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All right, folks, it's time for the next installment of this series. Hope you like it. Give me some feedback in the comments below, and I'd be much obliged. Enjoy (I hope)!
A BATTLE FOUGHT AT MIDDAY
Part II: In Which I Quote Cyrano
The rumbling grew, and the floor began to shake. I watched it with mild interest, propping my feet on a shivering stool nearby.
In a burst of wood, carpet, fuzzy stuff, and concrete, the floor burst, and a shadowed figure sprang from the cavity. He drew a long, wicked sword as he saw me.
"Jake of the Sadaar!" he bellowed. "You have ignored my cohort's demands, and now you must pay the price!"
I leaned back and took a look at the back of my hand, appearing uninterested. "Procrastination, good to see you. Your cohort was a blundering fool who didn't know a phone from his own face." I looked up at him, and I blinked in surprise. "You had a wardrobe update, I see. Much more sinister, I must say."
Beneath his shadowy hood (the new one: the other one was blue plastic), I could see Procrastination roll his eyes. "My wardrobe choices are minor. What really matters here is your direct insult to my character...."
"Or lack thereof," I muttered under my breath.
"...and prestige. You actually hung up on my representative, Sadaar! What do you have to say about this, writer?"
I stood up slowly, carefully keeping away from the hole in the floor. "Well, first off," I replied, "You haven't brushed your teeth today."
I could see him doing mental facepalms as I spoke. "Sadaar," he said at length, "You are a writer of the worst and most incorrigible sort."
"Oh?" I said. "Is that all? Why, there is a great much more you might have said, had you some wit to color your discourse--"
"Blast it, Sadaar, stop with the Cyrano de Bergerac quotes!" He ground his teeth, his lips a thin, angry line. "I cannot stand that man."
I said nothing for a moment. "Well, 'tis true," I said, after I had let him boil in his on anger for a bit (and his face looked definitely red enough for such a fact). "Of wit you have not an atom."
"Writer! Blimp! You curd!" Procrastination fumed. "Buttonhead!"
"How do you do," I replied smoothly. "Now, if you excuse me, I was having a conversation with Inspiration a moment before you most rudely poked your red little head into my business."
He grinned maliciously. "He's gone, Sadaar, now that I'm here."
I sighed. "Yeah, that's the way it often works. Procrastination comes, inspiration flees." I cast a glare his way. "If I were blogging this, I'd quote myself."
"Actually," Procrastination started, but I cut him off.
"But I neglect hospitality. Tell me why you have come, and then I'll kick you out of my house." I looked at the hole in the floor. "Besides, how am I supposed to explain this hole to Mom?"
Procrastination shrugged. "I came for the turkular weapons. I was going to threaten a war if you didn't hand them over, or find some sort of biological weapon to use on you and your little dog."
"Come on," I said. "We all know you have an ulterior motive, Procrastination. And besides, my dog isn't that little. He's--"
"Remind me, again, what 'ulterior' means?" he said, avoiding the question.
"It means, you have to answer me now, or I'll pull the Pen of Doom on you." I pulled it out of my pocket and waved it threateningly in his face.
He stared at the Pen for a moment. "Very well, then," he said, his eyes gleaming in mischief, "You leave me no choice." He snapped his fingers, and a sword fell from the ceiling, slapping into his hand. He grinned.
I sighed. "Here we go again." I opened the Pen of Doom. Instantly, it sparked and gleamed itself into a sword; cross-hilted, double handed, and very, very sharp. In more than one way.
He looked at me quizzically. "I thought you writers hated copying others. That Pen of Doom of yours is a carbon copy of that one Jackson dude's pen."
"For the record," I said, "The Pen of Doom came first." Keeping the Pen in front of me, I advanced on Procrastination. "Fight to the Write, I assume?"
"You bet," Procrastination said, and then he attacked.