and things went downhill from there

I thought that I was done writing for the Bolt fandom, other than a silly one-shot ghost story that's been simmering in the back of my mind for some time.

Then out of nowhere, the idea for Madame Bolt came slamming into my brain. So not only did I write another story for the fandom, but it's a ships a dog and a cat (which, if I remember from Ghost Busters, is a sign of the end times).

"Wags," said Mittens smoothly, "I want you to know that I am saying this in the most loving and unironic way that I can. I genuinely wish you had a day job so that I could tell you not to quit it."

I have two Transformers stories plotted out and waiting in the wings, but as quickly as I finished this one, I was slapped upside the head with another idea for a story in the Bolt fandom. I went as far as to hammer out a rough outline the other day for what looks (if I decide to write it) like it would be three chapters long and deal with some touchy subjects involving trauma and conflict. Filled with the usual silliness to keep it from getting too dark, mind you.

Bolt rounded the corner and scrabbled to a stop on the hardwood floor with a whimper of surprise as soon as he laid eyes on the cat. Mittens was lying on the edge of her cushion with one paw hanging languidly over the edge. She was slowly swirling its tip as if stirring a pot of ennui. The cat heaved a deep sigh and cast a brief sidelong glance at the dog as he rounded the corner into the room, but otherwise didn't acknowledge his presence.

"Why are you wearing Penny's spiked collar? And..." the shepherd frowned. "Is that black eye-liner and lipstick? Did Penny do this to you?"

Mittens gave another long, slow sigh as if the weight of the entire world was weighing down on her feline breast. "It is so that when I look into the mirror, it reflects the true Stygian pit of my hopelessness." she said in a tone usually reserved for announcing the death of a beloved friend. "The black, gelid ichor of my soul oozes from my lips and eyes, leaving me hollow and bereft of life's ephemeral joys."

"I... I don't know how to feel about this -- everything about it is wrong" said Bolt, rubbing his forehead with his forepaws and suppressing a whine of confusion. "On the one hand, I'm way more into it than I have any right to be."

It's been some time since I posted a story here, but I'm still writing these days. My last couple of efforts have been in the Bolt fandom again, but I've got a couple of Transformers stories in the pipeline as well - including a remake of a popular fable set in the Transformers universe.

I've settled on Archive Of Our Own (AO3) as my repository of choice for my writing these days. I'll link to them here going forward, but I am not sure if I will be copying and pasting them over going forward. It's a lot of work to fix up the formatting.

My most recent efforts are a two-parter in a fandom for which I vowed I would only ever write one story. Maybe two.

Summary:

---

Penny's mom inherits a cabin from somebody who is ostensibly a relative. Then nothing happens. This is one of those character-driven stories where there's lots of talking and hurt and comfort and stuff.

Edit: One of my beta readers has told me that my summary might not draw in a reader. Try this:

Imagine if the movie "Bolt" had been the product of some experimental mid-century Swedish director, with lots of essentially static, stark black and white moments with a split-screen of two actors' faces against a Stygian background, one facing right and the other facing the viewer. Their pallid visages betray no emotion as they stoically talk over each other, voicing their feelings of emptiness and ennui in the face of a meaningless existence. They end by saying, "I am alone, even when we are together" in unison.

Now imagine if this story is nothing like that, other than lots of dialogue and character interaction. And a hamster and a dog and a cat.

The Cabin In The Woods - Plonq - Bolt (2008) [Archive of Our Own]

Summary:

---

Bolt finally manages to get both of his fuzzy friends up to the family cabin in the mountains, but his obsession over keeping Penny safe from mundane chores leads to conflict and misadventure. For those wondering about the title, I decided not to post Part 2 because it was just a lot of driving, and various characters whining, "are we there yet?"

This is functionally the sequel to The Cabin In The Woods, but I wrote this story so that it would stand on its own if you missed the prequel. (But the other one is a fun story too, so I recommend it! ;)

The Cabin In The Woods - Part 3 - Plonq - Bolt (2008) [Archive of Our Own]

I got a comment recently on a story that I posted late last year. I was genuinely pleased and surprised to get a comment on the story - especially a positive one - given that it deals with dark themes like homophobia and workplace violence. Also, posting a furry story on AO3 is like posting into a void - it has a very minor presence there. Finally, the story drifts between drama and comedy, so I imagine it would be a tough read if one favoured one over the other.

One of the things that this person mentioned was that they felt like the characters in the story felt very real (I mean, within the realm of them being anthropomorphic animals).

I admitted to them that part of the reason for that is because most of the characters in the story are based on real people. I have found that the easiest way to bring a person to life in a story is to base them on a real, living person. I change the names and situations, but the voice and personalities are plagiarized from real, living beings.

I remember hearing a radio interview with an author many years ago who, when she was praised for the same thing (having believable characters), admitted to the same thing. She said that the characters in her stories - good and bad - were based on real people. She warned, "meeting me in person is tacit permission to appear as a character in one of my stories. The more of an impression you leave on me, the more likely you are to show up."

(For the record, it's this story. It's probably the most ambitious piece I've written to date, so I've always considered it more of a passion project than a story that's likely to garner broad appeal.)

"Christmas Dinner in a Can"

The bold, Old English indictment on the huge can was green with snowflakes on it, and it was festooned with badly drawn tinsel and holly leaves. Just under that in a smaller, red Sans Serif subtext it read, "Your complete holiday meal in a can!" Below the script was a vignette of a table decorated for the holidays and laden down with a turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and all of the other traditional trimmings that were usually found in such images. It faded to white around the edges, blending into a snow-covered pastoral scene.

The can sloshed unappetizingly when shaken.

It was perfect.

Plonq leaned on the counter with his head resting on his left forearm while he slowly turned the can with his other hand to closely admire his prize from all angles. He was careful to ignore the ingredient list which was folded up and held to the can by a moderately low tack adhesive. He had unfolded the 30cm list earlier, but he'd folded it up again just as quickly after spotting uncomfortably numerous listings of ingredients like "Propyl Gallate", "Potassium Bromate", "Butylated Hydroxyanisole", and other additives that were harder to pronounce. He was sure that they were all probably food-safe or they would not have been added.

The dumpy little snow leopard likely would have spent much longer admiring his prize had the moment not been interrupted by the awkward, syncopated clop of his housemate stumbling awkwardly into the kitchen.

"Hey, stop staring at that abomination and do something useful," said Giblet. The otter stumbled around to face away from the cat and pointed at his back. "Zip me up."

Zipping up the back of the otter's costume proved to be an almost insurmountable challenge. It took several minutes of coordinated cooperation between the two, with the otter holding his hands above his head while holding his breath and sucking in his gut as needed, but eventually the snow leopard managed to accomplish the task. He had to work the zipper one or two teeth at a time, constantly pausing to poke otter fur out of the way of the slider before it finally passed a critical threshold and slid the rest of the way with a satisfying, "Zooooop!"

"How do I look?" The otter held his hands over his head in a ballerina ... esque loop and did his best attempt at a pirouette. The manoeuvre might have had a close brush with elegance, save that the mustelid wobbled dangerously as he fought to not fall off his ridiculous footwear. Giblet was dressed in what the snow leopard could only describe as a red-sequinned onesie with white faux fur lining the openings for the legs, armless sleeves, and a low cut V down the front. He complemented that with sheer fishnet stockings and black, knee-height, high-heeled boots.  Across the back of the costume, split by the zipper were the words, Santa's "Helper" (Plonq chose not to wonder why the word "Helper" was in quotes).

He completed the costume with thin, elbow-length black gloves, clip-on antlers, and plastic mistletoe tied tastefully above his tail with a piece of red ribbon.

"You look like a slutty reindeer in danger of splitting its seams," said Plonq dryly.

The otter sighed, and gave his tummy a wiggle through the costume. "This fit a lot better the first time I wore it," he said. "I think I know a couple of roomies who have 'lose weight' on their New Year's resolutions this year."

"Hey, do not count me in on your failed plans..." began Plonq, but before he could dodge, the otter leapt forward and gave the cat's tummy a firm jiggle with both of his hands. "Hey!"

"When that stops moving, we'll talk about who does and doesn't need to lose a few kilos," said the otter. He reached over and gave the can on the counter a turn, eying it with an unmistakable expression of disapproval. "You're welcome to come to the party as well," he said. "They told me I could bring friends. Also, give me your arm. I have about ten minutes to re-learn how to walk in these things before my ride gets here."

Plonq locked elbows with the otter, and helped steady the wobbly mustelid as they walked back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. With each pass, Giblet grew a bit more confident and balanced.

"There would not be anybody that I know, and it does not seem like my kind of party..." said the snow leopard, looking askance at his housemate.

"Oh, you'll fine. You'd know me and you know Anthony... oh wait, it's my getup, isn't it? Trust me; this will be coming off as soon as the kids leave!"

"The kids ..."

Giblet glanced over at the snow leopard and then gave the cat's arm a squeeze. "Tell me," he said sweetly, "exactly what kind of party it is you think I am attending?" He didn't wait for the feline to respond. "Notwithstanding the fact that I have mentioned this party to you at least three times in as many weeks."

The otter knew that Plonq had tuned out everything he'd said about the party beyond the mere fact of its existence. The cat had a deep-seated aversion to parties and gatherings of any kind where more than himself, and perhaps one other person of his choosing attended. Giblet strutted around the feline, rotating the other 180° so that he could practise walking back toward the kitchen again.

"Once again," said the otter in a slow, patient tone, "Anthony and his family have an annual tradition where they rent a hall and invite the neighbours to the local community hall for a big Christmas shindig. The neighbourhood sponsors three or four needy families to come as well who go home with food hampers and presents all around. "

Giblet stutter-stepped a couple of times and had to windmill his free arm to regain his balance. "One of the reindeer who volunteered to help corral the kids for Santa came down with a mild case of hoof and mouth, and has to stay home and avoid contact with other ungulates. Anthony knows that I am good at intimidating kids into line, so he asked if I could fill in. I remembered that I had this costume from a Halloween party a few years ago - though I forgot that it was the Sexy Santa's Helper costume - so I said I would do what I could." The otter giggled. "Whatever. I'm doing them a favour, and if anyone complains about the costume..." He slapped his right buttock firmly with is free hand. "They can kiss me under the mistletoe."

