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Maddie and Nicole present:
A Bubblegum WebDesign Inc. Production


Our top secret, hush hush, confidential project is finally revealed. After six months of pondering the theme, molding the plot, and chipping away at scenes, Maddie and Nicole Productions are finally prepared to display their pet project: The Proud and the Prejudiced. Before you dismiss this story as another Pride and Prejudice adaptation: read on. The authors extract superb characters from most of Jane Austen's novels to tweak them a bit. These tweaked characters are then put into a modern soap
opera theme and left to defend themselves from evil twins, resurfaced old lovers, sweet revenge, and unsightly catfights.
Ah, the power of soaps! Read on and enjoy the show.

--Maddie and Nicole
Writers of
The Proud and the Prejudiced

Note to Ann: Of course there is no need for you to archive our story with all the images on it. Everything is archived in exactly this way at our homepage, and we do assure you: next episode will not be as image-packed as this one.


In a world of glitter and glamour, of beauty and more,
of amnesia, intrigues and catfights galore,
live these famous young people who
don't behave as one would normally do.
They scheme, plot and trick without a second thought,
and who knows what ordeals their corruption has brought.

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever and rich,
but beware, she's an actress and can be a bitch.
Frank "Franco" Churchill, lounge lizard extraordinaire,
favourite toyboy of the rich and the fair.
William Darcy, successful, proud and full of hip,
fondness of ponds, how about a dip?
Elizabeth Bennet, charming, witty and bold,
of course she never does what she is told.

And all these colourful characters and a great deal more
add to a story of nuclear war.


Imagine this: the opening credits of a new and exciting soap opera. Flashy images of our gorgeous young cast appear on the screen, lying on the beach, drinking a cocktail, or driving a convertible on Hollywood Boulevard. The women are wearing exquisite evening dresses, the men stylish suits, and they are altogether looking very glamourous. Several other shots to enhance the mood: a deep blue ocean, white beaches, an occasional half-exposed breast. All this has passed in less then a minute, making you think several things all at once: "Ooh, isn't that the dress I saw at Macy's?", followed by "Is this the new thing from Aaron Spelling?". Several of you may also exclaim:" Wow, isn't that Ewan McGregor?! What is he doing in a thing like this?"
Frank Churchill and his friend were feeling very frisky that evening. They had entered this bar that was allegedly a "major babe joint" and had been downing martini's (shaken not stirred) non-stop in order to boost up their ego a little more.

Frank Churchill, lounge lizard extraordinaire, was scanning the bar carefully for new meat, with the eyes of a predator. He did not despair, yet. The night was young, and he knew he was looking mighty fine that evening. His golden curls were slicked backwards with wet gel, in his right ear glinstered a tiny earring, and his blue silk shirt was opened a few buttons to reveal his smooth chest.

The beauty of his friend was much more subtle. Denny looked like he had the world at his feet, dressed in his stylish Armani suit, peering over his very expensive designer sunglasses. Occasionally he ran his hand through his chestnutbrown hair and smiled his handsome smile in the direction of his chosen one.

Frank had hit the jackpot. He was chatting up a girl at the bar dressed in a miniskirt, and had apparently succeeded in procuring her phonenumber. He called out after when she was leaving: "Have your people call my people, baby, we'll do lunch!"

Triumphantly he returned to their table and informed his friend that he had scored. Denny snatched the paper from his hand and blurted out: "Franco, you fool, that's so obviously a fake number, don't you see? 250740, who has such a number?"

An interesting peek in the colourful lives of the rich of the famous? Could be. Let's see what more we have to offer.

Carrie Bingham, Queen of day-time television

Caroline Bingley was an actress. Yes, she was an actress, for she had every claim to that title. She had worked long and hard to achieve her title, and could now be very proud of it. She had played in several TV-movies: "Where is my baby?", "Stolen babies" and "For the love of my baby". Second on her curriculum was a pilot about a female kung fu instructor, which, even though she
was very proud of it, had never been aired. After a while she became less popular and was only asked for infomercials. She changed her name to the more glamourous Carrie Bingham, dyed her hair and had a tummy tuck, but all in vain. Such was the glory of Caroline Bingley.

