meme/snippet/question/snippet

[schmevil]

Gacked from mlyn. Bold for things I've Never.

I've Never Smoked Pot
I've Never Kissed A Member Of The Opposite Sex
I've Never Kissed A Member Of The Same Sex
I've Never Crashed A Friend's Car
I've Never Been To Japan
I've Never Been In A Taxi
I've Never Been In Love
I've Never Had Sex In Public
I've Never Been Dumped
I've Never Done Cocaine
I've Never Shoplifted
I've Never Been Fired
I've Never Been In A Fist Fight
I've Never Had Group Intercourse
I've Never Snuck Out Of My Parent's House
I've Never Been Tied Up
I've Never Regretted Having Sex With Someone
I've Never Been Arrested
I've Never Made Out With A Stranger
I've Never Stolen Something From My Job
I've Never Celebrated New Years In Time Square
I've Never Gone On A Blind Date
I've Never Lied To A Friend
I've Never Had A Crush On A Teacher
I've Never Celebrated Mardi Gras In New Orleans
I've Never Been To Europe
I've Never Skipped School
I've Never Slept With A Co-Worker
I've Never Cut Myself On Purpose
I've Never Had Sex At The Office
I've Never Been Married
I've Never Been Divorced
I've Never Had Sex With More Than One Person Within The Same Week
I've Never Posed Nude
I've Never Gotten Someone Drunk Just To Have Sex With Them
I've Never Killed Anyone
I've Never Received Scars From My Sex Partner
I've Never Thrown Up In A Bar
I've Never Purposely Set A Part Of Myself On Fire
I've Never Eaten Sushi
I've Never Been Snowboarding
I've Never Had Sex At A Friend's House While They Were Throwing A Party
I've Never Had Sex In A Dressing Room
I've Never Flashed Anyone
I've Never Met Anyone From Online

Another 70's SlythWIP snippet. I think I'm calling this one Fire! It's a sequel to this fic.



“Don’t you see? The Ministry is hell. Hell on earth!” Wilkes banged her pint against the table, to further illustrate her point.

“Hell. Right. Where in hell’s the food, anyway?” Avery craned his neck, trying to see past his inebriated friend. “The waitress took our orders. I’m almost sure of it. Eh?” He turned to the others.

Rosier rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Avery. It’s been less than ten minutes.”

Snape sneered. “Yes, you thundering imbecile,” his look said, “shut up or I will carve out your tongue and use it in the preparation of an obscure potion.”

Avery shrugged. “I just want to confirm that we actually placed our orders. I’m not remembering some other night where the service was TOTAL CRAP!” He aimed this last at the kitchen.

“Hell,” Wilkes slurred. “Absolute hell.”

“Hell, yeah, we get it already. Dammit, where’s the food?” Avery began searching the restaurant systematically.

Snape stared into the middle distance, valiantly attempting to keep his mind on potions. This lasted all of three seconds. “Avery,” he hissed. “Sit down and cease this foolishness. Our admittedly incompetent server will bring our meals when they – or she – are ready.”

“I want my chutney, Avery.” Rosier glared. “Don’t make a scene.”

“It’s the Southern Cross! Its very existence is predicated on the basis of a scene-making clientele. It would wither away without customers like me – why do you think it’s so popular?”

Wilkes belched. “I rather thought it was the food and tolerance of, er, you know.”

“That too, but people come for the drama.”

“Any more such drama and you won’t be coming back to entertain the masses, you idiot.”

“I’m not afraid of being banned. In fact, I welcome-” It would forever be uncertain exactly what Avery welcomed, as his mouth disappeared, victim to Snape’s wand. He frowned with his eyes, but slumped into back into his chair, submissive, for now.

“Guinness is a vile drink that turns even the most respectable men into scoundrels.”

“And then there’s those two,” said Rosier, eyeing their intoxicated friends. “Much prefer rum, myself.”

“Indeed.” Snape sneered, on general principle. Then belched.

“Cheers.”

