Hi everyone!
 
The following is a strange piece of fiction that popped up in my mind
yesterday night - my guess is that I was already asleep by the time.
 
 
                        GR - The Other Side
                                    by Caro von Totth (Ariel)
 
 
<<The sun is about to set majestically on an unnamed border planet. A
lone rider in black attire, looking as if he hasn't been shaving for
days, rides slowly into what looks like a deserted settlement.
Now and then, the glint of anxious eyes can be seen as they peer out
from behind shuttered windows.
Suddenly, gunshots erupt. The man swiftly takes down all of the
villains with the speed of a striking cobra...>>
 
<Gooseman>: Hey! Cut, damn it! Cut! Hey, pal, what's this?
 
<Director>: Well, your character, actually...
 
<Gooseman>: It better not. Man, I *resent* being reduced to some
frikkin' wild west stereotype! And where did you get those horses?
 
<Doc (aside)>: Fresh out of a lego box, I imagine...
 
<<Clothed in a kimono of Asian appearance Niko shifts, looking
coquettishly at Goose.>>
 
<Niko>:  You've got the looks, the guns, and the women. And, of
course, *me*, although you're obviously too retarded to notice. So I
don't know what you want.
 
<Gooseman (frowning)>: I want a *brain*! About five more cells would
be nice for starters - that's five more than I've got right now.
 
<Doc>: Believe me, my Goose man - the more brain cells, the less
women. It's one of Nature's laws. *I* should know.
 
<Zach>: Yeah, right. Dumb and trigger-happy rules. Doesn't help if
you've got my haircut, though.
 
<Niko>: Right. Arm with the firepower of a hundred bazookas, but the
wife still giving him the cold shoulder. Get the man a new haircut,
someone!
 
<<Enter the Queen, with a bunch of slaverlords in tow.>>
 
<Doc>: Hey, Queenie! Found new uses for the discarded palace
bedclothes?
 
<Queen>: Harhar. Very funny. At least my crystals don't look like an
alcoholic's hip flask. But I actually came to complain about the
make-up. I look like death incarnated!
 
<Gooseman (snickering)>: Yeah. Death by drowning.
 
<Doc (aside)>: 'Get thee to a nunnery, get thee to a nunnery...'
(aloud:) Queenie, face it: you *are* death incarnated - or something
like that. You are *not* renowned for your flawless fashion sense. Red
and purple - blah!
 
<<Eliza's spirit appears, floating in a containment chamber.>>
 
<Eliza>: Fashion sense? At least she gets to change her clothes once in
a while! And what about me? Two years, and still the same damn
uniform! I want my wardrobe back! And my life, if I come to think
about it...
 
<Niko>: Now, now, Eliza. *I*'m the leading lady here. Expanding your
role would mean less screen time for me, and more money for you. You
can see where this is a bad idea?
 
<Queen (nodding)>: Indeed.
 
 
<<The camera slowly zooms out of the desert landscape where five
humans/aliens, a ghost, several slaverlords and horses still
continue to gesticulate long after the sun has set.
 
The crew has long since left for the next McDonalds, leaving a
helpless director alone, wringing his hands.>>
 
 
                                 END