Have started writing again – yes, (for those who care) a new chapter of A Man of Misunderstandings is en route…I have to do something at work.

I am not entirely sure what shape this thing is going to take – certainly the Jayne of this fic is not the Jayne of A.M.O.M – I think…yet…we'll see, certainly, the cultural and literary allusions will get thrown around at bit; but I guess that's me and not Jayne…

What I am certain of it that this will be 500 word chapters – they are, after all diary entries. I will note that there will be swearing, crass analogy and some pretty explicit mental pictures for you to draw – Jayne is, after all, a man of the 'verse and his diary doesn't come with a public filter.

So, of you're easily offended, you might want to give it a miss.

Thanks – in anticipation – to al who review (that's a hint). Also, if people have some suggestions/ ideas as to possible topics for Jayne's diary I am more than interested to listen (no stupid romance-y stuff though, this isn't Mills and Boon: for all that I love a good Rayne fic).

Have started tidying things up a little bit - the poor proof-reading annoyed me.

Is there some part of *not* tempting fate that bloody Mal doesn't understand?

You would think that someone, who is constantly hit by Companion lightning every time he asks 'what he's done this time?' would get the idea that fate doesn't like stupid questions; in fact, I'm pretty sure that Atropos is sitting in her rocking chair (somewhere on a cloud) just waiting to cut Reynolds' thread – or at least kink it a bit.

Case in point…

"We haven't been bothered by Reavers lately…"

Thank Iesu that a bloody behemoth of an Alliance cruiser hove into view as the pair of Reaver ships, that hadn't been there a second ago (until Mal opened his trap, that is), barrelled over the top of a perfectly innocent looking moon.

"This isn't Rea…"

I think the idiot was about to state something about it not being Reaver space, but fortunately, Zoe, in a quick piece of thinking, threw him off the gangway into the cargo bay and he died horribly before he could complete the sentence…

OK. I'm lying. She kicked him in the jewels… but a man can dream, can't he?

Side Note: Purple is not Mal's colour: not for his face anyway.

Got to head back to Persephone, the ship that is, not me in person; apparently Badger has a job for us. Unfortunately, we're not flush enough with the readies to tell him where to stick his 'job', which we'd all like to do. Even the Shepherd was heard to describe the despicable little shit in terms that a man of the cloth shouldn't be using. Not that I disagree with him, mind; Badger is the type of man that any self-respecting dung-beetle would sniff at rolling into a ball and laying their eggs on.

Asked Mal what the job was and, as usual, he was completely non-forthcoming: I think he thinks it's all captain-y not to tell the hired help anything, although if tries taking that attitude with Zoë too often he's gonna get shot for his trouble. Zoë might be respectful and all when the time and place demands it but when Mal's being a prick she's the first one in line to tell him to pull his head out of his proverbial; albeit with a 'Sir' attached sweetly to the end of the sentence…

…and, dear god, I have to stay the hell away from Kaylee, what sort of a word is Captain-y? You think with all time she spends in the doctors quarters that she'd have better things to do with her mouth than mangle the English language… Although it's possible that the doctor's too damn prissy for a decent sexin'; reckon' the doc's the only man in the verse to make the missionary position a physiological impossibility. I wonder if there is anything in the Karma Sutra called 'The Plank'?

Anyway, this job, Badger wants doing, involves 'tranportifyin some merchandise'. If this comes out bent I'll transportify the little shit myself, captain-y or no captain-y command…