Chapter 5, There's Fire in His Skin. It's Turning Him to Sing.

Disclaimer: I've been giving it a lot of thought, and I'm pretty tempted to say that these storiesactually do belong to me. I mean, the characters and setting are so wildly contrived from the original versions, and the plot seems to have come out of a completely different place...but I'm not a megalomaniac, and Daniel Handler deserves to keep his books. I wish he'd write something else, though.

A/N: A Merry Christmas to you all...or any other winter holiday, though I believe Hanukah is over and Kwanza doesn't start for a bit more time yet. These huge pauses between updates are beginning to become so regular I feel like putting a 'update coming in about a year' note at the end of chapters so I can finally beat one of my deadlines. Ah, well. Here's Chapter 5, an installment I particularly enjoyed writing. Also, stay tuned for the end of the chapter, when I will present you with a totally shocking announcement!

It was day two by now. Or three? Violet couldn't tell. There didn't seem to be any notion of time in the Valley of the Four Deuces.

She was well here, certainly. Fed well, and kept well, and treated considerably well. She didn't see much of Quigley, but she had the suspicion that he was simply mulling over asking her about her family.

And on the second or third or maybe even fourth day, Quigley came to Violet, hair tied back with a bit of twine, and scratchy-tunic done up to the neck.

"I'd like a word with you." said he, looking very uncomfortable.

"About what?"

"About you."

So they walked; they walked through the Valley, feeling the breeze in their faces and tasting the air of the mountains.

"I'm sorry I struck you the other day."

"Oh. You are?"

"I am. It really was very upfront of me. I haven't had anything to do with people in years."

"But I was telling the truth, you know." she told him, feeling just a mite scared, "I do know your family. Your brother...I know him and your sister, but your brother..."

She stopped herself. What would be the good of telling him how madly in love she was with Duncan? It would get him no closer to skipping off to find them.

"...your brother is badly hurt. I was helping him get better, but we were separated. Do you have any memories of them?"

"Scant to none. We were young."

"Ah. Listen, you don't have to come with me."

"I wasn't going to offer."

Damn.

"Quigley," she stopped short. She had rarely called him by his name, "Your sister would love to see you. She was shocked to find out that you were alive! Isadora doesn't even remember you."

Quigley offered no reply. Instead he said, "And my mother?"

"She's alive too."

"Oh, is she?" his tone grew very sharp, "Then tell her she needn't worry a bit about me. I'm just the child she abandoned so she could prove a point!"

"No, Quigley!" barely knowing what she was doing, Violet took him by the hand. It was calloused and firm and strong all at once, "You're mother was..."

"You don't know a thing about what my mother was! She lied, she double-crossed, she picked me up one day and shipped me here like a piece of packaging!"

"Your mother is delusional." Violet said, "She can't remember her children, she doesn't know where she is half the time. Whatever you can say about her, can't you agree that she's broken now? That she might...that deep inside she might want to apologize?"

"She broke me. I'm broken because of her. She ruined everything I ever set out to accomplish with my life!"

"But Quigley..." she was close to him now. So close she could smell his breath, see into those green eyes that reminded her more than anything else of Duncan.

But she couldn't think of Duncan, because if she did the reality of this closeness would come crashing down on her.

And that couldn't happen. It couldn't.

"Quigley, they're still your family."

"Family, eh? And what are you going to tell me about family?"

"Without my family...without them, I...I don't know if I could survive."

Now he was advancing on her. Their arms, perhaps unaware of their masters, were holding their shoulders. Violet felt her lips burn with some sort of adverse jolt. She couldn't...she couldn't...that would ruin everything.

"I haven't seen my family in almost a decade. I'm still here."

"Y-you're different." Violet felt one of her hands go to his tunic. She felt his heart pattering deep in his breast.

"I couldn't live without my family. They mean everything to me."

She was whispering now; perhaps trying to convince herself that Duncan was her family, as much as Isadora was. She knew that. But then why was she doing this?

She didn't know.

He smiled at her; she didn't think she had ever seen him smile before, "Then you must be different too."

They kissed. They kissed. They kissed.

They had been hiking through the night, and at sunrise, at last came upon some sign of human habitation.

"Now, what do you reckon that is?" asked Duncan, who had paused momentarily so as to gather his senses. The wound burned much less now, but the exertion could still bring out the pain.