The slap was enough to literally knock the hapless otter off his feet. He frantically pulled his elbow free of the snow leopard so that he could wave both of his arms frantically and stumble around in an increasingly unstable wobble. As he started to fall backward, he felt two arms catch him under the pits, and he slumped back into his roommate with his head resting back against the other's chest.

"Ugh!" grumbled the otter as he found himself hanging in the feline's arms with both of his ankles turned askew. He felt the snow leopard tremble a bit trying to hold up his entire weight, but he hung in Plonq's arms for a few moments longer. The otter looked up and found himself addressing the cat's chin.

"All I'm saying," Giblet said, "is that I'd be a lot more comfortable if you were at the party with me instead of staying here with that abomination in the kitchen." With the feline's help he managed to struggle his feet back into their proper, upright orientation, and he deftly reattached himself to his friend's elbow. "I already lost everything I had in a mysterious blaze, and I don't want to come home and find my best friend and house on fire."

"I will be fine," said Plonq. The otter could almost hear the eye-roll in the snow leopard's voice. "I promise not to set myself ablaze this year."

Giblet was reasonably steady on his feet by the time Anthony arrived to take him to the party. The tiger gave a small yowl of surprise, though not necessarily of disapproval, when he caught sight of the otter's skimpy costume. "Are you sure that's the right choice of attire for tonight? You're going to freeze when we go caroling later."

"Got that covered." Giblet walked cautiously, but confidently back to his bedroom. In spite of himself, Plonq caught himself watching the strangely alluring sway of the otter's hips as he walked in the ridiculous high heels. He glanced over at the tiger and saw that Anthony also appeared to be nigh hypnotized by the motion. The tiger caught his glance.

"Saw you looking," said the striped cat as he gave Plonq a gentle elbow to the side, "I dare you to tell me that my boyfriend isn't hot as hell."

"I am not the best judge of beauty in men," admitted Plonq, "but the otter is not without his charms."

A moment later, the mustelid emerged from the bedroom holding a large, bulging black garbage bag in both hands. "I'm bringing a change of clothes with me," he said. "Aside from being cold, this costume seems to have shrunk a bit over the years and is not conducive to ... breathing."

Plonq watched from the window as the other two walked out to the tiger's car. While they walked, the tiger's hand slowly slid over to the otter's butt. Giblet playfully slapped it away, but the hand returned again a moment later like it had a mind of its own. The snow leopard watched until the two buckled into Anthony's car and pulled away from the curb.

"Finally, my precious," hissed Plonq as he wrung his hands with glee and scuttled toward the kitchen. "We have the house to ourselves. It is just you and me..." He hesitated, before adding "and a bottle of 12-year old Macallan."

Ten minutes later, the snow leopard was into his second tumbler of scotch, and even deeper in a dark sea of doubt as he finished reading the preparation instructions on the can. He took another swallow of scotch, pushed the reading glasses down his snout, and peered down through them once more at the label.

CAUTION: This product contains live cultures. Contents may be under pressure. Direct can away from items that may be susceptible to stains or corrosion when opening. Keep away from open flames.

"So far, so good," he mewled, but it got worse from there.

STEP 1: Set your tandoor oven to 800C and ensure your kitchen has adequate ventilation. If you do not have a tandoor oven, set your regular oven to 260C and augment the cooking process with a gas torch as needed. WARNING:  It is not recommended that you try to heat this product in a microwave oven as the radiation may anger some ingredients.

The feline moved his finger from the caution to the first instruction and back again while the words of his departed roommate echoed in his head.

Keep away from open flames.

"I don't want to come home and find my best friend and house on fire."

Augment the cooking process with a gas torch as needed.

"I don't want to come home and find my best friend and house on fire."

Plonq gave a deep sigh of resignation. Sadly, they did not own a gas torch.

They did own some lighters left over from the days when they still smoked, and he knew that the otter had a few aerosol-based grooming products, but Plonq was still hesitant. He respected Giblet's privacy too much to dig through his room, and he wasn't sure how any unburnt particulate from the makeshift torch would affect the flavour of the food.

He mulled on his quandary. In theory, the contents of the can were already cooked and just needed to be reheated, but there was a dire warning on the lid next to the pull tab that read, "DANGER: Don't even think about eating this cold from the can."

The snow leopard packed the can, scotch, and tumbler and wandered out to the living room so that he could stare at the Christmas tree and ponder; surely its gay adornments of blinking lights and gaudy baubles held an answer. His favourite corner of the couch also helped sooth his mind when he needed to think clearly.

"I cannot believe that for want of a torch, I am forced to scuttle my Christmas plans," he muttered. He drained his glass, and as he reached for the bottle to refill it, he amended, "well, most of them anyway." Plonq held the can in his lap, slowly turning it in one hand while he held his tumbler in the other and stared into the tree for inspiration. He drained the glass and without taking his eyes from the tree, he set it on the table and refilled it again.

"You know what you have to do," the twinkling lights seemed to say. "It is so obvious and clear, Plonq. When life gives you lemons, you go to the back mudroom for the hockey mask and ax...hey, watch what you are doing!"

Plonq cursed and sat up quickly, letting go of the can and brushing his wet chest. In his reverie, he had completely missed his mouth when taking another drink of scotch. He put the tumbler on the table beside him and then reacted too late when he felt the can rolling down his lap. It narrowly escaped his reach, continued down his leg and thumped loudly to a stop against the leg of the coffee table.

As he was bending down to pick it up, Plonq spotted a folded note on the selfsame table, held down by a small, pewter Santa Claus. On top, in the otter's handwriting it simply read, "Plonq". He put the large can on the coffee table and slid the paper out from under the metal likeness of Saint Nicholas.

"Hey buddy," it read when he opened it. "If you are seeing this note then it means your plans have fallen apart, and you're sitting on the corner of the couch brooding. The party is just starting, and you are always welcome to come. Don't even think of driving because I know you've been into the scotch." The otter ended the note with a rough, hand-drawn map to the party with crudely sketched mistletoe marking the party site. The cat glanced at the partly drained scotch, the abandoned can of dinner, and then back at the note. He found himself a bit uncomfortable with how well the otter knew him.

He read the note again and then paused.

"...your plans have fallen apart..."

He'd had a new plan forming though, hadn't he? Plonq scratched his head furiously and tried to remember what he'd been thinking about right before spilling his drink. He stared into the tree again for inspiration, but his stomach rumbled loudly and disrupted any thoughts that might have considered forming. The cat glanced wistfully at the tinned dinner on the coffee table, and then his mind wandered back to the otter's earlier promise of a delicious spread at the party. His stomach grumbled at him again; with that, the snow leopard decided that it was either time to order food or wander over to the party.

The first thing he did, though, was put the cork back on the scotch. Plonq knew the danger of drinking on an empty stomach. The last time he'd let himself do that, he'd awoken with a blistering hangover, no memory, and a priority shipment of a dozen digital meat thermometers from Amazon. Admittedly they were nice thermometers, and he'd had ready Christmas gifts for the next three years. Still, he had room for regrets on his credit card and he chose not to risk more scotch.

"Right," he sighed, "I guess the party it is, then."

"Trust me; this will be coming off as soon as the kids leave!"

Plonq grabbed the bottle, yanked out the cork and took two more good slugs of the strong liquor. He'd forgotten about the kids. He eyed the level of the liquid, gave an approving nod and corked it again. Unless his physiology had changed significantly since his last solid binge, he felt that he should be sufficiently fortified to face whatever the kids might throw his way.

Plonq dressed himself in a sensible coat that was neither heavy enough to overheat him, nor so light as to make concerned strangers stop him every couple of blocks to ask if he was warm enough. It was a little distressing to him how so few people realized that snow leopards were literally built for the winter. Also, it was not like he was stepping out into the ninth level of Hell. The cold was bracing, but not paralyzing; it was just enough of a chill to put points or shrinkage on improperly insulated body parts. It was a cold that froze one's breath, but not their boogers.

It was, in his lightly soused snow leopardly opinion, quite nice, thank you.

The cat had been giving some thought to hiring a car for the journey, but as soon as his first few breaths of the fresh air burst around him in glittering clouds of fog, he decided to walk. If he maintained focus, he could make it there in just over an hour, and as he filtered through the otter's various mentions of the party in his brain, he was pretty sure that it was at least two hours until they served dinner. He jammed his phone, keys and wallet into his jacket and began to hike.

Their house was located in one of those awkward urban areas that resided between downtown and the suburbs. As it was sandwiched between "I wouldn't raise a kid there" and "we lock the car windows when we drive through", people in other parts of town judged it by its neighbours and gave askance looks at folks who lived there by choice. Its location meant that if one were out walking - especially after dark - it meant they needed to choose their route carefully to avoid straying into a nastier clime.

While the optimal walking route was generally safe and well-lit, its downside was that it also led past a number of sketchy retail outlets. That would not have been a problem in normal times, but the end of the store-front Santa season was drawing nigh, and those self-same Saint Nicks were all vying to make their year-end quotas. Plonq had been victimized by predatory Santas in the past, so he had factored many detours across the street into his estimated arrival time.

The cat's strategy of avoidance worked for the most part, though he had a couple of close calls where a Santa lurked on the blind side of a corner from him. He narrowly escaped those encounters by walking briskly past, stoically avoiding eye contact and feigning deafness. Even so, he flinched a little at the passive-aggressive comments the scorned Saint Nicholae - "...or however you pluralize that name," he thought - tossed at his parting back.

"Ho! Ho! Ho! I guess little Timmy is going hungry this Christmas."

"Have a Merry Christmas anyway, tightwad."

Plonq kept up his brisk pace until his route finally veered away from downtown, leaving the danger zone behind him. Once he felt safe to do so, the cat stopped in front of a very dark store front to catch his breath and unzip his jacket. Had he not unwisely lowered his guard, the feline might have noticed the murky figure lurking in the shadows by the darkened store's egress. His first hint that he was not alone was a soft shuffle of feet on the pavement.

