Christmas highs to wizard lows
Waiting for inspiration to hit, I hear - no, feel - the big band Christmas music blaring its way through Chez Clone, rattling pipes and dishes and my bones and teeth, if I’m not wrong. George says it’s to get the inspirational blood flowing for our inventing, but I’m pretty sure it’s only to give him a dose of the Christmas cheer that’s not going to find him sleeping under the kitchen table in the morning. It’s kinda hard to rain on his parade when he’s only trying to help himself feel better a couple of weeks A.R. (after Rosie, ‘course), but on the other hand, it’s not so easy to listen to, either.
“Clone!” I shout. “CLONE! GEORGE!” Hard to think he can’t hear me at that volume, but - maybe not.
I hear an almighty clomping in definite rhythm and next moment, our undeniably harmonious voice belts out, "Litle Jack Frost, get lost, get lost! Little Jack Frost get lost!"
I take a deep breath and throw my hands in the air, starting to hum along, then take the basement stairs in time to the music, one at a time with a little flourish on each. Yeah, maybe he’s got something here after all. “finally and I open my mouth to say something, but wouldn't you know it, immediately another song starts up. George lets out a great whoop and jumps in the air. "Santa Claus is on his way! Bap ba-da-di-dat dat dat dat dat d-OI! CLONE!"
“Yeah? Been callin’ ya, clone! Prongs, this stuff is infectious!” My feet are bouncing and moving beneath me like I’d been hit with some especially virulent form of Tarantallegra, and I can hardly think but for the lyrics wafting their way through my brain.
He lets out a high, insane laugh and grabs one o' my hands. "Yeah?" he shouts above the hokey music. "Whatchu callin' me for? Not that I blame ya, mind."
We jitterbug till we can hardly breathe, then I finally drop his hand and shake my head., leaning on my knees while he’s still humming. “Work. - We - gotta - get that - stuff - movin’ - clone. Too - close - to Christmas - the - new goods - to the - shelf. Final - protos.” The breather gives me enough of a break that I’m bouncin’ again while I wait for an answer.
George starts dancin' a waltz to Winter Weather as he says, "I thought the music was helpin' get the feel for Christmas. Got me thinkin' about reindeer shitting fudge. Whaddya think?"
"A reindeer shitting fudge?" I think a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I can see that. Prongs, the music is inspiring you! And maybe a snowman too, eh? Though I gotta believe they'd shit white fudge - wha's that stuff called? Somethin' delight?"
"Turkish," he says and smacks his lips. "Like that stuff that Ice tart gave the little bloke in the Wardrobe book." When he spins past me, he catches up my hands and spins me around, singing, "I love the winter...weather! Because I got my love to keep me warm!"
We twirl around the room, humming to the music. "X is in a right tizzy," George says conversationally, as if we were at some sorta social dance or whatnot. "Saw a rook in there. Think it might be the Quibbler back in publication finally. Was gonna check it out. Whaddya think of something called Egg Snog? Don't know what it'd do yet, but I quite like the name."
“Me too. Yeah, the name’s a hoot - we’ll get it figured. You saw the Quibbler? That’s great news! I’ve missed my quality informational services!” I stop for a minute, feeling the idea percolating through the grounds to full-bodied deep, rich fruition. “Clone! It’s working! The music’s working! Think of it - for the adult line - Gingerbed Men - and Women, I s’pose. All ya get for the costume’s the little white lacy squiggles to go ‘round your wrists and ankles and your forehead. The rest’ll do for gingerbread, I s’pose.”
"Gahaha! Damn, but I do love the Winter Weather! Works a charm, it does. Is it lickable? Gotta make it lickable. At LEAST scratch and sniff."
"Yeah! Lickable! It IS supposed to be icing, for Prongs' sake! Maybe we oughtta send a free sample to Flitwick just for bein' one of our best customers! He'd be quite the cute little cookie, eh?"
George giggles madly. "Oi, that he would. Bet ol' Sinny could just eat him alive." Then he stops. "Maybe we better not, ya think? But far be it from us to deprive the bloke. Whatever works and whatnot. Say...them little fireflies had me a great idea."
“Clone!” I shout. “CLONE! GEORGE!” Hard to think he can’t hear me at that volume, but - maybe not.
I hear an almighty clomping in definite rhythm and next moment, our undeniably harmonious voice belts out, "Litle Jack Frost, get lost, get lost! Little Jack Frost get lost!"
I take a deep breath and throw my hands in the air, starting to hum along, then take the basement stairs in time to the music, one at a time with a little flourish on each. Yeah, maybe he’s got something here after all. “finally and I open my mouth to say something, but wouldn't you know it, immediately another song starts up. George lets out a great whoop and jumps in the air. "Santa Claus is on his way! Bap ba-da-di-dat dat dat dat dat d-OI! CLONE!"
“Yeah? Been callin’ ya, clone! Prongs, this stuff is infectious!” My feet are bouncing and moving beneath me like I’d been hit with some especially virulent form of Tarantallegra, and I can hardly think but for the lyrics wafting their way through my brain.
He lets out a high, insane laugh and grabs one o' my hands. "Yeah?" he shouts above the hokey music. "Whatchu callin' me for? Not that I blame ya, mind."
We jitterbug till we can hardly breathe, then I finally drop his hand and shake my head., leaning on my knees while he’s still humming. “Work. - We - gotta - get that - stuff - movin’ - clone. Too - close - to Christmas - the - new goods - to the - shelf. Final - protos.” The breather gives me enough of a break that I’m bouncin’ again while I wait for an answer.
George starts dancin' a waltz to Winter Weather as he says, "I thought the music was helpin' get the feel for Christmas. Got me thinkin' about reindeer shitting fudge. Whaddya think?"
"A reindeer shitting fudge?" I think a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I can see that. Prongs, the music is inspiring you! And maybe a snowman too, eh? Though I gotta believe they'd shit white fudge - wha's that stuff called? Somethin' delight?"
"Turkish," he says and smacks his lips. "Like that stuff that Ice tart gave the little bloke in the Wardrobe book." When he spins past me, he catches up my hands and spins me around, singing, "I love the winter...weather! Because I got my love to keep me warm!"
We twirl around the room, humming to the music. "X is in a right tizzy," George says conversationally, as if we were at some sorta social dance or whatnot. "Saw a rook in there. Think it might be the Quibbler back in publication finally. Was gonna check it out. Whaddya think of something called Egg Snog? Don't know what it'd do yet, but I quite like the name."
“Me too. Yeah, the name’s a hoot - we’ll get it figured. You saw the Quibbler? That’s great news! I’ve missed my quality informational services!” I stop for a minute, feeling the idea percolating through the grounds to full-bodied deep, rich fruition. “Clone! It’s working! The music’s working! Think of it - for the adult line - Gingerbed Men - and Women, I s’pose. All ya get for the costume’s the little white lacy squiggles to go ‘round your wrists and ankles and your forehead. The rest’ll do for gingerbread, I s’pose.”
"Gahaha! Damn, but I do love the Winter Weather! Works a charm, it does. Is it lickable? Gotta make it lickable. At LEAST scratch and sniff."
"Yeah! Lickable! It IS supposed to be icing, for Prongs' sake! Maybe we oughtta send a free sample to Flitwick just for bein' one of our best customers! He'd be quite the cute little cookie, eh?"
George giggles madly. "Oi, that he would. Bet ol' Sinny could just eat him alive." Then he stops. "Maybe we better not, ya think? But far be it from us to deprive the bloke. Whatever works and whatnot. Say...them little fireflies had me a great idea."