It's official, I'm crazy.
Feb. 24th, 2005 04:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
speaker_to_customersI've given in. Here is the second instalment of the strangest all-human AU of all time. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Amazon rain-forest. Can they get together?
Part one is HERE
“Purpose of your visit?” the Immigration officer at Reykjavik Airport asked.
“I come to marry your beautiful Prime Minister,” Spike told him.
“Ha, ha, you make the funny,” the Icelander said, his bored tone indicating that it wasn’t the first time a visitor had declared that intention. “Purpose of visit?”
“Tourism,” Giles put in firmly. “We are all here as tourists.”
“Góður himinn!” the Customs man exclaimed loudly. “What is this?”
Giles looked across to the Customs desk and his heart sank. The Icelander was holding Drusilla’s favourite shrunken head.
“That is Miss Edith,” Drusilla explained. “She is my spirit guide.” She smiled at him angelically. “She was a missionary until she met Daddy.”
“Umm, it is a religious artefact,” Giles said desperately. “A replica of the sort of thing her people used to have in the old days.” His heart was in his boots. He was pretty sure he’d managed to relieve Drusilla of all her poison darts and knives, and he’d successfully persuaded her to leave all her poison arrow frogs at home by telling her that there would be nothing for them to eat in Iceland, but somehow he’d overlooked Miss Edith. Thank God the connecting flights had worked out smoothly and they hadn’t had to pass through Customs in New York; the reaction of an American official to the shrunken head wasn’t something he cared to contemplate.
The Icelandic Customs Officer looked at Miss Edith dubiously, and then looked at his list of contraband items. He scratched his head, and then handed the macabre trophy back to the Jivaro girl. “It is shrunken head, I know,” he said, “but it is not covered by the regulations. Unless it comes under Meat Products? No, that could not be right. And humans are not covered under CITES. Welcome to Iceland.”
Giles led the way out of the airport concourse towards the taxi ranks. Heads turned as the exotic trio, or rather the exotic duo plus one ordinary middle-aged Englishman, passed. Giles had managed to talk Spike into donning jeans and a sweatshirt, although he had a sneaking suspicious the penis sheath still lurked below the jeans, but the spike through the young man’s nose was an obvious oddity. Drusilla was clad in a long cotton skirt and a decorous blouse, but somehow seemed even more sultry and sexual than when she walked through the rain forest with her firm breasts on open display. Her enigmatic smile showed that she was well aware of the effect she was having on the local men. Spike was having a similar effect on the local women, but seemed to be completely oblivious to it; his mind was no doubt fixed firmly on the Prime Minister and he would accept no substitutes.
Not for the first time Giles wondered what temporary insanity had led him to go along with this mad scheme. It was fascinating from an anthropological point of view, of course, the culture clash rated about 9.6 on the Richter scale, but the potential for horrible embarrassment was unlimited. Even assuming he managed to restrain Drusilla from killing anyone, and that was by no means a given. Somehow he’d not only agreed to accompany them but had even obtained a research grant that was covering most of their expenses. Now, in the cold light of a Reykjavik winter’s day, he could only assume that he’d been struck by some tropical brain fever. Or hypnotised by Drusilla, who claimed shamanic powers and sometimes demonstrated abilities that indicated that they were not entirely bunkum.
Too late to back out now, of course; they were here, and he would just have to make the best of it. With luck, Spike would be cured of his obsession once he saw the Prime Minister in the flesh and saw that she was just an ordinary woman.
In her early days as a student activist she had gained the nickname ‘Valkyrie’. However, after her Gold Medal at the Athens Olympics had catapulted her to national, and indeed international, fame that nickname had seemed inadequate. She wasn’t a Chooser of the Slain; she was the Slayer. Political opponents had soon learned that her gift for destroying an opponent on the Judo mat extended into the realms of the debating chamber.
“You work too hard,” her Parliamentary Secretary, Anya Aud Olafsdottir, told her. “The country is prosperous and peaceful. There is time for you to let your hair down. Take some time out to party, and have some orgasms.”
“That would not make me an acceptable role model for our youth,” Buffi Somersdottir replied. “Our teenage pregnancy rates are too high as it is. Perhaps when I have introduced my new legislation to safeguard our fishing industry for all time, and have ensured that our economy is protected against all adverse effects from the Americans downgrading their military installations here, then I might relax for a short time.” She sighed. “And besides, all the men I meet are totally boring.”
“Even that handsome young American colonel?” Anya asked.
“Even him. Also, I am sure he is a spy of some sort,” Buffi said. “A colonel at that age? Very strange.”
“So says the girl who is Prime Minister at twenty-four,” Anya shot back. “If you are surrounded all the time by boring politicians, middle-aged and married, it is your own fault.”
“How could I turn down the chance to be Prime Minister? The people have chosen me, and I have a duty to serve them. Being the chosen one is an honour and a privilege, and I will not let my people down.”
“And you won’t let your panties down either,” Anya teased.
