Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 15:56:40 GMT -5
Well, today's my birthday, but I worked really hard last night (typing for an hour and a half before bed) to finish this off for you guys. Guess what it is. Go on, guess. ^_^ ...It's the Guardian Angel Randall fic! (Which is still titleless! Help!) Not only that, but... it's done. Complete. Including a complete epilogue -- and it's huge. ;D My gift to you all on my birthday (so I expect lots of reviews and constructive critisism). Anyway I really want to appologize for taking so long with this thing. I was completely bogged (... ha! Pun! ... I need a life -_-; ) down with work. I had to help my brother with his paper route, practise my flute, study for midterms... then for finals, write/edit three challenge French projects (made more difficult by the fact that the last French class I took was last May, the fact that I kept confusing newly-learnt Spanish grammar with French grammar), do my Christmas shopping, work (yay! I'm employed!), do more essays, so more math homework, and many other distractions. It's called life, I think. It also seems that my MI muses have gone on vacation, probably because I've been reading lots and lots of Harry Potter fanfiction recently (speaking of which, go read "Fallen" by cyropi. Seriously good. It also involves "angels", of a sort Updates weekly -- err... biweekly, now. Awesome.) Anyway, you guys, I'm just hoping this thing makes you all happy. You'll all be pleased to see that Randall let's it all out... And I mean all. ;D Prologue: To The Well-Organized Mind, Death Is But The Next Great Adventure "And he is outta here!" Disoriented, Randall skidded to a halt inside the trailer. Which trailer, you ask? One in the Human World. Which was definitely bad news. He groaned and picked himself up, shaking his head. Now for a way out of this place, back to Monstropolis... "Momma! 'Nother gator got in the house!" "'Nother gator? Gimme that shovel!" Randall barely had time to widen his eyes before the woman came at him, wielding a shovel like a sword - assuming that this sword-wielding person had little idea of how to use a sword properly and would prefer to use it to bludgeon their enemies... But we're getting off track. Randall certainly didn't have enough time to think of all that; in fact, the only thought he got out before his head exploded into pain was, ' I am in deep-' What was he was going to think next? Your guess is as good as mine. He certainly didn't care to finish it as he collapsed onto the ground, screaming a primal scream of terror... And then he wasn't. He wasn't there, collapsing onto the floor, screaming, he was standing, quite calmly in fact, in a place he'd never been before. It appeared to be a featureless landscape, but one must always know that in such situations there is almost always a discrepancy between what something appears to be and what it actually is, if anything. But we're getting off track again. There appeared to be no difference between the ground and sky; if indeed there was such things. A cloudy fog drifted in and out of Randall's line of vision. It wasn't dark enough to be night time, but neither was it light enough to be day. The mist curled around his feet... Upon a second look, it wasn't really curling around his feet; it was curling through them. But that description wasn't quite right either. He felt light, insubstantial. He had a sinking feeling that the mist wasn't going through him - he was going through it. The mist was more solid than he was, which was kind of creepy, wasn't it? Now to the most obvious question... How'd he get here? ...And where was here, anyway? "World's Edge." Came a friendly voice. Randall whirled around, fronds raised in surprise, to see... Death. In the flesh - or not. There he was; black cloak, wicked-looking scythe, even a grinning pale white skull peeking out from underneath the hood. The whole shebang. For a moment, Randall just stared, incredulous, at the cloaked figure. One could see the wheels turning in his mind, factoring in recent events. His eyes widened at the brief flash of a shovel coming straight at his face... Suddenly he swore. Quite loudly, in fact. He balled his hands into fists, scrunching up his face, and swore words that would have made the oldest, cruellest, most grizzled monster (either man or mon) blush and run screaming for Mommy. The skull that was Death's face grinned; not that you could tell the difference, anyway. Skulls always grin. Only Death was making an effort to grin, and isn't it the thought that counts? "It's alright. I get that reaction a lot." He waved a skeletal hand- the one not holding the scythe, that is. "Figured it out now, haven't you?" "...I'm dead, right?" Death continued grinning in an attempt at being amiable (and, surprisingly, he was succeeding. He had had many thousands of years to practice, you know). He pointed one bony finger at Randall. "Right you are." Randall swore again, avoiding Death's gaze (although how Death can actually gaze at anything, not possessing any eyes, is a question you can ask when you see him). Suddenly, the lizard monster looked up. "What, that's it?!" He cried, throwing up both pairs of hands. "That's my entire life? I'm not even thirty!" "You could be considered lucky, you know. You got more time then a lot of people get. Why, right now there's a six-month old in-" "I don't really want to know." Randall interrupted. "... That's right, you probably don't." Death conceded, fingering his scythe. "Don't I get my life flashed before my eyes, or something, first?" "I'm afraid not." "Well, what do I get, then?" "A choice, actually." Death snapped his fingers, and an abacus appeared in a puff of purple smoke in one hand. He planted his scythe's staff into the mist/ground, and when he let go, it stood upright, gleaming as it reflected light back at some unseen light source. "Now let's see..." Death muttered, and with one long, slender white fingertip, he began moving the wooden beads of the abacus around, from one side to the other. Something wasn't quite right with the instrument; whenever Randall looked from one row to the other, there always seemed to be a different amount of beads, and always more beads than an object of that size could conceivably have. But, then again, he was dead (or, at least, now in the presence of Death himself), and was currently standing on a plane of existence made by someone who liked fog way too much, so there really wasn't any reason for things to make sense, now was there? "If my calculations are correct..." Death said slowly, flicking a final bead to one side with a flourish of one skeletal wrist, "You have done exactly 4, 873 good deeds in your life." One of Randall's eyebrow ridges rose, along with his fronds, in surprise. "Really? ... Is that good or bad?" Death continued. "Not bad, but..." He hummed, bringing the hand holding the abacus up closer to his skull-face, studying the mathematical instrument again. "You seem to have done 4, 874 bad deeds in your life. Sorry." "...That can't be good, can it?" Randall said in a deceptively calm manner, and ran a hand through his suddenly limp fronds. "Can I ask what tipped it?" "Yes, well, as it turns out, humans are people too." Pause. Loud swearing.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 15:57:01 GMT -5
