The crackiest crack that ever cracked
Title: A Blonde, a Brunette, and a Jeepfull of Idiots at a Drive-Thru
Author: lucy_lupin
Dedicated to: maniacalmuse
Set: Post-Hogwarts, (very very) AU
Characters: Blaise, Luna and random goons
Pairing: None
Genre: General/Humour
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 803
Disclaimer: JKR pwns all. I am just borrowing them for fun, not profit.
Summary: Blaise and Luna are Muggles. Luna is working at McDonalds and gets harassed by a group of frat boys. Blaise does not appreciate it. Sentence #3 is the understatement of the year.
Author's Notes: So crack and soo bad, but sooo fun. Written for Thalia’s birthday.
* ~ * ~ *
“Hello, may I take your order please?”
The speaker was a blonde with stringy long hair trailing safely down her back in a waist-length braid, and radish earrings that jangled as she spoke. In a black Mercedes near the window sat a young man with carelessly artful dark curls, slanted green eyes, and long-fingered hands, one of which was currently hanging idly out the window as he waited. The fast food joint was not Blaise Zabini’s usual haunt, but the service at the 59th street branch was unparalleled. At least in his opinion.
It was not him however that she was speaking to. A car ahead lolled a gang of hooligans. They were frat boys, and they were attending a local college on an athletic scholarship, when both their academics and SAT scores reflected that they would have never got in otherwise. Hailing from a collection of southern states, this group had been heroes of their hometown teams and idolized and adored by mothers, fathers and daughters alike. All this hero worship isn’t good for growing boys, and therefore the four of them had grown up to be neither idolatrous nor adorable people. Even though most other than his girlfriend Daphne and the slim blonde at the window would apply the same attributes to him, Blaise didn’t particularly like that sort of person. How they were talking to the drive-thru order staff member only served to fuel his ire.
“Are you on the menu?” one asked.
“I’m sorry, but only the Quarter Pounder, Big Mac, Fillet O’Fish and McChicken meals are available, actually,” the blonde responded, her smile not waving in the slightest. “If I could interest you in our Happy Meal? We have Star Wars figurines this week, you know.”
“I know what you could interest me in,” the leader responded. “And yeah, it would certainly qualify as a happy meal.”
The rest of his groupies laughed. One car behind, Blaise did not. His fingers clenched around the steering wheel.
Meanwhile the blonde had managed to string enough full sentences out of the frat boys to create something resembling an actual order. One had ordered beer, only to be told serenely that American McDonalds did not serve alcohol, but their Dutch counterparts did. This was met with the response, “Well, I’ll be happy to take you to Neverland any day.” The blonde repeated their order back to them, and asked if they wanted to anything upsized. “My meal isn’t, but I bet you are!” cracked one. Cue more aping from the Neanderthals.
Blaise’s knuckles had grown white.
Finally, the order appeared to be complete. But there appeared to be an infinite stupidity limit on the group’s stupidity factor. As they were about to pull away, the leader quipped, “You know, baby, you have such a hot voice. You should look into being a phone sex operator. I bet you’d make a lot of guys happy. Me, I’d put you on speed dial.” Then, hooting with laughter, the car jumped forward to the next window.
Blaise wound his window up. He had lost his appetite for dead cow, but found he was craving something else red-blooded but with significantly less brain cells. He waited until the four-wheel drive had bounced off, blaring with loud doof-doof music, then quietly slinked his own vehicle forward.
The jocks were too busy stuffing their faces to realize that a car was trailing them. Until it drove hard up their rear end down a dark, deserted street. There was the searing sound of tearing metal then, cussing loudly, the four leapt out of the jeep and spun around to where a tall, dark young man in a tailored white shirt and grey slacks was leaning patiently against the side of his own vehicle. “You fucking pinged my ride!” the leader roared. Staking out the culprit the way a group of rhinoceros surrounded a lone cat, they began to circle around him.
The next thing the leader knew (or didn’t know, as the case may be, since the blow had knocked him unconscious), he had one half of a pair of Gucci loafers at his jawbone.
Quickly the other three were dispatched in similar fashion. Blaise Zabini was not a 250 lb womanizing footballer, but he - unlike the others - was sober, and a 4th dan black belt. As he was fluent in Tae Kwon Do, a form of martial arts that specialized in exuding quick reflexes and maximum damage while keeping your opponents at a distance, the four human-shaped tubs of lard never stood a chance. And several hours later, after the frat boys had recovered a sufficient amount to crawl back to the campus with their tails hanging between their legs, the creed echoed through the fraternities and sororities alike: DO NOT FUCK WITH LUNA LOVEGOOD.
