Disclaimer: Wowzers, I don't own them. SHOCKING.
Author's Notes: Funny thing about this one. Wrote it, was very nearly done, minus a few fill-ins and some polish, and THE DAMN THING DISAPPEARED OFF MY HARD DRIVE. I cried and cried and cried. Apart from a short chunk I'd emailed to someone to look at, it was gone. Therefore, this represents a month and a half of painstakingly trying to remember what the hell happens in this story. So yeah. Incidentally, chronologically speaking, this follows Flying Lessons, so there might be a mild spoiler or two for that one if you haven't yet read it, but the story still makes sense. Well, as much sense as the Boosh makes, when mashed up messily with some tropes I stole from medieval dream poetry.
It was a good morning - afternoon, technically; let's just call it the morfternoon. Heck, let's just start again, shall we?
It was a good morfternoon, as far as Vince Noir could tell: he emerged from his bedroom on a set of glitter-encrusted silver rollerskates, swirling and figure-eighting his way into the kitchen, headphones affixed to his perfectly coiffured head, as he sang along to Blue Monday with all his might. Boom boom boom. Thrusting his hips from side to side, pulling epic shapes in front of the cupboard, he pulled down a box of crunchy nut and poured himself a bowl, to which he added the following: one sliced banana, four strawberries, a scattering of blueberries, and a splash of milk. (With a handful of jelly snakes and gummy fried eggs on the side, for protein.) He found himself needing a solid breakfast more often than not, now that he and Howard (Moon, that is; Vince's best mate/flatmate/workmate/soulmate, and more recently, also lover/snugglebuddy/blushing bride-to-be) were spending their night-times making up for years of for some reason not shagging each other. It was, to be sure, infinitely more gratifying than trying to sneak in a quiet wank in the shower, or when he thought - hoped - Howard was asleep. He was pleased to discover that Howard was a fast learner and, with a little gentle persuasion, was quite enthusiastic about the whole sex thing. Last night's incident with the strawberry jam ranked right up there with the most exhausting undertakings he had ever undertaken. He blushed inwardly as he allowed himself to remember that thing Howard had done with his tongue... there was no way he'd learned that from the old lingerie catalogue Vince knew he had secretly hidden between the Q and R volumes of his dusty encyclopaedia set.
And what's more, they loved each other very much.
"I see a ship in the harbour," he sang as he twirled round, gliding over to the couch with his food, plopping down beside Howard.
Howard.
But, Howard was meant to be downstairs by now, surely, he thought. He pulled off his headphones and turned to his companion.
"Alright Howard, aren't you meant to be minding the shop?" he asked.
Howard mumbled something incoherent in response.
"What?" Vince squinted at him.
Howard seemed not to notice Vince's presence. He appeared to be staring off into something, though Vince could not figure out what it could have been besides wall, and if Howard found wall more captivating than Vince's own glorious visage, there had to be something suspicious going on.
"Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard! Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard, for fuck's sake," said Vince, whose patience was rapidly growing thin. "This isn't funny Howard, look at me!"
Vince held Howard's cheek in his hand and turned him gently. Howard stared, glazed over, past Vince and into the middle distance, still muttering to himself.
"Scoobity doo bop dee doo bee doo dee doo dee," he said, to no one in particular.
"What is that, some kind of jazzy nonsense?" asked Vince.
"Skeedly bop bop doo dee doo dee doo bee doo," Howard mumbled, oblivious to his concerned companion.
"Oh Howard, you've gone wrong!" exclaimed Vince, grabbing Howard by the shoulders and shaking him roughly. "Snap out of it! Speak to me, you berk!"
Howard flopped back and forth in response, slumping back into the couch when Vince gave up in exasperation.
"What have you done to yourself, you idiot?" he asked. "Naboo!"
"What the hell are you yelling about?" replied Naboo, padding into the living room half-dressed, his turban slightly askew. He looked right fucked off about the whole thing.
"Something's the matter with Howard," said Vince, nervously pacing the room.
"Fine," sighed Naboo, "let's take a look at him, then."
"Doo bee doo bop bop scooby dooby dooby," said Howard.
"Stop it, you ball bag," said Naboo, slapping Howard in the face.
"Skoodly bop bop a roonie," said Howard.
"It's worse than I thought," said Naboo, turning to Vince. Naboo looked concerned. "Howard's jazz tranced himself into a coma."
"What are we going to do?" asked Vince.
"Shh, listen," said Naboo.
Behind Howard's confused scat rantings, they could hear the soft cracklings of a record album's last repeating rotation, turning over and over. Naboo pulled the record from the turntable, inspecting the label.
"Howard, you fucking idiot," he moaned.
"Yeah, it's rubbish," nodded Vince.
"It's not that. I mean yeah, it's shit, but this is powerful stuff, Vince. This jazz record is so potent that rumour has it Allen Ginsberg listened to the first five minutes of this album and disappeared into the mountains for six months," he said. "An entire rotation of the A-side could render a person catatonic."
"What, like a werewolf?" asked Vince.
"What?" replied Naboo.
"Like a werewolf?" repeated Vince.
"What?" repeated Naboo.
"Catatonic, like a werewolf? Only he's turning into a cat? Catatonic?" asked Vince.
"No, that's stupid," said Naboo.
"Doobity shoobity bazzleboozle," said Howard.
"Well, what are we going to do, then?" Vince asked, burying his face in his hands with worry. "We can't just leave him like a bebop vegetable!"
"You'll have to go in after him," said Naboo.
"Go in after him?" asked Vince.
"On a vision quest," explained Naboo, "into the deepest recesses of Howard's unconscious, to bring him back into the realm of, you know, this... stuff."
"Why can't you go?" asked Vince. "You're the expert."
"Yeah, but I don't give a shit," reasoned Naboo. "That and I'm way too stoned."
"Right," agreed Vince, inspecting Naboo's bloodshot eyes. "Well, what do I have to do?"
"Have a jammie dodger," said Naboo, retrieving a biscuit from somewhere within his robes.
"What good's that going to do?" asked Vince.
"New flavour, jam and vision quest," said Naboo.
"Oh yeah, genius," nodded Vince, noshing on biscuit. "So, how long does it take for the visions to kick in?"
Next thing Vince knew, Naboo was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Howard, or their living room. He found himself in a seemingly endless white hallway; the only sound the buzz of an endless length of bare, flickering fluorescent lightbulbs.
"What the funk is this?" he shouted down the endless corridor, his voice reverberating off the bare, white walls.
"This is the mind of Howard Moon," came a familiar voice from behind him. Vince spun round, and there was Bryan Ferry, of all people, someone whom Vince had most certainly not expected to encounter.
"All right, Bryan!" he smiled, jumping on the other man, hugging him tightly.
"Not exactly," said the other man, wriggling uncomfortably out of the embrace. "Howard's consciousness endowed me with a form you could understand, such that I may guide you on your quest."
"My quest?" squinted Vince.
"To rescue Howard," said the Guide.
"A quest down a hallway, though?" Vince glanced round at his nondescript surroundings.
"It's a metaphor, you berk," snapped the Guide.
"It's dead boring, whatever it is," said Vince. "So I guess we'll have to search every room until we find him, then?"
"That's the idea," replied the Guide.
"Right. Well, let's get rescuing," said Vince, following the Guide in the direction of the first door.