"Hey buddy, can you spare some change?" asked a raspy voice from the shadows.

The feline's fight-or-flight mechanism, which had kicked into overdrive at first, slowly stood down again. "Thank goodness, it's just a dangerous junkie," he thought in relief. The release was short-lived though when he caught the tentative jingle of a bell.

"It's for the kids," said the figure, and as it stepped out into the comparative blaze of the LED street lamp down the block, Plonq found himself facing the sketchiest Santa he'd ever beheld. The grizzled ibex looked like he had spent his youth losing games of chicken with cliff faces. His left cheek looked like it had probably been broken more than once, leaving him with a permanent squint in that eye. He wore an ill-fitting beard that hung a full three centimetres below his chin, and a rumpled Santa hat perched jauntily on the broken remains of his right horn. His red coat draped loosely on his gaunt frame in exactly the way it was not designed to do.

"Why are you skulking in the shadows?" demanded Plonq. "I thought there were rules about where a Santa was allowed to set up."

"So ... I'm an unlicensed Santa - sue me," said the Ibex, holding up his hands in admission of guilt. "Still working for a good cause though," he added defensively. He shook his cluster of festive bells and pulled the money stand out of the shadows.  "Ho, ho, ho!"

Plonq could see that the Ibex appeared to have collected close to fifty dollars in spite of his efforts. "I am not parting with a single nickel until you identify the charity for which you are collecting," said the snow leopard cagily.

"Ugh," said the Ibex, rolling his eyes. "Why does nobody trust Santa anymore? Fiiiine..." He reached into his loose coat and pulled out an official-looking card for the feline to read.

"Royal Society for Orphans with IBS," it read.

"That is ... oddly specific," said Plonq in a tone that did little to mask his opinion about the dubious nature of the charity.

"It's an issue that is very close to my heart," replied the Ibex. He rubbed a hand over his lower abdomen. "Speaking of which, I know this may seem a very forward request of a stranger, but could you watch the money globe for me for a bit? I've got to run, if you know what I mean." He rubbed his nether regions again. "I mean really run."

"I..." began Plonq, but for all that the Ibex looked like he may have been peeled off the road before somebody dressed him as a Santa, the ragged goat proved to be very quick when he put his mind to it.

The Ibex stuffed the card into Plonq's hand and dashed into the shadows where he rummaged about in a tatty duffle bag before re-emerging with a can of antibacterial spray.  He took the cap off of his horn and sprayed the inside thoroughly. "This will kill lice too," he explained before jamming the hat on the hapless feline's head. He pulled off the coat, sprayed the insides thoroughly and draped it over the cat's shoulder, then shoved the bell cluster into the cat's other hand.

"I'll be back in five minutes - I swear," said the ibex as he turned and sprinted off into the night with his fake beard flapping in the breeze.

Plonq shrugged into the coat with his usual air of resignation and stood protectively by the hanging money orb. He occasionally gave the bells an unenthusiastic jingle. An hour and twenty minutes later he began to suspect that the absent Santa might not have been planning to return after all. The cat's annoyance was tempered by disappointment because he'd wanted to show the other that he'd managed to raise almost twenty-five dollars in his absence (it was amazing how a friendly baring of sharp teeth tended to loosen people's purse strings).

Surely the other would return though, because he'd left his duffel bag behind. Wondering if the satchel might contain a clue to the Ibex's identity, Plonq's curiosity finally overcame his respect for the other's privacy and he crouched down to dig through the bag.

"Ack!" he yowled when he discovered that it was stuffed full of nothing but cans of antibacterial spray. "I have been played for a sucker!"

The feline began frantically running through escape scenarios in his head, but most of them involved leaving the Santa outfit and money globe behind, and he was reluctant to abandon the proceeds for what he assumed was a genuine charity. Fortunately, his salvation arrived in the form of a Christmas miracle that looked a lot like a short panda in a heavy winter coat.

The tubby little bear was waddling in a beeline toward the snow leopard, and before the latter could begin his spiel, the bear flashed a badge at him. "Santa police," said the panda. "I've received reports of unlicensed Saint Nicholas activity in the area."

Plonq was about to voice an angry denial when he realized that he did not actually have a license, and that he was in danger of missing dinner if he did not act quickly. He felt his heart shrink three sizes as a plan began to gel in his mind.

"You have me there," he said smoothly. "I admit that I do not have a license, but this charity is so close to my heart that I could not let the lack of proper credentials get in my way of doing right by them."

"Uh," the panda took the card that the feline offered him and held it up to the light for inspection. "I can't say that I've heard of these guys. Also, this cause seems awfully specific."

"Speaking of IBS," purred Plonq. He had fetched a fresh can from the duffel bag and was giving it a shake. "I promise that I will turn myself in on my return, but I would be endlessly grateful if you could do me a huge favour..."

The dumpy snow leopard did not stop running until his breath was coming in raspy gasps. He had rounded the corner and figured that he had put at least two blocks between himself and the officer by that point, so he felt safe to walk again. "I did promise to turn myself in when I returned," he thought as his conscience panged a bit, "but I never actually promised to return."

In spite of a stitch in his side, the feline kept up a brisk pace for the rest of his walk. His stint as Santa had cost him a lot of precious time, and the clock was working against him if he hoped to find any dinner scraps remaining when he finally arrived at the party. Fortunately, the rest of his stroll was uneventful. Unfortunately, his arrival at the destination was even more uneventful.

The hall at the end of his journey was cold, dark and empty. The marquee out in front of it read, "Closed for the season. Merry Christmas."

It occurred to Plonq then that there was a remote possibility that he had misread the otter's instructions. He thought back to when he'd had a niggling of doubt during his walk, which he had dismissed as the effects of hunger and alcohol. "I knew I should have taken that left at Albuquerque Street," he lamented. The feline gave himself a figurative kick for his hubris in leaving the written instructions and map at home, but he quickly reminded himself that regrets and self-recrimination did little to fill one's stomach.

"I need another Christmas miracle," he sighed. That selfsame holiday wonder came in the form of a grubby, barely-readable sign around the next corner.

Ş̸á͜m̸͘͟'҉̷s͜ ̧̕͝S̶u͘͝͝s͘͠͞h̴҉į ̸̷̷& ̸S͠t͘u̶̕f͘͟͏f̡͞͝

Sushi! Surely one could not get much more festive than the red and green of tuna belly and wasabi!

Yellow light barely streamed from the grime and frost-encrusted windows of the restaurant, but Plonq could just make out the orange ghost of an OPEN sign blinking on the other side.  The feline pulled open the front door and stepped into a small restaurant whose dank air was heavy with the smell of vinegar, fish, brine and mildew.  Almost immediately his glasses iced over, and the cat was forced to remove them before he could take in the rest of the scene.

The dining room could not have been larger than twenty square meters.  It consisted of a smattering of Arborite-topped metal tables with padded vinyl chairs on a peeling linoleum floor, all lit by bare, humming fluorescent tubes. Opposite the door was a sushi bar with a few padded stools, watched over by a burly shark that had been playing with his phone when the snow leopard first entered.

"Oh, hey," said the shark. He gave the feline a hearty wave. "I was just thinking about closing up early, but I never turn away business. Come on up to the bar and we'll get you set with something quick." As Plonq made his way through the tables toward the bar, he opened his mouth to speak, but the shark held up an index finger. The great fish turned to his side and plunged his head into an open-topped barrel that had a steady flow of brackish water spilling over its edges into a surrounding floor grate. A moment later, the shark stood upright while a flood of water poured out of his gills.

"Damn phone," he quipped. "Gonna be the death of me. I get so caught up that I forget to breathe sometimes." He motioned the cat onto a stool and continued once the other was seated. "So what can I whip up for you this evening?"

"Butterfish sashimi," said Plonq, licking his muzzle in anticipation.

"OK," said the shark, "and what else?"

"More butterfish," replied the cat.

"Whoa, gonna stop you right there," said the shark with a wave of his hands. "You can't just eat butterfish. All that oil will go right through you if you know what I mean."

"Oh," said Plonq with a hint of disappointment in his voice, but he ceded to the other's wisdom. "Okay, may I please have the sashimi dinner with an extra side of butterfish?"

The shark looked over his selection of fish. "Doesn't look like I have any butterfish cut up yet," he said. He held out his left arm over an opening in the counter top that was filled to a centimetre below the surface with swirling water. Plonq felt an uneasy twitch in his stomach when he noticed that the shark had a lamprey attached to the back of his arm. It had been hidden by the shark's bulk, but now it hung stubbornly from his flesh.

"Yo, go get me an escolar," said the shark, giving his arm a firm shake over the open water. The lamprey gave its tail a couple of irritated twitches, but did not relinquish its hold. "Get me an escolar you useless eel," said the shark, giving it a more vigorous shake. "You've had enough to eat. You're going to get fat. You know the deal; you either fetch me menu items or become one."

If lampreys could sigh, this one clearly would have done so, but it reluctantly released its hold on the shark's arm and dropped into the water with a hearty splash. The shark grabbed a towel from the bar top and dabbed away the blood where the other had been attached. Plonq noticed that the arm was pocked with innumerable scars from earlier feedings. "Stupid creature," grumbled the shark.

A moment later a fish flew out of the water and lay gasping and flapping on the counter. The lamprey poked its head out of the water and glared up at the shark expectantly.

"Does this look like an escolar to you?" he groused with an angry show of teeth. "This is a friggin' red snapper, you dumb critter." He picked up the thrashing fish and slapped the lamprey across the head with it before dropping the hapless fish back in the water. "Now do your job."

"Is that your, uh, assistant?" asked Plonq in an attempt to break the awkwardness with polite conversation.

"Pet," said the shark simply. "I'd have flushed him down the toilet a long time ago but he's a gift from the in-laws."

The lamprey (whom Plonq later learned was named Irvine) returned the right fish on its second try, and the feline enjoyed a fine sashimi feast. He washed it down with enough sake to embolden him to pet the lamprey that - the shark assured him - loved to be tickled under what passed for a chin.

