**A/N: Remember – This is all pure silliness/crack-fickery, and I’m also makin’ fun of my own writings – and tendencies therein – in this, erm, “masterpiece”…
After a carefully considered and counted 2.4658 minutes had passed, Emowad rose with graceful ballerina-esque elegance (MamaEsme’s lessons had, indeed, paid off no matter what Demmett said) from kneeling behind his car polishing his license place. And by “polishing his license plate” I mean that he had polished his license plate.
He withdrew from the watch pocket of his emo-tight jeans a brand-new, never-before-(or after)-used, mysteriously unwrinkled (despite the tiny and cramped quarters) white silk handkerchief of the white silk variety.
Emowad then lightly trailed the seductively soft and silky slip of sensuously supple and silken (and slightly slithery) material as he contemplated with great thought his soon-to-be future actions.
After taking his balls in hand (literally, they were sore from being squished in the emo-pants plus that silk truly was sensuously and seductively silky and soft) (and luxurious), he gathered his barely-detectable courage, thought hard and intensely of England, then spat on the brand-new, never-before-(or after)-used white silk handkerchief of said white silk variety.
(Note to self: vampire venom may be flammable and corrosive and cause an unpleasant three-day-and-night “burn all your sins, even the ones you never knew of, from your body” reaction, but it’s now also a highly effective cleaning agent for dusty Vulva license plates. Future uses to come…)
(It is also not recommended for use during autoerotic asphyxiation sessions. Don’t ask Emowad how he knows this – ask Carlisle instead. He still howls, bays, and gasps with laughter during each and every retelling. He has his top twenty favorite recounts recorded for posterity and/or blackmail.)
(It should be noted that said venom, when applied to white silk handkerchiefs remarkably resembling the one currently in Emowad’s slightly-trembling hands and warmed with MamaEsme’s heating pad – the one that she uses, Emowad knows from reading her mind [insert beleaguered sigh here], to heat her posterior for Carlisle’s “special nights” [whereupon Carlisle would pretend to sleep using her warm, greased-up ass as a pillow-slash-anchor] – makes a remarkably remarkable lubricant when warm apple pie isn’t conveniently available. Warm apple pie is remarkably remarkably difficult to cum by in a non-food-eating vampire’s habitation. Emowad would know.)
With a slip and a slash and a dip and a dash, and a quietly muttered, “Hi-YAH!”, he had his “NOTAVAMP” tag cleaned in no time at all (0.387 seconds, to be exact).
(Point of fact: Carlisle is hilarious when losing the remembered semblance of urinary continence – however impossible such a thing may be being that he’s a vampire who doesn’t do such human things any longer – during such howling fits. Also when he laughs far too hard for far too long. Imagine that at your own discretion.)
Finally deciding he had regained any cool points he lost by automatically sauntering and/or prancing in the incorrect direction (but it was worth it since he was able to gently and lovingly caress his long and elegant piano-hands down the sleek and curvaceous curves of his grey Vulva, all 50 shades of it) and having no grasp of the fact that should he live 1,000 more years he still wouldn’t accumulate enough cool points to replace the ones he’d already lost, Emowad…
…immediately attempted to bend over from the waist to dust the ghastly greasy parking lot dust from his cow-shit brown, specially fitted, $12,904.29 Italian pleather shoes. After hearing the material of his emo-jeans stretching to their already-stretched stretching-point, he stood back up and used his “faster than you” vamp speed to vamp-speed his rather flat ass around to the back of the smelly, greasy, not-a-4-star establishment. After hiding behind a conveniently placed grease trap, he unzipped his emo-jeans and lowered them and his manties to his knees so that he could safely bend over far enoough to dust the greasy dust from his super-premium “money is no object” cow-shit brown $12,904.29 Italian pleather shoes.
It was only after he had assumed the position that he realized that he had nothing handy with which to dust said dusty shoes.
Sadly, he did not see Callisto the Crazy Maenad and her trusty, lusty, razorback pig-hog sidekick thing lingering lingeringly in the supposed forest behind the beer and fried things establishment. He also didn’t see the pig-hog thing exhibiting what National Geographic (and certain farmers) would classify as “rutting behavior”.
Thirty-five minutes later, an embarrassingly satisfied Emowad limped into Merlotte’s drunken dining establishment. He was extraordinarily and extremely pleased, in more ways than one, that he knew (from previous experience) that his venom made an excellent (insert unnecessary and extraneous “that” here) anal lube. He was also quite glad the pig-hog thing had given him time to apply said lube.
Oh, well, his rectum may still be quivering and shuddering in unexpected satisfaction but at least he was still a virgin – Aro and Marcus had both told him so. Caius had just rolled his eyes and gone back to beating some peasant-vamp.
Sadly his clothing had not survived the encounter intact, so he had had to vamp-speed (faster than you) back to his hotel in Vegas to change clothes (his manties had been fine although he donned a new pair “just because”), but the three minute run had been worth the wind-damage to the stone-like skin on his face.
Erosion is a thing, y’all.
Once finally and gratefully (if gingerly) seated in the Globe-Shaped-Boobie’d Beauty’s section by an orange-haire’d skreetcher-skank (Word had NO spelling suggestions here) of dubious origin (surely she and her hair weren’t both human, surely?), he ordered a Fru Blood with a tomato twist – he’s hip with the times, yo – and took the opportunity to eavesdrop on the thoughts of the locals so that he could sigh dramatically later on when he decided once again to be put-upon by the severity and woe-is-me aspect of his “gift”.