.”Not unless I meet someone extremely out of the ordinary,” Buffi smiled, “and in this environment I don’t think that is very likely.”
Part one is HERE
Savage Beauty – Part 2
“Purpose of your visit?” the Immigration officer at Reykjavik Airport asked.
“I come to marry your beautiful Prime Minister,” Spike told him.
“Ha, ha, you make the funny,” the Icelander said, his bored tone indicating that it wasn’t the first time a visitor had declared that intention. “Purpose of visit?”
“Tourism,” Giles put in firmly. “We are all here as tourists.”
“Góður himinn!” the Customs man exclaimed loudly. “What is this?”
Giles looked across to the Customs desk and his heart sank. The Icelander was holding Drusilla’s favourite shrunken head.
“That is Miss Edith,” Drusilla explained. “She is my spirit guide.” She smiled at him angelically. “She was a missionary until she met Daddy.”
“Umm, it is a religious artefact,” Giles said desperately. “A replica of the sort of thing her people used to have in the old days.” His heart was in his boots. He was pretty sure he’d managed to relieve Drusilla of all her poison darts and knives, and he’d successfully persuaded her to leave all her poison arrow frogs at home by telling her that there would be nothing for them to eat in Iceland, but somehow he’d overlooked Miss Edith. Thank God the connecting flights had worked out smoothly and they hadn’t had to pass through Customs in New York; the reaction of an American official to the shrunken head wasn’t something he cared to contemplate.
The Icelandic Customs Officer looked at Miss Edith dubiously, and then looked at his list of contraband items. He scratched his head, and then handed the macabre trophy back to the Jivaro girl. “It is shrunken head, I know,” he said, “but it is not covered by the regulations. Unless it comes under Meat Products? No, that could not be right. And humans are not covered under CITES. Welcome to Iceland.”
Giles led the way out of the airport concourse towards the taxi ranks. Heads turned as the exotic trio, or rather the exotic duo plus one ordinary middle-aged Englishman, passed. Giles had managed to talk Spike into donning jeans and a sweatshirt, although he had a sneaking suspicious the penis sheath still lurked below the jeans, but the spike through the young man’s nose was an obvious oddity. Drusilla was clad in a long cotton skirt and a decorous blouse, but somehow seemed even more sultry and sexual than when she walked through the rain forest with her firm breasts on open display. Her enigmatic smile showed that she was well aware of the effect she was having on the local men. Spike was having a similar effect on the local women, but seemed to be completely oblivious to it; his mind was no doubt fixed firmly on the Prime Minister and he would accept no substitutes.
Not for the first time Giles wondered what temporary insanity had led him to go along with this mad scheme. It was fascinating from an anthropological point of view, of course, the culture clash rated about 9.6 on the Richter scale, but the potential for horrible embarrassment was unlimited. Even assuming he managed to restrain Drusilla from killing anyone, and that was by no means a given. Somehow he’d not only agreed to accompany them but had even obtained a research grant that was covering most of their expenses. Now, in the cold light of a Reykjavik winter’s day, he could only assume that he’d been struck by some tropical brain fever. Or hypnotised by Drusilla, who claimed shamanic powers and sometimes demonstrated abilities that indicated that they were not entirely bunkum.
Too late to back out now, of course; they were here, and he would just have to make the best of it. With luck, Spike would be cured of his obsession once he saw the Prime Minister in the flesh and saw that she was just an ordinary woman.
In her early days as a student activist she had gained the nickname ‘Valkyrie’. However, after her Gold Medal at the Athens Olympics had catapulted her to national, and indeed international, fame that nickname had seemed inadequate. She wasn’t a Chooser of the Slain; she was the Slayer. Political opponents had soon learned that her gift for destroying an opponent on the Judo mat extended into the realms of the debating chamber.
“You work too hard,” her Parliamentary Secretary, Anya Aud Olafsdottir, told her. “The country is prosperous and peaceful. There is time for you to let your hair down. Take some time out to party, and have some orgasms.”
“That would not make me an acceptable role model for our youth,” Buffi Somersdottir replied. “Our teenage pregnancy rates are too high as it is. Perhaps when I have introduced my new legislation to safeguard our fishing industry for all time, and have ensured that our economy is protected against all adverse effects from the Americans downgrading their military installations here, then I might relax for a short time.” She sighed. “And besides, all the men I meet are totally boring.”
“Even that handsome young American colonel?” Anya asked.
“Even him. Also, I am sure he is a spy of some sort,” Buffi said. “A colonel at that age? Very strange.”
“So says the girl who is Prime Minister at twenty-four,” Anya shot back. “If you are surrounded all the time by boring politicians, middle-aged and married, it is your own fault.”
“How could I turn down the chance to be Prime Minister? The people have chosen me, and I have a duty to serve them. Being the chosen one is an honour and a privilege, and I will not let my people down.”
“And you won’t let your panties down either,” Anya teased.