In spite of his earlier rumblings about closing early, the shark kept the snow leopard late into the evening, even breaking out his private sake reserve to share with the cat. They talked, laughed, drank sake, and tried some of the experimental sushi rolls that the great fish had been thinking about adding to his menu.

It was, the cat concluded, a most cromulent Christmas after all.

---

This story takes place in the same story universe as the previous story I posted here, and could be considered a loose sequel to it.

Unless I feel heavily inspired at some future point, this may be the last story I write with these characters. I like to think that my love for them comes through the writing, but the world has moved on, as has the audience them.

I am not fishing for sympathy or praise, I'm just a little discouraged that the last five stories I've posted here have been met by, well, nothing. I've no evidence that anybody other than my beta readers has even saw them. 

There is a quote that is (probably apocryphally) attributed to Einstein on how the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result. I love writing, but tossing stories out into the silent void with only faith that somebody out there is reading and enjoying them is a little ... discouraging.

I am not going to stop writing, but going forward I am probably going to concentrate on specific fandoms (My Little Pony, Transformers, etc) where I know there is an audience.

I was going to post this segment by itself because it is the longest in the story, but the final two parts are very short and I didn't think it was worth dragging this out for another day.

Enjoy ... or something.

---

"...out there right now; you are all scum barely worthy of lingering in Lord Megatron's exhaust," shrieked Starscream. As usual, he had read his audience perfectly and finely modulated his voice circuit to exactly the right tone to make every person present - man or machine - desire nothing more than to punch him in the face. As he spoke, the giant con paced back and forth before the group of humans with his arms crossed.

"If I disagreed with our leader's plan I would call this lunacy, idiocy and the signs of an unhinged individual who is unworthy to lead the Decepticons. However, since the plan has not yet had a chance to fail spectacularly, it would be premature for me to call on all Decepticons to flock to me, overthrow this overblown tyrant and show the universe the true power of the Decepticons under competent leadership."

"Enough," thundered Megatron, who had been standing slightly behind and to the left of Starscream. He stepped forward and elbowed his lieutenant brusquely aside. "Starscream, surely you have some menial duties to perform."

"Of course, Lord Megatron," said Starscream in an oily, obsequious tone. He tapped his fingertips together and bowed before his leader. "I'll just excuse myself to stand over with the other seekers where we will attend to ... menial duties that do not involve plotting against superiors." The jet backed away, bowing once more in a manner that none would ever mistake for reverence. If it was possible to imbue physical movements with sarcasm, Starscream had certainly mastered the art.

"Meat creatures," said Megatron, cranking the melodrama in his audio output to 11. He extended his arm and waved it over the group of humans. "Normally I would have you all eviscerated and thrown off the cliff as an example to others of your worthless kind for daring to enter Decepticon territory, but today I am feeling magnanimous because you have all brought items of great interest to me. If you deliver what I asked, I will let you leave here with your lives and even a fair payment."

The giant Decepticon crouched down and leaned low to focus his angry red optics on the humans, though the tallest of the humans had to bend very low as well in order to maintain eye contact.

"You did bring the things I ordered, didn't you?"

"Oh yes! Absolutely! You bet! Affirmative!" chorused the humans. There was a long, pregnant pause, interrupted only by furtive whispers among the seekers, coughs and shuffling of feet by the humans, and the rhythmic "CLANG CLANG CLANG" of Ravage trying to scratch an itch beneath his metal plating. Megatron remained bent low, burning into them with his angry red eyes.

"Well?" he said in a low, dangerous voice. "Don't trip over each other in your rush to hand it over."

"Sorry, your bigness," said Franco, with an awkward shrug. "I guess we all figured the others were gonna go first. I'll start." The human walked over to his car and elicited a double chirp from it with his key fob. The human popped the trunk and lifted out a metal briefcase. He carried it over to the crouching Decepticon and held it up for him. When Megatron made no move to take the case, he carefully stood it on the ground at his feet and backed away a couple of steps.

"It's all there," he said, "every last known sighting of Godzilla, and the Powerpuff Girls on Blu-Ray."

"All six seasons?" demanded Megatron with a measured growl in his vocalizer. The human swallowed and nodded emphatically. "Excellent," said Megatron. He focused his eyes on the next human before him.

Grant wilted slightly under the Decepticon leader's fiery gaze, but he quickly jumped into action. He jogged back to his car and opened the rear hatch. He paused a moment, staring into the back of his car before he whistled and pointed to Franco. "Yo, Franco, gimme a hand with this." The two men reached into the back of the car and, mutually grunting with effort, they carefully lifted an aluminum-looking frame out of the back.

The frame consisted of twelve alloy tubes bolted together into a glass-faced cube. Eight tubes extended inward at an angle to suspend a second, smaller glassed cube inside the first. The overall effect was that of a 3-D rendering of a tesseract. The glass of both cubes had the slightly smoky tinge of being heavily leaded, which was presumably to protect outsiders from whatever was radiating from the glowing, pulsating green ovoid inside the inner cube. The two men carefully placed the heavy frame next to the metal brief case and stood up, brushing their hands on their pants.

"There ya go," said Grant. "One kaiju egg, guaranteed to hatch if you zap it with enough gamma rays." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "I had to bribe some very important people to get my hands on this baby."

"What kind of kaiju? It's not one of those lame ones that has its own Greek chorus, is it?"

"I dunno, but I saw pictures. It's got wings and tentacles and it spews streams of radioactive acid." He shrugged. "It looked pretty bad-ass."

"Good, good," said Megatron. He wrung his hands together in a squeal and creak of metal on metal.

Ivar did not wait for a prompt before he ran to the car and fetched his offering. He returned to the group carrying a small, laptop computer.

"This thing has the blueprints for the latest model of Mechagodzilla," he said, flourishing it out with his left hand and bowing graciously. He glanced up again at the other two objects sitting in front of Megatron. "I'm just going to put it over here," he said, sidling to his left before setting it down, "away from all that radioactive stuff." As he stood and wheeled about to leave, he paused and turned back, tapping his chin in thought.

"One more thing," he said, "it was saying something about wanting to install a Windows update when I shut it down last night. You might want to make sure you postpone that when you turn it on so that it doesn't corrupt the files."

Everyone fell silent when they heard Megatron sharply suck in air through his vents. He stood and planted his hands on his hips. "I am not angry," he said, though is vocal tone suggested otherwise, "just disappointed. Decepticons are taught right from forging to disable automatic updates in the group policy." He turned his burning red glare to the final human. "And what have you brought me, human? Pray that you too do not disappoint me."

"Of course," said Bob. "I too have brought you something." The last human stood with a rev of very human engines, and walked over to his semitrailer emitting the whir and clunk of human servos. He pulled the trailer’s door open, saying, "I have brought you...," his human vocalizer buzzed and went still as his blue optics scanned around in the back of the truck. "Apparently, I have brought sandwiches," he said finally. He reached in and lifted out a large tray of sandwiches on the palm of one hand.

"Excellent," said Megatron. "An army functions best when its leader is well-fed."

Bob emitted what sounded like a sigh, and began reading off the labels. "I've got pastrami on rye, hold the mayo, double mustard..."

The giant human slowly unloaded the back of the truck, handing out sandwiches one by one until he finally got to the last. "Finally, I have an I Shall Overthrow That Fool Megatron and Claim What Is Rightfully Mine on toasted energon with condescension aioli, no irony, and a side of traitor chips."

The call was met with silence. Eyes and optics scanned around, looking for a taker.

"Come on, somebody must have ordered I Shall Overthrow That Fool Megatron and Claim What Is Rightfully Mine on toasted energon with a condescension aioli, no irony, and a side of traitor chips," said Bob with a hint of annoyance creeping into his vocals. "There are no refunds if somebody fails to claim their order. It was initialled with SS if that rings any bells." Again, there were just shrugs and glances tossed about.

"Starscream," thundered Megatron. "Didn't you order something to eat?"

"No, Lord Megatron," said Starscream, scuttling up quickly to fawn at his leader's feet. "I am, uh, trying to watch my svelte figure."

"Somebody claim that last sandwich so that we may dine in celebration of our pending victory over the Autobots," commanded Megatron with a longsuffering tone. He panned the small group of Decepticons who were present on the base with a baleful gaze.

"Mew," said Ravage.

"Finally!" thundered Megatron.

"Mew mew mew mew mew..." said Ravage, with each mew sounding more distressed and pathetic than the one before. All eyes turned to the cassette. The mechanical feline was hunkered down on his legs to the point where his metal belly was nearly touching the ground. His normally yellow eyes were looking uncharacteristically green, and his jagged maw was working. "Hurk!"

"No!" bellowed Megatron. "DO NOT! I just had this base plating re-clad, and you are standing over a critical junction box."

If the cat heard the leader, he showed no sign. "Hurk!"

Megatron grabbed his lieutenant's arm and physically flung him toward the cassette. "Starscream, deal with this at once!"

"At once, Lord Megatron," barked Starscream. He closed the distance to the hunkering cat in three long strides and swept up the little feline under one arm in a single motion. As he ran, Ravage kept time with his steps with a mantra of, "Hurk! Hurk! Hurk!"

"Hold it in you abhorrent creature," said Starscream with a sharp tone. "This is why I am not cat person. In fact when I am running things, there will be no pets on the base at all. You are always getting under our pedes, then eating things that make you regurgitate."

He reached the edge of the mesa and juggled the convulsing cassette. He held Ravage out at arm's length with his palms cupped under the cat’s armpits and his fingers touching across his sternum. "Okay, wretched creature, now disgorge your horrid vomitus."

Ravage's spasms stopped, and the little cassette went alarmingly quiet. With a whir of servos, his head slowly cranked around one hundred and eighty degrees until his angry yellow optics focused on those of Starscream. It took the bigger bot a moment to understand what was going on, but his optics widened in alarm.

"Do not!" Starscream commanded, but it was too late. With a squishy "blarg", the felinoid opened his mechanical maw and lobbed a bubbling green mass of horridness at a graceful arc over his own back. Starscream simultaneously let go of the smaller con and jumped back to safety, but it was too late. "GREAT UNICRON IT'S ALL OVER MY PEDES!"