If time had any meaning at the World's Edge, you could say that it took a "long time" for Randall to calm down. But, this world had been created by Death, who couldn't really create anything, merely copy things that he had seen. Time, too, had to be copied by him in this place, but it was a poor, flimsy imitation compared to real time. Time passing was only as long or as short as how one perceived it. Randall, being only newly dead, was used to real time, meaning that to him, he did indeed spend quite a bit of time cursing up a storm. But, to Death, who was used to this sort of thing (both the anger of newly-dead people and his own version of time), Randall stopped the same time he started; in the same way that Randall left the World's Edge the instant he arrived. Confused? You should be. It is said that only Death can truly grasp his own concepts, and then only if he really tries. In a relatively steady voice, considering the circumstances, Randall spoke, eyeing Death as he crossed both pairs of arms around his belly. "You said something about a choice?" Death nodded. "Now, cases such as yours, when you've done essentially the same amount of good as bad, we tend to give you a choice." Randall decided not to ask who, or what, Death meant by 'we'. "...Go on." He said slowly, gesturing with one hand. "We can go with the traditional option; you go to the First Hell. I'm told it's a quite nice place, really. It's the place where all of those guys who steal bread to feed their families and suchlike go. Not as much sunshine, butterflies and rainbows as Heaven, but it is a Hell, you know..." "Yes, yes, I understand." Randall interrupted when Death began to trail off. "What's my other option?" "You could work off that one deed's difference." Randall’s fronds perked. "I like the way this is going... How do I work it off? I don't think I actually have a body anymore..." "That's an advantage in this new line of work. Without a body, you can do things you weren't able to before on the physical plane, but you do have a few disadvantages as well..." "Such as?" "Nobody can see you, for one... or hear you... or be physically able to acknowledge you presence." "Sounds like a normal day at work to me..." Randall muttered. He suddenly cleared his throat. "So what exactly is this job?" "You are assigned a mortal on the physical plane and are charged with, ah, 'watching over them', making sure that they don't die before their time, don't get too roughed up by life in general, that sort of thing." "You mean I get to be a Guardian Angel, is that right? "Well, you're not exactly an angel, per say, simply a 'Guardian'. But to you I suppose it would be essentially the same thing." Randall considered, rubbing his non-existent chin with one hand. "...For how long?" "Oh, not too long; just until your protectee dies, which won't be more than..." He brought an hourglass out of his robe. As the lizard-monster watched, a grain of blue-green sand dripped through from the top globe to land among a healthy pile in the bottom one. "Thirty-four years." Randall frowned. That was older than he was now -or, at least, had been. "But... I go to Heaven afterwards, right?" "Of course." He narrowed his eyes. "...There aren't Seven Heavens or something too, is there?" "I wouldn't know. I've never had to actually go there." Well that was encouraging.... Still, what did he have to lose? He was dead anyway... Why not spend another thirty-four years in the world before heading out to wherever he was supposed to go? Then a thought struck him. "Who was my Guardian Ang- Guardian?" "He's over there." Death pointed over Randall's shoulder (slowly, for effect). The monster twisted, and in the distance, through the colourless mist, he saw a faint figure, that, oddly enough, looked somewhat like Fungus; that is, if Fungus was prone to dancing madly around in the mists of the World's Edge, waving his arms and screaming "I'm freeeeee! I'm freeeee!" and laughing maniacally, before disappearing. Randall blinked. "Well, that certainly explains a lot about my life in general." "Yes, sorry about that. If it means anything, it's not really my decision anyway." There was silence. "...I'll take the job." Randall said finally. "I may as well. I'm pretty sure I can do better than my own Guardian, after all." He grinned bitterly. "Perfect!" Death snapped his bony fingers again, and the abacus disappeared in the same puff of purple smoke that it appeared in. "Now, there was a recent vacancy on the day you died; the guy's Guardian just upped and quit. Too much stress, I believe." "Wait, wait, wait, they - I mean, I - can do that?" Death shrugged. "If you want to go back on the initial agreement and go to Hell instead." "Okay then... Who am I going to be watching over?" Death brought out the same hourglass as before from his robe. He tapped one finger against an engraved nameplate on it. "A Monster. A guy named James P. Sullivan." Randall blinked. Then blinked again. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, then closed it. He raised his left hand, one finger pointing upwards, opened his mouth again, and, again, shut it. After a minute of this, he finally spluttered, "...S-sullivan?!" Death seemed oblivious to Randall's current discomfort. "Yes. Is there a problem?" The being said innocently (or, at least, as innocent-looking as a constantly grinning skull can get). "He- he... He's the one who killed me!" If Death were capable of frowning, he would have frowned, but as it was, his grin merely seemed less cheerful. "As far as I know (and I should know, I was there), you were killed by a human woman with a shovel." "Yes, but he's the one who put me there!" "Ah..." Death nodded. "I see. But I'm afraid we can't go back on the deal now, unless you want to go to Hell." The lizard-monster opened his mouth to say that even Hell would be preferable to watching over Sullivan for the rest of the guy's life, but Death stopped him, holding up one skeletal hand. "And you can't trade with anyone either." Randall glowered. "I wasn't even going to suggest it." He then sighed (or, at least, believed he was sighing; being dead, he didn't need to breathe, therefore wouldn't be able to sigh). "Is there anything else I need to know?" "Well, there is perhaps something you should be aware of concerning what you can and can't do on the physical plane." Death ticked off the points one-by-one on his fingers. "You won't be able to be seen and/or heard, you can move through physical objects, you can affect people's dreams, so watch out... oh, and you can only affect the physical aspect of things when it directly benefits your protectee. Got it?" Randall squinted his eyes for a moment, thinking, then nodded. "Anything else?" "Nothing that I can think of... Oh, yes. Take this. Standard issue." Death reached into his robe ('How much stuff can he fit in there?' Randall thought. 'He looks so skinny - no lumps at all.'), brought out a length of brown material, and tossed it to Randall. He caught it, and examined it. It was a simple brown trench coat, but it had been altered to fit his unique shape, being extra long, and having two pairs of sleeves. "All right, you seem to be all set. Good luck. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend..." Death snapped his fingers, and both he and the mist dissolved.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 15:58:28 GMT -5
Chapter 1 - To The Well-Organized Mind, Death Is But The Next Great Adventure, But To The Rest Of Us, This SUCKS! Randall expected to arrive back on the physical in a disorienting rush, after traveling through a long tunnel at supersonic speeds, going through miles of darkness, mist, and lightning, or something to the same effect, but he was disappointed again. He even would have settled for a puff of purple smoke or something. But the mist of the World's Edge simply disappeared, revealing a well-furnished conference room that he recognized as being in the executive section of Monsters Inc. It was as if he'd been there the whole time, and the fog had simply blocked his view of the place. Sullivan and Wazowski were in the front of the room, doing a presentation of some sort. Watching them were a dozen or so other monsters (scientists, by the look of them). On the whiteboard behind them was a crude drawing of what could either be a door station emitting some sort of radio waves or a glass of orange slime that had been left in the sun for several days. It was hard to tell the difference with Wazowski's artistic skills. Apparently he'd just caught the tail end of the discussion; they were just finishing up. "-- hope you'll think over what we've said, and that you'll join us for the demonstration tomorrow." Sullivan was saying as he gathered up some papers on a short podium (the large furry monster had to stoop to get at them). The audience dissolved into polite chatter as the two mons stepped down from the front of the room and out the door. Sullivan was smiling what anyone else would call a "winning smile", but what Randall had come to term "somebody please slap it off of me". Randall followed (he wasn't entirely certain how, as he was floating several feet off the ground), but he didn't quite manage to follow as quickly as he would have liked. The door slammed shut behind Wazowski; right in his face. Unfortunately, he didn't have enough warning to halt his momentum, and he was about to run smack into the door... And was on the other side. Randall looked over his shoulder, at the apparently solid door. He shrugged, straightening the collar of his trench coat, and chased after the Wazowski and Sullivan, who were just disappearing around a corner down the hall. He'd been right; it was the executive section of Monsters Inc. He recognized the cheerily coloured wooden paneling and a reddish brown carpet. Just down that hallway