WIP meme
Stolen from a couple of peeps here. :) I almost didn't do this because my WIP folder is pretty small -- I haven't been writing Boosh fic for very long, and so far I've finished them all except these two!
The first one is a failed response to a prompt on booshbattle that I'm not sure I'll ever get back to. Was supposed to answer this prompt: Mighty Boosh, Howard/Vince, Howard tells Vince he has a gentleman friend and asks for sex advice.
“I... You said it was a momentary lapse!”
“What?”
“The gay thing. With me, on the roof. That had to be the shortest “gay phase” in world history, Howard.”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t just a phase.”
Howard is sounding far too debonair about this, so un-Howard like. He might as well have revealed something as benign as ‘I quite like asparagus’, not something as mind-bending as the fact that he fancies a bloke, and more to the point, that this bloke is not Vince. Howard keeps on ironing his awful Hawaiian-print shirt while Vince stands there on the other side of the room, blinking fast.
He feels... something. Something that isn’t exasperation or pity or fond amusement, nothing like what he usually feels when Howard goes on about Gideon or the Pencil-Case Girl, or any other female who’s been unfortunate enough to catch Howard’s beady little eyes. It’s something a lot closer to the painful pang of seeing a fashion rival wearing a genius pair of boots, or the mad urges to mow down other trendies in Topshop when there’s only one pair of red sequined drainpipes on the rack.
It’s as though Howard is a gorgeous jacket in Jaquettie’s new fall line, and some other bloke, some wanker, got his hands on it before Vince did.
“Who is it?”
***
And then here's a little snippet of my Fast Fuse sequel, which is going to be a bit of a monster if I can ever get around to actually writing it instead of just planning random scenes in my head and filling notepads with ideas.
***
He slips in and out of whatever personality best suits his goal as effortlessly as a chameleon and it’s amazing to watch because it’s like being in the audience at a magician’s show... “Now watch, ladies and gentlemen, how I morph seamlessly from easygoing dimwit to vulnerable junkie! And now, my next trick, the hard-as-nails cop!” He should be making millions; he should be in Hollywood winning Oscars instead of here in fucking Hackney, blowing the mind of his audience of one.
He uses his talents to manipulate everyone, from the guys to the boss to the customers in the shop (unsurprisingly, he’s genuinely an amazing salesman) to his landlord, down to the clerk at Sainsbury’s, to the tramp sitting by the bus stop. Even Jon finds himself on the receiving end of Elliot’s award-winning performances, Jon, who knows enough about Elliot to recognize when he’s being played, but who is as helpless as anyone else to resist it. Sometimes Jon thinks that Elliot has been so conditioned by his job that he’s not even aware he does it anymore, but now and then he’ll catch a glimpse of clarity in his eyes, a sort of cold calculation behind the mask, and realizes that Elliot knows perfectly well what he’s doing.
Still, he can’t bring himself to care.
***
In other news, I has a cake. Life is good.
The first one is a failed response to a prompt on booshbattle that I'm not sure I'll ever get back to. Was supposed to answer this prompt: Mighty Boosh, Howard/Vince, Howard tells Vince he has a gentleman friend and asks for sex advice.
“I... You said it was a momentary lapse!”
“What?”
“The gay thing. With me, on the roof. That had to be the shortest “gay phase” in world history, Howard.”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t just a phase.”
Howard is sounding far too debonair about this, so un-Howard like. He might as well have revealed something as benign as ‘I quite like asparagus’, not something as mind-bending as the fact that he fancies a bloke, and more to the point, that this bloke is not Vince. Howard keeps on ironing his awful Hawaiian-print shirt while Vince stands there on the other side of the room, blinking fast.
He feels... something. Something that isn’t exasperation or pity or fond amusement, nothing like what he usually feels when Howard goes on about Gideon or the Pencil-Case Girl, or any other female who’s been unfortunate enough to catch Howard’s beady little eyes. It’s something a lot closer to the painful pang of seeing a fashion rival wearing a genius pair of boots, or the mad urges to mow down other trendies in Topshop when there’s only one pair of red sequined drainpipes on the rack.
It’s as though Howard is a gorgeous jacket in Jaquettie’s new fall line, and some other bloke, some wanker, got his hands on it before Vince did.
“Who is it?”
***
And then here's a little snippet of my Fast Fuse sequel, which is going to be a bit of a monster if I can ever get around to actually writing it instead of just planning random scenes in my head and filling notepads with ideas.
***
He slips in and out of whatever personality best suits his goal as effortlessly as a chameleon and it’s amazing to watch because it’s like being in the audience at a magician’s show... “Now watch, ladies and gentlemen, how I morph seamlessly from easygoing dimwit to vulnerable junkie! And now, my next trick, the hard-as-nails cop!” He should be making millions; he should be in Hollywood winning Oscars instead of here in fucking Hackney, blowing the mind of his audience of one.
He uses his talents to manipulate everyone, from the guys to the boss to the customers in the shop (unsurprisingly, he’s genuinely an amazing salesman) to his landlord, down to the clerk at Sainsbury’s, to the tramp sitting by the bus stop. Even Jon finds himself on the receiving end of Elliot’s award-winning performances, Jon, who knows enough about Elliot to recognize when he’s being played, but who is as helpless as anyone else to resist it. Sometimes Jon thinks that Elliot has been so conditioned by his job that he’s not even aware he does it anymore, but now and then he’ll catch a glimpse of clarity in his eyes, a sort of cold calculation behind the mask, and realizes that Elliot knows perfectly well what he’s doing.
Still, he can’t bring himself to care.
***
In other news, I has a cake. Life is good.