Till Death Do We Angst

Get a steamin’ load of this!
A Love Poem
For thee
By Royal Z

My love is a tub
Of Vick’s Vapo-Rub;
You can never get enough of it.
It reacts quickest
To the heart’s motion sickness,
A year-round cure for lonely shit.

Chapter 2: Galleons Of Love

It was a triumphantly sunny day, a day for heroes. Our favorite action man, Harry Potter, graced the pitch with his unmatched skills on the broom. As he performed incredible feats one hundred feet above the ground, the other players stared breathlessly at his soaring figure, drool seeping from their gaping pie holes. With one final triple sow cow three-sixty deluxe and a Wronski Feint for effect, he caught the glittering snitch with his pinky finger and landed perfectly. Both teams remained in the air, clapping vigorously. Some fell off their brooms in delight and crawled, broken-ribbed, to Harry’s feet and licked his Italian leather boots. A few faces in the roaring crowd stood out in particular. One being, Cho Chang, Harry’s one time flame, waving a giant poster over her head proclaiming;

“Harry, take me back! I won’t cry anymore!”

Harry laughed a hearty laugh which was thicker that pea soup. Another face caught his eye. It was Parvati Patil, the girl lucky enough to have had one date with him in fourth year. As Harry fixed his gamma ray, evergreen gaze upon her she fainted dead away.

The master of Quidditch recognized one last mug. He had to squint to see, (he had quit wearing those dumb Elton John glasses a long time ago) but it was unmistakably Dobby the house elf. Tears streaming down his baked apple face, Dobby shamelessly ripped off his filthy toga and swung it above his head.

“I love you sir!” he screamed in a high pitched squeal.

As Harry took his walk of victory to the changing rooms, many members of the raucous crowd threw their underwear at him, shouting and wailing their undying adoration for him. Suddenly he was accosted by a vivacious young reporter.

“Mr. Potter, congratulations on your spectacular, although most obvious, win!”

Harry grinned and pulled a pair of fluorescent pink knickers off his head.

“I never disappoint my fans.”

“Yes, but why, oh glorious one, was a game scheduled in the middle of July?”

“Because, I felt like it,” he answered in a very cavalier voice. Harry was then ushered into the changing rooms by seven burly bodyguards and the doors locked, prohibiting the other team members from showering.

* * *
Ronald Weasley touched down on the rolling green lawn of the Grangers' English Mansion. The three-story estate was the product of Hermione blackmailing Rita Skeeter out of all her money and the royalties of the ex-reporter’s latest book: Desperado Paparrazo.

Ronald strode up to the door and let himself in. He was shocked to see empty bottles of Hennesey and tubes of grape fluoride gel littering the floor. He ventured on to the living room in that same casual, panther-like stride. Sitting on the French settee were Mr. and Mrs. Granger, drunk out of their minds, and amusing themselves quite creatively. Mrs. Granger held up a pair of false teeth in one hand.

“Why did the dentist cross the road?” she slurred, using the teeth as her puppet.

“Ahhh dunno!” Mr. Granger giggled dazedly. Mrs. Granger could barely contain her own snorting laughter.

“TO KILL HIMSELF! HA HA HA!”

The two collapsed in their own hysteria. Ronald grimaced and smiled pityingly at the same time. Tired of this tomfoolery, he ascended the stairs to Hermione’s bedroom apartment.
The door creaked open ominously and he saw her sitting up straight in a chair in front of her desk. She turned around to face him, gracefully flipping her straight cinnamon hair over her delicate shoulder. Her face had a gentle oval shape he had come to love and appreciate for it’s symmetrical quality. But what he loved even more was her ample chest that was shown generously in a loosely fitted silk nightgown, even though it was three o’clock in the afternoon. Her slim but healthy shape sidled over to him.

“Ron, I mean, Ronald, did you fly all the way over here?”

Ronald tied his shoe, picked his nails, swept his hair out of his eyes, lowered his lashes and stared into her eyes with a look of intense solidity.

“Yes.”

Hermione looked touched by his word.

“And it took you all night?”

Ronald stretched his muscular, but not too muscular, arms, fixed the crease in his pants, adjusted his eye level to hers and inhaled deeply.

“Perhaps.”

Hermione looked thoughtful.

“Maybe I should move my house closer to civilization...”

Ever since Ronald had entered the room, he had detected the strong scent of eucalyptus and rubbing alcohol. A smile played on Hermione’s plush, pink lips.

“But none of that matters now.”

