Lord Vetinari, Meet George Dubya
A goofy fanfiction by Twist
A/n: This is absolute and complete randomness written and about 10:30 at night. Please, please don't hurt me. Lol, like the gorgeous font? Did it work? I'm toying with and idea for yet another fanfic and I'm seeing if fonts stick, as they'll be needed.
Disclaimer: Twist does not own anything in the following fic, except for what her tax dollars paid for. She does not know either Terry Pratchett or George Bush, nor is she distantly related to any of the following.
~*
Vetinari sighed deeply as he wandered back toward the Oval Office. He hadn't seen Carrot since the boy had been whisked away by his 'press manager' and disappeared in a car. After enjoying the many pleasures of the internet, and coping with his daughter who was sky-high, he'd driven a small golf cart. Very few people know how to drive a golf cart like an ATV, and Vetinari certainly didn't, seeing as he'd no previous experience with cars. As soon as it had flipped over he'd run away as quickly as possible.
And so he had drawn the conclusion that the President of the United States did absolutely nothing but talk to reporters. He'd done this several times already. There had been questions and questions about how he was dealing with the crisis in the Middle East and how much progress the army had made into apprehending Osama bin Laden.
He hadn't known the answer to any of the questions, seeing as he'd had very little preparation indeed for this job. Right now, he realized, all he desired in the multiverse was to be back in his stiff and uncomfortable chair, behind his desk with knives in, and to know really what on the Disc was going on.
"What's wrong, Joey?" The frighteningly seductive voice startled the poor President/Patrician out of his reverie. "You look troubled, let me soothe you." Laura Bush, still wearing the tight suit she'd worn to whatever convention she'd run off to, walked across the room in a very, very sexy way.
Vetinari responded as all men do in a situation like this. He looked for possible escape routes.* Then he re-directed his attention to his 'wife.' "I'm really very tired, please," he whimpered, but stopped when she slid around and seated herself on the arm of the President's chair. She then proceeded to give him a massage in the area of the shoulders.
Vetinari very seldom had any sexual relations of any kind. As Patrician, he worked to keep himself in a light of being cold, distant, and an unfeeling bastard. He remembered very well the last time he's had good sex (five years ago) and that had been with a vampire.** But, as far as judging foreplay went, this seemed to be turning out nicely.
"Relax, Joey, when was the last time I hurt you?" She slid around to the front of him. "You seem different." She looked at him, and Vetinari felt the very strange sensation of actually being turned on. She looked him all over, and then kissed him. This was very gladly returned. †
***
George hopelessly thumped his partner's chest. Dick had gone all purple by this point, and was not breathing. In fact, he hadn't breathed since he'd had his heart attack. Wuffles, thankfully, had left. Slowly, the thing that had kept him trying to revive a dead man for the last ten minutes gave up. He rocked back onto his heels, lost his balance, and thumped onto the floor. This would cause some painful bruising of the butt later on.
"Where's that Drumknott boy?" George asked himself aloud. "I may as well get his corpse out of here." Another thought occurred to him. "What am I goin' to do about a funeral? I can't very well bury him here. Mrs. Cheney would wonder."
Drumknott had, in fact, been waiting patiently outside the door to the Oblong Office. He'd stayed there until it sounded like the chaos had died down, and the re-entered the chamber.
"My lord?" Drumknott asked cautiously. "Is everything alright, sir?"
"Dick's dead."
Drumknott had been bred, born and raised in Ankh-Morpork, so this did cause him to snort a little. He soon realized the graveness of the situation, and ceased. "What would you like me to do with the body, my lord?" He asked, with rigid attention.
"Cremate it."
Drumknott nodded, and left the room. He knew when to laugh in private.
***
Vice-President Carrot Ironfoundersson was having a good time indeed. His 'press manager' had taken him to some place called Texas, and he was having a fun time indeed. Currently, he was watching a play.
