Howard’s had a crap day, and Vince is like a budgie.


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Genre: ,



Length: words

Notes: this be my first boosh fic. it aint got no plot or anything. it’s a bit of a drabble, and the mood and themes were handed to me by the ever so lovely tartpants in a meme. not that i really caught perturbed, haha. and it stops a bit abruptly because to be honest, i don’t know where to go from there. and ive been staring at it for days and am a bit sick of it in that sense. (anyone got any ideas?) but then again, i have the attention span of a budgie. *smacks head on a hand mirror* excuse me babble, on with the fic!

Warning: i ain’t got no beta. no one else is awake at this godforsaken hour it seems and i’m rather impatient. but i ran spellcheck. hope that’s good enough?

Prompts: Mood: peturbed – Themes: candy cigarettes, slippers, paper bag

Birds by howlhowl

“Vince, have you taken up smoking?” Howard exclaimed when to his surprise he saw his friend fingering a pink cigarette. Of course Vince would have one of them fancy fags wrapped in silly colours instead of a normal Marlboro red.

Vince spun around, his hair actually not moving much at all despite the twirl.

“Oh no, I don’t think so. That stuff does horrible things to your skin, mate. This, Howard, is a candy cigarette. It’s pink and made of chocolate. Genius.” He unwrapped the sweet, crumbled the pink paper, put it into his pocket and took a bite of the thing chocolate. “Want a bite?” He offered some to Howard.

“No thanks.”

Howard walked in past him and sat down on the tatty leather sofa and flicked dirty from underneath his finger nails. He was feeling rather morose. One of the ravens had defecated on his head, some of it dribbling down to his fine moustache, and after he had got back from washing it off all the birds seemed to have tried to excrement on his poor head. Thus he had had to walk around all day with a paper bag on his head, shielding his brown smoke from bird waste. Those winged creatures had no respect for an experienced zookeeper. Nor did they have any gratitude. Who fed them and cleaned after them so they didn’t have to live in their own bird filth? Howard TJ Moon, that’s who. He sat up and reached under the sofa for his slippers, fluffy feathery shoe versions of blackbirds that Vince had got him a few birthdays ago. By now they were tatty and greyish. He put them on his feet and flexed a bit while watching Vince eat another chocolate cigarette. The man never ate real food like rice, just flying saucers, strawberry bootlaces and other forms of sweets. Maybe that explained why he was always so cheerful. It was not the wonderfulness of his life or ignorance towards the more meaningful, morose aspects of one’s existence, but simply a 24/7 sugar high.

Vince had now moved in front of the mirror and was staring at his perfectly aligned raven hair, and winking at himself suggestively while taking bites of another chocolate cigarette, which this time had been a pale shade of neon yellow. Howard found himself watching maybe a bit too keenly as his friend did a subtle little dance around the looking glass like a boxer getting ready to throw a punch. Vince’s jeans were terribly tight with sparkling studded belt hanging on the waist merely accessorising, since there was no fear what so ever that the trousers would fall off. God knows how he got into or out of them.

Howard shook his head. Tight jeans? Why was he, Howard TJ Moon, thinking about his little electro ponce friends feature hugging garments. He was not a vain man, but a deep thinking man, who solved riddles. Well, would solve riddles if he was ever to encounter a sphinx outside Thebes or any other place those creatures guard. He was a man of action, and deep, meaningful thought.

While Howard had been thinking about part lion part lady part bird creatures of ancient Greek mythology that strangled ignorant fools, Vince had turned the radio on, or more likely, slipped in one of his Gary Numan tapes and was throwing shapes while poking his feathered hair, every once and a while stopping to consume another chocolate cigarette and lick his fingers clean afterwards. Stopping and kitten like grooming was necessary as otherwise there would have been chocolate in his hair, and that would have been a disaster. Not as much as a dead bat tangled deep in it, but at least you could turn one of those into a feature unlike blobs of chocolate. Suddenly he spotted some form of a spot on his chin and leaned closer to the mirror to figure out what it was, only to notice it was a flick of chocolate and in the process get a bit too close and hit head on the shiny surface. Maybe Howard was right. He was like a budgie, hitting his head on mirrors. At least budgies were one of the more excitingly feathered creatures. He could have been similar to a less fancible bird, like a wood pigeon. Sure they weren’t particularly ugly birds, but all brown and grey with a bit of white on the tail and the neck? Wood pigeons needed to learn to accessorize. Or at least play with colours. Vince shook his head in dismay for the pigeons fashion sense. At least budgies were colourful. He reckoned he’d be one of them turquoise ones. They were pretty electro. Gary Numan would have approved. Brilliant.

He turned around on the rather high for a person of the male gender heels of his sparkly silver cowboy boots and looked at Howard who was sulking on the sofa staring at the heads of his blackbird slippers. He tilted his head to his right, resting his hands on his hips, knuckles against the studs of his belt. Howard Moon, the jazz maverick, ever so morose. The man needed to lighten up. And accessorize, but that was a whole other project.

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