Writing Explorations: Week 43, Plague

Subject matter ripe for over-the-top foolish mayhem and hi-jinks. Maybe even some lo-jinks...

Thank you for taking the time to post this for us and be sure to take care of yourself.

Remember...better doesn't equal well!

::fixes you with a stern Ravenfrost look::

Good to hear!

Argh, I've been writing (as you'll see in my other post) the January MISC story thing. Need to wrestle the beast into shape before doing other writing. Half-way done.

Tired of Jorick's stern (yet quite-deserved) reviews, so decided to write something half-way sensible this time, which of course makes my brain scream in agony. I'll get him for this, someday...if I live long enuf!

::snivels::

[[The first prompt fits so well with Souji Okita from Hakuouki. SO HERE WE GO. Hakuouki modern day AU.]]

Sniffle. Sniffle.

His cold fingers busily typed at the keyboard of his laptop. The bright screen illuminated his facial features, especially the bags under his eyes. The brunette paused to sniffle again, too lazy to lean over and grab some tissues from his nightstand. Souji hated being sick. Souji hated winter. He wanted to go to sleep. But alas, he had a deadline to reach. Why did he even become a writer?

The brunette grumbled under his own breath as he made a typo, pressing the backspace button, before fixing it. At least the character he was writing was sick with him. The thought almost made him laugh. He was writing a young man plagued by his own weak immune system. Maybe he was projecting too much. But he didn't really care. The novel was turning out well. That was all he could want or ask for.

A sickly young man, prevented from doing the things he loved by his own body. Souji gave a grumble, narrowing his eyes at the screen. It wasn't like anyone would know about it. Besides, all writers put a bit of themselves into their work, right?

So cold. He paused, feeling the chill settle in his bones. The blankets he had cocooned himself in weren't helping in the slightest. So cold that the blankets didn't even help. He gave another, aggravated sigh. When his roommate came home, he would ask them to turn the heat up.

Okay, here we go. Sorry, to give you a first draft, but I was running out of time (and I know you'll post your new exercise soon).


Plague! (or, Milli the Moll Makes Her Mark)

Dr. Festerbite, specialist in exotic diseases, was found that afternoon face-down and writhing in a Dreadhook Hospital laundry cart, deliriously moaning, "I'm so cold—so cold; these blankets do nothing!" Two nurses tried to pull him out of the cart, which resulted in him screaming in pain. "Your hoofs are like ice! For fuck's sake, I'd like to die in peace, you filthy mooses!"

# # #

Despite best efforts at confidentiality, panic soon set in.

A freckled-faced candy striper whispered the story to the clerk who sold used books in the hospital lobby who told her next three customers, and it was off to the races after that! Dreadhook Triple-C News received an anonymous tip and assigned one of their roving reporters, Milli, a blonde beauty who had recently flunked out of Brassar, to dig into the rumor.

What was unknown to her employer was that Milli was a sick, sick woman who enjoyed taking candy from little children; puncturing balloons at amusement parks; laughing out loud in the movie theatre at the height of tender love scenes; and dating mobsters. She had recently thrown over her husband, Satcho "the Spike", for Molan "the Mogul" (whose ensuing fight with each other had landed Satcho in Dreadhook General Hospital with a split head and some broken ribs).

Milli felt she really connected with Molan--maybe it was even love, huh? Whatever that was.

The handcuffs, the duct tape, the cold pizza with pineapple. There was a bond between them. She wished she could refuse to go to the hospital, since like most wiseguys, Molan was very protective of his reputation and if it got out that Milli was sneaking around the hospital… Not good! People would assume she was still sweet on Satcho. But what about her career at Triple-C?

To protect her ass, Milli decided to drop by Molan's daytime lair, his bar - the "Bottoms Up!" - on her way to the hospital and make it clear that interviewing the hospital staff was just part of her job. Speeding off in her red BMW that had been a "getting to know you" gift from her new boyfriend, she had just crossed Styx and Cerberus Avenues when her cell phone rang. It was her stepbrother, Detective Brad Koldspunk. She answered the call, one manicured hand left lightly on the wheel.

"Brad, what is it?" she snapped, "I'm busy." Poor Brad, always on the take but never hitting the big time.

"Hey little sister," replied Brad in a whispered tone, "How would you like to get some payback at the bastards at Brassar and make a billion billion dollars at the same time?"

Milli swiftly pulled the vehicle over to a Traitor Joe's parking lot, cutting off two other cars of inferior make and narrowly avoiding a collision. Ignoring the shouted curses and angry honking (people couldn't drive worth a damn these days!), she devoted her full attention to Brad's hushed instructions.

Soon, she was speeding away from the dilapidated city of Dreadhook towards her former college, chucking the idea of meeting with Molan. (Fun was fun, but family was forever. And Brad had always needed Milli to take care of him.)

Brad's tip was amazing. The man may have had a run of bad luck, but he had connections in the most surprising places.

Reaching her destination and slithering quietly into the college, Milli made her way to the advanced sciences lab, where her old playmate, Dr. Finestir was awaiting her. They flickered a cold thin smile at each other across the glass beakers.

"It had to be you, didn't it?" mused Finestir, cryptically.

