Metafuck 4: The Revenge of the Muses
Title: Metafuck 4: The revenge of the muses
Author: Arabwel
E-mail: Arabwel at yahoo dot com
Characters: The Author, El-muse, Sands-muse, Johnny-muse, Antonio-muse, Enrique-muse, Lorenzo-muse, Dean-muse, Mary Sue the Bunny
Summary: The muses are pissed.
Rating: R
Word count: 1000
Disclaimer: As if.
Feedback: Yes, please
Archive: You want this, then just drop me a line
Notes: Since my tries at Metafic failed so utterly, I ended up writing this muse-fic :P consider this a follow-up to Metafucks 1-3 and Sacrilegious
The Author looked at a group of very, very pissed off muses that were currently pointing various weaponry at her.
”Err… parley?” She said in a small voice as she raised her hands, her eyes moving from the sawed-off shotgun to the twin muzzles of sleek pistols to the cutlass, stopping at the rather heavy-looking old tome and then starting their rapid rabbit-jumping again.
“You know, sugarbutt, you really should remember that that particular bit only applies to pirates.”
The Author pointed a trembling finger at the computer “Another type of piracy! Another type of piracy!”
A slight mangle of beads could be heard, as one of the muses threw his head back and laughed.
“Really, can you stop pointing those things at me?”
“Let me think… no.”
“Come on, what’s so bad about this anyway?”
“So bad? So bad? Let me tell you something, darling, I might be an arrogant asshole, but not as arrogant as wanting to fuck myself.”
“And I definitely am not, either, and I so do not have a gun fetish.”
“No one asked you anything, Depp.”
“And? You didn’t get half as traumatized as I did from that experience!”
“Oy, you at least got some experience, all I got was some bloody bad rum, and that’s sayin’ somethin’!”
“Do shut up, Sparrow.”
“Oy, Norrington, what in the blazes are you doin’ here! Ye weren’t mistreated by the Authoress ‘ere, so what’s yer problem?”
“My problem, Sparrow, is her copious slandering of my character in other works of fiction, and the fact that she did not, in fact, send you to me from that bar like she promised.”
“Wasn’t my fault, I swear!” The author chimed in, her hands flailing frantically. “Blame it on the wig! The wig had you! It deposited you on Jack’s bed to wait for his return! Ask Jack where was he?”
The author drew out a little file-type-thingy, and pointed out a drabble titled “Wiglicious”
“All right, all right.”
The author realized that this sudden little visit by Norrington had not distracted the muses enough to make them point their weapons elsewhere. Oops.
“Look, it isn’t my fault, not really,,” The author said, “I just transcribe all the crap you give me. So it was all your fault that you ended up screwing Sands on that altar, el, and don’t try to give me that wrath-of-God look of yours. I know you better than that.”
The reply was a stream of curses in Spanish, of which The Author did not understand half of.
“I doubt that’s anatomically possible,” q voice much like El’s, but only a lot less broody intruded to the conversation.
“Shut up, Banderas, you’re just happy you got to fuck Iglesias. What did I get? Molested by psycho gun-boy here.”
The ensuing scuffle was enough of a distraction for the author to make a run for it, and land into her computer chair with a flop that denied reality much like the best of bullet-time effects.
“Stop that right this instant!” She yelled, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Or else the bunny gets it!”
This proclamation was followed by much dropping of guns, much kneeling, many promises of serenades and quite a few pouts.
The Author stayed adamant, and chased the muses away.
***
An indeterminable time later:
A blind spook, a gun-slinging mariachi, a mariachi hustler, a fucking pop star, a pair of movie stars, a drunk pirate and an owlishly blinking book dealer were sitting in a bar.
It had been on the tip of the bartender’s tongue to ask if this was a joke, but the various bits and pieces of weaponry the group seemed to carry was most definitely an encouragement to not to.
So, he just fetched them copious mounts of alcohol, mostly rum and tequila, and did his best to not to flinch at any of the snippets he accidentally overheard.
“So o’ Jangly-bells sees these wounds in my palms, and I can hear a hiss when he tries to not to show how it affects him. So I just spread my arms wide and smile…”
“If this is where ad-libbing takes me, I will never do it again. Heck, I’d rather be in Alaska than… than…”
“Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me… come now, you janglin’ sons o’ Mexico, you’re suppos’d t’ be musicians! Again! Yo-ho, yo ho…”
***
In the wee hours of the morning, they depart. The got heir ways, some together, some alone.
When Jack Sparrow reaches his destination, he will be pleasantly surprised to find a naked Comodore in his bed.
El and Sands can’t wait till theya re home; an alley wall can be a great substitute for a bed.
Enrique and Lorenzo decide that the night is still young, and head off to find some pretty girls and more alcohol. After all, wheyn you’re young and pretty, why ot enjoy it?
Johnny leaves in a daze, not sure if it is a good idea or not to accept Antonio’s offer for a place to rash. He knows how the unioverse works, and what just might follow. But he also kows that it would be worth it.
Dean ends up going home alone, and is not surprised to find it as empty as ever. But he is surprised, when El and Sands, on their way home after thir brief interulude at the alley, come fetch him along.
***
The Author is using this respite from the wiles of her muses to take a few deep breaths, live a little normal life, and find it utterly boring. But she knows that soon anoter bunny will come to her, and soon the muses will be back.
Perhaps this time, she writes an orgy.
Or perhaps just a Mary Sue.
And suddenly, she feels sharp, bunnylicous teeth biting at her ankles.
When the Muses then suddenly appear, some more disheveled than others, she knows that things are just like they should be.
