Short Fanfiction (not AD&D related)

[Bri]

Just some fanfiction I did elsewhere. It is not AD&D inspired, and still rough around the edges.

 

 

Warning: There is some adult language, violence, and situations in this story.

 

 

Takeout

 

 

 

And here's to you, Mrs. FZZT!

Jesus loves you more than you will know. (Wo wo wo).

CRACKLE! bless you please, Mrs. FZZT!

Heaven holds a place for those who pray

(Hey hey hey, hey hey hey).

 

"Damn it!" muttered Timothy, slapping the dashboard of his Pacer, "Worthless piece of shit car." He eased back into his seat, but the radio continued to sputter in one of the worst snowstorms in recent memory.

 

"And of course, tonight is the night I make all the deliveries," he muttered under his breath, reaching forward to scrape the ice building on his windshield since tonight of all nights his heater had decided to crap out. He shivered slightly, as he realized the only source of warmth came from the pizza boxes riding in the passenger seat, and they were enclosed in an insulated container for ease of delivery.

 

At least the headlights work he thought as he tried to change the radio to something he could at least make out. After a few minutes of fiddling, and five heart-wrenching seconds as his car spun slightly out of control, he at least found one station.

 

...Oh here she comes

She's a maneater

 

I wouldn't if I were you

I know what she can do

She's deadly man, and she could really rip your world apart

Mind over matter

The beauty is there but a beast is in the heart...

 

Timothy's fingers tapped out the beat on the steering wheel, and thought, Well, it's not bad for fossil rock. He continued to hum the tune, as he made a right turn at 1313 Mockingbird Lane and made his way to 742 Evergreen Terrace.

 

He came to a complete stop at a rather palatial suburban home, done in an art deco style. Timothy gulped as just from the size of the lawn alone, the residents who lived here spent more on water bills than he made in a month.

 

With a rueful sigh, Timothy exited the car, and grabbed the pizza container. He looked at the order once more to confirm the address, and he briefly wondered who in the world would order feta cheese and pineapple pizza.

 

"Well, looks like this is the place," he said, and stepped lively to the door, the chill bypassing his thick coat. It was with chattering teeth that he pressed the doorbell. He couldn't hear any kind of chime inside, and so Timothy pressed it once more with similar results.

 

"Great, that's all I need now," he griped between chattering teeth, and knocked on a heavy oaken door.

 

At first Timothy didn't think anyone heard him, and he raised his fist once more when a pure, lilting voice that seemed to run down to the core of Timothy's spine, answered, "I'm coming...give me a chance to get decent."

 

Decent? thought Timothy as he turned back to look at his Pacer, and fervently wished the city at least had laid down some gravel for traction on the way back.

 

Timothy started to hum when he heard the door begin to open. He turned on the ball of his heel, dipping his head slightly as he said, "Good evening, Mrs. Robinson. Dominic's Pizza at your..."

 

His breath caught in his throat as he found himself staring at a woman wearing a black teddy, following the ample, firm, jutting breasts down to her nylon-clad legs. Then he raised his head, gulping slightly as his stared into the autumn-wreathed face of a woman who could have been the age of his mother, but there the similarities ended. For one, this woman seemed to have mastered the art of using just enough make-up to enhance her natural beauty, rather than overpowering it.

 

"Uh...pizza...Mrs. Robinson...ma'am..." Timothy stammered out.

 

The woman chuckled lightly, and she said, "Excuse me. You caught me just as I was changing, young man."

 

Mrs. Robinson's face reddened slightly, though her blue eyes danced with merriment, "I left my purse on the table. Let me go get it...I'll be just a minute."

 

Mrs. Robinson moved to leave, but froze as Timothy inadvertently sneezed and coughed.

 

"Oh, you poor dear, you must be freezing," she said, "Why don't you come in and warm yourself up?"

 

Timothy started to protest, but she reached down, and softly, but insistently pulled him into a luxurious foyer. For a moment Timothy felt ashamed that he was tracking in mud and snow on what looked like a Persian rug.

 

All such worries fled his mind as Mrs. Robinson started to walk away with an easy, elegant grace. Timothy suddenly felt feverish, and took off his hat, and wiped his brow with it.

