Leave Me Alone To My Vomit
(A working title)
AUTHOR: Elizabeth
RATING: PG
STATUS: Complete
GENRE: Humour/parody
FANDOM: Highlander
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
NOTES: This story also includes a cameo appearance from Rob Roberts, an X-Files character who liked eating human brains. I encourage all to see this episode and tell me I'm not insane. And that he is cute. This story makes more sense if you know of this character.
Reference to 'Head Explody' stolen from Johnny the Homicidal Maniac and Jhonen Vasquez. Ignore this if you don't read or enjoy the wacky adventures of our favourite killer.
~*~
It was on the third day of the third month of the year 1995 that the day arose that would come to be known and revered as the most holiest of days. It was the day that marked the death of Duncan Macleod, of the clan Macleod. With this in mind, one might picture the day as being one filled with majestic sunbeams showering down from the heavens, illuminating the blessed earth with their splendour. A sunset of gold-rimmed clouds heavy against glowing skies in all the shades of fire. A day that deserved to be captured in a panoramic fresco that would root you to the spot for hours as you stood, entranced by the harmonious and rapturous colour, lost in wonder at the beauty of that most awe-inspiring firmament - the heavens.
It was however, contrary to it's greatness, a fairly crappy day. A lacklustre sun lazed behind sodden clouds, as though it had indulged too much the previous evening during a drinking contest with other celestial bodies and consequently had a bad hangover. However, the sun wasn't the only one who was suffering the effects of too many tipples the night before. A shabby Duncan Macleod cracked leaden eyelids open and was overwhelmed by the harshness of the mild sunlight. The resulting attempts to bury himself into the very depths of the sofa, with the main idea of lying there, curled into the foetal position, until he finally died a peaceful death by the hands of a garbage compactor many years into the future, were thwarted, when a firm hand grasped at his straggly hair and wrenched his head back into the light.
"NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooo!!!" howled Duncan Macleod of the clan Macleod, like a crack baby, as he was forced to wake up properly and face the prospect of a new day. Curiosity mixed with unshakeable homicidal tendencies prompted him to turn his head to see who was still holding his head up. A few head spins later, Duncan was able to determine that the culprit was a man that he did not know. Or at least he didn't think he knew. [What did I get up to at Joe's Bar last night?] wondered Macleod. Glancing around, he also noticed a very small strange curly matted clump of hair in his left hand. [Now this can't be good] Several hypothesise chugged sluggishly through his hazy mind as to what this clump of hair was doing in his hand and where it came from. Maybe it was an antique fake beard that someone had decided to donate to him because of his numerous contacts in the antiques business. Or maybe it was the last physical remains of his hamster, Glen, who had run away in the night two months ago. Or it could be Richie's chest hair. [No,] Duncan decided, [that thought is too disgusting for words, especially when it is early morning and I'm already feeling queasy. It must be the hangover talking.]
Suddenly, the silence of the house was broken by a shrill scream, followed closely by Richie's unmistakable panicked voice.
"MAC! Where's my chest hair??"
Duncan was still lying on the sofa, his head being held up by the mysterious stranger and the not so mysterious clump of hair in his left hand, when Richie entered the room, bare-chested and angry.
"Ummm...is this it?" inquired Macleod, offering the offending hair to the young immortal as he tried to shut out the piercing squeak that was threatening to bring about an episode of Head Explody. He really didn't want to know how it got to be there, but he guessed he was going to find out as soon as he stepped foot into Joe's Bar. Suddenly, Duncan's neurones began to fire and his attention was brought to the still anonymous guest (although this could also be attributed to the fact that he could feel his own precious hair coming free from his scalp).
"Hey! Who are you and what are you doing touching my hair?" Duncan demanded with as much intimidation as he could muster at the time, which, in hindsight, wasn't much. The stranger shrugged. He was in his early twenties and wore a shy expression, which masked his deep soulful brown eyes, the main feature of his otherwise fairly plain face.
