Revenge of the Muse By Ashlea Ensro, Anna Otto and with help of FirePhile Email: morleyphile@yahoo.com, annaotto1@aol.com, firephile@aol.com Parody on The Fire Eaters http://www.geocities.com/annaotto.geo/eaters.html Rating: NC-17 for glorification of violence, cruelty to animals, children, and betas. Category: SHA Disclaimer: Quentin Tarantino would never even talk to us - and most of the characters still belong to CC. But the muse is all ours, and we love her enough to claim ownership. Summary: Quentin is the director of the upcoming feature movie, Anna and Ashlea are the writers, Rachel is the producer, and things are spiraling downward quickly. Part 1/2 "Kill! Kill! More blood!" The small crowd shuddered at the shrill cries coming from a dark corner of the shadowed studio. "Who is that?" Quentin asked, distracted. "Our muse," Ashlea replied nonchalantly. "Don't worry, we will pacify her." She walked to the corner and offered a pack of Morleys to the hunched figure. The cries stopped abruptly and smoke clouds erupted from the hidden face. "All right," Quentin shook his head. "Let's talk about our plans for today. We have to film the latest Consortium member massacre. They're gunned down in their house. So the killers burst into the room, kill the husband and wife and disappear." "What about kids?" Anna piped in. "They should kill the kids too. They can't leave the witnesses." "And a family dog," Ashlea added. "Or else they could cut out its tongue so it can't bark out the information." "We cannot have that," DJ commented calmly. "Remember, we need an R rating, and cutting out the tongue of a cute puppy would damage our chances." Ashlea shrugged. "In that case, it dies." Anna looked at her suspiciously. "Have you been talking to the muse without me? Remember, we had this discussion? Don't you know it has too much violence for just one mind to bear it?" Quentin drew out a long sigh, distancing himself from the two psychotic evil geniuses. Life was hard on the filming set of "The Fire Eaters". The script kept changing as they went along, and every day he had to order more extras at $10 an hour to keep up with the increasing demand for dead bodies. "Rachel!" The producer of the movie was standing near the two writers, trying to convince them, once again, that puppy cruelty was really not what the audience wanted to see. "Do you have the number of a local morgue attendant?" "Is that legal?" DJ, once again the voice of reason, wanted to know. Quentin scowled at her. "Who knows? But I will come in, shake hands with him, and he will be happy to oblige." "Using your star status is morally wrong," DJ lectured him. "Find another way." The Cigarette Smoking Man wandered by. "I could deliver dead bodies if you need them," he dropped enigmatically. "Fine, then that's settled," Quentin turned the page. "All right, actors, take the places." The lights came on, and Anna and Ashlea retreated to watch the filming. It was really too much fun. It seemed as though with each new day, another major character was killed, tortured, or imprisoned in a secret research facility. The bullets sang out, blood flowed in rivers, and their muse was appeased - for a short time. Because, really, there never was enough blood and gore to keep her satisfied. It had been a brilliant idea to get Quentin Tarantino to direct the movie. He dutifully allowed them to keep killing and maiming people, and he hardly ever complained. They were beginning to think that they had truly found a kindred spirit. Too bad about the rating factor, though, it really put a damper on things. "More death?" A tiny peep came from the corner of the studio. It had started again. "Your turn," Ashlea said. Anna reached for her Morleys, and made her way over to where the muse was sitting. The being was insatiable sometimes, but they had found that if they kept putting cigarettes in her mouth, she would shut up for a short time. As Anna leaned over to hand her the cancer stick, however, the hooded head lifted to whisper something in her ear. A dark, sadistic grin crossed Anna's face. "Now," she said, "*That's* a good idea..." She made her way back to the director. "Quentin, we should have the Birthday party for kids instead, and for the killer to jump out of the cake. Oh, and the dog should have been trained to kill people." Tarantino set his jaw and made a note on the script. "You just want to find a way to kill the puppy, don't you." "Don't tell Ashlea," Anna whispered in his ear. "She will be mad if she finds out I've been talking