"And this is called . . . ?" He asked, leaning over to his manager.
"A Midsummer Night's Dream, sir."
"Ah. And why am I here again?"
"You needed time off, sir. And you planned this weeks ahead, remember?" The man leaned back, seemingly to enjoy himself, but merely to look at a friend. He winked. Around Carrot, bodyguards stood at fierce attention.
Vice-President Carrot sat and watched the play with enjoyment. He wondered vaguely what the Patr – President was doing. The last thought that would have occurred to him would have been 'having sex,' had the gun shot not rung out. Afterwards, immediate panic occurred. It was obvious who was being shot at.
Carrot, however, had the standard Carrot reaction. "Please, why are you doing this?" he shouted over the commotion. A wild-eyed madman with a gonne stood up.
"Death to politicians!" he shouted, and shot again. This time he hit Carrot, if only grazing his right wrist. People hiding behind chairs watched in amazement as the Vice-President's bodyguards failed to act and the gaped when Carrot walked over to the aspiring assassin and picked him up to set him on his feet, looking him squarely in the eye all the while.
"I think it's time you and I had a chat. Calm down a bit and then please tell me while all politicians should die." Carrot smiled amiably. The man sagged visibly sagged.
"You're corrupting our freedoms, especially with that Campaign Finance Reform Act of 2002 your boss just passed." The man shuffled his feet a bit, dropped his gun and stuck out his hand. "I'm very sorry, sir. Perhaps war isn't the best way."
"Certainly not," Carrot said, still smiling. "As repayment for your not killing me and seeing the Error in your Ways, I will have the President take another look at this Act, and will do my best to write it out of the books." The man smiled a bit. "I'm sure it will make many Americans as well as yourself a little happier."
"Thank you, sir," the man said while nodding. "After all, it is just the Sedition Act in a clever disguise –"
It was around that time that the SWAT team and several members of the local police department burst into the theater, along with some paramedics. Much to all of their surprises, the Vice-President and the small man that had attempted to kill him were chatting amiably in a wide circle of slowly relaxing people.
"He's right, though," one man on the edge of the circle was saying. "That Campaign Act is almost tyranny."
"Alright there, sir? I anyone hurt?" one of the police officers asked, trying to sound official in an obviously relaxed situation. "We, um, heard there was an assassination goin' on."
"Oh, we're all fine now," Carrot said, grinning.
"No! No, we're not all right!" Carrot's press manager jumped up out of the crowd and yelled. "This isn't how it's supposed to work; he's supposed to be dead!" The man was able to point and angry finger in Carrot's direction before a member of the SWAT team shot him with a stun gun. The police chief looked at the man who had shot the insane press manager. "Glad that's dealt with; let's get these loonies down to the station."
***
Lord Bush toiled away at the paperwork almost mechanically. Dick was dead. He was all along on this backwards planet and so far away from his family, friends, and considerably easier job. He looked out the window and saw the strangest sight he'd ever seen. On the right half of the window, it was night; on the left it was sunset.
"This is one bizarre planet," George mused as he gazed out over the vague shapes of the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork. The paperwork was endless, but mindless. No wonder that Vetinari man hadn't had a very distinct or interesting personality, the job didn't allow it.
Drumknott slid into the room without as much as a sound. "Are there any papers I can take away, my Lord?" he asked, rigid as ever.
"That pile," George mumbled, while gesturing vaguely toward a small pile on his left. "Is there any more?" he asked, looking up wearily.
"Not a significant amount, sir," Drumknott said respectfully, leaving.
"How long do I usually take on this sort of thing?" George asked hurriedly, as Drumknott was almost out of the door. "Just a track record, sort of thing."
"You usually work from about four in the morning to anywhere between twelve midnight to three a.m., sir."
George watched Drumknott leave with a look that was a mixture of horror and amazement on his face. "That poor, poor man," he whispered, "he may actually deserve what he's getting."
