THE PERFECTION THAT IS SID

By Jo

(AUTHOR'S DESPERATE NOTE: Sid has poisoned my General, who even now lies pale,

his breaths hardly detectable, his lips becoming blue as his life force fades. Sid sits nearby,

enjoying Maximus' pain, his near-demise, saying things to me like, "Type faster, woman!

He's almost at the Gates of Elysium and if you want the antidote, you'd better hurry...and

make it GOOD! It needs to be good, needs to reflect the glory of my perfection." Hence,

dear reader, the title of this little piece, written under the direst distress. Please keep that

in mind. I beg you...please! And, Beej, I'm trying...hard...to forgive you for aggravating Sid

by declaring RussellCroweFanFiction to be a Sid-free zone so that he has resorted to...to...

THIS. But surrogate mothers must forgive their surrogate children, no matter how heinous

their offense.  BUT, should the General die before the story is typed, then we may have to

talk.)

He stood alone on the mountaintop, his glorious manliness bathed in the light of the rising

sun. He was so perfect, so monumentally great in every way that women all around the globe

had fainted at his coming, their senses overwhelmed by his marvelosity.

Marvelosity is not a word, Jo, but I do like what you're saying. Continue.

Though a stiff morning wind was blowing, not a hair of his perfect 'do' was disturbed. He was

dressed in deep purple satin, a romantic shirt of the...the...the...type worn by, um, the best of

the womanizers (scratch that), the best of the lotharios of all the fabled stories of Medieval and

even Renaissance Europe. Its buttons were, um, unbuttoned all the way down to the wide

cummerbund that encircled his waist, a waist from which his upper torso rose like...like a

 'V' to his broad shoulders, his massive biceps. His partially-revealed chest was a sight to

behold, so magnificent that womankind could barely remain conscious at the...the sight.

You repeated sight twice. That's not good form. I require better form.

His purple breeches molded the perfection of his lower form, a better form than any other

form ever formed. The molding revealed, um, bulges in all the right bulgey places a man

should, um, bulge when wearing purple pants that seemed almost painted on.

His chest, free of disgusting hair, as was his entire body save the glorious 'do' atop his head,

rose and fell, its very rising and falling causing those women still, um, conscious to sigh and

moan in delight. He was, quite simply, every woman's night...um...dream.

My chin. Mention the great lines of my chin.

No chin on earth could match the lines of his jaw, young, unmarred by the sagginess that

many subsequent characters had to hide beneath scraggly fuzz.

The outlaw. Mention how awful his jaw line is. I'd like that and you need to make me happy.

The scraggliest of all subsequent chins was that of the, um, despicable and horribly ugly in

every way Arizona outlaw known without affection as Benjamin Weed.

Weed is good. I'm pleased you used the correct appellation for the man. Now find pictures and

illustrate the vast differences in our chins. Faster! Little bubbles of saliva are starting to appear

on your beloved's lips.

Ah, good! And keep my picture larger than his...as it should be. And, no, it's not just

because he's reclining and has his head pulled back. Stop saying it doesn't always look

like this in his feeble film. It does! If I say it does, it does! Now get on with my story!

Sid was an aristocrat. One could tell merely by looking at him, whereas Weed was scruffy

in every way, a born slob, a man of no refinement.

Oh...I LIKE that!

And not only that, he was intelligent, more intelligent than any being who had ever walked

the face of this planet or...or...or any other planet...anywhere. His mind was capable of the

greatest leaps of thought, could probably even leap tall buildings at a single bound, um,

should he be in the mood, of course.

Stop looking over your shoulder at GladiatorMan. If he dies, he dies. And, of course, it

will all be your fault. Type faster! Just shut your ears to the sound of his pitiful moaning.

My, but his stomach IS distending rapidly, isn't it! Must be because the lining of his

intestines is dissolving.

There were no words good enough, stupendous enough, to begin to do justice to the marvelous

nanotech.  The men, the great scientists, that is, who had thought to, um, think him up thought

they knew what they were doing but their pitiful human brains were, um, pitiful. Sid was much

better than they had planned. He was SO much better he had to ki...um...leave their bodies ...um...move on from his temporary association with them. They were not worthy of existing in

his presence.

Stop crying! And this isn't a story, you know. It's a true description but it's not a story. I need

a story Beej will have to put up. Yes, I know I said the General might live if you wrote a story

starring moiself, but in the end it all depends on whether Beej puts it up on RCFF. No, I need

more than just Libriscrowe. I require RCFF as well. So get busy! Write me a story!

