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Tell me again, why do I need one of these things?

Still with the joy of branehate today. Went to "work" and picked up…

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welsh: headdesk
Still with the joy of branehate today. Went to "work" and picked up a "New Adventures" Who tie-in novel - from a series done in the nineties when Who wasn't really a huge moneyspinner and was close to legit fanfiction - at a local charity shop. I lived on these things.

For those interested, "The Room With No Doors" by Kate Orman, in which Chris Cwej tries to be inconspicous as a six-foot-six blond samurai.

Other than that, Joe Dick wants me to write this down:-

When everything went black, Joe had one thought. When he woke sometime in the last five minutes and stopped coasting the warm edge of sleep, soft and familiar as heroin in his veins, Joe could hear water. Good, because the last thing Joe Dick wanted was another drink -- he just wanted to be less sober before he walked into his own trap.

And now, warm soft dirt with grass growing like grass - not that kind, not shit and giggles, proper botanical grass - and he could see the water, like a mountain stream. He knew it wasn't real, he would no more drink out of a gurgling flow of crisp organo-phospate laden water than he would out of Pipe's boot. He knew this wasn't real, so he could just crawl along here - gravity was doing interesting things to his stomach and dancing the post-trip mambo - and stick his head in.

Then he wouldn't be so fucking thirsty and could maybe figure out what the fuck is going on here.

"I wouldn't do that, son, don't drink the water." A voice like every authority figure Joe had ever loved hated, warm with that impersonal factory-line tone of vague love and tepid water.

Water, Joe wanted water. "I'm thirsty" he mumbled and added a few obscenities for flavour. His head hurt - well, yeah, he couldn't quite remember what he had done, but he knew his head should be hurting for it. It would come to him, after he'd done some drinking.

"Really, young man, you have the look of somebody with unfinished business, obligations, things to set--" The white-haired Mountie realised that Joe was looking at him. He'd perfected that look a long time ago and saved it up for special occassions, like Pipe being drunk.

There was another guy, reclining like he was in bed with two strippers putting on a show, yet Joe could pick up that he wasn't all that comfortable, it was part of the way he didn't breathe. His eyes were as bright and brilliant as Billy's - where was Billy? Was this the timetravel game and who let that old square play? - and there was something Joe recognised. Something that made Joe remember.

It was as clear as Joe's hair was dark; he hadn't been the only person to race a gun. His new friend, his suit a mess beneath a fisherman's sweater, saluted. "Fucking 'eh," it looked like Joe was going to get that drink after all, what was good with Mountain Dew anyway, it made for a lousy mixer?

And that was how Joe Dick came to the shores of the Lethe. How Joseph Mulgrew left, that's another story.

Thanks to Dead Bob for dialogue and Dexter Lexcanon for filling in the silences. I don't know if I will ever do anything with this whole massive synoptic thing *cough* On the Inside *cough* but I had to get it out and a little drunk around the edges.

Now I am going to stitch me a pineapple. This keyboard thing is kinda hard work. And could somebody please turn the sun down a bit; the brane, it hates.
  • Wow, that's very cool! Ghost!Joe and Dead!Bob? THAT is a party mixer.

    Now is Tallent going to fall for a Mountie, or what?

    *prods gently so as not to stir the brane waves too much*

    Or more Vecchio. I'll take that like breathing.

    *mutual sun!hate. Carpe noctem, me*
    • Well, Joe... *loses words* ... anyway, somebody stole his body and their name is Ed Festus, except it's really Faustus spelt badly by some imigration agent way back when. Selling your soul and working in the music business go together like hand and glove

      (Joe, shut up about no glove, no love because we all know what you did)

      Brane is still feeling a bit unravelled, but Tallent is currently driving across Canada in a Crown Victoria and having lots of hook-ups at roadside attractions. (Giant lobsters! how can a fic not have giant!lobsters and how do they feel when you're backed into a claw and having your brain sucked out? No answer required).

      I was about to say "not quite as bad as yesterday" but ouch! Suckerpunched by my own grey matter. Going to take advantage of sun to stitch some really dark bits. I keep a notebook in my stitchy bag (yes, I am that kind of person).
  • I like it! Dead!Bob is just what Joe needs where he is!
    I had to google Dexter Lexcanon, and you know what, your LJ comes on top of the search :-)
    • Google? Oh my! *hugh dillon arms*

      The world needs more self-destructive hard-drinking lawyers with a death wish (and even better a fuck you wish) - I think they are going to get on like a house on fire.

      (as pterry says, "have you ever been inside a burning house?"

      dead!Bob is feeling underappreciated and nobody seems to be listening to his advice on how to finish up your unfinished business -- Dexter thinks eternity with whiskey is a good option and Joe is hung over).

      Also, "Buried on Sunday" is a weird strangely good/bad film. Up points are Dexter, PG as a shirtless atheist priest, and spontaneous combustion. Down points are the least convincing romance on the planet, said love interest, and the bit with Mount Rushmore. Canada's Wonderland, however, rocks (and explodes).
      • So, another bad movie I have to watch, then! I haven't read much of Terry Pratchett either, just enough may be to say that his and your style have something in common. If you ever manage this epic of yours, guess I'll need a reference addendum or something (or I still can google all along!)
  • Wow.
    Sounds a bit like a dark, realistic version of my comic dream last night after watching "Watchmen". Lots of dead scenes being rewound in slow- motion showing artistical fights. Your words are however so much better!
    If you want the sun turned down, feel free to come to Switzerland. Zürich is all covered in fog, like Monet's London.
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