The X-Men belong to Marvel. The Gargoyles belong to Buena Vista Television and Disney. Highlander
belongs to Panzer/Davis & Rysher. Vampire: the Masquerade belong to World of Darkness. I am in no way part of these
companies nor am I making a profit from these scribblings, although if any of the aforementioned would want to pay me,
please email and I'll tell you where to send the cheque. This is purely for entertainment, usually mine.
However: Darcfyr, Stiletto, Yntenz, Edge, the Aerie, the Underground and anyone else unrecognizable probably belong to me.
I won't sue you if you want to borrow them or my reality but I'd really like it if you asked permission first. They are,
after all, my closest friends and I'd feel awfully lonely without them.
Contemplations on an Empty Closet
Absorbing life energy through skin-to-skin contact. Currently
Sounds bad, don't it? Right now, if I had to pick the suckiest
thing about my mutation it would be clothes. Do you have any
idea how hard it is to put together an outfit nowadays? I was
spoiled; I admit it. I wasn't the most popular girl in school
but I wasn't a complete loser either. I knew what looked good
on me. Mississippi being that it was, short sleeves and sundresses
were all the thing. Those sleeveless shirts with the really low
cut down the collar? I looked fantastic in those. I didn't look
half bad in halter-tops and shirts that showed bellies off. Perfect
for showing piercing and/or tattoos
I was going to get my navel pierced before I graduated. Actually,
I'd planned on getting it pierced during prom night so I'd be
too drunk to feel pain or to chicken out. David's older brother
had a pierced tongue; I drooled after him for the longest time
for that reason alone. Then there was Louisa Pierce with her
oh-look-at-me-I'm-the-next-coming-of-Britney-Spears navel jewel.
She changed it every week to match her outfits. She would also
tell everyone (read: boys) that it was a real diamond (or ruby
or sapphire or emerald) and if they wanted to, they could get
a closer look.
I still feel the urge to spit nails when I think about her.
Back to outfits. It's very hard to pick out an outfit when
your accessories are mandatory.
Even though mostly high school girls going to the prom in
the summer wear opera gloves, the dopes in the business keep
on making them outta some heavy-duty polyester/ Kevlar/ thick-wooley-beast
blend guaranteed to (a) prevent your skin from breathing and
(b) increase the temperature by twenty degrees. Of course, because
of the amount of toxic chemicals it takes to produce this material,
adding any type of dye would probably send the opera glove factories
into an explosion even bigger than the one that happened when
an asteroid wiped out the dinosaurs. So, opera gloves come only
in black and white.
White makes me look sallow and all yellowish-green. Or like
I'm a runaway child bride. It matches with nothing and picks
up stains like Magneto in room full of freshly painted paper
Black is supposed to be classier. It definitely doesn't show
dirt. On the other hand, it also absorbs heat. Magnify that by
the greenhouse properties of the poly-Kevlar-wooleybeast and
basically, I put up with baking my arms every day. That drive
up into Northern Canada as the first time in months that my hands
Then there are the scarves. I had an aunt who liked to wear
scarves. She had 'em all from the little bitty kerchiefs that
you tied 'round your neck to the six foot wool ones that looked
like they were knitted in a Home Ec class. She was wearing a
two hundred count Egyptian linen scarf aged to a slight ivory
when the long fluttery end of it caught on the wheel of her convertible.
She's alive but she sure won't be entering any Karaoke contests.
I also miss wearing skirts. I have stumpy legs. If I wear
long skirts, I look five inches shorter with my head taking up
a third of that height. I was going to be the only girl in my
graduating class to wear a short skirt for prom instead of those
poofy Cinderella gowns. I wasn't happy with it-- I really
wanted the Cinderella gown-- but frankly, I looked dumb in it.
It's not bad in the winter 'cause I get to wear these fantastic
stockings but in the summer I have to decide between wearing
pants and staying relatively cool or a skirt and pantyhose.
Pantyhose were invented by a sadistic demon from hell. I will
swear that on a stack of Bibles.
In the years B.M. (Before Mutation for y'all who aren't into
the mutant lingo), I always made fun of the GAP clothes. You
know the type: T-shirts in three solid colours. Khaki everything.
Little cardigans to match the T-shirts. I'm awfully sorry, Kitty,
but gawd! get something non-pastel! I like prints, the wilder
the better. And sequins and beads. If I'd been a teenager the
first time punk came around, you'd bet your buttons I'd've been
right in the scene. Now, as a necessity, I had to stick
to jeans and solid shirts. There was no way you could pull off
any of my old sequinned tops with a chiffony scarf and black
opera gloves. I'd look like a trashy hooker trying to be a classy
hooker. And being on the streets, that wasn't exactly the type
of image I wanted to attract.