"You have what I need?" asked Milli, coyly twirling a strand of her gleaming hair around one finger.

"Don't I always, sweetcheeks?" replied Finestir smoothly. "Come here and get it."

Finestir knew what Milli liked and she knew that he knew that she knew. For the sake of old times, they thrashed a little among aging yellowed charts of the elements and smushed up against petri dishes in sad need of cleaning. Afterwards, shaking a test tube out of her hair and adjusting her expensive clothing, Milli picked up the gray, double-handled satchel that Finestir had set aside during their collision of passion.

"Everything's in here?" she checked with him, as she handed over the substantial first down-payment in the form of a personal check.

"One vial of antidote (the blue vial), the formula for the antidote, and a supply of the Pominky flu virus (the red vials) down to the last deadly drop, honey." Dr. Finestir grinned. "Double-cross me on the rest of the dough and I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life in the clink."

"Ah baby, don't be that way," pouted Milli, fluttering her eyelashes at the scientist and giving her substantial bosom a heave.

Dr. Finestir prepared a syringe, squeezing a few drops out before he took her hand. "I always was a sucker for you, darlin'. Be sure to come back and see me sometime after we're all stinking rich. The preventive antidote, Milli. It has a few side effects, but they'll pass. Be sure you're sitting down and off the road in the next hour. In two hours' time, you'll have complete immunity from the Pominky virus."

The reporter rolled up the sleeve of her cashmere sweater and winked at him as he shot her up.

"See you soon, darling," she purred as she exited the room. She'd see him - in the morgue, since she hated loose ends and Finestir was surely that. She was glad Brad had given her a tube of poison lipstick for Christmas, which she always carried in her purse, along with the undercoating that would protect her from harm. She carefully wiped off her lips with a few tissues and tossed them idly in the hallway.

As for the load of death she carried in her other hand... The way Brad explained it to her was that the lethal and highly contagious Pominky flu at first made the victim feel deathly cold, and then led to a quick death in great agony, wherein the victim lost all touch with reality in his last moments.

The only preventative--as also discovered by Dr. Finestir--was to contract the Melberri virus in advance, which made a person feel overheated even in the coldest weather but otherwise acted like a vicious flu. (She didn't trust Finestir worth a damn, but what the hell. Life without a gamble was BORING.) One virus blocked the other. Without prior exposure to the precious Melberri virus, the Pominky flu might quickly turn into a plague capable of decimating most of mankind.

She and Brad would exclusively protect the very wealthy for a hefty price that the poor suckers would be more than happy to pay.

It so happened that Dr. Finestir had paid a visit to Dr. Festerbite this morning -- for a little test run on his most hated enemy. (Festerbite had publicly mocked Finestir's thesis regarding venereal disease in owls, 20 years ago.)

Before she left her former college, Milli dropped by a few key offices and released a few drops of eau d' Pominky as her special gift. Payback! Yes! She pumped her fist in the air. Then she light-heartedly drove off, back towards Dreadhook.

Traffic was bad and she had barely reached the outskirts of Dreadhook, when she picked up an anxious call from Brad. "Yes, I'll be at your house in 10 minutes, I'm passing by the old quarry now. Don't worry!" She hung up without waiting for a reply.

She was hot, too hot. The Melberri virus must be kicking in. Head down, one hand on the wheel, she rolled down all the windows and fiddled with the car's controls – had to turn off that heat!

Suddenly her car was bumped from behind, making her jump. Damn it! What fool…?! Her cell phone rang. Molan the Mogul! Looking in her rear view mirror with hatred for the culprit behind her, she answered the phone.

"Molan, darling, I can't talk now. Some idiot is tailgating me!" she was about to hang up when his cold voice whispered "A black Ford sedan?"

Alarm grasped her. "How did you …?"

"No dame makes a fool of Molan," he snarled. "You think you ain't being tailed? I warned you, I don't share nutthin' with nobody. I know all about what you did this afternoon. Bye bye, sweetheart!" And the call went dead.

"No, WAIT," Milli shouted uselessly, her body now covered in sweat. "It's not what you think. At least, not hardly."

She dropped the phone in her purse and glanced back at the black car. "Damn it!" It was last thing she said before the Ford rammed her again, sending the red BMW veering off the road and down into the old quarry.

Molan's man gave the scene a professional glance. There was no explosion, but there was no question that the dame would be done for. Even so, he turned his vehicle around and headed down the old quarry road to put the icing on the cake. The boss liked things tied with a bow.

As the thug parked his car and walked over to the accident scene, he could see Milli lay bleeding--unconscious and trapped in her overturned vehicle, her purse and a satchel thrown clear.

The hitman didn't pay attention to a mess of broken vials on the already littered ground. With gloved hands, he grabbed the purse and pulled out Milli's cell phone, pocketing it. That was a plus. Then he turned the wreck into a pretty bonfire. He wished he could stay and warm himself by it, since he was starting to feel quite cold. But next he had to visit Milli's big brother, Brad. There was no telling what the skirt might have blabbed to him. Despite the fact that Detective Koldspunk was crooked as a dog's hind leg, it was best that all the loose ends get taken care of.

After all, family was family.

Shivering, the heavyset man climbed back in his car.