and to the left was the entrance to his secret lair [1]... He shook his head. No use dwelling on it; he needed to focus. Of course, he'd rather focus on anything other than the two whose actions ultimately caused his death, but he had a very limited choice of subjects to focus on at the moment. Idly, he wondered what the exact date was. It had to be a few days, at least, since he'd -- been banished. Neither Wazowski nor his new charge looked significantly older, either. And he himself somehow felt that he'd -- been gone, for a pretty short amount of time. How much time had passed? Randall blinked at the sound of a car motor starting (the low thrum with undertones of human screams), and was startled out of his reverie. He was in the parking lot, but hadn't remembered going there. He knew he must have followed Sullivan, however. The car that had just started was relatively new; a convertible from the higher-end of the market. Sitting in the front seats were Sullivan and Wazowski. He had a split second to register this before the car backed quickly out of its parking space (narrowly missing an ancient brown car that he recognized as belonging to Fungus), and right through him. He shuddered at the feel of solid metal passing through his body that was almost painfully not there. He watched it roar through the parking lot for a few moments, then something occurred to the dead monster; he didn't even know where Sullivan lived. And his only way of knowing was rapidly disappearing into the distance. His eyes widened. 'Crap!' He then lunged forward, running (or floating, whatever - he wasn't going to get technical), and sped onwards, following the vehicle. If this were an animated cartoon, one would have seen a thin line of fire following in his wake, or perhaps a simple gust of air (accompanied by the word "WOOSH" in big bold letters) in the empty space he'd left so suddenly. But because this wasn't an animated cartoon, and such things aren't possible, he merely achieved speeds that he never could have in life. He wasn't held back by his body's physical limitations anymore; his only drawback was his own mind, which currently wasn't voicing any objections. This mind was currently focusing its entire being on catching that car. So it did. He passed through other cars, mailboxes, and even random pedestrians (how saw nothing but the faintest little blur out of the corner of their eye, or eyes). Finally, he came within clear view of the car; it had stopped at a red light. Monsters were hurrying along the crosswalk while it's green light said "Stalk", while the drivers of all the halted vehicles were staring at the red traffic light, as if their collective gazes could will it to become green sooner. Just as Randall got within ten feet of the car, the collective will of the drivers must have taken effect, for the light changed, and the red convertible purred loudly to life. Its' tires screeched as it shot full-speed from it's still position at the intersection. The guardian lunged forward, and managed to grab a hold of the bumper of the car as it flew forwards, leaving a small cloud of exhaust fumes in it's wake. From his grip on the bumper, Randall managed to pull himself up onto the rear hood, not questioning on why the car was suddenly solid to him. Probably had something to do with the whole "mind over matter" concept he was always hearing about. Whatever. He huddled on the trunk of the car while it zoomed through the city; riding the wave before the rush hour traffic. [2] [1] Bweehee! I've never really had an opportunity to say that before, really. Heehee ... entrance to my secret lair. [2] Ha! Like that ever happens in real life. -_-;
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 15:59:00 GMT -5
It was nighttime. Not that it mattered to Randall; he didn't have to sleep, after all. Or eat. Or breathe. Strange how one missed things like that when one had no need to do it anymore. What he wouldn't give for a decent cup of coffee... He was in the kitchen of Sullivan and Wazowski's apartment, because he had no desire to watch the throw rug sleep all night. The snoring alone would drive away even Wazowski, who was used to it - he slept in a soundproof room down the hallway. The apartment was an absolute mess. His own apartment had been messy as well -- spare parts everywhere, among other things, but he had been proud to say that it had been an organized mess, thankyouverymuch. The living room was simply an utter disgrace. All over one of the walls were pinned (in between some Jazz posters) badly drawn crayon pictures (most likely drawn by Wazowski, Randall assumed), which had no semblance of order. Unlit candles littered the ground, stuck to the stained carpet (that probably hadn't been the mottled brown colour it was now in the first place) in pools of crusted wax. The wastebasket was over-flowing with crumpled balls of paper (the recycling bin in the kitchen was empty aside from two torn receipts, he noted), and the desk was covered in pens, pencils and notebooks (the pencil holders, too, stood empty). A large upturned bowl dangled from a lopsided lampshade, at the base of which hundreds of tiny pieces of white paper were scattered like a fresh snowfall, if a fresh snowfall were to look like less like a lovely, peaceful nature scene and more like a bunch of crumpled pieces of paper strewn over a dirty carpet below a lampshade. This sight was a relic from the game of charades that Sullivan and Wazowski had played earlier in the evening. Lets just say that he was glad that housekeeping wasn't a requirement of his new job. At first, after the two had gone to bed, he'd amused himself by attempting to remove the 'Do Not Remove' labels from the couch cushions, only to find that his hands went right through them. That was what drove the whole 'You can only affect the physical aspect of things when it directly benefits your protectee.' part of Death's speech home for him. He had found out something useful to him in the kitchen, however; on the table was that morning's paper (hiding beneath half a dozen dirty dishes from that morning's breakfast). He'd found out how long it had been since he'd -- left. Two weeks. If this had been just over two weeks before, he would have been outraged that two weeks of his life had been stolen from him. As it was, he had nothing to complain about, really. His mind drifted to earlier in the evening. The terrible two had ordered pizza (so they could postpone washing the breakfast dishes as long as possible, Randall though snidely). He'd been rather disturbed that he couldn't smell the obviously steaming fresh anchovy and cucumber pizza. He didn't even want to think about what would -- or wouldn't -- happen if he tried to taste it. One of the things that really bugged him about the two was their attitudes. They'd killed him. They'd killed him. And what where they like now? Happy. Content. Normal. They'd had a normal, uneventful drive back from work (aside from their dead stowaway, of course, but as far as they knew, it had been a normal, uneventful drive back from work), a nice, normal, delicious supper, and then a normal, happy, and most of all normal evening at home playing charades. And what did he get? He didn't even get a cup of coffee at the end of the day. They didn't seem the least affected by the fact that they were now cold-blooded murderers. They hadn't even mentioned him. Not once. Not even a small, "Hey, Sul, I wonder how lizard-boy's doing in the swamp we sent him off too?" from Wazowski, and Sullivan dopily replying "Gee, I dunno Mike, maybe he's being eaten alive by mosquitoes out there! We oughta send him some bug repellant!" But Randall kids himself. Sullivan wouldn't be that witty. So it came back to him, reclining in mid-air, in the middle of the night in the kitchen of his worst enemies' home. What a strange turn of events, this new existence. Of course, he meant 'existence' in the loosest sense of the word. He felt that if he got lost in thought, he really would get lost, and wouldn't be able to find his way back. So he avoided thinking too deeply about anything in particular, simply focusing on his deepest and uttermost loathing of James P. Sullivan's perfect, normal life. And somewhere in that uttermost loathing, there was the tiniest possible seed of jealously.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 15:59:48 GMT -5
Chapter 2 - Sometimes I Think I Was Cheated: This Really Is Hell