Meanwhile, Drumknott and the cook were discussing the Patrician's recent change of heart.
"I'm sure that little friend of his dying didn't help it all. Perhaps the stress is just finally getting to him."
"He looked scared almost when I told him his track record for working hours." Drumknott snorted and sipped at some alcoholic beverage or other. "As if he wouldn't know."
"He is getting older," the cook said slowly, and started slicing a tomato. "Maybe senility has finally reared its ugly head. You wouldn't remember what Snapcase was like right before he was Assassinated, but he needed reminding of what to do every ten or so minutes." The cook chuckled. "Mind you, he was about half-insane anyway."
"Totally insane from what I've heard," Drumknott observed, and then shrugged. "Anyway, I ought to be getting back to his agingness."
"Sir!" An unimportant underling burst into the room. Drumknott raised an eyebrow. "Are you the Patrician's head clerk, sir?"
"I am his personal secretary, yes," Drumknott said. "What is it?"
"Well," the underling rubbed his hands together nervously, "that friend of the Patrician's, you know? Only we took him to the morgue and around the University his chest started beeping and he's alive now, sir." He grinned nervously. "That is alright, isn't it?"
Drumknott looked at the clerk in mild disbelief. "Show him in, please." Much to the clerk's surprise, Dick walked into the room, looking confused. "You're alive? Er, yes . . . of course you are. Why wouldn't you be? How?"
Dick shrugged. "I guess that freaky glowing building of yours gave my Pacemaker a jump start. Now where's Dubya's office, again?"
***
Vetinari rolled over onto his back, panting. Laura grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back over towards her. Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you and what have you done to my husband?" Vetinari heard someone somewhere mumble 'oh, shit.'
"Um, what do you mean?" He asked, trying desperately to cover for whatever she was accusing him of.
"You're not my husband," she said simply. "You are much better in bed." She started to lick his neck again. Vetinari shivered.
"How did you –" he stopped when she slid a hand around his back. He bit his lip and tried to control his breathing. "How did you remember George?"
"I didn't know the magic would cut out when they started having sex!" Someone was screaming somewhere. There was a hint of light flashing and wings rustling.
"I don't know," she murmured into his ear. "I just did. And I think I know what happened, too." She looked at him with those eyes again. Vetinari trembled. This time he kissed her, and it was warm and moist. They both trembled. "Not this late," she said, glancing at the clock. "I would love to but you have to meet the Prime Minister of England tomorrow, whoever you are, and you should be fresh." Vetinari grinned in a very evil manner indeed. "No, not that way," she snapped jokingly. "So it's time to go to sleep now, whoever you happen to be.
Their thoughts were very different indeed as they went to sleep. Vetinari's ran somewhere along the lines of 'Oh, Gods, she knows.' While Laura's were something like I have to pretend to be married to a sex God. How hard can that be?'
***
*This is true. No matter how sexy a woman the female happens to be, a male will always have his escape well planned.
**Bwa. You figure it out for yourself.
†I like Laura Bush. Unlike most people. She seems almost . . . normal. Can you tell?
A/n: Does anyone have an adequate feel of Tony Blair and/or Queen Elizabeth? Seeing as our sucky cable channel refuses to provide the BBC, I am deprived. I plan to work them (at least Tony Blair) into the next chapter. E-mail me at PlotTwist13@aol.com. But otherwise, there you have it. I'm sorry for the disappointment, but I just cannot write sex, and therefore there was no graphic sex. And it was fluffy. *sigh* I cannot write romance, which is why I love to read it. (Not the crappy kind though.) I'm particularly fond of V/V slash but that will not be happening, sorry. And now I'm rambling. So I'll leave, please give me reviews. I feed upon them. But unconstructive criticism and nameless reviews give me tummy aches and make me very, very angry indeed. So watch how you review.
P.S. The musical's not happening, but how would a Discworld house share make you all feel? I'm itching to write one . . . Hehehe.
