If you're following the fic "Her better half" by 'ACeDeBbie' you might like to see what happens when a stalker story turns ludicrous. Readers of my "This looks like a job for A." will detect a came...
come on, e
try to go easy
we can do anything, anything, anything
come on, e
we got it covered
we can stop anytime, anytime, anytime
come on, e
it's just a party
lets go to party town
then we can party down
we are always here to make you laugh - "E Dagger" by Lagwagon
The following story refers to the fics
"Her better half"
(http://www.ficwad.com/viewstory.php?sid=64503) by somebody who calls herself ACeDeBbie (who gave her semi-friendly permission to allude to her text and would be grateful for new readers/ reviewers)
"This looks like a job for A."
(http://www.ficwad.com/viewstory.php?sid=36410) by myself (who asked for a copyright fee at first but then wondered how far one can take multiple personality disorder and still be officially declared sane).
You don't need to be familiar with them but if you are, this fan fic probably seems less stupid. Maybe not.
Also, I don't mean to offend Evie or any of the FOBsters. Well, I don't mean to offend Evie; this is my little homage to her unsurpassable Cowness. It's all just a joke. ;)
As for A. - this is pretty authentic.
And I openly insulted Ashlee Simpson so I can't act as if I didn't...
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___
T h i s l o o k s l i k e a s p o o f w i t h E (v i e)
When Joseph Trohman comes home from a stressful day filled with promotion photo shoots (including dubious Pete-into-the-center-bringing poses and 70's glam rock glitter pants) and incapable interviewers who always referred to him as Andy or George, and even as "Yo, journalist intern guy! Bring me some coffe!" once, he is quite delighted to find a small envelope with a black and white cow pattern leaning against his front door.
"My, aren't I delighted to find this envelope leaning against my door!" Joe exclaims.
Apparently he is not aware of the effect that his marijuana consumption is having on his vocabulary.
The man picks it up from his porch and rips it open as he enters his house.
This is the first letter I am writing to you.
I want you to know that you're my favorite Fall Out Bovine!
More to follow.
"Okay?" he puts the letter down and scratches his fro. Fan letter is fan letter though, and Joe is excited about every single one he receives.
The man decides to have a quick shower before retreating to his bedroom to watch TV and slowly doze off. 20 minutes after entering the bathroom he leaves it with colorful curlers stuck in his damp hair, covered with a hairnet. As he passes a mirror he giggles nervously, "If the fans knew... If ANYBODY knew..."
Just as he lies down in his cosy bed (Ewok-print bedspread & linen) he feels his brain throbbing violently against his skull. His plans of drifting peacefully into slumberland are foiled by an oncoming headache.
When Joe steps outside the next morning he is quite surprised to find a bottle filled with milk on his porch.
"I am especially surprised to find a bottle of milk on my porch because there's no milkman around here," he explains, robbing the narrator of her fan fic-given right to supply the reader with this kind of crucial information.
The narrator tells him to start sucking up to her before she writes his beloved curler set out of the story and to check the little note that's attached to the bottle.
"I think I will check-"
Yeah, just do it.
Joe checks the note:
Here's a treat for you. I made it myself!
Wishing you a good moo-rning - E.
Joe hasn't received gifts from a vowel so far, so you may forgive him his confusion.
He shrugs and take a long gulp from the bottle. Wiping drops of the white liquid off his lips, he sighs blissfully, "Hmm... heavy on the calcium, just how I like it."
Not too far from him another person sighs blissfully. E.
The sly cow is hiding in the bushes in the lead guitarist's front yard, armed with a digital camera and surrounded by her herd of stuffed cows.
Once E. had secured herself the position as one of the leading figures in FOB fan fic, she realized that this wasn't enough. Despite the fact that cows are gregarious animals, E. has never been one to just follow the crowd (or else she would be with the flock of brownish cattle that's grazing on Old Man Potroast's meadow right now instead of shadowing Frohman).
During the next few weeks E. sends Joe more presents and notes. One day the man receives a UPS-delivered package.
He's grown a little suspicious of the gifts that followed the milk. All of them have been dairy products or otherwise related to bovines. He just didn't know what to do with the bale of straw he found in his bed one evening or a bathtub full of yoghurt.