to the muse again." "I don't think she will care," Rachel laughed. "She is too busy with other matters." Anna looked over to where Ashlea was very obviously flirting with the CSM. A smile on her face was positively wicked, and Anna thought that any minute now, she would see the little horns that Ashlea usually hid in a mane of her red hair. She would have felt jealous, but she knew that Ashlea always would share the CSM with her. Ashlea was working for both of them. However, the idyllic scene was interrupted by Teena Mulder, who felt neglected. Shortly, Ashlea and Teena were involved in a fistfight. "Who do you vote for?" Mulder asked Anna. "I don't know, I like them both," Anna lit up and offered Mulder one. "Your mom is pretty cool." "I like Ashlea," he shared shyly. "Yeah, too bad for you," Anna shook her head. "But keep smoking, then maybe you stand a chance." Mulder asked for another cigarette. Scully appeared in front of them, her eyes narrowed. "Speaking of neglected..." Anna muttered, but Mulder didn't notice. "Hey Scully, want a coffee?" Scully scowled. "I need to talk to you." "Shoot," Anna said. The command was, of course, misinterpreted by some too-eager stagehand, and the body count rose yet again. Scully was accustomed to it by now. "I want these visions to go away," she complained, "Every time I close my eyes, I see Samantha, and this garden. It's not fair. Everyone else gets to go around maiming and killing, and all I ever do is hallucinate." Anna looked sympathetic. "I'll make a note of it," she said. "Next time you see the garden, there will be rivers of blood flowing through it and fire erupting at will and you will have to battle the evil dragon." "Sounds good," Scully appeared doubtful. "And another thing - stop giving cigarettes to my partner. Wasn't it enough that you made him lapse back into habit, now you have to feed the flame." "Hey, I was just giving him some relationship advice," Anna denied the allegations. Seeing a grimace on Scully's face, she considered it best to get out of the line of fire. Mulder remained, unwittingly. Meanwhile, Ashlea had called a tentative truce with Teena in order to approach the stage. "They aren't screaming enough," she informed Quentin. "The muse - I mean, Anna and I - want more screaming. And a big blood spray." "The scene hasn't even started yet," Quentin said. "What does this have to do with the plot?" DJ asked. Quentin was starting to wonder what he had gotten himself into when he'd said yes to the project. Sure, there were plenty of opportunities for choreographed gunfights and bursts of obscenities, but there was also no shortage of brooding men in black hanging around the site. They made him nervous. Not to mention the constant cloud of tobacco smoke that made filming difficult, and the morbid gothic soundtrack. He would have done anything for some Elvis - anything. Anna and Ashlea watched appreciatively as the stage was set for a kid's Birthday party. Actors took their places, bags of blood firmly attached to their fronts, backs, extremities, and heads. A huge cake was placed on the table, and cameras rolled. For a few very short seconds, everything looked fine. Then, just as a knife was lowered on the mounds of vanilla cream, the cake erupted, releasing a killer dressed in black, with a switchblade in his mouth and automatic guns in both hands, eliciting plenty of screams. Very shortly, everyone was lying around the table bleeding, and only the cute white puppy was hanging on to the killer's leg. "Someone get this thing off me!" he screamed. "It bites!" "Just press the trigger," Ashlea said. As the puppy lay dead, Anna went to offer another cigarette to the muse. "I think we forgot to put the blood bag on the dog," she shared her concern. The muse nodded wisely as it released another cloud of smoke. "That's the price of art." * * * "Can you hold a moment? Thanks...yes...I'm sorry, no it was an accident...of *course* it was just an accident...no, they aren't that sick, they're nice people once you get to know them. Really. Look, I can't be held responsible for every little -- right back at you!" Rachel Ehrentreu slammed the phone down angrily. One more complaint from a censor and she was going to open fire on someone. The worst thing about sharing a communal brain with two less-than-balanced authors was that she had a natural tendency to absorb some of their violent urges. A knock on the door distracted her from darker thoughts. "Can I come in?" a man's tormented voice inquired. "Sure, fine, whatever..." The