I...
They...
It's...
((hangs head in shame)) This beautiful, growing, changing fic was abused terribly by me, the writer. ((stands there as rotten tomatoes and a rotten watermelon hit her)) ((wipes tomato-melon schmutz off of mouth)) I left it for the longest time, as if it was worthless.
The only reason I have returned to it was because of one hopeful reviewer named ANONYMOUS-gsd, who, along with her sister, bravely (oh, so bravely) reminded me that, dammit, Semine, you gotta get your ass in gear and respect those readers! I thank all my other reviewers, too...but if this reviewer hadn't reviewed recently, I probably never would have looked at this story again. Thank you all so much for your comments...they make me feel wuved, and in some strange cases...
respected as an intellectual. I love you all, except for those I hate! ((glomps, getting tomato-melon schmutz everywhere))
I'm a bad writer, but I hope that you all stick with me. I'd love ya for it!
So this chapter goes out to all of you who liked this story and thought I had given up. To all of the people who actually look at this stuff and think "Hey, this writer doesn't completely suck!" To all the HollyFoaly shippers, man! To those who don't only write slash, but write all stuff! ((pumps fist in air as if encouraging a revolution))
I'm back, yo!
Roll it, Louie!
The phone rang in a small townhouse in the meager suburbs of Haven. A male elf raised his eyebrows, whipped off his reading glasses, threw the newspaper aside, and gingerly lifted the phone receiver. Holding it at arm's length, he waited until the screaming hit a pause.
"Are you quite done?" he asked into the phone.
"I was pausing for breath," the speaker said sulkily.
"Same thing. How are you, Holly?"
"I'm going to kill your daughter. Do you have a tombstone picked out?"
"I'll see what I can do. Why are you calling, other than to invite me to the funeral?"
"Your daughter said that she told you something about a personal matter that I find very concerning. As always, this information will be kept in complete confidence and I must ask for your complete cooperation."
The male elf chuckled. "I can mouth along with that speech, I've heard it so many times. You're a born police officer, Hol."
"Don't call me that, Naveen."
Scowling, the male (Naveen to family, Nav to everyone who liked their life force in their bodies) said, "I know very little. Your niece- can I call her by name? I didn't think I'd have to speak to a police officer this way after she crested 160 without legal incident…"
"Nav. Tell me or die."
"Olivia White, my daughter, called me about two hours ago and told me that a bet we had made 300 years, 4 months, 6 day, 14 hours-"
"Nav."
"And proclaimed that she was right and I was wrong and nah-nah-nah-nah and she wanted her fifty dollars and she was coming to get them."
"Then?"
"Then she came over, made me fork over the money, kissed my head, and ran out the door. I haven't heard from her since. I have a theory, however, that she came to you," Nav Short frowned at his sister's silence, then quickly jerked the phone away from his head.
"YOU MADE A BET ON ME!" Holly shrieked, and launched into a new tirade. "You have the absolute nerve to make an illegal movement behind my back…on me! You pond-sucking excuse for an elf, who do you think you are? I'll have your head mounted on my wall for this, Naveen Pippin Short…!"
After about six minutes and after insulting her brother's lack of intelligence, lack of breeding, lack of fashion sense, social status, physical appearance, effeminate name, mental health, various perversions, and questioning his manhood or lack thereof in Gnomish, Icelandic and fluent Profane (never once repeating herself), Holly's rant dwindled to random cusses and gasps.
"So what do you have to say for yourself, you &(&#$ sonofa&#?" she finally asked.
"The Greybacks won yesterday," Nav muttered distractedly, looking down at his newspaper. Holly sighed.
"I hate you all," she grumbled.
"We love you too!" Nav said cheerily, putting his newspaper aside. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"You can kill your daughter. That'd be nice. If you do, it'll be my birthday and Christmas present…early!"
"Sorry; I think that's more illegal than betting. So who's the lucky fairy?"
"Wait…what was the bet?"
"That you'd fall for someone in the LEP. You fell for Chix, didn't you? Please tell me you fell for Chix. I will be a happy elf if you fell for Chix. I wanna know what the kids'd look like. Please?"
"First of all, no. Second of all, I mock-barf at you. Third of all, do you really think I'll tell you if you don't know? Fourth of all, no."
"It's Grub Kelp, isn't it? You fell madly in love…with Grub Kelp. Hmm…"
"Goodbye, Nav."
"It is Grub Kelp! I knew it!"
"Goodbye, Nav."
"All right, all right. G'bye, Holly. Invite me to the wedding."
"Die, o brother of my heart."
"I love you too."
Hanging up the phone, Nav smirked. 'Wonder if that centaur any good with meteorology. Hurricane Holy will blow him away.'
Nav turned to the Arts section.
Libby rode the elevator to apartment 1010 (←the reader who gets the joke gets a cookie! Hint below…), the apartment of her prey.
Running up to the door and making sure that no one was around. Satisfied that she was alone, she started screaming and pummeling her fists against the door.
"Oh God! It's coming! In the name of heaven, open the door! Please, help! Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Oh, please, open the door...!"
Foaly practically ripped the door open, his expression horrified. Libby smiled innocently at him.
"Hi again!"
Grabbing his chest and panting, the centaur fixed Libby with a glare that would have caused a lesser woman to spontaneously combust.
"I hate you so much, you have no idea."
"Good to see you too. Now, before you kill me and hack up my body into a million pieces and flush some down the toilet and throw some in Sool's office and bury the rest, I have three things to say."
"Yes, evil-whelp-who-must-be-died?"
"Number one, is Wednesday night good for you? Great. I will email you your mission, then. Number two, I needed to do that because I thought you were in a moody slump and I figured, when in doubt, resort to bad horror movies."
Foaly glared.
"Number three, Holly has first dibs on my murder. Since she lurrrrrrrves you, though, I think she'll let you help."
"How romantic," Foaly said, clasping his hands together. "I can see it now. Your aunt, looking ravishing in a red evening dress (so the stains won't show) and holding a pickaxe, standing in a candle lit back alley, grinning evilly. The whirr of chain saws, the swell of our laughter, and the soprano of your death shrieks mingling and thrumming gently, the smell of blood hanging lightly in the air. Walking hand in hand to an open manhole where we hurl the mutilated remains of your body into the sewers." The centaur sniffed, as if overcome by so many beautiful pictures. "I can't wait until Wednesday."
"Good to know!" Libby laughed, stepping into the elevator and waving gently.
Once the doors closed, she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. 'I'm gonna order a two way shuttle ticket for Wednesday and reserve a hotel room in Venice tomorrow,' she thought. 'Get away until the heat dies down.'
Hint: Think techie-geek.
I will be posting the rest of this story under "Libby's Aunt," an actual story! Look there!
Okay! I am back, back, backitty-back! Whoo-hoo!
Celebrate, y'all! Please review! (It got me off of my writing slump! It can do anything!)
