From your keyboard to Tim's brain.

Hey, Strega got to do one!

My mom thought it was very cool that Tim killed you, Allyson!

Well, not cool in that..I mean...you know.

Hey, Strega got to do one!

Hey, she did?! Where? When?

Oooh. NY Times Review.

[link]

While investigating the location of a murder, Danny asks her, "Is it an S&M club?" Melody retorts: "No, it's a support group for very clumsy people."

Previous GF pilot YSI, still has some downloads left in it: [link]

New link, if you still haven't acquired it: [link]

Allyson, her hair was close to the right color though, wasn't it?

Allyson, her hair was close to the right color though, wasn't it?

At some point in my life it probably was. I'll have to take a look again.

Did Strega do an Angel, Allyson? I haven't listened to the commentaries on all my A:ts DVDs.

From your keyboard to Tim's brain.

Cindy enters Tim's head, Stopping to get her bearings, she owns that although she expected it to be dark, this is ridiculous. She decides it wasn't just the Angel DP, in need of a lightbulb.

She squeezes the firm, nearly empty Bic in her right fist. No sooner does she realize there is no way the Bic has sufficient propane to get her in and out of here safely, then she trips over something. It is hard, and long. No. Not that, you perverts. Still on the ground, she decides to light a Marlboro Light, rather than curse the darkness. Besides, it's not like anyone around here is going to notice a little more smoke.

She sucks on it furiously, to produce a big heater sort of head. Holding it down near the obstacle, she realizes it was a tree root that tripped her up. She feels for the trunk, and starts to crawl around it, counter-clockwise.

Faint light fights to permeate the near tangible darkness, from the other side of the tree. Still, even with that, and the cigarette's glow, her "visionity" has yet to return.

If you wanna play it that way.

"Visionity," I said. Now let me get on with this.

Cindy's right hand lands on something squishy and it's as sticky as all get out. She's afraid to investigate too closely, but it smells distinctly like her kids do when she kisses them right after breakfast. This could mean its a pancake, smothered in Maple syrup. Deciding it is better not to know for sure, she scrapes the goo off her hand, and onto the tree trunk. She continues to circumnavigate the tree, which is larger than she first thought, in hopes of gaining access to The Inside of Minear's brain.

Just as she decides to try walking again, she discovers a fallen branch across her path. Intending to use her laptop and WiFi ...

*science and technology jazz hands jazz hands*

... to send a message directly to Tim's brain, she'd smuggled it in, in an old diaper bag. Fishing around the bottom of the bag, she finds a long-forgotten receiving blanket and winds it around the end of the branch. Fortunately, the Bic has enough juice to spark up her MacGyvered torch. Finally around the tree, she realizes her ingenuity was for nothing, and she needn't have lugged the laptop, either. There's a computer, with what looks like a DSL connection, sitting on an old, battered credenza. "Sheesh. He's got everything in here! But how do you hook up DSL to a tree?"

She jiggles the mouse enough to get the screen saver to fade. The open window has chud.com/forums/showthread.php?t=74754 in the address line. She sees a post made in Tim's name, but the user information underneath reads, "has been cancelled." She wonders what's up with that, but doesn't have time speculation. Besides, the CHUD board frightens her even more than being on The Inside of Minear's head.

CHUD is too dark anyhow, so she types in "buffistas.org." Coupled with her torch, its light background provides ample illumination. She takes a good look around, spies an old style desk lamp, and flicks it on. "Finally, useful light."

There's a skeleton in the corner, entangled in what looks like a root mass. There are the remains of an empty wooden crate that almost rings a bell. There's a homemade fightin' axe. And there's a box full of paper, on the file cabinet, to the left of the desk. It looks like there's printing on it, and she's tempted to snoop, but she knows that wouldn't be ethical. Besides, this is a time sensitive mission, so she tells herself, "Get in; do the job; get out."

