I am made of cheap lolz.
I'm not a writer [as it's painfully obvious] nor will I try to be one, but I could not forget about those crack!fic promises I made to ya'll back in March. Here are two that are almost complete, but will never be finished. Umm, I had fun, and it was relaxing to sit in this big pool of crack, so thank you for the requests.
‘Step two, three, four and shake it, shake it, shake it, shake what the-no, no, no. STOP THE MUSIC MUTU.’
A whimper escaped Adrian Mutu [back-up dancer number 18] as he fumbled and hit the pause button on the boom box as Rui Costa, legendary Bollywood choreographer, pulled his shawl back over his head and looked calmly at his breathless starlet on the rehearsal stage.
Baby Blue Mango [real name Alessandro Nesta] huffed and hitched up his long hand beaded full-skirt. Mutu, recognizing the early signs of an oncoming Mango!Fit, quickly climbed the stage and offered him an extra-sweet coconut lattu on a baby blue platter, but was shoved away by the angry starlet as he strutted towards the edge of the stage, wagging his well-manicured index finger [with the baby blue rhinestones catching the light] all the way.
‘That was the most perfect take I’ve done of that sequence all morning. How dare you stop the music Costa!’
Rui picked away some lint on his sleeve and sighed.
‘Mango, darling, the sequence called for four steps forward and then 8 hip jerks. Your giving me 4 hip jerks and 4 uh, what does he call it Mutu?’
‘Mango shakes, Mr. Costa.’
‘Right, four Mango shakes.’
‘What’s wrong with four Mango shakes?!’
‘Well, it’s four Mango Shakes too many, darling.’
‘But you LOVE my Mango Shakes!’
‘It’s a bit too much. You can’t pull it off on screen.’
‘WHAT? You don’t think am good enough??!’
A light bulb burst at the starlets frightening volume, Rui winced and Mutu put the lattu in his mouth and covered his head with the baby blue platter.
‘Mango, listen. Bleeding Laziale II: Still Bleeding starts filming in two days and we have to have this and three other songs down by tonight. Then we have to work in the group sequences and then we have to rehearse the hero-heroine duet on top of the moving lorry full of chickens as it drives through the gentle green landscapes on a summer morning…there is so much to do here and we just don’t have the time for this kind of attitude.’
For a moment Mango looked as if he understood [but he was just concentrating on mentally willing his up do to stay up after the extreme choreography session from a moment ago], then strutted over to a cowering Mutu and heaved the dancer up by the elbow.
‘If you don’t think I’m a good enough dancer to pull off four Mango Shakes, why don’t you get someone else to do it Costa.’
‘But-what-who...me?’ Mutu struggled under Mango’s grip.
‘Yes you, gypsy.’
‘Couldn’t be!’
‘Exactly, and that’s why you need me, Costa.’ Mango drawled the dance guru’s last name and smiled wickedly.
Rui narrowed his brows and looked the Romanian kid up and down. Mutu had only been training with the Super Costa Dance Academy for three months now, but he was an eager, dedicated student from what Rui saw. The kid was slim, had a nicely shaped head and decent looking calves. Though he didn’t match Baby Blue Mango’s height or his dark Roman locks or his famous scowl to pout to sexy smirk in 2.5 seconds or less [hundreds of theatre goers were reportedly found unconscious in their seats after a showing of Bleeding Laziale: Bleeding till 2011 in London], Mutu had a certain something about him.
‘Maybe I don’t.’ Rui crossed his arms and looked pointedly at Mutu’s nervous face. Mango made an ugly little chocking noise and dropped Mutu’s arm in disgust.
‘Him? Seriously? Costa, I know your getting old and honestly, shacking up with that hairy ape man isn’t doing anything for your image either, but if you cut me, the STAR, from this film…you, you are doomed Costa!.’
‘We’ll see about that Mango. I can train this boy. I can make him great.’ Rui’s eyes glinted with promise; he could see Adrian twirling against a painted backdrop, draped in a glorious purple sari and matching costume jewellery.
