Morporkian Idiot
While I'm waiting for more responses to my request regarding what I should do next, I've decided to start writing another filk. This one, if you hadn't guessed from the title, is based on 'American Idiot' by Green Day. If you've never really heard of them, they're a three-piece pop-punk band from the Bay Area of California. The lead singer, Billie-Joe Armstrong, described their new album 'American Idiot' as 'a rock-opera', after which one of my friends described him as 'the most pretentious person ever'. The song 'American Idiot' was my first experience of Green Day, and was described by NME magazine as 'their best since 'Dookie'' (released in 1994 – three guesses why I missed out on it…). What else to say about Green Day? Well, the bassist (Mike Dirnt) has peroxide-blonde hair, the drummer's name is Tre Cool (?) and they swear a lot. I've tried not to swear so much in this.
Shout outs:
Egleriel: I probably will do 'Our Time Is Running Out' at some point. I'm not too sure about it being a CA angst-filk, though. And hurry up and update one of your stories! I'm itching for something to read! (BTW – am I the only person who thinks 'Butterflies and Hurricanes' is a subtle Discworld reference?)
Frosteh: Erm… are you sure you want to marry me? I mean, okay, you like my writing, but you should know, I bite my nails, I can't cook, and I play the trombone. Loudly. At night. And hurry up and update! Please!
Jess Idres: Humour is effective at times, you know. Regarding the tux, I have to take it back if I don't get more reviews, but I really like it (I mean, sporting allegiances mean I could NEVER wear blue if my good friend Sean was wearing red (and he really is my good friend Sean (what – I do have SOME original characters, you know – I just haven't used them yet)), so I went for white). And as for Carrot and Angua… well, suffice to say there's a reason they don't appear in this filk… snigger
Blank Ned: Thanks for pointing out to me about the lack of sensible footnotes. I'm surprised no-one else noticed that (including me). Wait… that IS me!1)
1) So it's corny! SO SHOOT ME! No, I wasn't being literal… no, no, don't point that at me! No, no, put it down – AAAARGGGHHHH!
Note: The song 'American Idiot' is property of Green Day. Discworld and its characters are all the property of Terry Pratchett. Any that aren't Pterry's are mine.
MORPORKIAN IDIOT
"Ankh-Morpork! Citie of One Thousand Surprises! The only place in the world where someone will buy food from CMOT Dibbler more than once! A proud, prosperous place! The premier commercial centre on the planet! Home of Distressed Pudding!"
"Do we have to do this, sarge?" muttered Constable Robert Insle.
"Now, now, constable, you know what Commander Vimes says," replied Sergeant Christopher Ottersneeze. "Someone has to keep an eye on the soapbox speakers in Sator Square, and this week it just happens to be our turn."
"But it's cold!" said Constable Sean McLiverstockworth, who was yet to learn that being cold does not necessarily mean you will die in the next hour.
"It's not that bad," replied Chris, who was privately desperate to get back to the Watch House and a nice cup of cocoa.
"Bloody stupid Morporkians wouldn't know sense if it kicked 'em in the nadgers," muttered Sean.
Chris had a strong sense of duty, but this was overruled by a powerful sense of self-preservation. "Y'know, it is a little nippy out," he said hurriedly. "Doubt there'll be any crowd trouble today" – at least, there won't be unless you two don't shut yer traps – "why don't we get back for some hot drinks?"
"Finally, a sign of your famous brain, Chris," snapped Sean.
"That's Sergeant Ottersney to you, constable," replied Chris. "Now let's get back quick, okay?"
As the three men entered the watch house, they were struck by a wall of warm air. Sergeant Colon was busily feeding the stove in the charge room. Corporal Edward Blankwall was sat behind a desk, wearing a slightly glazed expression. He would not reveal the reason for this for several hours, due to embarrassment. When eventually questioned, he would reveal that he had actually seen Carrot and Angua defy not only the standards of common decency but also several laws of physics in their passion. When questioned further, about how he had come to see this, he replied that it wasn't his fault he was on the landing when they were going at it so hard the door fell out of its frame, he was now scarred for life, and then curled up in the foetal position and began sucking his thumb and rocking backwards and forwards. But for now he spoke only in monosyllables.
