Say hello to yet another round of utter, self-indulgent silliness about the
glamorous and enthralling world of fan-fiction authorship.
This story contains the following not-very-wholesome ingredients: naughty
language; risque imagery; bare bosoms; bad puns; mindless but highly cinematic
violence; gratuitous lesbianism; something worse than Mary-Sueism; and plotting
that would give my former English instructor a conniption fit. Not recommended
for children or those with weak bladders.
A quick recap, for those who might've forgotten, never known, or not cared:
Lydia, a character in a bad fanfic, became upset over her lack of
characterization and crashed an authors' party to confront her employer, the
evil BKWillis. Willis fired her, had her thrown out of This Time Round, and
blacklisted her to keep her from finding other work. She then encountered
an even-more evil future version of Willis, called 'the Bradleyard', who
enlisted her in his crusade to destroy his less-evil self, his plan being to
conquer the world of fan-fiction. Despite some setbacks, they managed to
get a cast assembled to perform their fic, including Davros, Mike Yates,
former WANKER Darren Ullman, the shapeshifter Varne, and some evil
green-haired aliens. However, the Bradleyard was unable to construct an
actual plot for their story, possibly due to his Muse having quit in disgust.
They decided to remedy this by kidnapping BKWillis's own Muse and forcing
her to work for the Bradleyard. After some difficulties, they managed to
capture half of BKWillis's Inspirational Duo, the innocent and angelic Light
That brings us to...
SHOCK VALUE 6: DESPERATELY SEEKING MUSINGS
with the assistance of Ken Young
"WAAAHH! My poor little Nyssaias is missing!"
Embericles's audience made no reply, just as they hadn't for the
last 117 times she'd cried that. She scowled and fluttered her
wings huffily at this lack of response. Perhaps a new tack was
"WAAAHH! My poor little Nyssaias is missing, and my butthead
of a boss doesn't care!" She looked over at the desk, where
BKWillis sat typing, giving no sign he'd heard. Perhaps it was
due to the earmuffs on his head? With a firm glower, she flew
up onto his shoulder, yanked off the earmuff and screamed, "I
SAID, MY POOR LITTLE DARLING IS MISSING AND YOU
DON'T EVEN CARE, YOU SELF-CENTERED DORK!!" That
got his attention, and so did the poke in the eye she gave him
at the same time.
The other half of her audience, a coal-black Labrador/Alsatian
mix-breed, grunted at the noise and covered one ear with a paw.
"Damn it, will you cut that out?!" Willis yelled, clutching at his
"Why aren't you trying to get Nyssaias back, you schmuck?!"
the little bat-winged Muse demanded. "Don't you give a damn
about anybody?!" She started sobbing, tiny tears rolling out
from under her sunglasses.
Willis sighed and patted his Dark Muse lightly on the head.
"C'mon, Embericles," he said gently, "didn't I tell you I've already
taken steps to see that she gets rescued?"
"Yeah," she sniffled quietly. "But, it's just... I can't stand just
waiting. My poor, helpless baby!" Extending her wings, she
glided to the floor next to the curled-up dog. Sensing her distress,
the dog gave her a soft nuzzle with her nose. Embericles stroked
the animal's ears and mumbled, "Thanks, Guin."
BKWillis glanced over at the clock, then back at his Muse. "Don't
worry, Embericles," he said. "Like I told you, I've got my four
most dangerous employees on the case..."
"Are you sure this is the way to go about this?"
Psycho Nyssa shrugged. "It seemed to work for Antonio Ban-
The group stood out front of the Severed Head Bar and Grill,
discussing their next moves and trying to look inconspicuous,
at which they were conspicuously failing. Even in this seedy
part of Outside, a group which contained a psychopathic alien
aristocrat, a vicious-looking roughneck in mirrorshades, an
Ogron, and a nun was bound to attract notice.
Sister Roxanne eyed the bar with some distaste, this being evident
only by the almost imperceptible narrowing of her ice-cold eyes
and a slight drooping of her normal politely neutral expression.
"Even if the one we seek is not here," she said, "it would be only
proper to purge such a den of sinful licentiousness as this."
"Francois not care," growled the Ogron. "Stupid hillbilly author
pay by hour, so is same to Francois if do this way or other."
Number One shrugged. For that matter, it was all the same to
him, too. As long as he got to be near Nyssa and occasionally
stomp a mudhole in some deserving idiot, he was cool with any-
Nyssa smiled in a manner rather more feral than upper-class.
