FIC: The Gratuitous Dwanollah 90210 Episodes

Part III


More 90210 Gratutious Dwanollah Episodes!

Scene: The Former PPAD, now Peachy’s Gentlemen’s Club.

The club that was bumpin’ and grindin’ only last night is now garish by day, sans customers and employees. Over at one of the small round tables, Tara/Kara, disheveled, puffy-eyed and shaken, is being interviews by three (Ethnic Okay, TM xix) police officers while Stevie, in full swing as the Attentive Boyfriend, hovers protectively (and Devon Dean hovers protectively over him). At the bar, the Hillsters are gathered, serious expressions and furrowed brows attesting to the gravity of the matter. Well, except for Donna, who is slumped in true Spineless fashion while Kelly the Angel of Mercy rubs her shoulder consolingly.

“This isn’t happening. I know this isn’t happening,” whimpers Donna, and Kelly pats her bony shoulder some more and makes oh-so-maternal “shhh”s while looking over Donna’s head at David and Brandon, her face puckered into Deep and True Concern.

“Hey, no one actually SAW Noah raping Kara,” interjects Brandon “Just the Facts, Ma’am” Walsh, Furrowed to the extreme. “It’s her word against his.”

Davy deedles and laughs. “Yeah. Has anyone seen Noah? What’s his side of the story?”

“No one’s seen him,” Donna sniffles. “The police were going over to the marina to bring him in for questioning. I just can’t believe it! Noah wouldn’t do something like that!

“Shhh... he loves you, Donna. Don’t worry,” coos Kelly, dressed in a lovely Consoling Her Best Friend outfit of an Itty Bitty (TM me) flowered skirt, cropped white pullover and baby blue granny-sweater with only the top button done. Regardless of whatever a Boyfriend does, be it cheating, hitting, lying, stealing, getting strung out on drugs/alcohol, raping someone, or just being an insensitive and disrespectful OPB, all that really matters is whether or not he “loves” you or if you “love” him. Of course, this is the Whitney Houston-esque definition of love, girlies! Leave your spine at the door!

Stevie meanders over, his receding hairline revealing his own furrows of great concern.

“Hey man” chorus Brando and Davy (boys that Overtly Penis together stick together?), slapping supportively on Stevie’s shoulders, which is a macho yet sensitive way to show a friend you care without compromising your testosterone, and Brandon adds “There’s coffee. You look like you could use a cup.”

So Stevie slumps on his own barstool and accepts a cup of coffee while Brando, Davy and Kelly exchange more Significant Looks. Since Kelly already had her Supportive Moment with Donna, it’s Brandon’s turn with Stevie. “So how’s it going, man?’ he asks, Ultra-Furrowed with concern.

“I just feel so helpless,” sighs Stevie pathetically. “Like there’s nothing I can do.”

“How’s Kara taking it?” asks Kelly the Sensitive Psych Major.

“How do you think?” snaps Stevie. “How would YOU take it if you woke up with your hands tied after being raped?” to which Donna raises her head and seethes “Noah wouldn’t do that, Steve!” and Steve coldly retorts “I know what I saw, Donna” and Brandon interrupts with a “hey hey hey hey hey you guys calm down calm down” and who knows what might’ve happened without the timely intervention of Our Hero Brandon Walsh.

But Donna’s essential strength, toughness and resilience rises to the surface, and she jumps up and sneers “I don’t have to sit here and take this!” before doing the Donna Stomp on outta there, because deep down inside, she is a Strong Woman with Strong Convictions, and standing up for her man is a display of such Strength and Fortitude and- Gads, even I’m overdoing the sarcasm.

“I’ll go after her,” says Kelly to Brandon and hustles off, nearly bumping into Valerie on the way.

“Hey guys,” says Val cheerfully, dimpling and swinging her pleather handbag that matches her pleather jacket and clunky pleather sandals, but as she gets closer, she notice the obvious. “What’s wrong?”

Brandon glances at Davy, who glances at Stevie and twitches and deedles before finally saying “Uh, hi Val. Um....”

“Mr. Sanders, we need you back over here for questioning,” calls one of the cops, and Stevie goes back to join Tara/Kara, huddled at the table with his tux jacket wrapped around her, face buried in her hands. Devon Dean hovers and pats, fluttering his hands in consternation.

Val takes in the scene with growing confusion and alarm. “What happened?”

Davy shifts and deedles some more. “Uh... Kara was raped here last night.”

“Raped?”

“Yeah... uh... and it looks like Noah might’ve done it.”

“Oh my God....” whispers Val, turning white and putting her hand to her mouth. “Oh my G-” and she starts to take a step away, stumbles, and goes down like a ton of bricks.

Scene: a remote Mexican villa.

Floor-to-ceiling windows are opened wide, and the white sheers hanging from wrought iron rods in front of them bell inward, fluttering over the terra cotta tiles of the long conservatory. With his hands in the pockets of his loose white linen trousers, his white cotton shirt casually unbuttoned, Dylan McKay Marchette slowly walks the length of the room, crossing alternately through the squares of sunlight pouring in the windows, then the interspersing shadows. He is freshly showered, although still sporting the Renaissance Man facial hair, and his own shelf o’ hair is combed and gelled into place. Finally, he pauses in front of one of the windows, gazing out at the immaculate grounds of the Marchette estate, out to the sea and sand in the distance. Sunlight dances on the waves like bright golden coins.

As Dylan stands contemplatively, two brownly tanned, almost-naked children run, splashing and playing, their laughter echoing over the crash of the waves. Dylan starts to turn away, and then spies something else that makes him look back.

Walking alone down the beach, dressed in casual white trousers and a white shirt, with his hands in his pockets and gazing contemplatively, is Tony Marchette. Dylan’s real father.

With a deep breath, Dylan closes his eyes REAL HARD (TM xix) for a few seconds.

His revere is interrupted by the entrance of good ol’ faithful Bruno.

“Dylan?”

“Uh, yeah, what?” rasps Mr. Introspective, turning around.

“The mail that you asked me to have forwarded to you has arrived.” And Bruno hands over a huge stack of envelopes, creased and stamped multiple times with NO LONGER AT THIS ADDRESS and PLEASE FORWARD and URGENT.

“Yeah, thanks,” rasps Dylan, glancing at them before gazing back out the window.

Bruno follows his gaze. “He only wants the best for you,” says Bruno quietly.

Dylan doesn’t answer, and Bruno slowly backs away.

Once left alone again, Dylan goes back to the stack of mail with half-hearted interest. When he gets to one with the return address “A. Harper Finch, Attorney at Law,” he pauses. “Who...?” and opens the letter. Reading, his big fat forehead creases even more. “An attorney representing Brenda Walsh ... child support....” Dylan looks back out the window, as Marchette walks past the two splashing, laughing, innocently happy children and, slowly and with deliberation, he crushes the letter in his fist.

Commercial time. Go get your snacks. Grab me something as long as you’re up, willya? Thank you!

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