Adam Pierson's Diary (1/1)

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Disclaimer: I do not own Adam Pierson, Duncan MacLeod, or any of the
other characters form Highlander: The Series, nor do I own Helen
Fielding's Bridget Jones.  Actually, she's not in this; I just stole
the writing format.  Even if that is copyrighted, I don't make any
money from that, so.  Eh...this is spawned by the idea of where Methos
was and what he was doing while Mac was being tormented by Ahriman.
Rated PG-13 for some language.

Adam Pierson's Diary
by Amand-r

March 9th

Alcohol Units: 2 (v.b.), hours of sleep: 4, languages spoken
accidentally: 3, number of times challenged: 0 (v.g!), number of heads
taken: 0 (which could be either very bad or very good....hmmm, very
good then.  No risk is no risk.)

Sitting in the bar tonight with Joe and we're having this discussion
about beheadings in ancient Rome.  It's really odd, to have to talk
about this stuff with him, because to him it's something so far
removed.  It's not like he was there or anything.  I had my knee
propped up on the table.

Sadly, on a no-liquor streak.  What's that all about?  Better off
drinking, more as not.  But as the tea was flowing (doesn't even sound
as good as "the meade wast floweing and there yonder maidens didst
strippet theyr burgeoning gownes.  Did we say burgeoning then?
Fuckket.)  Joe lets slip the Chronicles of Peter Gaicus.

"Well, when he took Marconus outside the forum, I bet everyone was
surprised."  His face tells me that his tea has not been so chastely
pure as mine.  Jealousy is an evil thing.  I sniff my brewing
concoction.  There are these monks who make alcoholic, or something or
other teas in the outer rim of Mongolia...

After I let it casually slip that Gaicus was in fact a scrotty bugger,
he is less than impressed.  What is with people who think that just
because something is written down in a book it has to be correct?  I
know for a fact that the 1698 version of The Bible contains fifteen
pages that the printer made up off the top of his head because his
drunken son vomited in the Illuminated manuscript that they were
copying from.  Luckily, they were from Leviticus, so no one seems to
notice.

Must learn to keep mouth shut.  Temporary nature of literature lost
concept on drunken people.  Am subjected to terrible lecture on the
immediacy of truth, and the instability of the world.  Am wise enough
to be very quiet.  Every month or so, Joe gets really drunk and tells
me that he's through covering for Mac, and that's not the way you treat
a bloke, and he's not going to lie in the bleeding Chronicles anymore,
man, because they're like, you know, works of history.

Kept mouth shut.  I tell Joe this story every time we're at the bar.
He refuses to believe me about Gaicus.  Just watch, I'll have to tell
him again.  Pretend to be gagged.  Am very successful.

MacLeod is an asshole.  I mean, I know I've said it before, but
sometimes reinforcement, like duct tape, is the only way to go.

March 13th

Alcohol units: 12 (better), Hours of sleep: 12 (muuuuuuuch better!),
number of heads taken: 1 (I wish!  None, actually.), number of time
called Joe and told him Mac is insane: 12 (I should take the ominous
sign of the triple twelve seriously, and buy a lottery ticket), Number
of lottery tickets: 12.  Number of winning tickets: 4 (yes!)

8:45 a.m. Dragged out of bed too early this morning by Richie, who is
insisting that I go visit Mac, because the man is, as he says "fucking
wicky gidgets".  Doesn't anyone ever say batty anymore?  Does there
have to be a big production around crazy?  He doesn't just wait for me
to get up, either.  I am slavishly dragged out of bed, into the shower,
and driven to that farging barge to check on the Scot, who is himself
sitting on the deck with a bowl of Frosted Flakes.  He looks healthy
enough.
Remember Bridget?  She had a word for shit like this: Fuckwittage.

10:05 a.m. Ryan was right: Mac is a man on the edge.  I am so not one
for ancient demons and all this shit.  Joe has a word for all of this,
and I bet it sounds a lot like "fuckwittage".

11:36 a.m. I'm not even interested in going for a walk.  So Mac is
telling this story about this Professor's daughter and the book of the
Chosen one and I just have to pipe in.

"MacLeod, I have never even seen a simple magic trick, let alone a God.
Why does everyone think that age means supernatural wisdom?"  It's cold
outside.  Have I mentioned that Paris sucks right now?

"Come on Methos," Ryan pipes in, "Are you saying that you have never
seen anything spooky or anything?  You've never seen a ghost?"  His
mouth is so pouty when he says that, like those fucking posters for
that new band *NSync that dot the kiosk boards.  Spare a moment to
curse the boybands.

"The spookiest thing I have ever seen was the rise of polyester," I
reply.  He doesn't want wisdom anyway.  Mac thinks all of this is
funny.  But funny ha ha or funny uh oh?

1:45 a.m. Ahriman?  Mac is being stalked by Ahriman?  I don't even know
whom the fuck that is!  Must go do library research.

