Fic: ‘Tis the Season: The right species.
Title: ‘Tis the Season: The right species.
Fandom: Hogfather
Rating: (G)
Time Period: The year after the events of the movie.
Summary: Albert has a conversation.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q.).
Albert, Albert, Albert …
This is after ‘Tis the Season: Glue it ( ‘Tis the Season: Glue it acted as a part I to this).
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of Terry Pratchett and Vadim Jean (his interpretation); I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
_______________________
Albert sits on a bale of hay. “It's not your fault, y'know,” he says as he reaches for a soggy butt behind his ear. “'e's hooked, he is.”
The horse trots over to the stall's gate.
Albert holds the butt while he searches his pockets. “It's the time of year,” he continues while pulling a matchbook he found free.
There's a questioning neigh.
Albert shakes a match loose. “It's no fault of yours if you're not a pig, is it?”
The horse snorts.
Albert lights his match. “Not bein' an elf again I'm not,” he mutters as he tilts the match to the butt.
The flame splutters; the horse whickers.
Albert looks at the horse suspiciously before he shrugs and tosses the match aside. “At least,” he raises his voice, “all I have to do is wear silly ears. At least I'm the right species.”
The horse stamps a hoof.
Fandom: Hogfather
Rating: (G)
Time Period: The year after the events of the movie.
Summary: Albert has a conversation.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q.).
Albert, Albert, Albert …
This is after ‘Tis the Season: Glue it ( ‘Tis the Season: Glue it acted as a part I to this).
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of Terry Pratchett and Vadim Jean (his interpretation); I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
_______________________
Albert sits on a bale of hay. “It's not your fault, y'know,” he says as he reaches for a soggy butt behind his ear. “'e's hooked, he is.”
The horse trots over to the stall's gate.
Albert holds the butt while he searches his pockets. “It's the time of year,” he continues while pulling a matchbook he found free.
There's a questioning neigh.
Albert shakes a match loose. “It's no fault of yours if you're not a pig, is it?”
The horse snorts.
Albert lights his match. “Not bein' an elf again I'm not,” he mutters as he tilts the match to the butt.
The flame splutters; the horse whickers.
Albert looks at the horse suspiciously before he shrugs and tosses the match aside. “At least,” he raises his voice, “all I have to do is wear silly ears. At least I'm the right species.”
The horse stamps a hoof.