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From the Desk of Donald Trump: SUPER DUPER SERIOUSLY ANNOUNCEMENT
Tension was high in the well-lit halls of the new Authority headquarters. The news had come across the wire that Donald Trump was slated to make an announcement at exactly midnight. In the media room, the wall of television screens were tuned to twenty-four hour news networks from around the world. The center screen – the largest – was centered on the New York City skyline.
“I can practically smell the pee and the rudeness from here,” Eric Northman sneered, and the vampires surrounding him chuckled and smiled indulgently.
Unnoticed by the ancient vampire, a small cluster of interns rolled their eyes.
“He really needs to stop insulting New York. A lot of people are from there,” one huffed.
“Everyone likes to hate on New York.”
“That doesn't make it okay!”
“Sssh, it's starting.”
A wispy-haired sourpuss settled into the camera's view, eclipsing the skyscrapers in the background. His ruddy face looked angry as he gave the camera a squinty glare.
“I come to you today with an important announcement. First, I want to say that I am humbled and gratified that due to my efforts, and my efforts alone, we have finally succeeded in getting Eric Northman to release his original long form birth certificate.”
The speaker paused, as if for applause. Considering the format of the broadcast, that was kind of weird.
“Do you think they've been able to translate it yet?” Pam asked, sotto voce.
“I doubt it. No one speaks modern Swedish anymore,” Eric said with confidence.
“Well, except the people who write the subtitles,” Pam argued.
“I write the subtitles,” Eric asserted.
“He's so talented,” one of the interns said dreamily, before swooning away.
Unbeknownst to 'The Donald,' the document released by the Authority last week was nothing more than a dirty limerick about sexual proclivities of red-headed women.
“Eric Northman is the least transparent Sheriff of Area 5 that this country has ever seen,” Donald Trump continued. “That guy with the curly hair? He was always upfront about his orders. But Eric Northman works in secrecy, ladies and gentlemen. He works in secrecy, because he's hiding something!
“I come to you today to announce that if Eric Northman releases, in full, his college applications, college transcripts, in full...
“And if he releases, IN FULL, his passport application... then I, Donald Trump, will, within one hour...”
Donald help up a single, accusatory finger, to let the world-wide audience know exactly how many hours was “one.”
“Give five,” The Donald threw up all five fingers, “million dollars to the production budget of True Blood, to be used for the improvement of his choice.”
There was a collective gasp around the room, and indeed, around the nation.
“He wants your college transcripts?” Pam asked quickly.
“From the community college I attended in the seventies?” Eric scoffed. “He can have them. I got a B+ in ETL. English as a Twenty-second Language,” he clarified, to those who had given him blank looks.
“Passport is going to be tricky,” the ghost of Godric observed.
“Godric slash Godfrey,” Eric whispered with awe. “When did you get here?” he asked reverently.
“I am always with you, my son.”
A boyish wonder reflected in the face so hardened by centuries of ordeal, turmoil, and the frequenting of whorehouses. Eric had seldom looked so innocent, or so handsome. The touching moment was interrupted as Donald blundered on.
“If he releases, to my satisfaction, these documents...he can use five million dollars for anything. If they want to get more extras for the Fangtasia scenes, if they want to bring in Charlaine Harris to script-supervise the final season, if they want to use the editors that do the promotional clips to actually edit the show...
In another part of the world, Alan Ball minimized the window on his computer screen and brought up the camera feeds from his security system. He watched the silent guards pace the grounds of his sprawling estate for several minutes before breathing a sigh of relief. Still secure.
In New York, Mr. Trump continued, “... fund the lynch mob to capture the fugitive Alan Ball... whatever he wants to use it for, that's fine. All he has to do is produce the documents, and within one hour, HBO will have the check.”
Mr. Trump paused again, as if he knew that in newsrooms and boardrooms across the country, people would have broken down into the same low murmur of conversation that was taking place at the Authority.
“He should totally do it,” one of the interns murmured. “It's completely implausible that he would have a whole secret basement room full of cash when they can't even get more than ten people into the bar on a Friday night. How is he making that money? It just doesn't make sense.”
“It doesn't have to make sense,” another argued. “For god's sake, there are plot holes the size of Texas everywhere you look, and you're worried about the extras? We need Charlaine, toute suite.”