"My name's Robert Roberts...most people call me Rob," the stranger replied. [Dear God,] thought Duncan, [please don't tell me I invited him home with me last night. I must have been very very drunk.]
"I'm here because I got a call this morning from someone named Joe. I run a wig shop here in Seacouver and I'm an expert on attaching wigs so that they don't fall off. I was told that my services were needed here, so I came right over. I do home visits. 'Discrete and Understanding', that's my motto. I must ask, what wig glue do you use? It certainly keeps the hair attached to your head very well."
"I do not have a wig!" thundered the outraged Scot as he put his hands up to his scalp to check that his pride and joy was not damaged, either physically or psychologically. As he petted and murmured soothing words to his emotionally scarred strands, he began to remember the previous night. [Oh Dear Lord!] Duncan groaned [this is too horrible.]
Memories began to flood back into his mind. Memories involving whisky, a very drunk Methos, a shirtless Richie and a liberal application of depilatory wax. How had Methos persuaded him to wax Richie's chest? That chest hair was Richie's most beloved object in the whole world! It had taken him years of precise grooming to achieve the trademark 'Richie chest hair style'. He had even been offered the chance to set up his own chest hair salon in Paris, as well as a contract with Pantene (with his own range of chest hair styling products and accessories).
It was at this point, that the burden of guilt finally broke Macleod.
"Ach! I'm so sorry, Richie! It's all my fault! I took advantage of you when you were lying in a drunken stupor. I waxed your chest!!!" Duncan fell to his knees in front of a rather bewildered Richie, as he begged for forgiveness.
Rob Roberts began to feel particularly awkward. Not only was there a man with a severe case of wig denial sobbing on the ground at a young man's feet (and Rob knew how dangerous those suffering wig denial could be. He had the scars to prove it), Rob also had the sneaking suspicion that he wasn't going to be paid for this home visit.
"Maybe I should come back another time?" Rob inquired. "Some time when people are a tad less emotional?" He began to edge away from the two men, inching closer to the door with increasing speed. Reaching for the gilded door handle, Rob Roberts was congratulating himself with a well-choreographed escape, when he heard Richie's exclamation of "Wait!" Inwardly cursing himself for being so damn sociable, Rob slowly turned to face the two. [If I live through this day,] Robert thought, [I'm going to go out and eat a whole cheerleading team.]
"Don't go!" Richie whined. "I need someone to attach my chest hair back onto my body. I can't get any girls when my greatest asset is lying in tufts on the floor!" Duncan looked up from his position on the floor, all traces of guilt having disappeared.
"Richie, you're a sidekick! Sidekicks don't get the girls! It would place doubt on the assertion that I am the hunkier of the two of us. I'm Batman, the dashing hero and you're Robin, the guy in the bad tights and those little green imp shoes, who never had a chance with women." Duncan, unfortunately, due to his bad hangover, didn't see the sharp blade of his own katana, wielded by Richie, as it swung through the air in a perfect arc, gliding through his neck as though through warm butter. Until it got to the vertebrae - then it got stuck and Richie had to have a few hacks at it before Duncan's head finally landed on the carpet. Rob looked on in shock as he witnessed Duncan's death and the immensely powerful quickening that followed.
"I really should be going...right now," Rob Roberts managed to say, as he raced for the door, only to be grounded by a lightning-fast tackle by Richie.
"YOU WILL STAY AND REATTACH MY CHEST HAIR!" bellowed Richie. "NEVER AGAIN WILL I BE TREATED LIKE A SIDEKICK! I SHALL HAVE MY OWN SERIES! I SHALL TAKE OVER THE WORLD! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"
~~~~~~~~
An hour later, a dazed Rob Roberts emerged from the Seacouver home of the recently deceased Immortal, Duncan Macleod. He had his life, his wig kit and a full stomach. He was happy. [Scot's certainly do make a good meal] Rob mused as he wandered out into the mild sunshine, with a song in his heart and a cerebellum in his gut.
