Till Death Do We Angst

A Two Minute Phone Call
*phone rings at trailer #69, Rusty Springs Trailer park*

Reluc_Director_Trink: Hello?

Operator: Will you accept the charges for a collect call from...

J.K Rowling: Her Majesty, J.K.

R_D_T: Dammit! Long distance again?! Okay... We accept... but we’re pissed off!

*BEEP*

J.K: I suppose you know why I am calling you.

R_D_T: You want to use our manuscript for the sixth Harry Potter?

J.K: No, you infringement f**kers! Hem- hem... I mean, no. Ah- don’t you appreciate the sanctity of the copyright laws? Don’t you care about the mystery and majesty that is Harry Potter?

R_D_T: No. We want to put your characters in degrading situations and cliché our way into reviewers hearts.

J.K: You little bastards! I’ve worked my ASS off to get to where I am, and I’ll be damned to let you slander it all!!

R_D_T: Have you read any Hagrid/Dobby? What are you bothering us for?

J.K: Arg. I’m wasting my time. One last question: Have you no shame?

R_D_T: *clinksmash* Oop, sorry. We just tripped over a pile of empties. Whaddid you say?

J.K: A warning: Never tickle a sleeping dragon.

R_D_T: Remember, J.K, peckers up! And hurry with that sixth book, will ya? We’re waaaaiiiitttiinn-

*click*


Chapter 3-- Love Turns A Blind Eye

Three gongs sounded, signaling supper time at the Malfoy mansion. The candelabras blasted spotlights that were trained on each member of the golden haired family. As Lucius got up magnificently to pass the salt, lights illuminated a heavenly halo around his well proportioned ears, and hidden speakers blared their song of the week, punctuating his purposeful stride.

This week, it was the theme from The Pink Panther. Sometimes Lucius liked to flip up the collar of his Huge-O Loss robes and creep around all sleuth like. Yeah.

As Lucius laid the salt down on the table next to Narcissa the music faded out and Lucius returned to his normal, debonair self. At the other end of the table, twenty feet down and around the corner, was the heir to a fortune of gold, icy good looks and evil coolness. Draco slouched in a very attractive way, it was casual, yet full of hidden meaning.

“I hate that song, I hate my life.”

All three spotlights suddenly turned to Draco and his cold and vulnerable monologue.

“It’s perfect in every way imaginable, but I find my self wanting... more.”

Lucius turned sharply to his son, his knifelike beauty unsheathed. Draco was lazily building a shallow grave out of mashed potatoes and a headstone carved from toast points.

“Draco!” he exclaimed sternly, boldly. “Graves are for commoners and ugly people. All Malfoys are cremated in fires fueled by the bodies of ten muggles, then funneled into the Malfoy family urn.” Lucius pointed regally towards the mantle. The spotlight followed his command. In the center was a giant silver and emerald urn, inlaid with delicately carved images of serpents and larger serpents eating those serpents, and even larger serpents eating the large serpents that ate the small ones to begin with. Draco read the inscription at the base.

“The Malfoy Mix Master.”

Beneath this was the same inscription in Latin.

”Loco Moco Choco-Latta,” it read. Of course, no one bothered to learn a dead language, so the mystery of what it actually meant remained unsolved.

Draco grazed the blunt teeth of the butter knife against his milky, satin skin.

“So?” he commented cynically.

Lucius gasped.

“Don’t you remember? It’s rule sixty-nine thousand, six hundred and sixty-nine in the Malfoy creed that nobody would bother to write!”

“Yes, father,” Draco replied obediently as he stood on the table, securing his place under the chandelier and aiming a cross bow at the chain that held it. Suddenly the flash of a spotlight descending upon him blinded him momentarily.

“DRACO SLURPENTINE MALFOY!” Narcissa shrieked elegantly. Draco started and dropped the crossbow. It went off and killed the gong bonger. Narcissa dabbed her immaculate red lips with a silk napkin.

“Now, if you kill yourself, you won’t get dessert.”

Draco unlaced his shoe laces and tied them into a noose he hung dramatically and admiringly from the chandelier.

“No mother, I don’t want dessert. I want to die.”

A desperate tear ran down his cheek and turned to ice on his face as he slid his precious neck into the noose. “Farewell.”

“But we’re having your favorite,” Narcissa crooned. “Muggle blood pudding.”

Draco paused for a moment to think. After a few seconds he motioned to the violins to stop playing sad songs.

“All right, but I promise you I’ll be dead before the mints are served.”

* * * * *
Miles away from the elegant drawling and perfectly timed smirks was a wounded maiden perched on a pile of sterilized cotton standard-issue hospital blankies in the Intensely Fair Unit. Her name: Molly Weasley.

Molly moaned daintily and looked about her blindingly white surroundings. The room was full to bursting with beautiful flowers, oh boy! And- could it be? The gold plated knitting trophy, glittering with an aura of triumphant middle-aged glory.

But alas, earwax! Upon closer inspection, the trophy was in fact being held up by Claire Fontaine and being licked adoringly by her children in a glossy eight by ten photo.

