badfic challenge - Revelations at 6:15, an LJ decimation by lynnmonster, for rustler

[lynnmonster.livejournal.com]

Title: Revelations at 6:15, an LJ decimation
Prompt: When travelling Bible salesman Benton Fraser gives a deranged (but OMG SOCUTE!!11!!) homeless man half of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich he can see into the future!!1! But then, like nobody believes him because they think he's crazy and he's like hanging out with a deranged homeless guy and it's kind of funny? But pretty sad too!!1!! Major Woobie Fraser vibes!!!!11!!!
Prompt written by: rustler
Rating/warnings/etc: Unsafe for work. (Potentially unsafe for anywhere else, either.)

Okay, anyone who has been in fandom for any length of time has come across badfic, and been depressed, appalled, or perhaps even mentally scarred by what they've read -- but still, it's fandom, right? You gets what you pays for, and fanfic is FREE. It's the whole trade-off for getting the GOOD stuff, and I've read more than my fair share without complaint.

What really gets up my nose, though, is when everyone and their sister recs a fic that's been recced to hell and back already, that really doesn't need to be recced any more no matter how good it is because you'd have to be dead not to have heard about how great it is already, and it turns out that the thing is a giant steaming pile of crap! I mean, seriously, have these people even *read* the story, or are they just rushing to rec it to jump on the bandwagon of all the "cool" kids? I'm at a loss.

Case in point: Revelations at 6:15 by monstrous_lynn.

Obviously, the author thinks that calling the fic something that sounds like a chapter of the Bible is funny, since in her ridiculous AU, Benton is a travelling Bible salesman. Oooh, soooooooo clever. [/sarcasm]

So, Benton gives this deranged (but cute, never forget that! because homeless guys are ALWAYS kind of hot underneath the stench of flopsweat and garbage) guy half his sandwich, and turns into a modern iteration of the Cassandra of myth. (What this has to do with the Biblical theme, I'll never know.)

...[B]ut the man's eyes were such a compelling, crystalline blue that Benton could not look away. Did he not himself sing, "Whatsoever you do to the least of my people, that you do unto me" in his traveling choral ministry each Sunday? And did his travels not make him a transient, of a sort, himself?

"Eat, brother. I'm sorry I don't have more to offer you," he said, and handed over the unfinished half of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The homeless man -- Benton thought he might be blond, under the layer of grime and grease matting his wayward hair into wild tufts -- looked at him disbelievingly for a moment, then slowly reached out for the meagre offering, as if waiting for Benton to change his mind and snatch it away again.

When Benton did not, a radiant smile spread across the stranger's face, and when he took his first bite, it turned blindingly transcendent.

"'Ey, fanks, guy. 'Sgood of you," the man said, rather thickly, through a throat clogged with peanut butter and soft white bread.

Benton waved his thanks aside and said, "No trouble at all," and started to head off on his way, when he was struck by the most vivid image of the man bending over to pick up the tail end of the crust after having mistakenly dropped it, and being fatally struck from behind by a careening SUV.

Benton gasped and clutched at his chest.

"Hey -- areoooghay?" The man coughed and cleared his throat. "Uh, are you okay?" came a voice from behind him.

"Fine, fine," Benton managed to answer, wheezing horribly and desperately trying to understand what had just happened. Whatever the strange vision was, be it phantasy or prophetic daydream, it certainly couldn't hurt to act as if it were some sort of divine warning. "Sorry, just had a spot of trouble breathing. Say, are you headed anywhere in particular?" he asked, resolving to stay with the man until he'd safely finished the sandwich half, if only to ease his own mind.

****

And with that transparent setup, the upright citizen and the nameless vagabond hardly leave one another's sight for the rest of the story. I mean, can you think of a flimsier premise?

Strained setup aside, though I had *major* problems with the blatant emotional manipulation the author indulges in. I mean, Fraser's a total woobie in canon, I can't argue with that, but stuff like this is excessive:

"Is that what you brought me here for? Do you think I'm really that desperate? Well, I don't need you, buddy, or your sandwiches or chess games or your fucking sympathy if that's what it's gonna cost me!" Ray pushed him violently away and Benton had no will left to fight him.

