More Figgis and co! Hurrah! I bloody love writing this!
Bertha, Oh lovely Bertha
Figgis learnt several important things in the following couple of hours. Firstly that his house, after Theresa set to work, could actually look tidier than he ever thought possible (if you overlooked the broken picture, two more cups and a particularly ugly vase, all dashed to the floor by her ungainly wings) and with enough elbow grease, the crud on the cooker top did eventually come off.
He also discovered the utter humiliation of drinking coffee from a de-handled pan on the floor. This had swiftly followed the realisation that he could neither pick up a mug, nor fit his muzzle into it. So the pan it was. At least he was not going to get shouted at for not using a knife and fork any more. Nor for having his elbows on the table. Small mercies, but Figgis would take any he could find. He also discovered Theresa made the best pancakes he’d ever tasted, and that a dog’s sense of smell only increased the pleasure of them.
A couple of hours later, as Theresa drank coffee, and Figgis was still licking the bottom of the other de-handled pan (he suspected he’d got every trace of syrup off the bottom, but he could still smell its delicious aroma dammit) Bel asked if either of them had any idea what they were going to do about their current situation.
“I want my body back,” Bel said.
“They’re shut,” Theresa said. “What do you want to do? Break in and see if it’s still there?”
Bel grinned. It appeared she did.
The three of them left Figgis’s place. They stood on the kerb and regarded his car.
“What the fuck is that?” Bel asked.
Figgis had always loved his car. He felt the Volkswagon Beetle was a classic car, and if you were going to have a car of that calibre, you may as well have one that stood out from the crowd, that truly reflected its owner. This was why his Beetle was painted purple. With white bits. And a blue rear wing, because reversing into a bollard really knackers your bodywork and Beetle parts are really hard to come by.
“Please tell me that’s not your car!” Bel cackled, “what did you do? Look for the ugliest car on the forecourt and say ‘I’ll have that one please’?”
Figgis sighed. It sounded more like the exhalation of a grumpy and extremely bronchial pensioner.
Theresa unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She struggled to get her seatbelt over her wings but finally clipped it into place. Then she seemed to realise that Figgis was still standing on the pavement.
“Sorry!” She called. Unfastened the belt, leant over and opened the passenger door for him. He jumped in and she attempted to shut the door, which she couldn’t reach. Figgus watched in amusement as she climbed back out of the car, walked around, shut the passenger door, climbed back into the driver’s seat and went through a second bout with the seatbelt. Then she revved the engine, which promptly stalled.
“Would we be quicker walking?” Bel enquired.
“Sorry,” Theresa revved the engine again and the car finally co-operated. If Figgis could talk, he would have told her that she often played up, his beloved Beetle was a temperamental old thing and had to be cosseted. She was his pride and joy, and he called her ‘Bertha’. “Bastard thing,” Theresa muttered. Figgis grinned, he called her that too.
Bertha stuttered and coughed all the way down the street. Theresa kept up a litany of profanity, some of the words Figgis had never heard in those combinations before. She flapped her wings in irritation, almost blinding Figgis and prompting another remark from Bel along the lines of strapping those damn things up and perhaps some sort of adapted bag over them may help.
Theresa drew up outside the Transformation Studio with a face as dark as the cloud of black exhaust smoke they’d arrived in. After another short fight with the seatbelt, and yet another trip back to the car to release Figgis, the three of them stood before the studio. It was still shut.
“So now what?” Theresa asked.
“And here’s where is gets a wee bit illegal.” Bel replied.
Showing posts with label supernatural. Show all posts
Showing posts with label supernatural. Show all posts
Friday, 14 December 2012
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Figgis 3: What's your name again?
Posting it a bit late tonight, but here it is. By the way, I'm tagging these as FTB, just for ease of finding them.
What's Your Name Again?
“So this is your pad?” The ghost asked. “Looks like you’ve been burgled, mate.”
They stood in the back garden, the kitchen window wide open and a rather new set of boot-prints on the lawn. Figgis sniffed at them. They had an odd scent, a heady mix of special brew and cannabis with a dash of something else. Something familiar.
