meta physical humour
Aug. 6th, 2002 02:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
buggeryI used to have to actually be stoned to come up with stuff like this. Apparently I'm approaching optimum saturation.
Clark came barrelling into the kitchen and stopped, stunned. The spread on the table and counter made the breakfast Ryan had prepared look spare and simple by comparison, and there were new curtains up, some kind of quilted slipcovers on the chairs, and an elaborate centerpiece that was saved from being lost among all the food only by its height. And... had Mom done something to her hair?
At that moment she turned away from the sink and Clark jumped; he realised he was backing away only when the post at his back stopped him. How had this strange woman gotten into the house? Was she responsible for the kitchen makeover... and if she was, why?
Clark thought he couldn't be any more confused, but then she started talking to me. "Well, Clark, are you going to have some breakfast? You really can't afford to miss the bus all the time, people will wonder."
He tried to decide which of the five Ws to start with -- Chloe would be so proud -- as he sidled towards the laden table. Who? Where? How? He settled for grabbing a reasonably safe (and recognisable) looking muffin as he backed towards the door. "Um... yeah. I'd better go." Maybe Dad knew what was going on; hopefully he was out with the cows.
"Clark, you're blocking the door, son," said a hoarse, gruff and completely unfamiliar voice behind him.
"Jonathan!" the woman in the kitchen with him cried. "Just in time for breakfast." Reluctant as he was to take his eyes off her, Clark turned and stepped back from the door. The man who came through it had only a plaid flannel shirt and dirty blond hair in common with his father -- and in Jonathan Kent's case, "dirty" referred to the shade of its hair, not its hygeine. This second stranger, who opened the screen door and went to wash his hands at the sink, was easily twice as broad as Clark (all the way around, too) and wore a scraggly goattee and a headband like something out of an 80's movie.
Suddenly Clark actually felt glad that the strange woman wasn't his mother, because as soon as the other stranger finished rinsing his hands off, she wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed. It was over before he could look away, to Clark's mixed relief and disgust. Then the guy reached up to her face as if he was going to go for another kiss, but instead, he... pulled something from behind her ear? She giggled. "That's my Martha, sweet all over!" he said in his gravelly voice. He sounded like one of those poeople who smoked and drank too much, though he didn't look all that old. Bringing the something to his mouth, he looked down at it and frowned. "Wait, what is this?"
"Rugelach!" she enthused. "Rhubarb rugelach. It's this wonderful recipe I found-"
"Whoa whoa whoa," the big guy interrupted, his arms circling in huge gestures. "I'll eat it, I'll eat it, but spare me the ten-minute soundbyte on its history, all right?" This was getting weird. Okay, it had started weird.
Where was Chloe, anyway? Clark briefly comsidered waiting for her, since she invariably turned up at the site of any unexplained happenings in Smallville, and this appeared pretty inexplicable. A brief scan of the two strangers failed to reveal any telltale green glow in their insides, or any other clues for that matter, and he was edging back towards the door when he apparently caught their attention again.
"Clark," the man said, coming towards him, "is that all you're having for breakfast?" Confused, Clark followed his gazed down and realised he was still holding the muffin, miraculously not having crushed it between his fingers. He shrugged, then gave up the little cake when the stranger held out his hand for it.
"Hey, these look good, Martha," he said, turning it over in his hands. "Of couse, one of your muffins is as good as three of anyone else's."
"Oh, you," she said as he started to... well, Clark would've called it juggling, except the guy still had just the one muffin, and somehow it didn't seem like that should qualify.
He didn't realise he was staring at the underwhelming performance until the big man abruptly stopped and apologised, handing the muffin back to him. "Um... thanks," he mumbled, his mother's training overriding even the surreality of the situation. He was even less interested in eating it now, even though he'd seen the guy wash his hands. It seemed, again, like a good time to make his escape; but again he was cut off.