A goofy fanfiction by Twist
A/n: This is absolute and complete randomness written and about 10:30 at night. Please, please don't hurt me. Lol, like the gorgeous font? Did it work? I'm toying with and idea for yet another fanfic and I'm seeing if fonts stick, as they'll be needed.
Disclaimer: Twist does not own anything in the following fic, except for what her tax dollars paid for. She does not know either Terry Pratchett or George Bush, nor is she distantly related to any of the following.
~*
Vetinari sighed deeply as he wandered back toward the Oval Office. He hadn't seen Carrot since the boy had been whisked away by his 'press manager' and disappeared in a car. After enjoying the many pleasures of the internet, and coping with his daughter who was sky-high, he'd driven a small golf cart. Very few people know how to drive a golf cart like an ATV, and Vetinari certainly didn't, seeing as he'd no previous experience with cars. As soon as it had flipped over he'd run away as quickly as possible.
And so he had drawn the conclusion that the President of the United States did absolutely nothing but talk to reporters. He'd done this several times already. There had been questions and questions about how he was dealing with the crisis in the Middle East and how much progress the army had made into apprehending Osama bin Laden.
He hadn't known the answer to any of the questions, seeing as he'd had very little preparation indeed for this job. Right now, he realized, all he desired in the multiverse was to be back in his stiff and uncomfortable chair, behind his desk with knives in, and to know really what on the Disc was going on.
"What's wrong, Joey?" The frighteningly seductive voice startled the poor President/Patrician out of his reverie. "You look troubled, let me soothe you." Laura Bush, still wearing the tight suit she'd worn to whatever convention she'd run off to, walked across the room in a very, very sexy way.
Vetinari responded as all men do in a situation like this. He looked for possible escape routes.* Then he re-directed his attention to his 'wife.' "I'm really very tired, please," he whimpered, but stopped when she slid around and seated herself on the arm of the President's chair. She then proceeded to give him a massage in the area of the shoulders.
Vetinari very seldom had any sexual relations of any kind. As Patrician, he worked to keep himself in a light of being cold, distant, and an unfeeling bastard. He remembered very well the last time he's had good sex (five years ago) and that had been with a vampire.** But, as far as judging foreplay went, this seemed to be turning out nicely.
"Relax, Joey, when was the last time I hurt you?" She slid around to the front of him. "You seem different." She looked at him, and Vetinari felt the very strange sensation of actually being turned on. She looked him all over, and then kissed him. This was very gladly returned. †
***
George hopelessly thumped his partner's chest. Dick had gone all purple by this point, and was not breathing. In fact, he hadn't breathed since he'd had his heart attack. Wuffles, thankfully, had left. Slowly, the thing that had kept him trying to revive a dead man for the last ten minutes gave up. He rocked back onto his heels, lost his balance, and thumped onto the floor. This would cause some painful bruising of the butt later on.
"Where's that Drumknott boy?" George asked himself aloud. "I may as well get his corpse out of here." Another thought occurred to him. "What am I goin' to do about a funeral? I can't very well bury him here. Mrs. Cheney would wonder."
Drumknott had, in fact, been waiting patiently outside the door to the Oblong Office. He'd stayed there until it sounded like the chaos had died down, and the re-entered the chamber.
"My lord?" Drumknott asked cautiously. "Is everything alright, sir?"
"Dick's dead."
Drumknott had been bred, born and raised in Ankh-Morpork, so this did cause him to snort a little. He soon realized the graveness of the situation, and ceased. "What would you like me to do with the body, my lord?" He asked, with rigid attention.
"Cremate it."
Drumknott nodded, and left the room. He knew when to laugh in private.
***
Vice-President Carrot Ironfoundersson was having a good time indeed. His 'press manager' had taken him to some place called Texas, and he was having a fun time indeed. Currently, he was watching a play.
"And this is called . . . ?" He asked, leaning over to his manager.
