-

The moods of Silas came in several different flavours - there was Violent!Silas, Emotional!Silas, Cilice!Silas, TemporarilyWorryinglyQuiet!Silas and a few others. As his Train of Thought was forced to pull into a station, distracted by two sneering faces nosing in his Audi window with a:

'Hey, Brother Cadfael! 'Sup?'

he went into Bonkers!Silasmode to scare them away. His eyes began to change colour, switching slowly from piercing blue through to a violent lilac and then to a demonic red. Then, like a cheap mood ring, they became yellow, tartan, and orange with blue polka-dots in quick successsion. When they began to give off a UV glow, the two troublemakers froze for a second, realised nobody except a 'Big Brother' housemate had any reason to look that demented, and ran away screaming.

So, thought Silas to himself (getting back to considering the mysterious lack of instructions), by strange coincidences, and for no obvious reason, I've ended up on the OUTSIDE of the Opus Dei centre, not the INSIDE. Perhaps it is the will of God. Certainly, some higher power seems to be in control. I shall go a walk, and hope for a sign from Him.

Unfortunately for Silas, the only higher power at work was the irresistable pull of the Mary-Sue Fanfiction - which is stronger than a cathedral-sized magnet, faster and more inevitable than a well-aimed bullet, and more frighteningly adept at seeking out a sexy male than a...really, really frightening, adept thing.

-

'Hoodie yob? I do not know what you mean!' said Silas, trying to pacify an irate granny who'd just molested him in the street. And I was just innocently walking along, he wailed to himself.

'Yes, you do, you Red-Bull-swilling Chav! That's the biggest hoodie I've ever seen!' the old lady hooted back.

'Hoo-die?' Silas frowned, trying to figure out the new word.

'It's right down to your ankles! What are you trying to hide! A stolen iPod? A knife?'

'My naked body?' Silas tried helplessly.

'Don't you give me cheek, young man,' snapped the cranky old biddy, bradishing her zimmer frame.

'But these are the robes of a monk,' Silas said, 'Not a hoo-die'

'Hah! That's the stupidest excuse I've ever heard, you young tearaway - now: what have you been up to, eh,' she cried furiously, as Silas gave up, placed her gently to one side of the street and carried on his way,'Vandalism? Grafitti? Mugging defenceless old ladies?Eh? Eh? Don't you walk away when I'm talking to you!'

Silas resisted the urge to gently assist her in the direction of the nearby wet cement.

He sighed. He found himself doing this a lot in fanfiction, so he did it again for good measure. Why did people always stare at him and think the worst? Was it the hair? The eyes? The fact gladiator sandals were SO last season? Or might it, maybe, possibly, even be the fact he was walking down the street dressed like he was about to jump on a black horse, and chase after small, tubby, young men, waving a sword and demanding they hand over the One Ring?

Silas didn't know.

However, he was roused from his musings by none other than...

'Hey, MISTER!

...the obligatory 'Silas meets Cute Button-Nosed Child' scene.

A tiny hand tugged at his robes, and a tiny pair of eyes met his own, as a tiny person with a very big, irritating voice stared rudely up at him.

'Hey Mister,' said the child, 'You're ugly!'

'I know,' growled Silas, pausing a second to give his fans' hearts time to break, and swept by the obnoxious little brat, focusing his mind on God. Truly, you could always trust a six-year old to be blunter than a economy-sized battering-ram. And, looking at it from a child's point of view, it probably wasn't exactly a picnic to crane your neck up to his thin, six-foot-three frame - in fact, the view probably resembled a drainpipe with a nose. The child, however, seemed to think it would be a good idea to hang about and ruin Silas' day a litle more. The boy pranced beside him, skipping merrily and keeping up. Naturally, his parents were a set of irresponsible gits and were nowhere within a hundred-mile radius.

'Buy me an icecream, Mister!' the kid demanded.

'No'

'Please,' said the child quickly.

'I said no'

'Buy me one!'

'What if I don't?'

'I'll scream 'Kiddiefiddler' really loudly and point at you'

Silas growled, and turned to the child, who didn't just stick its tongue cheekily out at him, but flipped its eyelids up to show white, yanked its mouth sideways, and stuck two breadsticks up its nose. The result was utterly grotesque. Silas was aware of a number of things. One was a fatherly desire to wag a finger sternly at the child, make him say sorry, and then buy him an icecream as a reward. The other was a deep-rooted longing for a lost childhood. And the third was a desire to walk right back to that patch of cement and stick the child's head in it.

'Look, why can you not just be nice?' he said helplessly, 'Like children are in books...well, in one book...in the only book I know, the Bible, anyway'

'You've only read ONE book? Mister, are you STUPID or something? I've read 'Biff and Chip' FIVE WHOLE TIMES, aaaandd I read 'Matilda', aaaannnd I read three pages of 'Harry Potter', aaaaaaaannnd it's really thick aaaaaaannnd I read...