The ghost walked through the back door. A few moments later her head appeared, the rest of her body invisible. “Hey look,” she said. “I’m a door knocker!” She stepped back into the garden “By the way, have you got a really nice TV and a games console?”
Figgis nodded his head. Not an easy feat for a dog. It looked more like he had water in his ears.
“Not any more, mate.”
Figgis hung his head. He didn’t suppose losing the games console mattered. Controller pads were not designed for paws. He was gutted about the TV though. He supposed he could attempt to claim on his house insurance, but the odds of them believing his shaggy dog story were slim to none.
“Are we going inside?” Theresa asked.
Figgis scratched at the door, Theresa tried the knob.
“It’s locked,” she said.
“Presumably that’s why the window is open,” the ghost said. “Isn’t that right, Lassie? Did you come out through the window? Is that how the nasty burglars got in?”
Was there a canine equivalent of flipping the bird? Figgis wondered. He favoured the irritating phantasm with a low growl. This amused her and she laughed. To hell with it, he cocked a leg and peed on her. Or rather through her, the stream soaking the grass. She stepped aside and muttered something he didn’t catch.
“So how are we going to get in?”
“Same way he got out,”
“I can’t fit through,” Theresa said, “not with the wings.”
“Get the dog to fetch the keys,” the ghost suggested. “Want to play fetch, Lassie?”
Figgis growled again.
“Have you got a better idea?” Theresa asked him. “No? Come on, let me lift you up, can you get the keys?”
He wasn’t really keen on that idea. Not until she actually scooped him up and he found himself nose to nipple with her cleavage. At that point it seemed the best idea of the day. He was rather sorry when she shoved him back through the window. Although realising he was now high enough to stare down her top without her assistance was an unexpected bonus.
“Go get the keys Lassie! Fetch!”
He jumped down from the kitchen counter, wondering if it was possible to find a priest and get the ghost exorcised. He wouldn’t even mind, but Lassie was a girl. Or rather, a bitch. Much like the ghost in fact.
Fortunately (and unusually) he knew exactly where his keys were. They were still in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. He trotted through the kitchen and raced up the stairs. The burglars had been opportunists, apart from the electricals in the front room, they’d barely touched the rest of the house. They certainly hadn’t been handling his clothes, they were exactly as he’d left them. He nosed through them until his keys tumbled out, snatched them up with his teeth and returned to the kitchen. One good leap later and Theresa’s soft hands were scratching his ears and rubbing his chest..
Figgis felt an overwhelming urge to throw himself to the floor and expose his belly for her.
Theresa unlocked the door and let herself in. She turned to take in the filthy grothole stereotypical of the bachelor male and knocked a cup off the draining board with the tip of her wing. It bounced but did not break. Figgis groaned inwardly when he saw the motif of the bunny girl on the side. “Sorry!”
She picked the cup up and placed it carefully on the work-top. Took another long, lingering look around the kitchen. “I’ll clean up a bit when I’ve had a cup of tea,” she offered. Figgis wagged his tail. She wandered over to the kitchen notice-board, a repository for all the shit Figgis received through the post and planned to deal with at some point. She pulled a letter off, a dental reminder he suspected he didn’t need any more.
“Oh, your name is Figgis!” Theresa exclaimed. “Not Iggish. That makes more sense.”
Figgis cringed, there was a reason he used his surname. Namely he hated his forename, which, he suspected, she was going to reveal any second...
“Is that really your first name?”
The ghost looked suddenly interested. “Can’t be as bad as mine.”
Theresa raised an eyebrow. “What’s yours?”
“Bellamy Jones. Bel to my friends.”
“And are we your friends?”
Bel laughed, “I guess you are.”
What's Your Name Again?
“So this is your pad?” The ghost asked. “Looks like you’ve been burgled, mate.”
They stood in the back garden, the kitchen window wide open and a rather new set of boot-prints on the lawn. Figgis sniffed at them. They had an odd scent, a heady mix of special brew and cannabis with a dash of something else. Something familiar.
The ghost walked through the back door. A few moments later her head appeared, the rest of her body invisible. “Hey look,” she said. “I’m a door knocker!” She stepped back into the garden “By the way, have you got a really nice TV and a games console?”
Figgis nodded his head. Not an easy feat for a dog. It looked more like he had water in his ears.
