May. 6th, 2020

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It's the sixth of the month, and per [livejournal.com profile] deifire's brilliant suggestion during the 2017 Advent Challenge, which gave us two awesome fics of exactly 666 words each, the aim here is to do exactly that: tell a story in 666 words.
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What have you been working on this week, Eerie fans? Now's the time to spread the word about any fannish treats you've got cooking: a line of dialogue from an upcoming fic, linework for your latest art piece, the yarn colours for a new toy. Let us know in the comments!
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It's the year 2020, and to mark the occasion we'll be running weekly prompts based around Just Say No Fun, the episode that introduced everyone's least favourite optometrist.

Your prompt for this week is:

WE'RE GOING STRAIGHT TO THE FBI
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Marshall
Marshall



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Marshall tipped his mug back and drained the last cooling dregs of coffee. In the smooth ceramic basin at the bottom of the cup, something gleamed.

He blinked, setting the mug down. He picked it up, lifted it to the light. He ran a finger across the outer base, turned it upside down and examined it closely.

"Mars?" Simon asked, cautiously. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Marshall replied, not sounding all that convinced. "I thought I saw a hole in the base of the mug. A little pinprick of light coming through or something."

Simon pointed at the window behind them.

"Reflection?"

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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The afternoon sun shone through the empty spaces in the car park across the street and cast a single patch of warm gold on the cheap and faded living room carpet.

The manticore flopped bonelessly down in the sunbeam, belly up and paws splayed. It furled and unfurled it's wings, angling them carefully to ensure every drop of light would be captured.

"Hey," said Simon, nudging it with his bare foot. "Move up. Share with your brother."

He gestured to the hulking three-headed Hellhound that pressed against his legs, three mouths turned down in a reproachful pout.

The manticore chuckled.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The Lady of the Spring wore a gown of green leaves so pale they were almost white. Her hair was black as the richest loam and laced with fresh-fallen cherry blossoms, and earthworms squirmed under her skin. In her right hand, she held a single sprouting daffodil bulb.

"Hi," said Simon, opening the screen door and holding it wide in the most courtly gesture he could manage while wearing a worn terry bathrobe. "Thanks for coming."

The Lady of the Spring smiled with teeth like dandelion clocks and swept past him into the small apartment, heading straight for the kittens.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Easter Weekend

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The largest of the jackalope kittens sat up as the Lady of the Spring stepped into the living room. His fur was all lilacs and pale yellows and stood up in a thick ruff around his face.

"I call that one Little Bighead," said Simon, not really knowing why.

The Lady of the Spring laughed with a sound like April rain on warm tarmac and held out long green-brown fingers for the jackalope kitten to sniff. He nuzzled her moss-soft palm, dark eyes closing in bliss.

Slowly, one by one, the rest of the kittens came over to say hello.


Ongoing Verse: Easter Weekend

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Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The four leprechauns in a trench-coat that made up the proprietor of Noel's Knick-Knack-Bric-a-Brac Emporium sifted clumsily through the box of chicken statues next to the till.

"This is a fair amount of statuary," he said, his voice coming from roughly the midsection of the tightly-buttoned outerware.

Simon nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "It's all locally-made cult stuff, though."

"That does make a good selling point," 'Noel' acknowledged. "People in this town always want to support a local artist, even when it's..." he gestured to the sculptures. "This."

He thought for a moment, false fingers tapping off-key.

"I can take six."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Leprechaun

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Marshall smoothed down the last glossy high-colour corner, checked the edge of the paper against the line where his bedroom wall met the sky-blue of his bedroom ceiling, and nodded in satisfaction.

Moving carefully, he descended the small stepladder he'd borrowed from his father's shed, folded it closed, and set it down alongside his as-yet still-unmade bed.

"Well," he said. "What do you think?"

Simon examined the theatre-sized poster adfvertising "Korn Kritters 17: X-Treme Korn".

"Very cool," he said. "But are you sure you're not eternally bound to Poplio now?"