"Excellent," said Megatron with an approving nod. "Now that the distractions are out of the way, let us continue with the details of our transaction. Since you have provided me with everything I requested, there is just the matter of determining a ... suitable reward," he said with an alarming gleam in his red optics.

"We had a deal," said Franco. The others picked up a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

"Yes, a ... deal," said Megatron. He clasped his giant metal hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth in front of the small line of humans and the goods they'd brought. "There is the unfortunate matter that you fulfilled your half of the deal before I fulfilled mine. Certainly that leaves me some latitude to ... renegotiate the terms."

The humans exchanged glances.

"I don't like the sound of this whole renegotiate thing," said Grant darkly. He stepped forward and ill-advisedly shook an angry fist in Megatron's direction. "You start pullin' stuff like that and you know what, you'll be dealing with my lawyer!" The giant bot clasped his hands over his face in horror.

"Oh no," he said in mock terror, "Not your lawyer!"

"Actually," said Bob, holding up one of his giant, metal, human fingers, "I have dealt with these lawyers before, and I can assure you they are fierce. I got my rig stuck under a bridge when I misread its height because it was displayed in human, decimal numerals. The civic government felt that I should be liable for the damages, and when I disagreed and refused to pay, they sent a team of these 'lawyers' after me. My chromed exhaust pipes got take to the cleaners if you know what I mean."

Megatron's red optics blinked, and then blinked again.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he said. He was about to say something else when an alarming squeak and almost organic gurgle erupted from his steel midriff. He clapped his hands over his midsection and frowned. "Curse my dual energon denaturing sacs," he said with a scowl. He glanced up and saw Starscream approaching the group again, cursing loudly and giving his slime-coated pedes a shake with every step. Behind him, Ravage was bounding around like a new-forge, sticking his metal muzzle into the base's disposal bins looking for tasty tidbits.

"Starscream," bellowed Megatron. The leader was showing obvious signs of distress now, and he was backing up toward a tall structure poised at the edge of the mesa. "Keep watch on our ... guests while I attend to some urgent matters in my portable, private command chamber."

"Of course, Lord Megatron," said Starscream with a sneer of acquiescence. Megatron exchanged glares with his officer, then turned and bolted into the small building, closing a crescent-moon emblazoned door behind him. Starscream's face took on an air of cool indifference, and he all but ignored the humans while making a show of buffing his metal fingers on his metal chest plate.

"You know," Starscream said, holding up his hand and inspecting it in the harsh lights of the base after a minute, "I have always argued that the placement of that private booth is precarious." He flexed his fingers a couple of times and made a show of flicking some imaginary dirt off of one. "But Lord Megatron knows best. He wants a clear view of his 'future domain' while he 'contemplates on his duties of leadership'."

The seeker spun on his heel and strode over to the small structure. "If I were not so loyal and trustworthy, it would be a trivial matter to do this!" He raised his right pede, planted it firmly on the side of the small structure and gave it a tremendous shove. The look of shock on his face betrayed his surprise at what happened next, as the little structure teetered alarmingly and tumbled over the cliff.

"STARSCREAM, I WILL DESTROY YOU...," came the murderous bellow of Megatron from inside the structure. If he yelled anything else, it was lost to distance, and the crash and bang of the structure tumbling away to the plains below.

Starscream stared mutely down the cliff for a moment longer, then his frame relaxed and he turned abruptly to face the base again. He stood tall on the edge of the cliff and assumed what everyone supposed was a commanding stance.

"Lord Megatron has fallen," he cried shrilly. "I, Starscream, now lead the Decepticons!"

"All hail Lord Starscream," droned the Decepticons on the base in a tone that bespoke of much practise.

Starscream pointed to the nearest con. "You, random seeker, go fetch some cleaning rags and polish for my pedes. While you are at it, get hold of Soundwave and tell him to come and get his cassette before I have it stripped to the last bolt and sold off as scrap."

He pointed at the collection items that the humans had brought for Megatron. "Next, I want those ridiculous things out of my sight! What madness gripped our dear, fallen leader to even consider such a hare-brained plan? Go on, get them out of here."

Bob swept everything up in his arms and double-timed it to his trailer. "I will just put these in this trailer so that you don't have to see them," he said as he tossed the lot into the back and sealed the doors.

"Fine, whatever," said Starscream with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Now that I am in command, we are going to run things a little differently." He marched back and forth along the edge of the mesa, slamming a fist into his other palm as he spoke. "No more ridiculous schemes that have no measureable chance of success. No more side-deals with the humans. Our first task will be to start building very large bombs, and orbital platforms to drop them from."

"But Lord Starscream," said Dirge, stepping up from the ranks and waggling a finger at the leader. "Bombs and platforms aren't the way we Decepticons do things!"

Starscream leveled his blaster at the other con and unloaded five shots into his chest. As Dirge lay, twitching and sparking on the ground, Starscream scratched his chin. "You raise a good point," he said. He waved his blaster in the general direction of the other seekers. "We will need to work on changing our culture first. Does anyone else here have anything they wish to add?"

Other than the sound of nervously shuffling pedes, and the clank of somebody climbing the cliff behind Starscream, there was nary a sound.

"Good," said Starscream with an approving nod. "It helps when we are all on the same page."

"I have something to add," bellowed a familiar voice from the edge of the cliff. Starscream whirled in surprise as Megatron's head and upper torso appeared over the edge of the cliff. The giant bot hoisted himself up one forearm lying flat across the edge of the mesa while he lowered his other arm with an impressively large blaster pointed at Starscream. The blaster was audibly winding up with a very large charge.

"Oh for..." said Starscream with a screech of indignation in his voice. He raised his pede and kicked Megatron solidly in the solar plexus, dislodging the giant Decepticon's grip on the cliff. Even as he started to tumble, Megatron let loose with the blaster. The other bot's kick threw off his aim, though, and the tremendous mauve bolt just clipped one of Starscream's wingtips before deflecting at a low angle into the sky, towards the moon that was rising in the east. Megatron tumbled out of sight again with a roar of annoyance.

"That was a very angry bolt," said Bob slowly.

"Wow," agreed Ravage.

Starscream used a finger and thumb to douse the glowing tip of his wing where Megatron's blast had singed it, then after a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder, he cried, "Lord Megatron has fallen ... again. I, Starscream, am once again the leader of..."

"Nothing," thundered Megatron. He soared over the cliff on his thrusters and tackled the startled seeker in a thunderous crash of metal on metal. He sat astride Starscream with his blaster jammed under the prone jet’s chin. "You are the leader of ... nothing!" He leaned his face close to Starscream's, his red eyes blazing so bright that the seeker looked like he might melt under their glare. "It seems we both forgot I could fly. Do you have any last words?"

"Yes," said Starscream, his own eyes blazing back up at the leaders. He squirmed slightly. "Are you as turned on as I am right now?"

"You know how much I love it when you get rough and seditious," said Megatron with a throaty growl in his vocals. He stood and yanked the seeker back to his feet. Without loosening his grip on Starscream's wrist he waved vaguely in the direction of the other bots with his other hand before pointing at the first one that caught his eye. "You," he said, leveling a digit at Ravage. "Deal with ... all this."

"Mew?" said Ravage, but Megatron did not respond; he and Starscream turned as one and started walking briskly toward the main Decepticon bunkers. While they walked, Starscream's free arm reached awkwardly back so that his hand could rest on the rear plating covering Megatron's upper leg joints.

"Well, uh, now what?" said Franco as the two Decepticons disappeared into the depths. "I mean, we're still getting' paid, right?"

"Mrowr?" replied Ravage. He sat up on his haunches and gave a feline shrug. He and the humans turned to the nearest seeker.

"Don't look at me," said the seeker. "This kind of stuff is way above my pay grade. I guess you could help yourselves to some stuff on our way out or something, because I don't give a..."

---

"...fuck." was all Cliffjumper had time to say as he looked down at the gaping hole where his chest had been. A mere instant before, a mauve bolt had come sailing in from the direction of the earth and blew through him before leaving a three-mile molten furrow in the lunar surface. He keeled over slowly to one side and his optics flickered once and went out.

"Well, couldn't have predicted that," said Ratchet. He exchanged a glance with Bumblebee, but the yellow mini-bot shrugged and shook his head in agreement. The medic chuckled drily. "Not totally unexpected, but not what I'd have predicted." He grabbed one of Cliffjumper's arms. "Take hold of the other arm, kid. We're going to have to do some major repairs this time."

Bumblebee gripped the other arm, and the two bots began trudging back to the moon base, leaving a Cliffjumper-width trail in the ground as they walked.

"Might need to borrow some more parts from you," said Ratchet.

Bumblebee's blue optics flickered red. "Bwa! Bidi bidi bidi bidi!" he protested.

"Ya, about that," said Ratchet. "You know that none of us actually understand what you're saying when you make all those noises. We're just humouring you."

"Blee?"

"No, he can't understand you either," said Ratchet, shaking his head slowly. They walked on in silence for a moment, dragging Cliffjumper behind them.

"Wait," said Bumblebee, "if you couldn’t understand me then how..."

---

"...did the mission go, boss?" asked Jazz. The real Optimus Prime had shed his human disguise and moniker before returning to the Autobot base.

"I am not sure if we can measure the results of this mission in terms of success or failure," said Optimus Prime. "I have returned with tools that Megatron had been planning to use against us. I believe we should study these tools so that we can better defend against them if he pursues this avenue again."

The laptop, briefcase, egg container and an unclaimed side of minestrone soup were lined up on the large desk in his office. A number of other Autobots from the command team had streamed into the office on word of their leader's return. Bluestreak and Smokescreen had already fired up the laptop, and they were fumbling their hands over the other's trying to disable the Windows auto-update.

Ironhide had opened the briefcase and emptied its contents onto the table; he'd brushed away the papers so that he could get his giant hands on the discs. "Oh Buttercup, you're my waifu," he said wistfully. He waved the discs in the Prime's direction. "Ya don't mind if I take these back to my room for a bit, do you?"

"You may take them," said Optimus Prime, "but please return them when you are done with them so that they can be added to the archives later."