This time, the door was actually blocked -- the man might as well be a wall. Clark felt his eyebrows rise up under his bangs. "Hold on, Clark," the guy rasped. "Open it." His eyebrows were as confused as Clark was. "The muffin, Clark, split it open!" he said, as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do and Clark was just a big doofus.
Well, Clark thought, he'd be half right... He set his backpackpack more securely on his shoulder and pulled the muffin apart. Sticking out of one of the halves was -- what had the woman called it? Arugula?
"Oh, Jonathan, that was amazing!" she exclaimed, hands clasped in front of her.
The guy just grinned at him. "Go on, eat it. They're great!"
"Um... no thanks," Clark said, holding out the pastry-filled pastry.
He took the half with the little roll in it, pulled the smaller piece out and went to eat it. At least that was what Clark thought the wild-eyed stranger was going to do. Instead, he... well, Clark knew the guy wasn't actually cramming the rhubarb whatever into his nose and ear and mouth and pulling it from alternating orifices -- he used x-ray vision to check -- but he made a convincing show of it, including hoarse screams of simulated agony.
Someone was giggling on the porch. Another voice he didn't recognise, and Clark was almost afraid to look. "Oh, man, I love that routine, Mr Kent!" it said.
"Good morning, Pete, come on in," the woman said.
He was steeling himself to look when "Pete" opened the door and solved Clark's dilemma by stepping in front of him. At first glance, Clark thought the visitor was a girl. His second glance left the same impression. "Thanks, Mrs Kent," he (she?) said. "Clark, man, Whitney was giving me a ride to school, and we decided to stop and offer you a ride on our way to Lana's."
Well, the voice was high enough to be a girl's -- a very flat-chested girl, and Clark was not going to take a closer look to make sure -- but he decided "Pete" was probably a guy. Though his body language was kind of girly, and those clothes... Clark couldn't imagine the real Pete in green flare pants or a lace-up shirt. He was the right height to be Pete, sure, but the biggest clue that this was not Pete Ross was that the kid was as white as Clark.
He hadn't heard a car pull up earlier, if in fact Whitney's truck was out there and all these strangers weren't just climbing out of a meteor-lined pit somewhere, but the sound outside now was one Clark would recognise in his sleep, and Clark breathed a sigh of relief. Only one person would drive a Porsche up the Kents' driveway; and hopefully Lex could help him make some sense of what was going on. He held out the other half of his muffin to the androgynous boy, who took it -- funny how people would accept things or give them up, even if they didn't really want to, Clark thought, just in response to body language -- and escaped onto the porch.
A stranger climbed out of Lex's favourite Porsche, and Clark's smile fell right off his face.
"Morning, Clark," the latest arrival said, smirking up at him. Okay, the guy had nice eyes, but he was really nothing like Lex. Clark would much rather see Lex in a leather jacket like the one this black-haired guy was wearing as he leaned against the car. The shape of this man's face was all wrong, square and angular, and his body was filled out with muscle. He looked... physical in a way that had nothing to do with athletics, that made Clark wonder if the guy was carrying a gun. Okay, he was; in fact, he had one in a shoulder holster and another at his ankle. Maybe coming out here hadn't been the best idea.
The screen door banged and the guy in green came out, grabbing Clark's arm. "Come on, Clark," he said, his soft, mellow voice changing as he glared at the guy whose license plates claimed he was LX LTHR, "we should go. Some of us have to get to school."
Undaunted, the pistol-packing guy offered, "I can drive you, Clark, if you don't want to go with the cheerleader." He licked his lips and gave Clark a look that was very Lex indeed, and Clark knew for sure he didn't like it coming from guys who weren't his Lex.
"I don't mind riding with Lana..." Clark started to say, unwilling to go anywhere in a car with this dangerous-looking man, invulnerable skin or not. Then the weirdness of the phrasing struck him. Since when did Lex refer to Lana as "the cheerleader"? Not that this guy was Lex, but still.
"I'm sure you don't," the muscly guy said, his smirk suggestive, "but what about Whitney?"
