{This is for you guys, you know who
you are, just `cos you are so special!}
*PING*
LaCroix' supernaturally fine-tuned hearing picked up
the sound of his lap-top's e-mail notification system alerting him that a post
had dropped, even through the sound-proofing that lined the walls of the
broadcast booth. He smiled a feral smile his listeners would never see (or
*want* to see, actually) and continued, without missing a beat:
"...and so we are told that each and every one of us is *special*. There
is no one exactly like *you*, your mother said whilst placing her sweet
maternal kisses upon your forehead. Each man's soul stands apart from every
other in the eyes of God, bellowed your local
religious representative from the sanctity of his pulpit. Then you grew older
and wondered where your Other, your perfect soulmate, was, out there, waiting for you--surely you were
his or her Only One as he or she was yours? Is that not what all the popular
songs claim?
"Your friend, the Nightcrawler, is here to put
your worries to rest. Hear me and accept the serenity that comes only with
being a member of the madding crowd. There is no `one in a million'. There *is*
`safety in numbers'. And you *are* a number, each and every one of you, my
friends, and only as a number will you ever find true freedom.
"For should any one of you come to believe in, for even a single moment,
the foolishness of sacred individuality; the World is ready, willing and able
to put you back in your place, back upon the shelf with all the other tin
soldiers standing at attention."
LaCroix could have gone on in this general vein for
another five minutes with ease, but he could see the little flashing green blip
beckoning him from his laptop's screen where it sat open, a technological clam
shell, on the desk in his small office. He'd been waiting with great
anticipation for the next installment of `Just Say
Ah!' to drop; part 18 of 30, in fact. Dr. Epstone,
who had been dubbed `The Demented Driller' by an unsympathetic yellow press
during his trial for the murder of twenty-seven of his patients, was easily one
of the finest writers on the mass-murderer fiction list (MMFic-L).
Part 17 of his magnum opus had left Dr. Epstone's
readers contemplating the vagaries of fate (as well as how to dispose of three
gallons of blood, four arms, and an odd number of jawbones when the police are
watching your house), and he had *just* caught sight of his next victim at
chapter's end--an obnoxious X-gen punk with green
teeth who *refused* to learn how to floss. Part 18 looked to be a real corker.
"Think on that a while, my troupe, my covey, my flock, my most cherished
swarm of listeners. The Nightcrawler shall elucidate
anon. But first...."
LaCroix pushed a toggle, starting the CD his audience
would be stuck listening to for the next half-hour or so--the Moody Blues
"Days of Future Past", a musical consideration of a 24-hour span in
the life of Everyman--and bounded from his chair for the miniature computer.
And at the top of the screen popped the following heading:
RE>Just Say Ah (17/30) JollyJumper@jolliet.inst (
"*DAMN!*" LaCroix's fist made contact with
his desk with enough force to send the little laptop bouncing into the air. It
came down with a clatter, but the screen still glowed
a steady green, thank goodness. LaCroix put his head
in his hands and growled in frustration.
Would these fools never learn? What the hell would it be *this* time???--'gosh,
golly, this is a cool story, kudos to Doc Epstone!'
or `I was in solitary confinement for stabbing my roommate, I missed Parts 5
through 16--would someone be a lamb-kin and post them to me?'...or would it be
the ever-popular `I know I'm not supposed to post this here, but if you would
all indulge me just this once...'? Ah, but it was never `just this once' with
these people, was it? Someone would chime in with a `me, too; me, too--I need
those chapters, too.' The inevitable flurry of `hope your roomie
pulls through' messages would *ping*, calling him to his e-mail every five
minutes. Or there'd be an unrelated comment from some dim-witted, in-bred
serial killer in the hinterlands about how much he appreciated the Mass
Murderer lists, how they'd changed his life--all in lowercase and without
punctuation, of course. But it almost never seemed to be *fiction*, which was
what the master vampire had set this particular list up *for*. It was enough to
make an eternally-damned-and-he-hadn't-even-felt-all-that-eternally-
damned-until-just-now listowner cry.....
...because of all of these, `JollyJumper' was the
worst.
A double-click later, and LaCroix was reading Jolly's post.
Hi, all!
I know I'm not supposed to post this here, and I am apologizing up front for
this, but I need some help! I'm literally at the end of my rope here, if you
will pardon the joke!
I'm writing a short story about how difficult it is to live a normal, everyday
life without all the little things they take from the more suicidal of
us--shoelaces, ordinary kitchen knives, ball-point pens-- and I'm running out
of things to write about. What particular thing are *you* most annoyed about not
having access to? You don't have to be suicidal to comment. Also, don't bother
posting `women'--this isn't for the MMXFic list. I'm
in the bible belt here! ;-)
Also, if you have any clever uses for velcro,
send that on, too!