 

"What are you waiting for dear boy?" said Mrs. Robinson in a voice that almost sang, "It's just down the hall."

 

"Coming," yelped Timothy, and he quickly followed her down a short hallway filled with assorted statuary that Timothy vaguely guessed to be duplicates of Roman origin. His eye was momentarily entranced by a fresco of Aphrodite rising from the sea foam.

 

"Born from the blood spilled at Saturn's castration," he thought with a chuckle, his childhood interest in mythology rising unconsciously. Timothy shook his head, and hurried into a rather sumptuous room that reminded him of an Victorian Tea Room he once had seen on Dr. Who. And in the middle of the room, Mrs. Robinson was slightly bent over, her black negligee pulled up slightly over her perfect buttocks while she dug in her purse.

 

"Here we go," she said in her silvery voice, holding a wad of cash that was easily worth three times the pizza alone.

 

"That...that is too much Mrs. Robinson," whispered Timothy.

 

"Nonsense," she replied, moving toward him with a fluid grace, "The rest is to cover your troubles...." Her eyes landed on the delivery boy's nametag, and she said in a husky voice, "Timothy."

 

Mrs. Robinson started to press the bills into his hand when suddenly the money fell to the ground, and she let out a slight "Oops! How clumsy of me." Mrs. Robinson started to bend over, letting Timothy get a clear view of the swell of her breasts.

 

Timothy's vision started to blur, and it was hard for him to breathe. He inserted two fingers into the collar of his shirt, and tried to loosen it.

 

"It's quite...it's quite alright...Mrs. Robin..." Timothy stuttered, only to stop when he found two fingertips pressed up against his lip.

 

"Please, call me Cecilia," whispered Mrs. Robinson, standing back up, her lips blowing warm air into Timothy's ear. Timothy couldn't help but notice that Cecilia's hair smelled like fresh strawberries, and he took a deep breath which calmed him down slightly.

 

"Al...alright..." Timothy said in a breathless voice. All thought fled Timothy's mind, his whole awareness focusing on the graceful curve of Cecilia's neck, when a high-pitched whine filled the air.

 

Cecilia grimaced, falling back, and Timothy barely resisted the urge to plug his fingers in his ear.

 

"I...think it is coming from outside," growled Cecilia, obviously distressed by the interruption, "Although who would be strangling a cat this time of year?"

 

Timothy's eyes widened, and he dashed for the front door. He barely opened it, when he saw black smoke rising from underneath the Pacer's hood. The car gave a final, convulsive wobble before dying.

 

"God damn it," he shouted, racing to the car, and sliding inside. He tried to turn the key, but there wasn't even the slightest give by the ignition. Swearing, he banged his fists on the steering wheel, not even getting a shrill honk from the horn. Timothy crawled back outside, and gave a swift kick to the tire, only to shriek as he stubbed his toe. Timothy started to hop around, grabbing his hurt foot...only to fall down into the wet snow, arms flailing uselessly.

 

Timothy landed with a thud, the snow at least lessening his impact, and for a brief moment, he was blind as darkness filled his eyes. Slowly, his mind became aware of fresh strawberries filtering into his consciousness. As Timothy regained his sight, he became aware of the gentle quirk of Cecilia's lips just inches from his nose.

 

"I'm glad to see you're alright," Cecilia whispered, her long brown hair tickling his nose. She offered her hand to let him up, but Timothy waved it off, and stood up on his own power, using his car to support himself.

 

He turned his head slightly, and said, "Now what am I going to do?"

 

Timothy was slightly surprised to feel a slender arm encircle his waist, and two rigid nipples pressing into the small of his back.

 

"Well, you will catch your death of a cold out here," said Cecilia, "Come on back inside. You can call a tow-truck, and let's see about getting you a change of clothes."

 

Cecilia stepped aside, shivering slightly as Timothy noted that although she wore a thin coat over her lingerie, but little else. The delivery boy gulped, but followed Cecilia back into the house at a quick pace.

 

"The bathroom is two doors down that way," Cecilia said, practically leading Timothy by the hand, "First, let's get you out of those wet clothes."

