"Reversal of fortune? No way. Reversal of skill." -Uffish Thought
Question #49190 posted on 02/07/2009 3:01 a.m.

Dear Rating Pending,

Board Question #44374. Please please please write the sequal. I loved this so much, I can't even express to you. I really thoght I would asphyxiate I was laughing so hard. You pegged those books perfectly. I'm so very very impressed!

Myna Mehere
who can go on 20 minute rants about those books, and is known for hating them at work and in all her classes and at home

A: Dear Myna,

Phew! Here it is. Complete and ready for your reading pleasure. I hope you enjoy it (you certainly waited a long time for it). I certainly enjoyed writing it. For the record I don't hate Twilight. I just think it's a bit silly. I think it's a good read. Anyone who hates it is obviously just jealous that they don't have an attractive vampire who's way into them. I know I am!

A little background. Before I wrote the first Twilight spoof (linked above) I had not read the books, but had heard an ear-full about them. I have since read the first book. From what I understand, the subsequent books involve a terribly emotional love triangle between the heroine, her perfectly perfect vampire BFF, and another suitor who turns out to be (gasp) *SPOILER ALERT* a werewolf!! GASP indeed!

Anyway I went with that angle. If you don't feel like reading the previous story, the narrator is a high school girl named Stella Crow. She's in love with a demon named Damien. . . Aaaaand that's pretty much it. Enjoy.



I stumbled blindly through the dark corridor that was full of darkness and imagery and metaphors and hidden messages that would become clear in later chapters. “Damien!” I called out! “Damien I need you I love you! I know that you’re a demon and that you are eternally young and attractive in a Josh-Grobany sort of way! And that even though your morally questionable job is damning people to an eternity of suffering and though you have horns growing out of your skull and though you are inexplicably warm and clammy and smell like brimstone, I know that you and I are meant to be together forever or until someone else who is also attractive and immortal somehow comes along although that probably won’t happen until later on in this book!” I continued stumbling and calling out until I had successfully reviewed the important points of the first book and experienced some disturbing images that would probably make me wake up in a cold sweat.

I woke up in a cold sweat! I did something cliché to calm myself down (splashed water on my face, got up and walked around, blogged about my feelings, etc.). “Good thing that was just a dream!” I said to myself. “And good thing that things in dreams never really happen!” I said, naively waving my hands to clear the swirling, oppressive clouds of foreboding circling my head.


I was walking toward the cafeteria with one of my many friends, Erica (or maybe Janine . . . I was having trouble focusing on non-Damien related issues these days. Anyway, the point is that I have a lot of friends and am very well rounded). We chatted about something that I don’t recall now. I think that she mentioned the Disney Channel television show “That’s So Raven,” because I remember that I perked up when she said “Raven” because it sounded kind of like “Damien.” I daydreamed about Damien as we walked (the daydreams were like my night dream, but with fewer metaphors). It wasn’t every girl who knew that as soon as she got to the cafeteria, a smokin’ hot demon-posing-as-a-teenager was going to be there smiling and flirting at her. As I thought about my clean-cut, handsome devil (I giggled at my own pun), I fingered the necklace that Damien had given me. It was made out of flaxen cord and I think monkey teeth. I smiled to myself and literally counted the seconds until I could see Damien again.

There were 47 seconds. And there he was.

Damien! Just seeing him gave me shivers like someone kicking me in the kidney with an icy cold frozen boot of absolute love! We were made for each other! We were meant for each other! Nobody could understand him like I did. If I could snap off a piece of his perfect body, melt him in a dirty spoon into a perfect, beautiful, exquisitely gorgeous pool of liquid wonderful and inject him directly into my veins I would do it in an instant! I hadn’t seen Damien for a couple of hours and already I was starting to sweat and get violent chills and experience some pretty painful pangs in my head, arms, and legs. Pangs of what I can only assume was pure love!

I blinked several times as my eyes had become quite dry from staring. I turned and sat down at the lunch table, tearing my gaze away from Damien. Not being able to look at him was like wrenching a whole roll of duct tape off of my unshaved legs and armpits except that it hurt more.

“Hey, Stella,” the inconsequential and rather forgettable group of minor characters I ate with murmured in unison.

"Oh, by the way Stella," one or possibly several of them said, “Do you want to get together later tonight to study and/or practice . . . ?” and he or they mentioned that one thing that I supposedly like to do with my free time that we can mention now, near the beginning of the story, once more later on, and then forget about because it has nothing to do with Damien.