"Well, then, let's be about it." She turned and strode purposefully
through the door of the Severed Head.
The Severed Head was every bit as trashy inside as out, which
was saying quite a bit. And inside its dim and smoky confines
were gathered the lowest of Outside's lowlifes. Thugs and goons
sat discussing rapine and murder in low tones, while robbers and
cutpurses debated the merits of mugging and burglarizing. Here
and there the slick and shadowy forms of heroin pushers and
pimps mingled with stern-faced Mafiosi, while one darkened
corner was reserved solely for telemarketers, with whom only
the most depraved and evil of the other denizens would associate.
A poster over the bar announced that a Democratic Party fund-
raiser would be held there the following Monday.
As the four entered, a shaven-headed bouncer who was the size
of a Russian tractor and far uglier stepped out and stopped them.
"Sorry," he sneered, not sounding sorry at all. "Can't let you in
without some identification, little girl." This was addressed to
The Trakenite gave him a friendly nod and reached into her jacket.
"Why, certainly, my good man. I have it right here..." She yanked
a Browning .45 automatic out of her pocket and jammed it under
his chin, her knuckle white on the trigger. "You can identify that,
can't you?" Without further hindrance, the four made their way
to the bar.
"Whadda ya want?" snarled the bartender, a greasy-looking little
man with a prosthetic left pinky.
"Information, naturally," Nyssa replied. "I mean, you don't think
_we'd_ actually come to a miserable rat's nest like this for _pleasure_,
The barman rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, that's it, ain't it? Fault
the proletariat for not livin' up to yer high-an'-mighty standards,
eh? Drag class distinction into th' conversation right off. Typical
posh plutocratic excessiveness. Bloody aristocrat."
"Yes, so?" Nyssa asked, confused.
Number One thumped a small wad of money onto the bartop.
"Here, now you can be a plutocratic capitalist exploiter, too. We
come looking for somebody."
The bartender shrugged and made the money disappear. "Lotsa
somebodies in here," he said guardedly.
"Yeah, well, our somebody's about a foot tall, female, with brown
hair and white wings," Number One quoted from the description
they'd been given.
"Don't sound like nobody I know," spat the bartender. "This
somebody got a name?"
"She is called Nyssaias the Light Muse," Roxanne answered.
The entire room went instantly quiet as all conversation came to
a sudden halt. All the assorted thugs, hit men, hoodlums, tele-
marketers, and other scum began easing their hands toward their
"Oh, goody," Nyssa chirped as she hauled out her .45. "I was
starting to get bored anyway."
"Sodding perverted wanker idiot goofball dork..." Varne grumbled
to no one as she stalked down the dark street. "Like it's _my_
fault the one I stole can't do what he wants. Why couldn't the
bloody Bradleyard have sent some of his _other_ minions out?"
Varne stopped and thought about those other minions for a
moment. "Okay, so he didn't send them because they're a bunch
of silly, useless twerps. Hmmph. Why did I ever let Magnus and
Ken talk me into this?" She resumed her purposeful stalk.
"Least he could have done was given me a bonus, or something..."
Varne stepped triumphantly through the kitchen door, a kicking,
struggling little winged girl about the size of a Barbie Doll gripped
in her hand.
"I return, victorious!" she declared.
"Zzzzsnoooorre..." replied Davros, passed out in his chair with
an empty wine bottle.
Varne scowled briefly and, shrugging, made her way into the
den. Or rather, the Sanctum of Doom, or whatever the Bradleyard
was calling it this week.
"I return, victorious!" she declared again.
"Huh? Whaa--?" replied the Kvetchians, looking up. They were
all clustered around a stack of trashy magazines they'd picked up
earlier. They had names like 'Trailer Park Bimbos', 'Chunky Chicks
in Bondage', 'Boob-o-Rama', and 'Lesbian Biker Bitches Go Quan-
"Oh, it's just you," Commander Mucksch grunted, then went back
to his -- ahem -- 'reading'.
"Well, you need not break out the party hats," Varne drily replied.
"And just _what_ are you looking at, there?"
"This?" Mucksch held up his magazine, which was called simply
'Stark Nekkid'. The cover blurb advertized 'Exclusive! Janet Reno
in the Raw!' "Oh, I just, uh, read this for the articles. Heh heh..."
