Posted on Monday, 27 May 2002
The rooster of Longbourn, widely known as: "I'll make that bl**dy beast swallow its own feathers! It's three in the morning!", had led a very quiet life. He had done all the normal rooster things like crowing, strutting around and taking care of the increase of his harem.
Until lately, that is.
Recently his life had taken a less peaceful turn.
It had all started with that strange, spectacled girl trying to drop a book on him. Luckily she hadn't done it; otherwise - the rooster did not doubt is - he would have ended as hash. The book looked like very heavy literature.
She had come back a day later determined to really put an end to his harmonious rooster-existence.
"It is a truth, that the dark side is very tempting for naive and impressive girls," she told him. "As Lydia and Kitty are not as strong-minded as I am, they would easily fall prey to it. It is therefore my task to remove everything that is connected to the dark side from their reach. You are used for evil practises, hence you have to be eliminated."
Very understandably, the rooster was not too keen to enter heaven prematurely. So he showed a surprising amount of agility when Mary tried to catch him.
After the fifteenth round around the hen-house, Mary not being an excellent walker least runner, had to stop for breath.
"This will not do," she panted. "There has to be another way."
"Sure, there is!" boomed a voice.
Suddenly they were transferred into a fighting ring that was surrounded by rows and rows of seats packed with Dwiggies and Austen hunks.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Austen Celebrity Deathmatch. It's been a terribly long while since the last one, hasn't it, Dan?"
"Sure thing, Stan. But we're back with a special treat. So, people, buy your tortillas, lean back and enjoy today's match!"
In the ring, Mary shrugged off her confusion and lunged for the rooster. But her dress proved to be a huge hindrance to her legs and she fell down. The rooster stared at her in mild annoyance and with haughty pity. Mary narrowed her eyes and prepared for another lunge.
"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"
Heads turned to the entrance. There stood an Adonis of a man, who now hurried down the aisle and swung himself into the ring. Several ladies held their breath in blatant appreciation of the well-toned figure of the man.
"Looks like the referee has arrived, Dan."
"Not a moment too late, Stan. Ms Bennet seems most eager to begin."
"Wait! That's not the referee. That's Mr. Collins."
"Is this in the script?"
Both men leafed through a stack of paper and then turned an inquiring glance to the authoress. Only ... there was no authoress.
Somewhere in a closet...
"Gnnnmpfh!"
The authoress lay gagged and bound on the floor. She wriggled, trying to free herself, but only succeeded to bump her head against the shelves.
Shelves in a closet. Happy thought indeed!
Suddenly remembering all those years wasted away in front of the telly watching MacGyver, she draws her Swiss army knife and cuts the bounds.
"Grr, Lady Cat! I'll make that witch pay for this!" she growled.
Fortunately or unfortunately - I leave that up to you to decide - the door was locked. Revenge had to wait a bit.
An evil cackle was heard from the other side of the door. Lady Cat obviously enjoyed being in control of the story.
"Oh dear, what shall I do?"
In the deathmatch arena...
Dashing, handsome Mr. Collins cast a disapproving glance into the audience.
"This is certainly not the right way for a proper gentleman or lady to pass his or her time. My beautiful, benevolent patroness would be severely displeased."
People looked uncomfortably at each other. They couldn't bear the thought of disappointing the grand and wonderful Lady Catherine DeBourgh.
Gorgeous and devilishly attractive Mr. Collins proceeded to give them the lecture of their lives.
In the closet...
The authoress was still worrying when her mobile rang.
"Katharina."
"What the heck are you doing, you pitiable excuse for an author! My Lizzy is flattering her eye-lashes at this bit of scum."
"I didn't do nothing, Mr. Darcy! Lady Cat has taken over my story. Whatever happens, I'm not responsible. Check your tongue!" she angrily replied. Then an idea hit her.
"Darcy, dear..."
"Oh no! Don't even think of it!" came the instant reply. "I'm not going to pick a quarrel with Lady Cat."
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease; if you can't, nobody can."
"No."
"I promise not to drench you with water."
"No."
"You know, now that she is in control of my story, she can make you marry Anne and make you live at Rosings till the end of your days."
"We can't allow Lady Catherine to do as she pleases. Somebody has to show her that there are limits to everything. Attacking an author is certainly not within these limits."
"There's a good boy. Now hurry!"
In the arena...
Heroic and divine Mr. Collins shared his wisdom with the rapped audience. Remorseful the people nodded to his every word. He was so right. Oh, why did they ever come to such an ungodly spectacle?
Twenty minutes had passed and the sweating and panting Mr. Collins still babbled on.
The people slowly came out of their Lady Cat induced trance.
In the closet...
"Gnnnmpfh!"
Lady Catherine DeBourgh lay gagged and bound on the floor. She wriggled trying to free herself but only succeeded to bump her head against the shelves.
Shelves in a closet. Whoever had had such a stupid idea?
On the other side of the door...
"Well done, Darcy! Thank you."
"You're welcome. May I suggest that you remove Mr. Collins from the arena?"
"Er ... how?"
"'How'? What do you mean 'how'?"
"Well, usually we let Lady Cat take care of the CD."
"CD?"
"Collins' Disposal ... Oh! All right! I have an idea. You go back to your seat and don't you worry. Katharina is taking care of everything."
Mr. Darcy cast the authoress a very worried glance, but he obediently trotted off.
In the arena...
Ugly, perspiring Mr. Collins was lecturing people on the proper treatment of poultry, when the rooster had enough and attacked the clergyman's left foot. (This move brought him quite a few advantages with the audience.)