Limited as he was, Randall wasn't able to do much in the way of anything, let alone enact any sort of revenge. Besides, he was more than a little nervous at the idea of what would happen if he were to allow harm to come to his protectee, at what whatever higher power there was out there would do to him. He had very little idea of what would happen; the only 'higher power' he'd ever met was Death (not exactly the best one to meet, but it wasn't as if he'd had a choice, you know), and the only sort of punishment that guy would be able to dish out to him was, well -- death. And he was already dead, so what could Death do? ... Well, besides send him to hell. Anyway, he was -- or at least, had been -- an honest monster. Mostly. When circumstances allowed him to. Yes. Well, let's just say that when he said he'd do something, he'd do it. Randall had promised he would protect Sullivan (although, to be fair, he hadn't known it was Sullivan he'd be protecting when he'd made that promise), so he would protect him. There was also the whole, 'You can only affect the physical aspect of things when it directly benefits your protectee.' part of the deal to consider. But after a large portion of an evening thinking over that wording, anything that benefited his protectee was an extremely loose way of phrasing something, now wasn't it? There had been several candles stuck to the ground in front of Sullivan's bedroom door. Now it would obviously benefit him if they were moved (what if he wandered outside his room, still half asleep, and stepped on them? He'd hurt his foot!), but whatever it was that restrained his solidity (or whatever it was to be called) clearly didn't specify what he'd do with them once they were removed from Sullivan's doorway. So they were placed squarely in front of Wazowski's room, directly where he would soon step on his way to the kitchen, where he'd sit down in his chair, sitting on the hardened pieces of cheese he'd scraped from the empty pizza box and the petrified bits of cereal left over from breakfast the day before. To his surprise, he'd been able to do that much; the only reasonable deduction he'd been able to make as to why it had been possible was that Wazowski was a horrible influence on Sullivan, and it would benefit him to be without Wazowski... Which was true, you know. Unfortunately, his hands went right through the tacks (which he'd found in a 'junk drawer' full of bits of string [too short to be of any real use], bent paperclips, scraps of colored paper and broken crayons). Apparently the loophole he'd found only stretched so far. ... Dammit. But hey, it was a loophole that Randall was going to do his utmost to exploit. So let's just say that Wazowski didn't exactly have a good morning; not if Randall could help it.
By the time that Sullivan and Wazowski arrived at the Monsters Inc. building later that morning (with Randall in tow -- unseen), the main feeling that the former lizard-monster felt was frustration. It seemed that no matter what he did to the eyeball, he just bounced back, as if nothing could ruin his mood this morning. He'd even been whistling along with the radio on the drive to work (in which the car had narrowly missed hitting three mailboxes, two elderly monsters crossing the street [to be fair, they had been jay-walking], half a kindergarten class and their teacher, and a half-blind dog). So far, Randall had replaced the sugar in the sugar bowl with salt (which was then put into Wazowski's decaf-coffee -- another mug was simply poured), the bottom of the cardboard box which contained Wazowski's favorite cereal split open (spilling the cereal all over the floor which resulted in a similar scene to the fresh-snowfall of paper beneath the crooked lamp in the living room); the cereal was simply swept up and into the garbage can, and Wazowski made toast instead (which Randall made sure ended up burnt-to-a-crisp). Wazowski ate it anyway. The guardian had even tried to pop one of the convertible's tires, but apparently that wouldn't 'benefit his protectee', so he just stopped and glared sulkily, both pairs of arms crossed over his belly, at the back of the duo's heads from the back seat of the car. He knew that these small acts of rebellion wouldn't do anything at all to help his situation, and were indeed just a little bit childish (actually... they were extremely childish), but in some way it simply made him feel just a little bit better. ...Barely.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:00:29 GMT -5
He followed the two sullenly as they made their way through the familiar hallways of the Monsters Inc. building, to the same room that he'd appeared in the day before. Several monsters passed directly through him as he went; it wasn't a pleasant feeling, he knew now from experience. Whatever it was about them that made them alive crackled electrically as the brushed through him. It was like being at the receiving end of a small shock, wherever the living body touched his non-existent one. When they arrived at the conference room (for that was what it was), it was empty of other mons. But there was something new; a door station had been installed, complete with a child's closet door. The red light at the top of the door-framed was on and humming in a calming and almost reassuring manner (at least to Randall). Now this was something he knew, something he recognized. Almost subconsciously, he approached the door, automatically reaching out to grasp the doorknob ... only to feel his hand go right through it. He felt sick at this reminder that all was not well, with him, anyway. He felt like bashing his head on the door (or, better yet, bashing Sullivan's head with the door). Either that or running away into a dark corner to crumble into dust, or something similar. Randall brushed furiously at his fronds with his two top hands, as if to rid himself of the idea (of him being dead or of the other options; he didn't much care). His thoughts where broken by several short squeaks that grated against his ear-holes. Sullivan was writing something on the whiteboard with a marker; every time he made a line, the sound filled the room. Randall winced. He hated white boards. ...Not as much as the mon currently writing on one, but that wasn't the point. Randall read over the furry monster's shoulder, at the big block letters written in red marker. LAUGH DEMONSTRATION He frowned. For the first time, he really wondered what was going on. He knew for a fact that neither Sullivan nor Wazowski had any education beyond high school (and he was fairly certain that neither of them had done too stellar there either), so what were they doing giving what looked to be some sort of lecture to scientists? He would find out soon enough. Soon the scientists from the day before piled into the room, and he himself drifted towards the back, in the same vantage point he'd been in the day before. He could see nearly everything from up there, including the white-board at the front, the door station to the side, the presenters, of course, but also the scientists and their reactions to whatever was being said. Sullivan just jumped right into the presentation after the generic, "Good morning, hope you enjoyed the meeting yesterday, hope you enjoy the presentation, let's get started." Unfortunately for Randall, no explanation was said (apparently it was assumed that one had attended and had been paying attention at the presentation the day before). Randall watched with a modicum of interest as Sullivan kept up an active monologue of what exactly Wazowski was doing currently. At first, Randall was confused as to why Wazowski appeared to be going inside to scare the child, when Sullivan would have been a much better candidate for a demonstration. The first few steps that Sullivan rattled off (entering the room, assuring that the human child was indeed there, closing the door behind you [so as to not let in a draft]) were familiar, having been drilled into him since he'd first begun scarer-training years before. But what followed was different. Instead of going into a standard scaring technique (such as the 'Ol' Waternoose Jump 'n Growl', or his own patented 'Boggs Quick Reveal'), Sullivan stated that Wazowski would most likely be using his 'Back flip and Belch' technique. Randall snorted. "That's right, Sullivan," He muttered, unheard, "Alliteration's going to really impress these guys." The guardian seriously doubted that a scare technique with that name would have any effect whatsoever. He shook his head. More likely it'd have the kid laughing at him than screaming at him. His eyes widened in surprise as not a moment later, his prediction came true. Even through the door, one could quite clearly hear the human inside rolling with laughter. Seconds later, Wazowski walked jauntily back through the door, swinging a portable microphone casually, a huge smirk on his face, which left Randall itching to just slap off. Once again, to his surprise, the scream canister on the door station actually began to fill with energy, quite rapidly. Sullivan adjusted his Monsters Inc. hard hat, smiling a winning smile, as his friend took a bow. The audience of scientists began to applaud politely. Randall couldn't help but glower. He still remained unseen. Just before the scream canister filled to it's maximum capacity, the overhead lights flared briefly, before exploding in a shower of glass. As the room plunged into darkness, something larger exploded. Then the screaming began.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:01:03 GMT -5
