by BKWillis

"You're nearly out of booze."

"Hmm? Oh. I'll run to the store in a little bit. Go ahead and help
yourself to whatever's left."

Nyssa smiled in happy contentment and poured herself the last bit
of Cuervo. Of all her fanfic authors, Brad was the one she most
enjoyed visiting. Not only was he pretty generous when it came to
his liquor cabinet, but there were always a number of interesting
lethal items around the house, from high-powered rifles to the 140
proof moonshine he got from his uncles. She picked up a Bowie
knife to play with and headed back to the study.

Brad was hunched over the keyboard, muttering to himself as he
batted away at the keys. Nyssa sprawled comfortably on the old
couch behind him. So comfortably, and with so little thought for
modesty, that the young would-be author would have gotten quite
an eyeful of graceful Trakenite leg had he bothered to turn around,
which he didn't. C'est la vie.

"So," Nyssa purred, poking lazily at the upholstery with the tip of
the knife, "just what are you so intent on over there? More 'To
Die For' stories?"

"Not today," Brad drawled distractedly. "I've got a different little
project going."

Nyssa pouted slightly. "But I _like_ getting to do those."

"I'll do another one soon. I promise." He continued to tap at the
keyboard, giggling a little every so often.

"So, what are you working on _now_?" Nyssa demanded again.

"Heeheehee... It's a new 'Mystery Science Theater' fanfic..."

Nyssa rolled her eyes and gave a theatrical shiver. "Not another
'Mystery Psycho Theater', I hope?"

"No, no. This is different. In this one, I've got Ho Chi Minh, Bill
Quantrill, Che Guevara, and Francis Marion all trapped in orbit
and forced to read bad fan fiction as part of a behavioral sciences
project being run by famous simian researcher Diane Fossey. Heh
heh heh heh..."

The Traken girl felt an icy hand grip her heart as comprehension
dawned on her as to the horror that would soon take place. Invol-
untarily, her fist tightened on the hilt of the Bowie knife and her
eyelid began to twitch. Her body pled with her to act, its instincts
triggered by the feeling of apprehension. Yet, she forced herself
to ask and make certain that his plans were what she feared them
to be before she acted.

"Tell me," she forced through clenched teeth. "What are you
going to call it?"

Brad was too caught up in his work to note her change in tone.
"That's the best part," he said gleefully. "I'm going to call it:
'Guerrillas in the MiST'..."

"Justifiable Homicide" was the judge's ruling some weeks later.