It was Christmas Eve and the four of them had arrived at the Southern Cross unfortunately early. The only thing for it was to have a few drinks, to pass the time until the Lestranges’ arrival. A few drinks had turned into more than a few, and then quite a lot, until the manager was threatening to throw an increasingly hostile Avery out on the street (again), and was this time showing signs of real frustration. Avery hadn’t helped his case by propositioning one of the many attractive itinerant Aussie waitresses who worked at the Cross, as she turned out to be the youngest daughter of the current manager.

“You know, I really hate the new management.” Rosier indifferently caught a swaying Wilkes before she fell to the filthy floor, and pushed her back into her seat. “I miss the specials.”

“Not once have they managed to correctly fill my order. A child could complete such task. A Gryffindor child.”

“Yeah. Sodding cunts.” They sighed.

Snape pulled out his watch. “They are eleven minutes late.”

“Eleven point three five minutes,” said Wilkes. “To be,” she belched. “Exact.”

“’Eleven’ was a more than adequate level of exactitude.” Snape sneered.

“Accuracy is necessary,” belch, “if we are to properly assess,” sneeze, “the depth of their social misconduct.” Sneeze. Sneeze. “I sneezed Guinness.”

“Huh?” said Rosier, rubbing his forehead.

“The depth of their social misconduct? All that time communing with the rubbish-spawned-ecosystem of your swamp-like cubicle has clearly shrunken your already miniscule brain to a size more appropriate to communicating with bacteria. Or perhaps,” Snape smirked, “you’ve begun to adjust.”

“Fuck off you fucking… teacher! Enjoying taking care of the children? Philanthropist,” belch, sneeze, “teach me a potion! Well? Why don’t you teach me a damn potion to kill off the talking… things?”

“Wilkes. Put down the Guinness.” Rosier moved to take it from her.

“Hell! It’s hell.” Her head smacked the table with a thump and Rosier tucked his wand back into his sleeve.

“I’d steal her drink, but… it might be catching.”

“Fourteen minutes.”

“And you won’t believe the contortions we had to go through to get here this early.” Mrs. Lestrange pushed Wilkes and her chair closer to Rosier, and flopped gracelessly into a relatively clean seat.

Snape sneered. “Lestrange. Late again, I see.”

“You musn’t sneer so much, Snape. You’ll develop lines.”

“My dear, that might not be such a bad thing in his case.”

Rosier snorted. “My dear, you’re Cockney. Only twenty generations Wizard. All the galleons in the world won’t make you better than that, Lestrange.”

“Oh fuck off, you cunt.” Mr. Lestrange yanked out his chair and dropped into it. “Where the hell is the waitress?”

“Hell!”

“Shut up, Wilkes!” Rosier knocked the back of her head with his mug. She dropped back onto the table, unconscious, and hopefully securely in that state for some time.

“Our server is otherwise occupied with the cook’s business.” Snape nodded at the swinging door, which was swinging frantically, revealing scandalous glimpses of a chef’s hat and very long legs.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days? Learn that from the children, Snape?”



Question 1: are any of you in the Lemony Snicket fandom? Where can I find some good discussion?

Question 2: do any of you surf? I'm working on a Fast and the Furious fic and surfing is integral to the plot. I'm dying for some good resources, online or otherwise. Here's an example of where I'm at, based on tv. *g*



The ocean curls up tight, and it’s just him and his board. Black, and yet not - there’s no end to this tube, it just keeps rolling on and he rides it as best as he can, hoping the ocean doesn’t decide to spit him and his all too breakable board right out. He can’t gauge the way this thing is going to move, he just feels it going and knows he’s got to go with it.

His hearing is dead to everything but his blood, pumping fast and regular, and at the same time there’s this roar, all around him that possesses him, from his bones to his skin.

It’s like, words don’t exist to describe it, but it’s like being in the eye of a seriously badass storm, or the epicenter of an earthquake that’s so massive, so complete that it’s consumed everything, and all that exists is the shockwave. If he fucks up now, the board will shred – in less than seconds – and he’ll be a hefty bag and if he’s lucky, an unmarked grave.

