Date: Sat, 20 Apr 1996 04:26:00 -0500 From: Lady Sushi Subject: "The Curse" 1/1 This bit of silliness was inspired by, well, if you have to ask, you're a... NEWBIE!!!! "The Curse" Susan Schaefer (c) 1996, S. Schaefer usual disclaimers I give the okay to post, burn, archive, or use to paper cut someone severely while in the throes of PMS. part one of one Normally, to the "underground" denizens of Toronto, the Summer Solstice is merely an annoyance. To a few, a tormentuous annoyance every 54 years makes the solstice look like an All-You-Can-Drink buffet. Namely, the males suffer the most at this time, and for good reason: immortal estrogen imbalance. 99.99999% of the time only one female of the "species" suffers this horrible curse at a time. The other 0.00001% of the time, they aren't so lucky. Urs was the first to go, an hour before dawn, when she suddenly and for no reason slammed a bottle of blood over Vachon's head and screamed something about being his own damn groupie. Alma tried to comfort her (for, as everyone knows, only another woman can help calm the torment of PMS). However, this soon proved fruitless as Alma was hit with her own 54-year curse. The two took the entire place hostage. No one argued, for it was apparent that a chain reaction was taking place. The last to go was Janette, who had returned in full vampyric form the week before. Janette was also the worst case. Sunrise came. The Raven was still packed. Every female in the place, about half the population, was frothing at the mouth and demanding all mens' heads on a platter. No one tried to stop them. Poor Miklos, the only one to speak up, had already gotten a warning stake. He hung from the wall, suspended by a chair leg forced through his abdomen. LaCroix had tried to pull him down. He was now locked in his radio booth with three female guards posted to keep him there. The Ribena they'd given him also seemed to help. They were gonna be there for a long time. It was the Summer Solstice. "This is the Nightcrawler on CERK. HEEEEELPPPPPP!!!! We're trapped at the Raven, being held hostage by twenty women, all suffering PMS--" A click stopped LaCroix. He turned around, only to see normally sweet little Urs foaming at the mouth and holding a crossbow. "Don't even think about it, Testosterone Boy." Her eyes were red, fangs fully extended in fury. LaCroix turned back to the mike. "Ha ha, just a little joke there. Don't worry, we're fine. Please, don't try to rescue us. Like I said, we're fine. This has been the Nightcrawler, saying--" CLICK. Urs had turned off the mike herself, still holding the crossbow to LaCroix's heart. Her eyes, however, had gone back to normal and were filling with blood tears. She dropped the crossbow. "BWAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! LACROIX, I'M SO DEPRESSED!!!!!!" She fell, sobbing, into LaCroix's arms. He shuddered, but did nothing to discourage her; the crossbow was still in her reach. He heard more sniffling behind him. Alma followed suit. He looked up, desperation on his normally calm face, looked into the club. The first thing he saw was Nicholas, handling Janette. Every male vampyre in the place held a sobbing female. It was the perfect time to escape, with one problem: the sun was out, and it wouldn't set for a good nine hours. LaCroix sighed. For not the last time he seriously contemplated the sun. Nick's shirt was ruined. He HAD to wear a white one, didn't he. Janette had finally finished leaving bright red tear stains on it. Now she was sulking. Every once in a while he made a small noise. She would turn and glare. Once she poured a bottle of vintage over his head. He just sat there, hair drying into a clotty rust-colored mass. After almost an hour Janette glared at him,, and stormed off to join a group of her peers. They were making a model of a generic man. One started to pour Everclear over it. Urs was lighting a match. Nick turned away and shuddered. He felt the burst of heat on his back, heard the womens' cheers. Shudder. "Kinda makes you wanna go outside." He looked to his left. Vachon sat there, eyes bulging and glazed. "Just hope none of them think of castration before sundown." The idea sent s sudden jolt of terror through Nick. He gulped. In a moment his eyes matched Vachon's. It was around 2pm that someone thought of castration. The women, en