*Spoilers*
*Profanity*
*Ruthless Humour*
---This story takes place AFTER my other two fanfics, i.e. in this order:

‘Wait Till Helene Comes’ (Not yet posted! Heh. I’m savin’ it for Hallowe’en.)
‘The New Orleans Patient’
‘Raised On Robbery’ (I was writing this one before I started on Helene, but I finished Helene first. Go figure!)

Again, I don’t own Pendy. Mr. Preston and Mr. Child do. They made him what he is. But, as far as I know, I wrote the poem first. However, Joni Mitchell wrote ‘Raised On Robbery’, which is in italics. And this is my first songfic, well, it’s sort of one. It’s not as good as TNOP, but y’all ought to have fun, regardless! I seriously recommend getting the cd – joni mitchell hits- if only to listen to the song...er, all of them, really. Especially the first and fifth. Heh. (album: Court and Sparks)

Also, while I’m at it, those of you who dislike Viola (sorry, I don’t –so far-, though it is somewhat entertaining to make light of her) might look up the word VERJUICE for a bit of inspirational humour. For even more fun, check out these three gems, all of which are recent purchases of mine. Jeffrey Kacirk’s ‘The Word Museum’...   read more »

“Forgive me such crude sentiment, beloved...but I think it was a mistake for you to come here.” The mahogany-haired woman said to her husband while she reached to touch his white face, both of them shrouded by the incomplete darkness of their balcony box, the most famous balcony box in the world. “You don’t look as though you feel all that well, of a sudden. Of course, it could just be this dim light. Oh, my...you’re so clammy! Are you all right? I certainly hope whoever is sitting above us doesn’t spill anything else on account of the gunshots echoing from the stage. That last scene with the actor was exceptionally jolting. When he pointed his weapon into the audience, he almost seemed to be looking right...up...h—” Abruptly the woman thrust her fingers...   read more »

( 1 )

D’Agosta groaned audibly, his body quivering with the unspent tremor of boredom that was rushing through his veins.

Some f*ck was making a scene at the airport...his airport, today. Probably some payback for Southampton...Why did they always send him on the local rabble sh*t jobs? He was a police officer, not a bellboy. He was Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta.

The ruckus had started when an old lady with a lethal-looking handbag had dragged this deathly, coat-cocooned guy with obscenely pale, feather-fine, oddly mussed hair through the turnstiles and...oh sh*t....   read more »

(1)

Vincent D’Agosta lifted his liripiped blue cowl and adjusted his crow mask, straining to see the twin dials of his silver Rolex in the shade of the staircase. Seven-thirty-five, on the dot. Then, with meticulous, anxious consideration he checked the watch-face again, this time gauging it against the elegant french baroque grandmother clock ticking away demurely in the corner near the stairs. Where was he? Pendergast was supposed to have come down thirty minutes ago with Viola on his arm! Oberon and Titania...right. Something was up. Well, either that or the scrawny bastard was going...   read more »