.”Not unless I meet someone extremely out of the ordinary,” Buffi smiled, “and in this environment I don’t think that is very likely.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 04:33 am (UTC)Not for the first time Giles wondered what temporary insanity had led him to go along with this mad scheme. It was fascinating from an anthropological point of view, of course, the culture clash rated about 9.6 on the Richter scale, but the potential for horrible embarrassment was unlimited. Even assuming he managed to restrain Drusilla from killing anyone, and that was by no means a given. Somehow he’d not only agreed to accompany them but had even obtained a research grant that was covering most of their expenses. Now, in the cold light of a Reykjavik winter’s day, he could only assume that he’d been struck by some tropical brain fever. Or hypnotised by Drusilla, who claimed shamanic powers and sometimes demonstrated abilities that indicated that they were not entirely bunkum.
And after the last part, I guess Buffi is going to get exactly what she's asking for. ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 01:30 pm (UTC)I don't know how, but I seem to be actually making this crazy scenario come out with its own internal logic. Go me! I think.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 05:12 am (UTC)Giles had managed to talk Spike into donning jeans and a sweatshirt, although he had a sneaking suspicious the penis sheath still lurked below the jeans, but the spike through the young man’s nose was an obvious oddity.
And you won’t let your panties down either,” Anya teased.
”Not unless I meet someone extremely out of the ordinary,” Buffi smiled, “and in this environment I don’t think that is very likely.”
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 01:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-25 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 05:26 am (UTC)This had me in stitches, especially Anya's shot about Buffi's panties.
Hope you continue this. It's priceless.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 01:33 pm (UTC)oh please
Date: 2005-02-24 06:19 am (UTC)Giles nervousness over Dru and the inclusion of a very different Miss Edith are inspired.
Re: oh please
Date: 2005-02-24 01:36 pm (UTC)The way ff.net works I'd have to make it PG13 to be sure all my
victimstarget audience there see it, but I don't think Dru's going to cooperate with that and it's likely to come out R.no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 07:00 am (UTC)“That is Miss Edith,” Drusilla explained. “She is my spirit guide.” She smiled at him angelically. “She was a missionary until she met Daddy
Great way to include her!
Anya is also perfect, and I assume that the american colonel is Riley? Hee! I probably need to stop reading this at work, my snickering is getting me some odd looks...
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 08:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 07:43 am (UTC)This is very funny though.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 01:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 07:44 am (UTC)I cracked up like Humpty Dumpty, I laughed so hard. Are there any King's horses and men to put me together again?
That was illegally funny. Just genius. Poor
illiterate childrenfans at ff.net. They really don't have a clue about how much amusement (and inspiration?) they provide.Loved it with all my aching tummy muscles, and I want some of whatever crack you're on to write such an incredibly funny story.
Tribute to ff.net: U r sew kewl!!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 07:53 am (UTC)I second what everyone else has said and also single out the priceless, “It is shrunken head, I know,” he said, “but it is not covered by the regulations. Unless it comes under Meat Products? ". You have managed to nail bureaucracy in all its glory. Is Miss Edith anyone we might know? Cordy, perhaps or Joyce...maybe Darla?
So glad we coaxed you into embracing this wonderful treat.
Kathleen
Suspecting the thermal vents in Iceland are going to get a run for their money once some things are unsheathed! U R 2 Kul!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:11 pm (UTC)Miss Edith is just Miss Edith, the "Savage Beauty" equivalent of Dru's favourite doll. She was a missionary before she had her head cut off and shrunk.
Off to write more now.
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Date: 2005-02-24 10:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 12:01 pm (UTC)So who exactly did Dru shrink?
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Date: 2005-02-24 08:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 01:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-25 04:38 pm (UTC)But I'm sure I'll cop. Besides - high brow parody has an even higher potential for humour.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-26 12:00 am (UTC)Playing it almost straight is more fun for me.
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Date: 2005-02-26 09:43 am (UTC)(BTW, earlier I meant 'cope', not 'cop'.)
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Date: 2005-02-24 04:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 04:46 pm (UTC)Where do we send offerings to your muse?
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Date: 2005-02-24 11:22 pm (UTC)My muse is Cantaloupe, the Chief of the Muses in Terry Pratchett's Discworld books.
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Date: 2005-02-24 07:29 pm (UTC)ROTFLMHO...oh my.
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Date: 2005-02-24 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 11:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-25 01:03 am (UTC)the culture clash rated about 9.6 on the Richter scale
Yeah, that pretty much covers it. And there's an icon now! *cracks up some more*
no subject
Date: 2005-02-25 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-25 05:07 am (UTC)Bwahahahaahahaaaa!!!! A CITES reference. You so rule. And yeah, you totally need to post this at FFN. The fanpoodles will have aneurisms.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-25 05:21 am (UTC)That's my intentions.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-27 06:38 pm (UTC)I'm in awe of the internal logic you're developing here. You can't even write something bad on purpose, can you? :)
Best all-human AU evah.