|Standard Disclaimer Nonsense
This warped little block of babblings is rated some suitably horrible letter of the alphabet that's probably meant to discourage readers (and rightly so, no one in their right mind should read this drivel), but in reality just attracts them like skinnydippers in a piranha pool. Why individual letters, especially bland, no-frills sans-serif Roman letters, are supposedly scary, I've no idea. Perhaps it's the stark juxtaposition of the tall, pointy letter and the fat, curvy one that's so frightening. Beats me. Now... if they were using Phonecian characters or Hieroglyphics or something with all sorts of nasty curls and prongs sticking out to no good purpose, or something like that... Now that's scary. I for sure wouldn't read a story that had a big eyeball floating at the top, staring at me.
Anyway, imagine that big nasty eyeball or spiky little glyph squatting balefully here like the voodoo witch-doctor sigil it's surely descended from, warning of all the wretched things that I'll go to Writer's Hell for. You know Writer's Hell: chock-full of manual typewriters with half-dry ribbons and dictionaries predating the word "telecommunication." For the unfortunate denizens' creative enlightenment the management pipes in endless choruses of "It's a Small World," loudly. If I'm to be banished to Writer's Hell regardless, I might as well include lots of shamelessly gratuitous content like wild, indiscriminate hot sweaty monkey-sex and bloody violence (just *begging* for the Comfort follow-up), willowy, ancient, improbably competent Immortal women with auburn tresses and flashing green eyes, bad puns, beercaps behind the refrigerator, 1978 flashbacks, Cassandra frothing mindlessly in the background, cold macaroni-&-cheese, and the graphic, overdone, pointlessly painful death of every major character ever featured in fandom. Fuck 'em. I'll even resurrect Richie just to kill him again. We'll see how much of this I can get to before the Men in White Coats (not to be confused with Men in Black, Men in Gray Flannel, or Ladies in Red) come to get me.
Methos (the snarky one fleeing at the first hint of commitment, early mornings, exercise, tidying up after himself, or drinking a non-alcoholic beverage), Duncan (that broody, judgmental jerk who has somehow bravely maintained his virtue through all those decades of military service and monastic life), Amanda (appearing only to coax our boys into bed because she knows how absolutely right they are together), and the rest of those soon-to-be-deceased suckers that might or might not be appearing in this story (subject to professional commitments) aren't really my property. If they were, do you seriously think I'd be marking time writing fiction that I can't make a fucking dime at? Ha! No! I'd be... well, I'd be someplace a hell of a lot better than this, where I couldn't hear Cartoon Network in the background, sipping margaritas and being catered to by gorgeous men.
If you see any original characters or, most especially, any original thoughts here, please let me know. They're out past curfew without permission, and need to be severely dealt with.