“Not any more, mate.”
Figgis hung his head. He didn’t suppose losing the games console mattered. Controller pads were not designed for paws. He was gutted about the TV though. He supposed he could attempt to claim on his house insurance, but the odds of them believing his shaggy dog story were slim to none.
“Are we going inside?” Theresa asked.
Figgis scratched at the door, Theresa tried the knob.
“It’s locked,” she said.
“Presumably that’s why the window is open,” the ghost said. “Isn’t that right, Lassie? Did you come out through the window? Is that how the nasty burglars got in?”
Was there a canine equivalent of flipping the bird? Figgis wondered. He favoured the irritating phantasm with a low growl. This amused her and she laughed. To hell with it, he cocked a leg and peed on her. Or rather through her, the stream soaking the grass. She stepped aside and muttered something he didn’t catch.
“So how are we going to get in?”
“Same way he got out,”
“I can’t fit through,” Theresa said, “not with the wings.”
“Get the dog to fetch the keys,” the ghost suggested. “Want to play fetch, Lassie?”
Figgis growled again.
“Have you got a better idea?” Theresa asked him. “No? Come on, let me lift you up, can you get the keys?”
He wasn’t really keen on that idea. Not until she actually scooped him up and he found himself nose to nipple with her cleavage. At that point it seemed the best idea of the day. He was rather sorry when she shoved him back through the window. Although realising he was now high enough to stare down her top without her assistance was an unexpected bonus.
“Go get the keys Lassie! Fetch!”
He jumped down from the kitchen counter, wondering if it was possible to find a priest and get the ghost exorcised. He wouldn’t even mind, but Lassie was a girl. Or rather, a bitch. Much like the ghost in fact.
Fortunately (and unusually) he knew exactly where his keys were. They were still in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. He trotted through the kitchen and raced up the stairs. The burglars had been opportunists, apart from the electricals in the front room, they’d barely touched the rest of the house. They certainly hadn’t been handling his clothes, they were exactly as he’d left them. He nosed through them until his keys tumbled out, snatched them up with his teeth and returned to the kitchen. One good leap later and Theresa’s soft hands were scratching his ears and rubbing his chest..
Figgis felt an overwhelming urge to throw himself to the floor and expose his belly for her.
Theresa unlocked the door and let herself in. She turned to take in the filthy grothole stereotypical of the bachelor male and knocked a cup off the draining board with the tip of her wing. It bounced but did not break. Figgis groaned inwardly when he saw the motif of the bunny girl on the side. “Sorry!”
She picked the cup up and placed it carefully on the work-top. Took another long, lingering look around the kitchen. “I’ll clean up a bit when I’ve had a cup of tea,” she offered. Figgis wagged his tail. She wandered over to the kitchen notice-board, a repository for all the shit Figgis received through the post and planned to deal with at some point. She pulled a letter off, a dental reminder he suspected he didn’t need any more.
“Oh, your name is Figgis!” Theresa exclaimed. “Not Iggish. That makes more sense.”
Figgis cringed, there was a reason he used his surname. Namely he hated his forename, which, he suspected, she was going to reveal any second...
“Is that really your first name?”
The ghost looked suddenly interested. “Can’t be as bad as mine.”
Theresa raised an eyebrow. “What’s yours?”
“Bellamy Jones. Bel to my friends.”
“And are we your friends?”
Bel laughed, “I guess you are.”
Monday, 10 December 2012
Figgis 2: Sister Midnight
Part two of the supernatural satire thing.... (and yes, a song title this time)
Sister Midnight
She looked down at him, this angel of the night. Figgis grinned, showing all of his teeth. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. He hoped he looked cute, but got the feeling he looked dopey. Not the sort of intelligent, man about town currently trapped in a dog’s body impression he hoped to give, but rather the look of a dog who tended to walk into doorways and be startled by its own shadow. He shut his mouth.
“My name is Theresa,” she said to him. “I don’t suppose you can tell me yours?”
“’iggish" Figgis managed. He was definitely getting better at this canine speech lark, even if he sounded like Scooby Doo under the influence of either a heavy cold or too many scooby-snacks. Maybe both.
