(fic) Same Old, Same Old - SPN
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write
Pairing or Characters Involved: Tobasco bottle, Doris (Mystery Spot) and Sam and Dean, sort of
Category: Crack
Rating: PG
Warning: Suicidal Tobasco bottles with delusions of grandeur
Title: Same Old, Same Old
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for the LiveJournal community, spnland_writing. Inanimately challenge. Won Most Creative
There wasn’t much excitement in the life of a bottle of Tabasco. But then again, the bottle, who liked to think she was something special, a real ‘hottie’ (you can laugh, folks, it was funny) had known that from the get go. But one couldn’t help yearn for a bit of zip when you were totted as ‘the original, the gold standard, the mother of all hot sauces.’
Had a nice little ring to it, didn’t it? She certainly thought so.
And with reputation like that she had expected some excitement, some pizzazz . But no , what she got was what every other bottle of Tabasco sauce got going back over 140 years - the same old, same old.
She and her fellow bottles had been filled and shipped out together in massive crates to destinations unknown and that was the extent of her excitement. They were distributed, some to personal residences where there were kids, family fights, bored dogs and inquisitive cats. Many more, like our poor little bottle, ended up in some crummy diner in the middle of Nowhere USA.
For a girl who believed that she was destined for greatness, this was a real let down, let me tell you.
After a few weeks of being treated like just a nobody bottle of hot sauce, she’d had enough. There was no change, no variation, no excitement in her life. The best she could hope for was a flirting session with the Heinz Ketchup bottle or maybe the mustard. Nothing serious, mind you, because when you were a hottie of the highest caliber, you didn’t mix with the normals.
Doris, her waitress, would set her at a table and some chubby businessman in a gray suit with a shiny bottom would unscrew her top - a humiliation she had learned to live with- and dump her life’s blood all over his scrambled eggs.
Enough was enough!
So, one day, when Doris loaded her onto the tray, she decided to take matters into her own hands. After all, if you’re gonna go out, go out in style. No sitting around and waiting for her insides to be slowly drained away. No, sir, she might be only a little bottle of hot sauce, but she was the original! The Gold Standard! The mother of all freaking hot sauce, damn it! And they would remember her. They would talk about her in hushed whispers. Her name would go down in history!
Besides, the two men at the table were young and good looking and looked like they would appreciate a little drama to shake up their ho-hum hillbilly lives.
But wasn’t there something kind of… familiar about them? Had she served them before? She was good with faces and was positive that she’d remember a pair of cuties like this.
Oh, well, on to her big moment!
And so, she jumped, and, lordy, what a rush! Free falling toward the hard tile floor like a comet descending to earth. Yeah, baby!
This action, though, also had a certain sense of familiarity to it that she just couldn’t put her figurative finger on. In her little saucy mind she imagined herself shattering into dozens of small pieces as she hit the hard black and white tile floor. She could see her sauce spilling beautifully over the floor in a dramatic wash of crimson.
Doris, dear plodding Doris, gasped, “Whoops, crap!” (and THAT was familiar, too. What the hell?)
Suddenly all her dreams of headlines and dramatic endings with tears of grief and lamentations were snatched from her as the taller man’s hand shot out with amazing speed… and caught her before she could make her big finale.
“Nice reflexes,” The man with the short hair said and she hated him for it.
Nice reflexes? Nice reflexes?! The big lug had ruined her big moment and all he had to say was Nice reflexes?
She sighed and tried not to obviously pout as Doris set her on the table - carefully. On the counter the Heinz ketchup bottle was snickering with the mustard bottle. Bastards. She was never going to live this down.
Oh, well, there was always tomorrow.
THE END
Pairing or Characters Involved: Tobasco bottle, Doris (Mystery Spot) and Sam and Dean, sort of
Category: Crack
Rating: PG
Warning: Suicidal Tobasco bottles with delusions of grandeur
Title: Same Old, Same Old
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for the LiveJournal community, spnland_writing. Inanimately challenge. Won Most Creative
There wasn’t much excitement in the life of a bottle of Tabasco. But then again, the bottle, who liked to think she was something special, a real ‘hottie’ (you can laugh, folks, it was funny) had known that from the get go. But one couldn’t help yearn for a bit of zip when you were totted as ‘the original, the gold standard, the mother of all hot sauces.’
Had a nice little ring to it, didn’t it? She certainly thought so.
And with reputation like that she had expected some excitement, some pizzazz . But no , what she got was what every other bottle of Tabasco sauce got going back over 140 years - the same old, same old.
She and her fellow bottles had been filled and shipped out together in massive crates to destinations unknown and that was the extent of her excitement. They were distributed, some to personal residences where there were kids, family fights, bored dogs and inquisitive cats. Many more, like our poor little bottle, ended up in some crummy diner in the middle of Nowhere USA.
For a girl who believed that she was destined for greatness, this was a real let down, let me tell you.
After a few weeks of being treated like just a nobody bottle of hot sauce, she’d had enough. There was no change, no variation, no excitement in her life. The best she could hope for was a flirting session with the Heinz Ketchup bottle or maybe the mustard. Nothing serious, mind you, because when you were a hottie of the highest caliber, you didn’t mix with the normals.
Doris, her waitress, would set her at a table and some chubby businessman in a gray suit with a shiny bottom would unscrew her top - a humiliation she had learned to live with- and dump her life’s blood all over his scrambled eggs.
Enough was enough!
So, one day, when Doris loaded her onto the tray, she decided to take matters into her own hands. After all, if you’re gonna go out, go out in style. No sitting around and waiting for her insides to be slowly drained away. No, sir, she might be only a little bottle of hot sauce, but she was the original! The Gold Standard! The mother of all freaking hot sauce, damn it! And they would remember her. They would talk about her in hushed whispers. Her name would go down in history!
Besides, the two men at the table were young and good looking and looked like they would appreciate a little drama to shake up their ho-hum hillbilly lives.
But wasn’t there something kind of… familiar about them? Had she served them before? She was good with faces and was positive that she’d remember a pair of cuties like this.
Oh, well, on to her big moment!
And so, she jumped, and, lordy, what a rush! Free falling toward the hard tile floor like a comet descending to earth. Yeah, baby!
This action, though, also had a certain sense of familiarity to it that she just couldn’t put her figurative finger on. In her little saucy mind she imagined herself shattering into dozens of small pieces as she hit the hard black and white tile floor. She could see her sauce spilling beautifully over the floor in a dramatic wash of crimson.
Doris, dear plodding Doris, gasped, “Whoops, crap!” (and THAT was familiar, too. What the hell?)
Suddenly all her dreams of headlines and dramatic endings with tears of grief and lamentations were snatched from her as the taller man’s hand shot out with amazing speed… and caught her before she could make her big finale.
“Nice reflexes,” The man with the short hair said and she hated him for it.
Nice reflexes? Nice reflexes?! The big lug had ruined her big moment and all he had to say was Nice reflexes?
She sighed and tried not to obviously pout as Doris set her on the table - carefully. On the counter the Heinz ketchup bottle was snickering with the mustard bottle. Bastards. She was never going to live this down.
Oh, well, there was always tomorrow.
THE END