Summary: Lizzie’s life is picking up until an accident changes everything and sends Drop Dead Fred to ask for the biggest favor imaginable in order to save her. Starts with the origin of how Fred became an imaginary friend. FredXLizzie pairing.
Authors’ Notes: Please be warned, the first few chapters will be somewhat dark, but hopefully we have added enough comedy relief in to balance everything out until the good stuff. Drug usage, death, and insanity ahead. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Also, try to think of the gods in this story as:
Axel = Michael Palin Bastion = Graham Chapman Cale = Terry Jones Damion = John Cleese Enzo = Eric Idle Favian = Terry Gilliam
**Disclaimer: We sadly don’t own Drop Dead Fred (or Rik Mayall), or any of the Monty Python people/references we’ve slipped in here. Such is our lot in life. :P Cruel fate! Only the original characters are ours and we’re also pretty sure we own ourselves. Mostly.
Decided to post this here, too. Please reblog and reviews would be lovely, too. Thank you! :)
Thunder rumbled across the sky as thousands upon thousands of inebriated partiers stumbled about and swayed to the blaring music that was being pumped out of what seemed to be a never ending sea of speakers. Young women brazenly frolicked about in their bras and panties, while the men looked on, enjoying the sounds and sights surrounding them. The threat of rain didn’t faze nor dampen anyone’s spirits. Instead, it gave a shock to the already steady pulse of hedonism that was enveloping the entire crowd. It was 1969, and anybody who was anybody was here at the largest party the planet had ever seen: Woodstock.
While the frenzy of excitement continued to grow, one man looked up to the heavens in an attempt to predict when the next rain shower would start.
The day before, it had poured intermittently throughout the festival, and crowds of people had already begun to make mud pits and slides all over the vast countryside where the outdoor event was being held. The mud made it hard for walking, and as the man was always moving from one campsite to another, his mood turned a bit sour at the thought of having to trudge through more of the muck created by Mother Nature.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jean jacket and began to make his way to the nearest beer stand. His wild, orange hair began to mat against sides of his head as large raindrops began to fall from above.
“Bloody great,” the man mumbled to himself. He hated being wet, other than from having the occasional shower.
He pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck and continued his walk to the beer vendor. He could barely walk two steps without tripping over a group of hippies, who he hated as well.
He had been giving the majority of the concert-goers a look of disdain since he arrived yesterday. His face seemed to be stuck in a perpetual look of disgust, with his nose crinkled up and his piercing blue eyes glaring daggers at the heaps of inebriated, free-loving vagabonds.
A random hippie ran up to him and tried to give him a hug while chanting, “Give peace and love a chance, man!” The hippie was quickly knocked on his ass as the orange-haired man would have none of it.
“Peace and love? Piss off!” was the only reply the hippie got in return. ‘Love’ wasn’t something this man knew much about. In and out of orphanages and foster homes since he was born, he felt that no one really wanted him. He always felt at odds with the world around him, almost as if he didn’t belong.