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FIC: All Foam, No Beer (PG) (1/6)

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  • Jennifer Matarese
    Title: All Foam, No Beer Author: Troll Princess Rating: PG, I guess Summary: Scott s college friend Mick comes for a visit. Feedback: Actually, that s the
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 3, 2000
      Title: All Foam, No Beer
      Author: Troll Princess
      Rating: PG, I guess
      Summary: Scott's college friend Mick comes for a visit.
      Feedback:  Actually, that's the main reason I'm shipping this out into the great beyond. :) You guys might have seen the first three parts of this up on Kielle's Movieverse site. So, here's my thing ... I'm starting two weeks worth of training for my new job tomorrow and from what I've heard, it'll involve me sitting in a classroom for eight hours a day learning things I already know. (So, like high school, but they pay me. And feed me. Man, that's more than my parents do. Maybe they'll adopt me ...) In any event, I was kinda hoping I could get some feedback on this sucker in the next week or so so that I can kill time at work writing a sequel.  Y'know, if it's worth it. *user is horrible at playing the begging game, although it wouldn't stop her from doing it with Hugh Jackman ... :)* So, yes, sir, I'd like some feedback. (I'll stop rambling now.)
      Disclaimer:  With the exception of Mick and the rest of the Waltons, everything else is Marvel's and 20th Century Fox's, and ... um, stuff.  Damn, I suck at this.
      Archiving: Sure, knock your socks off. *g*
      {{Bennitville, Pennsylvania}}

      "Y'could 'ave been prevented for a quarter."

      Mick Walton reached up to the old mental chalkboard and scribbled down that particular phrase, right between the "Things Not to Do in a Communal Shower" and "Phrases That Can Get You Arrested for Sexual Harassment" columns. The middle column was for "Things Not to Say to the American Judge Trying You for ... Well, For Anything, Come to Think of It."

      It was a short list, really, but one he'd spent his whole life perfecting. For example, it currently contained, "Save yer breat', you'll need it t' blow up yer date," "Hey! Quit hoggin' all the ugly!," and "May the curse o' Mary Malone and 'er nine blind illegitimate children chase y' so far o'er the hills o' Damnation t'at the Lord 'imself can't find y' wit' a telescope." That last one was a wee bit long in the tooth, but it was a favorite of Mick's Irish grandmother, and usually provided a mental image that left him laughing all the way to the jail cell.

      Ah, yes. Ye olde jail cell.

      This one was a bit better than most he'd seen, but then again, this was a small town and they hadn't gotten around to bringing in some rats, a few drug dealers, and that industrial cleaner/piss smell he'd gotten so used to in those fancy city cells.

      Not that he cared. He'd give this one another half-hour, and then he was splitting this popsicle stand. And this time, no piss breaks. This last one had gotten him arrested for disturbing the peace.

      For the time being, he focused on the envelope in his hands.

      If this were a normal story, or your everyday movie, or even a cheesy TV show, there would have been a name on that envelope. Or an address. Or the phone number of an extremely attractive, tall, dark, and sexy woman with a throaty voice and a fixation on tall, rather scrawny, red-haired Brits with accents no one could ever seem to place.

      But it's not. (A normal story, your everyday movie, or a cheesy TV show, that is.)

      And there wasn't anything inside it, either. So don't get any funny ideas about pictures of naked people, mircrofilm, secret documents, wills, or the meaning of life written on a lettuce leaf, because none of those were in there.

      Nope, it was just a blank, empty envelope.

      That was the problem.

      Mick had met a man.

      Okay, look, stop it with the dirty thoughts, all right? They didn't become romantically involved or anything. Mick was straight. Extremely straight. Practically level, vertically. (Although Bruce Willis might have been worth a shag, but try getting Mick to admit that.)

      No, the particular man he'd met had been about four or five years older, shot laser beams out of his eyes, and wouldn't relax if Yasmine Bleeth herself were giving him a back massage naked. (Her, not him.)

      And he went by the name of Scott Summers.

      The last time Mick had seen good old Scotty, he'd been dressed up like Dr. Frank during a midnight showing of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" at his university. Scotty, not Mick. As far as Mick knew, he was still owed back blackmail payments for not telling anyone about that.