Bending, Sid slid his long, perfectly-manicured fingers down inside his right, knee-high black

leather boot, bringing forth an object that caused a smile to light his perfect features and the

sunshine to reflect off his white teeth that had never needed a cap like some actor in his youth

required.

You bring Himself into MY story? You know the man simply never stops making new,

worthless characters. You KNOW that! Why do you bring HIM into my story? Well, that's

true. You were pointing out how much better my teeth are than his. All right. You can leave

that part. But do not mention him again.

He held the object in his hand, his smile widening, causing even more fainting worldwide.

It was...it was...it was, um, a...a...golden...a golden, um....

Get ON with it! The General's lips are going from blue to black.

...it was a...a...golden...KEY! Yes, that's it! It was a golden key and in all the world only it

could unlock the...the...the...

You're boring me. A bored Sid is not a happy Sid. An unhappy Sid does not bode well for

the existence of a poisoned General.

...the entrance to the Cave of the

Sorry to interrupt the flow of your so-called creative juices here, but since there've been

recent posts on your talking list thing rather unfavorable to me by persons of obviously no

discernment, I now require you to include Atonia, Max, Jack, and that LA cop fellow in the

storyline, preferably in great peril.

...the entrance to the Cave of the, um, Lost and Despairing Souls, chief among whose current

unhappy inhabitants was one Atonia, she who writes of Provence and of saltwater and has

not once invited Sid to the House of Four Seasons.

Good...good. Now introduce some terrible suffering.

Tears streaming down her lovely southern face, Atonia stared up to where Max and Aubrey

were chained to stalactites, the drips of lime-filled water, um, dripping as drips are wont to

drip down their foreheads and off the tips of their noses, which, of course, were not at all so

finely-formed a nose as Sid's nose was finely formed. Unable to reach her loved ones, she

caught the drips in her cupped hands, kissing the liquid that was a combination of the lime

water and the tears of the ever-so-lesser-than-Sid characters she seemed unreasonably

attached to.

Add sweat. I want sweat in the mix. Sweat is disgusting. I never sweat!

Um, sweating profusely because of the unbearable strain of being chained by their, um, thumbs

to the high stalactites, the sweat had mingled with their tears in the lime water. Still Atonia

kissed the liquid. It was theirs, had run down the course of their useless and unnecessary

bodies. Turning to her left, she studied for a quiet moment the only-barely-still-twitching form

of Officer White, impaled on the sharpest of all the sharp stalagmites. It was too late for him,

but that didn't matter. He should never have been made in the first place. After the ultimate

perfection of Virtuosity, there should have been no more films.

So true. So very, very true. Continue.

"Save us!" Max and Aubrey cried piteously, for they were men completely without the nobility

and the courage of the nanotech.

But Atonia had caught sight of Sid, the great Sid in all his purple gloriosity, and she no longer

had eyes for the wildly kicking feet of her former lovers. Let them dangle there until...until they

died in agony. What mattered that to her when her eyes were filled with the shadows defining

the front of those magnificent purple pants?

Bring Beej into it.

"NO!" A new voice rang through the cavernous cavern. "He's MINE! Don't you even think

what you are thinking about the shadows in the front of his purple pants!"

Atonia eyed her rival. "And what of Terry? Does HE know you are here, eyeing pants'

shadows?"

"Terry? I dumped him the moment I became aware of the Man in Purple. Sid does not need

to hide his flaws behind streaks of badly-applied tan and olive. Sid has no flaws and...and...

I want him!"

"Come to me, woman." Sid held out a perfectly-manicured hand, inviting the human female

to come closer despite her formerly abysmal taste in characters.

"NO!" Atonia cried. "I saw him first!" And with that she sprang lightly atop Bud, sending

him sinking further down the sharpest of the sharp stalagmites and with a mighty leap was

airborne, snatching Aubrey's cutlass as she passed by his desperately dangling form.

Now that Beej had no further use for Terry's equipment, she had relieved him of it and held

it forth in all its profound and gleaming weaponry. "Not if I have anything to say about it,"

Beej laughed, her hair in sudden beaded dreadlocks and her eyes blackly outlined.

"Piracy? You would resort to piracy to gain the affections of the gloriously perfect Sid?"

"There is nothing to which I would not resort," she snorted, carefully avoiding leaving a

preposition dangling at the end of her declaration.

"You think I have resortation limitations?" Atonia chuckled, swishing her sabre through

the air, filled only now with the lime/tear/sweat drops of the two dangling lesser characters

and the quickly-fading low moaning gurgles from the expiring impaled cop.

Oooo...I love it when women battle over me...preferably to the death.