And then – like it’s bored – the water opens up and he’s riding the ragged edge of a wicked curl, with no chance to get on top of it, but at least he’s out. Every part of him works to keep him from wiping out – dammit not now – and the strain is like willing an engine to fucking rev, fucking go, now, faster.

It’s the sweetest ride of his life, until it isn’t. Oh shit, he thinks, and goes under, thanking god this beach isn’t too rocky. He breathes out, hard through his nose. The weight at his ankle is his board, but it’s coming from way below him – he’s upside down. He tries to surface but the water keeps pushing him how it likes, and they don’t really agree on what’s desirable, right now.

His vision is just starting to black when he smacks rough into the floor and is dragged forward, his back opening up on the sand. The board, still attached to his leg, rushes up and clocks him – he reaches back, blind and stupid, and releases it. It shoots off ahead of him, riding on top of the wave, and then he realizes that the surface is just inches from his face. He pushes off with desperate strength and goes for it – his face breaks the surface and he breathes deep, oxygen and salt water, coughing a little, but not as bad as it could have been.

The rest is easy, familiar enough that he could get to shore asleep. Arms and legs, cold, tired and resentful, go into action, and if his form’s a little sloppy, who’s going to notice? The skin of his back stings a little, with every stroke. If he’d been wearing a suit, he’d have had less scrapes to look after, but he probably saved himself the repair.

He makes the shore in decent, if not good time, flops out like a beached whale, laughing.

Almost as good as a hot Miami night in his Skyline.

The flash of yellow and orange in the corner of his eye tells him his board made it too, so he won’t have to cough up the pesos for a new one. He stumbles over to it, drops to his knees and checks it out. A little scratched, but good enough. He’s got wax in his trunk and if there’s anything worse, Marles can fix it. Dude owes him for the work he did on that piece of shit van, last week. He pulls off clumps of kelp, but leaves the sand – it’s easier to brush off when it’s dry.

The shore is deserted and perfect. Black streaks of driftwood break up the unrelenting grey and white, of sand and sky, and shells grind under his feet. It’s late but the water is still dotted with a few tiny figures paddling up to their next ride. There are prettier, softer beaches, but he didn’t come all the way from Miami for girls in bikinis, and volleyball games. His grin widens.

He decides to call it a day, pushes up to his feet and tucks the board under his arm. A guy with ratty dreads waves to him from his seat out on the water. Brian squints. He salutes Deck, gets a grin – he thinks – in response, and starts up the beach.

There’s a wide swath of powder-soft sand, before it gets rough with growth, but he’s a little too tired for it to feel good under his feet. He lets his hips roll a little. His calves don’t like it much, and his back even less. Ouch. He’s got a date with some Bactine and at least eight hours in a bed.

Past the dunes there are a few scattered blankets, weighed own by shoes and bags, but no sunbathers, and soon the ground roughens into the gravel of the parking lot. The Skyline sticks out amongst the few scattered Jeeps and vans. He wouldn’t normally take it to the beach, but it’s not like he has any other transportation options. Brian doesn’t rent cars, or boards, and he’s not about to use Mexican transit.

He props the board up against the car and bends to activate the remote starter, where it hangs tight, on a thong around his ankle. Kids don’t frequent this beach, but he checks out the paintjob just in case. There’s a scratch he got in Arizona that he’s going to have to deal with, but it’s otherwise unchanged since his last race.

It’s only been two weeks but it feels much longer, somehow – the days on the road seemed to stretch into months of silence. Stillness, despite the fact that he’d done Miami to Baja in three days, stopping for an hour of sleep here and there, cigarettes he’d twice quit, and greasy meals he never would have tolerated when he was living in Cali.

He pulls off his shorts and tosses them onto the floor of the backseat, exchanging them for jeans, a t-shirt and ancient runners. He forgot his briefs. Again. Three days and he’s already developing bad habits. What’s next, he wonders? Dirty socks? He seriously needs to find a decent laundromat.

He sticks the board through one window and out the other, and hopes for the best. It’s not the best vehicle for a surfer, but it’ll do. He grins at his reflection in the windshield and spins out of the parking lot.