6:24 p.m. Sorbonne, University Library Mac has to be insane.  Either
that or we're all seriously screwed.  Neither is good.  Am meeting Joe
at the bar.  Might even have a drink.

3 a.m. FUCK all powrfrng demonz.  Grots singbr macca forman.  Hi ho in
the furbishin.  Urk!  Doorstop.

March 14th

Alcohol Units: 2 (alcohol bad bad bad), hours of sleep: 8, number of
ice packs applied to head: 14, number of heads taken: 0 (but
considering self-decapitation).

11:04 a.m. Woke to shrill noise.  Wasn't quite sure what said noise
was.  Took good fifteen rings to find phone cradled in pillow under
knees.  Pant leg off.  Doorstop clutched in left hand.  Must let go of
doorstop to pick up phone receiver.  Will not talk.  Must press button.

Joe is on line.  I am considering hanging up, but he sounds pretty
upset.  Apparently last night's drinking binge has not lessened his
fear for Mac.  News from Richie has the man talking to himself on that
barge of his.  I don't see why we can't get him a dog.  Ice
pack...uh...ice pack.

11:25 a.m. Beginning to think skin is so evolutionarily advanced that
it can absorb water directly from the shower spray and into the
bloodstream on contact.  OOP!  Where did that doorstop come from?

4:47 p.m. Joe's Bar Am working on third pint when Joe decides that we
are the men to talk Mac out of his insanity.  Avoid the subject of
Herman, Mellville, who foolishly ignored me the last time I tried to
talk a man out of doing something insane.  Thusly, all may blame me for
Moby Dick.  Future generations languish in honor of the most insane men
who never stepped foot on boat.

Consider fourth pint before leaving.  Joe has able legs for fake ones.

5:21 p.m. Mac is inside the barge talking to himself.  Sad for a moment
that all the fate of the world lies on the shoulders of an insane
person.  Think to self that perhaps this isn't the first time.
Remember that unvarnished opinion is not going to be appreciated here.

"Mac, we're worried," I say.  It's a great opener--straight, to the
point, no beating around.

Mac doesn't agree.  He does that little frown-y thing, kind of sexy.
Under other circumstances (like if Amanda's brain were in Mac's body),
I might be tempted.  Instead, take a minute to wonder if sword wasn't a
good idea.

"I'm not crazy."  That's all we get because the phone rings and Richie
is sure that Joe has been abducted by Horton.  Life is awfully, well,
fucked.  Joe agrees when he's read this.

March 18th

Alcohol units: 15 (Hagh), Hours of sleep: 3, dollars spent on Ryan's
funeral: $8, 659, people who came to Ryan's funeral: 2 (counting self),
moments spent wondering about own death: 942, people who will probably
attend own funeral: 2 (counting self).

12:07 a.m.  In honor:

TOP FIVE RICHARD RYAN MOMENTS:

1. Time caught him boffing blow up/suck off doll in communal showers at
gym, moaning "Kristen".  Rather the best one, that.
2. Expression of complete disbelief when Mac told him who I really was.
Also rather amusing.
3. Time exposed him to Akvaavit and he vomited all over Mac's
pilothouse deck.
4. Time beat Mac in fighter practice and fell off deck screaming
"yes!".  In direct contrast, smelled like the Seine for three days
afterward.
5. Time locked Amanda in storeroom and forgot she was there, only to
have his apartment flooded with three cases of apricot brandy in
feminine retaliation.

TOP FIVE RICHARD RYAN QUOTES:
1. "Dude!", or "Dude?", or "Dude." or "Duuuuuuuuuuude!"  (See no 3
above)
2. "I was just trying it out, Mac.  Hey!"
3. "Man, you should have seen her; her tits were like, hu--oh hi, Mac."
4. "I am old enough to drink!  Adam!  Stop telling them to card me!"
5. "Come on, admit it, a blow job beats a Quickening any day."

What would/will I do without all this excitement?  Refuse to get sappy
without liquor.

4:56 a.m. Why am I feeling bad?  Knew this would happen someday.
Inevitability is the greatest hobbyhorse of the world.  Perhaps weeping
for stale cigars and a dusty motorbike in a ratty apartment complex on
the South side of the Latin Quarter.  For little Maria who will always
wonder where her big "brother" went.  Whoops.  For a bad turn on the
racetrack.  No more for Ryan.  Too many hopes and dreams won't see the
light will they, now?

March 31

Alcohol units: 9 (so de rigueur), hours of sleep:6, tasteless cigars: 3
(it's all Joe's fault), private investigators' report no leads on
MacLeod: 4, moments spent pondering the possibility of overseas travel:
364.

3:12 a.m.  If time were a facet of the imagination, I suppose I'd own
all creative rights.  Sounds like the beginning to an Atwood novel.  Go
me.

Sitting in Joe's bar (funny how many entries this year start like
this), and have just finished telling Joe about Gaicus for the fiftieth
time.  Joe shakes head.  Fills glass.  Marks down how many bourbons I
have had.  In pencil.  Note to self: go and erase marks later.

