Mighty Boosh H/C vignettes
Author: Nao_asakura, aka SuperMiss
Disclaimer: Julian Barratt, Noel Fielding and a bunch of other people own the show. I own myself, my computer and a nice special edition dvd boxset.
A/N: I felt like writing a series of short vignettes about the Boosh. Some will be stupid, funny, full of perils and other strange stuff that happened, mainly, inside the Nabootique and the flat. Here is the first one.
#1 - Glass
Vince Noir, all shiny attire and cowboy boots, was sitting cross-legged on the counter of the shop, reading the latest issue of Cheekbone. Well, he was not actually reading it at the moment. He was musing, lost in his little world full of colors and fashion and hats, while his eyes passed from one glossy photo to another. He was humming slightly under his breath, as he considered a tune for a new song.
His quietness, alone in the desert boutique, was suddenly shattered by the lisping voice of the little shaman – he could apparently pass the front door without having the bell ringing – which made him jump out of his skin. "Oi! You're not as light as a feather, Vince! I've already told you: you break the counter, you pay it!" And he was gone, in a flash of purple turban.
Of course he was feathery, thought Vince, meanwhile, looking at his reflection in the green glass of the counter. What did he want to tell him, that midget? That he was getting fat? Well, he wasn't actually doing exercise or anything – the only thought of having to break a sweat for absolutely no purpose was a torture to Vince – and he was eating twice his weight in sweets each week, but—
He leaned back again, pushing on the heel of his boot to get comfy against the cash register, and, right on cue, an horrible grinding noise suddenly filled the room. He stilled and watched with absolute horror a thin crack running from his Cuban heel and spreading in all directions. The green glass of the counter was just too thin, he was too heavy, absolutely not feathery, and his shirt was going to be ruined and—
The crash and the cry that followed it echoed through the whole flat. Then there was silence. Naboo was probably too stoned to care at the moment, so it was up to Howard Moon, man of action, to come up from the storage room and see what happened. He took the stairs, tiptoeing and shifting his weight so that the wood would not creak, and mentally slapped himself for having left the broom downstairs. What if it was robbers? Oh God, it was bound to be robbers! Who had ever heard of a shop which never gets robbed?
Someone cried for help, but it was muffled and not really convinced. As if they wanted to draw attention but in the meantime weren't really sure they should. Something crunched beneath his shoe and he took in the scene in front of him. There was glass everywhere, but mostly on top of a certain rock'n'roll star who had somehow managed to fall inside the broken counter. Howard suddenly felt the urge to gloat and laugh, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the shards of green glass, embedded in his friend's forearms.
"Vince?"
The other man looked up and Howard could have sworn his big blue eyes were full of unshed tears. His bottom lip quivering, he babbled:
"There is blood on my new shirt. I didn't— Naboo's going to kill me!"
"Stay where you— Don't move, alright!" said Howard, raising a placating hand. And with that he was gone, he turned on his heels and stormed back into the storage room.
—Only to come back a few seconds later, armed with what looked like a small hoover. When it came to domestic emergency – and with Vince around, it was quite frequent – Howard seemed to be developing new skills which allowed him to move fast without bumping here and there. He was sharp, accurate and deadly. Well, maybe not deadly, but certainly a lot less clumsy than his usual self.
Within a few seconds the offending shards of glass were all safely sealed inside the belly of the household appliance, and Howard was helping a rather ruffled Vince out of his green sarcophagus.
"You should be happy the cash register didn't plummeted right on your head," said Howard, leading him towards a chair.
"T'would have messed up my hair," mumbled Vince.
His white shirt, his fabulous new white shirt with little sequins and embroideries was torn and, yes, bloody. He didn't do blood ; it was just plain gross. Howard hands were gentle and firm, and he removed the remaining shards without even trying to snicker.
In the end it was Vince who teased him about his new found weapon. Howard Moon, man of action, and his trusty vacuum cleaner to save the world. Howard grumbled in his small moustache, about ungrateful twats and the necessity to always be prepared. The shop was a mess and Naboo was going to kill them both – no matter what Vince did, Howard always ended up guilty as well. And so he added, a little louder: "Maybe you should consider a diet."
A/N: Ideas, thoughts, constructive and/or destructive criticism: feel free to leave any kind of trace of your passage here, it would make my day.
A/N 2: If anyone feels like they could do some beta-reading for me – proof reading, to seek and destroy any strange expressions remaining throughout my scribbles – leave a message after the bip— erm, contact me.