GRACE. (suchaclotpole) wrote in eric_idle,

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fic - my name is eric

HOORAH (: my first post here, and i thought i might aswell start off with this titchy piece of fiction i wrote a couple of months ago!

Title: My Name Is Eric
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,000 words
Warnings: themes of violence, and murder (and transvestitism, but only a mention)
Synopsis: 'The life of a killer? Eh, it’s not all that.' Or so he said.
Author’s Notes: I basically took Mr Idle and turned him into a murderer. Yes, it's a totally bizarre and odd idea, but I enjoy experimenting with bits and bobs like this, and sticking fairly normal people into different situations.
Disclaimer: I don't own Monty Python or Eric Idle (but I do borrow him at weekends (: )


I was recognised in the supermarket the other day. Carrying a bottle of milk and a knitting magazine, wearing nay but a yellow mac and a pair of paint strewn black trousers. Too tight for anything to be kept within the seams of those bad boys. Shoes and socks were never necessary.

The show had only been on air for a few months, and little but a whisper had been said about my presence. Sick and tired of the little fame I was receiving, the other week I even stood upon a table at my local pub and screamed my name at the top of my lungs. Soon after I was barred. I saw no reason for it.

I had never had any recognition before the pilot. Women found me strangely motherable. I was seen as the smallest and therefore youngest of all six of us, and so was treated like a child. And, so far so good, I have done my best to act like that child. Getting barred from ‘The Horse and Carriage’ was the first step. The next step - well, more of a leap - takes things to the other extreme.

Perhaps lack of noticing drove me to it. Who knows?

The girl at the supermarket was pretty. Fairly pretty. A lot prettier than the usual women that wandered after me. I have my own mother and she’s bad enough. I don’t need fifty more. She asked for my autograph. I didn’t know what to do. She asked for me to personalise it. I didn’t know what she meant. I told her. She left.

I originally let my hair grow because we couldn’t afford to go to the barbers, and I refused to let my mother ruin it with a bowl and a pair of scissors. I left it there, as when I grew up it became fashionable. Not to the ladies, though, who found me vile; what with my spotted face and mouth full of wire. Oh, how fickle the feelings of fashion are.

Apparently macs are no longer in fashion either. What a shame.

On my way home, I bumped into my father. He didn’t seem too impressed with the show. Decided that my putting on dresses did not suit me. I told him that I was not a transvestite. He seemed sceptical.
My flat was not spacious, as the money I had earnt was sitting on the side in the form of Jack Daniels. The smell of the place was rotten, but that certainly wasn’t the booze. I didn’t know who she was. An unsuspecting victim. There at the wrong place and the wrong time, with an ‘oh so sweet’ fragrance. Girlfriends are overrated anyway.

I nailed her body on the wall. Stuck up like some sort of paralysed Jesus. The congealing blood didn’t bother me. I hung my mac across her arm; I wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

I read on the news that a girl had gone missing. The photo fit looked so much like mine. What a shame they’d never find her. The police were useless anyway.

My watch read ten o’clock. I’d be going out again soon. My head began to throb with the thought of it.

The news finished, and I realised I was supposed to be appearing on the next show. Oh well. They never remembered me anyway. As the interview continued, not once my name was mentioned. I sighed. It was to be expected.

I went out again, just to feel the night air.

It’s not like I’m a serial killer. I just want to be noticed.I’m not on the news, but I will be soon. The suspense was killing me.

I went to the supermarket again. The man behind the checkout gave me the evil eye. It seemed my tin of beans was suspicious. What was his beef?

That’s a strange expression. ‘Beef’. What if you’re a vegetarian? Does that mean you can’t use the phrase? Perhaps ‘what’s your sprout?’ would be more appropriate?

Such strange discussions had been gone through several times with the six of us. Usually produced by me, and rejected by any one of them. ‘You’ll learn,’ they said, ‘you’re just too young to understand,’ they said. Sometimes I want to murder one of them.

The cashier let me pass. Thank Christ. I’d wrestled with that brute before. A Half-price bag of peas. He gave me a black-eye and a bloody nose. I was a laughing stock for the rest of the week. I looked like a panda with a cold, apparently.

I returned to my flat, beckoned in by Alice and her charming aroma.

I’d always wanted that sort of attention. From other people. Like in some sort of police drama. They go to the house of some unsuspecting civilian; someone who they’ve got no beef with, and it turns out that they’re the killer. They have to go on a wild goose chase through the city until they finally come across him in a crowded café. They give chase, and finally he is arrested.

Eh. I’d like to say that’s how I want to be brought to justice. It’s never going to happen. I have the imagination of a child, but the legs of a cripple. I’d be struck down when it really mattered. There wouldn’t be a long run through the city. It’d be a short trip down a flight of stairs.

It was one in the morning. I had an early start. That usually meant nine o’clock. I kissed my lover goodnight, before climbing under the sheets. My dreams were always so colourful. Much more exciting than my normal life.

I’ll have shows made about me and my drab life, and they’ll interview me. I’ll stop, sigh and stare. And now, as I fall asleep, I have my final words to the camera in my head, swimming there in front of me just waiting to be said;

‘The life of a killer? Eh, it’s not all that.’
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