It’s only four in the afternoon on Friday, but the new chapter of my FNAFiction is going up now, because I have operating with far too little sleep for far too long and now I’m going on forty hours without any at all and I just can’t wait until midnight. So let’s just pretend this is a long post with lots of cute pictures and witty captions. And sure, why not, as long as we’re pretending, why not pretend it’s the last of a ten-post series on pitfalls and rewards of writing fanfiction. I’ll even pretend I’m writing this with a plate of nachos close at hand, because nachos are fucking delicious, all meaty and crunchy.
This is where you’re pretending there’s a photo insert. Like of nachos or something.
But yeah, the new chapter is up on fanfiction.net and archiveofourown.org, so those of you who spend all week pining for updates can squee on over to the fansite of your choice and gorge your hungry eyeballs on my wordcraft, as a pug may gorge upon nachos. Pic please!
Okay, whatever. I’m too tired to deal with your uncontrolled and unrepentant imagination. Please enjoy this excerpt from Mike Schmidt and the Long Night. I’m going to bed.
“Mr. Schmidt?” she said, extending her hand to be shaken.
“That’s me.” His hand was soft, the kind of hand that did white-collar kind of work, but his grip was strong and his eyes were direct and intelligent. Up close, he wasn’t just good-looking, but kind of on the damn side of good-looking. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he added as Ana signaled a harried waitress. “We’re not staying long.”
“We’re not, huh?”
“What I’ve got to say, I’m not comfortable saying in public.”
“Or on the phone.”
“Or on the phone,” he agreed, not smiling. “You can laugh at me all you want. God knows, the story I’ve got to tell is going to sound batshit crazy and I can’t help that, but if you want to hear it, this is how it’s going to be.”
“Okay. Just coffee,” Ana told the waitress, who had finally swung by the table with a clean cup and some silverware. “So let’s start with the obvious questions, shall we? Why did you assume I was looking into Fr—”
“Don’t say the name.”
Ana blinked, her lips still pursed around the word ‘Freddy’. “Why not?” she asked finally.
“Because this is a small town,” Mike said, staring her down. “And even though a lot of this happened a long time ago, it left some very deep wounds. Anyone close enough to listen in could get their scars ripped right open. Don’t. Say. The name.”
If this was still the script, it was a damned good one. Ana frowned and nodded.
“I’m not going to talk about any of that here,” Mike said again. “But I will get to it, I promise. First off, I’m going to ask if you’ve got any recording devices. Because let me state for the record—”
“Are you seriously asking if I’m wearing a wire?”
“—that you do not have my consent to be recorded.”
“I’m not recording you. Jesus. Don’t you think you’re going overboard on the atmosphere here?”
He didn’t smile. “Let’s get one thing straight, lady. This is not the Hookman or Sheepsquatch we’re talking about. This is not some cute piece of local color that boosts tourism and gets a summer festival named after it. This shit really happened. Real kids really vanished. Real people really died. This place we’re talking about…this place…” His jaw clenched. “It eats people.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Yeah,” she said again, harder now. “My best friend was one of them.”
“Do you mind…” Mike’s eyes cut right and he shut up. Lucy brought the coffee and topped off Mike’s cup. Ana didn’t touch hers. Mike drank his back to the halfway point and put it aside. “Mind if I ask who?” he finished as soon as the waitress was gone.
“My cousin,” Ana said. “David Blaylock.”
“David Blaylock, huh?” Mike leaned back in his booth, studying her face with new interest. “Well, I’ll be goddamned. You’re Anastasia Stark.”