Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | A Matter Well in Hand |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Patricia Colby |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Humor, extreme silliness |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | G, (unless your minds are in gutter-mode, in which case I take no responsibility), Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | List any main characters or adult relationships |
| DESCRIPTION: | Write story summary here. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTE: | I think I'm catching whatever Kevin has when it comes to writing fanfic in fits of insomnia. I make no apologies for this creation, but, please, don't throw things. I bruise easily. |
“You know, Fogg, I could help you with that.”
“No thank you, Verne. I think you’ve done quite enough already.”
“I’m sorry about earlier, but I guess yours doesn’t need as much pressure as mine does..."
“Indeed not! What in the world were you thinking?”
“I said I was sorry. Um, I hope I didn’t leave any marks...”
“Verne, this really isn’t the sort of thing a gentleman needs an audience for. Why don’t you go write an opera or something?”
“But I can help, Fogg. Trust me, I do this all the time. You just have to move your hand forward so that...”
“Verne, please! When Passepartout went on holiday I assured him that I could manage all my needs until his return and I intend to do just that.”
“Oh. Well, if you’re sure.”
Jules had to admire Phileas for his efforts, which were producing some interesting results, but he couldn’t really understand why his friend had Passepartout perform this particular “chore” in the first place. Personally, Jules found it relaxing and he liked the satisfaction of accomplishment when he was done. He also had to admit that he liked the feel of the equipment in his hand, the soothing motion: back and forth, up and down...
Suddenly he felt a little woozy. Was it him, or was the room getting warmer?
At that moment Rebecca appeared in the doorway, dressed in one of her enormous skirts.
“Phileas...oh dear.” She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips in surprise. “I do apologize. I didn’t know you were occupied.” She tried very hard to suppress the smile she felt coming on.
Phileas groaned. “Can’t a man have any privacy in his own home? Why don’t you two just go outside and start selling tickets, for God’s sake?”
“Oh Phileas, really,” Rebecca admonished. “But, um, I could help you with that.”
Phileas and Jules both stared at her.
“Oh don’t look so shocked,” she said with a sniff. “As an agent I’ve been trained to handle all sorts of situations. Jules, do you remember that time we got lost in the fog?”
Jules suddenly looked as if he needed to be somewhere else...fast.
“Uh, I think I’ll go write that opera now,” he said hastily as he made a dash for the door.
Phileas seemed distinctly relieved. “Well that takes care of him. Now, I assure you, Rebecca, that I have matters well in hand.”
“So I see. But you know, a little more pressure might speed things along.”
“My dear cousin, if I wanted your advice...”
“And I do believe you’ve got it much too limp now, Phileas.”
“Limp? Are you suggesting...?”
“Oh yes,” Rebecca said, running her fingers over the object in question. “It definitely needs some stiffness.”
“Rebecca! Please remove your hands from my personal effects at once!”
“Well the poor thing will never hold up like this under the conditions you subject it to, cousin. Here, just let me...”
“All right, that’s it. Out!”
“But Phileas...”
“I said out! OUT!” With that he quickly ushered Rebecca through the door and slammed it behind her. “From now on,” he muttered as he went back to work, when I have to iron my own shirts I’ll do it behind locked doors and that’s all there is to it!”
The End