AN: This was the fandom that got me hooked on fanfiction, so I owe a tribute to the wonderful writers that make the movie come to life. This is not that tribute. This is the ramblings of a tired mind before noon. If you like, let me know. If you don't like, let me know. I am in love with that little review button. I am addicted to its wonderful magical properties. And without further ado, I present to you my next crap writing. Wait, there is some further ado. A disclaimer. DON'T SUE ME!

Disclaimer: All of this wonderful stuff that is being defiled by my pen does not belong to me. It is all Sondheim's and whoever else owns it. But it isn't me. The alter-egos belong to the people that created them. Not me.

Ok, now it's time to get down to business. -Sweenettfan.

Goofy little Drabbles: Curse of the Alter-Egos

Drabble One: Jack Sparrow

It was about six in the morning, so she was surprised when Mr. Todd came barrelling down the steps with a crazed look in his eye. "Why is the rum gone?"

"Love, we've never 'ad any rum. An' the gin ain't gone yet."

"But why is the rum gone?"

"Mr. T, you bloody fool. Rum is for pirates, you're a barber." Sweeney must be off his rocker today. Either that or he was a bipolar.

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, wench. Why is the bloody rum gone?"

Wot the hell? Mrs. Lovett guessed the killing might have finally got to him.

Drabble Two: Bellatrix Lestrange

Mr. Todd was polishing his razors, off in his own little world, when Mrs. Lovett stormed into his barbershop, holding a twig aloft.

"Avada Kedavra!" she screeched, pointing the twig at his head. Nothing happened.

Well, this was awkward.

She stomped over to him, breathing heavily. "Why aren't you dead, Muggle?"

"I don't know what a bloody Muggle is, but I'm not dead because pointing a stick at somebody and shrieking mumbo-jumbo doesn't kill them."

"Don't you DARE disrespect the Dark Lord! Crucio!"

"Get out of here before I slit your throat."

"Bollocks," Mrs. Lovett grumbled, before leaving the room.

Drabble Three: Severus Snape

The dreaded Judge Turpin glowered down at the little boy before him. The family cried in the background. The Beadle laughed.

"I have decided upon your sentencing, you dunderhead."

The crowd gasped. Such language! No one even knew what it meant!

"Fifty million hundred thousand points from Gryffindor! Oh, and detention with Filch for the rest of your life."

This esteemed judge was shouting nonsense at the criminal. The Beadle knew it was his duty to remove him from society.

"Wormtail, where are you taking me? Dumbledore will hear about this!"

"Off to Bedlam Asylum, I suppose," mourned Beadle Bamford.

AN: One hundred words apiece! So proud of my drabbling prowess. Wait, that's not prowess. That's suckishness. Call it what you will. I would like to hear ideas for future drabbles from the populace of this little corner of the web. Whatever they be, I useth them.

Paid Advertisement: If you want to read some decent prose, check out my story "The Waning Flower". I SWEAR it's better than this.

Love and pies,

The Writer that Won't SHUT UP!