Granted, it isn't that bad now at the mansion. The winters
here calls for gloves anytime you go out doors; preferably
three. The school has great air conditioning in the summer, too.
For another thing, compared to Jubilee, nothing I could pull
off would look outrageous. That girl's got eight --count 'em:
eight!-- piercings and only half of them are visible. I'm not
even going to start with Bobby's outfits-- all I have to say
is that I hope whoever printed those Hawaiian shirts with such
obnoxious colours has been rendered blind. Or maybe the problem
was that he was blind to begin with.
Whatever the case maybe, I wished I hadn't brought up the
subject of Bobby on the heels of Jubilee's silver appendages.
Ugh. He's a great guy, a fantastic friend (when he isn't plotting
ways to get science experiments pouring over your head) and I
love him like all get out but the mental image of him with anything
below the neck pierced is a smidgen scary.
And don't get me wrong, I think the professor's awesome for
doling all this cash to buy me clothes. It's just ... well, let's
just say that Jean bought the clothes. Her idea of what teenage
girls wear run roughly along the GAP and J. Crew, too. It's partly
my fault, too; I didn't want to go to the mall with her the first
time. Still scared I guess, of people and myself.
But I think people are starting to notice what I like after
I was brave enough to raid Jubilee's closet on free night. I
even went with them to the mall yesterday. I looked through the
prints. The tasteful ones. John got his ear pierced and
screamed like a baby.
Now, John with piercings fits enough to be luscious.
That new guy Mr. Summers brought home a few days ago has piercings;
a teensy little stud on his left ear, one on his tongue and,
according to Dani and Wanda, a hoop right through his left nipple.
Apparently, they were hanging out at the pool when, and I'm gonna
quote Wanda here, "he sauntered in wearing scarlet Speedo
tight enough to show that he didn't have his genitals
pierced." Wanda has a way with words, don't she? And her
Honestly, a red Speedo? If that isn't a big, honkin' flag
of impotence and overcompensation, I don't know what is. His
clothes are all flashy, too, things that you probably wouldn't
see out of a Hollywood teen special or a music video. It sounds
hypocritical, I know, but I can't stand those types of clothes
on guys; I prefer them dressing simply. Actually, my dream guy
always wears a suit. Something about a guy in dress pants
and a well-tailored jacket will give me goosebumps on my goosebumps.
The new guy 's jacket is absolutely disgusting! It looks like
a reject from B-grade film noir or a flasher-themed porn. It
stinks worse than one of Dr. Grey's cooking experiments. I don't
even think the animal it's made from bathed before it was slaughtered.
Okay ... now I'm being mean. But he just rubs me in the wrong
direction. He's got to be at least twenty-one, more likely twenty-five
and he's hitting on every thing in the house that moves! I don't
know how the other girls tolerate it. Jubilee, Dani, and Kitty
especially are completely ridiculous about it. You'd think he
was some actor or pop star the way they go on.
"Gaaaawwd, Rogue! He was, like, so totally edible in
that painted-on shirt. Hot damn!"
"Omigosh, Rogue, I think he looked at me! No, don't turn
around! He might guess that we're staring! Omigosh, those eyes
of his are soooo hot!"
"...and then around two-fifty, he went to the garage
and checked out some bikes. Then at three-fifteen, he left the
garage and went to the rec-room to shoot pool with the guys.
Their game ended at four pm when..."
Lordy, it's borderline insanity! He even hit on Neal yesterday
while we were playing pool!
"The name of the game," said Neal as he chalked
up his cue, "is nine ball. Best three out of five games
gets a duty card valid for tomorrow."
I was lining up the solids into tight diamond. "Oh, you
ain't getting' away with nothin'. Ah've got a date tomorrow with
a large popcorn an' a Todd Fredricks movie."
Neal made a face. "You honestly like that bop-magazine
pretty boy? When you're surrounded by real, strutting cutlets
of prime beef like me in this place?"
"I second dat notion."
That idiot was leaning against an expensive-looking curio
cabinet that Bobby and John had transformed into a shelf for
playing equipment in Shop class a few weeks back. His expression
was just too ... too ... I-know-something-you-don't-know.
"Though if you really want Remy's true feelin's,"
he added, "I much prefer the river rat wit' the pretty hazel
"Did you hear us askin'?" I demanded. I hate it
when he refers to himself in the third person.
He shrugged, an annoying gesture that usually meant nothing
and everything. "I hear plenty o' t'ings, chere, most of
"Ah'm sure everyone claps when they see the back of you."
Remy smirked. He pushed his shades up higher on his nose.