 

For a brief moment, Timothy imagined her experienced, delicate fingers running over his chest, how it would feel like to draw her close when he gulped, "Mrs. Rob..."

 

"Tut, what did I tell you to call me?" interrupted Cecilia.

 

"Cecilia..." said Timothy.

 

"That's much better," Cecilia whispered, and she led into an ostentatious bedroom. The furniture was all real wood, not pressed board, and shone with a deep mahogany luster.

 

"Let's first get those clothes off you," instructed Cecilia, her hands gently reaching out, unbuttoning Timothy's wet coat and shirt. With each fastener loosened, Timothy felt a pleasant thrill rush through his body. Timothy's own hands reached off to push the thing spaghetti straps off of Cecilia's shoulders, his adolescent mind already contemplating writing a letter to Penthouse Magazine.

 

Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me, but there I was delivering a pizza...

 

The distracting thought died as Timothy's eyes focused on what looked to be a small figurine hunched over in the corner.

 

"What..." said Timothy in between kisses on his cheek, "What is that?" He pointed to a small gargoyle-like fixture, the fingers on its right hand displaying an exaggerated vulva.

 

"Hmm?" said Cecilia, and her eyes followed Timothy's outstretched arm, "Oh that? That's a Sighle na gCíoch. Irish, really. Means 'old hag of the breasts.' It's kind of a family heirloom."

 

Cecilia stifled any other questions by pressing her mouth tightly over Timothy's, her very touch electrifying all the parts of his young body. Timothy lost track of time in a haze of lust, until he found Cecilia arched over him, pert breasts bouncing with her gyrations as she enveloped him.

 

Timothy started to gasp for air, while Cecilia crooned. The young man was coming very close to climax, when a fiery pain suddenly filled his body, emanating from his groin. The searing hurt quickly killed any passion he harbored. Instinctively he flung his arms forward, pushing Cecilia off him. There, in the pale light, he saw her generous figure, but most disturbing was the fanglike ebon glows coming from ridged protrusions from Cecilia's pubis.

 

"What...what is going on?!? What are you?!?" shouted Timothy, his hands reaching down toward his genitals...only to find it slick with blood, and little else.

 

"Cecilia is an Angliced form of Sighle," purred Cecilia.

 

She ran scarlet-painted finger along her mound, and breathily whispered, "You make me so wet Timothy, you know that?"

 

Timothy tried to stand up, but the shock of pain, and the loss of blood prevented him from standing.

 

"Please...don't hurt me," whimpered Timothy.

 

"Ah, let momma kiss it and make it better," said Cecilia, bending over Timothy as the light faded from his eyes.

 

------------------

 

Cecilia lounged lazily on the easy chair, her legs hanging over the side. She finished cracking the marrow from Timothy's knucklebones before tossing into the small pile in the ashtray.

 

"Hmm, I think I feel like Chinese tomorrow," she said, humming pleasantly to herself.

 

 

OOC:

 

The first snippet is Ms. Robinson by Simon and Garfunkel

 

The second snippet of song is obviously Maneater by Daryl Hall and John Oates.

[Bri]

Warning: Some violence in this, and questionable humor.

 

Noncompliance

 

 

"Quick, pull over," Kelly whined, her head pressed up against the cold window. A loud squeal filled the air, and the car hadn't stopped more than two seconds before Kelly had her door opened wide, and she was spilling her cheap dinner onto the ground.

 

"You alright babe?" asked a deep voice, and a strong, but gentle hand rested on her shoulder.

 

"I...I think so. I just need some fresh air," Kelly said weakly, wiping a dribble of vomit from the side of her mouth.

 

"Sure thing," slurred her date, David Browell, star-quarterback, and all around hunk. By any standard of the Ronald Reagan High School pecking order, David was a prime catch. It was only the luckiest of breaks that David even had been available that night. His current squeeze had a death in the family, something about a cousin found dead in the park, and had cancelled her date with David. It was said his clothes had been found neatly piled up in a nearby bush, while his body looked like it had been pounded into hamburger.

 

Kelly fiddled with her seat belt for several minutes, her hands refusing to follow her directions.

