AN: Pardon me my personal indulgence but I just had to blow off a little steam. I feel better now.

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She stuck her head in the open door. "Is this the writer's room?"

The four people grouped around one end of a large conference table looked up in unison.

"Yes, it is," said Fred, a paunchy bald guy wearing glasses. "But you're not allowed to be in here . . ."

"It's okay." The stranger entered the room and closed the door behind her with a snap. A wide, false smile stretched her lips. "This will only take a minute. I just want to have a little chat with you."

The four writers exchanged a glance. She was a bit odd, this woman standing in front of them. Covered in an ill-fitting, over-sized white denim jacket, the wild curly red hair hanging over her shoulders only emphasized the brittle sparkle in her eyes.

Fred, who seemed to have elected himself spokesman for the group, stood up.

"Lady . . ."

"Uh uh uh! I'm doing the talking!" With the wag of an index finger, she gestured him back to his seat and began pacing in front of the door. "What I don't understand," she began, in a voice tinged with a hint of southern twang, "is why you're being so mean? It's just one little guest appearance. Just one!"

Ginny, the only other woman in the room, rose slightly from her chair. "Excuse me, ma'am, but . . . "

"Sit down!"

Ginny sat.

"I've tried to be nice," their visitor snapped. "But did that work? No! I got nothing! Zilch! Nada! So I'm done being nice! This is it! You left me no choice!"

With that statement, she ripped open the denim jacket to reveal a large square box strapped to her chest.

The alarmed writers pushed back in their chairs instinctively and then, ever so slowly, bent forward and stared at her with expressions of avid curiosity.

George, a tall, lanky redhead, frowned. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes," murmured Fred quietly. "It's Legos glued to an empty Fruit Loops box."

Ginny hid a snicker behind a raised hand. "Well, Fruit Loops is right."

The unwanted guest resumed her restless pacing.

"One little guest appearance, that's all I'm asking for. I just want to see James Marsters on Bones." She withdrew a small bright blue rectangle from the pocket of her jacket and began waving it around. "Is that too much to ask for? It's like you don't even read my tweets!"

"Well, we don't . . ."

"I'm not crazy!" the crazy woman screamed. "I don't ask every day. Okay, maybe I tweet it a few times a week," she admitted in a rush, "but I'm always nice about it! And funny! I try to be funny! I am funny!" One eye began to twitch as she dared them to disagree. "I make jokes about it! They're funny jokes! I'm funny! I'm not crazy!"

Fred watched the item in her hand suspiciously. "What's that she's holding?"

"Fisher Price cell phone." Ron, who had so far remained silent, spoke up. "My three-year old has one."

Suddenly, the woman tossed a flat plastic case to the conference room table. It slid across the polished surface until it bumped to a stop against a stack of scripts.

"Haven't you seen that? Don't you remember how great they were together?"

Ginny looked down at the cover and grinned. "Oh, Angel. I used to love that show . . ." Her voice trailed off as the three men gave her a side-eyed glance. "Well, I did," she shrugged.

"See?" The red-haired intruder squealed with excitement. "That's what I mean! They were awesome together, weren't they? Angel was a great show! Okay, the Jasmine thing was lame," she brushed away a season with a wave of one hand, "and Connor was just a pain in the ass but that's not the point!" She whirled abruptly, a slight hysterical tone edging her voice. "The point is, Spike and Angel were awesome! Awesome! So why are you being so difficult about putting James Marsters on Bones?"

She stopped pacing long enough to stomp one foot.

"I understand about character ownership and different networks and all that and I don't expect to see Spike. I'm not asking for the bleach blond hair . . . " A dreamy expression filled her face. "Or those tight jeans or that snug black t-shirt that hugged his chest and showed off his arms and - STOP DISTRACTING ME!" she screamed.

The four writers, who hadn't said a word, lifted their hands in a gesture of self-defense.

The restless prowling began again.

"James Marsters on Bones would be epic! EPIC! It would be AWESOMELY EPIC! Why can't you see that?"

"Ma'am, we don't actually . . . " Fred made a valiant attempt to interrupt.

"YOU HAD FREDDY FUCKING KRUEGER!" The woman's hair practically crackled with electricity. "And all I want is one little James Marsters appearance. Just one! And I've got nothing! You're giving me nothing!"

The twitch in her eye grew worse.

"I'm not crazy! I'm asking nicely, goddammit!"

Fred swallowed a laugh as the ranting continued. "This is asking nicely?"

Ron studied her carefully. "I'm pretty sure the wires are red licorice."

"The Legos are starting to fall off the Fruit Loops box," George whispered.

"I think we can take her," said Fred.

Ginny shook her head. "That chick's crazy. I'm not going near her."

Taking his chances, George stood up. "Ma'am," he said loudly. "You're right. You're absolutely correct."

She froze in mid-sentence. "I am?"

'Yes, you are," he nodded. "You are. We agree completely. James Marsters should be on Bones."

The woman released a breathless puff of air, then pulled a licorice vine from the box on her chest and began chewing nervously. "See? I am right."

"Yes, you are." Heads bobbed all around the table.

"Okay. Well, then . . . Okay. Okay. I'll let you get to work writing." At the door, she turned and gave them an oddly formal bow. "Thank you for listening."

She was gone before they could stop her.

The four writers stared at the empty doorway for a minute before Fred looked around the table.

"Do you think we should have told her we don't write for Bones?"

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"Supernatural"? "Supernatural"? WTF? Really, I'm not that hard to please. I just want this one little thing . . .