They killed Dumbledore!
No, not a spoiler, but a brilliant competition: write Dumbledore's death in the style of some author other than JK.
I particularly like the PG Wodehouse one, but the Sappho is rather special. And the Zork. And - oh, go on, read them all. Then write one. The competition is, alas, already closed, but you can still share your genius with us all via the magic of the blogosphere. Please put a link in the comments box.
I'll get cracking on my version just as soon as I've had some sleep...
3 comments:
Quentin Tarantino
'I've seen the fuckin' movie a million times, Lenny,' he snapped, the Brooklyn in his voice resurfacing. 'I know for a fact that it was a fuckin' '77.' Sam adjusted his Kangol beret, sat back in his seat and took a final pull of the cigarette he held forcibly between his thumb and forefingers before crushing it into the ashtray, twisting the last life out of it.
'How the fuck can you tell me that was a fuckin' 1977?' Lenny forced his words out with his hands, the consonants enunciated, a fiery Italian. 'My pops ran a dealership on Horatio in up in Utica. That was a fuckin' '78. The '77 had the... the fuckin'...' He circled his arms around in mid-air to jog his memory. 'The fuckin' nose,' he said finally. 'The nose was all different and shit.' He gave different three syllables.
The Nevada diner was almost empty, the sun blazing in through the windows. The climate was the complete opposite of what Lenny and Sam were used to and in any case, New Yorkers always stuck out like a hammer-bruised thumb. Not that they'd be easy to find in the desert, though.
The waitress came to their table, apron around her waist, notepad and pencil in hands, her blonde hair carelessy tied up over her head. She was probably in her mid-30s, but her looks had long decayed. 'Are you gonna order somethin'?' Her voice contained the detectable strains of contempt for strangers.
'Smokey and the Bandit,' Sam gestured at her, suprising her into flinching. 'What year did that movie come out?'
The waitress was stuck like a deer in headlights. She shrugged, confusion still on her face.
Sam fished inside his breast pocket for his pack of cigarettes, placing it on the table. He retrieved his lighter from his pants pocket, placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. 'The movie came out in fuckin' 1977,' he said out of the free corner of his mouth, the cigarette flapping up and down as he spoke. 'The fuckin' Trans Am was a fuckin' 1977.'
Lenny waved the waitress away as though she was the least significant thing in the world. 'Where the fuck were you in nineteen-fuckin'-seventy-seven? Dribblin' and shittin' all over your momma's floor, that's where the fuck you were.'
A black '79 Buick Electra pulled up outside the diner, its tires crunching over the sand as it slowed to a stop, rocking from its front suspension to equilibrium. Its driver, a short man with his dark hair gelled back, exited the car.
'Oh, there's that dumb fuck,' Lenny muttered to nobody in particular.
The driver appeared at the doorway of the entrance and hollered at Lenny and Sam. 'Guys,' he said excitedly with childlike enthusiasm. 'You need to see this shit. Come and see this shit. This is the—'
'Shut the fuck up, Small,' Sam interrupted him. 'I'm coming.' He lifted himself from the table as Lenny followed suit. 'Crazy fuck.'
The men walked out to the car. Small opened the car door and released the lid of the trunk from inside. Lenny and Sam followed him to the rear of the car. Small lifted the trunk's lid, smiling as Lenny and Sam looked inside.
'What the fuck is this, some kind of a joke?' Lenny had no tether to be at the end of.
'I smoked him, Lenny, I smoked him!' Small's endless excitement was getting to his colleagues.
'Who the fuck is this elderly fuck? When I told you to...' Sam turned away from the car, dropped his cigarette onto the ground and cursed. 'Shit, Small. Hell, I don't believe this shit.'
'Is this some kind of a joke?' Lenny asked again. Small's smile had disappeared. 'Why the fuck is there a fuckin' old man in my trunk?'
'Ain't that Carbone?' Small asked in a small voice, pointing at the old man's facial hair and then miming a beard on his own face.
'Does that look like fuckin' Carbone to you?' Lenny roared. Small shook visibly.
Sam turned back toward the trunk, took a glance in and quickly turned away again in disgust. He held his hands up. 'Hell, I don't believe this shit,' he said under his breath.
'Gimme the piece, Small.' Small didn't move. 'Gimme your gun.' Small reluctantly handed his Baer 1911 Monolith to Lenny.
Lenny clicked off the safety catch, pointed at Small's chest and fired twice, knocking Small to the ground without protest. Lenny put the safety back on and placed the gun in his waistband. 'Dumb fuck,' Lenny muttered, before moving around Small to lift his motionless body into the trunk with the old man.
Sam walked back toward the diner, where the waitress and three other guys had been watching the spectacle from the door. He ran his hand across his forehead. 'Hell, I don't believe this shit.'
---X
Magnificent.
Holy shit. That was amazing. X QTed Harry Potter, and did it fuckingwell. Excuse me, while I go fucking kill myself; I'll never be able to live up to this shit.
Holy shit.
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