Hermione flew into his arms, enveloping herself in his sturdy frame. With one brisk movement he tilted her chin upwards- since women are always shorter than men- and pressed his lips against hers. A licorice whip of flavor ignited both their lovebuds and stirring music played to their pleasure. They exchanged liquid fire, so was their infernal love. The fires of love were stoked.

Then suddenly, a foreign taste invaded their love fest, a taste he knew all too well. He pulled her away from him, chest heaving and looked at her sternly.

“Minty,” he uttered accusingly.

Hermione backed away automatically, her eyes dilated in shock.

“Why, I have no idea what you’re getting at!”

Ronald’s face was portrait of disbelief. He raised a single eyebrow, and cast a piercing, scrutinizing gaze. It was all Hermione could take.

“FINE! I admit it! I’ve gone back! At first it was only children’s flavors and summer cold, but then I started dosing up heavy! Before I knew it I was covered from head to toe in Vicks Vapo Rub, with three Swiss Ricola boys who promised me factory prices! I’m hooked Ron! You have to get me out!”

She started to sob uncontrollably, and swooned herself into Ronald’s arms once again. Ronald clutched her as she stained his navy sweater with minty tears. He looked over her head determinedly.

“The Burrow,” he stated comfortingly. Hermione sniffed desolately.

“No Ron, I can’t go to The Burrow, you have no flushing toilets.”

Ronald looked around her room at the things he hadn’t bothered to notice before. On her desk chairs, bed, dressers, vanity tables, window ledges and night stand were the signs of an addict. Bottles upon bottles of cough syrup, bags of bitter cough drops, used handkerchiefs, and buckets of Vapo-Rub, her drug of choice, covered every surface. The solution to all her problems lay in the two little words he was more than willing to offer.

“Weasley Manor.”

At these words, Hermione looked up wonderingly and dried her tears.

“Do you mean, you live in a manor now?”

Without waiting for an answer, Hermione jumped up in joy and squealed ecstatically.

“I’ll pack my bags immediately. I’m so happy to be leaving this dump!”

With that she skipped off to find Crookshanks and tell him the good news.

* * *
The competition fierce, the summer heat brutal. There was no air conditioning in the St. Ottery of Catchpole community center and everyone was wearing wool.

“I can knit a sweater with my toes!” one competitor bragged loudly.

Everyone who entered the competition was over forty, had five children with cold backs, or an aversion for brand names. Molly Weasley surveyed her opponents carefully.

To her right was the four time winner of the Golden Weave, Claire Fontaine. Claire’s short, salon cut bob gleamed a well dyed blonde in a crowd of mostly drab gray. She had the very latest in Martha Stewart wear: a mauve pantsuit, sensible shoes and a faux pearl necklace to top it off. She had even brought her two point four kids with her: Chauncey, Lydia and little baby Who The Hell Cares. Only three kids at her age? There’s a clan that’ll die out! Claire had just handed the kids tupperware fresh lunches. God, how Molly hated her!

To her right was dinosaur, Mable Krotch. True to her name, she was very uncomfortable to have in your face. Eighty-years of age, no teeth, and an oxygen tank, old Mable still made it to every bingo afternoon. Even when her corns were bothering her. Molly smiled sweetly and rested a gentle hand on Mable’s gnarled one.

“Mable, dear, how has your summer been? Has your arthritis been acting up lately?”

Mable retracted her claw violently and scowled with all her toothless might.

“No! Are you knocked up again?”

Molly gasped prettily in surprise.

“Why Mable, I was simply trying to be pleasant! I dare say anyone else would bother!”

“Cut the crap, Weasley! I didn’t come here to lap up sap with a silver spoon, I get enough of that from my children! So go pick up that same shit colored wool you use every year and knit yourself a condom!”

Mable ended this with a aggressive smack of her pink gums and a healthy suck from her oxygen tank. Molly shuddered, but managed a thin smile as she disconnected the little oxygen tube that prevented Mable from flopping around like a fish out of water.

“Five minutes till round one!” an announcer interrupted the classic forties music to bellow. Molly assumed knitting position. She dug her feet in the ground, raised her needles and commenced stage one of her game face.

“You ready for this?” Claire Fontaine sneered at her, but the fear in her eyes was evident.

“ON YOUR MARKS!”

“It’s go time,” Molly snarled.

“GET SET!”

Mable wheezed loudly.

“KNIT!!!”

The race was on. Each contestant tossed their knitting into the air, drew their wands, and cast a different spell.

“Knitoramicus Cardigan!” Molly screamed.

“Stitcho-twitcho Pullover!” Claire boomed.

