Indeed, Sir

I was hanging out in a forum where someone was reviewing that "Fifty Shades of Grey" book and, to my surprise, I learned that it was NOT (as I had thought) a book with fifty different Twilight fanfics in it by fifty different authors.

This saddened me, because even though I've never read Twilight or had an interest in it, I thought fifty different 'fics for a fandom combined in one book was a pretty nifty idea.

So then I started thinking about what I would do for a book like that. And of course I thought of Bertie. I figured, "Okay, Bella would meet Bertie and fall in love for him and he would accidentally become engaged to her, as is wont to happen. She would cling to him at every opportunity and Edward would get jealous and follow them everywhere."

So that is where you get this incredibly silly, drabblish thing, which jumps right in with a description of Edward:

Bertie and the Dashed Annoying Vampire

As for this chappie, he was certainly an odd bird. He seemed to be taking a page from Lord Byron's book. Very much the pale, romantic figure, the sort of fellow one expects to find wandering around the Third Act of a tragedy, if you get my drift. But whereas Byron, by all accounts, knew how to kick up his heels after a hard 9-to-5 of poetry, this silly cove just dogged my footsteps every day, glowering from a respectable distance and diving behind trees whenever I glanced back. I didn't actually meet him, per se, until I jogged around a corner rather too fast--I'd just spotted Bella mooning around in the distance and wanted to make a hasty escape--and bumped right into him!

He stared at me. I stared at him.

"Nice day," I ventured after a minute or two of mute eyeballing.

"Bella . . ." he began, his voice trailing away with a snuffling, choking sound in his throat. I briefly considered applying the Heimlech before realizing this was merely a sign of High Emotion. "Bella . . . is mine!" he managed at last.

"Oh, is she?" I said with considerable relief.

"You may have bedazzled her, but she is still mine. Mine!"

"Well, well. Spiffing! I mean it--topping news. I hope you'll be very happy together."

"DON'T MOCK ME!" He turned away, flinging his arm over his face. This was frankly an improvement, since whatever lotion or cream he was in the habit of applying had given him a lacquered look that nearly blinded me when combined with the cheery sunshine of the hour. "She WILL come to me, I tell you!"

"Quite, quite," I soothed. The sooner I could dump the young prune into his arms, the better, as far as I was concerned.

"I love her, you know," he said hoarsely, like a fat man who has just watched someone else scarf down the last of the roast potatoes before he got a crack at them. "Sometimes . . . I stand in her room. And watch her sleep."

"Er . . ." I couldn't think of a proper response to this, although "Seek professional help" seemed like a good place to start.