      That wasn't what the envelope was for, by the way.

      Mick frowned as a cockroach skittered across the floor.

      Maybe he should go home.

      Oh, wait. No, he couldn't. What with two mutant parents and seven kids, six of whom were mutants and one of whom who was absolutely positive she'd be getting her powers any minute now, the Walton household was better off without him around. Not because anyone had told him so, or because he himself thought so, but because last time he'd been there, he'd blown up the toilet. Not a powers thing, more like a Dad-had-the-bathroom-first-and-hadn't-remembered-to-jiggle-the-handle thing.

      Mick groaned and dragged his fingers through his hair. What sort of a nutter left a house full of mutants and headed off to yet another house full of mutants? It was bleeding ridiculous, is what it was. He must be out of his gourd. It was like a lifeguard going on vacation to the beach, or a postal worker taking a trip to a gun show.

      But it wasn't his sanity that was bothering him. Mick knew he was really and honestly nuts. Certifiable, as it were. Even had the fancy paperwork to prove it. "Michael Huntly Walton, absolutely frogging looney," it said. In gold letters, even.

      What was bothering him was what he was going to say to Scotty when he showed up on his doorstep.

      Oh, hell, there'd be time to worry about that later.

      Mick glanced over at the chief and the two cops sitting on the other side of the room, obsessing over an old episode of "The Match Game," as it were. They'd been nice enough guys when they'd arrested him. The chief even gave him a Slim Jim, which he'd never actually eaten before. It tasted like slimy pepperoni and looked like a frozen earthworm with mumps, two reasons why Mick was never going to be eating that again.

      He really hated to do this to them. Then again, he really hated cockroaches and steel toilets.

      So, freedom it was.

      He stared over at them and concentrated, though this power didn't exactly need a lot of preparation. Sure enough, it was only a second or two before Mick's eyes flashed an iridescent green in the darkness of the cell, and his job was done.

      The cops were frozen.

      Well, not frozen frozen. Mick's ice-making skills were restricted specifically to putting those little trays full of water in the icebox. The skill in question was more like what happened to all those old people in "Awakenings." Mick concentrated, humans froze in place, and when they woke up, they remembered nothing. Sort of like his high school history class.

      Of course, the rest of the world did go on around them, and mutants were a royal pain in the arse 'cause they wouldn't take, but humans, animals, aliens and the like went like department store mannequins for a good hundred yards in every direction. At least for a little while, anyway.

      Now, to get out of the cell.

      Mick folded the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, getting to his feet, he walked up to the bars and crossed his arms. He had several options open to him. Bomb. Chain attached to a Mack truck. Flying out of a hole in the ceiling like a normal mutant.

      But, no. He had to go and lift the bars right off.

      Well, it wasn't like he had a bloody choice. After all, the bastards had his knapsack hidden somewhere around here, and he wasn't going to leave a perfectly good box of Jujubes and his sister Tess's Puffkin owl in some cheesed-off hoosecow in the middle of nowhere. Not that he couldn't buy another box of Jujubes, but damn it, that owl was discontinued.

      Just then, the door to the bathroom slammed open, and a fairly young, weaselly-looking cop stumbled out. Obviously, he'd heard the commotion when Mick had ripped the bars off. Well, hell, Mick'd replace the flippin' door, if it'd help him at all.

      "What the hell is going on in here?" the cop shouted.

      Suddenly, two things hit Mick at once. One was that this was the enormous git that had had the bollocks to rough him up a bit putting the cuffs on him knowing full well what he was when they arrested him. The second was that the aforementioned enormous git was still moving. Therefore, official mutant boy.

      Mick smiled as he located his knapsack stuffed in a closet and said over his shoulder, "Hey! I remember you! Y' called me a little mutie bastard. Bloody 'ell, are you in denial."

      The cop frowned, but finally noticed the condition of the other cops, and his jaw dropped like a ton of bricks. "Bob?" he asked, stunned. The cop walked over to the chief and waved a hand in front of the chief's eyes. "Bob" continued to sit there, grinning like an idiot, with a mouthful of half-chewed pork rinds for all the world to see.