"Yesss..." said Ironhide with a pump of his fist. He whistled happily from his vocalizer and began striding purposely toward the door.

Optimus Prime turned back to the other bots in the room. "Hound, Skids, I need for you two to take that egg to one of the base's deeper chambers and do whatever is needed to begin hatching it."

"Uh, Prime," said Prowl, his door wings twitching. "Hatching that egg is a really, really bad idea."

"Prowl," said Optimus Prime in response. He turned to his officer and tapped him firmly on the emblem with his forefinger. "Don't be such a bitch." He focused on Hound and Skids again. "Be cautious with that egg, friends. The human who delivered it said something about it spitting radioactive acid once it hatches."

"So, what, we're going to be mother hens to a monster?" asked Hound.

"Eh," said Skids. He picked up the egg container and jammed it carelessly under his left arm. "C'mon Hound," he said. "I don't care what this thing turns into - it can't be any worse than mud duty."

Then there was a freeze frame of everybody with their heads back laughing while it faded to the credits.

Fin.

The plot - such as it is - thickens!

---

"...see the big guy!" yelled Skids. His optics were blazing with anger, and he had bulled his way into the room to get his face right into that of their acting commander. "You don't just say 'duck' and then start shelling your guys in the field!"

At first, acting commander Jazz neither flinched, nor did his expression change when the other bot came roaring up to him. The only movement he made was to cross his arms under his protruding chest-hood and lift it slightly to assert his dominance over the snub-hooded bot that was confronting him. His resolve appeared to waiver, though, when the other bot gave him a light, open-palm shove to the left headlight, leaving a muddy streak across it. Jazz glanced down at the streak, and the others could swear they saw one of his eyes twitch behind his visor.

"OK, cat, you need to take a step back and chill," said Jazz coldly. "This is not the proper way to address a ranking officer." Without giving the other bot a chance to move, he side-stepped away and backed up a couple of paces to his command chair. He picked up a rag, sprayed the smeared headlight with a couple shots of Windex and gave it a quick circular rub. He inspected it, frowned, then sprayed the other headlight and grabbed another rag. After a few moments it was apparent that Jazz had become oblivious to the others in the room as he stood by his station, looking down blankly and rubbing both his headlights in slow, circular motions.

"Acting commander, for the record this is making me a little uncomfortable," said Hound, who had entered the room behind Skids at a more leisurely pace. Jazz's visor - which had begun to dim slightly as he lost himself in his personal reverie - quickly snapped back to full brightness, and he hastily tossed the rags onto the seat beside him. He noticed that all the other bots in the room were starting at him and shifting on their pedes.

"Cleanliness is critical to defeating the Decepticons," he said primly. "Clean headlights save lives." He pointedly scanned the other two bots from head to pede, lighting his visor with a disapproving glow. "You cats could have done with a quick stop in the sonic showers before you came in here trailing that filth all over our clean command room floor."

"I'd love nothing more than a sonic shower," said Skids, "In fact I would like nothing more than to step into the shower, crank its modulation to overdrive and let it strip away several layers, but we were kind of PREOCCUPIED WITH NOT GETTING BLOWN UP BY OUR OWN SIDE!"

Hound clapped a hand on the smaller bot's shoulder, and Skids compliantly stepped to one side.

"Acting commander Jazz, I'm sure you didn't mean to shell us," said Hound. "Accidents happen. I'm sure you have a lot on your plate, and you may have forgotten that you personally ordered us to work in that sector barely two decicyles before you ordered it bombed." He tapped a giant metal finger into the palm of his other enormous hand. "So while I don't hold you personally responsible for the act, even though a court might see it otherwise, I want to point out that it did happen." Hound exvented heavily, emitting a fine spray of mud and more solid bits from his ports. "I think the salient issue at hand is that you don't appreciate how many openings your body has until you are concussively driven into a gooey hill of unspeakable horrors. I think I speak for Skids as well when I say it would have been more merciful if the mortar had been a direct hit on us."

Skids nodded earnestly.

"So what I am saying, Sir, is that the two of us are going to walk through the door over there into Optimus Prime's office to discuss some matters with him. Your permission to do that would be nice, but not necessary because it is going to happen."

"You can't," said Jazz quickly, and he took a step between Hound and the leader's door. Hound and Skids exchanged a glance and then started walking slowly toward the door. Jazz stood his ground only until something fell out of Hound's left elbow joint and landed on the floor with a splat before pulsing once and oozing smelly oil out of one end. Jazz’s visor flickered with another eye twitch, and he just as quickly stepped out of the way.

Bluestreak and Smokescreen were not as easily deterred though. They dashed from their stations and noisily jumped to the door to link elbows and effectively blocked it.

"Optimus can't see anyone," they said in unison, "he's doing important work." They both frowned.

"Hey, stop that," they said, each reaching across to cuff the other on the side of the head. Hound and Skids approached and finally stopped in front of the pair when it became clear that they were not going to yield. Jazz had moved to put his chair between himself and the brewing altercation. He had the Windex and cleaning rags clutched in one hand.

"Well, this is important too," said Hound levelly. "Guys, I've had a really bad day, and two things I could use right now are a nice hug, and a visit with Optimus Prime. The hug is optional, the other is not." He spread his arms wide and locked eyes with the other two. They seemed to consider his offer for a moment, looking up and down at the gore seeping out of joints before they quickly sidled out of the way in perfect lock step.

With their way clear, Hound and Skids stepped up to the door and stopped. Hound nodded to Skids and stepped to one side. The smaller bot raised his right hand, balled up a fist, and then knocked politely.

"Come in!" boomed a deep, resonant voice from the other side. The door slid aside, revealing a surprisingly Spartan office. Optimus sat behind a large desk on the other side of the room that faced the door. The Prime had his hands on the desk in front of him with his huge metal fingers interlocked.

"Come in and have a seat," said Optimus as the two bots stepped into the office. Other than the bouncing of his face mask when he spoke, the leader remained motionless. The two bots considered his offer to take chairs, and then decided to stand when they noticed that the chairs were upholstered. "How may I assist you today, fellow Autobots?" asked the Prime.

"Well, we're kind of not happy with the way Jazz is running things," said Skids, jumping right to the point. "He seems to be purposely selecting us for the most undesirable assignments, and today he ordered a strike almost right on our position."

Optimus Prime sat in silence for a moment, as if he were taking it all in.

"I understand you're not happy with the way Jazz is running things," he said. "You feel he seems to be purposely selecting you for the most undesirable assignments and today he ordered a strike almost on your positions." His servos whirred, and he turned his head ten degrees clockwise. "Thank you for bringing me this information, fellow Autobot. I sense key words of discontent in what you have said. I want you to know that I shall take any measure necessary to deal with this matter. Remember that we are all a team and we must work together if we want to defeat the Decepticons."

Skids frowned. "I was kind of hoping for more," he said. "I was hoping that you might bring him in here and give him a humiliating dressing down in front of us. Here, I'll call him..." he glanced over his shoulder out the door. "Oh Primus, he's doing that thing with his headlights again." Optimus Prime's servos whined to action again and he turned his head fifteen degrees counter-clockwise.

”Could you please disambiguate your statement," said the Prime.

"I said Jazz is out there staring at his hood and cleaning his headlights a little too much again," said Skids. "For Primus’s sake, order him to stop."

"Cleanliness is critical to defeating the Decepticons," said Optimus Prime. His head rotated again until it seemed to hit a stop before jerking back a bit. "Clean headlights save lives. Remember that we are all a team and we must work together if we want to defeat the Decepticons."

Hound frowned. "Boss, you're sounding a bit off. Are you all right?"

"I am fine, thank you," said Optimus Prime. "I hope you are all right too. Remember that we are all a team and we must work together if we want to defea |bzzt!| defeat the Decepticons." The giant bot's left eye flickered momentarily and then stabilized again, slightly dimmer than his right.

"You just don't seem like yourself," said Hound with a proper modulation of concern in his vocal outputs.

"Of course I'm myself," said Optimus Prime. He laughed heartily. "Ha ha ha. What a strange thing to say!" His head turned fifteen degrees counter-clockwise, gave a small jump, and then continued rotating. He kept talking even as his face pivoted around to the wall behind him. "I am not an automaton replacing the real Optimus Prime. Why would any |bzzt!| anyone think such a thing. Remember that |bzzt!| defeat the Decepticons."

"No one is suggesting that," said Hound calmly.

"But now that you mention it..." said Skids, holding up his right index finger. The Prime's head continued its slow spin.

"Ha ha ha. What a strange thing to |bzzt!| to say! I am not an automat|bzzt!| the Decepticons."

"Jazz!" called Bluestreak and Smokescreen who had poked their heads in the door to listen in on the conversation. They turned their heads and yelled back into the command room. "Optimus Prime is doing that thing again." A moment later Jazz pushed past them, skirting a wide birth around Hound and Skids.

"Let me handle this," Jazz said. The overhead lights caught his dazzlingly clean headlights, showering a cascade of sparkles over the Prime - whose head was beginning to list slightly whilst it spun. "A quick reboot and he'll be right as rain." He reached behind the Prime and pulled a plug from what looked suspiciously like a Type B outlet. The Prime's head slowed to a stop and his eyes began to dim.

"Thank you for stop |bzzt!| Autobots. Please come again..." The pitch and speed of his voice both dropped until the final word came out as a low, drawn-out buzz.

"The Prime has been under a lot of stress lately," said Jazz as he idly swung the end of the cord around.

"That's not the Prime," said Skids flatly.

"What?" demanded Hound and Jazz in unison.

"You heard me," said Skids. He pointed at the idle Optimus Prime with both index fingers. "I don't know how stupid you think we are, but I know Optimus Prime, and that's not him. What have you done with the real Prime?"

Jazz exvented and continued spinning the cord in thought while he leaned casually against the wall next to the outlet. "OK, you got me. This isn't the real Prime," he said at last. He hung the power cord over the automaton's shoulder.

"What?!" said Hound again. Skids turned and gave the other bot an incredulous look. Hound raised an eyebrow and motioned at the automaton. "Come on Skids, that was pretty darned convincing."