Chapter Three (Otherwise called : When The Author Got Lazy And Uncreative With Chapter Titles)
"Well, he probably plans to kill you. Nothing personal, but you've seen too much." "Dead men tell no tales, huh?" "Everybody tells tales, Sexton. It's just the dead talk more quietly than most people." --A conversation between Death of the Endless and Sexton Furnival, Death: The High Cost Of Living, by Neil Gaiman
It was nighttime -- again. Randall was staring down at his protectee -- Sullivan. Currently unconscious, the only movement the large furry monster made was the slow up-down motion his chest made when he breathed. They were both in a hospital ward, Sullivan having been brought there after the scream canister exploded. Other than a few cuts requiring stitches (and unconsciousness, of course), Sullivan was relatively fine, aside from a few bruises, mostly thanks to his thick fur (which was slightly crispy in some places), and his MI hard-hat. Randall had realized that that laughter had created a gargantuan surge of power, which had probably overloaded the scream canister, causing it to explode. Now that he thought about it, laughter was probably what had caused all of the closet doors in the door vault to activate at once back just before he'd been – banished ... died. Still, this was a nice opportunity to test out one of the other advantages of being a spirit that Death had mentioned ... the ability to affect people's dreams. Besides, it was more interesting then watching an unconscious Sullivan breathe. With a quick twist of one hand, he slid sideways through the barrier between dream and reality, and slithered into Sullivan's dream.
Sullivan blinked, then groaned quietly. What had happened? He was sore in places he hadn't remembered being sore before ... His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton-balls ... He remembered that ...something ... had happened. That the something hadn't been a good thing. He opened his eyes. White walls all around. A bed (hard as a rock) beneath him. Why did something smell like burnt hair? His attention was caught by a quiet "Ahem." from the other side of the room. Sullivan glanced over. It was Randall. The lizard-monster was leaning against a counter that took up the entire wall opposite to his hospital bed. It has cupboards above it (closed), and the only items on the counter were a coffee machine and a stack of cheap Styrofoam cups, one of which is in one of Randall's top hands. "I'm not even on the job two days, and you've already gotten yourself into trouble. Idiot." He said, as if to himself, taking a sip of his coffee. Because this was a dream, it seemed perfectly logical to Sullivan for Randall to be enjoying a cup of coffee in the middle of the night in a hospital ward, even though as far as his waking self knew, Randall was as banished in the human world, and most definitely not enjoying a cup of coffee in the middle of the night in a hospital ward. Still, he had to ask, trying to be polite, "... What are you doing here, Randall?" "What do you think it means, genius, I'm dead!" Two green eyes glare over the coffee. Sullivan blinked. "Oh." That would explain it, he guessed. "Oh!" Randall mimicked harshly, face contorting into a scowl, taking a furious gulp of his drink. He then sighed, face relaxing as a slight smile coming to his face. "Good coffee." "Ah..." Sullivan hesitated, focusing his gaze on the floor. "So...Why are you here?" "Apparently, I've been assigned to watch over you." Sip. "Either this or hell." The reptilian monster nursed his cup for a moment, staring into nothing. "Time will tell if I've chosen wisely, eh?" Sip. "That explosion was pretty nasty. Shrapnel everywhere. Could've been a lot worse, but your MI helmet slipped slightly forwards and to the side and covered most of your face from the blast. You'll probably be out of here and back home in time for lunch." Another sip. "So, ah... you're the reason I'm still here?" A grunt. The sound of more coffee pouring. "That was quick. I was wondering how long it'd take you to get it -- " "Thanks." "--especially considering how slow you were on the uptake the last time I saw you." "Oh." There was silence for several minutes, aside from the sound of the occasional sip of coffee. Sullivan opted for a subject change. "Is this a dream?" He asked. "If you want to believe it is." Randall's voice floated back to him from across the room. Randall felt it his duty to mess with Sullivan's head just a little. Besides, lines like that were enormously fun to say; almost as fun as watching Sullivan's dream self's vague expression of confusion. "You're really dead?" A snort. "Yes." There was a steely edge to his voice. "Your fault." A pause. "Sorry." "Yeah, yeah, yeah, but 'sorry' doesn't help me much, now does it?" "I guess not." "You guess right." Another awkward silence. "Why'd you pick me? To watch over, I mean." "Didn't have a choice." More coffee being poured. Should he be terrified or thankful that it was Randall looking over him now? "Is this normal? You talking to me... in my dreams?" "No. At least, I don't think I'm supposed to." More coffee being slurped. Wonderful. "Why are you doing it, then?" "It's nice to talk to someone instead of being stared through. I'm kinda used to people actually acknowledging my existence, even if they don't like me." Another slurp. "I admit it's also pretty funny to mess with your head a bit." "Oh." Silence. Randall sighed, and placed his coffee cup (somewhat reluctantly) on the counter. Try as he might, when he talked to the guy like this... he was somehow a bit harder to hate. "Look, if you're going to continue looking into... laugh-power, whatever you want to call it, you'll have to find a way to stop the canisters from exploding. It's just not practical otherwise." "What... are you suggesting something?" Randall growled in the back of his throat. Hating him was getting easier all of a sudden... "Just... think big." "What? The growl continued rumbling. "Bigger canisters, idiot." Randall snatched up his coffee angrily, taking another big slurp, which seemed to calm him down almost immediately. Another terse silence. "So... we'll talk again sometime?" A noncommittal grunt. Sullivan looked up. Aside from the fact that he looked... well... more relaxed, than he had been in life, there wasn't much different about Randall, aside from... "So what's with the trench coat?" Professional-sounding footsteps echoed down the hall outside his room's door. Randall placed his empty coffee cup on the counter, and shot Sullivan a small, sly, grin. "Standard issue." He faded from view. And Sullivan woke up.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:02:04 GMT -5
"Oh, Mr. Sullivan! You're awake." A blue-skinned nurse with way too many tentacles for her own good came bustling into the room, and began fiddling around with stuff from the cupboards above the counter, passing objects down from one tentacle to another. "How are you feeling today?" "Fine, I guess." Sullivan said slowly. "A bit of a headache." "Oh, it should pass pretty quickly." The nurse said cheerfully, back turned to him. "You'll probably be able to go back home just in time for lunch!" "I know." The nurse turned, holding a huge, nasty-looking hypodermic needle in one tentacle. "What?" Sulley gulped at the sight of the needle and said quickly, "Nothing!" "Hn." The nurse shrugged and turned back to whatever work she was doing. To the furry monster's relief, she had unfolded a collapsible cart from one cupboard and placed the needle on it's tray; it wasn't for him. "Now what's this doing here?" The nurse muttered, picking up something from the counter and turning it around in her hand/tentacle curiously. It was used coffee cup. Sullivan smiled.