      The cop looked back over at Mick and said, as threateningly as someone whose voice had probably changed last week could, "What did you do to them?"

      Mick ignored him and kept ranting. "I 'aven't been called a mutie anythin' in t'ree months. T'ree months! I was hittin' a personal record t'ere, and t'en I had t' go and end up 'ere."

      The cop stared at Mick in confusion, and Mick rolled his eyes. He wasn't all that surprised. Americans tended to hear him talk and not understand a bleedin' word he said. Why should this guy be any different?

      Mick shifted his knapsack up onto his shoulder and waved absently at the cop's arms. "Y've got Lite Bright 'ands," he said absently as he went to walk past the cop. The guy didn't even bother stopping him, too busy staring at his own glowing blue hands to watch Mick go.

      Wait'll that showed up on the surveillance cameras. The bugger'd be flipping burgers for sure.



      {{Westchester, New York, Charles Xavier's school}}

      With some people, it was the pet cat. For others, it was the dog. For Sam Guthrie, it was his baby sister.

      Paige shed. Her skin, that is. That was her mutant power. She'd just reach up under her hair and yank a good one, and her skin would come right off like a body stocking. And underneath she'd be made out of aluminum or diamond or grits or something.

      At first, when she'd first admitted what she could do, it had been just plain disgusting. Now, it was annoying. Old Paige lying in the garbage can. Old Paige on the kitchen floor. Old Paige hanging up in the outhouse. You try not freaking out when that pops out of the darkness.

      And now she was in his mail.

      Sam tugged the old Paige skin out of the envelope with his name on it and thought briefly about how he'd explain it to the friends surrounding him in the TV room. A note was attached to it -- "Here's a little piece of home to remember us by, Sam! Love, Paige."

      Great. Why couldn't she have just sent him a chicken?


      He glanced over at Jubilee, who was staring at the thing in his hands. "Yeah?"

      "What is that supposed to be?"

      Well, no time like the present and nothing like the truth. "Mah sister's skin," he said with a sigh.

      Jubilee looked confused for a minute before her eyes went wide. "So that's what happens when cousins marry!"

      Sam would have reached over and punched her one in the arm, but Kitty frowned and did it for him.


      Sam smiled. "Thanks, Kitty."

      Kitty shrugged. "Not a problem."

      Jubilee flashed Kitty a dirty look as she rubbed at her arm before diving back into her English lit report. It being so close to midterms and all, everybody had a ton of studying to do. If it wasn't Mr. Summers and his ten-page book reports, it was Miss Munroe and her thirty-page fill-in-the-blank nightmares.

      Which led to those ever-popular study sessions in the TV room.

      Sam and Kitty had taken a break from working on their trigonometry assignment to read their mail, while Jubilee was still pushing to finish "Pride and Prejudice." (Or, at the very least, make it look like she had.) Meanwhile, John, Peter and Rogue were cramming hard for the history midterm. They were all figuring on lasting another twenty minutes or so before their brains imploded.

      Kitty stuffed her letter from her parents into the back of her trig textbook and skimmed over her homework. "Hey, John, did you finish your trig homework yet? I want to check my answers against yours."

      John's right eyelid twitched briefly before he said, "Uh, yeah, sure."

      "No, you didn't."

      "Yes, I did."

      "You're lying."

      "Am not."

      Kitty sighed. "I can always tell when you're lying."

      "Oh, yeah? How?"

      "'Cause your eyelid does that twitching thing."

      St. John frowned. "It does not!"

      What followed was a seismic event of Biblical proportions located solely in the region of St. John's right eyelid. Kitty's only frame of comparison was that spastic teacher on "Daria."

      Suddenly, the doorbell rang. It was like someone shooting off the gun to start the short-distance running events at the Olympics. There followed a general stampede in the direction of the front door, consisting of Kitty, Jubilee, Rogue, John, Peter, and Sam, who in his haste hadn't gotten to put Paige's skin away and now looked like an extremely effeminate Leatherface.


      "I'll get it!"

      "Me first!"

      "Oh, yeah? Says who?"

      "Ow! Ah'm going to need those toes, y'know!"