Jazz held up both hands. "Smokestreak, or Bluescreen, or whatever your name is, close the door. What I'm about to say does not leave this office." When they'd closed the door, he stepped forward and perched a metal butt cheek on the corner of the desk. He drummed his fingers together in front of him and began to talk.

"As you cats have figured out, this ain't the real Optimus Prime. This is just a sophisticated decoy to cover for him while he's away on a critical undercover infiltration mission."

"Infiltration mission," said Hound. "The big guy's pretending to be a Decepticon?"

Jazz paused and rubbed his chin in thought. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out of his vocalizers at first. "A Decepticon," he said at last. "Where were you guys when we were planning this mission? That would have been way easier. No, he's gone undercover as..."

atara has always had an interest in giant robots and monsters, so it's no surprised that with some of the recent developments in the Transformers franchise, she'd take a renewed interest. Since I'm married to this big geek, I've got caught up in the aura of her fangirlism. I didn't have much use for Transformers back in the day (other than Beast Wars when it was current), but the old shows exude a certain charm when you watch them now with their implausible yet hackneyed stories and cheesy production values.

Some of the later work is very much improved though. Transformers Prime has decent writing, likeable characters who actually show development over time, and a surprisingly dark theme for what is ostensibly a kids' show. Likewise, Transformers Animated is an interesting dichotomy of bright, cute animation overlaying some remarkably dark themes. It depended a bit more than Prime on plot resulting from characters making bad decisions at times, and not always learning from their mistakes earlier, but they are both series I would recommend.

At some point I am going to read the IDW series that recently wrapped up. I've seen bits and pieces, and it seems to be steeped in depth and interesting story-telling. Also, I've heard nothing but good about it.

The latest series (Transformers: Cyberverse) is pretty good so far.

Finally, skip all the slop by Michael Bay and watch Bumblebee if you want to see a live-action Transformers movie.

Anyway, this preamble all leads up to why I write a Transformers fanfic. atara is a fan of the genre, and she has read some of the better ones to me. I am impressed by the activity and talent level in the Transformers fandom, but the more fan fiction I heard, the more tropes I began to identify in it. In the back of my mind I kept thinking, "I could write this stuff."

Eventually I decided to give it the My Little Golem treatment that I did for My Little Pony. You can read that here if you are not familiar with that piece of work. I knew the characters better from MLP of course, but I did my best to try and keep the characters in this Transformers story at least passingly in-character with the originals. That's a little tricky when some of them change so much from one series to the next in the Transformers universe, so I relied a bit on the fan interpretations that I've heard.

Anyway, the goal here was to do a ludicrous take on the series, while keeping it within the bounds of possibility for a first-series episode.

With that said, please accept my apologies in advance as I present you with...

Part 1

---

If their body language did not adequately portray the displeasure the two bots had with their current assignment, the steady stream of grumbling from one of them made it no secret. Though they were streaked from head to pede with grime and muck, it was still possible to make out that the speaker's main colour was blue. They both bore the clear hallmarks of ground vehicles, but the blue bot sported prominent door wings that his mostly-green partner lacked.

"Scouting and salvage," said the blue bot in a tone that suggested he'd have turned and spat if his body had been equipped for that function. His green partner gave a non-committal grunt of agreement. Their servos whined, and their pedes squelched as they slogged forward through the greasy, swirling muck of a former battlefield. "Hound, this is straight up revenge for talking back to you-know-who." Skids swivelled his torso and held up both his hands at chest height, waving them at the other bot with fingers and thumbs spread in a way that made it clear to whom he referred.

"Maybe you could put those jazz hands to better use and help me haul this trailer," said Hound. His Jeep mode had a trailer hitch, but they'd established early on that the muddy field was not friendly to wheeled travel. His workmate grumbled in response, but he grabbed one of the front corners of the cart and helped free it from where it had become mired. "You should watch what you say," added Hound, lowering his vocalizer to a hushed tone. "You never know who might be in hearing range, and you don't want to get this assignment extended again."

The half-laden trailer they were pulling was a recalcitrant beast, and it seemed to delight in catching its fat tires in every bit of tangled wreckage - Cybertronian or organic - that littered the terrain. The area itself was comprised mostly of mud and craters. They'd seen pictures of the area before the battle, and it was something that the humans would have referred to as verdant and lush. Now it was mud mixed with the fluids and bits of Cybertronians, and the former organic life that had once thrived there.

And lots of craters.

And an omnipresent greasy, toxic, slightly-corrosive haze that crawled over the landscape like it had a life of its own.

A gleam through the haze-muted sunlight caught the optics of the smaller bot, and he pointed to a nearby hillock. "There’s something over there," said Skids.

They dragged the reluctant cart up to the base of the small rise and let its tongue drop unceremoniously into the mire. The muck bubbled and hissed as the hitch slowly sunk through its oily top layer into the unimaginable horrors beneath.

"OK then, what do we have here?" said Skids. He rubbed his chin and knelt in the muck for a closer look at the metallic gleam, grimacing inwardly as he felt greasy mud squeeze up through the joints and gears in his knee before oozing out the top. He straightened his fingers and drove his giant red hand into the muddy hill beside the gleaming metal bit. He felt around until he got a solid grip on something and pulled it free. The hill relinquished its hold with a wet sucking sound on what looked like a blobby, slightly misshapen dumbbell.

Skids stood up and vigorously shook the bulk of clinging mud free of his hand and the object he held. He pulled away more of the clinging filth with his free hand before holding it up for mutual inspection.

"Oh look" he said drily. "It's one third of a transformation cog with the inner flywheel attached. It's a good thing we found this because there's probably a war veteran out there with two thirds of a transformation cog banging around in his abdomen, looking for another third that's just this size."

"Give it a rest," said Hound, adding a light modulation of annoyance to his voice. "I ain't happy to be out here either, but this is important. We need all the spare parts and metal we can scavenge."

"There, you said it!" The blue bot waggled the broken transformation cog at his partner. "We're not salvaging, we're scavenging. These fields have been picked over by both sides for anything of possible value." He threw the cog into the trailer where it bounced and clanged among the other useless parts they'd found. A good portion of their haul consisted of fingers, toes, and a surprising number of left optics.

Hound creaked out a shrug of ambivalence and turned to sift through a different patch of the hillside, running his large black fingers through the surface goop trying to find the treasures beneath. Meanwhile his partner addressed the hole that had not entirely filled itself back in from his last extraction.

"What else are you hiding in there?" Skids said, leaning close. He jammed his hands into the wet opening and used them like a bivalve speculum to spread the sides a bit. He held an optic close to the hole and peered into its muddy inner sanctum. A moment later he pushed himself violently back from the hillock and landed on his metal butt with a muddy retort.

"Why in Primus’s name did I put my face up to that hole?" he wailed. He pounded the mud fruitlessly with his balled fists, sending a spray of the swirling goop up in fountains of horridness around himself. "I hate this. I hate everything about this assignment!"

"What's wrong?" asked Hound, voice modulated with a careful mix of concern and irritation for his overly dramatic workmate. He stood from where he had been probing the mud, clutching drippy prizes in both hands.

"I'll tell you what's wrong," said Skids sourly. He wrestled his backside free of the clingy mud and crawled over to the opening in the hill that was already closing on itself again. He thrust his hand deep into the opening and pulled out a ... thing. Whatever it was, it deformed and quivered slightly in his hand as he pulled it free. Flexible hoses and tubes hung out of it on all sides. He held it aloft and gave it an angry shake, causing it to jiggle all over. "Why do these exist?"

"What is it?" asked Hound. He made no attempt to mute the overtones of disgust that came through his audio enunciator, and his optics never wavered from the object in the other bot's hands. "It looks organic."

"It's an energon denaturing sac," said the other bot. "It processes the leftover energon after our systems have extracted all of the critical components out of it and helps package it for expulsion. Everyone's got one of these in them." He gave it another shake. "Well, rumour has it that Megatron has two of them, which explains why he can consume dark energon and that other crap he ingests."

The green bot busied himself with de-mucking his own finds, but he kept the smaller bot talking because it was a relief to have him not complaining about the conditions for a change. "So if we all have one, and it serves a purpose, then what's the problem with it existing? I mean, it's not the most pleasant thing..."

"What's the problem?" Skids' engines revved and he stamped one of his pedes noisily in the mud. "This does not belong in a bot. This is the kind of thing that I've seen fall out of organics during battle. There are so many more elegant, less disgusting and organic ways to denature energon for disposal. Why do we have ... this?"

"But it does the job," said Hound. He'd cleared away enough muck to show that he was holding the upper and lower halves of what remained of an empty head - or possibly halves of two different heads, as there was no obvious way to fit them together.

"But it's an organic design." Skids pressed on. "It's the kind of thing that makes one question the idea of Intelligent Forging. If we are all made in the image of Primus, then why do we have a squishy, bulbous, organic-like sac in our innards? These things are notorious for leaking and making embarrassing sounds. If Primus is perfect, and we are forged in his image, then why do we have one of these?"

The green bot looked around furtively and lowered the volume of his vocals. "You should be careful with that kind of talk," he cautioned. "That borders on heresy."

"You've got one of these in your gut," said Skids. He closed his thumb over the top of the sac and gave it a squeeze. One of the flexible tubes attached to it flapped freely, belching noxious gas and slimy globules of a brownish-green slurry.

"Primus, that stinks!" bellowed Hound. "Why did you have to squeeze that?" He stepped forward and slapped the sac out of the smaller bot's hand. The device flew free and struck the side of the wheeled cart, where it burst noisily and sprayed the rest of its contents over the wagon and its haul. The jeep bot's vocalizers squealed with the sounds of static and dry heaves as he quickly dropped the head parts he'd been clutching and clapped his hands over his olfactory ports. Acting quickly, the smaller bot scooped up a handful of muck, pushed aside the bigger bot's hands and smacked the mud over his olfactory sensors.

The two of them sat down hard in the muck, and almost by mutual decision they began to chuckle.

