Disclaimer: All things I write now or in the future will involve characters, settings, and other items from an original author's imagination. I cannot lay claim to them, nor can I buy or inherit or trade anything for them. And let us hope that I take care to treat their creations better than the one thing I can lay claim to as my own--my car, which I abuse on a daily basis.
Yes, I have started Chapter 4 of my angsty fic, but I am cannot keep it going. This story came to me instead. I am so bored... so dry... can't find... inspiration... need... Sadie's muse... need... cheese... cake... arrrggghhhh! Seriously, if I had something like SadieElfgirl's muse, then I could probably write great fiction too. (If you're reading this, then you are now reading a shameless plug for SadieElfgirl's Lord of the Rings stories. This plug is brought to you by the people who brought you rabies: Everything tastes better with rabies! Yay, rabies! Rabies, rabies, rabies, rabies, rabies...etc.
Culture and Evil Don't Mix
--dedicated to the hundreds of music teachers out there who had one student who would never pay attention. At least they weren't this guy.
Even in the desert planet of Gunsmoke, culture was not completely lost. One man tried to instill in those around him a taste for beautiful music, a flair for the artistic, and an appreciation for the skill that it took to play a perfect melody. He failed.
The storm had made the day as dark as evening, hiding the suns behind the giant black thunderheads commonly known as "serious ominous." The unrelenting deluge made it impossible for there to be outdoor activities, and a restlessness had settled among the townspeople, who wished to be busy with their work or visiting friends. One man, though, saw this as an opportunity. As it was impossible to make it to the saloon today to play for the customers, a previous offer had come to mind and was sounding more and more appealing. He recalled something about a rainy day, when their regular work would be impossible... "You should give me a lesson on that thing," were the exact words he had used. Why not? How could he pass up the chance to instill in some novice a love of music and of the instrument he now held delicately and lovingly in his hand?
The unsuspecting pupil was acquired from another room and sat down looking stunned and not-at-all excited to be there. The lesson began to the amusement and unwanted attention of the other occupants of the house.
The pupil started out pretending to be interested. He had the correct way of holding the blasted thing halfway down.
"So then you put your right hand over these... concentrate! Do you want to learn this or not? Now, put your right hand over... stop it! Bad kitty! Okay, we're going to go over this one more time. Your left hand goes here. Good, you know that. And you put your right ha... Hey! Get back here!"
As the little black cat jumped off the pile of music books, a very bored student leapt up at the chance for some excitement in a chase. Guns were brought out from the "peanut gallery," as the exasperated educator had been referring to them, and general chaos ensued. They ran around the room, a blur of black and white, circling the poor music teacher until he was forced to do something drastic.
A loud blast from the instrument and the sound of bullets coming from all directions brought the little black blur and the large white blur to a sudden halt. Clearly seen in their new stationary position, the cat and the student hung their heads and tried not to laugh. The look on the frazzled teacher's face was too much. Both collapsed on the floor into a fit of giggling as had not been seen since that time in 10th grade when I... Whoa!... um, nevermind... back to the story:
The teacher stared angrily at his pupil, but checked himself quickly. The student, who moments ago had been absently staring at sheet music and ripping around the room like a mad tornado, was once again the dangerous psychopath whose leadership here was unquestioned. Even if it was comically out of place with him standing on a sinking couch cushion, a black cat clawing at his ankles. The others fell silent as he raised his left arm slightly and narrowed his eyes.
"We are done for today."
The tall, well-dressed musician walked back to his room mumbling. Silently, the former onlookers holstered their weaponry, which took about five minutes. However, as soon as their leader left the room, the Gung-Ho guns laughed till their sides split, which for E.G. Mine was especially painful.
That was the first and last time Midvalley the Hornfreak tried to give saxophone lessons to an ungrateful Legato.
Admittedly not my best work, but I'm hungry for reviews. Not as funny, but I am running a little dry today. I got inspiration for these one-shots from some other Trigun humor I've read, but they are my originals, so I guess they work. I can't wait till my angst is done because I started it before I even knew about fan fiction. It has a lot more originality and is being betaed by two most wonderful and excellent authoresses. One of them is the sister and beta of SadieElfgirl—WHOSE STORIES ARE AWESOME! WHY AREN'T YOU READING THEM? Oh, and review please.