“There's no chance. She's moved on. Not even the whole five million could tempt her back.”
“Oh please, she's a total money grubber, she'd do anything for five million dollars.”
The room went absolutely silent. The hapless intern suddenly found herself the focus of everyone in the room. Eric stalked forward, the only movement in the space, apart from the girl's trembling. He fixed her with his glacial stare.
“Do not. Speak ill. Of The Maker,” he bit out viciously.
A tiny flick of Eric's fingers summoned half a dozen Authority guards to surround the intern.
“I d-didn't mean it! I thought this was an anonymous forum!” she babbled. “I didn't mean it! She's great! I just happen to like the show better!”
It was too late.
The guards seized each one of her limbs, her head, and her torso. With another nod of Eric's head, they wrenched. Blood and viscera exploded from the dismembered corpse, splattering the room and all of its occupants with a vibrant crimson spray. The glossy red sheen that coated the walls and furniture was dotted with flecks of deeper, purplish entrails, and the sinewy strips of vein and muscle tissue clung to people's hair like bad extensions.
One of the guards hefted an arm through the air where it turned three perfect rotations before landing with a dull thud and a sickening final bounce as it settled near a puddle of the former intern's former life force.
Eric lifted his middle finger to wipe an errant spatter from his eye. Cold dominance radiated from his towering form, filling the room with a thousand years of accumulated menace. He was daring anyone else to speak.
“Um, hello?” Donald Trump spoke from the screen.
“Right, so, in conclusion,” he went on. “College applications and transcripts, and passport applications, and True Blood gets five million. You could greatly benefit this entire country, Mr. Northman. I hope you don't disappoint me.”
The tension in the room ratcheted down significantly as the video seemed to be coming to a close.
“Oh, and there's one caveat,” Donald said smugly. “The documents have to be released by the close of the 2013 Fangreaders Awards, or the entire deal goes out the window. And I'd like to be invited to the awards. I want one of those gift bags. And also...”
“Alright Donald, that's enough,” came the voice of a different authority.
Barbara Walters suddenly appeared on screen, dressed in a pale yellow suit with a magnificent brooch pinned to her lapel. Her ash blonde hair was styled in a flawless coif and her petal pink lips were tight with a stern scowl.
“You're being ridiculous. Stop it.”
“Come on, Barbara, he's hurting America...”
“You're embarrassing yourself, Donald. Stop it.”
“I said stop it. Don't make me call Rosie.”
“Oh god,” he shuddered.
“That's right. Now finish up.”
“All the documents, by the Fangies, and True Blood gets the money. America needs a Sheriff of Area 5 that it can trust. Hand over the documents, Mr. Northmen, or else... you're fired.”
The set switched off abruptly.
“Well he can't fire you,” Pam asserted.
“He could talk to Felipe. They know each other from Vegas.”
“Who's Felipe?” one of the interns whispered. The others ignored her.
“Besides, you may or may not have already been fired,” Pam reasoned.
“I can't handle this right now,” Eric said.
“Where are you going to go?” Pam asked.
“You know where,” he said darkly.
Eric took to the sky the second he was outside the Authority headquarters. He was making a bee-line for Bon Temps.
She just better not be with Bill right now, that was all he could think. Who the hell knows what they could be getting up to? Bill was probably teaching her how to download audiobooks on that damn fangled computer machine so she could relive the steamier highlights of their failed relationship again and again. He was so conniving. How did people not see this? Fucking innocuous sideburns.
Passport documents. What in the hell was Donald Trump thinking? It's not like you have to meet with customs officials when you travel Air Northman. Ugh.
This could be a problem.
Many thanks to Chicpea for this great promotional Fangie fic. Be sure to show the love and leave a review!
Important Dates for the Fangreaders Awards:
9th of December 2012- Nomination Ballots go out to all the members
20th of January 2013 ( 6 weeks of nominations)- Nomination Ballots Due
3rd February 2013 - Public Voting Begins
17th of March 2013 – Public Voting Closes
30th March 2013 - Award Ceremony announcing the winners on the Hall of Fame Site at 9pm GMT
There will be much more information to come, so please stay tuned.
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