Hair’s To You, Mr. Moon
Category: The Mighty Boosh
Characters: Howard Moon, Naboo, Vince Noir
Pairing: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Genre: Humour
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Smut (graphic sex scenes), Violence - Mild
Status: WIP
Length: 1-5k words
Notes: Disclaimer: I don’t own the Boosh boys and no, I’m not making any money from this fic… it’s merely to satisfy my own perverted pleasure. No offence or harm meant.
My first Boosh fic EVER, so be gentle.
Hair’s To You, Mr. Moon by ineedtobleedit
[nextpage title=”Part One”]
Part One
And so begins another productive (ahem) day at the Nabootique, and Howard had dived straight into his daily routine; breakfast, shower, carefully observing Stationary Village to make sure everything was in check and that Vince hadn’t tried to be funny and replace a piece of cellotape with gaffertape and send Howard all weird and paranoid, like last time. Well you won’t fool Howard Moon this time, no Sir. I’ve got the moves on you little man, he thought to himself (or Vince, telepathically), triumphantly drawing a thin piece of plastic and a round glass from his pocket. After a date with the ruler and magnifying glass, Howard happily concluded that everything in Stationary Village had measured up perfectly (haha, get it?), and proceeded to stride over to his extensive Jazz record collection on the shelf, sorted alphabetically of course. He ran his calloused fingers over the perfectly aligned and juxtaposed record cases and collected a bit of dust. Ah yes, the magic of time. Howard was a practical man. He believed in the notion of certain things getting better with age, like wine and cheese, and Jazz was certainly no exception. He believed that, in this tragic musical era of electro nonsense, Jazz would pull through and continue make its presence noticed and appreciated, even in the face of such musical mockery. No sir, Howard Moon refused to sit back and watch the world of music go down the toilet. He refused to let the complexity and chaos that is Jazz be smothered by a collection of mere nursery rhyme beats that were so ludicrously repetitive and simple, a 3 year old could’ve composed them.
Settling for a late Oscar Peterson record, Howard went to slide it into his beloved record player. He scowled, wondering why Vince had invested money in that awfully complicated looking contraption nearby… a ‘CD player’, supposedly. Didn’t see the point in it, when Howard had a perfectly good record player capable of playing perfectly good music. “Get with the times, Howard” Vince would say. “It’s not the 50’s anymore”. Then Howard would laugh, mostly out of pity. Vince was so feeble minded. Didn’t understand the way the world worked. “You’ve got a lot to learn, little man”, Howard would say, “life’s not all sequins and sunshine”. Then Vince would laugh, and scuttle off to check his hair.
Howard put the needle down and waited in anticipation for the first few delicious beats…
Now, everyone has their personal kinks. Some are extremely common, some are weirder than others, and some are just plain disturbing, but nonetheless, everyone has some sort of fetish that can get them off faster than a rocket on crack, bar nullos and asexuals. Howard Moon was no different. You see, obviously, he liked Jazz. Like, really, really liked it. Not just in a friendly way, not just in a “yeah, that’s pretty damn rad” way… Jazz could do things to him. Things unimaginable. Things beyond pleasure, beyond euphoria. You see, Jazz was like some sort of aural drug to Howard Moon. The presence of it could set his insides on fire. The fluctuating shapes, the irresistible chaos had the ability to send him into a trance. A Jazz trance, if you will. As soon as those first few beats reached his ears, he’d be transported off into a world of floating musical notes and tiny Kenny G’s and Miles Davis’s would be all over the place, skilled fingers and deft mouths working those shiny shiny saxophones, blowing and beating out those notes, each of them like a snowflake; different to one and other, but equally as spectacular. Oh yes, Howard Moon definitely liked Jazz.
Vince Noir carefully flicked his jet black hair one last time and turned off the blowdryer. He smiled to himself in the mirror. His hair was looking fabulous today. Well of course, it looked fabulous all the time, but today, it was looking particularly fabulous, like each follicle had been injected with shiny liquid fabulousness or something. This alone was enough to put him in a cheerful mood. Well of course, he was cheerful all the time, but today… okay, let’s not get into that again. On top of that, he was wearing his favourite poncho and red boots, which were his pride and joy. Yes, Vince Noir was looking and feeling mighty fine today. Too bad he had to stay cooped up in the Nabootique all day with no-one there he could show off too (it’s not like they got a hell of a lot of business these days)… except Howard of course. But the man wouldn’t know fashion sense if it hit him over the head, let alone appreciate it. Oh well, Vince thought, I can always hit the clubs tonight. Where was Howard anyway? It was 9:10 am, and the Nabootique was supposed to open at 9 am. Vince almost expected the man to burst through the bathroom door right that moment, demanding why he was late for work. Then Vince would spin some extraordinary excuse about the mechanics of hair styling and how perfection can’t be rushed, etcetera, etcetera. Then Howard would make that “I-can’t-be-stuffed-listening-to-your-pretentious-bullshit-so-I’m-just-going-to-make-a-nonsensical-growl-of-disapproval-and-annoyance” growl and then storm off.
