I figured I'd write a little fan fiction style piece on a 'famous' member of our little RF community. Quaggy inspired it with some random comment he made the other night, hence he is first victim. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental, bloody unlikely, and not at all a result of me hiring a somewhat overweight detective to follow him around for a few days. So, @Quagmire ... I blame you for this.
Quagmire paused, his trembling hand lightly feathering the bell of his bicycle. Let that imbecile in the Chevvie swerve into the bike lane just one more time...just one more...
Whilst certainly a cliche, it really all did seem to happen in slow motion. The big red car began to drift to the right once again. The balding rubber kissed the white line dividing road from bike lane. And then it crossed the line. And if there was one thing Quagmire wasn't willing to tolerate, it was someone crossing the damn line.
Ding! Ding, ding!! Ding, ding, ding!!!
The shrill sounding of the bell was enough to break the spell. Everything seemed to speed up again. With an almost inaudible squeal of tires, the car swerved back to the left, accelerated fast, and had soon vanished, leaving behind a somewhat shaken rider. To a casual observer, it would merely appear that the rider had seen his own death swerving before him. But Quagmire knew that the truth was far more serious.
3 dings. I dinged them three times, straight off. No warnings at all. My God, what is happening to me?
It was a familiar tale these days, of course. Transgressors were sought out and punished with the cold-hearted precision of an assassin. Anyone could have been in that car. Children. Pets. Heck, there could have been a 4 year old nursing a chihuahua for all he knew. And none of that had mattered. He'd love to think his hand had a mind of it's own when it was sounding the bell over and over again, but he was a realist, and knew better.
'It was me, Naykidape. It was my mind. My hand. My lack of control...', he muttered to his imaginary ape friend. Okay, so maybe he wasn't completely a realist. Any amateur shrink would agree that grounding oneself in reality becomes increasingly difficult as celebrity kicked in, and he was nothing if not a major celebrity in the RF universe now.
Legs finally co-operating again, he peddled on to the library, fatigue forgotten as his mind flicked between the many pressing issues he had to deal with . It was a strange sensation, the burst of adrenaline that kicked in as he saw the familiar building. He would pay for it when he left, he knew. It was ever the way. Whatever energy the building seemed to provide on entry was cruelly and completely drained from him on exit.
So was it a peculiar addiction to that adrenaline that kept him coming back? Or was it his sense of duty? Or did he just really like slapping around ignorant fundies? Who knew? Not even Quagmire himself could be sure. It wasn't for the girls though. No. Definitely not, he told himself firmly. He was above all that. Celebrity was a drug for others.
His finger paused over the power button on the aging computer. A slow breath, the same ritual that filled most days, and he pressed down decisively, the doubts and hesitations everyone suffered in their real lives replaced with the ban-stick wielding Thundergod who strode the boards. One could almost hear the squeals of the girls as Quagmire's online avatar blinked into life, and he strode into the RF chat room, ready to once more do battle with the ignorant and the unwashed. And some of the washed, too, who generally proved themselves just as big a bunch of muppets, let's face it.
The squeal of the girls reminded him of the squeals of the car tires for a moment, and he wondered if he was pushing things too hard. But he was Quagmire, dammit, and whatever he and his imaginary ape couldn't accomplish wasn't WORTH accomplishing. And so he announced his presence to the online world with all the dominating will and effortless command that he could muster, his typed words echoing like the decree of a High King. Nay, more appropriately, the bellowing of a pagan God!
Quagmire : Hi all.
Quagmire paused, his trembling hand lightly feathering the bell of his bicycle. Let that imbecile in the Chevvie swerve into the bike lane just one more time...just one more...
Whilst certainly a cliche, it really all did seem to happen in slow motion. The big red car began to drift to the right once again. The balding rubber kissed the white line dividing road from bike lane. And then it crossed the line. And if there was one thing Quagmire wasn't willing to tolerate, it was someone crossing the damn line.
Ding! Ding, ding!! Ding, ding, ding!!!
The shrill sounding of the bell was enough to break the spell. Everything seemed to speed up again. With an almost inaudible squeal of tires, the car swerved back to the left, accelerated fast, and had soon vanished, leaving behind a somewhat shaken rider. To a casual observer, it would merely appear that the rider had seen his own death swerving before him. But Quagmire knew that the truth was far more serious.
3 dings. I dinged them three times, straight off. No warnings at all. My God, what is happening to me?
It was a familiar tale these days, of course. Transgressors were sought out and punished with the cold-hearted precision of an assassin. Anyone could have been in that car. Children. Pets. Heck, there could have been a 4 year old nursing a chihuahua for all he knew. And none of that had mattered. He'd love to think his hand had a mind of it's own when it was sounding the bell over and over again, but he was a realist, and knew better.
'It was me, Naykidape. It was my mind. My hand. My lack of control...', he muttered to his imaginary ape friend. Okay, so maybe he wasn't completely a realist. Any amateur shrink would agree that grounding oneself in reality becomes increasingly difficult as celebrity kicked in, and he was nothing if not a major celebrity in the RF universe now.
Legs finally co-operating again, he peddled on to the library, fatigue forgotten as his mind flicked between the many pressing issues he had to deal with . It was a strange sensation, the burst of adrenaline that kicked in as he saw the familiar building. He would pay for it when he left, he knew. It was ever the way. Whatever energy the building seemed to provide on entry was cruelly and completely drained from him on exit.
So was it a peculiar addiction to that adrenaline that kept him coming back? Or was it his sense of duty? Or did he just really like slapping around ignorant fundies? Who knew? Not even Quagmire himself could be sure. It wasn't for the girls though. No. Definitely not, he told himself firmly. He was above all that. Celebrity was a drug for others.
His finger paused over the power button on the aging computer. A slow breath, the same ritual that filled most days, and he pressed down decisively, the doubts and hesitations everyone suffered in their real lives replaced with the ban-stick wielding Thundergod who strode the boards. One could almost hear the squeals of the girls as Quagmire's online avatar blinked into life, and he strode into the RF chat room, ready to once more do battle with the ignorant and the unwashed. And some of the washed, too, who generally proved themselves just as big a bunch of muppets, let's face it.
The squeal of the girls reminded him of the squeals of the car tires for a moment, and he wondered if he was pushing things too hard. But he was Quagmire, dammit, and whatever he and his imaginary ape couldn't accomplish wasn't WORTH accomplishing. And so he announced his presence to the online world with all the dominating will and effortless command that he could muster, his typed words echoing like the decree of a High King. Nay, more appropriately, the bellowing of a pagan God!
Quagmire : Hi all.