Those things were irritating as well; he couldn't pull it off
like Mr. Summers. With a lazy strut proclaiming complete indifference
to the fact that his hair looked like a rat's nest, his jeans
had more hole than material and his BVDs were threadbare, he
headed for the kitchenette. "Mais non, chere, I expected
harder hits from de lady who can kill wit' a kiss."
It took all of my willpower not to magnetically force drawers
to slam into a tender part of that Cajun's anatomy then. I didn't
want to sink to his level. I put my cue stick down carefully,
not wanting to snap that either. "Swamp rat, the only thing
yoah lips are gonna touch is my fist."
By this time, he's just sauntered in like he owned the place
and was rooting around a cupboard. Then he took out a micky,
gargled whatever was inside it--probably some vile home-made
crap-- and swallowed it. "A punch, cherie? That's borderline
kinky for someone as sweet an' young as you."
That clinched it... I didn't care if I sank all the way down
to hell; he was going to watch his mouth around me!
"You want me to kink something?" I gritted my teeth.
The fridge door shot out to whack Remy 's head but he frickin'
ducked down just in time, curling into a ball and rolling around
the floor and before I knew it, he landed right at my side. Then,
he snatched my hand pressed this slobbery kiss in the inside
of my wrist.
"Y' don't taste like no river rat, that's foh sho'."
And he shot outta there before my brain could recover from disgust.
I barely heard Neal say, "I think he pinched my butt.
Hey, Rogue, don't-- How are we going to explain a hole in the
wall to Ms. Munroe?"
Dang! There goes my pillow. I can't even think of that...
that VD-ridden, liquor-soaked waste of oxygen without breaking
a piece of furniture. I have no idea why Mr. Summers brought
him here. Well, all right, so he was hurt but it sure doesn't
look like he needs any more help. His arm went off the sling
after two days and he hardly has any bruises any more. He can't
even be categorised as a "youngster," gifted or otherwise,
not at his age. He's just mooching off of the professor's goodness.
He doesn't teach. He doesn't train with the others. He doesn't
help around the house. He doesn't follow the rules. He doesn't
even care if mutants or humans live in peace, kill each other,
or keep on living the same way they've been living since we found
out mutants existed. I don't know what he's done that's made
Mr. Summers so soft on him. If any of the students did half the
things he did, Mr. Summers would've given them on of his "talks."
Mr. Summers is scary as red shit when he delivers his
"talks." It's not that he yells or swears or threatens
to kill you or anything. I've never gotten a "talk"
from him but hearing the other guys describe it is enough to
make me want to stay on his good side. Apparently, his voice
gets really, really calm and even and really, really cold. This
his shades start glowing bright, like he wants to blast you and
it's by sheer willpower alone that he's keeping it back. And
at first, he just stares at you and stares at you, like a bug
under a microscope, or like you're a serial killer that he's
caught dead to rights. Then he starts talking about The Rules
and how disappointed he is in you. I know it doesn't sound scary
when I say it like that but honesty, if you can just imagine
But despite that I know lots of the kids here want to be just
like Mr. Summers, the guys especially. At least, they used
to; now most of them go around and try to copy the swamp
rat. I think Mr. Summers is a helluva lot better than him. He's
only twenty-eight and he's practically in charge of the school:
funds, class schedules, you name it. If I had to do that, I'd
go nuts in a week, guaranteed. He's got the hot older woman--
the guys tell me this is a cross-cultural teenage fantasy. He
really is patient and nice and everything if you don't try to
break the rules; he allows for bending but out-right breaking
them is suicidal to your mental health. He's good at sports,
math, cars... hell, he's damn near got everything going for him
as far as I can tell.
After all of that, I guess his powers just evens things up.
That sounds real mean, don't it. Completely selfishly, I feel
better having someone else who has to have mandatory accessories:
I have my gloves, he has his glasses. If you want to talk about
horrible closet decisions, Mr. Summers has got to have the worst
possible time. I think that's why he sticks to shades to grey
and black, just to make sure he doesn't accidentally put a lime
green sweater with orange pants or something equally obnoxious.
Bleuch, that's even worse than Bobby with piercings.
The thing is, Mr. Summers doesn't seem to be the type of person
that the swamp rat could con but I still see them together sometimes,
chatting it up and laughing like they grew up together. I guess
I should be glad that Mr. Summers has another guy to do guy-stuff
with. Dr. McCoy is fun but he's kinda preoccupied with his viral
research and his sentences can make a dictionary dizzy. The Professor
is just... well, the Professor. But, jeez, of all the people
who had to show up, it had to be him!
I can't stand him, I really can't.
And now I'm all stressed out. I think I'm going to go cool
off in the mall. I don't have anything to wear anyway.
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