From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Thu Apr 17 14:26:39 1997 Subject: Nasty, Big, Pointy Teeth (1/1) by Pellinor From: Pellinor -------- Please don't forward to ATXC ___ "Nasty, Big, Pointy Teeth." Part the one and only by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) ___ SUMMARY: A minor character demands to be noticed, and blood, danger, pointy teeth and other fun things ensue. RATING: G CLASSIFICATION: VH (Humour) Some angst too, but not enough to be yet another angst-humour thing, I think. DISCLAIMER: The main character in this story belongs to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox, though they neglect him horribly. A few other characters belong to them too. Tim the Enchanter owns the title. LITTLE NOTES: Please don't run away and leave me when you encounter the first spelling mistake. There are a few, but they are deliberate. FEEDBACK: Yes please. I'll answer you, too. ********** It was a cry for attention - a desperate cry for attention. He knew that, of course. How could he not? The Creator had imbued him with enough of his own gift of insight, of a piercing ability to understand motivations, of a dazzlingly competent.... He licked the blood from his lips, curling his lips in a grim smile. Competent? A poor choice of words. He had seen the Creator in his dreams once and competent had definitely not been the word for him then. God! At least the man had enough sense to tie his own head securely to his shoulders with one of those fancy bits of cloth round his neck or he'd like as not accidentally lose that too. He shifted his weight, seeking a more comfortable position, and the movement dislodged a small stone beneath his body. It flew into his face, cutting him on its sharp edge. He hissed with pain and annoyance. Another of the Creator's characteristics manifested in him. Did He inflict all his weaknesses on his Creatures, making them nothing but aspects of his own personality, or was there someone a Creature that had the best of him, living pampered and loved? God! How he hated.... God? His smile faltered suddenly, unsure, his forehead creasing in worry. The word, the concept.... They were not his. And the smile.... It was wrong. All wrong. Slowly, desperately, he reached out a tongue and tasted the blood, suddenly needing it. The blood. It was.... It was his anchor, his mission. It was all that mattered. It could lay the wrongness to rest. He swallowed, feeling the rich taste settle the worst of his sudden panic. The blood - the taste of freshly killed meat.... That little moment of doubt was nothing. All was as it should be. The mission would continue. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. Nothing.... He muttered the words over and over, clinging to their meaning. The killings were everything. Kill enough people, and someone would notice - they _had_ to notice. A tear trickled down his face, then another - grief greater than could be cured by any mouthful of flesh. Once again the wrongness struck him, but he was past caring. Someone would notice.... The fervent hope of his every waking moment - the beautiful fantasy of his dreams. Someone would notice.... Someone. Please....? He was so alone, so neglected. Created and cast aside. He'd served his moment of usefulness and was thrown away. Unwanted. But now he would make them notice. He would leave a trail of blood until some-one sat up and took notice - until He himself came to investigate. And then.... He smiled through the tears, letting his mind wander down the comforting paths of his childhood fantasies. Love. The Creator's face lighting up with joy at finding the Creature he had never meant to mislay. Warm arms enfolding him, patting him on the head, loving him. The wind on his ears and the grass beneath his feet as they shared the thrill of the chase, together. Love. Himself and the Creator, together. And if He couldn't love him, then he would die and no-one would mourn him. If He had created him, and then abandoned him, then he deserved to die. No-one would disagree. No court in the land.... He stopped abruptly, wonderingly. It was the wrongness again. No court in the land.... He didn't _think_ things like that. Smiling, crying, thinking in words that were alien to him. It was as if.... As if.... "Get out of my mind!" He threw his head back and howled the words aloud at the stars. "Stop making me say these things. It's not me!" "Don't fight me!" The words came back as an order, as if spoken through gritted teeth. He could feel the presence in his mind, clear and distinct. "I _have_ to control you. Don't fight." "Why do you have to control me?" He could sense he was causing teh thing pain. The thing was still tehre, but the thoughts wre disjointed, struggling to express themselbes clearly. "Just leave me alone. I have a mission!" "I know you have a mission." The voiec was shaking now. "I gaev it to you. I'm a writer, for God's sake. A fanfuic writer. I'm giving recognition to a charcater who has been sorely negelcted by its creatot, and you.... you are making it ompossible to type. Please stop fighting." "So you...." He spoke more quietly, angry still, though it was fading. "You want to notice me? You want people to notice me?" "Of course I do." The voice was speaking as to a child. "Why do you think I'm writing this when I really ought to be writing a totally different story. I _care_ about you. I want others to care about you too." He bristled at that - at the arrogance. "So why are you doing it all wrong?" he barked, angrily. "Why are you making me think things that can not possibly be in my world view? Why do me make me smile, and cry? It's so inauthentic, for God's....." His eyes blazed with fury. "See? You've done it again." "It is.... necessary," the voice said, firmly. If it had had a cigarette, it would have stubbed it out now. "Trust me. I'm a fanfic writer. It's called 'writing a deliberately ambiguous story so people won't see the twist at the end before it comes.' I couldn't very well describe you, could I? I have to anthropomorphise, as it were." He