Damn! I had reproduced the italics and everything....

t weeps into her orange juice

Elana's Husband in Natter: Fresh mint is the way to go. Plus, crushing it in your hands leaves a nice smell. Of course, sniffing your hands in public can be percieved as a bad thing...

Fay, in Bitches:

Oh, man. That's where I'm going wrong. I've been dressing like the wrong kind of baglady. I just need to cover my face up and wave my cleavage around. Huh. Well, I would stay and type, but now I'm off to find the unsuspecting menfolk of Yorkshire and seduce them with my wily bag-wearing ways.

In Bureaucracy:

Angus: Hec and I are of the same mind.

Hec: does The Bump with Angus

Steph L.: All right! Buffista RPS!

Hec: Hec looked deeply into Angus' eyes. "You've got the most fabulous cheekbones."

ita: Hey! Get yourself a room! Or a thread that's natter friendly!

Hec: Hec looked deeply into Angus' eyes. "You've got the most fabulous cheekbones. And I want you to endorse my voting methods for board changes."

Elena's Husband, in Sang Sacre:

The kitchen television drones while I clean the countertops and mop the floor. The latest batch of hybrid peppers exploded yet again, leaving me with a huge mess to clean up.

"…The category is The Occult, and here is your jeopardy answer…Three knocks, or the sudden appearance of sparrows are referred to as these."

A sound of disgust issues from the TV.

"We would like to remind our viewers at home to not speak the jeopardy answers out loud."

Damn. Wifey has left on the interaction function. Again. No doubt while she was watching Firefly last night. Again.

I use my best Connery voice. "Sh'oory Alex."

I hit the power button on the set, ignoring the hostile stare of the contestant from Des Moines. Turning back to my work, I almost don't notice that the patio door is open fractionally. Almost. Holding the mop in a defensive manner, I approach the door. On the floor are tufts of blue fur and a trail of cookie crumbs.

That's Odd.

I follow the furry ginger-spoor through the kitchen. From there it leads down the hall and into the library. Cautiously, I enter.

Edging into the darkened room, I hear what can only be described as sucking and cracking noises coming from behind the oxblood leather chair. The trail of hairy crumbs seems to lead here. I raise the mop in my right hand, and pull out the chair with my left.

Something moves.

I lash out, but at the last second I stay my mop. There, bathed in the pale light from the hall, was Ginger-Cthulhu! In its tentacle-shrouded mouth, it chewed noisily on what appeared to be a furry blue hand. The creature was bloated and larger than it had been, no doubt from eating whatever that blue thing was. Moments passed, me staring at it, it staring at me. Abruptly, its slimy voice spoke in my mind, and I could feel it take control of my very body. It was more than just a cookie treat now. It was much stronger.

~WhOm Is ThE MasTer NoW!~

I manage to gasp, "I thought you were eaten at the press conference..."

It belches. ~HaRdLY. THe GoOgiLy-EyEd FreAk biT oFF moRe ThAn it CoUld CheW. NOw thEn. CthUlhU's MiNiOnS ArE aLL GoNe. MaKe MoRe Or CtHulHu WiLL feAsT oN yOuR DelicIouS BrAinS!~

I manage to speak, finding my tongue thick, "No can do. All out of ectoplasm-dough."

The cookie-fiend rifled through my mind, seeking the truth of the matter. A wheeze escapes it, as it realizes that it is the last of its kind.

~CtHuLhU iS NoT HaPpY hErE. CtHulhU WaNts To Go BaCK tO hIs CiTy UnDeR tHe waVes. YoU WiLL TaKe CtHuLHu HoME tO Ry'LeH, WheRe YoU wiLL sPenD eTerNiTY tEnDiNg To CthULHu's nEEdS.~

Terror chokes me, as it assails me with awful images of death, chaos, and despair. Strangely enough, most of the images have to do with dismembered Keebler elves.

"…And just…where…is this Ry'leh?"

~tweNTy minUteS froM banGOr ... acTuaLly, ctHUlHu haS an eXceLLent viEw oF stePhen kINg's gARAge...~

Figures.

* * * *

The taxi drive is uneventful, if a little long. The maddening visions that Cthulhu has been sharing with me, have left me wide-eyed and just a little anxious. The only insight I have from the forced mind-meld is that the cookie-fiend is depressed by the loss of its fellow elder-treats, and that I am to be punished for my impudence. The cabby interrupts my wonderings.

"Here we are. Bangor Marina. That'll be…Twenty-three hundred dollars and fifty-five cents. How you plan on payin'…Cash, cheque or card?"