door opened, and she looked up to see a very dejected Quentin Tarantino. "What is it now?" she asked. "I can't believe those two! When I finally managed to get away, they were arguing with the prop man over whether there was enough blood on the cake." "Well, you know...they're...eccentric." "More like maladjusted," DJ appeared beside Quentin. "I know a very good therapist who would do wonders for their mental health, not to mention our productivity." Rachel glared at her. "I'm sure that's not necessary. Maybe we should try filming something peaceful tomorrow, so everyone gets a rest from the shoot-outs." Tarantino appeared relieved. "Well, there was this one scene that I've been dying to do - a tender moment with Marita and Hart. It could expand my repertoire as a director." Rachel smiled. "See, how nice. We just have one problem: Hart has issues working with any of the Consortium members. So we will have to keep the smoker, Krycek, and everyone else away." "Does that include those black-clothed men hanging around the set?" Rachel consulted her roster. "Yes, they've been supplying me with their schedule. Perhaps we could send them all to Disneyland for a day. We could get them free tickets." "Perfect," Tarantino already looked better. "And that muse needs to disappear just for a day, maybe we can have some clean air for a change." DJ crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I have no problems with that." Rachel was not sure whether this was right, after all Anna and Ashlea were very attached to the cape-wearing old thing, but unless she reached some sort of compromise, there would be revolution and rioting and she just wanted everyone to get along. "I'm sure the muse won't mind." She considered, idly, whether she should call in the National Guard for the occasion. *** "Listen, I don't care how you do it...this thing can't be on set tomorrow!" Rachel screamed at the two writers, while signing off on another latex body cast. "But, it doesn't like to be ignored, it made me kill the CSM last time!" Anna countered, "I can't go through that again." "Ash, you understand this, right? If she is on set tomorrow she'll do something like...make Marita kill Hart with a rusty knife, and that will destroy the romance." "I don't know, killing can sometimes be romantic. Besides, what do we do with her? It's not like she's going to just go away," Ashlea said, pulling out her copy of the script and looking at the upcoming scenes. "Send her...to Disneyland, she'll accompany the MIB's and I think she's taken a liking to Krycek," Rachel said after a few moments of serious thought. "Rachel, you can't put the muse in Disneyland, she'll kill everyone. Mickey Mouse won't survive." "I don't care where she goes as long as she's not on set at 8 am tomorrow," Rachel snapped and picked up the ringing phone. *** Quentin looked downright pleased when he walked on set the next morning and saw no gushing blood, decapitated bodies, bloody pianos, or MIBs. DJ rushed up to him, "I don't like the cursing in this scene, it's not romantic." Quentin stared at her, "I'm just glad there're no dead puppies." "That has to be cut or we'll never get an R rating from the MPAA," DJ reminded him, checking an item on her to-do list. "But that's the best part of the scene, when the MIB overcomes the cute puppy dog, it's the crux of the character," Ashlea said, leading Hart onto the set. "Ms. Ensro, why did the make-up person run from me?" Marita asked, looking lost and tired. "Marita, don't ask. Okay, look people, we have one scene to do here. Now, Hart, you love this woman and you would do anything for her," Quentin directed, sitting in his special "I am the MAN" chair. "And... action." "Wait! We have script changes," Anna ran onto the set, holding up new pages. "Inspiration hit last night." Quentin looked over at Rachel, who shrugged in response. "I'm almost afraid to ask," he reluctantly reached out for the new pages. "See, this is the scene where Hart takes Marita in his arms and whispers his undying love and then they kiss passionately and spoon, because that is the sign of true love," Ashlea explained, seeming very unlike herself. "Yes, and then they decide to let Krycek go because he is really not at fault, and then Hart and Marita get married in a beautiful spring wedding," Anna continued. "What?!" Quentin and Rachel exclaimed. "And don't forget what happens with Samantha and Krycek." "Right, they find out they are really meant for each other and get married in a double wedding...with..." "CSM and Teena!" Anna finished. "Oh no, their muse went away...and was replaced by someone else!" Rachel realized, horror clouding her features. "It's all your fault!" she screamed at DJ who seemed way too pleased with this turn of events. "Yes, no more blood, only love and caring, that's what this story needs." Meanwhile, in the corner of the room, a bright light was shining and a beautiful woman in a white dress was singing, "My heart will go on!" Quentin winced. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse... "Action!" he tried again. Hart rolled his eyes, then turned towards Marita. "I can't do it anymore," he whispered. "How can I kill, when there is so much happiness that awaits me in your arms?" "Oh, Jason," Marita sighed. "You complete me." They fell into each other's arms in a passionate embrace. The soft strains of Celine Dion drifted through the room, as if summoned by their own bidding. Suddenly, Hart pulled away, "Oh, Marita..." Abruptly, he shook his head. "I can't do this! Colonization is imminent, the world is coming to an end, and I haven't killed anyone in the last twenty- four hours!" He ripped off his labcoat to reveal a blood-red superhero-style cape. "My work here is not done! I must..." His sentence was never completed, as he dashed out the window to murder some poor innocent. Marita fingered her black dress absently, then started singing along. "My heart will go on..." Rachel and Tarantino looked at each other helplessly. "I think we need someone to go back to the Disneyland and retrieve the muse," Quentin whispered. "I can't believe I'm inviting this wrathful old thing back onto my set." Anna and Ashlea heard the good news and rejoiced. "We will bring her back!" Ashlea screamed merrily, starting to hunt around for a bouquet of flowers to present to their exiled friend. Marita supplied her with a bunch of black wilted things that went really well with her black nails, black eyes, black hair, and black dress. Anna procured a pack of Morley Lights from Phillips and off they went to Disneyland. End of Part 1/2 Revenge of the Muse By Ashlea Ensro, Anna Otto and with help of Rachel Ehrentreu Email: morleyphile@yahoo.com, annaotto1@aol.com, firephile@aol.com Part 2/2 Disneyland. The sun was shining, and the air was filled with the laughter of a thousand joyful children. Rollercoasters squealed in their tracks, and starving college students dressed like giant mice pranced along the pathways. Into this happy ambiance stepped an assembly of somber men dressed in trenchcoats, with not a mouse-ear hat to be seen among them. Following at a short distance was a decrepit, sour-faced woman in a hooded cloak. This was really no place for an old, bitter muse whose only joy in life was to spread mayhem and murder. Rather annoyed at being sent away from her rightful place, she glanced around, looking anxiously at all those gleeful children who were greedily keeping all of their blood to themselves. Even in Disneyland, there was much potential for creative inspiration. As she searched for her gun, she heard a voice calling out to her. She looked around to see Anna and Ashlea, the ungrateful ones, chasing after her. Anna was waving a box of cigarettes, and Ashlea was tossing some hideous dead flowers. The infidels. The muse turned its soulful eyes to the CSM. "You always wanted to be a writer," she whispered enticingly in his ear. The old man watched her wearily. "I still do," he confirmed. "But I write happy, hopeful stories. You, on the other hand, have corrupted these two girls to the point where they think a collection of knives is a romantic gift and a new shiny gun makes them practically incoherent with ecstasy. And now you're spoiling my day at this beautiful, fun place for kids and adults. Go away." The muse sighed unhappily and went up to Krycek. "Alex, I know you probably never got above a D+ in high school English. But I could make you good. I could make you into a king of Consortium fiction - with all the inside knowledge you have, we could be gold." Krycek stepped away several feet. From a safe distance, he informed her in no uncertain terms, "Even if that were true, I never spill the beans. And besides, you have done unspeakable things to me, you almost killed me, and I'm not even sure how I can still stand on my two feet and talk to you now. It must be a hallucination, and in that case I'm even worse off than I originally thought." With that, he ran away from Disneyland, knocking out several laughing little children in the