Do not talk about Ryan that much.  Last week was more for that.
Conversations uneventful.  Rehashing Richie is like digging in a
splinter hole with...a really bad simile.  Really bad similes are good
for nothing else but digging in holes, really.

So very glad no one reads this.  Would wreck self-image as literary
powerhouse.

Joe asks about Quickenings.  What do they feel like?  etc.  Have heard
before.  Completely tiresome.  Cannot, however, use standard response
to Joe, which is "it's raining.  Here, take this metal rod.  Go
outside, hold to sky.  Wait."

It is because Richie is dead, and he is wondering if it was painful.
Have no response, because beheader and beheaded experience must surely
be different.

About time mentioned Quickenings in general, seeing as how in 5000
years, I have never said anything, and no one has asked me in the past
fifteen hundred years, save Byron, who needed other words that rhymed
with "quicken".  (Do not suggest "dick in", a completely sensible
response that is apparently fit only for a limerick)  Not that I have
much room to talk.  Speaking as more an observer than a recipient in
the past few years, it is a little offsetting to watch.

Joe's current mental state is one where the slightest step might make
him verbally and physically sick.  Note to self: proceed with caution.

"Lightning comes from nowhere, and zips down the throat.  The
occasional immortal will try to ground the brunt of all charges in the
ground via their sword.  Silly poofs."  Joe fills my glass.  Ah, I love
free liquor.

"It's kind of blurry after that, you know," I say, swirling glass.
Swirling glass does not do anything to bourbon this bad.  It just makes
me look more intellectual.  Young facial features make people doubt me.
Only a disadvantage with drunken Joe.

"What was the last head you took?"  Joe mutters, even though he would
know that.  I stare at the tabletop.
"Oh man, I'm sorry--"

People keep apologizing for the Horsemen.  I should be apologizing, but
no one seems to be thinking that except for Mac.  Interesting turn of
events.  Do not feel bad for time with the Horsemen.  Remind self that
nostalgia is the opiate of the morons.  Hate outdoor privies and
horses.  Prefer hot bath to tepid, and hula-hoops sucked (and still
do).

Decide right then and there to be as truthful as possible.

"It's bloody erotic, and painful, and not in any way, shape or form
describable.  Unless you lick electric sockets for fun."

Joe's face screws up.  "Nope."

"There you have it.  I have this theory, that the electricity cooks
Immortals under the skin, just like being electrocuted does to mortals.
You know when they cut their skin away, underneath they're all black?"
I hate to say this.  Sounds sick and too well thought out.  Spending
time contemplating new ways to hurt myself is so passe.

Joe drinks himself at that.  "So you're toasted on the inside, and then
what?  The healing kicks in and takes care of it?"  He snorts.  "That'd
be very interesting to see."

Not a very difficult effort to not volunteer.  Too bad for Ryan.  Still
a little raw about that.

Berating Mac for that little incident is both very difficult.  Killing
students can occasionally happen.  Killing students because one is sure
that they are actually agents of a Zoroastrian demon is another matter
entirely.  Or perhaps not.  When was the last time one of those hit
town?  Make mental note to avoid all possible "champions" in the
future, lest they behead me in the name of something that looks like
both Kronos and Horton.  Or perhaps if those two had a child, and it
looked like Adam West.  Too may bourbons.

Since Silas has not appeared, nor have any of the others inside myself,
I tell Joe with much confidence that it isn't so much assimilation as
acculturation.  Or perhaps is that supposed to be the other way around?
Joe is worried that one Immortal is sucked inside another, personality
whole and intact.  Were this true, I should have more personalities
than Sybil.

Stop for second to fantasize about Sally Field in Flying Nun outfit.
Segue to self-dressed in Flying Nun outfit.  Beat head off bar.

Immortals, Immortals, I'm sick of the whole of it.  Beheadings,
Watchers, bourbon, for the moment.  Need break.  Go to warm tropical
paradise with maidens that doth strippet theyr burgeoning thongs, aye,
arrr...

EnD.

Thanks to Petia for the Lyrics:
Prime Time
Alan Parsons Project
(Eric Woolfson - Lead Vocal)
Well even the longest night won't last forever
But too many hopes and dreams won't see the light
And all of the plans I make won't come together
Something in the air
Maybe for the only time in my life
Something in the air
Turning me around and guiding me right
And it's a prime time, maybe the stars were right
I had a premonition, it's gonna be my turn tonight
Gonna be my turn tonight
Well even the brightest star won't shine forever
But all of the hands I play are working out right
And every move I make feels like a winner
Something in the air
Maybe for the only time in my life
Something in the air
Turning me around and guiding me right
And it's a prime time, maybe the stars were right
I had a premonition, it's gonna be my turn tonight
Gonna be my turn tonight
Gonna be my turn tonight
FINIS

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