Just then, I felt a playful shiver run up my spine like a declawed possum, only with claws. My heart started beating faster. The edges of my vision started to blur. My throat closed up. Normally I would think that this was nothing more than my deadly peanut allergy acting up but I knew better. I whirled around in my seat with so much enthusiasm I that I got dizzy. But not as dizzy as I had just become because Damien (I felt almost unworthy to think his name) was standing behind me. “Eeeeeeeee!!!” I squealed in my brain and a little bit out loud.

“Hello Stella,” his voice hissed out, lovingly. “Hello . . .” he said to the table full of minor characters I ate lunch with. The responses from my lunch mates ranged from cold-emasculating-insecurity from the boys to faint-hearted-swooning from some of the girls (a camp I typically align myself with).

My smile was so big that it wrapped around to the back of my head and I could taste my dandruff controlling conditioner. Damien was mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. My internal monologue rose to a piercing, wailing banshee-like scream in my mind. A banshee who was in love in a very mature, well-rounded, psychologically healthy way. Mine, mine, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE!!!

But apparently, for once, my faintness was not due entirely to the heady musk that exuded from Damien like honey oozing down the adorable face of the plastic squeeze bear. If my pounding heart, numb extremities and thickening tongue were any indication, I actually WAS having a peanut allergy attack. I’m not saying that my chemically imbalanced, like-a-mother-bear-defending-her-cub style love for Damien couldn’t have caused those symptoms . . . just this time it didn’t. I started to fall toward the ground, when I felt encircled by a powerful, honey-musked, uncomfortably moist embrace that I knew to be Damien's. “ . . . mine,” I whispered thickly before darkness started to creep in.

As I slipped into unconsciousness, I reflected on how fortunate it was that I had my peanut allergy that allowed Damien to swoop in and rescue me, treating me in a way that would otherwise appear overbearing or controlling. I hoped that Damien knew how much I loved him and that I wouldn't swallow my tongue (in that order) as the world around me went black.


I came to some time later with a stomachache in my gut, love for Damien in my heart, a headache, blurred vision, aching sides, passionate but definitely PG/family friendly Damien-cuddling thoughts going through my head, the taste of blood and bile in my mouth, a rash on my arms and legs, and probably some more love all wrapped up in some pretty powerful nausea and love.

"I hope you're feeling better," said a deep, rumbling voice next to me. I blinked the fuzziness from my eyes and tried to recognize who the voice was coming from.

"That's a nasty peanut allergy you've got," the voice thundered. "My Aunt Ester almost died from one last Passover. Well, it was either the peanut oil that got into the matzoh or because my sister Rachel brought her new Dominican boyfriend, Miguel." There was a deep chuckle that sounded like a boulder falling on the hood of a car. This strange line of comments was not making things any clearer. I was confused and also thinking about Damien (two things that actually went together quite frequently these days).

Even though I was still dizzy, I sat up. At first I thought I was dreaming, but because there was no fog, no running, and no metaphors, I decided I must be awake. There was, however, a corridor. I was sitting in an almost deserted hall outside the cafeteria. I wasn’t alone because there, in front of me, stood a tall, blocky . . . thing. It was man-shaped, but looked like it had been roughly carved out of clay, or muddy rocks. It had a deep, rough and gravelly voice and stood a few feet away from me. Since he was not Damien and since I was providing the reader with a detailed description of him, I was sure that this thing/man/creature was probably relevant to the story.

Suddenly I started to feel faint again, my palms began to sweat and my heart started beating the rhythm to "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing," by Aerosmith. I whirled around (for the second time that day) and saw Damien standing there (statistically making my whirling around 100% Damien efficient).

There he was, with a face that belonged on a Michelangelo sculpture or on the cover of Teen Beat magazine. He stood there, his hair saying "Hey, I just woke up and I haven't washed my hair in days and this fauxhawk is all natural, baby!" his eyes saying, "I show deep emotion that I can't ever express in words because words aren't as deep as I am," his designer jeans saying, "I'm richer and therefore better than you are," his lithe and fit body saying, "I am young and attractive and can therefore target a large consumer demographic consisting of females ages 14-40," and his mouth saying (in actual words), "Stella, are you alright?"

I couldn't answer, I just smiled and burbled happily on the ground, where both Damien and this strange, clay-person seemed content to leave me for the time being.

Damien turned his red-tinged, angst-ridden eyes toward the clay man. He said, in a voice that could curdle milk from a hundred yards, "Thanks for taking care of Stella, Mordechai, but I can take it from here."

The clay-man snorted and laughed again which sounded like a rock slide. "I don't think so, Mullens," he rumbled. "My father and I have been watching you for some time now. I think that you and Miss Crow are spending entirely too much time together."

