Author's Note: No, I am not dead, and no, "I Am Just A Flea" is not discontinued. I have been simply busy, and now there are some technical problems with the hard-drive the next chapter is stored on--but don't worry, I expect to retrieve it in a matter of days and post another chapter in about a week.
Anyway, about "Film Noir": I wrote this while on a sugar high at 11:30 at night...can you tell? Anyway, this just might turn into a mini-series or an outlet for plot-challenged one-shots unhinged and decade confused. And with a splash of lovely good flim-noir.
Disclaimer: Ahem. This is my "Ode to Disclaimer". I wrote it all on my little lonesome, and if you put it as your own disclaimer, please mention my name. Lets keep Fan Fiction honest.
"O' disclaimer, disclaimer,
why must you worry?
dorever in fear that some lawyer,
in a hurry
will snap up a lawsuit,
file for divorce
sue me for plagarism
appear on my front porch?
O' disclaimer, dismlcaimer,
please, liven up,
no fancy suit will ever think
HP was wrote by some lazy green pup!"
"Film Noir"
A oneshot, giving you the best of cheesy splendor and dark alleyways.
It was a dark night.
A very dark night.
In fact, it was so dark a night that even Crookshanks was having trouble keepin' his toes in front of his face, if you catch my drift.
Aye, drift is what it did. The snow, I mean. It drifted—no, wait, that's not right. It piled into drifts.
It was the fog that was drifting.
Anyway, Hermione Jane Granger—or Agent 005 ½, as we'll call her, was just walking home from a camp out near Route 49. Some ne'er-do-wells had decided to hassle a Communist. Not that she blamed them, mind, but still…an Agent swore and oath.
An oath, duty bound to protect and serve and beat senseless Communists, housewives, her boss, and Death Eaters.
Anyway, she was a fearsome agent. A rogue. A danger. A dash. I mean, a dashing. A dashing person—dashing home, that it.
On a dark night.
These were uncertain times, these 90's. Death Eaters roamed the streets, leering and setting a-fire many flammables and romanticizing about Voldemort; wasted, sagging hippies with a complex trudged back avenues of London drudgeries, offering peace signs, burned CD's of John Lennon, and warned you not to go to Vietnam.
And wizards? They were on the lookout. Ever since Coot Cat Robbinson Potter decided to skip town and hang with a few dudes down in Liverpool, and leave the goodies to fight the scourge dem'selves, the Alliance has been hard-pressed, man. I mean, really.
They even recruited cats.
So, it was dark, it was foggy, it was snowy, and Agent 005 ½ was tired, man. Beat. And all she wanted to do was hop it home, and ravish her angsty emo-licious boyfriend of a man Draco Malfoy, cause Agents live desperately, act wantonly, and don't get married to childhood friends and instead live with a ruddy deadbeat and drop-out, cause she's all for clichés.
And that was that.
Per se.
AN: Well? Reveiw, even if it's to tell me i must be on drugs.
Reviewers get marshmallow hearts covered in choclate!
Toodles!
-G&B
P.S. To my favorite "Kid Jocelyn", you "had me at hello." So hurry up and order that darn sandwich.