"Seven-day trial," said Marshall. "It's fine, I'll remember to cancel."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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The pancakes smiled with mouths made from syrup, burst and melting blueberry eyes drippy and misshapen. Their skin was the creamy white of buttermilk, spotted with crisp patches of golden brown.

"Eat up, boys," said one of the Grandmas, setting three laden plates down and giving them a cheery wink.

Marshall regarded the food with a suspicion he had no intention of disguising.

"Is this a bribe?" he said. "Pancakes in exchange for us not asking questions about the Tostwich?"

"That depends," said the old lady. "D'you think it'd work?"

Marshall shook his head. The Grandma sighed.

"Worth a go."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The fire alarm was blaring and in the kitchen, black smoke billowed from the twin slots of a brushed silver toaster that sat next to the melted spot where a microwave had once sat.

Marshall drew back the curtains, opened the windows as far as they would go, and switched on the extractor fan over the oven. The nightmare was up on the ceiling again, and he had to nudge her with the broom before she moved over far enough to let him switch the alarm off.

"Grungy Bill?" he asked, cautiously. "Are you... demons?"

A charred hot-cross-bun popped up.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The record player, it's lid laden with glitter and glue and small plastic skulls, sat on a cluttered shelf of the Evidence Locker between a chewed-up retainer and a milk carton advertising absolutely no missing children in Eerie.

Simon held the Carpenters record tight, small fingers denting the glossy cardboard sleeve as he inhaled the plasticky scent of the vinyl. The tune to "We've Only Just Begun" echoed through his head and he longed to hear it again.

The needle gleamed silver and wicked in the attenuated sunlight streaming in through the dusty windows. Simon thought it looked very sharp.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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Tweedle-Tweep was singing.

He'd been singing that morning when Simon's alarm went off, and he'd still been singing when Simon had left for school. Now it was a little after six with the daylight bleeding out of the Indiana sky, and as Simon squared his shoulders and climbed the soft and rotten steps up to his parents' front door, he heard the same seven-note trill coming from the darkest corner of the Holmes' dustbowl-dead lawn.

"Hey," he said, turning around and slipping his house key back into his pocket. "You're in a good mood today, huh?"

Tweedle-Tweep continued to sing.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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The spot by the dead tree was always full of shadows, but the void-black cockatrice was darker than any sheltering gloom.

Simon picked a spot not littered with cockatrice scales and pebble-hard droppings, and sat down, his backpack half-open beside him and loose leaf paper spilling out onto the dying grass.

"So," he said. "How was your day?"

Tweedle-Tweep toddled over, serpentine tail dragging in the dust and raptor-like claws clicking against the stony patches that formed wherever a cockatrice had stared too long at the soil.

He trilled again, and above Simon's head a single raven echoed the song.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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"You made a friend!" Simon exclaims, so loudly that both Tweedle-Tweep and the raven stop singing for a moment to stare at him.

Simon slaps both hands over his mouth, eyes darting nervously towards the still-closed front door of his parents' house.

"Sorry," he whispers.

Tweedle-Tweep peeps once, twice, then flutters stumpy wings as he hops up onto Simon's knee. Simon wonders if the raven will join them, but that isn't generally how the corvidae do things.

True to form, the raven croaks once, bobs it's great head at Tweedle-Tweep, then takes off in a flurry of oil-slick iridescent feathers.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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"He seems nice," Simon commented, watching the raven vanish over the roofs of neighbouring houses.

Tweedle-Tweep cheeped his agreement.

Simon gently scooped the tiny animal up in both hands, then lay back on the dried-out dirt, staring at the darkening sky.

"Is it weird?" he asked. "Being you?"

Tweedle-Tweep gently nipped his fingers until Simon set him down, then began investigating the contents of Simon's bookbag.

"There's the other Cockatrice, I guess," Simon continued, as Tweedle-Tweep examined a hand-me-down graphing calculator with a dubious eye. "But you're so much smaller than them. That's tough. Don't you find that it's tough?"

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Tweedle-Tweep did not appear to find it tough. He used one midnight-black talon to open up Simon's math textbook and began scratching out the answers to his calculus homework in the dusty earth.