 

"Let me help you with that," chuckled David in a slurred voice, and his own hands fumbled with the belt for several more minutes, occasionally tangling with Kelly's before it seat belt finally clicked open.

 

Kelly wobbly stood up, using the car for support as she took in a deep breath of fresh air. Her mind cleared somewhat, and the tension eased in her stomach as the smell of freshly cut grass cut through the alcoholic miasma. As she took in the details of the surroundings, she saw they had come to stop on the edge of the Resthaven Memorial Gardens.

 

"Feeling better, babe?" asked David, his own stance just slightly more straight than hers. Concern covered David's face, somewhat to Kelly's surprise.

 

"Much," she replied cheerily. Kelly mashed her lips into David's, her tongue hungrily diving into his lips. David wavered slightly, but responded just as eagerly Kelly's. After several minutes, Kelly stepped back, taking a deep breath from the force of the kiss...and the whiskey on David's breath.

 

"Do you feel like having a little fun?" she said gingerly, rolling her hip for added emphasis, a bit surprised at her own forwardness, and feeling just a tiny bit guilty, since David was anything but her boyfriend.

 

Well, it's Timothy's fault anyways, Kelly rationalized, her eyes greedily taking in David's superb football player physique, Imagine, wanting to work on the night of our six-month anniversary. Well, it would serve him right. And if Kelly was being honest, the thought of making love in a cemetery added just that bit of the forbidden to overcome what little hesitation she had left.

 

"What do you think?" leered David, his pants giving the impression of a large circus tent.

 

"Then you have to catch me," Kelly said lasciviously, and drunkenly darted toward the freshly cut grass, and shadowy tombstones. Kelly stopped about fifty feet from the car, taking a deep breath when she felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist, and draw her to the ground.

 

Kelly let out a playful "Eep!" when she found herself staring down into David's strong-jawed face.

 

"Gotcha!" laughed David, his right hand dropping down to caress Kelly's buttock, while his left hand awkwardly teased her left breast. As graceless as his gestures were, David's touch did electrify Kelly, and her right hand snaked down to stroke his groin. A soft sigh escaped Kelly's mouth when she felt another hand tease the parting of her legs.

 

"Oooh," moaned Kelly as David continued to tease her breast, buttock, and her mound. Something troubling about David's touches tugged at the edge of her awareness, but the sensations he was creating was more than enough to drive those thoughts clear out of her mind...away until she squealed when the hand near her mound clenched, and grasped a large swath of skin.

 

"Damn it, that hurt," Kelly yelped, pushing herself away from David, only to fall flat on her ass.

 

"I didn't do anything," spilled David in a confused tone. Then comprehension filled his face as his mind started to draw several conclusions. The football player's bewildered appearance gave way to anger, and he growled, "Why you teasing bitch..."

 

Kelly was silent, for while David had tried to rise, she saw an emaciated arm sticking straight up between David's legs. So, as David tried to rise, he found it impossible, for the hand was now locked onto his thigh with a vice-like grip.

 

"What the fu..." David started to say when his voice was overridden by a large, inarticulate howl from deep beneath him. Another arm rose from the earth like a massive, sprouting weed, and clenched tightly on the football player's massive shoulder. David shrieked in panic as he tried to break loose of the decayed hands, but all he ended up doing was rending flesh and muscle in the undead hands.

 

Kelly started to scream, kicking up sod as she scrambled to regain her feet. Her maddened brain couldn't make out David's pitiful cries for help. And then David grew silent as a cantaloupe sized object broke the surface. David's screams ended as the round-object seemed to split vertically, revealing yellow, jagged teeth which tore into the football player's beefy neck.

 

"Omigod, omigod, omigod," repeated Kelly like some impotent mantra at what she was seeing. Then, somehow, Kelly managed to find her feet, and she ran toward the car, knowing that if she got there, she would be safe.

 

This was not to be, for as silent as grave, something leaped out of the shadows. Fresh blood staining its face, the loathsome, rotting figure which killed David was just inches from her. Kelly struggled, but her movements accomplished very little. She tried to scream for help, but her panic constricted her throat. Tearfully, Kelly closed her eyes, awaiting the final blow...

