Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

One of our amusements at this past weekend's New Year's Party was an old favorite, to write a composite story.

This involves passing around a binder full of paper and allowing people to add onto the story at will.

The story started out really promising, but towards the end of the evening, the partiers ran out of steam, as you shall see.

I've taken the liberty of giving it a title...

The Adventures of Rat Boy and the Vat of Oblivion

Gabriel Fitzsimmons had a rat for a brain.

He didn't like it. The rat was noisy and difficult and ran around all the time, making annoying "tic-tic-tic" noises inside his skull. But he reluctantly accepted that it was better than no brain at all, so he kept quiet.

Until one day...

Gabriel had taken the train into town. Walking down the street, a store window caught his attention.

"SQUEAK," announced the rat.

Gabriel stopped to take another look. When the rat got excited, there was no point trying to ignore it. He scanned the store window.

"SQUEAK."

Gabriel sighed. Cheese. Again. "Rat," he grated under his breath, "cheese does NOT constitute an emergency."

The rat shuffled its feet, petulantly. He could feel its attention, fixed upon the Stilton like a whisker was taped to the wrapper.

"We have cheese at home," he said, not shifting its attention in the least.

"SQUEAK."

Hanging the bag with the cheese off his wrist, he left the shop and headed east.

This, of course, made Gabriel late for work. Again. For the fifth time. This week. His boss, Mr. Gerald Harlan Hugh Meriwether Rhys-Davis, was less than understanding.

"GABRIEL!!!" he exclaimed, in all caps, with three exclamation points. "Report to my ready room toute suite." Mr. Gerald Harlan Hugh Meriwether Rhys-Davis was not only a Trekker but also a Francophile. His vocabulary was a hodgepodge of Trek-speak and French vernacular.

Just as he pushed open the office door, Gabriel heard a sound suspiciously like a phaser being set to stun. The rat immediately wet itself.

Gabriel found himself looking down the barrel (if "barrel" was le mot juste here, which it wasn't) of Rhys-Davis's taser, cleverly designed to resemble a STNG-era phaser.

"Gabriel," Rhys-Davis said, leveling the taser at his (that is, Gabriel's) _____ (frog for "the correct word" — really) chest. "Why do you make me do this?"

"Uh, it was actually one of my less reputable multiple personalities that made me late, sir."

Rhys-Davis shook his head. "Try again," he said, and fired.

An indigo pool opened at Gabriel's feet. He dove in, metaphorically speaking. From a more metaphorical basis it was a case of "jump or be pushed" into unconsciousness.

As much as Fitzsimmons's rat hated the inky blackness, it was powerless to act as long as Gabriel lay, tasered into insensibility, sprawled across the tiles.

From outside the head, there was rustling, jostling, and a number of unexpected and sudden thumps, as if Gabriel's body were being bagged, loaded and transported somewhere. Being a rat, however, these occurrences passed without making much of an impression, so when Fitzsimmons finally awoke and opened his eyes, the rat was completely astonished to see a buxom blonde tied up next to Fitzsimmons. The rat knew that Fitzsimmons would blow his chance with her as soon as he opened his mouth. Fortunately, unknown to the rat, Fitzsimmons had his mouth taped shut.

"Blug," said Fitzsimmons to the blonde.

The blonde sighed and said, "Welcome to Mr. Gerald Harlan Hugh Meriwether Rhys-Davis's personal hell..." She leaned over a little, exposing her cleavage a little more. "... where he is king."

"Ng," replied Fitzsimmons.

The blonde nodded. "Exactly."

Just then, Mr. Rhys-Davis appeared, rubbing his hands gleefully. He leaned over to Fitzsimmons and said, "You will kindly refrain from hitting on my girlfriend, you silver-tongued devil."

Gabriel drooled eloquently, wishing his brain would stop cleaning its whiskers and pay attention. (A rat for a brain is better than no brain at all.)

"I'm sure you're wondering why you're here," Rhys-Davis said. "Well, mon ami, it's because of a certain fact I accidentally learned about you during your employment."

"Mb?" answered Gabriel through the tape.

"A fact about a certain vital organ of yours," leered Rhys-Davis.

"Mb!" protested Gabriel. Oddly, the worst fear gripping him was how casually Rhys-Davis was about to reveal his condition in front of the woman tied up by his side. Having a rat for a brain was too often the abrupt end to a date.

"A thinking organ," continued his tormentor relentlessly, "which is perhaps actually a common domestic rodent — "

"Oh, for God's sake stop tormenting the poor man," snapped the blonde. "I don't know what I ever saw in you, Gerald."

"It was my complete collection of Voyager commemorative plates, Angela!" chortled Rhys-Davis. "But no matter, mon cherie. You'll be laughing out the other side of your... brain ... when I harness the power of your rat-brain for my own... nefarious purposes."

Rhys-Davis paused, his gaze staring piercingly up at a corner of the ceiling.

"Gerald, you burke. 'Nefarious purposes' indeed." The blonde's voice was frozen contempt. "Perhaps you will wreak your bloody revenge on the chess club? Or have you become the outcast from some other group of outcasts since I broke up with you?"

Rhys-Davis paused, holding his gaze upon the heights over the credenza. Clearly, her words had pricked his pride. He paused to consider his words.

"Perhaps, my dear Angela, you will be more judicious in your choice of words when your brain sports... whiskers?"

Angela gasped. Rhys-Davis smiled, the thin, tightlipped smile of a reptile contemplating its dinner. He slowly turned his gaze downwards, his smirk broadening as he looked upon her shocked expression.

Then he blinked.

"Bloody hell. Where's he gone to?"

The brain of a rat is well-adapted to scurrying for cover, and our hero had made rapid progress during the preceding dramatic interlude. Creeping like an inchworm, he had scurried into cover in the hall closet.

It was at this moment — oddly enough, considering what mental eons had transpired between opening his eyes and now — that Gabriel realized his hands were not tied. Blondes always had this effect on him. He removed the gag and his brain squeaked in chagrin.

Gabriel's brain raced through the maze of the last few minutes. Something important. He'd heard something important. Something about Rhys-Davis and his brain. Or a chess club. Chess club. Cheddar. Yum. Where had he left that cheese?

Editor's note: at this point, one senses the partiers tired of the game.

He scrambled down the hallway until he collided with a large suit of armor, impaling himself on the sword. He falls to the floor and the armor comes down on top of him. With blood seeping onto the floor he thinks, "Oops."

Then a genetically engineered piece of humanoid Stilton named Bryce walked down the hallway and noticed Fitzsimmons.

"Reep!" said the rat, enjoyed by the Stilton of enormous size. "Well," said Bryce. "You're leaking red jelly. We'll have to fix that. Into the fermenting vats with you..."

No, not the vat!

Editor's note: Here, the story ends. On the paper underneath the last penned contribution, however, someone was testing out their New Year's favor, a Snoopy stamp. So I suppose the alternate ending would be, "Snoopy, Snoopy, Snoopy, Snoopy, Snoopy, Snoopy, Snoopy, Snoopy, Snoopy."

Should anyone care to add onto this collective weirdness, post your contributions to my message board, accessed with the buttons below.

For some reason, I am now very hungry for cheese. Brie, possibly. Or Camembert. Mmm. French cheese.

More from New Year's 2006:

January 3, 2006 - Shiny, Happy New Year

January 4, 2006 - Still Partying

New Year's 2005:

January 3, 2005 - In the Pink

New Year's 2004:

January 5, 2004 - Shiny, Happy People

Copyright 2005 by Alyce Wilson

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