LJ-Cuts!Fest '09! Now With Bonus Cuts! Plus A Practice Poll.
Alrighty. I'm gonna be closing the prompt post in the next twenty-four hours, so if you've got any last minute ideas you wanna put forward for the Sweet Charity auction fic, then pull yer finger out yer arse and get clicky.
We've already got somewhere in the vicinity of forty prompts put forward -- which is awesome and *blinkity* and waaaaaaaaaaaaaay more than I was expecting -- but not super-conducive to decision-making via poll. So as the schmoe who has to WRITE the damn thing, I'm making an executive call and I'll be shaving the selection down to the ten prompts that most move my furniture. I'm hoping this will concentrate the votes, but it also guarantees I don't end up writing a fic I feel blah about, which...yeah, I just really don't wanna write a fic I feel blah about. I'm appalled enough by my stuff as it is, and harleyjames has paid way too much money for me to phone it in on a prompt that doesn't fly my kite. If anyone has a problem with this, they can write their congressman, who probably has a special wtf? folder for shit like that.
Or email me. I have a special wtf? folder, too. *pats it*
SO. If you're sitting on a prompt that's likely to send me or my pants into the stratosphere, please get over there pretty sharpish and throw it into the hat.
In the meantime, soon I'll be sitting in a lot of planes and doodling about with fic-type things. I'm not traditionally stealthy about my fanfiction because, as some of you are about to learn face-to-face, it's quite obvious from the jump that I'm a Lameass Nerd from Dean Town. I do, however, enjoy senselessly fucking with complete strangers' heads. And to this end, I proposed some name substitution for the duration of my trip. Just to enhance the reading experience for any casual over-the-shoulder peekers. I consulted with the Monkeys and we came up with the following possibilities. Please to be assisting a Dragons with the selection process.
Poll Operation WTF.
To help you decide, here are the substitutions at work in some short random passages.
Itchy and Scratchy:
Itchy studied him, arms folded. Scratchy at half capacity compensated with twice the stubborn. It was like an inbuilt contingency, infuriatingly failsafe. Itchy knew that mulish streak was capable of keeping Scratchy upright and moving long past the point of collapse. He’d seen it in action a dozen times. Knew Scratchy had been leaning on that bull-headed belligerence since they left Bobby’s.
Butch & The Sundance Kid:
That shuts The Sundance Kid right up. And for a good minute, he doesn’t think he’s capable of speaking. He doesn’t know if he wants to smack Butch in his stupid selfish mouth, or get down on his knees and beg until the son of a bitch makes some goddamn fucking sense. He so desperately wants in on the solitary cell Butch’s built for himself since their father died, but Butch’s blocking with mortar and brick at every turn. This isn’t just a wall; the words are a rebuttal, such a violent rejection of his own loss that The Sundance Kid has to bite back the first two responses that spring to mind.
Rubber & Glue:
Rubber’s foot ground down against Glue’s throat. He choked, got a hot adrenal rush that was equal parts anger and panic. He wrapped his forearm around Rubber’s lower leg, tried to heave up and shift him. When he couldn’t budge Rubber from beneath, Glue lifted his hips and jackknifed up with his right boot. There was a hollow thump as the kick found muscle somewhere up above Rubber’s ass. It forced a stumbled step forward, and the foot dropped down off Glue's throat to the grass near his cheek. Glue rolled and twisted, executed a half-assed and clumsy leg-sweep, brought Rubber crashing down on top of him.
Bert & Ernie:
He should have written Ernie a letter, back at the house. Left it someplace in the car where Ernie would find it later. Bert wished he’d written Ernie a letter. Bert’s hand twitched up from the back of the bench seat - almost - but he caught himself, and didn’t quite know why.
Ernie sent an urgent tear on a slalom down his face with a frantic blink.
“Bert, please,” he uttered brokenly.
And that was it. Bert’s eyes stung and misted, sent him out his door into the sharp, biting cold of the pre-dawn air.
Cheese & Crackers:
There’s decades of exhaustion - a universe of need - wrapped up in those two words, and Crackers knows he should back off, but he can’t. Needs to say it as much as Cheese needs Crackers to stand down. He slaps the laptop shut.
“Don’t what, Cheese? Don’t say his name? Don’t talk about what he did? Don’t give a shit about the fact that you nearly made the same fucking deal to bring him back? Don’t what?”
Cheese flinches, eyelids fluttering like every word’s a blow, but Crackers can’t stop himself.
Robot & Weasel:
Robot had to purse his lips against the sudden tightness at the back of his throat. This wasn’t just anger. He knew that. This was deeper, more insidious. The kind of primal resentment that was steeped in years of silent compliance. And now Weasel was finding his voice. Starting to be Weasel. And it made Robot feel proud and scared and vulnerable and protective.
Your serious consideration in this highly sensitive matter is appreciated.