Damien took a few steps forward. He looked like a tiger with a popped collar ready to pounce. "Thanks for playing chaperon. Believe me, Loew, I would love for Stella to keep as far away from me and my family and the eternal nightmare that is the life of a demon, doomed for all eternity to be a minion of Lucifer, son of the morning." He said the last part in a heavy, weary voice, but I didn't really notice because as soon as he said the words, "love for Stella," I had gone into almost rapturous convulsions and my hand had automatically started tracing the words, Mrs. Stella Mullens Mrs. Stella Mullens Mrs. Damien Mullens over and over again.

I was broken out of my reverie by what sounded like a bulldozer. The clay man walked over to me and picked me up lightly from the ground. He held a thick, bumpy arm around me so that I wouldn't fall over. "Stella," he rumbled, "Do you need any help getting to biology?" I looked up at his bumpy clay face and then pushed out of his arms and backed away toward Damien.

"Wait, wait. Who are you?" I said. "How do you know I have biology next period?"

A look of confusion passed over the creature's large clay face. "Stella, I'm Mordechai. Mordechai Loew? I'm a student here, with you and Damien." I looked and noticed that he was carrying a backpack and was wearing a DC hoodie with white iPod headphones coming out of it (fittingly, I was pretty sure that the tinny little music coming out of them was Clay Aiken). All these were very high schoolish things to have, but I continued to look at him doubtfully.

"Are you serious? You don't even know who I am?" he continued in a confused rumble. "We have biology together. I've been in every single one of your classes this entire school year. We did a group project together about Caesar in History! For crying out loud, Stella, I'm the only kid in the whole school who looks like a walking pottery class! How could you not recognize me?"

This was crazy! I turned around toward Damien hoping that he could confirm that this strange clay-boy was making all of this up. But I was surprised to see Damien looking at me in confusion too.

"It's true, Stella," Damien said in his beautiful, like-all-three-Jonas-brothers-combined-but-better voice. "Mordechai has been going to this high school for as long as I have. In fact, he invited you to his little brother's bar mitzvah just yesterday."

There was a loud sigh from Mordechai, a sigh that sounded like a jackhammer wheezing to a halt. "Stella, listen," he said. I turned and looked at him. "I'm a golem," he said in a slow voice, one usually reserved for children and pets. "My name is Mordechai Loew. My father, Rabbi Loew, created me from a lump of clay to protect the Jews from violence and persecution. When we heard that a family of demons lived in this town, he decided it would be a good place for us to be."

He took a deep breath and continued, "It has been a lonely life here. I am immortal, a servant of powers and causes greater than myself. I don't have many friends and I long for the companionship of a friend. And, I know it is not possible, but I ache to feel love. But I am simply a monster and I cannot be a part of the human world that I long desperately to fit into." He sighed again.

"But I suppose you don't know anything about that. Oh well. Stella, I'll see you in biology. We're talking about mitosis today . . ." And with that, the giant, clay teenager turned and walked away, crunching and booming his way down the hall, with his headphones in, listening to his Clay Aiken.

Before turning again toward Damien (and becoming re-smitten with his perfect perfection), I thought about what Mordechai had just said: he was lonely, an immortal creature who longed for someone to love and to be loved by someone in return. As crazy as it might sound, it really sounded a bit like Damien. . .

But then I felt a warmth, like falling into a hot tub with your clothes on, and I knew that Damien was coming up behind me. Just before he embraced me I wondered if the only reason that Damien's loneliness, personal anguish, inability to express his feelings and anti-social behavior was so attractive, while Mordechai's was just off-putting and weird, was because Damien was so hot and Mordechai looked like an imploded mine shaft. "It couldn't be," I thought to myself. "That would be really pretty shallow of me, wouldn't it?" And then Damien hugged me and I knew with all the power of my being, with all the strength of my heart and my teenaged soul, that I would love Damien forever.


A few weeks later, after several deep and troubling experiences that I don't have time to go into now, I found myself weeping into Damien's perma-rumpled, purple striped A&E shirt.

"I . . . I think I'm in love with Mordechai," I said through my sobs. Damien said nothing and just held me. After a few minutes (or possibly hours) of sobbing, I sniffed and looked up at my beautiful demon.

"Oh Damien," I choked out. "I feel so conflicted. How can I be so in love with two immortal creatures, a demon and a golem, who are sworn enemies of each other? How long do you think I can go on like this?!"

Damien just smiled his sad, perfect little smile, a smile so perfect, I knew that no matter who was cast in the movie version of this story, they wouldn't look nearly as perfect as he did right now.

"Oh, at least for two more books," he said.


- Rating Pending (who hopes he is the first person to ever think of making a Clay Aiken joke in reference to a golem)