Mango’s forehead developed a large and visible vein.
Mutu blinked.
‘But he’s not as pretty as I am! He has…has…’
‘Short hair?’
‘Damn straight! Everyone knows you need long legs and longer hair to survive in this industry! Everything I was born with Costa!’
‘Will you really, Mr. Costa? Can you make me a star?’ Mutu’s eyes widened and he stood up from the floor.
‘We can grow that hair, Adrian. Plus, there are always extensions.’ Rui smiled triumphantly at Mango’s gaping mouth and motioned for Mutu to come to him. The kid scrambled off the stage excitedly.
‘Synthetic hairs…that is so unnatural…oh, I feel a faint.’ Mango wasn’t faking for once as he put his hand over his large forehead vein and fainted loudly on the stage [but not before cleverly dialling the producers office and letting the cell hit the ground as soon as it starts ringing, so they could hear his dramatic fall and everyone in the building would come running to his aid...ok, so he was faking it. But gosh, he looked so fabulous doing it.]
**
Paolo felt ridiculous, but it had to be done. Paolo would have liked the eyeholes to be larger than his pupils, but it couldn’t be bothered with now. Paolo also would like Rino to start the smoke machine right bloody now, because now was the ‘most fortunate timing’ or there will be ‘warm embraces’ of the painful kind between his foot and Rino’s behind.
‘OHMYSWEETSONOFGODIT’SZORRO!’
Paolo was about to turn around and smack the ‘unrelenting Rossonero’ when the machine switched on suddenly and the carefully placed light from Ricardo’s bookshelf beamed down on his black satin shirt and pants. Ricardo sat up like a bolt and screamed.
Paolo would have rolled his eyes, if he could move them against the tight eye mask.
‘Nay ye golden boy, it is not Antonio Banderas. It is I, the ghost of Milan Past..past..past.’
‘AHH! THE DEVIL, HE RISES BEFORE ME!’ Ricardo made the sign of the cross with his fingers as Paolo swished his black cape around menacingly.
‘Aye, aye! I remember when those poetical words were once spoken of our glorious forefathers...fathers..fathers.’
‘He sounds like a pirate.’ Ambro crawled up from behind Rino and clamped a hand over the man’s mouth.
Paolo stopped swishing his cape and squinted at Ricardo.
‘Is that a…dog collar on your neck-’
‘WHAT’S IT TO YOU SATAN?!’
‘I knew he was a kinky bastard.’ Rino had his ear twisted by a new pair of hands, softer ones and suddenly Andrea was digging a leg into Rino’s sides trying to make himself a space on the floor.
Ricardo had sprung up on his bed and grabbed the bible on his bed stand. He raised it above his head and threw it at a stunned Paolo, who recovered and did enough stumbling to duck the flying book.
Ricardo looked at him hungrily.
Paolo needed a moment to digest that and another moment to remember his speech and another moment to convince himself that he loved Milan and that this was really worth enduring at his age and that if Adriana ever found out, she would never tell the kids about it because she loved him more than he loved Milan and…well, she wouldn’t, but Sandro would. God, Paolo was such an idiot sometimes.
‘Erm…calm ye, future King of Lombardy, prince of Rossoneri hearts, inheritor of my-who wrote this-ugh, our captaincy. I come with peaceful means, to give you golden counsel in these troubled times.’
‘TROUBLED TIMES? THERE IS NO CRISIS AT MILAN, DARK SOUL-SUCKER.’
A half drowsy Brocchi, who was now lying on Rino’s legs, switched on his Sony mini-recorder.
‘Are you kidding? There’s only so much shi-untruth we can feed the press Ricardo. It is up to you to restore the faith and balance of the tifosi, to renew your contractual obligations towards the ones who’ve guided-’
‘CAN I PLAY IN THE OLYMPICS?’
Paolo suppressed his grin.
