ask me, ask me, ask me
dreamofthem: yo bitch, write me a Morrissey fic with 5 possums.
. . .needless to say, no one comes out of this looking good. Or in character.
Morrissey rarely left the house and NEVER when he was cooking but today he had to leave his Baby Possum Stew (baby possums were a rare delicacy in Manchester; Morrissey considered himself lucky to have found five) to go brutally murder the boy next door.
"Yo bitch, yo bitch!" screamed Morrissey, banging his fists against the door. "Turn down your crap music!"
In response, the grating sounds of Fall Out Boy reached new decibels of intolerable. Morrissey totally lost his cool.
"YOU FUCKING WANKER! I'LL FUCKING BATTER YOU! COME OUT AND HERE AND FIGHT LIKE A MAN, YA POOF!"
The door swung open. A girl in short-cropped hair and a men's t-shirt looked at him, eyeliner stains all down her cheeks. Morrissey dropped his fists. He couldn't hit a girl. "Turn your music down, girly," he said, turning to leave.
"The fuck are you talking to, you slimy bastard!" screeched the emo girl. "I'm a man!"
"Not with those legs," said Morrissey, noticing suddenly that the emo boy was not wearing an trousers or indeed, underpants. "And for serious, stop fucking about with that crap loud music. It's crap. And you're going to go deaf."
"It makes me feel beautiful inside," whined the boy, putting his hands on his hips, raising the shirt a couple inches. He was very well endowed. Morrssey sighed. "Fall Out Boy is not music. I'll show you real music. What's your name, you little punk?"
"Johnny Marr. And I'm not a punk, I'm a poet. Of sound. What your name?"
"Steven Patrick Morrissey. And I'm a poet. Of words."
"My name is better."
Morrissey smacked the boy's cheek. "Shut up. I'm making baby possum stew. Put some clothes on and come over in an hour."
Johnny Marr came over naked. A band was formed. They all lived happily ever after.
. . .needless to say, no one comes out of this looking good. Or in character.
Morrissey rarely left the house and NEVER when he was cooking but today he had to leave his Baby Possum Stew (baby possums were a rare delicacy in Manchester; Morrissey considered himself lucky to have found five) to go brutally murder the boy next door.
"Yo bitch, yo bitch!" screamed Morrissey, banging his fists against the door. "Turn down your crap music!"
In response, the grating sounds of Fall Out Boy reached new decibels of intolerable. Morrissey totally lost his cool.
"YOU FUCKING WANKER! I'LL FUCKING BATTER YOU! COME OUT AND HERE AND FIGHT LIKE A MAN, YA POOF!"
The door swung open. A girl in short-cropped hair and a men's t-shirt looked at him, eyeliner stains all down her cheeks. Morrissey dropped his fists. He couldn't hit a girl. "Turn your music down, girly," he said, turning to leave.
"The fuck are you talking to, you slimy bastard!" screeched the emo girl. "I'm a man!"
"Not with those legs," said Morrissey, noticing suddenly that the emo boy was not wearing an trousers or indeed, underpants. "And for serious, stop fucking about with that crap loud music. It's crap. And you're going to go deaf."
"It makes me feel beautiful inside," whined the boy, putting his hands on his hips, raising the shirt a couple inches. He was very well endowed. Morrssey sighed. "Fall Out Boy is not music. I'll show you real music. What's your name, you little punk?"
"Johnny Marr. And I'm not a punk, I'm a poet. Of sound. What your name?"
"Steven Patrick Morrissey. And I'm a poet. Of words."
"My name is better."
Morrissey smacked the boy's cheek. "Shut up. I'm making baby possum stew. Put some clothes on and come over in an hour."
Johnny Marr came over naked. A band was formed. They all lived happily ever after.