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13 February 2010 @ 11:43 pm
When Your Wife Is An Extreme Sports Model  
Fandom: Mighty Boosh
Characters: Vince, Howard, Naboo, Bollo and The Head Shaman.
Description: Some old prompt response drabbles, unintentionally found, carelessly dusted off and thrown out there because I can. (Prompts in bold above.)
Disclaimer: I don't impeach on the rights of our Future Sailors. I wouldn't dare.


Bollo is beginning to become concerned.

“Did he inhale?”

“Looks like it.”

The Head Shaman twitches. Naboo sighs loudly. There’s lightweight, and then there is just ridiculous. He’s fairly sure that clinging, sobbing to a telephone box repeating ‘they can’t do stairs, that’s the whole point, they wave a plunger at you and they can’t do stairs…’ falls into the second category.

“What was it this time? Floor cleaner? Sherbert? Tester perfumes from the Body Shop?”



“He got a whiff of petrol fumes trying to cross the road.”


Nowadays Howard can see the attraction of those strobe lights, if only because Vince will play in them for hours, spinning around and unfailingly delighted at every neon web that darts from glittering boot or spangled sleeve.

Later he’ll curl up, exhausted, twisting long thin limbs into Howard’s in an impossible tangle, like a limpet crossed with a teenage gymnast. Always in Howard’s bed, because the one time they tried sleeping in Vince’s they woke up glued together with hairspray and choking on purple feathers. Howard thinks it’s criminal, almost, how well they fit together, a perfect meeting of imperfect shapes.

(Vince thinks it feels like falling and flying at the same time, only without moving, and with more cushions.)


“C’mon Howard, it’s genius! Look at it! I bet it still works and everything. I got a great price from the man selling it. He was a bit weird really, spoke in a cartoon squirrel voice the whole time. Please, Howard, can we get it?”

Vince was practically bouncing, a bejeweled puppy fascinated with its latest toy, running his hands up and down the dark timber. Howard favoured him with a suitably conspicuous sigh.

“No, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a catapault.”

Vince tilted his head to the side and started chewing on one lacy sleeve. “We could make a nest in the top with twigs and newspapers, and deliver things, siege-mail.”

“Don’t… don’t be ridiculous! Just because you like to dress in cast-offs from the 14th century doesn’t mean you can waste our money on primitive siege weapons.”

“It’s not any more ridiculous than that time you bought that thing you thought was an electronic keyboard, and it came with that woman you thought was going to help you install it…”

“You agreed not to mention that again, Vince. And I have that in writing.”

“Please. Please. Please. Please. I want it. Please. Please. Pl-”


Vince pouted, then glanced up with that smile and that look in his eyes.

“I know why you don’t want it. It’s ok, Howard. My second cousin has the same problem.”

“Why I don’t… what problem, pray tell?”

“You’re afraid of antiques. I should have seen this coming. You never could look a Victorian side table straight in the eyes. This cousin of mine, he used to be sick just at the smell of varnish. We put wood shavings in his bed at Halloween, it was genius.”

“I am not afraid of antiques! Antiques are afraid of me. They’ve heard tales of my moves.”

“Yes you are. I bet you have to close your eyes in art galleries. Make your way from room to room by following the lines painted on the floor with your fingertips.”

“Howard Moon is not afraid of antiques. I love antiques. I had a promising career ahead of me as a restorer of cabinets. The Mahogany Master, they called me.”

“Oh, really? Was this before or after you were a bin man?”

“It was…concurrent. And as an expert in the area, I can tell you that this is a very fine example of its kind. I like it.”

“Yeah, but it’s a catapault, Howard. Why would anyone need one of those?”

“Security. Nothing more secure than a catapault. They’ve got pedigree. We should buy it.”

“It’s enormous, Howard. A small forest made this. A small forest with bad taste in metallic accessories. Are we really going to take this whole thing home with us?”

“Indeed we are, sir” Howard asserted, chest swelling slightly with self-righteous satisfaction, “and I’ll thank you not to try and convince me otherwise, you little harlot.”


“The great confuser.” Howard knows he sounds bitter. “What are you, Vince? King of the Mods? Goth princess, punk prince? Or are you still one of the sunshine people, Vince? Mowgli in flares? Because I don’t know, no sir, I don’t know you.”

Vince doesn’t reply at first, and then Howard notices a growing smudge around wide blue eyes.


“Whatever you want, Howard. I’ll be whatever you want me to be.” Words coming out in a breathy whimper. Vince grabs his hand, and his grip reminds Howard of a starving sparrow, a quivering matchstick man. He’s crying. “Howard? Please…”

Oh no.

Current Mood: ditzyditzy