Chthulhu looks at me expectantly. I shrug. Via our link it realizes that I don't have my wallet. It rolls its eyes. Staring at the driver, Cthulhu waves its long, cookie-claws back and forth.

~YoU DoN’t WaNT To ChaRGe ThE HuMaN aND ThE InCrEdiBly PoWeRFuL...AnD TaSty...ELdEr GoD~

The cabbie's eyes glaze over. "I don't want to charge the human and the incredibly powerful, and tasty, elder god."

~YoU wAnT to PaY FoR ThE tRiP YoUrSeLF AnD YoU WaNT Us to HavE a NiCe DaY~

"I'll pay for the trip myself. Have a nice day."

We exit the cab and it zooms off. Cthulhu snorts.

~MiDiChLoriAns iNdEed… COme HuMan. We MuST FiND paSSaGe OuT to SeA.~

We cross the road to the marina. Cthulhu has relaxed its control over me, but I know that should it want to, it could tighten the proverbial reigns any time. The cookie does his mind trick on the security at the gates and we enter unhindered.

Everywhere we look there are expensive boats. I pick a modest 40-footer, but the ginger-god shakes its squid-like head. It points at a flashy 80-footer with chrome and brass everywhere.

~CtHuLHU WaNts ThiS oNe. It Is ShInY.~

I groan as I note the name of the yacht, the Minnow II. It is surprisingly easy to steal the vessel. It takes me a few minutes to figure out the controls and get a feel for it, but soon we are on our way…to my doom.

* * * *

The ginger-god lays out in a deckchair, browning its cookie-dough skin. I still feel its presence in my mind, so I don't even consider doing anything remotely rebellious.

~StoP HuMan. We ArE HeRe.~

It all but jumps from the deckchair, then runs to the side of the boat. It peers down at the water, dark eyes glittering.

~ThiS Is WhErE CtHuLU GeTs Off.~

Without further word, the ginger-god jumps ship. It lands in the water with a modest splash, then bobs to the surface. I watch as pieces of the cookie begin to slough off. Cthulhu looks surprised and more than a little perturbed as it softens in the briny water. Slowly it begins to sink, its soggy body being torn apart by the lapping waves. Before it has completely washed away, I hear its final, desperate words.

~Nooooo…SeA Is FoR CooKIE…SeA iS FoR CoOkiE!~

I give a sigh of relief and slump down on the deck

"Is good enough for me."

Jesse in Natter:

Hello to msbelle in Ireland! (The internet is funny. She looks just the same from Ireland as she does from New York.)

From Dude, Where's My Precious:

Nutty:

Whereas, if Frodo had started the conversation with, "Hey, I know a dude from Gondor. Also, a few incredibly powerful people who trust me and think you should trust me too!", his relationship with Faramir would have been substantially less rocky.

Sean K:

But then maybe not. Faramir, even film!Faramir, doesn't strike me as the type to react well to name dropping. I think if Frodo had taken that route, Faramir would have been even more suspicious.

Nutty:

Well, but then you get the fun & exciting scene where Faramir quizzes Frodo on the name-droppees.

"So, Gandalf. Nice purple hat he wears."

"Grey, you mean. He's not Gandalf the Fashion Victim."

"Right. Grey. Ri-i-ight. You said you met Elrond?"

"Well, I thought it was him. But then later, he put on these strange clothes and dark goggles on his face, and said he had to go battle -- uhm, Key-ay-noo? I think it was -- with his boomstick."

"Boomstick? What is this new devilry?"

"I cannot say. A tool against the Dark Lord, I hope."

"I'm to believe this, Baggins?"

Okay, you're right.

Alibelle in Natter:

I swear to heretical mustachioed Jesus that I'm not Ali G.

Fay in Bureaucracy

Were I to get Nattery here, which obviously I'm not going to, I'd be tempted to sing the praises of Dutch Chocolate. Which is not only defuckinglicious in and of its own right, but has also rendered someone (who obviously isn't me no siree bob) absolutely totally and utterly stoneder than a stoned thing covered in stones. In Estonia. Why yes, that stoned. Infinitely more stoned than smoking the occasional spliff had ever rendered her. Er. Or him. 'Cause this hypothetical chocolate-eating person could have been a him. What with the whole not-being-me.

Ahem.

</Natter>

Katie M in Angel 2:

I give Gunn's parents the benefit of the doubt and assume they were killed a tragic car crash or pound cake accident or something.