At the same time a short, bald man took a rope in his hand and swung himself from the ceiling.
"JERONIMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
In the process of landing in the ring he smoothly kicked Collins out of it.
The Dwiggies instantly seized this opportunity and started throwing tortillas at the toad. One extremely good aimed hit him at the temple and Mr. Collins changed into an unconscious heap.
"Well, Dan, seems the referee has finally arrived."
"And this time, it's the right one, Stan."
In the ring the referee cleared his throat: "ARE YOU READY TO RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMBLE? THEEEEEEN GO!"
The audience erupted into cheers.
Mary and the rooster returned to their chase.
Charles Bingley sat in his chair and smiled broadly. This morning, when he had looked into the mirror, he had made the most wonderful discovery.
'I have a hair on my chest. I'm a bear,' he thought happily.
Stealthily a person clad in trench coat, hat and with the obligatory sunglasses took the seat to his left.
"Colonel Hotpants!" someone screeched from behind.
The Colonel tried to run, but he was immediately surrounded by a mob of women. In the scuffle that followed he was able to escape though he did loose a few items of clothing.
"Have you seen the chest?" sighed one.
"Yes," sighed another.
The women stood rooted on the spot, eyes glazed over.
Suddenly one jerked back into reality: "OH NO! He's gone! Come on, girls, let's get him!"
The howling mob made for the exit.
Mr. Bingley was dejected. He had caught a glimpse of the chest in question and had seen definitely more than one hair. How should he ever procure such an amount of chest hair? ... Weeell, there was one possibility...
Darcy coming back to the arena turned to his friend to ask him how the Deathmatch fared so far. But upon looking at Bingley all thoughts left his mind and he was only able to stare, mouth agape. Bingley beamed at him.
"Charles, what is that?"
"That, my stunned friend, is a chest hair toupee."
"You look as if you've stuffed a dead opossum under your shirt."
"No, I look manly."
"Bingley, you're blond! That ... that toupee is black!"
"The salesman said nobody would see the difference. You think, it's to obvious?"
"Yes, I do."
"What a pity. Oh well, I guess, then it has to go."
With a lot of wincing and whimpering Bingley removed the toupee. Suddenly he yelled in pain.
"What is it? Are you hurt?" Darcy asked concerned.
"I tore out my one chest hair," was the watery response.
Darcy rolled his eyes and focused on the ring.
But the deathmatch proved to be anything but interesting. Mary still chased the rooster around and nothing else happened for a while, until Mary had to stop for breath.
"I didn't want to do it. But I fear I have to."
She started spinning around her own axis. (Think Clark Kent.)
When she finally stopped, the whole audience gasped.
There stood no longer Mary Bennet - weird, spectacled middle girl - but ... Well, she didn't look like Michelle Pfeiffer but a lot of men noticed a distinct notion of femininity about her - a first time, I might add.
A bunch of Dwiggies, who the authoress bribed into cooperation with the promise of giving them the Austen hunks, broke out into song:
Rakes and rogues she puts to flight
She has Fordyce on her side
She is Mary, the Fordyce Fighter
Her cat suit costume is even tighter
Than the breeches of Mr. Darcy
Due to the fact that at least half of the chorus consisted of Darcyites who at the mere thought of Darcy's breeches drowned in a puddle of drool, the song came rather abruptly and disorderly to an end. (Not b/c the authoress is a lousy poet or couldn't find a decent rhyme on Darcy. Anyone who might suggest such an hare-brained idea will be put into a room with Mr. Collins. And I will throw away the key. Ha!)
Meanwhile, Mary had come to realize that for the first time in her life she had the undivided attention of her audience. This was too good an opportunity to waste. Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Uh-oh, Dan, is this what I think it is?"
"If you think what I think you're thinking, then I think you're right, Stan."
Both men looked at each other. They looked at Mary, who was still pumping air like a cockchafer shortly before take-off.
"RUN!"
Mary opened her mouth.
The arena cleared magically. (The Austen hunks did seem to have a different sense of orientation then the rest of the audience. They fled into a spare room. The Dwiggie chorus grinned evilly and followed.)
Finally only the two contestants and the referee were left.
"MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY BONNIELIESOVERTHEOCEAN;
MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY BONNIELIESOVERTHESEA;"
The rooster felt very uncomfortable. Some of the noise the girl produced nearly made his head explode. He fled.
"MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY BONNIEISOVERTHEOCEAN;
OHHHHH; BRINGBACKMYBONNIETOMEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!"
The referee, seeing that the rooster had given up, used a pause for breath in Mary's ... er ... singing to take his fingers out of his ears and declare her the winner of the match. Then he took to his heels.
authoress: Yes? What is it?
L: You promised us Darcy ... But he wasn't in that spare room!
a: Yes, I promised you for performing that little song. But you messed up. Stopped in the middle of it and so on. I don't think that deserves a reward.
L: (mutters about untalented and incompetent authors)
a: (glares) Shall I summon Mr. Collins?
L: (glares back threateningly) You promised us Darcy, so give us Darcy. Else I'll write a story in which the Colonel gets Lizzy and they live happily and Darcy in agonies ever after. And I'll tell the rabid and violent mob to thank you for that one.
a: (backs away in horror) Krkht.
L: Good. I see, we understand each other. Now: Darcy!
The authoress grabs Darcy by his collar, drenches him to the bone and quickly shoves him into a room where the Darcyite-half of the chorus is wetting their lips in anticipation; all the while being deaf to his pleas for mercy.
Then she runs away to serve a cold dish of revenge to Lady Cat.