The End?
(Sorry about that short post -- I have to chop up the text because the posting system only allows me to post a maximum of 10,000 characters -_-; )
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:02:35 GMT -5
Epilogue: Let The Dead Bury The Dead
It had been thirty-four years.
According to Randall, the longest thirty-four years of his (after-)life.
He'd witnessed the rise and fall of James P. Sullivan's career; the countless exploding test-canisters (and the ensuing safety precautions and regulations), the building of the first commercial laugh-canister, the official opening of the first laugh-floor, first successful day of production, first successful week of production, first successful month, year... decade.
It was difficult. Randall wondered if other guardians felt this way, looking back upon the world they'd left. He supposed they did. He wouldn't know. He'd never met any others.
After that first "dream invasion" (as the spirit termed it), he hadn't really "spoken" to anyone else. Sure, he made snide comments (mostly to Wazowski) but those all went unnoticed and unheard. He hadn't attempted another "invasion" for several years, and he'd only done so because he was beginning to doubt his own existence. At least when he "spoke" to Sullivan, the conversations assured him that he hadn't... faded away, or anything.
To him that was a very real fear. After the initial round of alterations to the physical plane (the one that had resulted in Wazowski's "bad morning") it had become more and more difficult to affect that plane of existence. He could barely lift a cereal box after a few weeks and he had to forget about scraping off anything stuck to anything (as he had scraped off candle wax and crusted pizza cheese that first day). He theorized that it had something to do with him being newly dead. Residual energies, or something obscure like that. Randall wished he could ask Death about it somehow, or even some other guardian, but it wasn't as if he could just ring them up on the telephone.
Besides, even if he could, he didn't have Death's phone number.
Anyway, after several months had passed, he had begun worrying that he would simply fade out of existence, or something. Nobody ever noticed or heard him, he passed right through solid objects, he couldn't smell anything and now he was having difficulty moving physical objects, something he'd been told he could do.
He didn't even have a shadow.
How did he know that he was actually there? Here? Wherever?
And what defined existence, anyway?
It made him wish he'd taken more psychology classes in high school.
One night while Sullivan was sleeping, in a panic, he'd tried to simply turn a page on an open book on Sullivan's desk. It didn't move. His hand went right through it. He tried to pick up a piece of loose-leaf paper next to it.
Nothing. It didn't even waft, as if it were in a breeze.
It was then that Randall had tried to enter Sullivan's sleeping mind again. Just to prove his own existence.
Pathetic, wasn't it?
But it had actually worked. He'd gone into his charge's dream. It'd taken no time at all. If anything, he'd gone in faster than he had the first time.
The spirit had wanted to merely observe that time. It was enough that he could enter the dream. The dream, by the way, involved Sullivan running through a brightly lit field filled with yellow and pink flowers, chasing after that human kid, laughing -- quite sickening, really.
Randall kicked at one of the flowers -- a bright, fluorescent pink, a colour that only naturally occurred in toxic waste. The flower's head came off in a puff of petals, and the broken stem waved and bobbed slightly from the blow. The spirit smiled.
He couldn't say everything was right in the world, now, because it wasn't. He was still dead, still in the service of Sullivan, and still had depleted strength. But at least now he knew that he was just fine in the spiritual plane. Made sense, really. One couldn't have a bunch of invisible spirits altering everything to suit their protectee's needs all the time, now could one?
Randall felt better than he had in weeks. He inhaled deeply the perfumed air, gagging on the strong smell. Yup, he existed all right.
And for the moment, that was enough.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:03:33 GMT -5
James P. Sullivan was dying. Anyone could see it. Everyone did see it. Randall could feel it. Sullivan and his guardian were simply biding their time, waiting for the end.
It wasn't as if Sullivan actually did anything anymore; he simply lay on the bed at the hospital. His joints had gone creaky with age and any movement caused pain.
It wasn’t as if he was alone; friends and family surrounded him. Celia’s crowd of children took up a large percentage of those who watched over his final hours.
The living weren’t the only ones in that room, however. Two shadows went unseen in an uppermost corner of the room. One was Death, the Grim Reaper of souls. The other was far less menacing; simply a lizard-monster in a trench coat. Barring the fact that he was currently transparent, floating several feet off the ground, consorting with Death and exuding a faint aura of ghostly light, of course.
Neither of the specters spoke. They were both staring (as well as a skull with no eyes can stare, that is) at a large, sturdily-built brass hourglass, staring as the last few grains of blue-green sand trickled ever so slowly downwards to join the majority of their counterparts in the lower globe.
Slowly, slowly, the sand fell. Finally, only a single grain was left. It took the longest to fall. It teetered on the rim for what felt like an eternity. Gravely, the two watchers watched as the grain of sand fell, landing on the pile of sand that represented a whole lifetime. It punched a tiny crater into the sand where it landed.
Wordlessly, Death tucked the hourglass into his robe (still as black as the blackest of midnight). Hoisting his scythe upwards, Death descended upon Sullivan. The scythe flashed downwards (sending up a brief stream of spiritual blood), and it was done. The only sound in the room was the “krrrrrrrrchhhhhh” of Sullivan’s death rattle and a choked sob from one of the one-eyed snake-haired occupants of the room.
Death snapped his fingers, and the hospital deathbed scene dissolved, blending seamlessly as if in a Dream to the misty world of the World’s Edge.
Sullivan’s spirit stood tall in the mist. His fur was no longer a grizzled grey-blue, but had returned the blue, green and purple of his prime. All of the colours were muted and faded, however. Death has a way of doing that.
Sullivan was disoriented, but knew, as those who have waited for Death for years know, what had happened. He appeared to be alone, in this place. The mist swirled suddenly to his left, and a huge, dark cloaked shape appears. It made no sound during its approach. The newly dead monster yells in surprise and falls backward into the mist. The menacing figure raises its two pairs of arms –<br> "Really Randall, if he wasn't already dead, you could scare him to death that way." Came an ever-cheerful voice from behind them.