"Hey, Eddie," said Chris.
"Mmm," replied Edward, staring at some inner vision, which, judging by the look on his face, he was finding far from pleasant.
"Cuppa?" Chris said, leaning round him to see if he was surreptitiously reading a Perry Trapchett novel.
"Mmm," Edward replied, his expression not changing.
"How's the job going? Written that report yet?" The sergeant waved his hand in front of the other NCO's face, eliciting no response.
"'Ey, Sean," said Rob, as the two constables walked away, "There's gonna be a band practice tonight. Can you make it?"
Sean shrugged. "Don' see why not," he replied. "Is whatsisface free too?"
"Y'mean Ade Traycull?" Rob laughed. "Yeah, he's free. We're rehearsin' in that old ware'ouse 'is dad rents out off Cable Street."
Behind them, Chris asked Edward what was up with him, at which point his friend leapt to his feet, yelled "It wasn't my fault, dammit! I was only there! I WAS ONLY THEEEEEEEEERRRRRE!" and ran upstairs. Chris looked at the rest of the watchmen, who were sitting with their mouths agape.
"What?" he said.
A musty smell pervaded the warehouse where three young men were making something that people like Edward and Chris and Angua (and possibly even Carrot, you never knew) would call modern, emotional, graphic music, and people like Sergeant Colon, Archchancellor Ridcully and Lord Rust would call 'a godawful talentless racket'. Its creators, however, just thought of themselves as musicians with spunk.
Robert Insle, lead singer and guitarist, randomly played a few chords. "That was a good 'un, I thought," he said.
Sean McLiverstockworth, bassist, shook his wrist out. "It bloody hurt, I know that," he retorted.
"Shut up, wimp!"
"No!"
"Guys! Guys! Leave it out!" snapped Adrian Traycull, drummer and the odd one out in not being a watchman. The other two let their hackles settle a little, and silence descended like the dust motes caught in the sunlight spearing through the high, small windows.
"You do know that if we play that song in public, we'll be lynched," said Sean.
"Really?" Now it was Rob's turn to retort. "And I thought they'd just offer us a cup of tea and a cream bun-"
"Seriously, Rob, we're gonna have to think about this. We're risking our jobs here – Old Stoneface isn't going to be exactly jumping for joy when he hears this – and our friendships, come to that."
"How?"
"Oh, come on! D'you seriously think Eddie and Chris are gonna stick up for us over the rest of the Watch?"
Rob muttered something under his breath that said exactly what he thought Edward and Chris could do with the rest of the Watch.
"Besides," Sean went on, ignoring him, "you know what ankh-Morpork's like. There's as good a chance we'll be applauded as we'll be gutted like fish."
"Well, what we could do," said Traycull, "is hold the gig on a roof somewhere. Gorilla gigs, I think they're called."
"Why?"
"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, it's because of the Librarian."
"You mean the mo-" Rob began, before Sean slammed a hand over his mouth.
"Don't. Use. The M-word," he hissed. "He'll kill you if you do."
"Why?" Rob, despite having been a Watchman for several months, was yet to learn the all he needed to know to ensure basic survival. Sean considered the only reason he was still alive was due to Herculean efforts on the part of Captain Carrot, Edward and Sergeant Colon to keep him off the streets at times and in places where there were any people.
"Sounds like a plan, this gorilla gigging," he said, ignoring Rob. "We'll have to tell some people, though."
"Who, though?" replied Traycull.
Sean grinned evilly. "Well, I can't wait to see Edward's face when he finds out."
"WHAT?"
"We're holding a gig on a rooftop in Dolly Sisters, singing songs about the stupidity of the indigenous population," said Rob calmly. Beside him, Sean groaned and put his head in his hands.
Christopher shook his head. "The pair of you are fools, I'll tell you that. Vimesy'll tell you the same. Edward is probably gonna launch into another 'Blankwall Blaster' – when he comes round."