The End
~*~
(A working title)
AUTHOR: Elizabeth
RATING: PG
STATUS: Complete
GENRE: Humour/parody
FANDOM: Highlander
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
NOTES: This story also includes a cameo appearance from Rob Roberts, an X-Files character who liked eating human brains. I encourage all to see this episode and tell me I'm not insane. And that he is cute. This story makes more sense if you know of this character.
Reference to 'Head Explody' stolen from Johnny the Homicidal Maniac and Jhonen Vasquez. Ignore this if you don't read or enjoy the wacky adventures of our favourite killer.
~*~
It was on the third day of the third month of the year 1995 that the day arose that would come to be known and revered as the most holiest of days. It was the day that marked the death of Duncan Macleod, of the clan Macleod. With this in mind, one might picture the day as being one filled with majestic sunbeams showering down from the heavens, illuminating the blessed earth with their splendour. A sunset of gold-rimmed clouds heavy against glowing skies in all the shades of fire. A day that deserved to be captured in a panoramic fresco that would root you to the spot for hours as you stood, entranced by the harmonious and rapturous colour, lost in wonder at the beauty of that most awe-inspiring firmament - the heavens.
It was however, contrary to it's greatness, a fairly crappy day. A lacklustre sun lazed behind sodden clouds, as though it had indulged too much the previous evening during a drinking contest with other celestial bodies and consequently had a bad hangover. However, the sun wasn't the only one who was suffering the effects of too many tipples the night before. A shabby Duncan Macleod cracked leaden eyelids open and was overwhelmed by the harshness of the mild sunlight. The resulting attempts to bury himself into the very depths of the sofa, with the main idea of lying there, curled into the foetal position, until he finally died a peaceful death by the hands of a garbage compactor many years into the future, were thwarted, when a firm hand grasped at his straggly hair and wrenched his head back into the light.
"NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooo!!!" howled Duncan Macleod of the clan Macleod, like a crack baby, as he was forced to wake up properly and face the prospect of a new day. Curiosity mixed with unshakeable homicidal tendencies prompted him to turn his head to see who was still holding his head up. A few head spins later, Duncan was able to determine that the culprit was a man that he did not know. Or at least he didn't think he knew. [What did I get up to at Joe's Bar last night?] wondered Macleod. Glancing around, he also noticed a very small strange curly matted clump of hair in his left hand. [Now this can't be good] Several hypothesise chugged sluggishly through his hazy mind as to what this clump of hair was doing in his hand and where it came from. Maybe it was an antique fake beard that someone had decided to donate to him because of his numerous contacts in the antiques business. Or maybe it was the last physical remains of his hamster, Glen, who had run away in the night two months ago. Or it could be Richie's chest hair. [No,] Duncan decided, [that thought is too disgusting for words, especially when it is early morning and I'm already feeling queasy. It must be the hangover talking.]
Suddenly, the silence of the house was broken by a shrill scream, followed closely by Richie's unmistakable panicked voice.
"MAC! Where's my chest hair??"
Duncan was still lying on the sofa, his head being held up by the mysterious stranger and the not so mysterious clump of hair in his left hand, when Richie entered the room, bare-chested and angry.
"Ummm...is this it?" inquired Macleod, offering the offending hair to the young immortal as he tried to shut out the piercing squeak that was threatening to bring about an episode of Head Explody. He really didn't want to know how it got to be there, but he guessed he was going to find out as soon as he stepped foot into Joe's Bar. Suddenly, Duncan's neurones began to fire and his attention was brought to the still anonymous guest (although this could also be attributed to the fact that he could feel his own precious hair coming free from his scalp).
"Hey! Who are you and what are you doing touching my hair?" Duncan demanded with as much intimidation as he could muster at the time, which, in hindsight, wasn't much. The stranger shrugged. He was in his early twenties and wore a shy expression, which masked his deep soulful brown eyes, the main feature of his otherwise fairly plain face.