was beyond words, utterly furious. How dare this so-called writer control his life as if he had no free will of his own? It had.... He started, shocked into silence. This.... this _thing_ could read his every thought. He couldn't even let himself envisage the plan he had..... Shh.... Quiet, quiet... Silent and docile. Lull them into a false sense of security. Wait for them to leave the keyboard and get some coffee, and.... And then, quick as a bullet, he attackkehrtkjghwerjk. A groan. "Listen..." The voice was so weak, sounding as if every letter was painfully being typed from a semiconscious slump. He listened, though. He had to. "Listen... Your Creator.... He never loved you. Don't....." A groan. "Don't forget the mission." ********** His every muscle was tense, prepared for the kill. He was so close.... He was rippling with confidence now, ready for anything. The fact that his life was being controlled did not bother him, not any more. So little did, nowadays. The tears had gone, as had the terrible loneliness. If he killed the Creator now it would be because he wanted to, not because of that horrible grief-laden need for attention. Blood gave him pleasure now, as did the thrill of the hunt. "I don't write angst." His new writer had been most emphatic, and even as he heard the words his grief fell away as if by magic. "I don't blame you for killing that Pellinor. I would, if I were in one of her stories - not that I read them. But I never write angst. You'll get a happy life if you employ me. You won't even feel any angst at the fact that your life is being controlled by me. I'll make sure it doesn't bother you at all." And it hadn't. He was happy now. The only thing that would make his happiness complete was for his Creator to be bleeding on the ground, dead. Dead. And in a minute now, maybe less.... He could hear them now, speaking in low tones in a language he couldn't understand. "Quick!" He sent an urgent whisper to his writer, hoping they were listening. "Do that anthropomorphising thing the last one did. I need to know what they're saying." "Anthropomorphising?" The voice was tight with relief. "I hadn't thought of that. I was beginning to think this story was going to go horribly wrong right at the end. I'll just make it so you can understand them, no questions asked. No-one will notice. I mean, they do that sort of things all the time on the show." And suddenly it was as if a light came on his head. The meaningless babble took shape and became words, meanings. "Looks like some sort of animal attack," the Creator was saying. "Lots and lots of them, no attempt to hide them. It's as if the killer wanted to be found." "Why would it do that?" His companion laughed. Her hair was red, although he was pretty sure he'd never seen in colour before. "You don't get wild dogs with a social conscience, trying to give themselves up to face trial." "But, Scully. Just look at it. These bodies are arranged in an arrow, pointing directly at this clump of undergrowth here." It was time. Thank doG. It was time. Just. A. Little. Closer.... "Mulder!" The woman's scream was loud, but it was not enough to obscure the sweet taste of his Creator's blood in his mouth. Blood.... His teeth dug into the Creator's throat, ripping and tearing at the flesh until the blood was everywhere - in his teeth, his fur, his very soul. Blood. It was what he wanted. Had he not been a dog controlled by a more scrupulous writer, he would laughed aloud with happiness. The Creator slumped to the floor, eyes already glazing over with approaching death. Slowly, his lips parted, and he uttered something, more a groan than a word. "Heinrich." He remembered him. Had Heinrich not eaten his old writer, he would surely have felt a crashing wave of guilt at that, remembering the flowery meadows they could have skipped through together. But he had a new writer now, and he laughed, as far as a Norwegian elkhound could do so. "Heinrich?" The woman's eyes were streaming with tears. She spoke as if in shock, repeating his last word distractedly. "Heinrich." The Creator struggled for breath. "I told Tooms I used him to hunt Moose." Heinrich smiled. The mission was complete. He was happy. He was.... "You killed Mulder." The woman's voice was high with grief and anger. She drew her gun and pointed it at him. "You killed him. I'll kill you." He was frozen, terrified. His mind screamed aloud in a desperate appeal. "You said you didn't do angst. Get me out of here! Quick! Write something!" "No." The voice changed pitch, becoming something else entirely - a voice that sent chills of horror down his spine. It couldn't be! That.... that _thing_ was dead. He'd ripped their throat out himself. "I wrote this story for you. I gave up an afternoon on my long story for you. But you betrayed me. You tried to kill me and left me for dead, but I tricked you. You fell for it, and now you're on your own. Get out of this one yourself." As the gun came closer, all he could hear was laughter, a chilling sound. ********** END ********** So why can't we get Heinrich back? What with Chris Carter's homicidal tendencies, soon he'll be the only minor character left - and always my favourite one at that, after Max Fenig. Long live imaginary elkhounds! (Except when they try to kill me, that is.) Need I explain? I suppose so. When Mulder wanted to show Tooms he was watching him, he went up to him and asked if he'd seen his lost dog, Heinrich the Norwegian Elkhound (used to hunt moose.) I have always felt there should be a story there, especially after poor Queequeg got all those laments and memorial pages, while the poor lost Heinrich was just forgotten. Oh, and thanks to Rebecca Rusnak and Tizzy the Miniature Schnauzer for unwittingly providing the inspiration. Ho hum.... Back to what I really should have been doing all day (page 89 now....) ********** Feedback devoutly craved, as ever. ********** Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk "King Pellinor could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains." from "The Sword in the stone" by T H White.