“Glossy! Damn that cashmere wearing Quidditch mom!” Molly dropped the photo and let it flutter symbolically to the floor. Molly draped the back of her hand over her face and exhaled softly. Feeling an unattractive thirst creeping up, she turned her head to the bedside table looking for a drink.

Instead she spotted a plump brown teddy bear complete with winkmatic cuteness. Wondering who could have presented her such a gift she reached gropingly for the bear.

“Tee hee, that tickles!” The toy chirped.

“How sweet,” Molly thought out loud, “it talks.” She poked it lovingly.

“Hello, Molly.”

“Wow, it even knows my name. It must have cost a pretty knut.” And she immediately began searching for a sales receipt. The bear spoke up again,

“I hope you enjoyed your physical as much as I did.”

Molly gaped. Suddenly there was a loud pop and a smell of shoeshine filled the room.

Sirius was sitting on her lap. Molly let out a heartachingly tender scream. Sirius shrieked, covered his ears and tumbled off the bed.

“Merlin’s loins!” Molly gasped. “Do you do this to all your patients?”

Sirius straightened his formfitting doctor’s coat.

“Actually, I used to give that privilege to coma patients exclusively.”

Molly’s faint motherly nature could not continue this naughty conversation. Luckily, Sirius changed the subject.

“But enough about me, you’re the one with one eye.”

“What?! WHAT?!!!” Molly screamed at opera volume.

“You know,” Sirius drawled. “Cyclops syndrome, lazy leftie, stink-eye, case of the Mad Eye Moodies, in the market for monocles, got one window to the soul, drive no more, socketitis, pirate patchies, one missing headlight, little of the old snuffed twinkle, Idiot’s Guide to Braille, R.I.P my retina, lost marble, Stevie Wonder without the miracle, Glass eye: size Golfball, one eye short of a FACE...”

Molly’s eye misted dreamily.

“What do you mean? You can be straight with me doctor, I can take it!”

Sirius sighed lustily, and from the seat of his pants he produced a brand new “Ready 4 Love” kit, complete with toothbrush, mouthwash, stud comb and condom. He thrust the mirror attachment in her face.

“Words aren’t enough...” he mumbled.

Molly swallowed her gasp with quiet courage and beheld her hole-punched disfigurement.

It was as if someone had taken a knitting needle to her left eye.

“Oh God!” she despaired.

“There, there.” Sirius snapped on a latex... glove, and proceeded to... pat her blood and eye juice stained head.
“Look around, all these people who sent you things, they care about you and they’ll help you through this horrific freak tragedy that you will forever refer to as your accident.”

Sirius picked up a lovely pot of posies.

“Just look at this one, from your loving husband of twenty years. Ouch,” Sirius said with a sharp intake of breath. “That’s a long time.”

Molly sniffed away her tears and leaned in to smell the flowers. Just as she was abut to take a whiff, a mini Arthur head appeared in the center of the blossom and began to speak.

“Hello Molly, my mostly equal half. Sorry about the accident. CRUNCH!”

This was obviously a recording, since Arthur could be heard munching an apple during pauses.

“I truly regret not being with you, but I’m really backed up with work here. SHMACK, SLURP. Gotta keep on top of things... I’m straddling two big assignments. Staring down the rear end of a real machine- copy machine, that is. CHOMP. Spraying ink ALL over the place. Got a lot of ANALyzing to do. Again, real- ohhh ohh... um, real sorry. Well, better get back to the grind.”

With a final resounding chew, the petals gently closed around Arthur’s face.

Molly smiled and looked at Sirius proudly.

“My husband, such a hard worker.”

Sirius opened his mouth to speak, but the only sound that could be heard was the harsh swish as the curtain of the adjoining quarters was ripped back.

“Weasel bitch! My oxygen tank! Now I suck real hard and don’t get nothing!”

Molly shuddered at Mable Krotch’s shrill voice and twisted face.

“Hey Black, haven’t you had enough of one pearl oyster over there?” Mable croaked. “It’s time for my sponge bath.”

Now it was Sirius’ turn to shudder. But his dedication to his calling forced him to answer the call of his patient, however love monkey it happened to be.

Molly’s eye settled upon a handsome paisley envelope.

“Why, “ she exclaimed in a soft coo. “It’s from Fred and George. I haven’t seen them since they deliberately disobeyed me and weaned themselves from my love. I can’t wait to reconcile and be reunited with my boys.”

She slit open the envelope with a macaroni-handled letter opener Ginny had made in grade two. The letter released itself from her grasp and unfolded itself. It seemed to be a subdued version of a Howler, for it began to recite a poem.

There once was a frau from The Burrow.
Oh how her brows used to furrow!”
She went a knitting,
Contestants were spitting
And now she’s got handicap parking.

“Hrumph,” Molly hrumphed. “That doesn’t even rhyme.”

As soon as the words left her pleasantly dimpled mouth, the letter shook furiously and let out a spray of kitty litter directly into her face.

“NOOOOOO!”