Title: Sunday Morning Drivel
Summary: Basically just my tNBC ramblings of a Sunday morning. Takes place
in Lock Shock and Barrel's tree house, just them talking. More will happen
I promise. My first tNBC fic and exceptionally short so please review!
Disclaimer: I own nothing....yet *goes out in the backyard to sharpen
battleaxe*
A disgruntled Claymation red head came trudging up the path to his home. Lock, as his name was hopped onto the birdcage elevator that would transport him to him and his siblings--Shock and Barrel's-tree house.
"Hey guess what," Lock said as he loomed in the doorway.
His sister Shock was sharpening a crooked harpoon for reasons unknown and better left that way. "What?" she asked absentmindedly.
"I just got the script for the next town sing," he murmured slumping into a chair.
Following their well-established pattern of talking, Barrel spoke next, "You don't seem too happy about it."
Lock narrowed his blue-lined eyes, "Well unlike you I have hit puberty. I just can't sing that high-pitched anymore."
"Y'never could sing properly if as me," Shock said darkly, holding the harpoon out to admire her handy work.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Lock asked, at once defensive and angry. The look on her brother's face made Shock laugh and squeakily mutter something about hormones.
"Seriously-that obsessive crazy tone you take. It doesn't fit the pattern of a children's movie!" she exclaimed. "Oh yeah dummy this is rated PG, you're not supposed to say H-E-double hockey sticks!"
"Hey dingaling it was by Tim Burton. He is obsessive and crazy and making a children's movie. It works," Lock said simply.
Struck by sudden intelligent (a striking of only the most lethal), Barrel cried, "Why don't you give Paul Reubens a call? You can lip sync!"
The lethal end of such a strike hit Barrel, just as Lock was about to reply. He was gone in eight seconds.
"Oh shoot. He's dead," Shock whined.
Lock sighed, "This'll be a lot of paper work. The town won't believe we didn't kill him."
A disgruntled Claymation red head came trudging up the path to his home. Lock, as his name was hopped onto the birdcage elevator that would transport him to him and his siblings--Shock and Barrel's-tree house.
"Hey guess what," Lock said as he loomed in the doorway.
His sister Shock was sharpening a crooked harpoon for reasons unknown and better left that way. "What?" she asked absentmindedly.
"I just got the script for the next town sing," he murmured slumping into a chair.
Following their well-established pattern of talking, Barrel spoke next, "You don't seem too happy about it."
Lock narrowed his blue-lined eyes, "Well unlike you I have hit puberty. I just can't sing that high-pitched anymore."
"Y'never could sing properly if as me," Shock said darkly, holding the harpoon out to admire her handy work.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Lock asked, at once defensive and angry. The look on her brother's face made Shock laugh and squeakily mutter something about hormones.
"Seriously-that obsessive crazy tone you take. It doesn't fit the pattern of a children's movie!" she exclaimed. "Oh yeah dummy this is rated PG, you're not supposed to say H-E-double hockey sticks!"
"Hey dingaling it was by Tim Burton. He is obsessive and crazy and making a children's movie. It works," Lock said simply.
Struck by sudden intelligent (a striking of only the most lethal), Barrel cried, "Why don't you give Paul Reubens a call? You can lip sync!"
The lethal end of such a strike hit Barrel, just as Lock was about to reply. He was gone in eight seconds.
"Oh shoot. He's dead," Shock whined.
Lock sighed, "This'll be a lot of paper work. The town won't believe we didn't kill him."