“Iggish?” Theresa shrugged. She spread her wings wide, the leathery appendages spun four feet either side of her. She flapped them a couple of times them folded them neatly back into her spine. “Look at the state of me! They said I’d be able to transform at will, and I’d be able to fly.” Conspiratorially she added, “it was the flying, I always fancied flying. They never mentioned anything about none of your clothes fitting over them.”
Figgis cocked his head in a sympathetic fashion. Nobody had mentioned anything about being a dog either, but as Theresa bent to scratch him behind the ear, and her ill-fitting clothes sagged forwards, he guessed he could see a few advantages.
Theresa blushed. “Ah, sorry about that.” She adjusted her clothing, much to Figgis’s disappointment, and leant on the side of the building. “I keep hoping it will reopen. I’ve been here all day. I went home last night and my parents were horrified.” She slid down the side of the building, put her head in her hands and began to cry.
Figgis curled up at the side of her, licked the tears from her hands. Theresa pulled him to her chest and hugged him, obviously forgetting that beneath the fur lurked one extremely manly man. And also, now one very aroused man.
“You do realise that’s not a dog, don’t you?”
This new voice startled both Figgis and Theresa, who pushed him away. Figgis slunk away to a more respectable distance and threw himself to the floor. The voice belonged to a very short woman. There was something very different about her. It took Figgis a few minutes to realise he could see straight through her.
“I knew i should have gone somewhere reputable,” the woman said. “Bloody shysters. That’s me, incorporeal for the rest of my natural. Or unnatural. Whatever.” She sniffed. “Cheer up duck, your parents will forgive you eventually, at least you’ve got a house to go back to.”
Theresa looked up. “What did you ask for?”
“Immortality. So they made me a ghost. Ha ha, joke of the century, couldn’t see that coming,” she sniffed again. “Much like me, I suppose.”
“And now you can’t go home?”
“Been booted out. Apparently I don’t count as a tenant any more, seeing as I don’t have a body.”
The strange ghost launched into a tuneless rendition of ‘ain’t got nobody’.
Figgis looked from one woman to the other, both of them homeless. One of them weeping and the other seemingly deranged. he made a decision. He may be a dog, but he could still be a gentleman.
“Woof,” he said, and jerked his head in the international sign for ‘come this way’. It seemed easier than trying to communicate Scooby-style.
“Does Lassie want us to follow him? Is Timmy stuck in a well?” The ghost asked, and giggled.
Figgis chose to ignore that particular jibe. He trotted a few paces down the street, then looked back. Theresa had gotten to her feet and was following him. It did cross his mind that it may be a little unwise to take two strange women home with him, but at least one of them would be able to feed him. He drew the line at dog food though. Just as long as they understood that.
Sister Midnight
She looked down at him, this angel of the night. Figgis grinned, showing all of his teeth. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. He hoped he looked cute, but got the feeling he looked dopey. Not the sort of intelligent, man about town currently trapped in a dog’s body impression he hoped to give, but rather the look of a dog who tended to walk into doorways and be startled by its own shadow. He shut his mouth.
“My name is Theresa,” she said to him. “I don’t suppose you can tell me yours?”
“’iggish" Figgis managed. He was definitely getting better at this canine speech lark, even if he sounded like Scooby Doo under the influence of either a heavy cold or too many scooby-snacks. Maybe both.
“Iggish?” Theresa shrugged. She spread her wings wide, the leathery appendages spun four feet either side of her. She flapped them a couple of times them folded them neatly back into her spine. “Look at the state of me! They said I’d be able to transform at will, and I’d be able to fly.” Conspiratorially she added, “it was the flying, I always fancied flying. They never mentioned anything about none of your clothes fitting over them.”
Figgis cocked his head in a sympathetic fashion. Nobody had mentioned anything about being a dog either, but as Theresa bent to scratch him behind the ear, and her ill-fitting clothes sagged forwards, he guessed he could see a few advantages.
Theresa blushed. “Ah, sorry about that.” She adjusted her clothing, much to Figgis’s disappointment, and leant on the side of the building. “I keep hoping it will reopen. I’ve been here all day. I went home last night and my parents were horrified.” She slid down the side of the building, put her head in her hands and began to cry.