Joe shakes the opened package over his couch. A deodorant stick and a letter fall out.
I know you've enjoyed my previous gifts, especially the self-made ones so I'm sending you something very special this time.
I made this in food class. Then I had hygiene class right after that so I decided to change it a little bit.
Instructions: Apply after showering to smell moo-tastic all day.
The guitarist picks up the deo stick and eyeballs it for a while.
"I think I've never seen a deodorant stick that's yellow and has got holes in it," he wonders out loud.
Then he screws off the top and raises the stick to his nostrils.
"THIS COWGIRL AIN'T KOSHER!" he yells out and tosses the hygiene product into a corner.
Surely, a cheese-scented deodorant is not everybody's taste. But this was a stupid mistake of Joe. Because now the narrator can become even more ridiculous.
Later that day the guitarist decides to pay his friend Pete a visit. Walking down the sidewalk, the man hears a faint sound behind him. He turns around.
Nobody in sight.
But the slight breeze takes a whiff of tofu to his nostrils. Tofu and star-shaped earrings to be precise. The average nose may have its difficulties with picking up these kinds of scents, not so Joe's. In fact, he was asked to become part of the local drug-detector police dog squad once. However, the conflict of interests was of course too big.
The slightly irritated man carries on his way to the Wentzian residence.
A minute later he stops again. There are clearly hoof-steps behind him.
"Why are you-" he spins around and, like before, doesn't see anybody behind him.
Slowly he turns around and starts sprinting.
"I've got to get to Pete fast. I'm obviously being followed... maybe it's this E. person. Cow. Whatever," these thoughts are running through Joe's mind.
Also: "Plus, it looks as if it's about to rain. My curls aren't water-proof. AND I CAN'T BE SEEN WITH STRAIGHT HAIR! The fans'll lynch me! What entitlement to being in the band do I have once they'll find out my hair isn't naturally curly?" A quite understandable concern, in the light of the fact that Joe is baked.
Beating the soles of his shoes against the pavement, his heart thumping against his chest, his fro swaying to and... huh, fro, he hears a stampede behind him. At least two dozens of hooves are after him, constantly picking up speed. To make matters worse a terrible headache also kicks in.
He doesn't have time to thrust a glance behind him this time. He turns a corner and Pete's house comes into his vision. He rushes past a female figure that is half-way hanging in one of the trash cans on the Wentzian property. Five seconds later he's inside the house. Safety.
At the sound of a flock of a handful of quadrupeds coming to a halt right next to her, A., Peter's personal trash-seller and nerve-wrecker, lifts her head out of the can. "Ugh, just garbage today..." she grunts.
The grumpy-looking college student eye-balls the congregation of stuffed cows. Among them stands a dark-haired petite girl. "Moo?" she asks a bit shyly.
E. may be a stalker but she's far from going through somebody's litter. This other girl could seriously be one horn short of a pugnacious bull.
A. rolls her eyes. Why are people constantly interrupting her work? "Yes, that's /MU/ck right there," she points at the garbage can. "But I don't have time for you now: Where there's muck, there's money, you know."
The garbage-digger laughs shrilly at her own joke. E. looks at her blankly and makes a step backwards, her entourage of little cows copies her. It's a sad fact that litter-humor is only popular with a certain type of humans: freaks.
"Eh... probably a too dirty joke for ya," A. concludes and glances at E.'s expression hopefully. Maybe she would at least appreciate this little pun? No.
The rude women focusses her attention back to Peter's can.
E. ignores the uneasy feeling she has about her counterpart and stamps her hoof. "Moo!" she exclaims. Why won't this kid tell her if she saw Joe pass by?
"Listen, I am not being /moo/dy. And now-" the other female interrupts herself as her hands fall upon something that feels like matted hair. "What the...?"
A. grabs the tangle and pulls it out of the trash can. A neglected Ashlee Simpson appears.
A. nods with a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, "I knew that I'd find her in here sooner or later." Then she proceeds and crams the rejected ex-thorn-in-his-side into her backpack.
"Hey, she's still good enough to be sold to some dude from Good Charlotte or Sum 41," the garbage-woman explains to the confused E. "And now, go the way of the buffalo or something. This is my territory."