The End
Author: lucy_lupin
Dedicated to: maniacalmuse
Set: Post-Hogwarts, (very very) AU
Characters: Blaise, Luna and random goons
Pairing: None
Genre: General/Humour
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 803
Disclaimer: JKR pwns all. I am just borrowing them for fun, not profit.
Summary: Blaise and Luna are Muggles. Luna is working at McDonalds and gets harassed by a group of frat boys. Blaise does not appreciate it. Sentence #3 is the understatement of the year.
Author's Notes: So crack and soo bad, but sooo fun. Written for Thalia’s birthday.
* ~ * ~ *
“Hello, may I take your order please?”
The speaker was a blonde with stringy long hair trailing safely down her back in a waist-length braid, and radish earrings that jangled as she spoke. In a black Mercedes near the window sat a young man with carelessly artful dark curls, slanted green eyes, and long-fingered hands, one of which was currently hanging idly out the window as he waited. The fast food joint was not Blaise Zabini’s usual haunt, but the service at the 59th street branch was unparalleled. At least in his opinion.
It was not him however that she was speaking to. A car ahead lolled a gang of hooligans. They were frat boys, and they were attending a local college on an athletic scholarship, when both their academics and SAT scores reflected that they would have never got in otherwise. Hailing from a collection of southern states, this group had been heroes of their hometown teams and idolized and adored by mothers, fathers and daughters alike. All this hero worship isn’t good for growing boys, and therefore the four of them had grown up to be neither idolatrous nor adorable people. Even though most other than his girlfriend Daphne and the slim blonde at the window would apply the same attributes to him, Blaise didn’t particularly like that sort of person. How they were talking to the drive-thru order staff member only served to fuel his ire.
“Are you on the menu?” one asked.
“I’m sorry, but only the Quarter Pounder, Big Mac, Fillet O’Fish and McChicken meals are available, actually,” the blonde responded, her smile not waving in the slightest. “If I could interest you in our Happy Meal? We have Star Wars figurines this week, you know.”
“I know what you could interest me in,” the leader responded. “And yeah, it would certainly qualify as a happy meal.”
The rest of his groupies laughed. One car behind, Blaise did not. His fingers clenched around the steering wheel.
Meanwhile the blonde had managed to string enough full sentences out of the frat boys to create something resembling an actual order. One had ordered beer, only to be told serenely that American McDonalds did not serve alcohol, but their Dutch counterparts did. This was met with the response, “Well, I’ll be happy to take you to Neverland any day.” The blonde repeated their order back to them, and asked if they wanted to anything upsized. “My meal isn’t, but I bet you are!” cracked one. Cue more aping from the Neanderthals.
Blaise’s knuckles had grown white.
Finally, the order appeared to be complete. But there appeared to be an infinite stupidity limit on the group’s stupidity factor. As they were about to pull away, the leader quipped, “You know, baby, you have such a hot voice. You should look into being a phone sex operator. I bet you’d make a lot of guys happy. Me, I’d put you on speed dial.” Then, hooting with laughter, the car jumped forward to the next window.
Blaise wound his window up. He had lost his appetite for dead cow, but found he was craving something else red-blooded but with significantly less brain cells. He waited until the four-wheel drive had bounced off, blaring with loud doof-doof music, then quietly slinked his own vehicle forward.
The jocks were too busy stuffing their faces to realize that a car was trailing them. Until it drove hard up their rear end down a dark, deserted street. There was the searing sound of tearing metal then, cussing loudly, the four leapt out of the jeep and spun around to where a tall, dark young man in a tailored white shirt and grey slacks was leaning patiently against the side of his own vehicle. “You fucking pinged my ride!” the leader roared. Staking out the culprit the way a group of rhinoceros surrounded a lone cat, they began to circle around him.
The next thing the leader knew (or didn’t know, as the case may be, since the blow had knocked him unconscious), he had one half of a pair of Gucci loafers at his jawbone.
Quickly the other three were dispatched in similar fashion. Blaise Zabini was not a 250 lb womanizing footballer, but he - unlike the others - was sober, and a 4th dan black belt. As he was fluent in Tae Kwon Do, a form of martial arts that specialized in exuding quick reflexes and maximum damage while keeping your opponents at a distance, the four human-shaped tubs of lard never stood a chance. And several hours later, after the frat boys had recovered a sufficient amount to crawl back to the campus with their tails hanging between their legs, the creed echoed through the fraternities and sororities alike: DO NOT FUCK WITH LUNA LOVEGOOD.
The End