      Someone -- it was anyone's guess who had managed it -- got the door open, finally.

      A young man stood in the doorway. His clothes were a mess, he had a bad case of convertible-with-the-top-down hair, and if his skin were covered with any more freckles, he would have made for a really cool connect the dots game. Everybody stared at him for the longest time before he said, "'Ello."

      Kitty and Rogue exchanged a glance. The guy looked like a Backstreet Boy. His problem lie mainly in the fact that he looked like a Backstreet Boy who'd been kicked out of the band before they all got famous and had spent all of his time and energy since living off Guinness-Robitussin cocktails and salted peanuts while perfecting his Area 51 game in the local pub.

      Then again, Jubilee didn't seem to think so. She was already hyperventilating. "Ohmigodhe'sadorable," she whispered in Kitty's direction.

      Kitty rolled her eyes. Great. Jubes was in love. She tended to forget to breathe between words around guys she liked.

      The guy slipped his knapsack off his shoulder and asked, "Y'aven't seen a bugger who looks like a white Geordi LaForge in t'ese parts, 'ave y'?"


      All eyes turned to Scott Summers, who was standing in the hallway behind them. He looked as if he had seen his own mother naked. Or Magneto. Either way, he couldn't possibly have appeared anything other than severely traumatized.

      Mick smiled and was all ready to "'ello" the guy to death when Scott turned right around and ducked into the nearest hallway. Mick looked around at the kids surrounding him, who shrugged, then shook their heads as a steady thump came from the hallway.

      Mick's smile widened. Ten seconds, and Scotty was already banging his head against a wall. He'd beaten his old personal record, if he wasn't mistaken. This was a cause for celebration if there ever was one.

      And, let's face it. There always was.



      Um ...


      Mick looked around at the other people in the office and wondered exactly how many times you had to get dropped on your head as a baby to act like this. 'Cause he'd been dropped at least three times that he knew of and he wasn't likin' the look of his future if this was it.

      They were all staring at him, waiting for a response. Scotty, his lady, and the bald one, all staring him down as if they were the police and he were the postal worker.

      Mick frowned. It was sunny outside. The shades were up. The bald one was giving off a glare. Maybe that was part of the interrogation.

      He ignored it and said slowly, "So, lemme get t'is straight. You nutters go out in public in black leat'er and call yerselves the Ex-Men like a gang o' bleedin' transsexuals, and t'ere are people out t'ere who willin'ly give you t'eir children?"

      All of a sudden, Scott got a mental image of Logan dressed up like a dominatrix and promptly decided to wash his brain out with soap. Groaning, he shook his head. "Shut up, Mick."

      "No, seriously --"

      "Would you just drink your water?"

      Mick stared at the glass in his hand and shrugged. "Right, t'en," he said, downing the whole thing in one gulp.

      Scott waited for the other shoe to drop. All Mick wanted was a bed? Yeah, right.


      Well ... "You're not joining, if that's what you think."

      Mick was almost offended. Didn't Scott know him better then that? "Why would I want t' join? I don't fancy wearin' vinyl, and I ain't startin' now. I'm jus' lookin' for a bed, I am."

      The bald one offered up a smile. "You can sleep in the boys's dorm," he said.

      "For now," Scott added.

      Mick grinned. Well, that was easy. After the last time he'd stayed with Scott, Mick had expected some heavy negotiating on his part. Maybe some money exchanging hands, or the pre-ordering of some firstborn children. But hey, watch him argue.

      Mick plopped his glass down on the table next to his chair. Then, getting to his feet, he strode over to Scotty and forcibly shook his hand. It was like trying to dance with a mannequin. "Scotty, yer such a good friend. If we were on a sinkin' ship and t'ere was only one life jacket, I'd miss y' heaps and t'ink of y' often."

      Mick was halfway out the door before he heard Scott yell, "Hey!"

      Troll Princess
      Grand Poobah of Mischief and Sheepish Lord of Chaos
      Go with God, my car's full.
      Buffy Summers: What are you doing here, Spike?  Five words or less!
      Spike: [counting on fingers] Out... for... a... walk... bitch.
      -- "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"
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