Saturday, July 30, 2011

Fanfic: Myrlok Chrome and the Misleading Medallion

Author's note- If you haven't noticed from the title, this is pretty much a fanfic on Sherlock Holmes, genius. Something I just thought of a few seconds before, after reading up on a site called I used to write a lot of fan fiction on almost anything that really hit me- Laurel and Hardy, Deus Ex, NWN, LOTR, even copied some stuff off Alister Maclean and James Joyce.
Most of it, though, remained at home- I used to write then, and now I've grown soft, and touch typing has replaced my favourite inkpens.
Before I digress further, enjoy.

'Must you read that out so loud, Wiston?' Myrlok contemplated over his joint, while his cigar-smoking, neo-nazi companion continued in his soporific baritone to describe, in painful detail, the nerve-wracking case that had had them both evicted from their premises in 333 Junkie Street.
'Yes, I must, because unless you feel the full weight of your transgressions upon you, you will not realize just how much you must change in these modern times, Hermock!'
'Wiston, we've lived together for nearly fifteen years. My name is Myrlok, S.O.B.!'
'And mine is Witson, but you still forget it after your fourth joint. Which one is that? Why haven't I got a drag? Is that my weed? Didn't you buy your own? Jew scum.'
'Wiston, I am not a jew. Hitler is dead and gone.'
'Mein Fuhrer has sequestered himself in Antartica, building his spaceships for an invasion of Earth,' Witson dropped a gigantic cigar stub into the nearest ashtray, swatting away the dog when it came to smell. 'Do not poison my dog, Shenlock!' 
'I don't need to,' the eminent detective propounded, watching the dog gulp down the stub. 'You do it well yourself,' he observed, now poking the dog's paralysed body with his walking-stick. 'But the dog is not what interests me, Wiston.'
'Of course it wouldn't. It's not your dog.'
'It's our dog.'
'I don't see your name on it!'
'That's because you forgot to buy a collar!'
'You know fully well that you spent that money last week gambling!'
'Who wanted to see that new pub? Not me.'
'Our weed stocks were done!'
'So now, it's our weed stocks, eh?'
'Oh my dearest lord, please save me from this asshole, for he knows full well what he does,' Witson lamented. 'This is like being married all over again.'
'You're not married, twit. Not yet, if I have a say in the matter.'
'You don't! Not even your brother does, and I owe him four thousand pounds!'
'That four thousand that you wanted to use to relocate to Cuba? The tickets for which are sitting in our cabinet? Which you have been thinking about since you came back from the airport?' Chrome's keen eye had missed none of those details- the world map with a squiggly line pointing to Cuba in bright pink ink, the ticket sitting in the open cabinet, and Witson's half-finished letter with five words on it- "Want to go to Cuba?"
'Good god, Chrome! You've outdone yourself! How did you- no, don't, because after you finish explaining I will say it is absurdly simple!'
'But it is, Wiston! Absurdly simple! Nothing simpler! Just a pimple!' The great detective's brows furrowed and he giggled at the rhyme for three seconds and twelve frames before taking a deep puff at the joint. 'But Wiston, past the usual arguments, I would really like to explain to my readers how exactly I found the Misleading Medallion!' Chrome had a tenacity for accentuating exactly those words as he saw fit. The Napoleon of Crime wandered in to borrow a light, lit his cigar and wandered back out for a stroll.
'What's there to tell? You went to the pub, got high, pulled some legs, discombobulated some morons, and found the Medallion disguised as an anklet around one of the serving maids who escorted you to your room.'
'But consider, my dear Wiston; how would I know that the medallion was around that maid's ankle? How would I have known that it would be in that particular pub? And also, how many maids escorted me that night?'
'The answer, Chrome, is that the police inspector had given it to the maid because he thought she was pretty good in the bower, if you know what I mean.'
'I concur, Wiston. She was something extraordinary.'
'The inspector also told us of the fact, but you were too tripped out to notice such small details at the time that normally go to no great lengths to evade your vision!'
'I declare, Wiston, that I will never take a cocaine shot before a case. Never again!' He looked around for the nearest mound of cocaine, and found the dog snorting it up. 'Gadzooks! Wiston! Pass the marijuana! This is abysmal! That was two thousand pounds worth of uncut cocaine.' Chrome shot the dog with his revolver, or tried to, but he remembered that there was no money for bullets, so he'd never bothered to load it.
'So the answer to your last question, Chrome, is that you went up with several ladies of rather questionable reputations.'
'Chambermaids. Never insult them!'
'As for the Dragon, Chrome? Where does that lizard fit into all of this?'
'The lizard, my dear Wiston, was elementary.'
'I can hardly see how a flesh-and-blood mythical creature is elementary, Flintlock.'
'No, I mean it was made out of iron, and calcium and some traces of radioactive uranium-234.'
'A mutant? Where did it come from?'
'It came, Wiston, where all these bad things come from- John Carpenter's imagination. After "The Thing" was released, I believe he and Guillermo Del Toro are hatching a conspiracy to flood our imaginations with monsters of most unique and distelled macabre malice. I also suspect Tim Burton's hand in thus, although I am not sure.'
'So how did the dragon fit into this?'
'I thought it would be fun to let the ACJ press get a shot of myself holding the radioactive lizard.'
'Good God, you bastard, they're still a month into their course! You should have at least charged them ten shillings to look at it!'
'They're media, Wiston, and they invoked Article 19 of the Constitution as well as the RTI Act- but thank providence that most of them just wanted to borrow some weed when they were passing by.'
'Fine. Forget I asked.'
'What task? Fart?'
'No, I said that you can leave the matter.'
'Cleave the batter? Sieve the ladder? Wiston, you're making no sense, old chap!'
Witson retreated into the depths of his soul, praying to the one God for patience. Chrome was a mean stoner, but now he was turning into a deaf stoner.
'Never mind, Chrome. Pass me the lighter.'
'Sure.' Chrome tried to move from the chair, unsuccessfully, but was too psyched to do so. He then to eliminate the impossible, and knew that whatever was left behind would be too improbable. So he switched on the laptop nearby, and went over the hour's footage, trying to find where he'd left the lighter, all the while listening to Witson's ineffectual complaints about what a huge fag he was.
'So that's it! The Napoleon of Crime, Profe-shor Jamesh Moliandi actually wandered in here and stole my 1249 gas lighter!'
'They didn't have pressurized gas in 1249 AD, Chrome. You bought it for two cents from the Cornerstore this morning.'
'Never mind, Wiston! We have our next case! Where are my cocaine shots!'
'Didn't you promise to stop snorting coke before a case?'
'Chatter, chatter, chatter! Ah, that feels good. Come on, old chap! I fear Moliandi has already escaped into London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained!'
'Hey! That was my line from A Study in Scarlet!'
'That was our line, Wiston. Now let us pursue the fiend and reclaim our honour!'
'Strange that everything becomes ours in times of your cases, Chrome! What is the conspiracy?'
'I will tell, my mentally challenged friend, in time! For now, tell Miss Busdon to skip the tea and let us run!'
And so they ran, behind the trail of one who would be Myrlok Chrome's ultimate rival, and would lead him to his death- by the nose- but that is a story for another time.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Vieux Jeu