Her private life was pretty much the same: her boyfriends were only out for her money and used her ill, her shrink gave her bad advice (wear more bright colours, such as orange), her gardener ran over her cat with the lawnmower and the beggar on the corner of the street started chanting "You're so vain" every time she passed him. Of course she had never given him any money. Suffering from deeply rooted paranoia, she always had a bodyguard with her, and at times she nervously snapped at him: "Fossett, get that suspicious looking individual away from me, I am sure he has a camera!"

But she wasn't going to take it any longer. Things had to change. And that was why she had scheduled an appointment with the famous producer Walter Elliot, who, she hoped, was going to produce her new programme: a talk show, that was to top Jerry Springer in controversy, send Oprah screaming to the nuthouse and make meatballs out of Ricki Lake. Or so she thought.


The authors bring you to the setting: Austenville, to obey the Rules of Soapism .(i.e.. the story must have a doctor, a lawyer, fictitious setting etc.) Lovely Austenville lays next to Hollywood, sits near Beverly Hills, and steps on Los Angeles. It's a place where the Baywatch bodies are plentiful, the martinis are shaken, not stirred, and where the directors flock on the beaches to basque and bake in the sunshine. Like Monte Carlo or Cannes, actors, directors, and many famous people go to Austenville to relax. Or pick up another beach house and hide from the paparazzi. At night the city doesn't sleep. Hot bands play at cool clubs and unruly parties are given by Bill Gates and Donald Trump till the wee small hours of the morning. They drink, they dance, they drink some more until they pass out. All is fun and steamy after midnight in Austenville. The daytime is not much different. Loads of people crowd the boardwalk and sandy beaches. They all wear pretty smiles and happy grins while chugging margaritas and tequila.

The Love Square

In all soaps there is the inevitable love triangle that seeps its watchers into utter engrossment. Viewers wait faithfully and impatiently to see if Courtney and John will finally get together despite the evil sister of Courtney, Candy (who is also in love with John). In six months time, after a case of amnesia, a car wreak and a false pregnancy, the fans are finally satisfied with a deep kiss on the cheek. Then the next step is marriage, which may take from one to two years. But in The Proud and the Prejudiced, we like to be different. No, we're not using a triangle to capture our readers' interest… we're using a square. Undoubtedly a square is a better and more useful geometric figure. The players in our box of tricks are Elizabeth Bennet, William Darcy, Richard Fritzwilliam, and Marianne Dashwood. These four young people are simply connected by the news channel 7, hiLA.

For years Elizabeth Bennet had dreamed of being a ballerina. She would twirl in her thick tights and dainty slip across the living room and display plays for her father. But she quit twirling as soon as her teacher chastised her for being too pudgy. In her proud moment of fury she glared at her teacher at the ripe age of six and said, "I'm going to be famous one day. Without giving up my freedom!" She stormed out of the room and rode her pink Barbie bicycle home.

Ever since then, this stubborn-headed girl only grew taller and wiser. Determined to live up to her expectations, she worked vigorously and tirelessly to get into a good university. But plans turned for the worse and she had to postpone going to Harvard. She was hired onto the hiLA's staff as a researcher and climbed the media ladder when she was asked to fill in for an ill reporter. The taste of covering media grew to an addiction until she obtained the noble status as head anchor of the 8 o'clock news. She had succeeded.

While Elizabeth was getting settled as the new anchor of Channel 7 News, she instantly made a friend. His name was Richard Fritzwilliam. Richard was also a new member to hiLA and was hired as a sports reporter to announce the Dodgers games etc. to the public. He had no previous experience in a sport, but the delivery of his dialogue and the style of his reporting served as a hook to capture women viewers. He never opened fan mail. He always was overwhelmed and frightened of the letters that romanticized his dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and pearly white teeth. Richard never thought himself any different from the common businessman walking on the street. But one particular event in his past was not average. Richard had a father who was a very spiritual man and grew up in a very religious Catholic family.