Chubs, answering his friend's question, said, "The answer to our prayers, old boy. That is a human settlement."

Isadora said tentatively, "Don't we want to, you know, avoid other people? Considering that we are still on the run from the law—"

"Isadora, my dear," Chubs said knowingly, "the people in these backwater reaches of the nation shan't have had any access to the news of the world! How would they know anything about…?"

"LET CHRISTMAS SHINE! BRIGHT AS A DIAMOND!"

The trio turned abruptly at the commotion and looked down at the little cluster of log cabins and barely-paved roads. Running up the slope toward them were a platoon of men in woolen robes, carrying spears with wooden tips sharpened to a point. They were chanting this strange chant over and over again like a battle cry.

"You see, if it were anyone but us, this sort of thing would be dismissed as a wild fantasy." Sighed Duncan.

"Which is why, friend Duncan, we must be glad to be us!" Chubs was very proud and stood very erect as he addressed the warriors.

"How now, brown cow!"

"What the hell is that?" Isadora whispered to him. Chubs replied, "It is the language of the wild tribal folk! I learned it from the back of a cereal box!"

Isadora was about to tell him that she didn't think that constituted for anything in this place, but before she could say anything, one of the men, a captain of some sort, began to speak.

"You are trespassing on the land of the Snow Scouts."

"Good to know." Said Chubs, "Are you the ruling principles in this region?"

"We are the protectors of the Dandruff Mountains and we do not take kindly to your stupidity."

"Stupidity! My dear sir, I have a primary school education!"

The Captain went on without deigning to complement Chubs on his ten years of finger painting and making macaroni sculptures.

"You will be brought to trial, before our court of justice, whereupon your fate will be decided."

They were surrounded by these men and, as they were being herded down into the village, Isadora said, "Chubs, I love you, but it would help if you learned to shut your mouth every once in a while."

"Isadora, I love you but it is through using my mouth that I am able to whisper sweet things into your ear at the midnight hour when we are entwined in each other's bodies and the moonlight is leaking through the windowpanes, illuminating your pale…"

"Ahem!" coughed Duncan. Chubs broke off, embarrassed.

"Oh. Sorry. I almost forgot that we're the legacy couple!"

"And it's a damn fine legacy too, let me tell you." Isadora held his arm lovingly, their quarrel forgotten.

"Agreed."

"What is a five letter word for dirigible?"

"I don't know and I don't care."

Lord and Lady Blackwoodshire were sitting to breakfast in the dining hall of the Snicket chateau. He was immersed in the morning crossword, and she was waiting impatiently for the arrival of Madame Anwhistle, so they could carry on a much delayed discussion.

But, instead of Madame, in strode Count Olaf, wearing a most peculiar outfit. He had outfitted himself in what was undoubtedly a woman's parka and was wearing a pair of knee high snow boots.

"Good morning, infidels!" he greeted them as he sat down at the head of the table, "It's good that I got you two alone. You're the only guests here this weekend that I asked the woman to invite."

"Oh, we're your guests, are we?" Lady Blackwoodshire smirked, "What treachery are you up to this time? Raiding underpants drawers?"

"No!" Olaf punched the table, upsetting the tea pot on his hand and thus scalding him. While he hopped around the room, hand to his mouth and howling unduly, Lord Blackwoodshire said.

"Bloody printer's error! They muffed up the answer key!" he tossed the paper across the room and looked at his wife, "Pass the scones."

Olaf ran over to the finger bowl at the end of the table and dunked his hand in the lukewarm water.

"Are you finished?" asked Lady Blackwoodshire nonchalantly.

"Yes! Yes, I am. Now, what I was going to say is..,"

The doors were thrown open yet again, admitting Lemony and Madame Anwhistle, who were arguing.

"I can't believe you left my mix tapes at home!" Lemony was saying. He pushed Olaf aside and plopped down into a chair.

Madame Anwhistle sat across from him, "Oh, stop your yammering. For heaven's sake, you're acting like a child. Besides, it's not like anyone here wants to listen to that Cher woman…"

The kitchen door flew open, and Colette stuck her head in, "OMG, did somebody say Cher?"

Lemony raised his hand, "That is me!"

The elastic woman proceeded to somersault over the table and land in his lap.

"I have, like, all her albums! She is the bomb."

"You see, where we come from, people like you are locked in the basement for fear of what the neighbors might think." Lady Blackwoodshire said tartly.

