"What Would Naboo Do?"

A DRAMIONEPERFECTED FIC

Summary: 'When we said think like Naboo, Bollo, we didn't mean for you to smoke THAT!' Vince and Howard had been apart for years. Living and working at opposite ends of the country, the two men were brought together by evil forces unknown as a mysterious letter forces them to consider life without the weird and wonderful Shaman Naboo.
Disclaimer: No, as much as I'd like to, I DO NOT own Noel, Julian, Michael, or the Mighty Boosh. Just…read. And enjoy.


"And it turned out, it was my pencil case all along!" The moustached man stood before the class of students, laughing nervously as he observed the bored, glassy eyes of the teenagers that filled the room. Several yawned, resting their heads on their desks; others jeered and whispered.

"This is rubbish!"

"We're supposed to be learning Media Studies, not Pencil Case Safety!"

"Organised stationary is the backbone of success, sir." The weather beaten fellow stared down at the cockney teen with tiny eyes, narrowed to near invisibility. Youth these days!

"Whatever. When's Mr Armstead coming back? It's just that I need this GSCE. There's no way I'm ending up a caretaker… an epic fail, like you". GCSE's. One of the reasons the caretaker was in the dead-end job he was now. Memories came flooding back: of simpler times, of better times, and of a scrawny, bright, happy-go-lucky guy with annoyingly perfect hair.

"Excuse me?" As if in answer, Mr Armstead stood in the doorway, arms full of coursework and files. "Mr…" the young teacher squinted at the name badge, clearly of no idea who the caretaker was. "…Moon? Yes! Um, Howard Moon. You've done quite enough, thank you."

With door open as an invitation of leaving, Howard headed out of the classroom, his feet squeaking on the polished linoleum flooring. The git was right, he was a fail. It wasn't this that was getting him down - he had always been behind, slightly less than successful, so that was nothing new. It was just that when he was in those crappy jobs, earning just enough to keep things ticking over - when he was a bin-man, a zookeeper, and a shopkeeper - there was always somebody there to tell him that he still had a chance - Vince Noir. Admittedly, Vince had also disrespected his hair, fashion sense, taste in music and a million other things to boot, and they drove each other crazy - but what's that saying? You don't miss the water 'til the well runs dry. Howard wasn't short of water, but he most certainly was short of Vince.

"Mr Moon!" Once again, the teacher was behind him, clutching an envelope in his hand. Did he honestly have anything else to rub in his face? A good job? Good clothes? Now this… envelope? "I found this; it was mixed up with my paperwork. Its addressed to… you?" Always the tone of surprise! Snatching the letter away, Howard headed to his cupboard/office, to the privacy of Stationary Village to open the mystery letter.


195 miles, 3 hours-27 minutes and a whole other world away from the small Leeds secondary school where his long-lost friend was working, Vince Noir woke up in his small London flat to the sharp tapping sounds coming from his window. It was Monday morning, and after a weekend of wild parties, Vince was in need of a lie-in to recover before his afternoon shift at Top-Shop - unfortunately, the Cheekbone Magazine delivery ninja's didn't run on the young goth-mod's timetable. Opening his window, the latest copy of Cheekbone - displaying the glossy faces of The Black Tubes - was flung inside before Vince could even say 'Mick Jagger'. Placing it down on the kitchen table, he turned to plug in his Nicky Clarke straighteners before noticing the attached letter. Probably Leroy messing with the post. Hasn't he heard of e-mail? At least Howard knew not to get in the way of his Cheekbone. Grabbing the butter knife from the side, Vince split open the envelope, and proceeded to read.


In the dark, damp, dusty basements of the abandoned Nabootique, something evil was brewing. Strange creatures were hiding in the shadows; black voodoo was in the air. Then, out of the darkness, came a voice, haggard and villainous as ever. "Turn on the lights! I can't see a bleeding thing in 'ere, you slags!" A powerful beam lit up the room, near blinding the speaker: a thin, crooked man with emerald green skin and a large polo mint over his left eye. "Bleeding 'ell, I meant a lamp or a torch of some description, not that… downstairs mix-up! You onion!" Old Gregg stood sheepishly, fiddling with the hem of his/her neon tutu. "Sorry sir… thankya sir."

With a (normal) source of light in position, the Hitcher paused to assess the gathering: a hermaphrodite merman in a tutu; two short, rotund henchmen with bowler hats and bootlace moustaches and dreadlocked jazz musician with eyes that glowed like hot coals. Not an especially promising gang of cronies, but they would do. "Oi! Listen 'ere, you slaaaaaags! You all know your 'ere for one purpose, and one pur-"

"I'm Old Gregg!"

"Shut it, you onion, or I'll jab you in the gums with me screwdriver. I trained up the Ripper, I'll 'ave you know. Slashed him to pieces - ohooh, that'll teach 'im, slashing women, the useless bleeder!"

The room fell silent, and the Hitcher continued. "We're all 'ere cause we need to be avenged! Old Gregory: jilted, and left to mend 'is broken 'eart! Spirit of Jazz: left infected and diseased by the evil that is the pin of the punk! Crimes of such nature cannot be ignored! That is why we must find, and destroy… er… whatsisface… the big man, with small eyes… bit like a shrimp…"

"Howard?"

"That's the one!"

"But boss… didn't we vow to protect 'im?"

"Yeah, but that was six years ago, and with that thousand euros spent and out of the equation, I think I am well within my rights!" The Hitcher turned to face them all, analysing them all with his solo polo peeper.

"And if any of you don't like this proposition, I'll slash you one! Understand that, boys!"

The Piper Twins stepped forward, trying their best not to upset their master. "But what about his friends: the lady-man, Vince, and the magic boy, the shaman? Won't they try to 'elp 'im?"

"I can help with that!" Out of the shadows, another voice rang. It was high, wild, crazed, and it the light of the lantern, the group could see the shot needles shining where his fingers should be.

"Get in 'ere, boy, where I can see your face."

Stepping into the light was a vague creature: fox-like, ragged, and quite frankly, high. "I heard you need some help, er, getting rid of Vincey. Vincey princey… I did a rhyme…hehehe!"

"But sir!" The piper twins began, hoping to distract attention from the Crack Fox. "Seriously! What are we going to do?"

"I've already got an idea, boy, and it's a good-un! I've already sent out some, er, persuasions, to bring Vincey and Old Shrimp-Eyes closer together. Makes matters simple, see. To be honest, I just want me another 1000 euros. I ain't running over the country for 'im, even if he did do some pretty dodgy stuff."

"And the shaman?"

"Shaman, boy? Magic, boy? Well, my voodoo's a bit rusty, but trust me, if all goes well… I'm a cockney bitch! I will slash if I please, and if that shaman's in the way… let's just say the Board of shamans will be one shaman short."


Suckish, but it's a lead up. Crimpity Crimpity xD REVIEW!