One afternoon, while Son and Dad were playing basketball, Richard told his father the good news. He wanted to become a monk. Richard had been contemplating if he would become a monk or not for many years and decided it was the path he wanted to go towards. His father understood and eventually accepted his son's future. For three years, Richard was secluded from society and women. By the end of the third year, Richard was near breakdown. Celibacy was not his cup of tea. Every night he fantasized about Meg Ryan, Hilary Clinton, or Delta Burke. The night when he started to dream of Angela Lansbury was when he drew the line. Chastity was not for him. Richard is no longer a monk now.

Richard's transition back into society was with the dense weather girl, Marianne Dashwood. They dated for approximately five hours and had an awkward relationship ever since. Richard and Marianne seemed to never get along because of how Marianne was hired…

About year ago, ratings of 1997 were steadily declining for the news channel 7, hiLA. Thirteen men and two women crammed into a small discussion room to brainstorm a lifesaver plan. After thirteen hours of democratic discussion, they gave up hope and ordered pizzas. The executives were all hanging onto conscienceness by a thread as a young pizza boy dropped by. It turns out this boy had a genius plan. As most boys would think at seventeen, he submitted that a fresh, young, beautiful girl should replace Granny Ellen, the current weather woman. She needs not any
experience. Nor any knowledge. Just a great body. Well, the thirteen men thought it was a breakthrough and wondered why they never thought of it before. The two women screamed their outraged cries of dignity, grace, and stupidity of men. But they were outnumbered and lost the battle.

Marianne had a tip from an inside source that told her there was two women running the hiring and that they desired an unattractive, knowledgeable woman of the '90s. Marianne had her blonde hair covered with a short black wig and borrowed many unattractive clothing from her sister, Elinor. Underneath her wig she had mild blonde hair reaching past her shoulders that framed her round peaches and cream face. Her blue eyes contrasted with her black wig sharply and seductively. The interviewers loved her appearance. There was only one point in which worried the ladies:
Marianne could not tell apart a high tide from a high heel. Indeed she delivered her forecast very well, and her teeth were as white as cumulus clouds. But it was important to have a woman knowledgeable of gravitational pull and low pressure! Thirteen men seemed to smooth out their worries and Marianne was hired.

Before the ladies started to claw and before the men began to punch, all was serene. It started when a new man was
assigned to the 8 o'clock news team of hiLA.

What The Tabloids Say

"Listen to this: Elegant, expensive,and always an earful, actress Emma Woodhouse appeared at the Oscars last Saturdaywith a tall, dark handsome stranger, who, it grieves us to say, remains unknown to everybody. Is it gorgeous Henry Crawford, the hottest thing in town, who signed for the new Spielberg? No. Nor is it John Willoughby, who fled L.A. after his fiasco "Nighthawk". Are we to assume it's not an actor, after Lady Emma exasperatedly admitted that she "would never date an actor again." ? Maybe Who shall dig a little deeper...

--Nancy Porter
Who gossip columnist

"Tall, handsome stranger... I like that." George said, sipping his tea. "But had they looked a little bit farther, say outside of lovely Los Angeles, they would have discovered my identity."

"Hollywood Today was a little more successful, dearest, listen to this: 'It turned out to be multi-millionaire George Knightley, vice-president at Elliot Productions, who accompanied Emma Woodhouse to the Oscars on Saturday."

"Multi-millionaire? Well, they are grossly overrating my fortune. But I suppose it's their way. The tabloids won't think me good enough for you, because I am not sitting on a goldmine."

"I don't care about the media. All I care about is you."

"Oh yes? You don't prefer a talented actor?"

Emma replied by kissing him sweetly on his lips.

"Did we check out Glamour Gossip?" asked George after several minutes.

"Hmm, let's see..." Emma began sifting through the pile of magazines.

Emma Woodhouse and George Knightley had met on the set of her latest movie, "Sliding Windows". Neither of them had ever believed in first love, until they actually experienced it. Their relationship, according to true Hollywood standards, progressed terribly fast, and by impulse of the heart. Example, they spent their first date travelling to Rome. But as always, the course of true love failed to run smooth. The case was this: George still had a girlfriend, Jane, with whom he had had an on-and-off relationship with for the last six months. She had to be disposed of first.