"Huh," said Simon, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. "You like math too, I guess."

Tweedle-Tweep sang his little seven-note song again.

"Well, okay," he said, pulling out a pencil and a notebook. "I was going to study with Mars after dinner, but I guess getting it done now means more time for UFO hunting."

Tweedle-Tweep's eyes gleamed in the oncoming dark.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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"Simon!" Marilyn Teller cried, opening the back door and ushering him inside. "You're just in time. Would you like some dinner?"

Dirty plates are in the sink and there's a saran-wrapped casserole dish sitting next to the refrigerator, so Simon is pretty sure he's not in time at all.

"No thanks, Mrs. Teller," he lies, "I already ate."

"Well, Marshall said you were coming over to study, so I'll make you kids up a smallish plate in case you get hungry," she says, and neither of them are fooling the other one, which Simon guesses is honesty, of a kind.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Marshall sets two reheated bowls of mac and cheese down on top of his dresser, careful not to touch the contents which have the approximate temperature and texture of lava. By the time they've made a half-hearted attempt at their homework and a considerably more careful inventory of their UFO-spotting equipment, it will have cooled to the point of edibility.

Unlike his dad, his mom knows the right way to use a microwave.

"So one of Harley's monster chickens learned math?" he asks, shuffling through page after page of graphing paper covered in chicken-scratch. "D'you think the ravens taught him?"

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Simon thinks about it for a few moments.

"Could be," he says. "The only things the ravens really care about is eyeballs, and so many things in this town are covered with them, they probably learn to count before they learn to fly."

Marshall nods absently. He's checking Tweedle-Tweep's work on his father's second-best hand-me-down graphing calculator - the first-best one is still in Simon's backpack.

"These all look fine to me," he says. "We should get Professor Riemann to go over some of it after class, but for now-"

He sets the paper down and picks up his camera, grinning.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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"Manuel?" said Simon.

The mannequin that had been noisily attempting to sneak up on him froze, a steak knife taped to one raised hand. It shook it's head, the movement clunky and awkward and rendered comic by the enormous novelty cowboy hat perched on it's bald plastic head.

Simon sighed.

"Come on, Manuel," he said. "I know that's you. There's only a few malevolent shop dummies running around."

The upraised arm dropped. Inanimate shoulders sagged.

Simon doesn't ask how Manuel O'Quinn stitched himself together after the fall from the escalator, or the cleansing fire that followed.

That would be rude.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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What Simon had first taken for a bandana turned out to be, on closer inspection, a stained and crumbled paper napkin. Manuel had stuck it to his face with barbeque sauce, and now Simon kind of wanted pizza.

"Okay," he said, pulling out the only chair not occupied with files and fake moustaches and ornamental cigarette holders left behind by attractive ladies who'd decided that Trusted Associates Inc. wasn't quite what they were looking for in a detective agency.

Simon didn't take that last one personally. Those ladies inevitably turned out to be something else, usually something hungry and toothsome.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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"Take a seat," he told Manuel, and immediately regretted it as plastic limbs creaked and scraped themselves into a seated position. There was a popping sound, muffled by the ill-fitting discount slacks the mannequin was dressed in, and one leg sagged and dangled loose beneath the cloth.

"Do you-" Simon offered, but to his relief Manuel just waved it away, the steak knife glinting as molded fingers wafted back and forth.

He thought about offering his potential client coffee, then thought about those stiff hands grappling with one of the slick-sided ceramic mugs Mrs. Teller had had printed for them.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Simon's own office chair was occupied by a bulging manila folder, a half-empty box of Hellhound Yum-Yum Jackalope Chews - these claimed to neutralise doggy damnation breath; this claim was not accurate - and an eternally screaming, squirming thing upon which the sigil of sulphur glowed white hot.

It had been a gift from Harley. Simon thought it might be a coaster, or possibly a mouse-pad.

He stood awkwardly behind his desk and smiled at Manual.

"How can I help?"