The bovine Joe-stalker realizes it's no use trying to converse with this ignorant individual in her mother tongue. No susceptibility to other species' languages at all. E. clears her throat and says, "Wow! Look over there. Aren't that I., O. and U.?!"
A. can't deny that she's always took an interest in linguistic matters so she raises her head from the trash can and turns her eyes in the direction that E.'s finger is indicating.
"Oh, her?" the trash-addict sighs in disappointment. " Irrationality, Overkill, Underachievement - yeah, that's FrostedGl-"
Quick as a flash, a feature for which cows are known all over the world, E. snatches the garbage can, turns it upside down and puts it over the distracted A. While the angry woman is raising hell inside her makeshift prison, the Queen of Rumination swiftly places her loyal stuffed subjects upon the bottom of the can. Now A. is trapped and held down by the frequently underestimated weight of a few toy cows.
"You stay here, my dearies," E. cooes at them, the love of a mother resounding in her voice. To the untrained ear it may simply take the form of "Moooooooohhh".
Through the window the stalker is able to make out three figures on the first floor of the house. There's a pretty boy in tight pants, who is practicing licking a bass guitar in front of a mirror, a woman in a uniform with a name tag that reads /Officer Cherry/, a slingshot stuck in her belt, wearing a sash with filled water balloons attached to it. And there is a frightened-looking Joe, currently imitating the sound of hooves by slapping his hands against his cheeks with his mouth open.
E. contents herself with taking a few pictures of her object of desire and jotting down a few notes in her cowary.
A week later Joe is at the doctor's, waiting for test results.
"Please, take a seat, Mr. Trohman," Dr. Leymor tells him.
The man swallows and lowers himself to the suggested chair, "So, why do I keep getting these horrid headaches, doc?"
"Mr. Trohman, could it be that you use curlers?"
The guitarist laughs out loud nervously, "Hell, no..."
The physician's eyes almost burn holes into Joe's.
The patient whimpers.
"Mr. Trohman, the test results clearly indicate that the cause of your headaches is too tightly rolled curlers."
The diagnosis weighs Joe down like a ton of bricks (compare: the stuffed cows on the trash can). After five minutes he's composed enough to ask, "So... what do I do now?"
"Well," Dr. Leymor runs his hand through his naturally curly hair. Probably an unconscious move, but it only intensifies the horror of the instruction that follows:
"Stop using curlers IMMEDIATELY. If you ever use them again, you may risk your life."
Still in shock, Joe trots home. As he's crossed a bridge halfway, he stops and bends over the railing. No, a short fall like this would only result in his hair being messed up and not in his neck breaking. And he wants to enjoy the last fro of his life as long as possible. How long can you go without washing your hair?
On his front porch, leaning against his door, Joe finds one of the familiar envelopes with a cow pattern.
I nicely asked you to use the deo stick. It comes from my heart. Or my udder, but that's hairsplitting.
Which is a nice transition... but first let me point out that you also ignored my more urget requests to apply the deostick. Did you think I was kidding on the phone? Online? When I had that (Jewish!!!) a capella group deliver your grandmother the sung telegram?
I was not kidding, Joe. But I realize that some people only learn from the mistakes they've made.
So I'm giving you the chance to learn something, Joseph.
Log onto www.straight-haired-impostor.com.
The guitarist soon finds out how it feels when one's worst nightmare turns into reality: There, on the website, are pictures of him with STRAIGHT HAIR! Then pictures of how he's putting the curlers in his hair! How he slips on the hairnet!
The man quickly googles Joe Trohman + straight hair and learns that the shots have spread over the internet like the nude pictures Pete took of Ashlee and then photoshopped his own head on. Just a moment earlier the thought of taking up wearing wigs posed as a practical solution to Joe's dilemma but now even that is useless.
In a tastefully arranged barn across town E. is sitting on her bed and stroking her favorite stuffed cow. You just don't mess with a sassy heifer like her.
That would be all. Thanks for reading! :)
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P.S.: Check out http://p068.ezboard.com/bfobfic when ficwad is down. It's run by an intriguing Brit and constantly extended by talented writers you know from ficwad... and me.