Chapter: Men in Kilts

The first phic had come mercifully to a close, to the relief of all concerned— and, as mentioned, by that time everyone was very concerned. Stalker Erik played some plaintive end-credit music on his violin, accompanied by Mae on an accordion and Becky on a kazoo, until they were paid to stop (at which time FAB took over, til he was tackled by his stalker and forced to be quiet... apart from a few soft little noises which are better left unexplained). "That was the first time I've ever picked up a kazoo," said Becky happily.

"We can tell, dear," said Monj, patting her kindly.

Random had drifted into a self-defensive kind of stupor, well aware that both the Writers and the Eriks were unhappy with the way things were going. Nothing— not yelling in her ear, not shaking her by the shoulders, not poking her violently, not stepping on her head, not threatening her, not tickling, not progressively invading her personal space with Cillian Murphy— nothing seemed able to rouse her from this. Until someone had the bright idea of saying, "Hey, its RTom Petty!" and then she was up like a shot.

She was disappointed, of course, but got over it enough, at least, to acknoledge that the show must go on. "A different show, if you please," she added, and with a little encouragement, ideas began to flow.

"A phic called 'Try a Little Tenderness,'" offered Simply Elymas, "where Erik is a lounge singer and Christine is a Barry Manilow impersonator."

"The Greatest Story Ever Told. In which Erik is given the Ten Commandments and proceeds to, systematically, break them all."

"Erik Scissorhands?"

"'Hold Me Touch Me.' Erik is dead and Raoul returns to desecrate the grave."

"'Discover Her Womanhood,'" put in Color Me Gray. "Erik falls in love with a precocious thirteen year old."

"'Dinner At Eight.' Erik must attend a black tie affair but first must learn to tie a tie. He has trouble with the concept at first, thinking its something like a punjab, so he keeps making it too tight, and then passing out, so it could be a tragedy in the end—"

"I want to write one," offered Sarah Belle, "where in every chapter, someone dies, and Erik stacks the bodies in his lair."

Random glared at her. "That's insane," she said. "You're a sick, sick person. Sick, sick, sick. Besides, I already wrote that one. CLE."

"But mine would be better."

"Undoubtedly, but try it on your own time. We don't want any deaths in here if we can help it."

"The Phantom of the Chocolate Factory," offered Mandy. "Wonka!Erik in a mask."

Random swung on her, jaw dropping and eyes gleaming.

"And a top hat," she whispered. "Cruel and unusual punishments— top hat—"

Mandy nodded. "Strawberry-flavored, chocolate-covered Erik."

"Erik with big fake teeth!" said Kit feverishly. They blinked at her, and shrugged.

"Whatever flips," said Random delicately, "your flop." She glanced around at the Eriks, then closed her eyes and concentrated, willing a Wonka!Erik to step out of thin air and knock 'em dead.

The Writers waited with bated breath; the Eriks waited with irritation. Cap'n Jack poked his head out from underneath the table, where he had been entertaining company (Eppie and Erin, as a matter of fact) and said, "I'll advise ye, ye'd have a hard time o' gettin' any other version o' me originator t' come."

"Oh, I'll make him come," said Random grimly, eyes closed and blissfully unaware of the giggles this comment incited.

Cap'n Jack looked thoughtful. "That's all well an' good, luv, 'cept it's a matter of him bein' very opposed to needless public appearances."

"Needless public—"

"Ye won't get 'im to a shoddy outfit like this, I'll tell ye that much."

Random opened her eyes and narrowed them at him. "What exactly are you trying to say, Jack?"

"Cap'n, luv. I'm tryin' to indicate t' ye that it's a difficult thing, tryin' to persuade a man like me originator to leave his 'umble abode, seein' as 'e's quite 'appy where 'e is and isn't likely to wish t' leave a nice 'ome simply for a precocious li'l fanfic such as this, savvy?"

"Um— I got a little lost in all the dropped letters, I'm still clueless. As usual—"

"Ye 'aven't," said Jack delicately, "a chance in 'ell." Then he stuck his head back beneath the table, and the rest of him too, and resumed whatever dastardly, piratey deed he'd been doing down there. Plunder, perhaps. Pillage. Strangled giggles and mutters of, "Arr!" came from beneath the tablecloth, and Random blinked again in that direction.

"—I don't recall there being a tablecloth," she muttered.

"If we can't get a Wonka!Erik, how are we supposed to write my fic?" complained Mandy. Random shook herself out of it.

"I dunno. Maybe we can just wing it. Maybe we could just move on. I mean, all things considered, Wonka!Erik is a really weird idea."

"But that's what I like about it."

"Maybe it'd be better if I choose a writer, instead of an idea," said Random helplessly. "Then it'll look like favoritism instead of my just having absolutely no idea what's going on. Maybe I should go back to sleep. Maybe I should buy myself a white stick."