"Sorry," said Skids. "I guess we both made some sub-optimal decisions there. I can't wait to deliver this batch back to the base now though." He stopped, and the two went silent as a hail rang out over the secure comm channel.

"Yo, Autobots and Autobotesses, this is your acting base commander Jazz laying down the latest news and directives for all you cool cats out there. Remember that comm silence is still in effect, so this will be a one-way communication."

Skids made jazz-hands again and rolled his eyes, forcing his companion to stifle a snicker.

"First off, we intercepted a shipment of Decepticon energon coming in from Cybertronians, so we'll be relaxing the ration restrictions starting next cycle. I don't know if you bad boy Deceptos have cracked our comm codes yet, but if you're listening I want you to know that this stuff is smoooooth. You're missing out."

"Second item: Whoever thought it was funny to stretch a bi-molecular film over the engergon waste disposal interface hole in the officers' quarters, we will find out who you are, and there will be consequences."

"Third item: I don't know if any of you cats have noticed, but Bluestreak and Smokescreen are, like, the same dude with just a slightly different paint job."

Clearly audible in the background of the comm broadcast was an angry, simultaneous protest of, "We are not!"

"And finally, we've had reports of Decepticreep activity in sector three. If you're working in that sector, duck. This is HQ out."

The comm channel went silent with an audible click.

"We're in sector three," said Hound as he fought his way out of the mud and back onto his pedes. He methodically picked as many muddy bits as he could out of his butt joints and did a few squats to free the rest. "We'd better keep our eyes open for Decepticons. I could usually smell them coming before they'd ever know we were here." He fixed an angry optic on the smaller bot and pointed to his nose.

"Ya, ya," replied Skids who was also dealing with his own uncomfortable ingresses of mud. "I'm just curious what he meant by 'duck'..."

Before Skids could even finish the thought, there came the tremendous buzz and scream of large ordinance falling from the sky and slamming into the ground near their location. The impact site blossomed into a blinding ball of fire, and the shock wave of the blast lifted both bots and their trailer, tossing them into the air like cheap plastic toys.

As the blow hit him, Hound had only time to utter a surprised cry of, "Oh sh..."

It is possible that I have spoken of this in the past, but atara has accused me of repeating myself on more than one occasion, so if this is a repeat, then know that it comes naturally to me.

Any time I get sucked into a community, I invariably get sucked into the writing side of the community. At various points over the years I have written stories based on Dungeons and Dragons, Star Trek, The Lion King, Furry, and My Little Pony. Since I consider myself to be a moderately better-than-average writer, I will sometimes roll up my sleeves and jump in to help other writers who are still learning the craft. This can take the form of giving helpful critique, all the way to actually doing rudimentary editing for somebody if they are especially receptive to help, and are taking the assistance to heart.

I have my biases, but I try to avoid steering people toward the way that I would write something, and just stick to steering them away from stylistic pitfalls and rookie mistakes.

One mistake that is surprisingly common among beginning writers is changing tense during the story. Their narration swings between past and present tense without it being relevant to the story. Most writers seem to be surprised when I point it out to them, often claiming that I was the first to notice it. How could one not notice? Another common mistake is switching speakers in mid-paragraph, often without changing attribution. Maybe the rules have changed since I was taught, but I learned that any time the speaker changed, you started a new paragraph. One of the benefits of this is that even if you did not attribute the new speaker, the paragraph break gives a clue that it may have changed. Finally, there are writers who switch the narrative voice throughout the story. They will jump from first person to third and back for no reason other than that they forgot which voice they were using between writing sessions.

Does nobody ever go back and re-read their own work?

Stylistic pitfalls are a messier subject, because that starts to tread into the territory of, "This is just how I write." While there is nothing technically wrong with some of the styles, I have noticed that they are often popular with novice writers. I recognize some of them from my early writing, and I owe a debt to a friend who helped break me of some of the habits.

One that I see often is staccato writing. The author uses really short sentences. The sentences are all grammatically correct. They are all strung together into a story. The story will have a character. He walks to the table. He picks up a book. He reads the book. He puts it back. He walks to the door. He opens the door. He goes outside.

I think you can probably see the problem. The story never gets a chance to develop much of a flow, and it becomes fatiguing to read.

Another style that I see fairly regularly is what I call the witness testimony style of writing. This happened, and then that happened, and then they went over there, and then that happened, and then he said this, and then he did that, and then... I started counting the uses of "then" in one story, and hit fifteen by the end of the second paragraph. As with my first example, it is not technically wrong, but it flows badly, and is very dry to read.

Two more styles that I often see with beginning writers are where every line is a combination of dialogue and action. Usually the story alternates between each of the characters in the scene, with each one taking a turn to say something, and then do something. The other style is what I call the Superman narrative. Virtually the whole story is told through narration by the characters. It's a style better suited to old radio plays than a written story.

"Why are you walking over to that table and grabbing the gun?" said the professor.
"I plan to shoot you, of course. See? Look at how I am pointing it at you and pulling back the hammer," said the mobster.
"Are you mad? Can't you see that I am just sitting here at my desk writing down formulas and smoking a cigar? Clearly I post no threat to you," said the professor.
"And now you pose even less of a threat as I have unloaded three bullets into you," said the mobster.

Finally, there are the writers who combine many of the above with a need to find their own voice by playing with conventional style.

"I am going to write my entire story in future perfect tense!"

The problem with picking a weird tense (even present), is that writing in past tense just comes naturally, and the writers invariably slip in and out of past tense as they are writing. My advice to them is usually to try and master the easy stuff before they start trying to stretch their skills.

I think the worst are the ones who decide they are going to write in second person. I don't know why anybody would write in second person other than when they are writing an instruction manual, or a "build your own adventure" story. Yet in my experience in some writing circles, this is a strangely popular thing among younger writers, and goes over remarkably well with some of the younger readers. I do not find second-person stories to be the least bit immersive, and in fact they often come across to me as slightly insulting. I don't appreciate a story that tries to tell me what I am doing, or thinking, or feeling.

My response to the author boils down to, "You seem to think you know me, but you don't. Please stop writing with the misguided conceit that you do."

Against my better judgement I've made a point of reading a few fan stories from one of the fandoms that I follow (but which I shall not name here because I'm sure that many of you are sick of hearing about it).

When I say that I read these stories, it would be more accurate to say that I read the first bit, then skimmed the rest to see if it was following the predictable path for these things (pick any 3):

1. Insert self into story as a Mary Sue character.
2. Write the canon characters as exaggerated caricatures of themselves or...
3. ...give them no real personality at all because they are just foils for your Mary Sue.
4. Rules are for egg heads. Spelling, grammar and story structure are for the weak.
5. Pathos! Whether it advances, or even fits the story never miss the chance to try and squeeze out some manly tears.
6. Dark. It has to be dark. Somebody needs to be depressed, hooked on heroin, and selling him/herself into prostitution in the first chapter.

Sadly, there are some really bad writers out there who don't know that they are bad. There are too many readers who are either very indiscriminating, or are so desperate for genre-specific stories they will heap praise on anything just to keep the writers producing.

I read and skimmed one yesterday that was, on a technical front at least, much better than most. It was a typical teen-pathos story line (pretty character gets badly burnt in a tragic fire and learns about empathy), but it followed most of the accepted rules for spelling, grammar and style. I read the first couple of pages and found it hard going though. I pondered on why that might be, because the writing was technically sound, and - tear-jerking aside - the story itself was not the worst I have encountered.

As I began to skim the story, the answer became clearer. There is more to telling a story than having an idea and being able to produce good, technical writing. This person knew how to write, but he did not know how to tell a story. His tale read like an ordered list of events akin to a witness's testimonial, rather than the spinning of a story. It followed a choppy flow that went something like this:

First this person said something, which triggered an event. Then that person said something, which triggered another event.

I scrolled to the end of the story (or as much of the story as he had written by that point) and the comments section below as filled with lots of kudos and circle-jerking by other writers on the site. As I read some of the comments, the rather sad realization came to me that this writer - who actually showed decent potential - would probably never improve his craft because others had convinced him that he was a good writer.

The author had written a short blog post along with his story, where he outlined how he and some others on the site were putting together a tutorial on how to be a good writer. I admit that I did a spit-take when I read that. It would be like me writing a tutorial on how to become a good musician because I can hit may of the right notes on a kazoo. On the other hand his writing was a whole order better than most of the fan stories I have read, so I guess he has a few good things to teach.

The self-affirming praise-fest was the most depressing part for me though, because this is not the only site on which I have seen this kind of behaviour. Sometimes it feels like nobody has any interest in helping their fellow writer to improve. The implicit message on these sites is I'll stroke your ego if you stroke mine.

I may not have sounded terribly grateful at the time, but I want to thank all of you who have savaged my writing over the years.

I didn't win, but I got honorable mention. Apparently my entries for the contest were too "good" to be considered "bad". I choose to take that as a compliment. Congratulations to dronon on taking second place.

Anyway, I believe that I threatened earlier to post my one-liners here if they returned my hard copy, and they did, so here they are.

Here is the one that gained me "honorable mention".

The Siamese goddess flowed into my dingy office like a furry beam of catnip and lavender-scented sunlight, where she poured her lithe, silky form into the unworthy naugahyde swivel-chair, crossed her legs enticingly, tipped back the brim of her broad sun hat with a perfectly-manicured claw and said, "I thought the little one-eyed Moroccan hamster seer was speaking metaphorically when he warned that trans-dimensional gerbil ninjas were coming to abduct my brother, but now he's gone, and the seer has fled, and I desperately need your help to find that small medium at large!"

My second entry:

Freddy the furry ferret philanthropist and part-time bee keeper was widely recognized around the town for his broad, flamboyant hats, colourful lederhosen, spicy hungarian meatballs and his propensity for stripping down to his bare fur and dancing in the fountain at the town square, tapping a frantic beat with his wooden peg-leg while his prosthetic tail swung in time - which is exactly what he would have been doing now if he had not mysteriously vanished on his way to the bakery two nights back like the last bath towel in a shared room at a furry convention whose existence is universally acknowledged, but whose present location is obscured behind an opaque veil of evasion, misdirection, denial and innuendo.