FIC: That Damn Clock
*coughs* Um, yeah. It seems I rather like Studio 60. This idea popped into my head and refused to let go. Now I just need to get some icons to match my obsession!
Title: That Damn Clock
By: freedomfry
Fandom: Studio 60
Word Count: 405
Summary: Danny was wrong about the clock.
Disclaimer: All power and glory to Aaron Sorkin, NBC and the mighty minions at both. These characters are soooo not mine.
Danny was wrong. That Damn Clock-Matt was already capitalizing it in his mind-definitely had special powers.
Evil time sucking powers.
Now if it had special powers that made him write, he wouldn’t mind the giant glowing numbers as the ticked down-to the second, and how sick was that, Wes, honestly?-the time left until the next show.
But no, he was stuck with That Damn Time-Sucking Clock and he was beginning to think of a sketch about it in his head-very Poe, very Tell-Tale Heart, but he was worried that it would lead down the path to Peripheral Vision Man and becoming a hack like Ricky and Ron and…dammit, now That Damn Clock had taken his punctuation away, too.
And 15 minutes and 7 seconds. He needed that time back.
It was enough to make a guy start drinking Maalox straight from the bottle. If he hadn't already been doing that, and if it hadn't been too old a habit to blame on That Damn Clock.
Matt tried for 2 minutes and 39 seconds anyway.
That Damn Clock told him how long he's spent on eBay on Monday afternoon searching for inspiration (42 minutes exactly and why wasn't anyone selling inspiration? They were selling everything else.), how many minutes it took him to beat the New York Times crossword puzzle on Wednesday morning (1 hour, 18 minutes, 54 seconds), and how long he spent googling words that rhymed with "fundamentalists" (29 minutes, 9 seconds).
The less said about how much time he'd spent frantically closing pop-up ads after typing "whack jobs" into the search engine in a moment of blind stupidity, the better.
That Damn Clock knew it had been 37 seconds, though.
Matt could handle the corkboard even when it was empty. It didn't glow. It didn't possess strangely mesmerizing numbers. He'd never lost 4 minutes and 20 seconds staring blankly at it.
He'd tried moving the furniture around (14 minutes, 43 seconds of sweating and swearing) so That Damn Clock wasn't staring at him, but then it was behind him and he couldn't see what it said and it was even creepier than being able to watch it all day long and…yeah, Danny was going to just have to understand when Matt took a chair or an automatic weapon to the thing.
That Damn Clock had special powers, all right. It was driving him around the bend. He hadn't needed the help, thanks.
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Title: That Damn Clock
By: freedomfry
Fandom: Studio 60
Word Count: 405
Summary: Danny was wrong about the clock.
Disclaimer: All power and glory to Aaron Sorkin, NBC and the mighty minions at both. These characters are soooo not mine.
Danny was wrong. That Damn Clock-Matt was already capitalizing it in his mind-definitely had special powers.
Evil time sucking powers.
Now if it had special powers that made him write, he wouldn’t mind the giant glowing numbers as the ticked down-to the second, and how sick was that, Wes, honestly?-the time left until the next show.
But no, he was stuck with That Damn Time-Sucking Clock and he was beginning to think of a sketch about it in his head-very Poe, very Tell-Tale Heart, but he was worried that it would lead down the path to Peripheral Vision Man and becoming a hack like Ricky and Ron and…dammit, now That Damn Clock had taken his punctuation away, too.
And 15 minutes and 7 seconds. He needed that time back.
It was enough to make a guy start drinking Maalox straight from the bottle. If he hadn't already been doing that, and if it hadn't been too old a habit to blame on That Damn Clock.
Matt tried for 2 minutes and 39 seconds anyway.
That Damn Clock told him how long he's spent on eBay on Monday afternoon searching for inspiration (42 minutes exactly and why wasn't anyone selling inspiration? They were selling everything else.), how many minutes it took him to beat the New York Times crossword puzzle on Wednesday morning (1 hour, 18 minutes, 54 seconds), and how long he spent googling words that rhymed with "fundamentalists" (29 minutes, 9 seconds).
The less said about how much time he'd spent frantically closing pop-up ads after typing "whack jobs" into the search engine in a moment of blind stupidity, the better.
That Damn Clock knew it had been 37 seconds, though.
Matt could handle the corkboard even when it was empty. It didn't glow. It didn't possess strangely mesmerizing numbers. He'd never lost 4 minutes and 20 seconds staring blankly at it.
He'd tried moving the furniture around (14 minutes, 43 seconds of sweating and swearing) so That Damn Clock wasn't staring at him, but then it was behind him and he couldn't see what it said and it was even creepier than being able to watch it all day long and…yeah, Danny was going to just have to understand when Matt took a chair or an automatic weapon to the thing.
That Damn Clock had special powers, all right. It was driving him around the bend. He hadn't needed the help, thanks.
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