Author's note: This is the first erotic story I thought of publishing. Perhaps it's the overdose of John Norman's Gor, or the Kushiel's Legacy from Jacqueline Carey I've been going through, both intensely erotic in their own right. In any case, feel free to enjoy/criticise.
On that note, I would also like to confirm that though this sounds like a scene out of Mills and Boone, it's not. The fact that I read a lot of those when I was thirteen or so has nothing to do with the same.
I looked out of the room. She lay sprawled on the couch, her negligee almost undone. 'Monsieur, this is a deep, moonlit night.. and the very waves respond to her call. See how they rise. Does the full moon not affect you, as well?'
She was a siren, her voice smooth as silk and twice as sultry.
And there, lying in that indolent manner, having spread herself much in the manner of the main course at a banquet hall, she was as tempting as bread to a starving man.
I was not here, though, to be tempted by the wiles of my employer's mistress.
No, I was already past tempted, and past caring. He would not ask questions, but simply shoot.. and those violet eyes would look through their half-moon glasses so amused and cool.
But we were alone now, and I had ever given importance to the present and not the future. My own code of carpe diem. 
'She reaches deep inside me, mademoiselle. As deep as your own gaze.' I flicked my tie aside, leaning against the window frame as she rose and pressed warm hands to my skin, slowly undoing my shirt, one button at a time, our gazes locked, her lips half-open expectantly. She pressed myself to me, and I could feel her warmth against my own skin, her breasts brushing my chest as her fingers traced swirling patterns on my flesh.
'And still you remain distant?' It was that which did me in. So far she had been the mature, teasing, full-blooded woman- that question returned her to the age at which she was- barely eighteen, a woman in body but perhaps not in mind. Still, though.. luscious enough for the picking even then. She would break hearts, easily, this one. 
But now, she was mine.. and an education fit for her age was hers. By my hand.
I turned her around, pinning her to the wall, and silenced her gasp with a deep kiss. In that dim light, someone could have confused us for a single creature, our bodies seemingly one without beginning or end.
Somewhere, somehow.. we lost our vestments, their trail marking a straight path to the futon that had no doubt helped service her master before.. but now was mine, as was everything else.
She straddled me, her eyes triumphant at gaining the upper hand, and I let her, crossing my hands under my head, to see what she'd do. She kissed me, a line of hot drops tracing a path from my neck to my collarbone, and my chest, her hands tangled in my hair, levering herself as she did so. I could smell our desire in the room, our need.
It was quite obvious that neither of us would ever do so again..
As she levered herself on me, a flood of sensations burst through my body, and her flushed face straightened, her eyes coming back to mine, capturing my gaze as I did hers; no longer the seductress, but the look of one who has yielded for years on end, and now finds herself the dealer of the gamble; one word from her, and I would not live to see the next hour.
But she kept her silence.. and I broke hers for it, our moans intermingling into the cries of a single, joined being, locked in desire.

Morning came, and with it, retribution. I watched her wake. 
In the light of a french sunrise, her olive-kissed skin stood out, contrasting with her blanket of black hair that lay tangled in the aftermath of our desire. For a few moments, our eyes simply met.. then she panicked, thrusting me away from her.
'You should go.. leave. Quickly.' I rose. Yesterday we had been too entranced to listen to our senses; now they would take revenge. For me.. a quick death. For her.. whatever happened would be far more exacting and painful. And knowing my employer, slow.
A vision, if you could call it, came to me then- of her lying on her back in one of Paris's seediest districts, her body used beyond measure, her arms dotted with the tell-tale marks of needles, and her eyes listless as much as lifeless.
'You have your future, mademoiselle,' I whispered, knowing well that she heard me and knew the truth.
'And you have yours. Let us hope we meet again in a lifetime more merciful. Merci, monsieur, and au revior.'

I looked up at the balcony. She was still there, lost and small, but still defiant, her gown billowing in the morning wind. She waved a final goodbye as I walked away. 'We may meet, mademoiselle, s'il vous plait.