 

...only to hear a loud boom above her, and felt several fetid, liquid gobs splatter on her face. Kelly opened her eyes just in time to have the now headless corpse fall straight down on her. Kelly shrieked again, pushing the now motionless body away with as much force as she could muster.

 

"Oh shut it," growled a strong, throaty contralto, "One would think you were trying to wake the dead."

 

Kelly turned her head in the direction of the voice, and saw an individual blowing smoke from the barrel of a shotgun. In the pale moonlight, Kelly could barely make out the feminine curves beneath the black trenchcoat covering Kelly's savior. Kelly squinted, almost swearing that the platinum-blond woman was wearing mirrorshades this late at night.

 

"Thank...thank you," mumbled Kelly in between breaths, "Whoever you are."

 

"Agent Damocles at your service," replied the black-clad woman, offering a hand to Kelly. The young woman gratefully took it, and soon righted herself back up. Once the fact she was safe entered her consciousness, Kelly started to shake, and her knees almost buckled. Kelly would have fallen if Damocles' strong grip kept her upright.

 

"What...what was that? What...what happened?" shivered Kelly.

 

"Second question first. I just saved your ass from being someone's dinner. As for what it is? The lab boys would tell you it is a Class II, corporeal, carnivorous anthropoid. Personally, I prefer the term zombie," answered Damocles, who made her way back to place where David died.

 

"C...class t...two?" stuttered Kelly, staying as closely to Damocles as she dared, her gaze a constant search for the slightest movement in the shadows.

 

"Just means it was a non-sentient, biologically impaired, mobile entity," Damocles replied matter-of-factly. The blond woman stopped at the edge of the grave, untroubled by the pile of gore which minutes before was David. Damocles gaze was intent on the zombie's tombstone, and then she nodded to herself, "Just as I thought."

 

Kelly, bewildered by what was going on around her, asked between chattering teeth, "Will you explain just what is happening? None of this makes any sense."

 

Damocles spared Kelly a sympathetic look, then pointed at the tombstone, more specifically the dates of birth and death of one Joseph Weinburg.

 

"Born: March 18, 1937 Death: August 11, 2006" recited Kelly, "Is that supposed to mean anything?"

 

"Look more closely at the year of death," Damocles said gently.

 

Kelly squinted in the darkness, and at first couldn't make anything out. However, as she let her eyes relax much like one did with the three dimensional puzzles, she noticed that where 2006 was, she could make out the faint outline of another year...19___.

 

Kelly straightened back up, and hesitantly said, "There is a discoloration, as if something was rubbed out..."

 

"You have good eyes," Damocles said, "You can just make out the one and nine, can't you?"

 

Kelly's hysteria was now giving way to frustration, "What does any of that have to do with the zombie?!?!"

 

Damocles sighed, and started to speak in a tone one would reserve for small children, "It is commonplace for one to buy their plot and gravestone before they are needed. Commonly, the engraving was done as soon as the stone was bought. Names, birth, whatever. However, out of force of habit, many of these were engraved with a death date of '19___'. That was all well, and good and saved the mortuaries millions of dollars over time. There was one problem. Not everyone would have the foresight to die before the year 2000."

 

Damocles hunkered down by the graveside, "And so, suddenly the United States was getting millions of people who died. And business being what it is, many were hastily buried with poorly, hastily altered dates, or even completely unaltered tombstones. After all, it wasn't like the mortuaries were going to absorb the costs of free tombstones."

 

Kelly hiccupped, "This...this doesn't make any sense."

 

Damocles took another deep breath, "I forget how it was to be ignorant like you. Second to nuclear runoff, the primary reason for the appearance of Class II's is the violation of a burial ground. Whether a mislabeled date, or a poorly rebuffed surface, such could be seen as an insult by the grave's...occupant. And so, you frequently get the angered spirit taking up residence in its former shell, filled with anger and hate, fit only for vengeance."

 

Kelly looked down into the hole, fighting the rise of manic laughter in her throat, "David...David died because..."

 

Damocles laid a reassuring hand on Kelly's shoulder, and said, "Because the tombstone wasn't Y2K Compliant."