masse, has gone through another violent-weepy-sulky cycle. It was Man Hating time, again. All the guys had been cornered into LaCroix's rooms. They stood, armed with crossbows, table legs, bottles, Souvenir of Florida Sunlight in a Can. They stood shoulder to shoulder, legs crossed. Miklos looked around him. LaCroix was nowhere to be seen. In a few seconds he strolled into the room, blissful look on his face, wearing a long black robe. He looked around. "What's everyone so worried about?" Miklos looked away from the door, stared at LaCroix. Everyone but Vachon looked abnormally shocked (Vachon looked like Vachon). Screed piped up. "The ladies is gonna be in 'ere lookin' for the Family Jewels in a moment 'ere. You, my chickie," he pointed his lead pipe at LaCroix, "is gonna get yourself un-mascul'nized." A sudden noise and they all jumped. Nick picked up his bow. "Sorry," he muttered sheepishly. They turned back to LaCroix, still standing there looking rather pleased with himself. "'ow, might I ask, is you gonna keep your fancy little gems so safe?" With a sudden movement LaCroix pulled off his robe. He stood there, totally naked, with one not-so-minor exception: the codpiece from the suit of armor he kept in the next room. Before the group could turn him into Swiss cheese, though, a large axe slammed through the door. "In separate trials, each of you has been found guilty, by a jury of MY peers, of crimes against femininity. Do you have any collective last words?" Janette strutted before them, occasionally smacking a riding crop against her hand. Each time she did so the entire pack of males jumped. LaCroix had been stripped of his codpiece and given a grape-flavored thong in its place. Janette now wore the armor over her catsuit. She turned to them, smiled, and evil, psychotic glint in her eye. "Well?" Nick looked around him. "Uh, well--" "The execution may now take place! Urs, the pinking shears." Janette took them from her lieutenant-at-arms, made cutting motions in the air. A rusty sound came from the dull metal. "Now, who first? LACROIX?" The Master Vampyre (soon to become the Mistress Vampyre) looked up, tried to back into the crowd. He didn't get very far. "You tried to avoid your fate, did you not?" She cut the air some more. "I think that would make yours a small jar. The convicted!" Two of the more muscular women each grasped LaCroix by am arm. He squirmed. It didn't do any good. As he was held in place, every other male shut his eyes, every female grinned in delight, some shouting for justice. It reminded LaCroix of those witch trials he'd helped execute, just as a joke, back in Salem. He never thought it would come back to him. Once again he tried to break away. Unfortunately, that was quite impossible, considering where Janette's fingernails were. 2000 years of hedonism, only to be humiliated like this, tuned into the vampyric John Bobbitt. He shut his eyes, gritted his teeth, internally screamed to himself to wake up-- When a sudden bolt of late-evening sunlight ripped through the Raven. They screamed, ran for cover, even the two holding LaCroix. His thong smoking, Lucien ran behind the bar. Oh, please let this be it... "I've got an order for Lucien LaCroix," the man mispronouced 'LaCroix', "50 cases of Midol PMS." The door opened further, and 50 boxes were wheeled in. "Mr. LaCroix?" "That would be me." He walked out from behind the bar, a small towel covering some of his, er, masculinity. "I'll need you to sign for this, sir." "Certainly." LaCroix scurried to the delivery boy, a zitt-laden barely-post-adolescent. One hand still holding the towel on he scrawled his name. "Just leave it here. Ah, um, open the boxes, please?" Five minutes later the women were doped up on two boxes each of Midol. LaCroix looked around at them, returning to normal. "Well, that's more like it." Without thinking he dropped the towel. The thong came away with it. He looked down, started to blush, thought better of it. Before he went for some clothes he stopped next to Janette. "A small jar, my dear? I think not." THE END Flames, thongs, Midol, and Uncle to: Cousin "Susan" Phoenix * Camera Fanatic of the Thong Throng Charter Unnamed * Member of the Cold Shower Sisterhood * SKLed phoenix@ionet.net **Faciemus ut Dewus Mountainus e Tuo Nasone Exeat!** George the Plastic Bat loves you.