"A Midsummer Night's Dream, sir."
"Ah. And why am I here again?"
"You needed time off, sir. And you planned this weeks ahead, remember?" The man leaned back, seemingly to enjoy himself, but merely to look at a friend. He winked. Around Carrot, bodyguards stood at fierce attention.
Vice-President Carrot sat and watched the play with enjoyment. He wondered vaguely what the Patr – President was doing. The last thought that would have occurred to him would have been 'having sex,' had the gun shot not rung out. Afterwards, immediate panic occurred. It was obvious who was being shot at.
Carrot, however, had the standard Carrot reaction. "Please, why are you doing this?" he shouted over the commotion. A wild-eyed madman with a gonne stood up.
"Death to politicians!" he shouted, and shot again. This time he hit Carrot, if only grazing his right wrist. People hiding behind chairs watched in amazement as the Vice-President's bodyguards failed to act and the gaped when Carrot walked over to the aspiring assassin and picked him up to set him on his feet, looking him squarely in the eye all the while.
"I think it's time you and I had a chat. Calm down a bit and then please tell me while all politicians should die." Carrot smiled amiably. The man sagged visibly sagged.
"You're corrupting our freedoms, especially with that Campaign Finance Reform Act of 2002 your boss just passed." The man shuffled his feet a bit, dropped his gun and stuck out his hand. "I'm very sorry, sir. Perhaps war isn't the best way."
"Certainly not," Carrot said, still smiling. "As repayment for your not killing me and seeing the Error in your Ways, I will have the President take another look at this Act, and will do my best to write it out of the books." The man smiled a bit. "I'm sure it will make many Americans as well as yourself a little happier."
"Thank you, sir," the man said while nodding. "After all, it is just the Sedition Act in a clever disguise –"
It was around that time that the SWAT team and several members of the local police department burst into the theater, along with some paramedics. Much to all of their surprises, the Vice-President and the small man that had attempted to kill him were chatting amiably in a wide circle of slowly relaxing people.
"He's right, though," one man on the edge of the circle was saying. "That Campaign Act is almost tyranny."
"Alright there, sir? I anyone hurt?" one of the police officers asked, trying to sound official in an obviously relaxed situation. "We, um, heard there was an assassination goin' on."
"Oh, we're all fine now," Carrot said, grinning.
"No! No, we're not all right!" Carrot's press manager jumped up out of the crowd and yelled. "This isn't how it's supposed to work; he's supposed to be dead!" The man was able to point and angry finger in Carrot's direction before a member of the SWAT team shot him with a stun gun. The police chief looked at the man who had shot the insane press manager. "Glad that's dealt with; let's get these loonies down to the station."
***
Lord Bush toiled away at the paperwork almost mechanically. Dick was dead. He was all along on this backwards planet and so far away from his family, friends, and considerably easier job. He looked out the window and saw the strangest sight he'd ever seen. On the right half of the window, it was night; on the left it was sunset.
"This is one bizarre planet," George mused as he gazed out over the vague shapes of the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork. The paperwork was endless, but mindless. No wonder that Vetinari man hadn't had a very distinct or interesting personality, the job didn't allow it.
Drumknott slid into the room without as much as a sound. "Are there any papers I can take away, my Lord?" he asked, rigid as ever.
"That pile," George mumbled, while gesturing vaguely toward a small pile on his left. "Is there any more?" he asked, looking up wearily.
"Not a significant amount, sir," Drumknott said respectfully, leaving.
"How long do I usually take on this sort of thing?" George asked hurriedly, as Drumknott was almost out of the door. "Just a track record, sort of thing."
"You usually work from about four in the morning to anywhere between twelve midnight to three a.m., sir."
George watched Drumknott leave with a look that was a mixture of horror and amazement on his face. "That poor, poor man," he whispered, "he may actually deserve what he's getting."