“Boys, meet Mary Sue.”
Author: Arabwel
E-mail: Arabwel at yahoo dot com
Characters: The Author, El-muse, Sands-muse, Johnny-muse, Antonio-muse, Enrique-muse, Lorenzo-muse, Dean-muse, Mary Sue the Bunny
Summary: The muses are pissed.
Rating: R
Word count: 1000
Disclaimer: As if.
Feedback: Yes, please
Archive: You want this, then just drop me a line
Notes: Since my tries at Metafic failed so utterly, I ended up writing this muse-fic :P consider this a follow-up to Metafucks 1-3 and Sacrilegious
The Author looked at a group of very, very pissed off muses that were currently pointing various weaponry at her.
”Err… parley?” She said in a small voice as she raised her hands, her eyes moving from the sawed-off shotgun to the twin muzzles of sleek pistols to the cutlass, stopping at the rather heavy-looking old tome and then starting their rapid rabbit-jumping again.
“You know, sugarbutt, you really should remember that that particular bit only applies to pirates.”
The Author pointed a trembling finger at the computer “Another type of piracy! Another type of piracy!”
A slight mangle of beads could be heard, as one of the muses threw his head back and laughed.
“Really, can you stop pointing those things at me?”
“Let me think… no.”
“Come on, what’s so bad about this anyway?”
“So bad? So bad? Let me tell you something, darling, I might be an arrogant asshole, but not as arrogant as wanting to fuck myself.”
“And I definitely am not, either, and I so do not have a gun fetish.”
“No one asked you anything, Depp.”
“And? You didn’t get half as traumatized as I did from that experience!”
“Oy, you at least got some experience, all I got was some bloody bad rum, and that’s sayin’ somethin’!”
“Do shut up, Sparrow.”
“Oy, Norrington, what in the blazes are you doin’ here! Ye weren’t mistreated by the Authoress ‘ere, so what’s yer problem?”
“My problem, Sparrow, is her copious slandering of my character in other works of fiction, and the fact that she did not, in fact, send you to me from that bar like she promised.”
“Wasn’t my fault, I swear!” The author chimed in, her hands flailing frantically. “Blame it on the wig! The wig had you! It deposited you on Jack’s bed to wait for his return! Ask Jack where was he?”
The author drew out a little file-type-thingy, and pointed out a drabble titled “Wiglicious”
“All right, all right.”
The author realized that this sudden little visit by Norrington had not distracted the muses enough to make them point their weapons elsewhere. Oops.
“Look, it isn’t my fault, not really,,” The author said, “I just transcribe all the crap you give me. So it was all your fault that you ended up screwing Sands on that altar, el, and don’t try to give me that wrath-of-God look of yours. I know you better than that.”
The reply was a stream of curses in Spanish, of which The Author did not understand half of.
“I doubt that’s anatomically possible,” q voice much like El’s, but only a lot less broody intruded to the conversation.
“Shut up, Banderas, you’re just happy you got to fuck Iglesias. What did I get? Molested by psycho gun-boy here.”
The ensuing scuffle was enough of a distraction for the author to make a run for it, and land into her computer chair with a flop that denied reality much like the best of bullet-time effects.
“Stop that right this instant!” She yelled, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Or else the bunny gets it!”
This proclamation was followed by much dropping of guns, much kneeling, many promises of serenades and quite a few pouts.
The Author stayed adamant, and chased the muses away.
***
An indeterminable time later:
A blind spook, a gun-slinging mariachi, a mariachi hustler, a fucking pop star, a pair of movie stars, a drunk pirate and an owlishly blinking book dealer were sitting in a bar.
It had been on the tip of the bartender’s tongue to ask if this was a joke, but the various bits and pieces of weaponry the group seemed to carry was most definitely an encouragement to not to.
So, he just fetched them copious mounts of alcohol, mostly rum and tequila, and did his best to not to flinch at any of the snippets he accidentally overheard.
“So o’ Jangly-bells sees these wounds in my palms, and I can hear a hiss when he tries to not to show how it affects him. So I just spread my arms wide and smile…”
“If this is where ad-libbing takes me, I will never do it again. Heck, I’d rather be in Alaska than… than…”
“Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me… come now, you janglin’ sons o’ Mexico, you’re suppos’d t’ be musicians! Again! Yo-ho, yo ho…”
***
In the wee hours of the morning, they depart. The got heir ways, some together, some alone.
When Jack Sparrow reaches his destination, he will be pleasantly surprised to find a naked Comodore in his bed.
El and Sands can’t wait till theya re home; an alley wall can be a great substitute for a bed.
Enrique and Lorenzo decide that the night is still young, and head off to find some pretty girls and more alcohol. After all, wheyn you’re young and pretty, why ot enjoy it?
Johnny leaves in a daze, not sure if it is a good idea or not to accept Antonio’s offer for a place to rash. He knows how the unioverse works, and what just might follow. But he also kows that it would be worth it.
Dean ends up going home alone, and is not surprised to find it as empty as ever. But he is surprised, when El and Sands, on their way home after thir brief interulude at the alley, come fetch him along.
***
The Author is using this respite from the wiles of her muses to take a few deep breaths, live a little normal life, and find it utterly boring. But she knows that soon anoter bunny will come to her, and soon the muses will be back.
Perhaps this time, she writes an orgy.
Or perhaps just a Mary Sue.
And suddenly, she feels sharp, bunnylicous teeth biting at her ankles.
When the Muses then suddenly appear, some more disheveled than others, she knows that things are just like they should be.
“Boys, meet Mary Sue.”