The hood falls and reveals Randall. He smiles at Sullivan in what would look sheepish manner on anybody else. As it was, it was more of a smirk with sheepish elements. The other voice was Death himself. "I just wanted a bit of fun." Randall continued smirking.
Death offered Sullivan a hand up. The new spirit eyed the hand with trepidation – it looked as if it would crumble and snap off in his hand. He took it anyway, and was hauled easily to his feet.
“Thank you, sir.”<br> "Well, aren't you a polite one?"
"...Sir?" Furry eyebrows were raised in bewilderment. Death certainly was more… cheerful than he would have thought.
"Well, more polite than your guardian, there..." Death winked; or tried to. Now that was a disturbing sight.
Randall watched the exchange, face expressionless. Now the moment had come; he was going to go onto… wherever. He had fantasized about this moment so many times over the past thirty-odd years that now that it had arrived, he was almost…. lost. What did happen after this? Did he just go out like a light? Reincarnation? Death had spoken of Hell and things, but he wasn’t entirely sure about them. Did it depend on what he believed? Because if it did, well… He’d be caught in some sort of limbo, wouldn’t he?
While these thoughts were running frantically through his head, Death was giving Sullivan the run-down of his life in general (he had done many more good deeds than bad – just typical). Perhaps he’d been trying to blot out that whole murder thing, Randall thought snidely.
"Ready to go into The Light?" Death asks finally.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:04:55 GMT -5
"Can I speak with, ah...” Sullivan paused nervously. “Randall for a moment, sir?"
Death didn't even hesitate. "None of us are in any hurry." He waved one enrobed arm casually, the (what appeared to be) bones in (what appeared to be) his wrist clacked against each other. Odd sound, that. Not quite like someone cracking their knuckles, but a sound one can't really describe as anything else. "Take as long as you need." If Death were capable of hope (he wasn't, because hope had to die sometime too, and nothing of his could physically -- or spiritually, come to think of it -- die), he would have hoped that Sullivan noted the wording of his sentence; the use of 'need' instead of 'want'. Something between those two had to be sorted out before they both left. He would prefer it be resolved without his intervention.
But, then again, from what he'd seen of James P. Sullivan, noticing subtleties wasn't exactly one of his strong points.
Oh, well.
As Death didn't really have a real face to portray emotions with (nor as wide a range of them as mortals do), Sullivan was incapable of seeing these emotions flicker across Deaths skull. Just as well, because he probably wouldn't have noticed them anyway.
Randall turned his attention to Sullivan, who had left Death’s side and was now facing him. He didn’t say anything, though, just scratched the back of his head nervously, avoiding his gaze. Randall recognized that he was nervous (hey, he had been observing the guy for over thirty years, after all).
After a few minutes (or what passed like a few minutes at World’s Edge), Randall finally prompted him. "You're taking death pretty well." It was the only thing he could think of saying.
"I guess I had a better death than--" The furry monster stopped suddenly, breaking off the thought completely, inhaling sharply (or, at least, giving the best imitation of inhaling sharply as a dead person can do). "Oh jeez, I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I've accepted it, you know." Randall smiled wryly, trying to look somewhat calm. To the uninitiated eye, he did indeed look completely relaxed, but to someone who actually knew the guy well, they would immediately be able to see how the former lizard monster tensed at Sullivan's words.
The sad thing was, there was no such person. Never had been.
"I gotta apologize again, though. Really."
Randall crossed his arms, a defensive position, waiting. "Go on."
"I'm sorry."
The former lizard-monster raised his eyebrow ridges. "I was expecting something more flowery, you know." He shook his head, though, rubbing his forehead. "It's fine, though. It's not like it really matters anymore. Not here, not now, not really. We both gotta get going anyway, to wherever it is we're supposed to be going." He just wanted to get this over with...
"Do you forgive me?"
Randall sighed. Why did he have to ask that question?
"I--" He began, hesitant, trying to remain calm, collected, trying to resist the overwhelming urge to simply pound Sullivan's idiotic face in."-- Can't."
"What?" Sullivan looked astonished, clueless. "Why not?"
Randall narrowed his eyes marginally. "Just because you funded the 'Randall Boggs Laugh-Power Research Center', doesn't mean that I'm going to automatically forgive you, you know."
The newly dead monster just stared, as if at a loss. "I thought you'd like it."
"Of course I liked it!" Randall growled, fighting even harder to maintain his calm composure. "Not everybody gets a well-funded, famous new research center named after themselves, you know." Randall narrowed his eyes further, fists clenching slightly and unclenching, ever so slowly, at his side. He could handle this. If he could just keep a lid on his temper, keep a lid on what he was just dying to say... Or, well... Ah, you know what he meant. "It was a bribe, plain and simple. Just because you tried to suck up to me doesn't mean I have to automatically forgive – or even like you." He stated. That's right, slowly, calmly...
"Aren't you, well..." Sullivan began hesitantly. "The slightest bit..." Oh, he really seemed to be having trouble saying this sentence... "... Angry?"
Silence. Absolute silence.
"...Randall?" Sullivan prodded nervously.
Randall seemed to simply... simmer, for a moment, green eyes glaring. He'd been simmering for thirty-four years, so it was way passed due for this pot to boil...