Meanwhile, Drumknott and the cook were discussing the Patrician's recent change of heart.
"I'm sure that little friend of his dying didn't help it all. Perhaps the stress is just finally getting to him."
"He looked scared almost when I told him his track record for working hours." Drumknott snorted and sipped at some alcoholic beverage or other. "As if he wouldn't know."
"He is getting older," the cook said slowly, and started slicing a tomato. "Maybe senility has finally reared its ugly head. You wouldn't remember what Snapcase was like right before he was Assassinated, but he needed reminding of what to do every ten or so minutes." The cook chuckled. "Mind you, he was about half-insane anyway."
"Totally insane from what I've heard," Drumknott observed, and then shrugged. "Anyway, I ought to be getting back to his agingness."
"Sir!" An unimportant underling burst into the room. Drumknott raised an eyebrow. "Are you the Patrician's head clerk, sir?"
"I am his personal secretary, yes," Drumknott said. "What is it?"
"Well," the underling rubbed his hands together nervously, "that friend of the Patrician's, you know? Only we took him to the morgue and around the University his chest started beeping and he's alive now, sir." He grinned nervously. "That is alright, isn't it?"
Drumknott looked at the clerk in mild disbelief. "Show him in, please." Much to the clerk's surprise, Dick walked into the room, looking confused. "You're alive? Er, yes . . . of course you are. Why wouldn't you be? How?"
Dick shrugged. "I guess that freaky glowing building of yours gave my Pacemaker a jump start. Now where's Dubya's office, again?"
***
Vetinari rolled over onto his back, panting. Laura grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back over towards her. Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you and what have you done to my husband?" Vetinari heard someone somewhere mumble 'oh, shit.'
"Um, what do you mean?" He asked, trying desperately to cover for whatever she was accusing him of.
"You're not my husband," she said simply. "You are much better in bed." She started to lick his neck again. Vetinari shivered.
"How did you –" he stopped when she slid a hand around his back. He bit his lip and tried to control his breathing. "How did you remember George?"
"I didn't know the magic would cut out when they started having sex!" Someone was screaming somewhere. There was a hint of light flashing and wings rustling.
"I don't know," she murmured into his ear. "I just did. And I think I know what happened, too." She looked at him with those eyes again. Vetinari trembled. This time he kissed her, and it was warm and moist. They both trembled. "Not this late," she said, glancing at the clock. "I would love to but you have to meet the Prime Minister of England tomorrow, whoever you are, and you should be fresh." Vetinari grinned in a very evil manner indeed. "No, not that way," she snapped jokingly. "So it's time to go to sleep now, whoever you happen to be.
Their thoughts were very different indeed as they went to sleep. Vetinari's ran somewhere along the lines of 'Oh, Gods, she knows.' While Laura's were something like I have to pretend to be married to a sex God. How hard can that be?'
***
*This is true. No matter how sexy a woman the female happens to be, a male will always have his escape well planned.
**Bwa. You figure it out for yourself.
†I like Laura Bush. Unlike most people. She seems almost . . . normal. Can you tell?
A/n: Does anyone have an adequate feel of Tony Blair and/or Queen Elizabeth? Seeing as our sucky cable channel refuses to provide the BBC, I am deprived. I plan to work them (at least Tony Blair) into the next chapter. E-mail me at PlotTwist13@aol.com. But otherwise, there you have it. I'm sorry for the disappointment, but I just cannot write sex, and therefore there was no graphic sex. And it was fluffy. *sigh* I cannot write romance, which is why I love to read it. (Not the crappy kind though.) I'm particularly fond of V/V slash but that will not be happening, sorry. And now I'm rambling. So I'll leave, please give me reviews. I feed upon them. But unconstructive criticism and nameless reviews give me tummy aches and make me very, very angry indeed. So watch how you review.
P.S. The musical's not happening, but how would a Discworld house share make you all feel? I'm itching to write one . . . Hehehe.