[licenseartistic] July 2008 - Fireworks
Title: "I See No Reason"
Prompt: 3. Picture prompt: Fireworks
Character: The Tenth Doctor
Warnings: None
Pairings: None
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word count: 614
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The Doctor and all other mentioned characters are property of the BBC, and are used without permission.
If there's one thing that never changes, and I mean never ever changes, no matter what the year or planet or whatever, it's that when you get a few blokes together in a pub, they start to talk about things they ought never talk about. Although I do have to say that Earth really does make some of the finest beer in the universe, but I suppose all it's got to be is cool and available, and the same nattering on is gonna happen.
Like, take for instance this one time I was having a pint-- well, nursing a pint, more like-- at a fine establishment in London. It was called the Swan's Beak or the Queen's Hanky or Allan's or something, doesn't matter, and I was sitting there watching the people as I like to do when this one group of fellows come in, all wearing some really tall hats. I don't pay them too much mind, as it's a lot of hunching over and whispering.
Then, the tavern mistress brings a pitcher of ale. And another. And another.
Suddenly, not so much whispering going on. Oh, I'm sure this lot thought they were whispering, but it was very, very loud whispering.
"And where's them bloody Spaniards?" shout-whispered one of the men. "Not a bit of help for their brave English brothers, tryin' to stand up 'gainst everyone!"
"Too busy waggin' their (he said something I'd really rather not repeat here, okay?) around, is where!" answered his equally drunk compatriot.
See, it was 1605 and King James I was just about to pretty much ban Catholicism from England. Catholics, such as the rowdy bunch next to me that night, didn't like that idea. Unfortunately, instead of talking about things or applying those nice tenets of nonviolent protest the situation, they decided-- like a bunch of drunk men at a bar are wont to do-- to choose violence.
Most of them headed off about an hour afterward, stumbling home and praising each other for being such wonderful conspirators, but a couple of them did stick around to commiserate over a few more tankards of the good stuff. Sensing the opportunity being presented to me, I got up from my small table to stand next to them.
"Hi. Look, I couldn't help but overhear you fellas, and first off? Not gonna start an argument here. But, uh... can you tell me when you're going to do it?" I asked.
One of the men looked at me all goggle-eyed. "What're you talking about?"
"What your friend Robert was saying before. What your other friend, Guy is gonna do for him. When?"
The second man almost leapt from his chair. "Why the hell do you want to know?"
"I've know people... good, Catholic people... that might be at the building soon. I need to know if they should stay away."
They blinked at each other. Good, I thought to myself, gave 'em something to think about. Ever want to delay or frustrate a revolutionary or zealot? Give 'em something to think about.
"The fifth," the first man said finally. "Fifth of November."
I nodded and walked out.
Turns out, then, that someone or someones in the conspiracy got concerned about who they might end up killing other than the King and nobility they were targeting and sent a warning letter. The letter got into certain hands, and soon, they were searching the cellar under Parliament and dragging out old Guy Fawkes and a whole mess of gunpowder.
Shame what happened to him, I guess, but it'd been more of a shame if they'd blown up the building, right?
So there's your lesson. Don't drink and plot.
Prompt: 3. Picture prompt: Fireworks
Character: The Tenth Doctor
Warnings: None
Pairings: None
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word count: 614
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The Doctor and all other mentioned characters are property of the BBC, and are used without permission.
If there's one thing that never changes, and I mean never ever changes, no matter what the year or planet or whatever, it's that when you get a few blokes together in a pub, they start to talk about things they ought never talk about. Although I do have to say that Earth really does make some of the finest beer in the universe, but I suppose all it's got to be is cool and available, and the same nattering on is gonna happen.
Like, take for instance this one time I was having a pint-- well, nursing a pint, more like-- at a fine establishment in London. It was called the Swan's Beak or the Queen's Hanky or Allan's or something, doesn't matter, and I was sitting there watching the people as I like to do when this one group of fellows come in, all wearing some really tall hats. I don't pay them too much mind, as it's a lot of hunching over and whispering.
Then, the tavern mistress brings a pitcher of ale. And another. And another.
Suddenly, not so much whispering going on. Oh, I'm sure this lot thought they were whispering, but it was very, very loud whispering.
"And where's them bloody Spaniards?" shout-whispered one of the men. "Not a bit of help for their brave English brothers, tryin' to stand up 'gainst everyone!"
"Too busy waggin' their (he said something I'd really rather not repeat here, okay?) around, is where!" answered his equally drunk compatriot.
See, it was 1605 and King James I was just about to pretty much ban Catholicism from England. Catholics, such as the rowdy bunch next to me that night, didn't like that idea. Unfortunately, instead of talking about things or applying those nice tenets of nonviolent protest the situation, they decided-- like a bunch of drunk men at a bar are wont to do-- to choose violence.
Most of them headed off about an hour afterward, stumbling home and praising each other for being such wonderful conspirators, but a couple of them did stick around to commiserate over a few more tankards of the good stuff. Sensing the opportunity being presented to me, I got up from my small table to stand next to them.
"Hi. Look, I couldn't help but overhear you fellas, and first off? Not gonna start an argument here. But, uh... can you tell me when you're going to do it?" I asked.
One of the men looked at me all goggle-eyed. "What're you talking about?"
"What your friend Robert was saying before. What your other friend, Guy is gonna do for him. When?"
The second man almost leapt from his chair. "Why the hell do you want to know?"
"I've know people... good, Catholic people... that might be at the building soon. I need to know if they should stay away."
They blinked at each other. Good, I thought to myself, gave 'em something to think about. Ever want to delay or frustrate a revolutionary or zealot? Give 'em something to think about.
"The fifth," the first man said finally. "Fifth of November."
I nodded and walked out.
Turns out, then, that someone or someones in the conspiracy got concerned about who they might end up killing other than the King and nobility they were targeting and sent a warning letter. The letter got into certain hands, and soon, they were searching the cellar under Parliament and dragging out old Guy Fawkes and a whole mess of gunpowder.
Shame what happened to him, I guess, but it'd been more of a shame if they'd blown up the building, right?
So there's your lesson. Don't drink and plot.