"How is Edward, by the way?" asked Sean.
Chris looked down at the unconscious form of his colleague, lying where he had passed out through rage-induced high blood pressure upon being told of the planned gorilla gig. He gave the body a kick, which elicited absolutely no response.
"Well, he's not going to be doing any shouting soon," he conceded.
The day of the gig dawned. In the two weeks between informing the Watch and then, Sean must have lost count of the number of people who'd yelled at him. Edward had spent several hours screaming, shouting, yelling, snapping and, after his voice had entirely worn down, hoarsely whispering at them. Carrot and Angua had both spoken sternly to them. Sergeant Colon had called them 'a pair of stupid buggers', and said that 'all that noise must've melted your brains.' Commander Vimes hadn't said much, but had merely stated (after several seconds, through clenched teeth, and with his cigar in ruins) that what they did in their own time was entirely their own concern, but that then, so was the way in which they chose to be buried, and if they preferred to be so by having a burning building fall on top of them, then they were free to do that too.
Sean picked up his bass. Rob tuned his guitar in a corner of the room. Traycull was silently air-drumming on the other side of the room. The gig was taking place on the roof of the Exploding Windmill pub in Dolly Sisters, across the road from a tobacconists. The band had been given some pretty stony looks from a young woman with tied-back black hair and a plain grey dress who was smoking outside when they arrived.
Sean checked his watch. "We're on in two," he said to the room in general. He felt terrible inside. His stomach was trying to perform aeronautical aerobatics, and it wasn't helped by the fug of the back room they'd dumped their equipment in. it was a very stable-like fug, except it was thickened by a strong contribution from the beer kegs in the cellar underneath and an even stronger one from the latrines against the outside wall.
"Shall we get out there then?" said Rob, who seemed completely unfazed by the possibility of sudden, instantaneous, democratically-achieved death.
Sean checked his watch. "Give it a minute or two," he said.
Edward couldn't help feeling conspicuous. Maybe it was that he just didn't look right. He was trying to be nonchalant, he was sure of that. Maybe that was what was making him feel conspicuous. Someone trying to be nonchalant was always obvious because of the effort they were putting into it. Besides, it might just be nerves.
On the other hand, it might be because he could see Andre in the pub opposite him, Sergeant Angua in the shop to his right, Nobby in the alley across the road and Chris walking down the street. This was bad enough, but the feeling was compounded by the fact that all of them - including himself – were in plain clothes, which was rare enough to have the shock of the unexpected.
There was a commotion on the roof of the pub, and the band appeared, Sean looking nervous, Rob looking his usual goofy self, and Traycull an indistinct shape behind a drumkit.
"A'right ev'ryone," yelled Rob. "We're Octarine Twilight, and we are gonna ROCK. YOUR. WORLD." As he said that, a small section of the crowd just a few years younger than Edward burst into a chorus of hoops and hollers. Rob looked out over the crowd, and spotted Edward. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a predatory grin. Edward returned it with a glare that should, by all rights, have left the other man a small area of smouldering thatch.
Rob, as ever, didn't get the hint. "EDDIE!" he bellowed. "Good to see you mate!"
"Sod you, Insle," Edward called back. Rob just grinned at him, and he felt his blood heat slightly.
"Can we just get on with the music, Rob? Preferably before we get mobbed?" Sean whispered in his ear.
"Why worry?" shrugged Rob. "Eddie's in the crowd."
"Carry on this way and Eddie will be leading the mob. Now get on and sing!"
"Alright, people, this is one of our new songs. It's called 'Morporkian Idiot', and we hope you enjoy it," Rob yelled, striking a chord on his guitar.
Edward's ears shut down. When they started working again, somewhere in one of the limpid pools on the far side of the pain threshold, he could just about follow the catchy riff. Well, this is it, he thought. We have four minutes left to go…
After what seemed like an age of riffing, Rob launched into the vocal line.
"Don't wanna be a Morporkian Idiot,
Don't wanna city under the new mania,
Can you hear the sound of hysteria?