After filling his mental notepad – blue, with silver threads running through it – with phrases to ask MamaEsme about (catfish fisting, catfish tickling, mud buggin’, mud bugs, salt and pepper catfish, crawdads <— he stopped at that point), he firmly turned his thoughts toward the cook in the back.
Lala was the only one not contemplating some sort of mutant cat and fish combination, but perhaps he should warn said cook that puce and lavender do NOT go together…his MamaEsme said so.
Finally he watched, mesmerized and enthralled, as Waitress Big-Boobie’d Gap-Tooth brought him his Fru Blood, her globular bosoms swaying with every step even though her ancient sneakers squished through the three inches of grease on the floor.
Was that antique hardwood under all that grease or was that years of built-up overly-compressed peanut shells? He instinctively – because he’s a vampire and vampires have instincts – INSTINCTS!!!!! – needed to know (except for Carlisle and MamaEsme – they didn’t have any) just in case he decided to flip the…
“I see ya made it,” she said, her warm honey-toned, tuna-scented breath caressed his “hears better than you” vampire ear as she overly-underly-enunciated every semi-slurred word.
“Of course,” he replied with precise enunciation after flipping his ironic scarf – this one was green and orange – and waiting a suitable 3.5 seconds. “I wish to learn more about these shields you mentioned earlier,” he clarified precisely to her left nipple.
With breasts like hers, surely she was worth his prized and precious penis virginity that no one else seemed to want. He wasn’t sure where such a vile – albeit truthful – and ungentlemanly thought had come from, but he cringed at the distasteful look the boobs, erm, blonde lady gave him.
Surely she didn’t hear him! He is/was a vampire!
He exhaled gustily with relief and slight indigestion as The Blonde Nipple left, then inhaled deeply of her wafting fern-and-ragweed scent as it wafted waftily through the foul miasma of greasy food and stale beer. And body odor. He then lifted his Fru Blood and delicately sniffed at its floral, tomato-y, and synthetic essence. At least it covered the stale stench of, what was that, walrus? sea lion? …some sort of stale sea mammal or other.
Why would a dog-shifter’s bar smell like sea life?
Snookie scowled at Emowad, shook her head, and stalked off while pretending the weird looking dude wasn’t watching her ass cheeks bounce in the misogynistically short-shorts her asinine, and faintly wet-dog scented, boss demanded that they wear.
Oddly, that night he’d come in stinkin’ of hogs, though.
Being the intelligent, pro-active, take-no-shit young lady that she is as her counterpart “Sookie” in my actual fics, Snookie went to the ladies’ room and called her 6’3″, 6’4″, 6’5″, or 6’6″ (depending on the fic) blond Viking Vampire sex-on-legs, sex-on-a-stick, he-breathes-hard-and-panties-melt-and/or-drop Gracious Plenty’d (psst: that means he has a big penis/cock/dick/”tool”/”member”/”love pole”/”cue stick”, etc.) boy/man/vampire-friend Feric.
First, however, Snookie had to take a moment to shiver, shake, moan, tremble, quiver, gasp, groan, and shudder just from thinking thoughts about thoughts that thought about Feric.
She also had to pant (quiveringly) because sexy times apparently induce symptoms of asphyxia.
“Feric,” she murmured and whispered when he finally answered his damn cell. “Listen, things are gettin’ real strange around here. Earlier tonight I heard some pig-hog thing thinking really strange thoughts for a pig…or hog…or whatever, and now there’s a fake, wanna-be vamp in my section and I don’t trust him one bit.”
She had to grab onto the back of the toilet to keep her knees from buckling at the tone of his dangerously seductive voice as he replied to her breathless whatever you would call that paragraph above.
“No, he doesn’t have a terrible accent or sideburns either one so it’s not Pheel Compt (she figured his last name was thusly shortened to match his penile stature) coming back around, but he’s got this weird copper colored hair that that looks like it lost a fight with a weed-eater, and he’s wearing emo-jeans for cryin’ out loud!”
She gave up and frantically sat down on the toilet seat as she listened to his hungry yet tender reply, his voice both raspy and teasing.
“Hell no I ain’t goin’ outside or off by myself with him here – I ain’t that stupid. I saw him earlier today at the library and he asked me out for tonight, but I told him that I had to work, and he asked me where. Since (regardless of Meridian and some other fic writers’ bold and mighty efforts) I’m still kind of dumb about people (even though I’ve listened to their brains all my life and should have learned better by the time I was five) I told him that I was working here tonight, and damn but here he is. Can you imagine that?!?”
“Ok, ok, I get it,” she mewled, then continued somehow both jerkily and huskily, “but can you help, you big strong Viking? You are, after all, the Sheriff of this area and are supposed to be in charge of all-things-Supe, plus you’re my Vampire Viking boyfriend, too.”
There were no blurts in this section, but there may have been a growled rumbling mutter or two.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she whimpered and simpered and blew his house down. “Well, I gotta go. Maxine is gettin’ ready to order her 14th basket of curly fries and a refill of her Diet Coke. I’ll see ya…” Just then Snookie heard Feric’s patented theme song – usually it was Cher’s Just Like Jesse James but tonight it was NIN’s Fuck You Like An Animal (she really needed to have a talk with Feric about which theme song was appropriate for which occasion…) – strike up, so she put her cell phone back in her pocket and exited the ladies’ room.
**A/N: Still with me? Gagging? Too busy running in the direction of away to talk about it? Love it? Hate it? Could you tell where cracked on my own works?**