"Why, yes," Mucksch said nervously. "Why, this issue has a
most fascinating article on, uh..." He peered at a page other than
the one he'd been looking at before. "...on panty-sniffing. Wait.
Panty-sniffing? I meant, ah..."
"Whatever, lettuce-top," Varne said, waving him off. "Is the
"He and Lydia are in the Inner Chamber of Unholy Majesty." The
Commander seemed to be distracted by the panty-sniffing article.
"In the what?"
"The bedroom. That's what His Unholy Loopiness is calling it
"Right, then." Varne started for the bedroom, then turned back.
"Oh, and Mucksch?"
"Don't get any ideas from your 'educational materials' there. If I
catch you in my laundry bin, I'll strangle you with your own colon.
"I return, victorious!" Varne declared for the third time that day.
The Bradleyard looked confused, which was a fairly normal state
for him. "Victoria?" he asked. "There's no Victoria here."
Lydia wriggled out from under the covers and swatted him on the
head with a turkey baster. "She said 'victorious', not 'Victoria',"
she snarled. "As in, 'mission accomplished'."
"Oh, wonderful!" the Really Really Evil author cried. "Good
work, way to go, and all that. Why don't you join us in bed and
tell us all about it?" He patted the covers next to where he and
Lydia lay. They appeared to be smeared rather heavily with
mashed potatoes and feathers, while a trapeze dangled just with-
in arm's reach.
"No thanks," Varne replied flatly. "I've nothing against perversity,
but I'd rather be eaten alive by rats than play hide-the-kielbasa
with you. Anyway, here's your Muse." She held out the struggl-
ing little figure for them to examine.
"Oh, wow!" Nyssaias piped as she got a good look at the two on
the bed. "Somebody's been using the Flamingo Entices the Ox
position from the Sacred Tantric Texts. And it's the boss, too!
All right! BK finally got him some!" She stopped and blinked
at the Bradleyard for a moment. "And he's grown a really stupid-
looking beard, too..."
"BWAHAHAHAHAHAcoughcoughhack..." The Bradleyard
spat out a chicken feather as Lydia slapped him on the back.
"Ahem. Don't be foolish, my captive anthropomorphic personifi-
cation of the assumed source of literary inspiration! I am not the
weak and pathetically untalented BKWillis, but am rather his
"No!" cried Nyssaias.
"Yes!" cried the Bradleyard, standing on the bed to strike an
especially dramatic powerpose. Of course, since he was quite
naked, and since the equally-naked Lydia kept all the covers,
that meant that he stood exposed in all his -- ahem -- glory.
Varne, Lydia, and Nyssaias all gave him an appraising look,
then held up a set of scorecards: 3.5; 6.0; 2.0.
"BK's arch-nemesis?!" Nyssaias continued. "Then you're..."
"Oh my God! You're..."
"You're Teddy Kennedy! WAH! I'm doomed!" The little Muse
began weeping uncontrollably as the Bradleyard facefaulted to
the floor. "Please! I'll do whatever you want! Just don't make
me get in the car with you!"
"You're _sure_ you aren't Ted Kennedy?" the Muse asked, suspi-
cion coloring her words. She glared mistrustfully at the various
minions scattered around the kitchen.
The Bradleyard, now fully dressed in his normal Lennox Air
Conditioning uniform and a cape he'd ordered from L. L. Bean's
Classic Antagonist Collection, nodded testily. "Positive. Like
I said, I'm the Evil future version of your master."
"BK's already Evil," Nyssaias pointed out.
"Perhaps," purred the Bradleyard, "but I'm..." He leaped to his
feet and swirled his cloak in front of him, looking like Bela Lugosi's
mechanic. "...Really Really Evil! BWAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Behind him, Lydia sighed and added an addendum to tomorrow's
grocery list: 'Remember to get more Prozac.' This was circled,
underlined twice, and had a star beside it.
"Okay," Nyssaias snuffled. "As long as you promise you're not
The Bradleyard glared at her. "I may be Really Really Evil, but
I'm not _that_ bad!" The other minions nodded agreement. "I'm
merely going to enslave you and force you to do my bidding as
part of a twisted plot to set myself up as the Dark Master of fan
fiction and thereby assure the destruction of my less-evil self,
the despicable and vastly over-rated BKWillis!"
