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May. 12th, 2009
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bookwormsarah ::
Guy Marcel crossed his arms and scowled. “I don’t get it.”
The director sighed (not for the first time). “What don’t you get, Guy?”
“So, he what, laid down and died for this chick? Who he wasn’t even boning? Jeez, who does that?”
The director pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clare?” The writer stepped forward, a look of concentrated patience on her face.
“Marcus believed in old-fashioned chivalry,” she explained. “He loved Susan. She was his lady and he was her knight.”
“Sounds fuckin’ stupid, you ask me,” muttered Guy sullenly.
“Yes, well, whatever you think about it, that’s the sort of man he was,” said Clare.
They resumed the scene, Guy leaning over Ashley, the actress playing Susan Ivanova, clasping her lifeless hand in his, reaching out for the alien medical device that would…
“This is bullshit!” exclaimed Guy, backing away and throwing up his hands in disgust. “Someone get me my agent on the comm!”
oOo
”Marcus, you can’t! They’ll kill you!” Susan Ivanova, her uniform shredded in such a way that her heaving bosom was very much on display, flung herself at her lover. Marcus leant down and kissed her… and kissed her… and kissed her.
“There’s only a couple of dozen of them,” he said, devil-may-care, tossing his fulsome ponytail and flexing his biceps. “If it means you will live, my dearest.”
“Oh, Marcus!” sighed Susan. Dramatic music swelled and held as Marcus pushed her into an emergency evacuation pod, and then turned to face the growing horde of alien soldiers. He sneered, opened his fighting pike, and started shooting lasers from its end…
“Marcus was awesome,” said Tony, turning off the holo-projector.
“I’m gonna do my school project on him,” said Gaz.
“Cool.”
bookwormsarah ::Guy Marcel crossed his arms and scowled. “I don’t get it.”
The director sighed (not for the first time). “What don’t you get, Guy?”
“So, he what, laid down and died for this chick? Who he wasn’t even boning? Jeez, who does that?”
The director pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clare?” The writer stepped forward, a look of concentrated patience on her face.
“Marcus believed in old-fashioned chivalry,” she explained. “He loved Susan. She was his lady and he was her knight.”
“Sounds fuckin’ stupid, you ask me,” muttered Guy sullenly.
“Yes, well, whatever you think about it, that’s the sort of man he was,” said Clare.
They resumed the scene, Guy leaning over Ashley, the actress playing Susan Ivanova, clasping her lifeless hand in his, reaching out for the alien medical device that would…
“This is bullshit!” exclaimed Guy, backing away and throwing up his hands in disgust. “Someone get me my agent on the comm!”
”Marcus, you can’t! They’ll kill you!” Susan Ivanova, her uniform shredded in such a way that her heaving bosom was very much on display, flung herself at her lover. Marcus leant down and kissed her… and kissed her… and kissed her.
“There’s only a couple of dozen of them,” he said, devil-may-care, tossing his fulsome ponytail and flexing his biceps. “If it means you will live, my dearest.”
“Oh, Marcus!” sighed Susan. Dramatic music swelled and held as Marcus pushed her into an emergency evacuation pod, and then turned to face the growing horde of alien soldiers. He sneered, opened his fighting pike, and started shooting lasers from its end…
“Marcus was awesome,” said Tony, turning off the holo-projector.
“I’m gonna do my school project on him,” said Gaz.
“Cool.”
:: for morganmuffle ::
There are stories about a man who rescued his wife from hell, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
oOo
By the side of an anonymous road, they dig up bones. Scorched and jumbled, they are reconstructed as an adult male, dead a decade at least.
oOo
There are stories about a man who saved an entire town of children, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
oOo
His dental records identify him as John Winchester, late of Lawrence, Kansas. They also match a man called John Hendon. And Thomas McQueen. And Martin O’Shaughnessy.
oOo
There are stories about a man who brought up his sons to fight the monsters in the shadows, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
oOo
John Winchester’s wife died in 1982, and he left Kansas with his two sons shortly after that. No-one in Lawrence is sure what happened to them after that.
oOo
There are stories about a man who killed vampires, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
oOo
He had warrants issued in his name. Lots of them. Theft and fraud and grave desecration and assault. John Winchester wasn’t a nice guy.
oOo
There are stories about a man who sacrificed himself for his son, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
oOo
They close the file on John Winchester. He died of natural causes, and was no great loss to humanity. End of story.
oOo
There are stories about a man who helped save the world, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash.
But they’re just stories.
morganmuffle ::There are stories about a man who rescued his wife from hell, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
By the side of an anonymous road, they dig up bones. Scorched and jumbled, they are reconstructed as an adult male, dead a decade at least.
There are stories about a man who saved an entire town of children, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
His dental records identify him as John Winchester, late of Lawrence, Kansas. They also match a man called John Hendon. And Thomas McQueen. And Martin O’Shaughnessy.
There are stories about a man who brought up his sons to fight the monsters in the shadows, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
John Winchester’s wife died in 1982, and he left Kansas with his two sons shortly after that. No-one in Lawrence is sure what happened to them after that.
There are stories about a man who killed vampires, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
He had warrants issued in his name. Lots of them. Theft and fraud and grave desecration and assault. John Winchester wasn’t a nice guy.
There are stories about a man who sacrificed himself for his son, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash. But they’re just stories.
They close the file on John Winchester. He died of natural causes, and was no great loss to humanity. End of story.
There are stories about a man who helped save the world, driving a classic car and listening to Johnny Cash.
But they’re just stories.
:: for pim2005 ::
Harvey Bains had very definite ideas about what he wanted his future to be. Cabinet Minister, at least. Maybe Prime Minister, as long as he didn't have to go around kissing the French President. Marriage, of course: minor royal, perhaps. Leggy, blonde, rich, dim. Or an actress. An actress would be all right, as long as it wasn't one of those mousy feminist ones.
As the years went by, life lessened Harvey's ambitions. Perhaps a city mayor. Wife a nice County girl who went hunting and wore pearls. There'd be a statue, of course, somewhere central, perhaps in a park. "Harvey Bains," people would say. "Harvey Bains. You could always tell he was going somewhere."
In the end, it didn't turn out quite like Harvey had planned, but it would please him to know that after generation and generation had gone by, after apocalypse and regime change, after fire and flood, his name would live on when men far more famous in life had been forgotten.
oOo
"Diana, will willnot you comen?!"
"Mutti, comen looklook! Bebby dun a harvey!"
oOo
But perhaps it would not please him.
pim2005 ::Harvey Bains had very definite ideas about what he wanted his future to be. Cabinet Minister, at least. Maybe Prime Minister, as long as he didn't have to go around kissing the French President. Marriage, of course: minor royal, perhaps. Leggy, blonde, rich, dim. Or an actress. An actress would be all right, as long as it wasn't one of those mousy feminist ones.
As the years went by, life lessened Harvey's ambitions. Perhaps a city mayor. Wife a nice County girl who went hunting and wore pearls. There'd be a statue, of course, somewhere central, perhaps in a park. "Harvey Bains," people would say. "Harvey Bains. You could always tell he was going somewhere."
In the end, it didn't turn out quite like Harvey had planned, but it would please him to know that after generation and generation had gone by, after apocalypse and regime change, after fire and flood, his name would live on when men far more famous in life had been forgotten.
"Diana, will willnot you comen?!"
"Mutti, comen looklook! Bebby dun a harvey!"
But perhaps it would not please him.
OMG ONE TREE HILL WHAT DO YOU DO TO ME?!
YOU... YOU... YOU...
MRAUGHHHHHH!!!
YOU... YOU... YOU...
MRAUGHHHHHH!!!