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:06:07 GMT -5
"All right!" He burst out, his 'calm' composure finally shattering. "I admit it! I am angry. No, more than angry with you. Furious! Displeased! Fuming! Maddened! Wrathful! Enraged! Infuriated! Outraged! And any other words for 'angry as hell' in the thesaurus!" He raved, waving both pairs of arms, looking at the misty 'floor', the smoke-obscured 'horizon' and the fog laden 'sky', even at Death (who was standing, looking more amused than a scythe-wielding skeleton in a midnight-black cloak has any right to be); anywhere but what had been constant source of ire almost his entire life-- and what came after. Swiftly, he whirled upon the suddenly cowed Sullivan (who flinched in what would have been a quite satisfying manner to Randall if he'd been in any mood to care), fronds raised menacingly, his non-existent scales flushing a pale put furious red underneath their normal purple and blue. "You. Killed. Me." He punctuated every word with what would have been a poke to the chest (had either of them been solid enough to poke), but was in fact him poking his own had through Sullivan's chest a ways, which actually seemed to demonstrate his point more effectively as he literally tugged at Sullivan's heart-strings. "I have every single reason there could possibly be to hate a person to hate you.” He narrowed his eyes even further, drawing himself up. The rant had only just begun. "No matter how hard I ****** [1] tried, how hard I ***** worked, how many **** hours I put in on the **** Scare floor, you just strolled in, put in a ***** few hours work, and somehow managed to stay ***** top scarer for a ***** year and a half!" He ranted. "And you kept up your ever so ***** 'endearing'," Here he sneered and deepened his voice in an imitation of Sullivan's own deeper tone, shaking his upper two hands at about head level in a sarcastic manner, "'Oh, it was nothing, sir'," His voice returned to the more normal angry pitch, "Act that made you ever so ***** popular. Then I was going to have it **** made with my ***** Scream Extractor (which, by the ***** way, sinceyoutookthe*****timetoask, took over a **** year of ***** hard labor to **** make and you just ***** tore it off it's ***** mechanical arm and ***** tossed it aside like so much ***** trash!). Then you have to ***** ruin it by intercepting that ***** kid, alerting the ***** CDA, making it ***** necessary for ***** ***** ***** Waternoose to ***** betray me, and, oh what was it... of course! I remember!" By this point, Randall was shouting on the top of what would be his lungs were he still alive, all four hands balled into tight fists, his upper torso stretched out to it's tallest point. His 'body' was shaking with rage and the restrained urge to simply lunge forward and attack (despite the fact that he knew he wouldn't be able to much of anything at all). And Sullivan, by the way, was cringing, one hand in front of his face as if to ward off an attack. But Randall wasn't quite finished with him -- yet. "Then you ***** banished me (***** illegally, I might ***** add) to get rid of the ***** evidence. And to top it all off... ***** ... you ***** get away with it! Not only that, but you ***** benefit from it! You **** **** ****!" Those final words (if one can call such filthy language "words") were concluded by one loud, warbling, furious scream that was the result of over thirty four years of bottled up negative emotion, thirty four years of having to do absolutely nothing to get rid of them, thirty four years of having to actually aid his tormentor. ...I'd say it was called for, don't you? This was followed by a large amount of silence, aside from the occasional growl (that he made no effort to suppress) from Randall. "What do you have to say to that?!" He hissed. Sullivan stood silent for a moment, slowly lowering the hand in front of his face. The furry monster spoke the first thing that came to mind. "...Where'd you learn to say *****, anyway?" Wrong thing to say. Without the smallest moment of hesitation, Randall channeled all of his fury, all of his rage; all of his emotional torment into one explosive swing aimed at Sullivan's general chest/neck/head area. Pity he went right through him. Again, let’s just say that it took quite a while for Randall to calm down. Because time is irrelevant at the World’s Edge, it’s impossible to measure or even estimate exactly how much time it did take for the now ex-guardian to blow off his anger. He made quite a few more swings at Sullivan, however (and even a few at Death, blindly, but Death forgave him for that insult, considering the circumstances). All throughout Randall’s tirade (the attempt at physical blows, not the verbal one), Sullivan had been muttering a litany of “sorry”s, but Randall simply hadn’t registered them. Eventually, however, Randall simply couldn’t find the energy to do anything but curl up in a miserable ball (floating just a bit above the mist, of course). He looked at neither Death nor Sullivan. All the anger seemed to have drained out of him. "How are we doing for time, Death?" Randall spoke for the first time in quite a while in a tone that was actually spoken, not screamed. It was muffled, slightly, however, because he had his face buried somewhere in the tangle of limbs, body, and tail. "Take as long as you need to. I have all the time in this world." Randall didn't doubt it, and nobody was going to question Death's reasoning. [1] For some odd reason, I keep wanting to put words like "bloody hell" and "ruddy" in places like this (been reading too much Harry Potter fanfiction recently. -_-; ...By the way, go read "Fallen" by cyropi. Now. Shoo!), and since I can't think up any suitably impressive words to live up to my definition in the prologue of Randall's swearing (I believe it was "... swore words that would have made the oldest, cruellest, most grizzled monster (either man or mon) blush and run screaming for Mommy."), so I took the easy (read = lazy) way out of it, and simply put the little star things (whatever they're called... wait, asterisks, that's it... probably. ; ) there instead. Besides, what swear words do monsters use? We'll never know, because the movie was rated G. -_-; Sorry.... Just... let your imaginations do the rest, hmm? :3 [2 ]A cookie and a pair of purple socks to anyone who recognizes this reference.
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:06:48 GMT -5
He just sat there, in silence, for a while, contemplating. Even Sullivan’s “sorry”s had quieted. There were no sounds; not even of his own breathing (obviously), but it didn’t disturb him, because he was used to it by now (if such a thing is possible).
“Sullivan?” Randall had lifted his head clear of his body. The words were spoken quietly, but through contrast with the silence around them, it seemed extremely loud and sudden.
“Yes?” The reply was tentative.
“I … think that forgiveness is possible. Maybe. I mean, we’re both dead. Our lives our over. We can’t go back.” He shot a look at Death, and he nodded in confirmation. “Do – ah, I mean did – our lives even matter, here? What we did in them?” He was struggling to put thoughts that he had been pondering for years into words.
“So, I think, I can forgive you. It doesn’t really matter, one way or another, does it? Really? Wherever we go, do they care what we did in life? That’s the point of guardianship and things, to make up for misdeeds or sins or whatever, so we start of with a clean slate? Isn’t it? I don’t want to have to – leave anything unfinished, you know? I…” He ran a hand through his fronds.
Randall then seemed to come to a decision. He worked quickly to untangle himself, smoothing the folds of his trench coat as they became wrinkled. He turned to face the recently deceased monster. Back straight, shoulders squared, he looked the spirit of James P. Sullivan in the eyes. “I forgive you.”<br> Sullivan looked most startled by this pronouncement, but could think of only one thing to say.
“Thank-you.”<br> There was a short, somewhat satisfied silence.
"Ready to go, Sullivan?"
"Look, call me Sulley." He stuck out his right hand.
Randall eyed the proffered hand, before finally taking it. "Call me Randall, then." He replied solemnly.
"I call you that anyway."
"But before I didn't want you to."
Randall turned towards Death. “I can keep the trench coat, right?” Death’s skull grinned, and he nodded.
Now came the hard part.
For a brief moment, Randall hesitated. Then the former lizard monster's face relaxed into a genuine smile, and he said, simply, "We can leave now."
Death nodded, his skull still grinning in a way that should have been infuriating, but wasn't really. Not anymore.
To anyone watching, one would have seen Death grow huge. Or maybe Sullivan and Randall simply grew tiny? Do such concepts even apply?[2] In any case, Death lifted the two dead monsters gently in his hands, and tucked them into his cloak. As a watcher, one could almost hear their faint voices one final time:
"Oh, and that question you asked? About where I heard that particular addition to my vocabulary?"
"What, *****?"
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"I learnt it from Wazowski."
And then they were gone.
Death looks around the World's Edge. His skull still grins, as skulls have a tendency to do. He puts the proverbial chairs on top of the proverbial tables, turns off the proverbial lights, and locks the proverbial door behind him.
And all that remains is the endless white of the light that stretches into eternity.
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Post by RandallBoggs on Apr 8, 2005 16:39:56 GMT -5
. .. ...
OOOOKKKK...
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Beboots
Randall's Head Servant (300-799)
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a plague in Equatorial Guinea that I have to attend.
Posts: 646
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Post by Beboots on Apr 8, 2005 16:55:19 GMT -5
Thanks ever so much for that demoralizing comment, Sean. *is insecure*
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