"You know, Brunhilda," the author said upon sitting with a flop, leading to a look of affectionate disapproval from her trusty maid, "I may have bitten off more than I can chew here."
Brunhilda smiled gently. For hours, they sat quietly, enjoying the quiet. Suddenly, that fateful knock on the heavy oak door.
"Hark, do I hear a knock on the door?" The author called with false brightness in her voice.
And upon flinging open the door, she found a short, skinny little man, nose like a parsnip, hair combed fetchingly over a growing bald-spot.
"Lord Pratty-Pants, I presume?"
"Indeed," he said, looking her over. He liked what he saw apparently, his lascivious glances made the author's stomach drop. "Lady Slutskaya, you are lovely."
"Dear God, help me if I even act like that stupid woman!" thought the author.
"Ah, no, Dear Monster, it is I, your Doctor Frankenstein. Please come in."
"You're the one who was so aggressive with me?"
"I am Lord Fauntleroy Pratty-Pants," he offered a full name that made the author's stomach cringe.
"That is far too much, and I think your surname is obvious enough. We will call you 'Roy'."
"Roy." He looked disgusted, but said nothing for a moment. This was going to be fun, a snotty sulker with a very high opinion of himself, and the idiot who could not for a moment, cease complaining.
"Not important," smiled the author.
"Now look here, Miss," the flustered Pratty-Pants spluttered, "Everyone else has a name to match their personality, or a certain trait. You cannot simply just be called by your description."
"Frank Bard, if you must know," friends called her Frankie, her mother preferred "Francesca". And acquaintances referred to her simply as Frank.
"Frank?" he asked in disbelief.
"Yes, Fauntleroy?" The author-now-known as Frankie raised her eyebrows. "Ugh, Roy, what was I thinking? That name is so ghastly."
"Frank, I will have you remember, that I am written to be ghastly."
Frankie gave him a look that told him that he should count himself lucky that he was not being buried right about now.
"How could I forget?" Frankie-the-author muttered as she led him in. "Lady Slutskaya should be here soon."
"Would there be any way she could arrive without us knowing?" asked Sir Pratty-Pants.
"Indeed not. She is meant to be an irritation for us all."
"I have been informed that she is a diva,"
"Ah, but of course," smiled Frankie.
And with that, came a whirl-wind- the heavy perfume, and loud, grating (but oh, so angelic!) voice that could belong to none other than our Lady Slutskaya.
"Ugh, that salon did not have Venomous Vermilion."
"Tragedy!" said Frankie with an eye-roll.
"Classic red. Hmph."
"Yes, I know," Frankie said soothingly, nudging her gently to turn and meet her suitor.
Although written to bounce off of and to match each other, Slutskaya and Pratty-Pants had looks of disgust on their faces, narrowing their beady little eyes.
"Dear God, what is this?" demanded Slutskaya.
"Could you have perhaps written someone who is somewhat attractive?" Pratty-Pants wondered aloud.
"Shush, you two. Time to eat. And you will like each other, or I shall have to let you know of my disapproval. Come, children."
Small and skinny, Frankie was nonetheless a commanding figure, with a sharp, elegant marching step and an almost balletic way of navigating turns. Her curls bounced lightly with each step of her small bare feet on the polished oak floor. Pratty-Pants and Slutskaya followed, having no choice.
"You look like that cat-lady, with all that plastic surgery," hissed Pratty-Pants to Slutskaya.
"You look like a worm on legs," Slutskaya hissed back.
"Children," warned Frankie in a soft, falsely sweet maternal sing-song.
She smiled. She regretted for a moment the wisdom of having them be so equally despicable, but decided she could use that to an advantage.