Disclaimer: All except Leah belong to Marvel.
Notes: Started this a while ago, but didn't intend to post it now, (or, indeed, ever), since I'll likely not finish it.
But Jaya told me to.
And I pretty much do anything Jaya tells me to. (Although there is, of-course, absolutely no reason for anyone to tell her that... ;-))
So: feedback would be nice, suggestions on how the hell to continue it, or whether I should even bother, would be even nicer. I hope y'all get some amusement from it anyway... there's quite a good bit in Chapter 2 ;-). (well, I laughed <g>.)
Written From Purgatory: Part One.
by Poi Lass
From: LeahMariah@fishhook.com
Charles,
So I finally finished it. I'm sure you thought I never would - or, at least, hoped I never would. I thought you might like to see it before I send it off to the publishers. They're getting quite annoyed actually, I'm a little late (yes, yes, Charles, there's no need to roll your eyes. Don't think I can't see you.) What do you think of the title? It's a bit melodramatic, I know, but the editor rejected all my first choices ("Iceman Does My Taxes" was my personal favourite. But of-course that would've given Bobby such a big head... I can't think why she didn't go for "My Genes Don't Go With Anything", though. It has such postmodern grace.) And you need not worry, before I send off the first draft, all names and places will be changed to protect the innocent. And the X-men too, dear, of-course. (I've enclosed a list of possible alternate names for you all that I thought you might enjoy. What are your feelings on Hiram for yourself? And can you think of anything more humiliating than Bernard Humperdink for Bobby? Payback's a bitch.) And of-course I suppose I will have to make some cuts, to protect your security and so on. In fact, I'm having a bit of trouble with you, Charles. You do have something of a public reputation as an expert on mutants, and I'm afraid your true identity will become a bit obvious, to those who travel in the right circles. I may have to divide your role into two or three separate characters to protect you - how do you feel about being schizophrenic? I'll give you an abundance of hair to make up for it, if you like. "Professor Charles X, the world's most powerful telepath, was an imposing looking man, with a fine head of hair..." This could be your only chance to ever see yourself described so, don't pass it up. (Note to self: is it wise to make fun at the expense of the 'world's most powerful telepath'? Or is that Nate Grey this week, I never can keep track...)
But anyway, I thought you might like to see the original version, before I hack it to pieces making it safe for public consumption. I hope you enjoy it.
On second thoughts, I know you won't enjoy it. I know you'll hate it.
But, so be it. What can you do, eh? Life's a bitch, and then someone writes a book about it. And if you truly hate mine, well, you could always write your own. The story of your life is something I, for one, would give a great deal to read. Think about it Charles, there's a dear.
Love always, to everyone,
Leah.
P.S. So who do you want to play you in the movie?
WRITTEN FROM PURGATORY: The Autobiography of a Mutant.
CHAPTER ONE: NOT THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.
It started with an explosion.
Oh, I know, I know. It's an autobiography. I'm supposed to start with "I was born in the highlands of Scotland..." or some such, and then go on to my childhood, my teenaged years, my education, blah, blah, blah.
But it's my life, and my book, and I'll start the damn thing where I want to.
So I choose to start it with the explosion, since that, after all, is the moment I became a mutant. Or, at least, the moment I found out about it.
So, the explosion.
Boom.
(It was, I assure you, a lot more exciting in real life.)
But perhaps I should back track a little, just to put this in context.
Very well. I was twenty-five years old. Visiting America from England, on a tour with my quartet. I was a cello player.
Yes.
Really.
A cello player.
I suppose it would be funnier, all things considered, if it had been something small and delicate like the violin, but there you are. Life is not always ironic in the appropriate places, and I was a cello player.
The hotel I was staying in while I looked for a place to live, was not, it must be said, of the highest quality. Actually, it was a shitty little hovel, surrounded by other shitty hovels, mean streets, and all that jazz. But it was cheap, and seeing as how I was a not very wealthy cello player, it was good enough. You hear all sorts of horror stories about visitors in New York, getting mugged and killed and so on - and of-course, they're almost all true, but I was fairly lucky. I had a few nightmares about American weirdos breaking into my room and stealing my cello, but that was about it.
Until the day the hotel blew up.
Well, I did tell you I wanted to start with the explosion, and I'm not really famous for my patience.
One more time then: Boom.
I had time for about half a scream before I lost consciousness.
That makes for a nice short chapter, now doesn't it?