Silas was paying no attention. He was busy praying. There is a Bible verse that begins 'Suffer the little children...', and OH, how he liked the sound of that. An inner voice was saying 'That's not really in context, is it? The full quote is 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and...'

Shut up! he screamed inside his own head.

'Hey Mister,' the child squawked again, scratching its nit-infested head, 'Are you crazy or something?'

'No'

'My Mama says talking to yourself is the first sign of madness'

'Does she'

'And she says eating carrots makes your eyes glow in the dark'

'Really'

'And she says my Papa's a motherfucking asshole, but I don't know what that means - hey Mister, do you know what it means?'

'No. Go away'

Silas closed his eyes in a happy fantasy, replaying the last scene in his head as it ought to have been:

Walking down the pavement, Silas bent suddenly down to accept a small pink flower from a random small child (a clean, pretty one, not one of those fat ones that smelt funny) that randomly passed by, who kissed him wetly on the nose and randomly lisped ingratiatingly, 'Mithter, you look jutht like vanilla ithecream'. And Silas smiled warmly, glowing inside like a radioactive angel...

'Hey Mister!' the child was shouting at him, 'Do you like Spider-man? I like Spider-man! Hey, watch me be Spider-man...look, look, hey, come ON, you're not looking...Mister? Hey Mister, how come you're running away from me...?'

-

Amaria-Susquehannah Roseheart Longbottom (or Amaria,as we shall now call her, to avoid the Author contracting Repetitive Strain Injury repeatedly typing it out ) looked at her watch. She shook it. Maybe it was running slow. She checked the kitchen clock. That was strange. She was sure a random sexy albino man was supposed to have dropped unconscious on her doorstep roundabout 2pm on Tuesday. She'd baked biscuits and everything.

She stood in front of the row of warm cookies, looking out the window and guiltlessly nibbling the ears off of the biscuit bunnies, knowing that she could have drunk a vat of cream and still kept her perfect 42-22-32 figure. As she peered out of the window, totally ungrateful for her 20/20 vision that meant no unflattering spectacle-wearing, a white figure in a brown robe legged it past the window, gibbering. It was clearly either in a terrible rage or an Amish who'd just read the Da Vinci Code. It bawled long strings of Latin at the sky, occasionally shaking his fist at the hedge and shouting 'Spiderman!' in a foreign accent. He paused momentarily to re-buckle a loose sandal, and then continued on his angry way. Amaria realised there were three things wrong with this:

a) he wasn't dropped

b) he wasn't unconscious

c) he wasn't on her doorstop

That, and he should probably have been bleeding or limping or something bandageable like that.

Tossing the suckably glossy tendrils of her gorgeous hair over one shoulder, she wrinkled her perfect pixie nose in resignation, and loaded her shotgun. Matters, it seemed, were now in her own enviably well-manicured hands...

-

xlawa: Bless you! Or your religion's equivalent!

Erin: Bless you also. I'm sure we're all in agreement of the inherent fascinating-ness of Silas' undercrackers.

BelleEve: Your BatB fic is going to, and does, rock (seriously, peoples, go to her profile and see!)

Bastetgirl: Very kind :)

LaRosaAzul: Oh lordy, no! Didn't mean to cause you pain...I cannot add a warning, though, lest it look as if my head has ballooned to airship-sized proportions! May your teeth situation heal well.

the ephemeron: 'accepts banana' Most gracious...nicest present I've had in ages :) Have you strawberries?

Sternenlicht: Glad for you. And charmed we're all so european and multicultural here!

adeline7g: Yes, pleasant. The most useful reviews are the ones that say exactly which jokes were liked.

Rahalia: ;) Wish I were, wish I were (the things I'd do...) but thankyou greatly.

Deedee: Most kind. And your site is the most beautifully-run source of inspiration. We are grateful.

Lightsource: Thankyou, and may your hiccups ever diminish.

Countess Verona Dracula: 'blushes' Calm it, calm it :D But still, I am most pleased to have it said to me. I will continue. I will write until I run out of good ideas.

Shy FX: Wimbledon? It COULD have been a reference. That film maybe wasn't topmost in my brain - rom-com jollity and healthful sports-playing are WAY too wholesome for someone who exists on a diet of marmite, weak alcohol and cherries! Thanks. :)

Lycanthropia: Thankyou...I think...'wails' Why does everyone hate me? Laughter's supposed to be GOOD for you!

(And thanks to LilyCurly of the forums coughcoughthatIdon'toccasionallylurkincough for similar pleasant comments)