?"

There were some subdued grumblings and sad-faced noddings from the Writers, and Random sighed and pushed her hair out of her face.

"Aren't you all dying to know the point of this whole thing? The, as it were, plot?"

"Random Battlecry is talking about having a plot?" said Stalker Erik. "Does that mean the world is about to end and we're all going to be carried away by giant mosquitoes or something?"

Random glared at him. "Maybe you are—"

"The world's going to end?" said Chanson d'Obscurite alertly. " Shouldn't we lie down and put a paper bag over our heads? Or something?"

"Are you actually going to tell us the plot?" queried Celtic Heart.

"Yes," said Random with quiet dignity, "I am."

"Or are you going to leave it to the next chapter?"

"Yes," said Random, with dignified quiet, "I am."

"Quick question," ventured BelcaniOnTheRez. "Why weren't any of your favourite guys showing up? I mean, didn't you have any requests to be filled?"

Random smiled slightly.

"If I did—" she said. She scribbled something on the paper, and in the middle of the room, a series of men appeared, one after another, a new one popping into existence as the last one disappeared, possibly forever. Rik Mayall, Jason Marsden, Carl the Comic Relief Friar, Edward Hyde, Hugh Jackman, Billy Boyd, Tom Petty, Ford Prefect, James Purefoy, Jack Sparrow, Faramir, George Harrison, Edward Scissorhands, Jareth, and a shy boy with ears that stuck out—

"I haven't found the perfect man," said Random, with an apologetic smile. "Probably because he doesn't exist. But I live in hope. Actually," she went on thoughtfully, "I live in California. But that's almost the same thing."

With a slow and careful hand, she crossed out the words on the paper.