Vince walked out into the hallway and his question was immediately answered when the horrid sound of Jazz wafted from the living room. Heals clicking, he strode over to the source of the aural diarrhea and watched in both amusement and disgust as Howard wiggled and danced around and flicked his finger about to the music.
“Howard?”, Vince called, “Howard, Howard, Howard, Howard, Howaaaaaard…”
Okay, so the Jazz Maverick had ventured deep in the realm of Jazzy ecstasy, and Vince realized the ‘usual’ method of breaking the trance wasn’t going to work this time round. He’ll have to resort to more drastic measures, so he proceeded to press the play button on his CD player (didn’t understand why Howard still used one of those ancient atrocities to play ‘music’), and out blasted Gary Numan…
As the first beats of “Cars” were belted out, Vince watched Howard’s tiny eyes start to tremble, and his face contorted in a way which resembled someone extremely constipated… but, still his large, rapist-like fingers were jiggling away to the Jazz. Frustrated, Vince turned up the volume and soon, the loud synthetic beats were thumping through the house, overpowering Howard’s music, making an awful, awful racket which he was sure he would get into trouble for from Naboo later. Finally, Howard’s bloodshot eyes shot open…
He didn’t know how it happened, but when he was jerked out of his deep trance by the invasion of electro nonsense, by reflex, Howard’s limbs flailed as he swung around, and somehow managed to take Naboo’s magic candle with them, which was resting on the shelf nearby. And the next thing he knew, Vince was running around like a crazywoman, crying and screaming, “My hair! My hair! My hair’s on fire!”
[nextpage title=”Part Two”]
Part Two
Author’s Notes: Okay, so I changed the plot slightly…
Howard sat beside the door to his and Vince’s bedroom, grim-faced and eyes fixated in the distance. Occasionally, he’d go to touch the tender purple bruise forming on his cheek, a painful reminder of Vince’s reaction to having his hair lit on fire. It was a massive understatement to say that the younger man didn’t take it very well, having his pride and joy, the one thing which defines his persona burnt to a crisp. “I didn’t mean it!”, Howard had pleaded, simultaneously darting behind furniture and running around the living-room to escape a rabid Vince. “The electro was invading the jazz molecules, my kinesthetic response was to try and fight it off. I didn’t know I’d be taking a lit candle with me!” But Vince would have none of Howard’s jargoned excuses, and he lunged on the older man and began scratching and slapping and trying to hurt him in whatever way possible. Luckily, being significantly stronger than the younger man, Howard had managed to grab his flailing arms and pin them firmly down. Then Vince shouted and screamed obscenities something rotten, and Howard got all scared and jumped off the smaller man, who, all teary eyed fled to their room like a over-emotional school-girl and locked himself in there, melodramatically declaring in between sobs that Howard had ruined his life and he would never be able to go out in public again.
That was almost two hours ago.
Since then, Howard had tried everything under the sun to console Vince. He’d tried telling the younger man that the damage to his hair wasn’t ‘too bad’, which was definitely a big, fat, obese lie which obviously, Vince didn’t buy. In fact, the comment seemed to do more damage than good to him, because he tearfully declared that Howard was “a sadist who took pleasure in playing games with his head” (hair, more like). Even when Howard suggested, out of sheer desperation, that he cut his own hair off in a vain attempt to make Vince feel better, the smaller man wailed some more and said his poor little image-obsessed heart couldn’t bear to see another hair disaster take place, which secretly pleased Howard… he was very content with his gentle brown tresses, thankyou Sir.
The only reason Howard had sat by the door for the last few hours was because he feared that Vince would wrap one of his many feather boas around his neck and hang himself. Didn’t put it past the man. Now that the man’s hair was as limp and brittle and unsexy as a hobo’s, Howard was afraid that Vince act upon his deluded idea that he had nothing to live for anymore. It took a lot of willpower for Howard not to scold Vince on what is really important in life, hair certainly not being on that list. It wasn’t quite a suitable time for a lecture on Howardian theories, the older man thought… Vince was practically suicidal right now.
All of a sudden, an idea flashed in Howard’s mind and he mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier. He stood up and knocked on the door, for the 100th time.
“Go away”, Vince grunted bitterly from the room, with a hint a sob in his voice. Was he still crying?
“V-Vince”, Howard called gingerly. “I have an idea. I think… I think your hair’s gonna be alright”.