"Well, we have no neighbors, so that's fine." Collette stuck her hand in the bowl of scones and stuck one in her mouth. She twisted her neck around her torso; moved her leg over her shoulder, and promptly announced, "And now I have to take a poo!"

She got up and skipped out of the dining room.

Olaf, taking a deep breath, pointed at Lemony and said, "Now, you see, I can't speak with you around! You'll be taking notes so you can have me arrested."

"If I wanted to arrest you—a word which here means 'lock in a barred room with hordes of man-hungry masculine types'—I would have called people to take you away the moment I saw you in the parlor last night."

Madame Anwhistle said, hoping to chance the subject, "And where are your colorful associates, Olaf?"

The reply, "Burning in hell, I hope."

"And why do you hope that?" asked Lady Blackwoodshire.

"Because they're going soft on me! The lot of them have been at my side for years, and yet here they are, talking of taking 'vacations' and wondering about 'salary'! Salary, I ask you! What am I supposed to do? Throw pennies at them?"

"This really is very dry conversation." Remarked Madame Anwhistle, "Almost as dry as this toast! I think I'm going to adjourn to the living room. My stories start in a few minutes."

She got up and left, shortly followed by Lemony.

Once Olaf had made full sure that no one still lurked around, he said to the Blackwoodshires, "At last! Now, here is why I had you brought here…"

But the door opened again, and in walked Esme and Dewey. They sat at the table without even looking at Olaf or the Blackwoodshires, and began eating.

"Oh, well if it isn't the man in the pretty mask!" Olaf began prancing around the room like a pantywaist, "How is the pretty mask man today? Sulking around the house in his cape and hiding the precious Chamber Pot in his tampon drawer! Yes, pretty mask man?" he leaned in close to whisper in Dewey's ear, "Is the Chamber Pot in your tampon…?"

Dewey got up from his chair, seized Olaf by the parka, and began bashing his head against the surface of the table.

Esme cried out, "Dewey! Dewey, for God's sake, don't give in!"

She tried to pull the two rivals apart from each other, but this task proved impossible.

Lady Blackwoodshire whispered to her husband, "Are we supposed to throw money at them?"

"They only do that in the laboring class."

"Oh. " Lady Blackwoodshire snorted, "Laborers."

Now Kit ran in, hearing the commotion, and on seeing Olaf being beaten senseless, she stamped her foot on the floor and yelled.

"Stop it at once! Both of you."

And the fighting did stop. Olaf dropped to the floor, rubbing his aching head.

"Dewey, I invited you here so we could come to terms with each other."

"Oh?" Esme couldn't help herself, "So the Chamber Pot has nothing to do with it?"

Kit crossed her arms over her baby bump, "I wouldn't act so high and mighty if I were you, Esme. I might as well ask what you've done with the Zimmerie."

Esme blanched, "How do you know about that?"

"Everyone knows about that." Kit smirked, glad to have found a way to change the subject, "The police couldn't find it when they searched her personal effects. Obviously, she gave it to you before fleeing, or dying, or whatever the hell happened to our mutual friend. The Snake Chick."

Now Esme lost it. She slapped Kit, sending her flying against the door.

"How dare you? How dare you even mention her? You have no right!"

"You didn't answer my question." Kit replied, her voice steely, "Where is the Zimmerie?"

"What would you even want with it? You don't have the gift."

"If we're talking about gifts, I'd cite the surprise of this breakfast-time bonding session as a much valued one." Said Lady Blackwoodshire, between bites of scrambled eggs.

Kit went on, ignoring the interruption, "I may not have the gift, but if you're accusing me of looking for the Chamber Pot, I might as well be looking for your stolen contraband too, right?"

"Enough, Esme." Said Dewey, putting a hand on her shoulder, "You're right. We're above her level." He looked around the dining room, "I think we should skip breakfast."

And so, he guided Esme, who was trembling with fury, out of the room.

"Well played, my dear. Well played." Said Lady Blackwoodshire to Kit, "You should have your own reality television show."

She looked at her watch.

"Hm. My stories are starting. Jo and I can catch up over Y&R."

And then she was gone, with her husband following. Left alone in the dining room, Kit sat in a vacant chair and looked at Olaf, who was just emerging from his daze.

"I shouldn't have invited them."

"Damn right, you shouldn't' have." he got up and dusted off his trousers.