The subliminally messed-up Morporkia!"
"Sounds like a cat going to the toilet through a sewn-up bum, if you ask me," said a voice by Edward's ear, accompanied by a gust of cigar smoke.
Edward wheeled round. "Mister Vimes!" he exclaimed, but quietly. "What are you doing here? This is your day off!"
Vimes indicated his lack of uniform, and accompanying wife and pram. "We were out for a weekend stroll, we heard the racket, and my coppering instincts led me here."
"Yes, sir," said Edward, less than believing. Above him, the band thundered on.
"Welcome to the new-found invasion,
All across the Ankhian nation,
Where everything's meant to be O.K.
Newspapers complain of tomorrow,
And we are all meant to follow,
At least that's what we'll argue.
Maybe I am the fag of Morporkia,
All part of a civic agenda,
Now everybody do the propaganda,
And sing along to the Pax Morporkia!"
During the solo, Edward risked a sidelong glance at Vimes. He had no idea of his commander's taste in music, but the other man seemed to be enjoying himself just a little too much. Maybe it was the crowd getting to him.
"Don't wanna be a Morporkian Idiot,"
Vimes seemed to be staring intently at the crowd.
"Don't wanna city under the new mania,"
Edward felt the brush of air as the Commander of the Watch rushed past him.
"Newspapers, clacks and hyste-"
Octarine Twilight suddenly stopped playing at the sight of a man bobbing up and down on the sea of bodies in front of them, supported by the people underneath him. They stared, and then their eyes widened as they recognised His Grace His Excellency Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of Ankh-Morpork City Watch as the individual surfing the wave of humanity.
"Well," said Rob, suddenly lacking his usual bravado, "what do we do now?"
Sean turned to face him, his face devoid of colour. "We run," he replied. "As fast as possible, and we don't stop until we reach Barrerpool."
"When?"
"I think now would be a good idea."
It was Later. Things had happened.
Octarine Twilight had returned to the watch House, their break for Barrerpool having been spoiled by them insisting on taking their instruments with them, including Traycull's drumkit. Edward, as the closest officer to the incident, was trying to write up another full report. His original, consisting of "I did not witness said event as I was trying to make my way through the crowd with my hands over my eyes," had been rejected by Captain Carrot for "not being any use".
The Discworld's first crowdsurfer was sitting in his office, drinking a mug of tea.
"I honestly don't know what came over me," he said, quietly.
"Well, sir," said Sergeant Ottersneeze, "I've been looking over some old reports-"
Vimes glared suspiciously at him. "Why?"
"For reasons of precedent, sir," replied Chris smoothly. "You remember the original wave of music with rocks in a few years ago?"
"How could I forget? I spent a whole evening digging through the mud in Hide Park."
"Exactly, sir. Plenty of strange incidents. Exploding organs. Walking pianos. Carrot showing some signs of cunning. You see where I'm going with this?"
"What you're saying," said Vimes slowly, "is that this 'spunk music' had the same effect on me as original music with rocks in did on people back then?"
"Exactly, sir."
"Stop saying that, sergeant."
"Sorry, sir."
/snickers/ sorry, but I couldn't resist. I just couldn't. Feel free to rant all you want, I know it's OOC. Just please give a reason beyond 'Vimesy wouldn't crowdsurf'.
As regards all the new characters I've introduced here, part of the reason I have is so that I don't keep on using the same characters over and over again to play different kind of music. I'll try and develop them a bit more over if and when I write that thing about my OC's backgrounds.
Again, thank you everyone who reviewed – and anyone who read it but didn't review (you won't catch anything, you know – I don't bite!).
As regards the next work, I've decided to pull the 'Carpet People' one – there just didn't seem to be enough that could safely be combined with Discworld. And at least two of the others will require some kind of background to my characters to be laid first. Sorry.
P.S. Before I start on any other projects, there will be at least one more filk. It'll likely be much sadder than the others, but it will help to lay a bit of a framework for my characters – not much, but enough.