process. Well, that at least, was a relief. Reluctantly, the muse turned her gaze towards her ex-protegees. "Back to Hollywood?" she asked with resignation. Anna grinned. "You know us so well." *** "Just kiss him, for God's sake!" Marita wrinkled her face. "I want Jason," she insisted. "Or Alex. Or the WMM. Or anyone...really...but this is too much." The stagehand-turned-extra grunted. "It's not my fault that the director keeps butchering all the extraneous characters." Marita looked for Tarantino. "He's not nearly evil enough, and he has pimples." Just then, the two writers reappeared, dragging their unwilling muse behind them. "We're back!" Ashlea's voice might have sounded cheerful, if she hadn't been holding the muse at gunpoint. "What's that thing doing back here?" DJ asked. No one answered, as the crew scattered to obtain the five gallons of fake blood the muse instantly demanded. Anna, meanwhile, was trying to locate the missing Krycek. He was hiding in the attic, trying to think happy thoughts of Mulder and blond, pre-goth Marita. "Alex," she started out with a smile. "We have an incredibly dramatic scene written just for you. Oscar will be yours, baby. No, make that an Oscar AND an Emmy, and a place in the hearts of all X-Files fans around the world." Alex's green eyes, usually feral like that of a jungle cat, flickered and died like Christmas lights the morning after. "It's more torture, isn't it," his voice was hopeless. "Yes," Anna sighed. "Our muse was very productive on the way back from Disneyland. The things she told us were brilliant. We can't wait to do the boiling sugar bit." Krycek seemed interested. "Does that involve dessert?" "You bet," Anna extended a hand, which he reluctantly accepted. "After we pour boiling sugar around your ankle, then wait until it solidifies, Hart takes a hammer to it and your bone just shatters - and there is not even blood gushing out. And then, you get dessert prepared especially for you - chocolate silk pie with whipped cream and cherry on top." Krycek, initially appeased, bucked at the description of the new torture that awaited him. "I'm not sure that's enough..." "Did I mention who would serve the cake?" Anna asked. "Mulder, wearing one of his Armani suits." Krycek thought about it a second. "Well, if you put it that way..." "Great!" Anna clapped her hands together. "Now where's Hart - and all of those rusty metal implements?" She started to look around, but was interrupted by the ring of a cell phone. "Yes?" "Ms. Otto, a black delivery van just pulled up with that shipment of bodies that you requested." This day was getting better and better. Someone shrieked from the studio downstairs. Anna came running down to see her co-writer trying to console the obviously distraught DJ. "What's wrong?" she inquired innocently. "You can't do that with a drill press!" DJ wailed. Ashlea gave her an evil eye. "I have created a new way to utilize these tools, and you can't stop me. I've been watching hardware men work all day long, and my inspiration is at the soaring point. You have no artistic vision." "But the MPAA board..." "Can be bought," Anna interrupted. "The Consortium offered us a handsome reward for making them look good." Just then, the bodies were brought in and DJ paled, her eyes wide open in horror. "Oh my god. This cannot be. This just cannot be." "What are you whining about now?" Rachel inquired. Wordlessly, DJ pointed her in the direction of the unloaded cargo, and Rachel's questions were silenced. "Yes, I'd say these bodies seem very...fresh..." she mused. Anna and Ashlea only looked at each other, askance. They saw no problems here at all - the muse demanded the bodies, the CSM delivered as he promised, and the show could go on. The screams from the stage attracted their attention and they forgot all about the little drama of real life in favor for the blood and pain of the fiction they wrote. It was all for the sake of art, they decided. *** "I'm sorry, agents, but this has been brought to my immediate attention." Skinner dropped the file into Mulder's lap, forcing him to look up from his I AM THE REAL STAR OF THE SHOW, REALLY chair. "It's an urgent case, and our top priority." Scully glared at her boss over her sunglasses. "Sir, we are shooting a movie here." "Agent Scully, sixteen babies have died under mysterious circumstances in the last three days, and the facts suggest some sort of..." he almost choked on the word, "paranormal interference." "They turned themselves inside out," Mulder observed, flipping