Thanks, from your good buddy
Jolly
jollyjumper@jolliet.inst
Oh, gods, not this one again. Jolly was *always* `jolly', even if that jollity
covered an angst-ridden, suicidal psyche; he was always polite and
well-meaning, if a bit self-depreciating; and he was *always* posting non-fiction
posts to the fiction list. And LaCroix was always
warning him to stop, and Jolly was always being so nice about it, and always
promising he'd never, ever do it again, good buddy...but a couple of weeks
later, without fail, he'd be posting non-fic to the
fiction list *again*! The master vampire sat back, reigning in his annoyance as
only two-thousand years of civilization can teach you to do, and composed the
following:
My dear young friend, Jolly:
I know from previous posts that you are in a delicate state of mind at the
moment due to government cut-backs in psychiatric care for life-termers, and I pray you, please do not take this the wrong
way--but you have once again posted a non-fiction post to MMFic-L.
Your post would better have been sent on to the MMChat-L
list. There and only there may you post queries for information or general
comments--unless an obligatory fiction submission accompanies your query or comment.
Regards, and a hope for your swift transfer to that private psychiatric unit
I'd heard you had applied to:
Rosebud
LaCroix sighed, not really angry anymore. He wondered
again why it was he was apparently unable to simply no-mail this one and be
done with it. Was it the few-and-far-between, but always witty, short stories,
laced with wicked black humor and some fairly shrewd
observations on life and death? Was it the youth's cheerful angst? Whatever it
was, LaCroix found himself oddly attracted to him,
despite the fact that he drove the master vampire crazy on a fairly regular basis.
He posted the e-mail message with a jab of the return key.
Why, oh, why did *every* sociopathic killer seem to
think that *he* was so special, that the rules didn't apply to *him*? He
supposed it must just be the nature of the beast.
*******
Nick sat at the corner of Natalie's desk in her office, chortling quietly as he
read the message on her computer screen. Then he called up a return e-mail form
and began to type an answer.
The coroner looked up from her paperwork, observing to herself that the 700+
year-old vampire looked more like a mischievous 14
year old boy than did most mischievous-14-year-old boys. "Oh, Nick, you
didn't, did you?" she asked, tilting the monitor
so she could read the screen. He had. She shook her head sadly. As she'd
suspected, it was another message to `Rosebud', and she knew darned well who
Rosebud was. Almost 800 years old and he couldn't find a better way to amuse himself than harassing LaCroix.
"For heaven's sake, Nick, I *asked* you to stop sending messages to *him*
from my computer. He's going to find out and come after *me*, you know! And I'm
going to tell him, so help me, that it's *you* annoying him, that it isn't my
fault!"
"Oh, Nat, don't worry," said the vampire cop without taking his eyes
from the screen. "The software I had Screed install on your harddrive enables me to bounce my messages from another
location--he thinks I'm a suicidal mass-murderer from Jolliet
Penitentiary!" This seemed to overjoy Nick no
end. In fact, she'd never seen him so gleeful...at least, not since the Lidoveuterine incident.
"Hmmph!" she sniffed. "I wouldn't be a
bit surprised if that software your weird little friend installed is what keeps
*trashing* my harddrive. It spends more time off my
desk than on it. And when it's on it, I can't even *get* to it half the
time." She raised one eyebrow at him.
Nick looked up, glee gone, contrition on his face. "You know I'd put this
program on my laptop, but half the time Tracy's grabbing it off the back seat
and typing up reports with it in the car, and I don't want her to trip over
anything, uh, incriminating. She seems to think `snoopy' is part of the job
description of a cop."
As usual, that look made the coroner relent, hating
herself even as she did so. "Oh, all right, all right--so, what are you
posting? Let me see what he wrote." Consoling herself that this was just
another way for her to look into the fascinating mind that was Lucien LaCroix's, and that anything she learned about him was
another weapon she could use against him in future, she punched up his last
message and began reading it. And began giggling. She
couldn't believe he was being so darned *nice*. She almost felt guilty.
The two heads huddled cheek-by-cheek over the keyboard, one blond, one curly
brunette; and together they began to compose a convincingly remorseful reply to
Rosebud's message.
"You know...I think we *have* to post this to MMFic-L
again, don't you? I mean, it *is* fiction, isn't it? "
the coroner murmured, sending them both into gales of evil laughter.
The End
Cousine Celeste
vecchio at trickster.org
"Bite me." Crow T. Robot