Disclaimer: Once again, I do not own Vince, Howard, or The Mighty Boosh, and I gain no profit for writing this.
A/N: Well, I was going through some pieces of paper, and I'd actually written an idea for a 'second chapter' to the poncho story! I'd totally forgotten about it.I edited it and lengthened it, it was only 200 words. Still not long by any means but better! So there you go, I did expand this story! But no, it's not supposed to be 'Mighty Boosh' style humour. Sorry. I hope you like it anyway, and I'd love your comments.Um, in the real episode, he went to Naboo, the gypsy shaman and kiosk vendor for stress related problems.
He paced up and down. Typewriter. There on the table, controlling him. Why won't it ever let him type what he wants it to! One sentence. Pathetic. Pathetic excuse for a human being. Pathetic excuse for any sort of intelligent being. Might as well have a brain powered by little wheel running rodents with cogs. One sentence. Is that all his brain would ever provide him with? He glared into space, then ripped the piece of paper out of his typewriter and crunched it into a tight ball, hurling it to the floor, wishing he could aim it at Vince's head. He ground his teeth and flung himself down on the couch, head in his hands. He'd never get this right! His novel, his dream, his chance at achieving something, his chance of fame!
His chance at Mrs Gideon.
His chance at Mrs Gideon, gone, slipping ever further away from his grasp like a buttered bar of soap. His chance at anyone actually. How could he expect to find someone, when not even Vince acted like he respected him. Does he not realise how much he wants this? Does he not realise that with every comment insinuating how 'easy' it is, but that Howard wouldn't have the ability to do it,he's taking his hopes and tying them in a small Hessian bag and dropping them off a hunchback bridge into a stagnant pool of slime? Howard almost growled thinking about Vince taunting him about his lack of speed. Vince, as a supposed best friend, should be there for him, shouldn't just hang about flaunting his own pathetic achievements!
All his dreams gone because he could not write this, his novel. It was all there! In his head! But it was as if he had a big wall in his mind, a big, liquid paper wall, erasing his thoughts and preventing him from translating it to paper. One. Sentence. And Vince. Vince can just ponce about, always happy, in his ponchos and shiny belts,writing children's stories in pinkcrayon and photocopying them, and still being perfectly content. Having men and women- Mrs Gideon- fawn all over him andthat hair. Everything always turned out okay for him, even when it turned out badly. It wasn't fair! He glanced over to the door, where he'd last seen Vince. Where he'd last seen Vince ducking with a look of vague fear and concern on his face as he legged it and ran away from him.
His view to the door was interrupted by a glimpse of his nemesis. The typewriter's keys taunted him, glittering. It wasas if itstared at him, laughing at how it controlled him, how it could ruin everything if it wanted to.
He looked over at it, and then at the plates on the floor. He'd actually thrown them at Vince. His best friend Vince who had only trying to help. Vince who had offered to help him with his writing, to read his sentence, and whatever else he managed that would come after that. Howard looked at the typewriter, and then down to the smashed crockery scattered through the discarded pieces of paper and across the carpet.
He hadn't meant it, any of it. He just wanted to write!
Howard sighed. Maybe he did have something wrong with him. He'd go and apologise. And he'd go and see Naboo.
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