through the photographs. "I believe you will agree that this is not normal infant behavior," Skinner said. "But we're shooting a movie," Mulder said. Anna appeared from behind Skinner's towering form. "What's going on here?" she asked. "Skinner wants us to investigate some dead babies," Scully said, sounding unenthused. "Don't you have other agents?" Ashlea asked. "I mean, why is it always Mulder and Scully this, and Mulder and Scully that?" "Because they're the best," Skinner explained wearily. "And they have experience with similar cases." Mulder nibbled on his lower lip in that cute way he had and gave Skinner a puppy dog look. "Sir, I think we deserve a vacation. And doesn't the Bureau get this great publicity from Hollywood? I..." he coughed a little under Scully's deadly stare. "We... make them look good." Skinner, feeling outnumbered, decided to resort to the argument that he knew would work best. "Mulder, I'm going to call your mother and she will spank you. Scully, then I will call your mother, and she will be upset that she is not in the movie. Then, Ms. Ensro, I will call your mother, and inform her that you've been writing XF fanfic for the last two years. And finally, Ms. Otto, I will call your grandparents and tell them that you're not going to sleep on time, you're not eating regularly, and you're probably not going back to school for your masters degree." The small crowd of actors and writers around him gasped as one. Mulder and Scully disappeared, muttering something about getting the excavator and finding more dead babies. Anna went to call her grandparents, warning them against any bald men showing up on their doorstep, and Ashlea retreated to the corner, seeking comfort from the CSM who was smoking in dignified solitude. Tarantino reviewed the pages of the upcoming scenes. "Mulder and the CSM go on a camping trip and get in touch with their inner smoker. There, they're attacked by spiders, and are rescued by Scully and Sam in full body armor. Actors, take your places," he called everyone. "Ummm...there's a problem with that..." Ashlea raced up to him to inform him of the latest development. "Mulder and Scully apparently have some actual work to do." "You're joking." "No, Skinner has a case for them." "I'll have a talk with him." "Too late, Quentin, Skinner threatened to phone your mother and tell her--" "Kill...kill..." the muse suggested helpfully. Ashlea cocked her head in the direction of the hooded figure. "You know...that's not a bad thought..." "You can't kill Skinner!" DJ piped in. "The fans will absolutely hate that. And you haven't posted a character death warning...and..." "Kill, kill!" the muse chanted. "We could give him a noble death - he will go down in history books as one of the most self-sacrificial characters who ever walked around with the FBI badge," Anna offered. Ashlea thought for a moment. "He is guarding Scully in a coma through the night," she began, as if in a trance. "He hears a suspicious noise, and goes out into the hallway. There's a man in the next room with a gun, waiting to finish her off, so Skinner shoots him, but the patient in the room is hooked up to an oxygen tent, and there's this massive explosion and it kills them both." "Sounds good to me," Tarantino chuckled appreciatively, just as DJ seemed close to fainting. Rachel went to do some PR work on Skinner, preparing him morally for what was about to happen. When he realized that he would actually get to pull the trigger once in the movie, he didn't seem that upset. The muse rubbed her hands together happily. Her plan was working out very well. * * * It was very quiet on the set after Skinner's death. People mourned in their own ways. But Ashlea and Anna were spending all their time convening with the muse and discussing the final finishing touches on the movie. At the end of the day, Ashlea wandered over to Tarantino and offered him a cigarette. "So, Quentin, it's been swell," she told him in the friendliest, most charming way she could master. Suspiciously, Tarantino accepted. "Uh... yeah, Ashlea, we're doing some wonderful work together." "Have you ever noticed, how, in all Greek and Shakespearean tragedies, most people die at the end?" Anna asked him from behind, effectively blocking any attempt at escape. "And the audiences weep the tears of blood?" Ashlea piped in. "We like to follow in the footsteps of the giants," Anna said, a fanatical gleam in her eyes. "We have a perfect way to wrap up our drama," Ashlea presented him with a wrinkled