Figgis curled up at the side of her, licked the tears from her hands. Theresa pulled him to her chest and hugged him, obviously forgetting that beneath the fur lurked one extremely manly man. And also, now one very aroused man.
“You do realise that’s not a dog, don’t you?”
This new voice startled both Figgis and Theresa, who pushed him away. Figgis slunk away to a more respectable distance and threw himself to the floor. The voice belonged to a very short woman. There was something very different about her. It took Figgis a few minutes to realise he could see straight through her.
“I knew i should have gone somewhere reputable,” the woman said. “Bloody shysters. That’s me, incorporeal for the rest of my natural. Or unnatural. Whatever.” She sniffed. “Cheer up duck, your parents will forgive you eventually, at least you’ve got a house to go back to.”
Theresa looked up. “What did you ask for?”
“Immortality. So they made me a ghost. Ha ha, joke of the century, couldn’t see that coming,” she sniffed again. “Much like me, I suppose.”
“And now you can’t go home?”
“Been booted out. Apparently I don’t count as a tenant any more, seeing as I don’t have a body.”
The strange ghost launched into a tuneless rendition of ‘ain’t got nobody’.
Figgis looked from one woman to the other, both of them homeless. One of them weeping and the other seemingly deranged. he made a decision. He may be a dog, but he could still be a gentleman.
“Woof,” he said, and jerked his head in the international sign for ‘come this way’. It seemed easier than trying to communicate Scooby-style.
“Does Lassie want us to follow him? Is Timmy stuck in a well?” The ghost asked, and giggled.
Figgis chose to ignore that particular jibe. He trotted a few paces down the street, then looked back. Theresa had gotten to her feet and was following him. It did cross his mind that it may be a little unwise to take two strange women home with him, but at least one of them would be able to feed him. He drew the line at dog food though. Just as long as they understood that.
Sunday, 9 December 2012
Figgis 1: The Hairy-handed Gent
Something different today. This too may become serialised. It's not going to be serious, just a bit of fun. And yes, the character name is stolen from another fic of mine (and so is the vampire name, though she hasn't given it yet). And yes the title is stolen from a lyric. Cookie to the first to identify it. Anyways... enjoy.
The Hairy-Handed Gent
Become a werewolf they said, it’ll be fun they said.
It may have been, if the people at Supernaturals R Us had got it right. Except they hadn’t. Somewhere, something had gone wrong. Figgis looked down at his paws. They didn’t look very wolf-like. For a start, his fur was not a steely grey, nor was it any shade of brown. Or black. Or any other sort of colour he associated with wolves. It was white. And slightly fluffy.
It had seemed a good idea at the time. Pay a million Credits and become a werewolf. The transformation came with a lifetime’s membership to the exclusive Lycanthropy Club, free access to The Hunting Grounds safari park when the moon was full, and guaranteed good health and enhanced senses even in human form. Figgis had slapped his Credit card down on the desk and declared his intentions. He’d signed the waivers, flipped through the four inch thick user agreement and then happily followed the extremely attractive scientist to the Transformation rooms. Ten hours later he’d stumbled home, the identity bracelet still on his wrist, hoping to sleep off the immense hangover he seemed to have developed.
He’d woken up as a dog. And most disconcertingly, it wasn’t even night.
He jumped down off the bed and trotted over to the full length mirror. he was definitely a dog. Not even a manly dog. Mostly Labrador with a dash of Spaniel. He wagged his tail experimentally. It was an extraordinarily long tail, with a bit of a fringe.
He mooched around the bedroom for a bit, not quite sure what to do next. Whilst he was thinking, he decided to have a bit of a nap. He leapt back onto the bed, turned around several times and curled up on the pillow. before he slept he realised that at least one thing was working as promised, his sense of smell was vastly improved. Now he really did wonder why dogs slept with their noses tucked into their backsides.
He woke again and the room was dark. He was still a dog.
It occurred to him that what he really ought to do was go back down to the Transformation Studio and see if they could reverse the process. And that decided, his first problem was getting out of the bedroom. It took several attempts to unlatch the door. His nails made a clicking nose on the laminate in the hallway as he walked to the door. The front door was locked. Of course it was.