"Come on, Clark," the lithe little guy snapped, hand on his hip like he had a weapon of his own there, still glaring at the other guy as if they really were Pete and Lex. "Captain Hook here would probably take you off to play hooky, or something."
The smirk turned resentful, and the raven-haired man -- his eyes really were striking -- lifted one arm. "No hook today," he said, his tone cold. Clark blinked, looking closer at the pale hand, then the arm beneath the leather jacket, and he gasped. How had he missed the prosthetic arm the first time he'd scanned this guy?
A honk blared from the front of the house, and Clark jumped. "Hey, you guys!" a girl's voice called. "Are you coming or not? We're going to be late!"
"It's okay, Clark," Mr Leather said, voice and expression sour as he climbed back into the Porsche. "Go with your friends. I'll catch up with you later." And before he could figure out how to respond, much less say anything, the sleek car disappeared up the drive and around the bend in the road.
He was trailing behind the remaining stranger, thinking all his outfit needed was a jaunty green feathered cap, before he realised it, without having given any thought to whether he wanted to follow. The bright red extended-cab truck was Whitney's all right, but Clark was pretty sure whoever was driving it was another stranger. Okay, the dark hair pretty well gave it away, not to mention that bopping to the music was never Whitney's style.
As they got closer, Clark could hear the girl -- it was either a girl or a boy who could tour with the Vienna Boys' Choir -- singing that she wanted to dance with somebody. Could this day get any more Twilight Zone? Whoever it was must really like to sing, because the radio wasn't even on. They reached the passenger side door, and Clark stood watching the other boy swing up into the cab. The girl on the driver's side turned towards them, fixing Clark with a baleful glare as she finished a verse and stopped singing.
Okay, so not only was Pete not black, but Whitney was a black girl and, judging by her attitude towards him, still dating Lana? Clark wished fervently for Chloe and the bizarre but likely correct theory she'd have to explain what was going on; then again, who could guess what sort of... person would appear in Chloe's place?
"Earth to Clark, come on," said the strange, fey boy who was supposed to be his best friend.
"Are you coming or not, Clark?" the driver asked, sounding bored in that challenging way Whitney sometimes had.
He shook his head, in confusion at first, then negation, and he stepped back, closing the door. "No, that's okay. I'll um, see you at school, I guess."
"You all right?"
He shrugged. "Just need some air."
"Yeah, which you'll obviously get on the bus."
"Forget it, Pete, if he doesn't want a ride, he doesn't have to come with us," the girl said, turning the key in the ignition. The radio still didn't come on, but as the truck pulled away Clark heard her voice again, singing, "...always love youuu."
Since I doubt most people will get all of these:
Cast in Order of Appearance
Clark Kent
Martha Stewart
The Amazing Jonathan
Peter Pan
Alex Krycek
Whitney Houston
Clark came barrelling into the kitchen and stopped, stunned. The spread on the table and counter made the breakfast Ryan had prepared look spare and simple by comparison, and there were new curtains up, some kind of quilted slipcovers on the chairs, and an elaborate centerpiece that was saved from being lost among all the food only by its height. And... had Mom done something to her hair?
At that moment she turned away from the sink and Clark jumped; he realised he was backing away only when the post at his back stopped him. How had this strange woman gotten into the house? Was she responsible for the kitchen makeover... and if she was, why?
Clark thought he couldn't be any more confused, but then she started talking to me. "Well, Clark, are you going to have some breakfast? You really can't afford to miss the bus all the time, people will wonder."
He tried to decide which of the five Ws to start with -- Chloe would be so proud -- as he sidled towards the laden table. Who? Where? How? He settled for grabbing a reasonably safe (and recognisable) looking muffin as he backed towards the door. "Um... yeah. I'd better go." Maybe Dad knew what was going on; hopefully he was out with the cows.
"Clark, you're blocking the door, son," said a hoarse, gruff and completely unfamiliar voice behind him.