Lydia turned to look at the audience. "Everyone got that?" she
asked. "There may be a quiz later."
"And if I won't cooperate?" Nyssaias demanded with a defiant
toss of her head that would've made Embericles all wobbly, if
she'd been there.
"Then you will be tortured until you do," replied the Bradleyard
with chilling simplicity.
Nyssaias gulped. "The comfy chair?" she asked hopefully.
"No such luck, Tinkerbell." Sneering nastily, the Really Really
Evil author set a small, hinged metal box on the table. "You can
either cooperate, or you can spend a little time confined... in the
"ExCUSE me, but I believe that's mine!" Everyone turned to
look as a certain tall, stiff-looking former United States Vice
President walked in and rather huffily snatched the lockbox off
the table. Turning on his heel, he stomped back out, muttering
something under his breath about 'stealing my schtick'.
The Bradleyard looked around rather uncertainly. "Right, then.
You can either cooperate, or you can, uh... um..." He picked up
a salt shaker. "...get salted. No, wait. That doesn't really work,
does it? Umm..."
"We could threaten to put her in the gravy boat," Mucksch offered
Mercifully for Varne, her pager went off at that moment. Her
eyes lit up -- they were literally emitting a soft reddish glow --
when she read the number. "Hey, Bradleyard. I need to use
your phone for a minute..."
<RINGRING RINGRING RINGRI-->
<Hello. Young Enterprises. How may I direct your call?>
"Give me Extension 666, please."
<Operations. Magnus speaking.>
"It's me, Varne. You paged me, Lord?"
<Ah, yes. Congratulations on successfully capturing one of
BKWillis's Muses. Although, what use a Muse will be to some-
one of the Bradleyard's -- 'talents' -- remains to be seen. Even
with a Muse's idea, he still has to actually _write_ something.>
"Thank you, Lord. But, wait. You said 'one of BKWillis's Muses'.
He has more than one?"
<Indeed. A Light Muse and a Dark Muse. You have managed
to catch Nyssaias the Light Muse, who specializes in romance,
whimsy, and cheerful, upbeat plotting.>
"Uh-oh. The Bradleyard is wanting to create some sort of thing
he calls a 'dark masterpiece of angst and drama', so..."
<Precisely. What he needs is Embericles, the Dark Muse. The
two work as team, with the Dark Muse providing all the violence,
tension, and drama.>
"Which one does all the sexual innuendo?"
<Both. Get them together, and you'll see why.>
"Understood, Lord. If I may ask, how did you find all this out,
and why are you telling me?"
<I slipped around behind the Fourth Wall and read the previous
episodes. And I'm telling you partly because Ken is anxious for
you to succeed and make Young Enterprises look good and partly
because it'll save a whole lot of useless plotting.>
"Deus ex machina, Lord?"
<It's okay. I'm licensed for it. Do us proud, Varne. See you
Sigh. "I miss you, too..."
"WHAT?! How can this be!?" The Bradleyard slammed his fist
down on the table as he ranted and postured. Behind him, Lydia
held up a sign that read: 'Villain Cliche #63'.
Varne just shrugged in reply. "Do you really want me to answer
that, or is that just a rhetorical over-acting thing?"
The Really Really Evil Author rounded on Nyssaias. "Is this true,
Muse? Are you in truth incapable of drama and gut-wrenching
Nyssaias shifted uncomfortably, not at all liking the look in the
crazed author's eyes. "If you're asking whether Embericles does
all the violent and depressing and mean stuff, then yes. That's
what she's good at, while I do all the happy and fun stuff." She
sniffled a little bit, missing her partner already. Not having
Embericles around to play with was making her sad. And horny,
The Bradleyard settled back into his Throne of Divinity, which
was what he was calling the least-ragged kitchen chair this week,
pulling his cloak up around him and stroking his chin. He liked
his new cloak, even if it didn't go particularly well with his
Lennox uniform. Not only was it good for making grand gestures
and looking really neat when the breeze caught it, it was also
waterproof, flame-retardant, and wrinkle-free. 'Guaranteed to
keep you looking sharp and evil, even in the most exacting of
villainous conditions!' the advertisement had said.
"Well, Varne," he purred in a low and dangerous tone, "it seems
your mission is not yet complete. Go forth, my minion, and return
not hither without Embericles the Dark Muse!"
"'Hither'?" the others all chorussed. "Nobody says 'hither' any