Figgis sat down. Scratched the door a little forlornly. This wasn’t working out at all like he planned.
He gave up on the front door and jumped up onto the kitchen worktop. carefully he stepped over the crockery piled up on the draining board and nuzzled the catch on the window. Eventually it slid up and the widow opened. he jumped down into the garden, peed against the side of the house and set off towards the Studio and hopefully, re-humanising.
The Studio was shut.
“Oh bugger,” he said. Or tried to at least. What actually came out was some sort of throaty gibberish. He barked instead. it sounded suspiciously like a yap. The effeminate yap of a handbag sized dog, not even a decent woof as would befit a dog his size.
“It’s shut down,” said a voice beside him.
Figgis turned. There was a vampire standing next to him. Except she didn’t look exactly like a vampire. She looked like an angel. But with two huge bat wings. They fluttered a little bit in the breeze. “failed werewolf transformation?”
Figgis yapped again. Cleared his throat and tried again. This time it sounded a little bit beefier. perhaps a terrier sized woof.
“’Become a vampire,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.” The vampire sighed and Figgis fell in love.
The Hairy-Handed Gent
Become a werewolf they said, it’ll be fun they said.
It may have been, if the people at Supernaturals R Us had got it right. Except they hadn’t. Somewhere, something had gone wrong. Figgis looked down at his paws. They didn’t look very wolf-like. For a start, his fur was not a steely grey, nor was it any shade of brown. Or black. Or any other sort of colour he associated with wolves. It was white. And slightly fluffy.
It had seemed a good idea at the time. Pay a million Credits and become a werewolf. The transformation came with a lifetime’s membership to the exclusive Lycanthropy Club, free access to The Hunting Grounds safari park when the moon was full, and guaranteed good health and enhanced senses even in human form. Figgis had slapped his Credit card down on the desk and declared his intentions. He’d signed the waivers, flipped through the four inch thick user agreement and then happily followed the extremely attractive scientist to the Transformation rooms. Ten hours later he’d stumbled home, the identity bracelet still on his wrist, hoping to sleep off the immense hangover he seemed to have developed.
He’d woken up as a dog. And most disconcertingly, it wasn’t even night.
He jumped down off the bed and trotted over to the full length mirror. he was definitely a dog. Not even a manly dog. Mostly Labrador with a dash of Spaniel. He wagged his tail experimentally. It was an extraordinarily long tail, with a bit of a fringe.
He mooched around the bedroom for a bit, not quite sure what to do next. Whilst he was thinking, he decided to have a bit of a nap. He leapt back onto the bed, turned around several times and curled up on the pillow. before he slept he realised that at least one thing was working as promised, his sense of smell was vastly improved. Now he really did wonder why dogs slept with their noses tucked into their backsides.
He woke again and the room was dark. He was still a dog.
It occurred to him that what he really ought to do was go back down to the Transformation Studio and see if they could reverse the process. And that decided, his first problem was getting out of the bedroom. It took several attempts to unlatch the door. His nails made a clicking nose on the laminate in the hallway as he walked to the door. The front door was locked. Of course it was.
Figgis sat down. Scratched the door a little forlornly. This wasn’t working out at all like he planned.
He gave up on the front door and jumped up onto the kitchen worktop. carefully he stepped over the crockery piled up on the draining board and nuzzled the catch on the window. Eventually it slid up and the widow opened. he jumped down into the garden, peed against the side of the house and set off towards the Studio and hopefully, re-humanising.
The Studio was shut.
“Oh bugger,” he said. Or tried to at least. What actually came out was some sort of throaty gibberish. He barked instead. it sounded suspiciously like a yap. The effeminate yap of a handbag sized dog, not even a decent woof as would befit a dog his size.
“It’s shut down,” said a voice beside him.
Figgis turned. There was a vampire standing next to him. Except she didn’t look exactly like a vampire. She looked like an angel. But with two huge bat wings. They fluttered a little bit in the breeze. “failed werewolf transformation?”
Figgis yapped again. Cleared his throat and tried again. This time it sounded a little bit beefier. perhaps a terrier sized woof.
“’Become a vampire,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.” The vampire sighed and Figgis fell in love.
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