Number One Fan

By J.S.Danskin

Disclaimer: MTV2 is mentioned in this fic, as the channel that supports the music chat show the character is involved in called "Severity Rights". This is a fictional programme and I do not have any links with MTV2 Europe. Okay?

Author's Note: Brand spanking new story, folks! Really it's the last thing I should be doing because I've got so many to get up and going but hey when you get inspiration you write it all down so you can come back to it in a while, so this'll probably be a bit of a slow lift-off. But if it gets a few reviews then I'm more likely to pick up the pace for those who demand!! Okay, so enjoy the first chapter!

Chapter One - Lift Off

Shaun kicked his grubby trainers off and propped his feet up on the stylish Ikea coffee table armed with a remote control and a bag of Doritos with a mild salsa dip. Or so he thought it was the mild salsa dip, but really he'd carelessly bought the "SPICY HOT MEXICAN" salsa dip. And as the vulnerable, unsuspecting sensitive-tongued man that he was cracked open the packet of crisps and took a large scoop out of the family sized jar of salsa dip, the T.V. automatically turning on to his beloved music station, nothing would prepare him for the shock of the sauce. For, as he slid the slightly salty Dorito into his yappy mouth, the sensors on his tongue were bleeping like crazy, because Shaun had never been a fan of spicy food.

It took over three point four-six seconds for him to react.

"JESUS CHRIST!" he yelped, both the Doritos and Dip spilling all over his expensive wood flooring. He'd worry about the mess of cracked snacks and evil, nasty sauce spread all over the carpet. Or he'd worry about it right then, because he wasn't wearing any socks under his shoes (which he'd kicked off) and in his leaping up, he was dancing around waving his hands at chin level trying - foolishly - to fan off the heat constricting his tongue, he was treading on the crisps, breaking them into small, sharp pieces thus inevitably pricking his feet.

"OW! OW! OOYAH!" he bawled insanely, dancing and prancing around with sauce- and-crisp lined feet, making even more of a mess and inducing even more pain to his darling tootsies. Finally he found enough initiative to hobble through into the kitchen and - no, didn't get a glass of water like any ordinary person - stuck his head under the tap with his mouth wide open.

Anyone who happened to walk into the room just then would roll their eyes and either:

back slowly away and wait for him to calm down

bang him over the head with a frying pan and threaten to cut out his tongue if he didn't stop being such a wally.

call pest control

But no one except Shaun's tabby cat Patti (after the punk singer Patti Smith) wandered into the room. If she could do any of the three possibilities noted above then she would, preferably the latter, but alas, she was not able to, so she instead decided to rub herself around his legs to calm him down.

"PIGGY!" he shrieked in delight, scooping up his cat in his arms and holding the now seriously protesting cat to his stylish black shirt. He regarded her huffiness with him and set her down. She stumbled a little bit before picking herself up gracefully before stalking away proudly with her bottom flaunted in the air.

"Bloody cat," he mumbled, calling after her as he wiped his shirt not only covered in salsa dip but also cat hair and invisible - yet smelly - nicotine stench, "I thought you were supposed to land on your feet!"

When Piggy Patti didn't answer, Shaun grumbled to himself, murmuring that he was too good for that cat, and how he should've got an iguana and named it Dave. He wet a sponge (a clean one, thankfully) and made it back through to the living room. He collapsed on the comfortable blue fabric couch with a happy sigh from his throbbing throat and held the cold sponge, the liquid oozing onto his burnt tongue like sweet ambrosia on Mount Olympus.

" . . . we are happy to announce the arrival of a new rock band!" Shaun groaned at the familiar voice on the T.V. MTV2 had invested in. Shaun was, in fact, the leading presenter of "Severity Rights", the randomly named T.V. show that took after Zane Lowe's "Gonzo". So far, the project had gone well and Shaun was by far the most popular out of the three presenters on the show, himself, Callum Little and (speaking of Dave's) Dave Appletree. Shaun chuckled to himself and resolved to now call Mr. Appletree by the name "Iguana".

It was Iguana-Man that was chatting away just now, and Shaun wasn't bothering to look at the screen because he was too busy with his head leaning back massaging his tongue with the sponge, but he could still hear.

"We'll have more information on the latest band from Glasgow's throbbing . . ." Shaun felt Iguana-Man's torment at finding the right word. It was true that there was a lot of pressure to maintain the required cool wit on a live show. ". . . suburbs, after the next video."

Shaun groaned. "THUBUBS?!" he gabbled in his predicament, rolling his eyes at the crapness. He allowed himself to peer over his nose at the television, which was now showing the Manic Street Preachers' video for "Motorcycle Emptiness". Smiling at the decent song being presented before him, Shaun headed back to the kitchen to re-moisten the sponge. When he returned, the video was ending and Mr Manic disappeared.

The weird cameraman zoomed in and out on Iguana-Man, but not enough to reveal Dave's unique dimple just underneath his chin.

"We're opening up the text messaging forum . . . now, folks, so send in your opinions and show them to Britain! Except you, the Irish. You don't get to text. Why, I have no idea. Hey, Mack, why can't Ireland text in?" he called to behind the set, trying to be cool.

Shaun felt the producer cringing at this precise moment, but to stop Iguana- Man looking even more ridiculous, someone had to put in, "Because only Northern Ireland is part of Britain, and the Republic isn't so it doesn't get the T.V."

"Thank you, Mr Smarty-Pants!" Iguana-Man grinned. Shaun could bet on it that most Irish people would be after HIS pants soon after. "So, all you Irish northerners, YOU may send us your texts. Anyway, we're running out of time with all this Irish banter in England's green meadows!"

Shaun scoffed. "Severity Rights'" studio was in the middle of London.

"Now, we're going to talk about THIS new band here," Iguana-Man announced, and a picture of a three-piece band appeared. It was your typical serious shot of a band, except that one of the characters had a cheesy smile on showing nothing less than sheer enthusiasm. Shaun froze. In between who was obviously the drummer and a grumpy-looking bass guitarist was the smiling character. She was holding a basic bright red Fender "Telecaster" personalised with stickers and broken plectrums, but it wasn't the guitar that Shaun was attracted to.

Struggling, he focused on what Iguana-Man was saying about the band . . . about HER.

"Now, we're all very glad to say that this talented young band will be joining us in the studio next week," he was saying. Shaun was still staring at the photograph. "So remember to tune in at seven sharp, and they'll be here for a whole hour talking about their new album, "Geronimatrix". Their name, I hear you ask? They call themselves . . . "The Slice"".

"I have to host that show," Shaun murmured to himself, swearing that he would meet them. He hadn't even heard their music yet, but there was plenty of time for that.

Across the bottom of the screen, a text from a non-Rep. of Ireland character scrolled across just sprouting arrogance: "Hey, that geetarist is pretty hot! But don't tell my girlfriend Gina! Lots of love, the Y-Man!"

Shaun didn't give a shit about Gina or the Y-Man, whoever the fuck he was, but he thought the weird texting kid who had just wasted 80 pence on his phone to say that was dead right. The guitarist was hot. Very hot.

Author's Note: OKAY! I hope you liked it! Please review!