Well, I'm seriously out of practice for fanfiction. No time like the present to jump back in and keep my writing flowing, or summat. It's a totally random True Blood/Sookie Stackhouse hybrid, a quick little scene or two, but it makes me laugh. Jason Stackhouse/Pam and some Eric, too. Considering how cracked-out that show is, it can only go up, right? Knowledge of Unknown Hinson and honky tonk songs are helpful, but not a must. :) It would also please me to no end if the Carl Orff joke hits some of you in the way I intended. (Hint: Orff is a hack.) Adult situations, so don't read if you're an impressionable teenager. You shouldn't be around here, anyway, kiddo.
(And if you missed the rec I posted last night and you love Pagan/pre-Christian religious texts and vampires, you need to read the ficlet "And they all did lament," and not just because it's one of my favorite topics ever. :)
Jason pushed one ear of his headphones up onto his head. "Can y'all do that thing like Superman where you can outrun a bullet?"
Pam sighed heavily. If he wasn't so damn important, she would have eaten him by now. His child-like charm and his decidedly non-childlike bulge kept her intrigued and in the corral as Jason hung a new piece of target paper. Well, all of that and the order Eric had given her earlier.
Jason flipped a switch that sent the paper shooting back into the dark. He snapped the protective headphones back on, adjusted his yellow-tinted safety goggles and widened his stance.
He shot a cock-sure, "Watch this, babe" look over his shoulder.
Jason squinted his eyes at the target. His left hand held his .50 Desert Eagle, his right hand hovered near his right hip. Pam leaned back against the stall's wall and crossed her arms.
Jason grabbed the clip in his holster, slammed it into the base of his pistol with his right hand and fired off 15 shots quick as shakes.
"Hoo, boy!" He actually blew into the end of his gun, smirked at Pam, spun the gun on his finger, and jammed it into its holster. "You ever see shootin' like that?"
Pam weighed her options quickly, smiled and draw a perfectly manicured nail down the front of Jason's shirt. "Only when I watched things go down in Tombstone."
Jason's face paled. "You saw Wild Bill Hickok get shot up?"
"No, but don't you humans love to think we've been to all of the important human events?"
Pam delighted at the confusion that flashed across Jason's face, the look that quickly settled into that of a relaxed puppy. Her hand kneading at his crotch was to blame for that.
"Why don't you show me the other pistols you brought?"
"I only brought my granny gun, my, uh, oh sweet baby Jesus. . . . My Beretta Silver Snipe, um, good lord amighty, how do you know to do that to my nuts? A. . . 12 . . . gauge."
Pam leaned in, flicked her fangs out in a quiet little snick! and lightly dragged them down Jason's neck. "The other pistol."
"Haaaa... momma! I didn‘t bring no other pistol, lady!"
Pam sighed, her fangs retracted. "The other pistol? In your pants."
Still Jason hopped lightly on one foot, grinding and thrusting forward into Pam's hand.
"Your dick, Jason." She gave it a squeeze for emphasis.
Jason aw-shucked a laugh out and shook his head like a dog. "Whew. I can't be thinkin' all clear like when you're doing that to my nethers. Speaking of, why don't we find a place and do something like that to each other some more?"
What Jason lacked in subtlety, finesse, basic language skills, and hygiene, he more than made up for in the sack. Pam was almost afraid she'd misjudged him, something she hadn't done with a human in over eighty years.
Most men claimed sexual prowess and oozed confidence with no leg to stand on. Somehow this backwater Lothario had figured out the secret to being a good lover: making sure the other person enjoyed themselves. He also wasn’t adverse to biting, even though it took some cajoling on her part to insure that he could bite her down there. When he broke skin and immediately lapped up the blood, murmuring his apologies against her center, she climaxed, her joy-filled laughter causing Jason’s skin to goose-pimple.
Not a bad assignment, all things taken into account. He hee-hawed more than she liked in a human, but it never got old hearing how beautiful they found her.
“I even like them prissy old lady head bands you put in your hair.”
Then again, sometimes when it spoke, she wanted nothing more than to lock Eric up with too-small chains and torture him until he got over this Stackhouse obsession.
She stroked his baby fine hair back off his sweaty brow and cooed, “Tell me absolutely everything about yourself. Starting with your sister.”
Pam entered the corporate account number into the appropriate window on her computer. The new pumps would match her earlier purchases perfectly. Talbot’s had a new color of cashmere sweater sets this season and it appeared that she would be socializing more. All the more reason to put a few things on Eric’s account.
Eric had complained once about the cost of some of her preferred wardrobe. Her next purchase was accompanied by a Post-It note that had detailed the cost of face and eye lifts, wrinkle cream, and anti-age spot ointments. Far less than the wee-platform peekaboo Louboutins that were a must this season.
She hummed to herself as she looked up Hermès bags.
“Chug a lug, chug a lug, makes ya wanna holler hidey ho, burns your tummy, don‘t you know. . .”
Belinda walked past with her arms filled with glasses and absentmindedly picked up the song, “Chug a lug chug a lug.”
Chow stopped in his tracks and stared open-mouthed at Pam.
“It’s just some ear worm I picked up earlier. And if you ever hear me so much as whistle that again,” she checked her earrings and cardigan, “stake me.”
Opening bars to Carl Orff’s O Fortuna snapped Pam out of her reverie. The name flashing was “Tedious Cataclysm” and she couldn’t remember if she programmed that as Eric or Sookie this week.
“Pam. I’m wondering how goes the little project I’ve given you? I won’t be at the club until later this evening.”
Eric’s voice was distorted by the wind.
“Let me guess, driving to Bon Temps? Honestly, when are you going to bed her so we can move on?”
“Speaking of bedding. . . ”
“Done. And thank you for the opportunity.”
“Really? So he wasn’t all bark?”
She could hear him smiling around his response, “Really?”
“I was, however, treated to a literal story hour. I got to hear all about his school days, his first time, how his parents drowned in their car, his favorite beer, and if you didn’t automatically guess Dixie, then you have lost your touch. I heard how sad he was about his Grandmother dying, but that was just an affectation for humans. He quickly realized that ruse wouldn’t work on--”
“Get to the part I give a rat’s ass about, Pamela.”
“Nothing. Nothing about his sister, they had regular human mortal parents of no consequence. They lived, they died, the end.”
A long pause. Eric snicked his fangs in and out, deep in thought. Pam patiently held the line.
“Nothing about his only living relative? I didn’t think it was possible, someone being so self-absorbed.”
“This is where I say something witty like, Dear Kettle, you’re black. Love, Pot.”
“Would it be tiresome to continue. . . pumping him for information?”
“I think that well is dry, but no, I find him oddly pleasant. He’s my junk food when I need a break from haute cuisine.”
“Oddly pleasant. Yes, that about sums things up.”
He hung the phone up unceremoniously. Pam pulled up a lingerie site to get some different work clothes, humming quietly to herself again.
“You better turn out the lights, sure enough, ‘cause I make faces when I make love. . . .”
Pam stopped typing and pressed her fingertips into her eyelids. “Eric. . . you-szarfaszú . Dögölj meg, menj a picsába!”*
Notes: Unknown Hinson (Early Cuyler's voice actor on Squidbillies) has the best troubador songs out there, like "I Ain't Afraid (Of Your Husband)" and my favorite, "I Make Faces When I Make Love." I like to imagine Jason listening to country/western songs about fucking.
And Pam swears in Hungarian, because I have someone in my house that is fluent, one, and two, she speaks many languages because why on earth not? Literal translation: Eric, you shit dick. Kiss the dust, and go to hell. It's highly offensive in the more lyrical Hungarian. :)