Sloth Fiction 4: 'Twas a Dark and Stormy Night

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Guy preened a little and standing, doffed his hat and made an elegant bow. "That's what I'm fully expecting to do, Harry."

Portertook another bite of his banana. "Well, of course, all that has to wait until Lady Writer finishes MY epilogue." A sly look came into his eyes, which looked as inviting a blue as the Caribbean waters on which he would soon be sailing.

"And what with The Powers That Be in her county having done a proper job of cutting her phone cable whilst working on the road-twice, now-she is quite behind with her Internet activity, poor girl," said Harry with a crinkled brow.

There was a hiccup from the sofa.

"'Scuse me. Probably just as well. If she reads too much about what TPTB might have in store for me, well . . ." Lucas took another generous swig of the rum and bite of Mr. LW's Choccie Cake. He'd decided he liked rum and choccie cake. A lot.

He waved his fork in the air. "She just gets-depressed. I think she's afraid I'm going to shuffle off this mortal coil . . ."

Harry sighed and shook his head, sending a lock of dark hair bouncing merrily on his forehead.

"She really can hardly bear it when one of the Characters . . ."

His eyes strayed to Guy, who had sauntered into the kitchen and now had his handsome head stuck in the refrigerator.

Silence fell. Harry sighed again. Lucas flopped back on the sofa, hugging the remainder of the cake and the rapidly emptying bottle of rum close to his chest. John Porter shrugged and went back to eating his banana.

"Whot??" Guy demanded as he raised his head above the door and glared at his fellow Characters.

"For the millionth time, I'm NOT dead. Lady Writer says I'm not, remember? As the most popular Guy of Gisborne-ever--I was loved into being by LW and her fellow fans."

Harry shot Guy a grin. "I believe she called you the 'Hot Velveteen Henchman' in reference to a very charming children's story, in fact."

Lucas's head slowly and rather unsteadily rose as he peeped over the back of the sofa.

"So--" He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing rather furiously.

"Does that mean, even if TPTB decide ish time for me to make a-permanent exit-I won' simply-dishappear?"

Guy shook his head, a kindliness creeping into his lordly manner. "No, my Spy Friend. I'd say you've also been Loved into Being, too."

Harry nodded. "I'm guessing you'll be the Sizzling Velveteen Spy, if it comes to that."

Lucas, his blue eyes slightly unfocused, lifted the bottle and grinned.

"Well, now, I'll drink to tha' . . ."

John shot him a wry grin. "I think you're drinking to everything tonight, mate."

Guy took the milk out of the fridge and found the rest of the cake.

Harry's eyes brightened as he fell upon Guy's snack choices. He went to the cupboard and removed several glasses and plates.

"What do you lads say to us all enjoying some of the delicious choccie cake and a nice glass of milk," Harry said, waggling his brows as he poured, sliced and passed out pieces of cake and glasses of milk to his fellow Characters.

We can toast John's impending nuptials-and the honeymoon to follow--" John flashed an impish smile as he lifted his glass.

"And Guy's impending command of Jolly Olde England's highways," Harry continued.

Guy gave another elegant bow, complete with an absolutely adorable milk mustache. Not that he would have liked it if you told him so.

"And Lucas-well, we can simply wish our friend Lucas all the very best and know that Lady Writer and her fellow aficionados of our Creator will never harm his Characters . . . no matter what the scriptwriters may decide to do."

Guy thought fondly of running said scripwriters through with his big, shiny sword. If he had one, of course . . .

John Porter wondered what the real SB writers would do with him in the second series. He was getting bloody tired of driving around in the effin' desert sun in that Land Rover . . .

And Lucas?

The sound of a raucous snore filled the den.

Harry laughed softly. "Well, maybe he won't have too bad of a headache in the morning . . ."

Guy shook his head. "That is one very loud snore . . ."

John gave a small snort. "As if Milord never snores . . ."

"Gisbornes do not snore."

"Oh, pardon ME."

"Lads . . . let's try to get along, yeah?"

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