"I should have gone to see him in person."

And, leaving no other explanation, she left as well. Olaf helped himself to a scone, smacked his lips, and said, "Women!" before going off in search of the wine cellar.

"Do you think I'm a frightening person?"

Fernald was in the process of peeling some grapes with his hooks. He and Flo were relaxing in the solarium, and Fernald had taken advantage of this moment alone to ask a question that had been pressing him for some time now.

"Why do you ask?" Flo, who had been braiding her hair complacently, wondered.

"Well, I scared the Jenkins out of that girl last night. I came upon her and she got the wind up and passed out. Afraid I left here there."

Flo ran her hands down his front, "You're not scary. You give the best massages of any man I know!" she winked, "I've got the scars to prove it."

Fernald smiled sheepishly, "Yeah, I did give you those nasty ones, didn't I?" he sighed, "We're not a conventional couple, are we?"

"Hm…well, I think we're pretty normal." Flo tossed her new braid to see how it would hold. It held rather well, thank you very much.

"I mean, you had that one weird vision that one time…"

"And it was one time! I never had another one, before or since." But it was true that Flo had had a mysterious psychic episode one night about a month ago. It had actually been the night they got together, back at that carnival in the Hinterlands. At the time it had greatly troubled her, but she had mostly gotten over it by now. The vision had been pretty vague, anyway; more confused images than a coherent message.

"…and I have my hooks." He held them both up in a 'what-can-you-do?' sort of fashion, "We make a queer sort of picture walking down the street."

"Well, that's what we are." Flo said decidedly, "If we're queer, we're queer, and that's all there is to it. As long as I've got you, I'm happy."

And Fernald had to admit, "Likewise."

The atmosphere in the Valley was charged with mixed passion and tension. Violet and Quigley stood, arms wrapped around each other, and lips now just an inch apart.

That kiss…that kiss had been so different than any one that Duncan had ever given her. He had always been a gentlemen; kissing gently, never pressing too hard. Quigley had no such scruples. His kiss had been full, warm, and passionate, as befitting the aforementioned atmosphere.

Quigley was breathing deeply, and Violet found that she was too.

"Oh…oh, this isn't right." She carefully pulled away from him, "I can't, Quigley."

"Why?" Quigley seemed honestly disappointed; saddened even, "Have I upset you? I'm sorry, if…"

"No, no, Quigley, it was wonderful, but…" she bit her lip, and figured she would take the risk of sounding like a character on daytime TV, "I love Duncan. Your brother. I'm in a relationship with him."

That seemed to strike Quigley like a ten-ton-stone. He staggered, wavered on his feet, reached his hand to grab at her arm.

He threw his arms into the air and let out a cry for the ages. He spun around and stormed off across the valley.

"Quigley? Quigley, wait!" Violet chased after him, followed him over to a low spot down by the lake. She found him there, seething in his own personal stew.

"Quigley…Quigley, what's wrong?"

He picked up a rock from the bed and brandished it. Violet, thinking he was about to throw it at her, shrank back, but was surprised when he hurled it into the water with a sploosh.

"Of all the people in the world who could have come to me," he said, his voice monitored, "I had to get the girl who's in love with the brother I barely know!"

He took another rock and threw it. Violet blamed herself; she had to open her big mouth and ruin everything just when he had started acting like a somewhat decent human being.

His face was flushed beet red, and his every movement invoked rage.

"Six years!" he was grumbling, more to himself than to her, "Six years all alone in this godforsaken wilderness! People aren't meant to be kept away from society! It's not right! It's inhuman! I'm inhuman, for the love of God…"

"Quigley!" Violet said, as loudly as she could muster, "You are perfectly human, and being alone hasn't changed that one bit. I'm sorry I teased you like that. I wasn't thinking straight. I happen to have a lot on my mind right now."

"Welcome to my world," he said bitterly, tossing another rock, "When you have no one to talk to, you tend to have conversations with your mind for hours on end."

Violet picked up a rock of her own and tossed it up and down in her hand. Smiling at Quigley, she tossed it a good way, almost halfway out into the lake.

Quigley looked impressed, "And where did you learn to do that?"

Violet shrugged, "I'm good at throwing things. It really helped in primary school, believe me."

He held out a hand, "Shall we call it a truce?"

Violet couldn't help but give a small laugh. In that he reminded her perfectly of Duncan, "In common social circles, it's called 'let's be friends'."