‘…I’m sure there is something we can work out.’
‘AND CLEAR OUT THE OLDIES.’
[oh hey, sry for the cliff-hanger lyke.]
‘Step two, three, four and shake it, shake it, shake it, shake what the-no, no, no. STOP THE MUSIC MUTU.’
A whimper escaped Adrian Mutu [back-up dancer number 18] as he fumbled and hit the pause button on the boom box as Rui Costa, legendary Bollywood choreographer, pulled his shawl back over his head and looked calmly at his breathless starlet on the rehearsal stage.
Baby Blue Mango [real name Alessandro Nesta] huffed and hitched up his long hand beaded full-skirt. Mutu, recognizing the early signs of an oncoming Mango!Fit, quickly climbed the stage and offered him an extra-sweet coconut lattu on a baby blue platter, but was shoved away by the angry starlet as he strutted towards the edge of the stage, wagging his well-manicured index finger [with the baby blue rhinestones catching the light] all the way.
‘That was the most perfect take I’ve done of that sequence all morning. How dare you stop the music Costa!’
Rui picked away some lint on his sleeve and sighed.
‘Mango, darling, the sequence called for four steps forward and then 8 hip jerks. Your giving me 4 hip jerks and 4 uh, what does he call it Mutu?’
‘Mango shakes, Mr. Costa.’
‘Right, four Mango shakes.’
‘What’s wrong with four Mango shakes?!’
‘Well, it’s four Mango Shakes too many, darling.’
‘But you LOVE my Mango Shakes!’
‘It’s a bit too much. You can’t pull it off on screen.’
‘WHAT? You don’t think am good enough??!’
A light bulb burst at the starlets frightening volume, Rui winced and Mutu put the lattu in his mouth and covered his head with the baby blue platter.
‘Mango, listen. Bleeding Laziale II: Still Bleeding starts filming in two days and we have to have this and three other songs down by tonight. Then we have to work in the group sequences and then we have to rehearse the hero-heroine duet on top of the moving lorry full of chickens as it drives through the gentle green landscapes on a summer morning…there is so much to do here and we just don’t have the time for this kind of attitude.’
For a moment Mango looked as if he understood [but he was just concentrating on mentally willing his up do to stay up after the extreme choreography session from a moment ago], then strutted over to a cowering Mutu and heaved the dancer up by the elbow.
‘If you don’t think I’m a good enough dancer to pull off four Mango Shakes, why don’t you get someone else to do it Costa.’
‘But-what-who...me?’ Mutu struggled under Mango’s grip.
‘Yes you, gypsy.’
‘Couldn’t be!’
‘Exactly, and that’s why you need me, Costa.’ Mango drawled the dance guru’s last name and smiled wickedly.
Rui narrowed his brows and looked the Romanian kid up and down. Mutu had only been training with the Super Costa Dance Academy for three months now, but he was an eager, dedicated student from what Rui saw. The kid was slim, had a nicely shaped head and decent looking calves. Though he didn’t match Baby Blue Mango’s height or his dark Roman locks or his famous scowl to pout to sexy smirk in 2.5 seconds or less [hundreds of theatre goers were reportedly found unconscious in their seats after a showing of Bleeding Laziale: Bleeding till 2011 in London], Mutu had a certain something about him.
‘Maybe I don’t.’ Rui crossed his arms and looked pointedly at Mutu’s nervous face. Mango made an ugly little chocking noise and dropped Mutu’s arm in disgust.
‘Him? Seriously? Costa, I know your getting old and honestly, shacking up with that hairy ape man isn’t doing anything for your image either, but if you cut me, the STAR, from this film…you, you are doomed Costa!.’
‘We’ll see about that Mango. I can train this boy. I can make him great.’ Rui’s eyes glinted with promise; he could see Adrian twirling against a painted backdrop, draped in a glorious purple sari and matching costume jewellery.
Mango’s forehead developed a large and visible vein.
Mutu blinked.
