Show You the Crunch
Category: The Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Naboo/Saboo
Genre: Humour
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Drug Use, Unspecified Warning
Status: Complete
Length: <1k words
Show You the Crunch by Culumacilinte
He couldn’t stand Naboo. Seriously, he couldn’t.
Saboo hated these shamanic get-togethers, he really did. Not a one of the board of shaman was amusing when inebriated, not one. Dennis couldn’t even handle garden-grown marijuana, Tony just became more of a complete arse than usual, that git Barry refused to talk in anything but Welsh, and Lady Freya went all giggly and incoherent, laughing hysterically at everything and draping herself over people’s laps. Even Kirk, who was normally at least intelligent, immediately went into some kind of transcendental, hallucinogenic haze until Saboo had snarlingly suggested that he fuck off and find himself a Maharishi. At that point, he’d looked vaguely at Saboo, said very clearly: ‘Radishes,’ and ambled off.
Saboo himself was far from sober, of course, but at the moment, he simply found everybody else here far too idiotic to even begin to tolerate. He was left, then, to wander irritably among throngs of sages, both human and non, all of them completely off their magical tits. He swore loudly when a small hand reached up and fastened itself around his ankle.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, you tiny twat?’
He peered at the darkness and heaped forms of passed-out shamans around his feet before the owner of the hand disentangled itself from them. Naboo. Of course. Saboo rolled his eyes; he’d never had much patience for the miniature shaman. He wasted his life, as far as Saboo was concerned, first working in that failure of a zoo and now living with those two complete plums in a flat in Dalston, of all places. What kind of shaman lived in Dalston? Besides, he always added, Naboo knew nothing of the Crunch.
Besides this, he was almost as bad as the rest of the board when he was lit. Naboo, for all he was four hundred years old, seemed to revert back to age twelve whenever he got high, which, to be fair, was very often. He giggled and stared blankly off into space and made idiotic comments that just made Saboo want to strike him, or strangle him, or pin him down and fuck some sense into the little git. Ahem. Not that that last one was a thought Saboo often entertained. No. Not at all.
Now, his turban was wildly askew, his hair a wreck and his robe unbuttoned to the waist. Saboo could see immediately that he was blazed beyond all recognition, his pupils blown wide and a stupid grin pasted across his face.
‘Hey, Saboo.’ He murmured, a giggle tingeing the edges of his words, and tugged Saboo down onto the ground next to him. He landed with considerable indignity, very nearly falling over the heaped shape of Naboo’s idiot gorilla familiar, and attempted to adjust himself on the grass, which was unpleasantly cold and wet from dew. Naboo regarded him amicably, and Saboo sneered at him.
‘Well, look who it is,’ he growled. ‘Naboo the blazer.’
‘Better than you,’ Naboo muttered, clearly incredibly amused by himself, ‘What’s the point of getting stoned if you’re not even gonna enjoy it?’
‘Why, you-’ Taken by a sudden fury, he took a great swipe at Naboo, sending his turban flying. Naboo looked after it with mild consternation.
‘What’d you do that for, y’ballbag? That had me best jewels on and all.’
One eyebrow rose threateningly into Saboo’s tight-curled afro. ‘I’m a ballbag?’ He echoed. ‘I have been to the Crunch, sir! Nobody calls me a ballbag.’
‘Think I just did.’ Naboo shrugged. ‘Anyway, you’re always going on about the Crunch, yeah? Choose a different subject; you’re getting redundant.’
His anger was quickly boiling to a head. Already quick of temper at the best of times, Saboo’s irritability was not improved by the number of illicit substances he shoved into his system, no matter how potent, and Naboo was very quickly getting on his nerves. ‘The Crunch?’ He repeated again, his voice harsh. ‘I will show you the Crunch, Naboo, and then you’ll fucking know what you’re dealing with!’
And with that he surged forward, looking more than a little mad, tearing at Naboo’s embroidered robe and plunging a hand beneath it, groping awkwardly at the tiny shaman’s crotch, his breath hot against Naboo’s neck. He stopped suddenly when he realised that, one- Naboo was laughing hysterically, and two- there was nothing beneath his hand, just a smooth expanse of skin, as if Naboo’s stomach simply continued down between his legs like a Ken doll, uninterrupted by anything as clumsy as genitals. He swallowed hard, feeling a little ill, and removed his hand. Naboo was still laughing drunkenly, and Saboo wiped his hand off on his trousers, grimacing at the tiny shaman, feeling now appalled by himself.
‘Got nothing there, Saboo!’ Naboo sniggered. ‘Won’t do you much good.’
‘Ah. Right. Yes.’
But he could find nothing else to say, and so stumbled up, leaving Naboo laughing in the grass, eyes wide and stoned staring up at the stars. He wiped his hands off on his trouser legs again, overwhelmed by a sensation of intense disgust that twisted in his stomach, making him feel nauseous. Some serious drugs were in order here, he thought. He did not want to think at all, not for the rest of the night. He only hoped Naboo would not remember.
As it turned out, he was right. Naboo had little memory of that night save a vague, amusing recollection of vomiting into Barry’s turban which he and the Welshman occasionally reminisced about after smoking a bowl or two. Saboo remembered, though, and it made him fucking mad. Fucking Naboo. Fucking miniature stoner git. Saboo couldn’t stand him. He really couldn’t.