"Yes. Friends."

They shook hands.

Quigley led her over to a spot on the grass where they could sit and soak up the sun.

"What are they like? Isadora and Duncan, I mean. It's been such a long time."

Violet smiled, "Well…"

And, as she began to tell him about his siblings and hers, about her adventures of the past few months, Violet made a secret resolution to herself that she would stay in the Valley of the Four Deuces. For a little while. Quigley needed her. He needed someone to talk too.

"Now, see here, I demand to see the embassy for the civilized population!" Chubs demanded as the Snow Scout militia ushered him, Isadora, and Duncan into the largest of the cabins. Here, a large fire burned in a deep wood hearth. There were various tapestries hanging on the walls, featuring woven images of the Scouts, in their black face masks, storming rival tribes and hunting caribou and other mountain creatures.

The Captain of this particular squad slammed the foot of his spear against the floor and announced, in a loud voice, "Presenting, the Divining Rod of our People, who has so lately brought fortune to the Snow Scouts in the conquest of the Ninipickies of the North, Barbara Ross!"

"That's a very odd name for a tribal seer." Said Duncan, only to realize the truth as Barbara Ross entered the cabin.

She was cloaked in robes of animal skin, with a headdress of caribou horns adorning her head. She carried a scepter of pine wood and, most importantly of all…

"Oh my God." Gasped Isadora.

It was Alice Quagmire.

"Wait, wait, wait." Isadora went on, "That's impossible."

"What is impossible?" asked the Captain.

"She's not a prophet!"

"And now you commit heresy! This woman predicated our victory in the battle for the territory of the Ninipicki tribe, and also gave us the strategy by which we won our victory."

"And where did you find this woman, to be precise?" asked Duncan.

"She came to us from the banks of the Swervy Stream. So graceful was she, as she rose from the waters, gnawing the head off a Swervy Salmon with great relish!"

Chubs turned quite green, "Oh dear, now I'm sick!"

"Then be sick outside!" The Captain snapped his fingers and two Scouts roughly escorted the heaving Chubs out of the cabin.

The Captain turned to Alice.

"Oh, great seer of our people, reveal to us the fate these miscreants shall suffer!"

Alice began clapping her hands and doing some sort of possessed jig. Isadora shook her head and turned to her brother, "We've had a mom for three days and I'm already sick of it."

"Touché."

As Alice executed her jig, she sang:

"BURN BABY BURN! OH, YEAH! BURN BABY, BURN! DISCO INFERNO! BURN BABY..."

"Of course, she would pick that song." Isadora sighed; then, figuring as she was the only one who was able to communicate with Alice thus far, she called out, "Mom! It's me, Isadora, and Duncan! We're your children! For crying out loud, you're going to have us killed!"

But Alice continued singing, discoing like nobody's business.

The Captain of the Guard nodded that this was just so and turned to Isadora, "Cease your rambling, wench. The seer Barbara Ross has made her verdict. The three of you prisoners shall be burnt on a pyre this evening."

Duncan lowered his gaze, "Well…they can't say we didn't try!"

Chubs returned, looking fresh, "Ah! Much better…is something the matter?"

Isadora buried her face in her hands and said, "No, Chubs. Nothing's wrong. We're just in danger of being killed. Again."

"But that's dreadful!" exclaimed Chubs, stating the obvious for perhaps the ten-thousandth time in his career.

And while he celebrates that magnificent milestone, let's move on to some of the other characters in our little drama.

Sunny had waited up all night till far past two in the morning. No rescue party came, nor was there any sign of one coming.

She sat on her oversize bed, looking glumly out the window at the April sun shining down on the gray stone of the Dandruff peaks. It was an inspiring sight, a sight that inspired action and hope.

However, Sunny could think of no further actions to undertake, and as for hope, what good would that do to her now?

She heard a knock at the door. Figuring it was one of the freaks with a platter of lunch she said, "Entrez veu!" which means, "Enter!"

The door opened, admitting someone Sunny had not been expecting in the slightest.

"He-She?" which meant, "The hermaphrodite? What in hell are you visiting me for?"

"Well, it's not for a sit down and a chat over tea, let me tell you." Said Enya, the largest and most down-to-earth of Olaf's cronies.

It propped itself up against the radiator and said, "Kit Snicket wants to know if you'd like to come down to tonight's dinner-and-dance stupidity."