"Jonathan!" the woman in the kitchen with him cried. "Just in time for breakfast." Reluctant as he was to take his eyes off her, Clark turned and stepped back from the door. The man who came through it had only a plaid flannel shirt and dirty blond hair in common with his father -- and in Jonathan Kent's case, "dirty" referred to the shade of its hair, not its hygeine. This second stranger, who opened the screen door and went to wash his hands at the sink, was easily twice as broad as Clark (all the way around, too) and wore a scraggly goattee and a headband like something out of an 80's movie.
Suddenly Clark actually felt glad that the strange woman wasn't his mother, because as soon as the other stranger finished rinsing his hands off, she wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed. It was over before he could look away, to Clark's mixed relief and disgust. Then the guy reached up to her face as if he was going to go for another kiss, but instead, he... pulled something from behind her ear? She giggled. "That's my Martha, sweet all over!" he said in his gravelly voice. He sounded like one of those poeople who smoked and drank too much, though he didn't look all that old. Bringing the something to his mouth, he looked down at it and frowned. "Wait, what is this?"
"Rugelach!" she enthused. "Rhubarb rugelach. It's this wonderful recipe I found-"
"Whoa whoa whoa," the big guy interrupted, his arms circling in huge gestures. "I'll eat it, I'll eat it, but spare me the ten-minute soundbyte on its history, all right?" This was getting weird. Okay, it had started weird.
Where was Chloe, anyway? Clark briefly comsidered waiting for her, since she invariably turned up at the site of any unexplained happenings in Smallville, and this appeared pretty inexplicable. A brief scan of the two strangers failed to reveal any telltale green glow in their insides, or any other clues for that matter, and he was edging back towards the door when he apparently caught their attention again.
"Clark," the man said, coming towards him, "is that all you're having for breakfast?" Confused, Clark followed his gazed down and realised he was still holding the muffin, miraculously not having crushed it between his fingers. He shrugged, then gave up the little cake when the stranger held out his hand for it.
"Hey, these look good, Martha," he said, turning it over in his hands. "Of couse, one of your muffins is as good as three of anyone else's."
"Oh, you," she said as he started to... well, Clark would've called it juggling, except the guy still had just the one muffin, and somehow it didn't seem like that should qualify.
He didn't realise he was staring at the underwhelming performance until the big man abruptly stopped and apologised, handing the muffin back to him. "Um... thanks," he mumbled, his mother's training overriding even the surreality of the situation. He was even less interested in eating it now, even though he'd seen the guy wash his hands. It seemed, again, like a good time to make his escape; but again he was cut off.
This time, the door was actually blocked -- the man might as well be a wall. Clark felt his eyebrows rise up under his bangs. "Hold on, Clark," the guy rasped. "Open it." His eyebrows were as confused as Clark was. "The muffin, Clark, split it open!" he said, as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do and Clark was just a big doofus.
Well, Clark thought, he'd be half right... He set his backpackpack more securely on his shoulder and pulled the muffin apart. Sticking out of one of the halves was -- what had the woman called it? Arugula?
"Oh, Jonathan, that was amazing!" she exclaimed, hands clasped in front of her.
The guy just grinned at him. "Go on, eat it. They're great!"
"Um... no thanks," Clark said, holding out the pastry-filled pastry.
He took the half with the little roll in it, pulled the smaller piece out and went to eat it. At least that was what Clark thought the wild-eyed stranger was going to do. Instead, he... well, Clark knew the guy wasn't actually cramming the rhubarb whatever into his nose and ear and mouth and pulling it from alternating orifices -- he used x-ray vision to check -- but he made a convincing show of it, including hoarse screams of simulated agony.
Someone was giggling on the porch. Another voice he didn't recognise, and Clark was almost afraid to look. "Oh, man, I love that routine, Mr Kent!" it said.
"Good morning, Pete, come on in," the woman said.