"Maybe a slash fic," suggested Stalker Erik brightly.

"I refuse."

Twisted nudged him. "You just want HardCore Erik around, huh?" SE grinned slightly, and at his side, Mae glanced over to HC!Erik— the Erik from a Feast For Crows, dreamt up by Twisted, and given body— quite a body— by Mae herself, in a drawing. He was stripped to the waist, kilted, and possessed both a devilish grin and a nipple ring, one of which looked quite painful. Guess which.

He grinned at Mae, and she glanced back at Stalker Erik.

"Would it help if I just drew you another picture?"

"Handcuffs," said Stalker Erik.

"Really?"

"Bleep," said HC!Erik, enthusiastically. "With the bleep, and kind of rolled-looking, if you know what I bleepin' mean."

"I can guess," said Mae, looking slightly dazed.

"Guys, I can't write slash!" said Random. "Sorry, I just can't."

"How disappointing," said Stalker Erik, though in fact he looked rather relieved. HC!Erik grinned again and sauntered towards all the Eriks, looking down his mask at them.

"Bleep," he said cheerfully, "never saw such long faces in me life! Yer all just frickin' jealous o' my rock star status, aren't ya?"

Gerry Phantom glared at him, Crawford Phantom stared at the table, a few of the Eriks did explicit gestures, and Kay Erik took on a contemplative expression as he watched the young upstart, who now picked up a guitar seemingly out of nowhere and hit a few electric chords. Twisted watched him avidly, scribbling descriptions in her notebook.

"You know," said Random, "what I always thought kilted men should do?"

"No," said Twisted immediately.

"No!" said Stalker Erik.

Random grinned crookedly, and got cheers of "Yes!" from practically everyone else. Including, strangely, HC!Erik himself, who returned her grin and strolled over to a grate conveniently located at the front of the room. "Turn up the heat," he called laconically, with a devilish grin, and as a gust of hot air emerged from the vent, he bent his knees and twisted his waist, the kilt swirling upwards around him rather revealingly. "'ey look, everyone, I'm Marilyn bleepin' Monroe!"

There were cheers and claps.

"Oooh, ahh," said HC!Erik, grinning and rolling his eyes dramatically.

"Oooh, ahh," said the audience, half of them thudding and the other half leaning on each other for support as they tried to control their laughter. Twisted looked slightly embarrassed and Stalker Erik had a strange half-smile on his face. HC!Erik struck a pose, legs spread and knees slightly bent, and as the air surged up around him it was discovered that real men don't wear anything under their kilts. Random looked up from taking bets as to what he kept in his sporran to find that the entire population of Writers, as well as a few of the Eriks, had apparently fainted.

"Bugger," she said, "how am I supposed to get a new story started now?"

"Sorry, luv," said HC!Erik, though it didn't sound like he meant it. He surveyed the decimated contents of the room and smiled crookedly to himself, then strolled over to his creator, who was just as comatose as the rest of them, and sat down, cross-legged, to wait for them all to wake up.

When they woke up, he did it again.

Thud!

"This is getting annoying!" complained Random after the third time this happened.

"But I'm 'avin' so much fun," snickered HC!Erik.

"What is it with people and dropping letters!"

"Its called an accent, luv."

"Show off."

"American."

Random looked insulted; mostly because she was insulted. "Look, there's no call to get nasty. I'm just wondering when I can have everyone awake again. For more than five minutes at a time, if you please."

"I'll think about it," drawled HC!Erik, and apparently, over the next several times, he did.

Kay Erik, meanwhile, beckoned the frustrated writer over to the table. At least, that's what she thought he was doing. It turned out he was merely very irritated and was just flipping her off.

"God, what is this? Never give a sucker an even break day?"

"Perhaps you could see your way to setting us free," said Kay Erik icily. "It isn't as though you have anything important for us to do."

"Listen, mister, eventually the inhabitants of this room are going to stop fainting— cripes, there they go again— and when that happens, something is bound to occur. There's tons of Eriks here. The amount of sheer insanity alone could start a fire."

"In order to start a fire, one must have friction," said Kay Erik threateningly, fingering his punjab.

Random sighed. "If you want someone to rub up against you, I'm sure there's dozens of girls who would be happy to oblige."

"You misunderstand me, mademoiselle."

"Actually, I don't. I was just joking with you."

Kay Erik shook his finger at her. The pointer one, this time. "Your days are numbered," he said. "I promise you."

Random bowed frostily and turned from him, just in time to see everyone go down in tandem again. She turned on HC!Erik with a scowl.

"Alright! That's it! Enough fun! Quit playing havoc with my story!"

HC!Erik grinned at her and tongued one of his canines.

"Dear lord," said Random, and fell backwards, landing heavily on Stalker Erik.

HC!Erik grinned again at the room, which resembled a battlefield with warriors strewn in compromising and amusing positions, completely at random, victims of a kilt. "I win," he said happily.