“What hair?”, he heard Vince wail through the door. The older man sighed. Vince was acting like a right drama queen today.
“Listen, let’s go to Naboo and see if he can give us some stuff to make it grow back or something”.
There was a rustling of sheets and fumbling in the cupboard, then the door swung open and there stood Vince, his eyes all puffy and bloodshot with an oversized cowboy covering his whole head and half his face… which was probably for the best. Howard immediately felt the guilt sink in more than ever. He’d reduced Vince to this. Smudged mascara adorned the man’s cheeks and a look of pure misery was plastered across his face. Didn’t look the usual Vince who was all sunshiny and happy and constantly full of beans. He was looking well off. In fact, he kind of looked like… Howard, bar the mustache. Not wanting to see Vince like this any longer, the Jazz Maverick wrapped a warm hand around the man’s waist and led him to the stairs.
“Come on, little man…”, Howard said, pandering to his friend. “Let’s go find Naboo”.
“Useless!”, Vince declared angrily, trudging around Naboo’s room with no Naboo in it. “Absolutely useless! Get my hopes up why don’t ya?”
Howard bit his lip, staring at the younger man as he paced around the room. “Sorry…”, he muttered gingerly, then offering a measly “he shouldn’t be gone too long. We’ll have to wait”. However, patience wasn’t a part of Vince’s make-up, and he started rifling through Naboo’s stuff, pulling out magic books and colourful potions from the cabinets.
“Vince, what are you doing”, Howard stuttered. “You know what happened last time we went through Naboo’s things. Remember Nanageddon, Vince. Vince… come on now… Vince?”
It was apparent that Howard’s words had fallen upon deaf ears as Vince suddenly squealed happily and turned around, with a purple bottle in his hand and a rather triumphant expression on his face. He reminded Howard of that Gollom character with that ring business, and this was slightly unsettling.
“Instant Hair Lotion”, Vince read, grinning like a madman. “Going bald? Need some extra length? Did someone set your hair on fire while in a jazz trance?” Howard grimaced, as Vince shot him a scathing glare. “Well this lotion is for you. Simply rub into scalp and within half and hour, you will be sprouting a gorgeous head of hair”.
“Alright!”, Vince yelped, unscrewing the top and scooping out some of the creamy substance.
“Vince, I don’t think this is a-”
But before Howard could stop him, the younger man had taken off his hat (to reveal a rather startling sight, bald patches and stinged hair spraying across his head), and slathered the lotion onto his scalp. He was about to dip his hand in again, but Howard quickly stopped this…
“Give me that!”, the older man growled, swiping the bottle from Vince’s hand and holding it up to his face, examining it. His tiny eyes scanned over a very fine print under the instructions Vince previously read out. Vince watched as Howard’s face dropped and turned several shades of pissed off.
“Vince…”, Howard started calmly, glancing up at the person in question. “Do you know why I ask you not to go through Naboo’s things?”
“Uhhh… because he has a giant pet iguana living in his room that feeds on human flesh?”
Howard cocks his head in contemplation and somewhere in Naboo’s room, Nippy the Iguana is rummaging around in the dark. “Ah, Naboo locked me in the cupboard again. He said I tried to eat him, but I was just exercisin’ mah jaw bones”.
“No!”, Howard shouts, breaking that tangent. “Because things like this happen!” He thrust the bottle into Vince’s surprised face and watched as the younger man read over the text out loud.
“Warning: In order to activate lotion, orgasm must be achieved within 20 minutes. If orgasm isn’t reached, then the user will never be able to grow hair again. Ever.”
Vince first appeared startled by the fact that he possibly lose his hair for good, but then a wave of relief washed over him.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy”, he called, heading to the bathroom.
“Vince. Come back”, Howard ordered, disdainfully. The younger man sighed impatiently, and wandered back over.
“This better be good”
“I don’t think you read it right”, Howard said through gritted teeth. He held up the bottle and loudly quoted the rest of the text, just to get it through Vince’s thick, one-cell brain. “Ps. This orgasm cannot be self induced. If it is, then the user will spontaneously combust. Climax must be achieved by another person”.
Now Vince appeared worried. He looked around frantically at first, but then his eyes met with Howard’s, and suddenly went all wide and desperate, in a silent plead. Torn with embarrassment, Howard looked away and laughed, thinking Vince must be playing games with him. Yes, that’s it… playing games. Oh Vince, that little joker.
“OH PLEASE!”, Vince cried after a few moments, shaking Howard’s arms. “I can’t lose my hair!”
Howard backed off in shock, disgusted, embarrassed and pretty much convinced that Vince was completely out his element. However, these things didn’t stop one part of him becoming excited by the suggestion…