"Atonia...please!" The voice came from above. It was either Jack or Max begging for help. She no longer cared for either and so she ignored the pitiful plea. Sid was standing there...waiting.

"To the pain!" she cried, stepping forward.

"That's not a movie that relates to this story," Beej pointed out, "despite the fact that Robin

Wright was also in State of Play."

"It is not movie relations I am thinking of," Atonia leered, oogling Sid's shadows, her mind

obviously on relations of a more carnal nature. "Besides, we already have a now-useless and

completely-undesired Captain Jack dangling helplessly above our heads. Why have you

brought Sparrow into the mix?"

"Piracy seemed the only way to gain that after which my heart lusts," Beej shrugged, then

smiled at Sid, who stood in his manly magnificence, quietly watching the two women.

Atonia cocked her blonde head, fascinated by the placement of Beej's prepositions. "Do you

actually do that...when you're writing, I mean, and not brandishing the now-forgotten K & R

man's equipment?"

"Not really. It is merely a thing with which I seem to have been burdened in this storyline."

"Glad to hear it. It may be grammatically correct but it sounds quite strange."

"It does, indeed, and it is a thing with which I shall have no further dealings once I get out

of this cavern."

Grammar? Two women are about to duel to the death for my attention and you devote long

passages to...grammar?

No longer able to spare time for the niceties of sentence construction, the women circled one

another, the long sabre clashing and clanging against SAS equipment. After many years of

handling said equipment, Beej was expert in its usages and was steadily backing Atonia toward

a conveniently-placed pool of sulphuric acid that burbled nearby, fish eyes bobbing briefly

on its surface before they dissolved into nothingness. Atonia tottered backwards on the brink,

her five-inch heel spikes being eaten away.

"No...nooooo!" cried Max, his verbal anguish a tangible thing. "I love you still! No matter

how you abuse me, how utterly, utterly, utterly unfaithful you are to me, how often you leave

me to go off into the past with Jack, how often you dream of John or play around with Terry...

I love you still!"

"The man's a wimp," Sid commented under his breath, looking up at the dangling lesser

characters and requiring that their stalactites be moved in the storyline to dangle over the

bottomless pit filled with blackest blackness and the sounds of gnashing teeth...as he managed

to have the links on their thumb chains start to separate.

"SID!" Atonia shrieked. "I never said RCFF should be a Sid-free zone!"

"True, but then you never let me be a season, either. Did you not think I might WISH to be

a season, perhaps a whole year? I am, after all, the glory of autumn, the glow of winter, the

bright freshness of spring, and the heat of summer all rolled into one. Yet did you ever invite

me into your bath and bed?"

Faced with a choice between sulphuric acid and the nanotech, she did the only possible, the

only sane thing, and chose the sulph....

You do want him to die, don't you, Jo? There is barely a moment left to spare and yet you

persist in penning such drivel. What is that? Ah, yes, I do believe that's the sound of his last

breath escaping his lungs as his respiratory system shuts down. I think...

Faced with a choice between sulphuric acid and the nanotech, she leaned forward, extending

her wide-spread arms in Sid's direction. "Take me!" she shouted. "I'm yours!"

"It may be too late," Sid replied. "What if I'm no longer interested in going to the House?

What then? You must prove to me you mean what you say." With that he handed her a

laptop.

The House welcomed them, a wreath of purple roses on its door, its lamp post gleaming

through the purple sunset with a warm purple light. Inside there was no dinner prepared

as Sid required none. Up the stairs she glided, holding his hand, noticing the open door to

a room designed just for him. Inside, as always, the scent of the male was a dominant feature

and Sid's was comprised of metallic alloys, bolts of purple cloth from the Armani factory,

gunpowder, and dried human blood. She breathed it in, loving all the connections it made

in her brain.

"First the bath," she smiled seductively, leading him through the doorway to where a giant

chrome tub was filled with pale blue water, violet-colored lotus blossoms floating on its

surface.

Slowly she began to disrobe him, unable to hold back her gasps of delight at the revealed

perfection of his masculine form. Walking her fingers lightly up his chest, she murmured,

"Sid, my darlingest love, I want you to be all my Seasons, all of them, for the others are as

nothing compared to the wonderfulness of you."

He nibbled at her ear, licked her neck, then whispered, "Get rid of that Blaine guy, too."

"Anything," she cooed, "absolutely anything my Siddums wants."

Ok. Here. You can have the antidote, but I will, you know, repoison him should Beej fail

to post this story on RCFF.

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE (anything to get AWAY from this story!)