Title: Bad Mojo
Author: Kielle ([email protected])
Website: www.subreality.com
Rating: G
Pairing / Main characters: Gambit, Bishop
Series/Sequel: complete
Summary: Gambit gets "free credit" spam in his e-mail. Gambit is not amused.
Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Marvel Comics, and are used only for entertainment purposes.
Archive/distribution: Not without my permission, which is easy to get.
Notes: I wrote this little ditty for a laugh back in the mid-nineties, when spamfics were all the rage on ACFF, so don't go looking for deeper meaning. It's just supposed to be fun. :)
Warning: Assault (thick Cajun third-person accent, threats of playing a Mariah Carey album) and disturbing imagery (Bishop almost smiling).
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Bad Mojo
By Kielle
"Well, dat soun' pretty good, den, considerin' Gambit ain't never paid taxes nor had no 'employer.' Unless Xavier counts...? Non, don' pay enough -- bein' an X-Man mus' be fate's way a'makin' a man truly work off some bad karma. Tho' wit' DAT much t'work off, Gambit musta been a baby-strangler in his past life." With a pleased expression that belied his grumbling, Gambit (like you can't tell by the outraaaaageous accent?) hunt- and-pecked a reply, tapped the button to "send" return mail, and kicked back in his chair, blowing a puff of smoke at the ceiling. The room's regulation smoke-detector had been judiciously rewired.
Bishop wandered in from the bathroom, toweling his hair dry. Thanks to the umpteenth destruction of the mansion at the hands of Onslaught, the entire team had been ignomiously packed off to the nearest Holiday Inn. By way of silent apology, Bishop had opted to share Gambit's room...much to the dismay of Rogue, who'd wandered off muttering something about "missed opportunity for a sleazy fanfic."
(She wasn't the only one with a bug up her figurative tail, either. With Jean still back at the mansion doing whatever it was that telepaths did to clean up after other telepaths who went stark raving newts, Cyclops had insisted on having a room to himself and had locked himself in, muttering something about "hate these places" and "nightmares about Rictor and 'Star are going to keep me up all night..." Gambit now knew who had been into his locked fanfic files and planned to make Scott "You're still reading that slop?" Summers' life a living hell for at least the next month.)
The big XSE officer now loomed over his temporary roomie's shoulder, eyed the laptop screen, and allowed himself a snort which would have turned the head of any lady rhino you could name. "What do YOU need with credit, LeBeau?"
Gambit assumed a woeful look. "Gonna need a new set'a wheels. Xavier, he knock in the garage on de way out. An' if Brett catches me stealin' again she gonna stretch out my fingers an' tie 'em inta square knots around m'wrists."
"Brett? Who's-"
Gambit blinked then grinned. "Oh, dat's Rogue. Well, it's somethin' I saw online. Makes her SO mad, I t'ink it might be true. A'course, if'n I REALLY want to get her mad, I k'n always call her 'Daisy Mae.'"
"I... don't get it."
"You wouldn't, mon ami ennuyeux. You wouldn't."
A tinny voice near Gambit's hand announced, "You've got mail." He glanced down at the computer. "Well DAT was quick." He scanned the e-mail. Slowly his cheery expression faded to be replaced by a blank look - only his eyes moved, flicking across the screen. "Qu'est que c'est? Well what d'hell."
It was Bishop's turn to suppress a grin. (Of course, there was also the fact that a grin could cause permanent damage to his facial muscles, but I digress.) "Let me guess - they didn't approve you?"
"Doesn't make sense... dese guys would approve an armadillo..."
"Armadillos have a better driving record, 'mon ami.' Their homes stay in one piece far more often. And it's a rare armadillo that has a criminal record as lengthy as Shatterstar's anti-gravity ponytail." Bishop, needless to say, was clearly enjoying himself.
Gambit glared up at his teammate briefly, then dragged himself to his feet. Bishop bowed aside with an air of remarkable good grace and the Cajun stomped past him muttering in what sounded like French expletives but was probably just a list of vegetables. (Like the readers are going to know the difference.) He slung his trenchcoat around his shoulders and headed grimly for the door.
A thought struck Bishop (and lord knows, so few do). He peered back at the laptop screen and then called out, "LeBeau, you can't be serious. This gentleman-" he managed to maintain a straight face, years of strenous practice finally coming in handy "-could be anywhere in the country."
"I'm gonna go talk t'Logan. If HE c'n find his men, he c'n tell ME how t'do it. An' THEN Gambit's gonna stuff an 'unsuitable record' down someone's throat."
"And how..."
Gambit paused at the door just long enough to meet Bishop's gaze and break into an evil grin. "An LP, M'sier Eveque. Either 'Hits Of The Seventies' or 'Mariah Carey's Top Ten High Notes' should do de trick."
END