It's no use. She is weak. This could be a novel he's been secretly working on. It could be Moon. It could be a stash of shooting scripts for Angel, Firefly, Wonderfalls, or even The Inside. When she gives into her baser nature and gives the top page a skim, (continued...)

( continues...) she is immediately startled out of her fantasies of being the hit of the spoiler community, or getting rich quick on eBay.

The torch is getting hot in her hand, and she doesn't really need it right now. She'd rather have both hands free. She spies a bucket under the desk. When she remembers she'll need it for the trip back out, she considers trying to prop the torch in it until she's done. The flame is starting to scorch her though, and she doesn't want to start a fire. Besides, the bucket well...the bucket isn't entirely empty. Flashing back to Justine's stay at Wesley's...um...closet, Cindy covers her mouth and nose, and winces, quickly extinguishing the torch, before she can think too long on it.

She rifles through the box of paper with both hands now. There must be five reams in there, and every page reads the same:

Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Shuddering, she decides to finish what she came for, and get the heck out. She loads the start menu on the PC, and sees something called "Direct Access." Hoping against hope that this will serve as even better means of communicating with Minear's gray matter, than the laptop and WiFi, she clicks. Suddenly the cave-like atmosphere is flooded by a brilliant light, and she begins floating, floating, floating. "MINEAR! If I end up a %@$*&^# higher being, I'll slot your machine, I tell you what," she cries, and then passes into unconsciousness.

When she awakes, she is flat on her back, in a completely white room. "Wait. I know this place." Cindy is frightened. She's no slayer, and she's no vampire either, unless something happened while she was passed out. She's just a suburban housewife. She can't fight a jaguar. Cougar. Panther. Whatever.

She hears footsteps behind her, and they're not attached to any human, never mind Tim, unless someone really needs to trim his toenails. Their pace quickens, and she's pretty sure she's hearing the footfalls of at least four legs. It gets closer, and she shuts her eyes as tight as she can. She can hear it panting, and knows she's a goner. Why did she ever listen to Allyson? Sheeesh. And she thought the Bring Back the Bronze campaign was scary.

It's right behind her now, whatever it is. Closer. Closer. Ew. It's touching her. ACK! It's licking her. And something is beating a mile a minute against her arm. Oh, no! It feels like a tail. Cindy is horrified.

And yet? She is not devoured. Slowly, she opens her eyes, to find she's being licked to death by a...a...a beagle.

"Oh, as usual, dear." Cindy feels foolish. Allyson always said Tim was the pudding pop o' love. Why did she let herself get so frightened? She sits up, hugs the doggie, and says, "I need to get a message to Tim."

The beagle replies with a half dozen barks. "What's that girl? Timmy's posting at The Well? Noooooooooooooo!"

The dog growls.

"Timmy's been working too hard. He isn't feeling well?"

The dog resumes licking her, and Cindy is confident she's gotten the message straight.

"I have some homemade chicken soup, in a thermos in this diaper bag. I was going to drop it off at my son's school, afterwards. If I give it to you, to help get Timmy better, will you do me a favor?"

The dog barks twice. Cindy doesn't know if this means yes or no. Shoot. It's been too long since she's had a pet. She tries again, "Okay girl, bark once for no, and twice for yes, okay?"

The dog barks twice.

"Now we're cooking with gas. Okay, here's what I need from Tim. You need to get Timmy to (continued...)

( continues...) record the 'Kristen and Allyson Show' as part of the commentary for The Inside DVDs. Do you think you can do that?"

The dog laughs. "Who do you think runs this show, anyhow?" says the beagle, in a smoky voice.

The shock of hearing a dog talk is far too much for Cindy to handle. She passes out. When she wakes, she's back in her den, on the couch, with the diaper bag right next to her, on the floor. Sitting up, she digs through it. The thermos full of chicken soup is long gone. Of course, so are her cigarettes. "Oh well, small price to pay. At least I didn't have to dig the torch out of that bucket."

Sit Ubu, sit. Good dog.