‘But he’s not as pretty as I am! He has…has…’
‘Short hair?’
‘Damn straight! Everyone knows you need long legs and longer hair to survive in this industry! Everything I was born with Costa!’
‘Will you really, Mr. Costa? Can you make me a star?’ Mutu’s eyes widened and he stood up from the floor.
‘We can grow that hair, Adrian. Plus, there are always extensions.’ Rui smiled triumphantly at Mango’s gaping mouth and motioned for Mutu to come to him. The kid scrambled off the stage excitedly.
‘Synthetic hairs…that is so unnatural…oh, I feel a faint.’ Mango wasn’t faking for once as he put his hand over his large forehead vein and fainted loudly on the stage [but not before cleverly dialling the producers office and letting the cell hit the ground as soon as it starts ringing, so they could hear his dramatic fall and everyone in the building would come running to his aid...ok, so he was faking it. But gosh, he looked so fabulous doing it.]
**
Paolo felt ridiculous, but it had to be done. Paolo would have liked the eyeholes to be larger than his pupils, but it couldn’t be bothered with now. Paolo also would like Rino to start the smoke machine right bloody now, because now was the ‘most fortunate timing’ or there will be ‘warm embraces’ of the painful kind between his foot and Rino’s behind.
‘OHMYSWEETSONOFGODIT’SZORRO!’
Paolo was about to turn around and smack the ‘unrelenting Rossonero’ when the machine switched on suddenly and the carefully placed light from Ricardo’s bookshelf beamed down on his black satin shirt and pants. Ricardo sat up like a bolt and screamed.
Paolo would have rolled his eyes, if he could move them against the tight eye mask.
‘Nay ye golden boy, it is not Antonio Banderas. It is I, the ghost of Milan Past..past..past.’
‘AHH! THE DEVIL, HE RISES BEFORE ME!’ Ricardo made the sign of the cross with his fingers as Paolo swished his black cape around menacingly.
‘Aye, aye! I remember when those poetical words were once spoken of our glorious forefathers...fathers..fathers.’
‘He sounds like a pirate.’ Ambro crawled up from behind Rino and clamped a hand over the man’s mouth.
Paolo stopped swishing his cape and squinted at Ricardo.
‘Is that a…dog collar on your neck-’
‘WHAT’S IT TO YOU SATAN?!’
‘I knew he was a kinky bastard.’ Rino had his ear twisted by a new pair of hands, softer ones and suddenly Andrea was digging a leg into Rino’s sides trying to make himself a space on the floor.
Ricardo had sprung up on his bed and grabbed the bible on his bed stand. He raised it above his head and threw it at a stunned Paolo, who recovered and did enough stumbling to duck the flying book.
Ricardo looked at him hungrily.
Paolo needed a moment to digest that and another moment to remember his speech and another moment to convince himself that he loved Milan and that this was really worth enduring at his age and that if Adriana ever found out, she would never tell the kids about it because she loved him more than he loved Milan and…well, she wouldn’t, but Sandro would. God, Paolo was such an idiot sometimes.
‘Erm…calm ye, future King of Lombardy, prince of Rossoneri hearts, inheritor of my-who wrote this-ugh, our captaincy. I come with peaceful means, to give you golden counsel in these troubled times.’
‘TROUBLED TIMES? THERE IS NO CRISIS AT MILAN, DARK SOUL-SUCKER.’
A half drowsy Brocchi, who was now lying on Rino’s legs, switched on his Sony mini-recorder.
‘Are you kidding? There’s only so much shi-untruth we can feed the press Ricardo. It is up to you to restore the faith and balance of the tifosi, to renew your contractual obligations towards the ones who’ve guided-’
‘CAN I PLAY IN THE OLYMPICS?’
Paolo suppressed his grin.
‘…I’m sure there is something we can work out.’
‘AND CLEAR OUT THE OLDIES.’
[oh hey, sry for the cliff-hanger lyke.]