manuscript, stained with Hart's sweat, Krycek's blood, and Marita's nail polish. Tarantino looked nervous. This was getting too violent, even for him. With trembling hands, he leafed through the manuscript, holding his breath until the very last word. For a long time, he said nothing. The two writers watched him expectantly. "Let me get this straight," he said at last. "Hart kills Krycek when he refuses to give any more information, then Marita in a fit of rage kills Hart. When Mulder happens on the scene, he of course interprets it the wrong way and strangles Marita because all of that beating on Krycek was actually the result of his own suppressed homoerotic desires, and revenge is the only way he has of proving his love. Then Scully, being the law-abiding agent that she is, is forced to take Mulder into custody, but Samantha intervenes and accidentally gets shot, and then CSM kills Scully because Samantha is actually his daughter, and then Teena kills CSM because she never gets to have any fun, and then Mulder kills Teena because he never liked the name Fox, and then kills himself, because, well, it's that kind of a movie. And the dead are left to bury the dead." A pause, then Anna said, "In a nutshell, yeah." Tarantino glanced from her face to Ashlea's, then at the shadowy figure of the muse that blocked the light from the doorway. If he'd had any objections to the latest revisions, they were silenced now. "Ok, people," he said, "Let's shoot it." * * * The scene was set for the beginning of one of the greatest shoot- outs in history of mankind. The actors studied their lines, and Mulder practiced the upcoming scene where he would cradle Krycek's dead body in his arms. No one had a heart to tell him that this particular scene of tenderness and caring had been cut in favor of more bloodshed, least of all Krycek who was finally enjoying himself. It seemed the pain paid off in the end. DJ read the pages of the last scene with a sinking heart. After the puppy died, after they had to let Celine Dion go, after the dead bodies appeared out of nowhere, after Skinner was burned beyond recognition, she felt that things could not get worse, and yet, somehow, they always did. The good writers, the realistic writers, who wrote about harmless serial killers, who rarely went into the mess that was Samantha, would never get the chance to write about these characters again. She could not let that happen. She could not allow the bloodshed to continue. Eyes sunken, lips whispering the words the meaning of which would escape everyone else, she shredded the manuscript into tiny little pieces. Just before Tarantino was preparing to start filming his masterpiece, Rachel ran up to him, obviously distraught. "Wait, wait! We have a problem." "Not another one," Quentin groaned. "It's your responsibility to make sure we have no problems." "I can't fix this," Rachel cried. "We've run out of budget for fake blood." Murmurs of unrest drifted through the assembled crowd, as everyone debated how best to solve this issue. In the confusion that followed, no one saw the muse pull Anna and Ashlea aside. The two writers listened patiently for a moment and nodded in agreement. "Oh, what is it now?" Tarantino moaned. The muse grinned beneath her hood. "Who says we need to use fake blood?" she asked. "Quentin, have you ever noticed how real blood tends to look so much more true to life?" Anna asked. "It flows when you need it to flow, and it stains the dress and surrounding articles in exactly the right way. You will never be able to do this with corn syrup." Ashlea smiled calmly, her green eyes clashing with Quentin's earnestly. "There will never be a better time to make history." Tarantino retreated a few steps. "Surely, you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting..." Rachel shrugged, her violent urges reawakened by the long-time acquaintance with the two evil friends. "We can save money - in the time of soaring budgets, we will be a cost-conscious production." There was a horrible hacking noise, and they turned around. DJ held the muse in a choking grip. "Quentin, run while you still can." He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, his expression that of a man who had wrestled with too many internal demons in the course of one production. Pale, trembling, he looked up at the studio ceiling, but it offered no answers. At last, he met the shadowed eyes of the muse. And smiled at Anna and Ashlea. "Lights...camera...action." The End Authors' Notes: Nothing Can Stop Us Now.