Sunny raised her eyebrows. There it was again: Kit extending charity to her. It was probably only because Sunny was a captive guest of Olaf, but still, it was nice to be acknowledged.

Nevertheless, Sunny shook her head, "No way, frappe!" which meant, "No way in hell! I'm not showing my face in front of those halfwits again."

She had had quite enough of the lot of them.

Enya grunted, "You've got spunk, I'll grant that. And you're smart enough to know not to tangle with that passel of fighting idiots. Everyone's plotting against everyone else. And," it leaned in close to whisper to Sunny, "Between you and me, I'm getting quite sick of Olaf myself."

"Ooh!" Sunny gasped, meaning, "Okay, I'm intrigued. Go on."

"The bastard refuses to pay us fair wages. He insists we'll get a cut of your family fortune now that your siblings are dead…"

Sunny tried to conceal from her face that she knew at least one of them was alive.

"…but I know for a fact he's all bluster. Meanwhile, he's crowing on about finding that stupid Chamber Pot, and how easy it should be now that Dewey Plot Twist himself has returned to us." It snorted, "Frankly, I think that Chamber Pot's all bologna! Whatever's in it, it's not going to change the way things are in any drastic way. The human race is too stubborn to accept such hasty changes to the agenda." It turned back to the door, "Well, nice talking to you. I've got to help them put out 'place settings'."

And with another snort, Enya had left.

Olaf, lingering in the depths of his most dramatic of moods, drew the curtains in his bedroom, lit the fireplace, and draped a moth-eaten magenta tablecloth around himself.

"That Sunny thinks she's hot stuff, don't she?" he muttered, as he paced the room back and forth, "Thinking she can sway my romantic feelings to her by way of ESP!"

This was Olaf's thinking. It couldn't be farther from the truth.

"The little fool thinks that I would abandon Kit Snicket, my new flavor of the week, for her! A sniveling baby child who still poos her pants!"

He stomped his foot on the floor and roared at the top of his lungs.

"KIT SNICKET IS MY LOVER WHOM I LOVE INDEFINITELY!"

"SHUT UP!" came a voice from downstairs.

"YOU SHUT UP, HOOKY!"

Olaf decided to turn to the one place he always turned when in need of faith: the oil painting he had commissioned of himself in his younger days. It showed him, at twenty-three, splayed out on a Roman sofa, sans a shirt and pants, but with a speed-o to preserve modesty.

HELLFIRE {from The Hunchback of Notre Dame}

Olaf: Dear me who is so lovely...

You know I am a sexy, intelligent, frugal, family oriented, and honest man.

Of my virtues...

{he winks}

I am justly proud!

So tell me dear me who is so lovely...

Why I see her biting there?

{an image of Sunny appears in the flames, biting her hands}

Those pearly whites that so haunt my soul!

Horny-fire! This fire! This fire in my skin! Horny-fire! This fire...it's turning me to skim!

{he begins skipping around the room, twirling around in his cloak}

It's not my fault!

I'm not to blame!

How can a biting girl destroy me...of such fame!

{he rips off his shirt. You pass out in horror}

Destroy Sunny Baudelaire! Make her see the error of her ways!

Horny-fire! Dark fire! This fire in my skin! Horny-fire! This fire! It's turning me to...

FIN!

A/N: In keeping with classic tradition, I enclose a list of surprising things that will happen next chapter.

THE IDENTITIES OF THE BLACKWOODSHIRES!

THE SECRETS OF THE SNOW SCOUTS!

THE ORIGIN OF DEWEY'S SCARS!

MADAME ANWHISTLE'S SECRET AGENDA!

HOLY SMOKES, I'M GOING TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK!

And now it's time for the amazing announcement. Plot Murderer 1 and I are collaborating yet again...actually, we've been working on something for about three years now...and we're almost ready to release it to you all.

Do you like crazy crossovers? Strange stories full of intricate plots, crazy character pairings, and a touch of self deprecating humor? Then, dear reader, be prepared for The Soap Parody, a world-spanning tale that will feature characters from just about every outlet of Western civilization imaginable. The story will hopefully be up by next month. It's still undergoing edits because I'm very paranoid about errors.

Now that I've finished glorifying myself, I leave you again with best wishes for a Happy Holiday and a a Happy 2013.

P.S. The world didn't end yesterday. Isn't it marvelous?