amberite_archive: (chaos)
This is the story I wrote for Yuletide - now that the reveal has taken place. Warning: if you try to play a "guess the references drinking game" with it you'd better be working in sips.


Die Morgensheutegesternwelt
(Rated: T for hallucinogen use)
Fandoms: Young Wizards, Illuminatus! Trilogy, Sandman
Pairing: Tom Swale / Carl Romeo

Summary: A pair of wizards and an enormous heap of pop culture references walk into a music festival in Ingolstadt, Bavaria. Some abnormal things happen.


Enjoy, everyone!
amberite_archive: (fourth doctor crazy pills)
Currently I am so angry about how the police are treating the citizens of this country that I'm more apt to choke on it than make coherent discourse.

So, here, have a filk about zombies instead. Memorize it and you will be able to "search and replace" when you hear the song in department stores, to fortify your heart against the onslaught of seasonal banality. That, at least, is a threat I can fight against with some efficacy. (I may actually record this if I feel my singing voice is up to the task.) Repost at will.

All I Want for Christmas is Brains (With fauxpologies to Mariah Carey's lyricist.)

I don't want a lot for Christmas
there is just one thing I need
I don't care about infections
They're collateral to me

I just want a brain to gnaw
More than you could ever know
Hear my moaned refrain:
All I want for Christmas... is braaaaaaaainnns.

I don't want a lot for Christmas
there is just one thing I need
I don't care about infections
They're collateral to me

I don't need to bite the dying
hiding in their barricades
Drastic measures just aren't needed
They'll reanimate where laid

I just want a brain to gnaw
More than you could ever know
Hear my moaned refrain:
All I want for Christmas... is braaaaaaaainnns.

Oh, I won't ask for much this Christmas
I'll shuffle toward you through the snow
I'll just keep on bashing doorframes
Knocking down the mistletoe

I won't make a list, my thumbs are
Gone and I can't hold a pen
And Santa Claus got bitten last week
Now he's lurching through your den

'Cause I just want your cranium
Ruptured like a ripened plum
That's all there is to gain
Baby, all I want for Christmas... is braaaaaaaainnns.

Oh floodlights are shining
So brightly everywhere
And the sound of undead
Groaning fills the air

And everyone is screaming
I see the corpses steaming
How can I get to the thing I really need
Through these crowbars of carbon steel, oh-oh

Oh I don't want a lot for Christmas
This is all I'm hungry for
I just want the strength to smash
Through this barred and bolted door

I just want your brains to gnaw
More than you could ever know
Hear my moaned refrain:
All I want for Christmas... is braaaaaaaainnns.

All I want for Christmas... is braaaaaaaainnns.

(repeat final line)
amberite_archive: (master bullshit)
Last night I went with some of my friends to go see a special showing of Missile to the Moon. For those not in the know, we have a lovely historic movie theatre, the Hollywood - my first introduction to Portland was going to the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival in 2002 in this building full of velvet curtains and weird angles. A group of musicians and actors called Filmusik sometimes does shows there where they play newly composed soundtracks to old films, and especially reclaim weird pulpy stuff.

I had fun with their interpretation of Plan Nine from Outer Space last week, so I came back for more. They showed a colorized print of Missile to the Moon and I showed up sleep-depped, as I'd been running on caffeine and damnedness since 7:30 AM.

Their music and acting was as good as the original movie was bad, and boy was it a stinker. Worse than Plan Nine. But it was sure educational.

Without further ado:

Things I learned from Missile to the Moon

1. Science makes a bubbling sound.

2. You can always tell an escaped prisoner by his immaculately slicked-back pompadour hairstyle.

3. Americans like to wave guns around. (Trufax!)

4. When the escaped convict with his perfect hair has just tried to rape you, and your sweetie's friend responds by engaging him in a match of fisticuffs, the correct response is "Boys, boys, stop fighting!"

5. There are creatures on the moon that look like the Geico Gecko in a KKK suit and indicate menace by doing this autistic-ish flapping gesture.

6. And a creature that looks like a walrus/terrier crossbreed with bits of tarantula and stag beetle grafted on.

7. There are also blue women. With pointy breasts. No men, just women.

8. They know how to belly-dance. And they eat regrettable fifties cookbook food, down to the grapes on toothpicks sticking out grotesquely in every direction.

9. When your husband-to-be has just escaped from kidnap and mind-control by an evil moon woman with awesome facial expressions, the correct response is "Is she prettier than me?"

10. When you put Junior Mints in your pocket and forget about them, they adhere nicely to the face of your cell phone. No, wait, I didn't learn that from the movie; I learned that from putting Junior Mints in my pocket.

Well, I hope you have found this educationally enriching! Toodles!
amberite_archive: (nowhere)
From here. Ideally you should read [ profile] merovingian's post first, because that way, this will make sense. Preserved in my LJ 'cos I know I'll want to find it later...

Promise I'll get to the last few commissions soon. I think I've been holding off because when I finish them, I'll want to take more, and I *know* I can't do that at least until I've finished a couple major things this week.




(untitled, or pick a random Ziggy Stardust lyric and make it a title)

Weird says their work in the pretend carwash is a day job, but Gilly thinks sometimes it's their real life's purpose, and Weird wouldn't be here, if it wasn't. They do it because they need to seed the transmitters. On every car they wash, they slip one with their long alien fingers into that dark, unknowable space where the window goes when the window goes down.

The transmitters spread their message to the imaginary cars' owners.

What message? Well, it hasn't changed so much over the years.

The people need it. They never stop needing it.

After the twilight hour, when the massive whirling brushes spin to a halt and the soap sprayers are turned off and the doors close over the plastic curtain gate, they stand pressed against each other in the sound of crickets and the fading California heat coming up from the pavement.

Then, after the dreamers are all gone, after no one could even suspect the carwash to be open for business, they open the doors again.

They climb onto the roof of their imaginary car. The car drives itself through the plastic sheeting as Weird and Gilly lower their heads, into the pitch-black forest of machinery, silent and humid and leviathan in the night. Weird turns the rinse sprayers on with zer mind, and they make love to each other with musical hands in the warm artificial rain.


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