Manual jammed his shovel-like hand into the breast pocket of his polyester button-down and pulled out a torn page from a catalogue.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Simon unfurled the crumped paper, pressing it flat against his desk. A child-sized mannequin dressed in a bright blue t-shirt and yellow swim shorts grappled awkwardly with an enormous beach ball. A mannequin shaped like a dog pawed the air above him, beige plastic tongue hanging out of a beige plastic mouth.

"Oh," said Simon. "Your son?"

Manuel nodded, the brim of that ridiculous cowboy hat flopping back and forth. He tapped the torn page with the hand holding the steak knife, the blade scraping cheap ink from cheaper paper.

"You might want to untape that before you see him."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Simon rummaged through the lopsided, glitter-and-glue-encrusted desk tidy until he found the nail scissors Marshall had borrowed from Syndi and, ten years later, had yet to give back.

"So," he said, as he snipped away the duct-tape securing the steak knife to the mannequin's clumsy fingers. "Does he have a name?"

Manuel said something, his voice the rattle of wire coat hangers and the staticky whisper of polyester fabrics.

"Quinn O'Quinn, huh?" said Simon. "That's quite a name."

The rattling whisper took on a harsher note.

"Schwarzenegger is Harley's middle name," said Simon. "Not mine. I don't even have one."

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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For a living mannequin whose human pseudonym was Manuel O'Quinn and who had, after apparently managing the improbable act of reproduction, deliberately chosen to name his offspring Quinn O'Quinn, Manuel was remarkably scornful about the naming abilities of Simon's parents.

Simon thought this was probably quite low on the list of their inadequacies, but opted not to bring that up. After all, he doubted his parents would have bothered to go looking for either of their sons if they'd vanished into the depths of the Eerie Mall's children's department.

It was only ever Marilyn who had taken them there, anyway.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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"Anyway," said Simon, after Manual's not-entirely-unwelcome roasting of his parents had come to an end. "If you want us to help find him, we should talk about our pricing structure."

He pulled a glossy tri-fold leaflet out of a half-empty plastic display case at the edge of the desk and laid it, open, on the table in front of him.

"Because it's in the mall, we'll need you to pay a soda fountain premium, along with food court allowances and an additional fee for anti-brainwashing and de-zombification protection."

He glanced at Manuel.

"And it's gotta be money. No gift cards."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Manuel nodded, stiff-necked and expressionless. With his newly-knifeless hands, he handed over a roll of bank notes, setting it atop the still unread price list.

"Okay," said Simon, pocketing the cash with a swiftness that would have almost made Dash X proud. "Let's start going over Quinn's movements on the last day you saw him."

He reached behind a filing cabinet that sagged under years of paperwork and pulled out a neatly furled set of blueprints.

Manuel's head tilted, painted eyes full of enquiring amusement.

Simon shrugged.

"I'm an efficient shopper," he said. "And I work with an efficient shoplifter."


Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Edgar and I got you a little something," said Marilyn. She set down a long box, gorgeously wrapped in blue-black paper and trimmed with silver ribbons. "Just to mark the occasion."

"Mom," Marshall tried, hands full of packing paper and shirt smeared with powdered sugar from the welcome basket Syndi had sent over. "You guys really didn't-"

"Yeah," Simon chimed in. "This is lovely but-"

Marilyn looped one arm around each of them, squeezing tight.

"Oh sweetie," she said. "Of course we did."

Edgar rubbed his hands together.

"Come on, boys!" he urged. "Open them up!"

Simon lifted the lid.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Holy Corn," Simon breathed. Rich, royal blue tissue paper rustled under his fingertips as he moved it aside with reverent gentleness.

"What is it?" asked Marshall, leaning in close.

A set of six mugs nestled inside individual sleeves of corrugated sleeves, the spaces between them packed with glittering crepe paper. Simon picked one up, holding it up to catch the attenuated light let in by the old-fashioned smoked glass windows.

"It's us!" he said, turning it so that Marshall could see. "Marshall, we have our own mugs!"

"It's got your 'phone number on the bottom," said Marilyn. "For promotion, y'know?"


Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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