He had erred most horribly. He had given in to his basest of needs. He had no defense for what he had done, and not knowing that Ray would react so badly to a kiss Benton had hoped he would welcome was no excuse. Benton had forgotten the most important thing: he was alone, and always would be. His parents had abandoned him; his foster parents had died; his wife had betrayed him, tried to murder him, and then left him for dead; his childhood friends had all turned their backs once they'd found out about his shame; even bulk-mailers shunned his address; he had no-one. That was why he chose to be an itinerant, after all -- no one would claim him, but if he kept moving, kept meeting new people who did not know his inner self, he could bear that fact. In that way, he also spared himself the rejection of those he came to love, since rejection was inevitably the outcome of any human connection he made. And he wisely never got to know anyone well enough any more to ... slip ... certainly not this horrendously. His face burned with shame and his throat burned with bile.

He was an abomination. He was an abomination, and he had wronged this beautiful, wounded man, and the most satisfying companion he'd ever dreamed of hated him now.

***

WhatEVER.

I cannot stand this fake drama. Sure, some people are bigots. But not the entire friggin' world! This is 2006! Move to fucking San Francisco if that's what it takes, dumbass!

And then there's the "plot." Oh, the trite and hackneyed quasi-fantastical psychic storyline really bit, IMHO, but *especially* the action scenes:

"No, you must listen!" shouted Benton. "There is going to be an assassination attempt against the Queen!"

"Oh?" questioned the Mountie, finally paying him some attention, albeit the wrong kind. "Maybe you oughtta come back to the depot with us and ... explain."

"There's no TIME!" he uttered desperately, willing the man to just listen to him. "Killer pastry chefs! With the Bavarian Culinary Delegation! It's a cover for an international, non-Bavarian terrorist organization! The chefs aren't even FROM Bavaria!"

"Okay, sonny, I think you really need to come with us now..." The man reached out and clamped onto Benton's arm, tugging him forward.

"No, wait -- you don't understand, it's --" the click of handcuffs closing around his left wrist silenced Benton as he realized he'd been completely naïve to believe all he had to do was tell an authority figure. Normally, he would go along peacefully, and try to explain, but the situation was crucial -- he couldn't just leave the Queen to be assassinated, not when he'd been granted Sight of what was to come! He avoided the second ring of the cuffs by swinging his body to the side, but knew such tactics would only result in the smallest of delays. But he must act, and act now! If only some deus ex machina would intervene, he prayed, he would do his damndest to save the crown!

A great roar arose, and the stained glass window of the cathedral burst inward in a tinlkling scatter of deadly, colored shards. The Mountie attempting to apprehend him dove to the floor, and Benton threw his arms up to protect his face. When the noise subsided with a screech and a clatter, Benton let his arms fall. His palms were bleeding, and it seemed to him that the only noise in the House of God was the slow patter of his blood dripping onto the marble floor and his labored breathing as he beheld his radiant, battered savior.

Ray.

Ray had come for him. On a motorcycle.

***

... dude. I mean, DUDE. I can't even tell which one of them is supposed to be divine, here. The mixed symbolism is just too muddled for the likes of me!

Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I'm being too harsh. The punctuation and spelling are fine, and there's an actual story there and everything (even if it is totally lame). I wouldn't normally pick a fic apart like this, but I just have NO IDEA why it's being recced all over the place. It's so unworthy.

And the sex. Oh, jesus, the sex:

Ray's turgid love-pole rose even higher as he watched, and Benton salivated hungrily.

"Damn, you're hot when you're panting for it, you slut," said Ray. "I shoulda known, it's always the buttoned-up ones."

Benton paused mid-motion, sensing a cue, and began re-buttoning his shirt.

"Oh, yeah, Mister Starchy-Clean is gonna suck me in his prissy oxford shirt, get it all dirty."

***

But I'll cut it there in the interest of sparing whatever sensibilities you may have left.


...plus I think the author's LJ is just a sockpuppet.

P.S. -- rustler, I absolutely love you for suggesting this.