[The image suddenly turns blurry, and black-and-white. Sounds are hollow, and seem far off. The reader can be sure: this is a FLASHBACK true to Soap Opera Style]

It's late night, and Emma is leaving the set to meet her agent. Suddenly a women appears (dark hair and eyes, very beautiful, succesful-looking, dressed in Chanel)

"Emma," she calls out, "I want to have a word with you."

"Jane?" Emma says, "What is it?"

"It's about George. I may have said to him that everything is alright, we weren't very close, time to move on, crap like that. Now I wanted to make sure that you knew that it wasn't okay."

"It's not?" Emma asked, starting to grow rather scared.

"No. In spite of what you may think, I really love him, and I won't give him up to someone like you. I assure, I will get him back. You'd better watch your back, Emma Woodhouse."

She turned on her heel, and left, leaving Emma trembling, and completely unable to believe that she had just received an actual death treath.


The Pothole

In every soap there is a place where the cast hangs out, where they meet, eat, gossip, and flirt.Remember The Peach Pit in Beverly Hills 90210, and Shooters in Melrose Place? Or even Central Perk, filling Friends with gallons of Joe. In this particular soap the bar is owned by the "fly guy" of the series, the cutest, the funniest, the chosen one. The authors' pet, if you will. If you have been paying attention you will know that I am talking about Frank "Franco" Churchill, the disco-dancin', Oprah watchin', lover-boy.

The joint is called The Pothole (no pun intended, I assure you), and Franco runs the place with style and sophistication.
Blunt truth: there isn't a Chuckie Cheese terrorizing the tavern. Besides a bar, it has an unusual restaurant, disco/swing dancefloor and mini movie-theatre. The walls are covered with photographs, newspaper articles and Hollywood memorabilia. It's said that Franco has Marilyn Monroe's bra, a velvet Elvis brought from Mexico, and a collecton of Royal Crown Soda bottles shacked up in his personal office. His golden Budda, also adds an imperial touch to the office. Besides the love beads hanging from his doorway,
it's pretty much the business man's office.

The Pothole is a great favourite with the rich and famous, who flock to be seen and photographed holding a Tequila Sunrise, shaken by Franco himself. Tom Cruise even has his very own barstool, with a pink neon arrow hovering above it. Old favourites of entertainment also hide in the dark corners, doing the Dietrich thing. Even Tony Bennet joins in on "Open Mic Night" or "Stand UP Comedy Night". DiCaprio has been told the address, but it's much too late after his bed time.


Harriet Smith goes to Hollywood

"Oh Jake, I am so sorry, I don't know what possessed me to do it. I am sorry that I killed your ex-girlfriend, that I set your house on fire and that I stalked you for six months. It just that you made me do it, because when I run my fingers across your manly chest, nothing else seems to matter!"

"Not to worry, Candy, I am glad you killed Sandra, and that you burned down my house. If you hadn't done that, I would never have fallen in love with you, and we wouldn't have been on this plane to Mexico City, with a million dollars in our luggage."

"Oh, I love you, Jake!"

"I love you too, Candy."

"God, this dialogue stinks." Harriet thought, while trying to concentrate on the part of Candy. She looked over the pages of the script at her adversary "Jake", played by a Ken look-a-like. He played it rather well. No doubt he would make a perfect Jake in the newest Aaron Spelling. She on the other hand...

"Thank you, Miss Smith." the casting director said, followed by that dreaded sentence. "We'll let you know."

"Yeah sure" she muttered inaudibly, before throwing the script on the table. She grabbed her coat
and walked outside where her roommate was waiting for her.

"So how did it go?" he asked.

"I blew it, naturally. I don't think I'm cut out for the part of "Candy, evil bitch", I don't have the right looks. My hair isn't hyper blonde, I don't have big boobs, and I can't scream."

"That and the fact that your acting is way too good. Cheer up, Harriet. Hollywood doesn't deserve you or your talent. You'll find the right part some day."

"Thanks, that's very sweet of you. Now if you don't mind, I think I'll go this way, I really want to be on my own for a while."

Harriet Smith was, in fact, a very good actress. She was the best of her class at acting school back in Boston, and her friends and her teachers encouraged her to chase her luck. For Harriet, this meant going to Los Angeles, bright lights, big city, to audition for every part possible. But after six months, she still hadn't had any success. And now her money was running out.Something had to be done.