“Kablamo Turtleneck.” Mable was the last to begin, but her choice of spell evoked an “Oooo” from the scarce crowd. Once the spells were cast, the sweaters began to knit themselves while the knitters sat on the edge on their seats and cheered them on colorfully. Claire’s voice could be heard over the mumble of the crowd and the clicking of busy needles.

“I should have known you’d do a Cardigan, Molly. It’s what I chose last year.”

Surprisingly, Molly grinned at her comment.

“Keep your eyes on that stitching, bitch.”

Claire spun around to see her latest row tangled up in knots, the needles trying in vain to repair the damage. Molly concentrated on her work. To her, knitting was a romance, a passionate love affair that kept her alive after Mr. Weasley gave up. She had to win this, she needed it. Besides, she could melt down that fancy gold trophy for another month’s groceries.

The sweater was almost complete and the needles were picking up speed. Suddenly, a needle appeared to have slipped a stitch, but instead it jerked violently and soared at her lovely visage.

“NOOOOOO!”

* * *
It was the hour of five o’clock, and glorious dusk was enlacing its star-covered arms around Weasley Manor. The grounds were dark except for a soft glow coming from a forlorn little shed beside “The Manor”. The annoying but reminiscent song of crickets was disturbed only by a loud popping sound as the statuesque figure of Percy Weasley Apparated onto the shed roof.

“Shit, I don’t remember this being here. What is it? A dog house?”

Inside the shed, Bill stopped his whittling for a moment to look up at the ceiling in simple curiosity.

“My, oh, my! I ‘a seem to be hearin’ a clickity click! Or is it a clickity clack?”

Percy Disapparated the extra three feet to solid ground and straightened his double-breasted, Wiz On Prada dress robes. They were the latest in Wizard-Muggle fashion, and gave off the unmistakable scent of cold, hard cash.

Percy had become a Galleonaire by exposing the shoddy, thin bottomed workmanship of Cheaply Yours cauldrons, which incidentally also owned Cheaply Yours prostitution rings. So either way, Percy made a buttload.

His first gift to himself was a new face and plugs, (he had inherited the unfortunate male pattern baldness that he looked down on Arthur for having) both helped shape his professional image so that he could do nothing but roll in gold. Professionally.

Percy strolled to the door way, the familiar ‘chink chink’ noise of metallic power following him with every step.

Bill sniffed the air.

“Yes siree Bob, that there is the stench a’ wealth.” He got off of his bale of hay and headed straight for the door. “I best be closin’ that hatch.”

But before the door was sealed, a solid, crystal conductor’s stick stopped it from closing.

“What the wombat wranglin’ flibetty jibbet!?” Bill exclaimed, but upon noticing the trademark red sheen of Weasley hair, he opened the door wide.

“Well I’ll be a rat’s ass’ butt-monkey’s third nipple! It’s muh brother ole’ Perce of the wurst!”

Percy grimaced at the sad state of his older brother.

“Come round here, I gots my sittin’ corner all prettied up for yous!” Bill motioned excitedly at two rusty lawn chairs sitting atop a giant mound of pine shavings that seemed to be covering the entire floor.

“Maybe you haven’t heard,” Percy said disdainfully, “But I am now rich beyond your wildest, simpleton dreams. Besides, I’m now sensitively allergic to pine chips... and milk, flour, botanicals and ylang ylang. It’s a serious condition.”

Bill made himself comfortable in his favorite nook.

“Yer loss, pardner.”

Percy’s face was awash with cold beauty.

“So, where is the rest of your deadbeat family? Arthur still owes me the two knuts that I dropped in the hall and that he picked up with his filthy, money-grubbing hands.”

Bill shook his head and smiled his crack-toothed smile.

“Now that ain’t no way to talk aboutcha paw.” He picked up his three stringed banjo from its place on the wall. “I think it’s bein’ that time for a lil’ tune a mine. Special, fo you.”

“Mmmmmm.
When you’re makin’ yo paw work overtime,
Well brother , that ain’t fine!
Why you been frontin’ over two knuts?
And you forgit’ the rest of us.
So, fo’ the sake of family
Boy, just let it be!

Mmmmmm, Weasley love!
Mmm--”

“Oh shut up.” Percy paused from picking his teeth and flicked away his golden toothpick. “If I wanted to listen to crappy blues music, I’d buy that diabetic old has-been from the insulin commercials.”

Bill tittered gently.

“I don’t knows, but all that money’s made yous mean! I always says, a knut in the pocket, is a knut in the brain.”

Percy turned to leave, not without a final remark.

“Well then, I guess you’ve got nothing in your head! “ he yelled, before slamming the tin half-door.

* * *