Alright, we apoligize to all out there with Southern accents, we really can't quite grasp it...So, yes, this particular bible-thumper sounds very, very strange. Deal with it.
Oh, and we dont own this. Except for the preacher. And bobo the hobo. Wait, is he even in this? Shoot, i cant remember...ugh, whatever. ;)
Oh, and if you don't get the bit about the sausage, don't worry, we don't either, it just...sort of...showed up. Like, weirrrrrrrrrd man.
CHAPTER THREE: Southern Preachers and Pointless Chapters
Miraculously, Harry managed to make it back to his seat next to Ron unharmed- except for a rather large bump on his Ringo head. Which really hurt. A lot. It hurt quite a lot. It throbbed horribly, and every move he made felt like his head was going to split open. Yes, Harry was in terrible, terrible pain. I mean agony. Yes, he was in agony, writhing and moaning in pain, it was so very excruciating. It was as if his head had been stabbed with a hot knife. Er…lots of hot knives. Very hot knives. Yes, Harry's head was being stabbed by multiple hot knives and was on fire, it was so very excruciatingly painful that-BLAM(author falls over dead, having been shot, then is resurrected miraculously because obviously as you can see the fic goes on and therefore needs someone to write it, capeesh?) Fine. Harry's head hurt. Whatever.
Ron was still figuring out how many people hated Harry- Hermione had helped, transfiguring 14 extra hands(Ron wasn't a very good counter)
"Old bagel man person, House-elf 346, that boy in Hufflepuff in 2nd year, his dead mum and pop, whatshisname, Pans-"
Harry was still quite traumatized, poor thing, and it took him a while to figure out what Ron was blabbing on about. Gathering himself, he shouted, "MY MUM AND DAD? (laughing) MY MUM AND DAD? Why on earth would they want to kill me? They're passed away."
"Be that as it may, Harry, rumor is, you screamed a lot as a child- puked all over your mum's favorite shirt. I'd want to kill you if you did that to me," explained Hermione.
"THAT MAY BE BLOODY WELL TRUE, but they're dead!" Harry liked to scream. He did it anytime he had the chance. I guess when you hear your mother screaming really loudly all the time, you feel you have to compete. Family rivalry. Tsk tsk. Very sad.
"The-Boy-Who-Lived, The-Boy-Who-Lived, The-Boy-Who-Lived…" Ron said, patting Harry's back, "Don't worry, they'll come back if they have a chance to kill you."
Ron looked at Harry for the first time, trying to see if his friend was feeling any better. "HOLY SHITE, YOU'RE NOT HARRY. YOU'RE, YOU'RE-"
"Ringo Starr!" screamed Hermione, fainting.
"Now look what you've done! Scared my dear 'mione half to death. Get out, and bring Harry back!"
"But I am Harry!" screamed Harry!
"Well, in that case…."
Ron dramatically conjured some sausage, swore, then ate it all-stuffing it down his throat, with short breaks for water, to Harry's amazement.
Ron muttered "preacherous comicus!" and made several very complicated movements with his wand. Surprising everyone, the author included, a Southern preacher appeared.
"Damn good it worked this time, don't think I could've eaten any more spicy and delicious Cajun cooking," mumbled Ron, rubbing his stomach. His amazing metabolism had made him even thinner over the summer. He still wasn't handsome though. He was rather pale and sickly looking. Ron had self-esteem problems. Ron was a very sad and anxious little teen. Dear, dear.
The preacher, hearing the red-haired chap swear, rushed over and hit ron with the newspaper he happened to be holding, yelling with his gospel, Southern, sing-song voice, "Tonight! I'll be your naaaaaauuuughty giiiiiirl!coughed Um…Sahrry, don't know whut cayme over may."
Ron stared, mouth agape.
"Uh, back to whut ah was saying. Layve him evil, layve this boy! Layve! Ah commaynd yew, spawn o'the devil, be gawne!" he continued, whacking Ron repeatedly.
"Ow. It's. Ouch. Him. Ow. Not me. Ow."
The Southern preacher looked in the general area in which Ron had feebly pointed.
"Whaaaaaaaaa….Ringow Stahrr! Bless this day, Laurd! An autograyph, playse?" he questioned, smiling nervously.
Harry pulled down his trunk from the metal rack above him. He pulled out an autograph book and feathered pen: Glad thing I decided to be prepared this year, never know when fame and fortune beckons!
Ron looked at him from the ground quizzically.
Harry smiled proudly, "I'm always prepared. Ringo….how do you spell that?"
"R-I-N-G-O, bingow, but with an 'r'," supplied the priest, jumping up and down like a crazed fan-girl.
Harry-Ringo scrawled his new name on a piece of paper, handing it to the priest, and beaming a dazzling smile.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! ah'm BLAHND!" screamed Ron and the Southern Preacher in unison, suddenly convulsing.
"Ringo, shut your mouth!" shouted Ron frantically.
"I didn't say anything, Ron!" said Harry, still grinning. He had come to terms with his new name. Sure…he wasn't as handsome, but this gorgeous smile thing came in handy.
"No, just close your effing mouth!"
Harry closed his effing mouth.
"Ah can see again! Thaynk the Laurd! May yew never dahy, Ringow! May yew never dahy!"
Harry replied, the camera fixing on him a dramatic pose, voice steady and calm, yet manly and so masculine, "Don't worry. I never will."
"May the Laurd mayke sure of thaht staytement! Bless mahy stahrs, I met Ringow-Ringow Stahrr. No pun intended, belayve may. Ah, Ringow Stahrr! Ring-"
He was cut off short, Ron yelling "Preacherous Goicus Backicus Todiculus Wheredothren Youen Camos Fromus-ah hah!"
"Not only that, but he ruined my special camera moment!" whined Harry, "I had another minute and a half of dramatic and pregnant silence!"
Ron wrinkled his nose. "Ew, pregnant?"
Yes, pointless. We know. Don't worry, we're not idiot delinquents. Er...especially not idiot delinquents locked up in padded cells and strait jackets in a guarded penitentiary for the criminally insane in the outer-most reaches of Siberia. Er.
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