If you had seen her then, walking across Hollywood Boulevard, you wouldn't have believed that she was one of those hundreds of girls who come to LA every year to try their luck. She didn't look like one of them. She was too sweet, too naive, and she didn't look like she would willingly kill ten of her collegues for a cameo in "Melrose Place".

She walked past a bar, and saw a sign "Waitress wanted". She hesitated for a while, but when she thought of her empty bank account, she swallowed her pride, and walked in. The place was deserted at this time of the day, but in the evening it would be packed. She knew this bar: it was one of the hottest places in Hollywood according to the rich and famous, and Harriet, who was a nobody in their eyes, would not be able to get in even if she wanted to.

Suddenly she heard a sound coming from the adjoining room. A man was counting like he was practising dance steps. For a moment it was silent, then she heard the crashing sound of fallen bottles, followed by a forceful "Shite!". Harriet, who was very curious to see whose voice it was, walked to the door and looked round the corner.

What she saw was a very handsome young man, of about twenty-five, with short blond hair and light blue eyes. He was dressed in a rather fancy suit, but he had thrown the jacket away, and he had rolled his sleeves up, displaying slightly tanned lower arms. His bow tie hung round his neck. But he was doing the strangest thing in the world: trying to juggle with one bottle of gin, and one bottle of tonic. One the ground lay the remains of the bottle that had just fallen. Harriet felt she had intruded on a very bad time, but she was too curious to go away now.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked suddenly.

The man looked up to her, rather surprised, and answered: "Well, it's Friday today, so most of the customers will expect me to come to the bar and make a few cocktails for them."

"Well, that's the big idea, isn't it? Aren't you the bartender?"

"Me? No, I own this place. The former owner told that he used to make a few cocktails for the most important people in the place on Friday. But all that throwing around with glasses and bottles, I just can't get the hang of it." He looked at the floor longingly.
"And there goes another perfectly good bottle of gin."

"So why don't you practice with empty bottles?"

He stared at her for a few seconds, and then he burst out in lively impudence: "Empty bottles! That's it! Why didn't I think of that. Girl, you are a genius!" And he took her hands and danced about the room with her.

After doing a few pirouettes, he stopped and sobered up again. "So, anyway, I am Frank. Who are you?"

"My name is Harriet Smith. I came to enquire about the job for the waitress."

"Oh yeah, the waitress thing." He paused for a while, rubbing his chin while trying to think. "I should be asking you questions now, right?"

"I believe that is the normal course of things at a job interview, yes."

"Okay, here goes." He said, suddenly straightening his features, and asking in a very smug tone of voice, "Do you have any previous experience in the waitressing area?"

"None whatsoever," Harriet replied, very embarrassed. "To tell the truth, I only want this job because..." but she was interrupted by Frank, who had grown lively again.

"Great! That's all I wanted to know. You're hired! I don't want a waitress with any experience. The previous one tried to get me to reorganise the bottles in the basement. Oh, she was a snooty little thing, so I fired her."

When Harriet left the bar that afternoon, after what could be easily called the strangest job interview in the history of the world, she wasn't very sure how she felt. She wasn't willing to admit that her somewhat flaky, yet very capable boss had already conquered a small part in her heart. She knew she was going to enjoy working for him. She pulled her grey half length coat around her,
oblivious to the cold and anything around her. While she started to walk faster and faster, a soft smile appeared on her face.
Her life was going to change, that was for sure.

[Cue the ending credits]


Maddie and Nicole also have a homepage to go with their story The Proud and the Prejudiced. Here you find cast bio's, the complete archives, photographs, the Rules of Soapism, more info about the writers, Nicole's Pothole Homepage, and much, much more to come. Do not forget to sign our guestbook, it would do us such a pleasure if you signed it, and gave our opinion on the homepage. The homepage is (for now) mostly designed by Maddie, who says that the homepage even took up more of her time than the story itself! Don't forget to visit us (click on the banner), but don't be surprised, it's like stepping into a giant pink gumbubble!