"My name's Robert Roberts...most people call me Rob," the stranger replied. [Dear God,] thought Duncan, [please don't tell me I invited him home with me last night. I must have been very very drunk.]
"I'm here because I got a call this morning from someone named Joe. I run a wig shop here in Seacouver and I'm an expert on attaching wigs so that they don't fall off. I was told that my services were needed here, so I came right over. I do home visits. 'Discrete and Understanding', that's my motto. I must ask, what wig glue do you use? It certainly keeps the hair attached to your head very well."
"I do not have a wig!" thundered the outraged Scot as he put his hands up to his scalp to check that his pride and joy was not damaged, either physically or psychologically. As he petted and murmured soothing words to his emotionally scarred strands, he began to remember the previous night. [Oh Dear Lord!] Duncan groaned [this is too horrible.]
Memories began to flood back into his mind. Memories involving whisky, a very drunk Methos, a shirtless Richie and a liberal application of depilatory wax. How had Methos persuaded him to wax Richie's chest? That chest hair was Richie's most beloved object in the whole world! It had taken him years of precise grooming to achieve the trademark 'Richie chest hair style'. He had even been offered the chance to set up his own chest hair salon in Paris, as well as a contract with Pantene (with his own range of chest hair styling products and accessories).
It was at this point, that the burden of guilt finally broke Macleod.
"Ach! I'm so sorry, Richie! It's all my fault! I took advantage of you when you were lying in a drunken stupor. I waxed your chest!!!" Duncan fell to his knees in front of a rather bewildered Richie, as he begged for forgiveness.
Rob Roberts began to feel particularly awkward. Not only was there a man with a severe case of wig denial sobbing on the ground at a young man's feet (and Rob knew how dangerous those suffering wig denial could be. He had the scars to prove it), Rob also had the sneaking suspicion that he wasn't going to be paid for this home visit.
"Maybe I should come back another time?" Rob inquired. "Some time when people are a tad less emotional?" He began to edge away from the two men, inching closer to the door with increasing speed. Reaching for the gilded door handle, Rob Roberts was congratulating himself with a well-choreographed escape, when he heard Richie's exclamation of "Wait!" Inwardly cursing himself for being so damn sociable, Rob slowly turned to face the two. [If I live through this day,] Robert thought, [I'm going to go out and eat a whole cheerleading team.]
"Don't go!" Richie whined. "I need someone to attach my chest hair back onto my body. I can't get any girls when my greatest asset is lying in tufts on the floor!" Duncan looked up from his position on the floor, all traces of guilt having disappeared.
"Richie, you're a sidekick! Sidekicks don't get the girls! It would place doubt on the assertion that I am the hunkier of the two of us. I'm Batman, the dashing hero and you're Robin, the guy in the bad tights and those little green imp shoes, who never had a chance with women." Duncan, unfortunately, due to his bad hangover, didn't see the sharp blade of his own katana, wielded by Richie, as it swung through the air in a perfect arc, gliding through his neck as though through warm butter. Until it got to the vertebrae - then it got stuck and Richie had to have a few hacks at it before Duncan's head finally landed on the carpet. Rob looked on in shock as he witnessed Duncan's death and the immensely powerful quickening that followed.
"I really should be going...right now," Rob Roberts managed to say, as he raced for the door, only to be grounded by a lightning-fast tackle by Richie.
"YOU WILL STAY AND REATTACH MY CHEST HAIR!" bellowed Richie. "NEVER AGAIN WILL I BE TREATED LIKE A SIDEKICK! I SHALL HAVE MY OWN SERIES! I SHALL TAKE OVER THE WORLD! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"
~~~~~~~~
An hour later, a dazed Rob Roberts emerged from the Seacouver home of the recently deceased Immortal, Duncan Macleod. He had his life, his wig kit and a full stomach. He was happy. [Scot's certainly do make a good meal] Rob mused as he wandered out into the mild sunshine, with a song in his heart and a cerebellum in his gut.
The End
~*~