He was steeling himself to look when "Pete" opened the door and solved Clark's dilemma by stepping in front of him. At first glance, Clark thought the visitor was a girl. His second glance left the same impression. "Thanks, Mrs Kent," he (she?) said. "Clark, man, Whitney was giving me a ride to school, and we decided to stop and offer you a ride on our way to Lana's."
Well, the voice was high enough to be a girl's -- a very flat-chested girl, and Clark was not going to take a closer look to make sure -- but he decided "Pete" was probably a guy. Though his body language was kind of girly, and those clothes... Clark couldn't imagine the real Pete in green flare pants or a lace-up shirt. He was the right height to be Pete, sure, but the biggest clue that this was not Pete Ross was that the kid was as white as Clark.
He hadn't heard a car pull up earlier, if in fact Whitney's truck was out there and all these strangers weren't just climbing out of a meteor-lined pit somewhere, but the sound outside now was one Clark would recognise in his sleep, and Clark breathed a sigh of relief. Only one person would drive a Porsche up the Kents' driveway; and hopefully Lex could help him make some sense of what was going on. He held out the other half of his muffin to the androgynous boy, who took it -- funny how people would accept things or give them up, even if they didn't really want to, Clark thought, just in response to body language -- and escaped onto the porch.
A stranger climbed out of Lex's favourite Porsche, and Clark's smile fell right off his face.
"Morning, Clark," the latest arrival said, smirking up at him. Okay, the guy had nice eyes, but he was really nothing like Lex. Clark would much rather see Lex in a leather jacket like the one this black-haired guy was wearing as he leaned against the car. The shape of this man's face was all wrong, square and angular, and his body was filled out with muscle. He looked... physical in a way that had nothing to do with athletics, that made Clark wonder if the guy was carrying a gun. Okay, he was; in fact, he had one in a shoulder holster and another at his ankle. Maybe coming out here hadn't been the best idea.
The screen door banged and the guy in green came out, grabbing Clark's arm. "Come on, Clark," he said, his soft, mellow voice changing as he glared at the guy whose license plates claimed he was LX LTHR, "we should go. Some of us have to get to school."
Undaunted, the pistol-packing guy offered, "I can drive you, Clark, if you don't want to go with the cheerleader." He licked his lips and gave Clark a look that was very Lex indeed, and Clark knew for sure he didn't like it coming from guys who weren't his Lex.
"I don't mind riding with Lana..." Clark started to say, unwilling to go anywhere in a car with this dangerous-looking man, invulnerable skin or not. Then the weirdness of the phrasing struck him. Since when did Lex refer to Lana as "the cheerleader"? Not that this guy was Lex, but still.
"I'm sure you don't," the muscly guy said, his smirk suggestive, "but what about Whitney?"
"Come on, Clark," the lithe little guy snapped, hand on his hip like he had a weapon of his own there, still glaring at the other guy as if they really were Pete and Lex. "Captain Hook here would probably take you off to play hooky, or something."
The smirk turned resentful, and the raven-haired man -- his eyes really were striking -- lifted one arm. "No hook today," he said, his tone cold. Clark blinked, looking closer at the pale hand, then the arm beneath the leather jacket, and he gasped. How had he missed the prosthetic arm the first time he'd scanned this guy?
A honk blared from the front of the house, and Clark jumped. "Hey, you guys!" a girl's voice called. "Are you coming or not? We're going to be late!"
"It's okay, Clark," Mr Leather said, voice and expression sour as he climbed back into the Porsche. "Go with your friends. I'll catch up with you later." And before he could figure out how to respond, much less say anything, the sleek car disappeared up the drive and around the bend in the road.
He was trailing behind the remaining stranger, thinking all his outfit needed was a jaunty green feathered cap, before he realised it, without having given any thought to whether he wanted to follow. The bright red extended-cab truck was Whitney's all right, but Clark was pretty sure whoever was driving it was another stranger. Okay, the dark hair pretty well gave it away, not to mention that bopping to the music was never Whitney's style.
As they got closer, Clark could hear the girl -- it was either a girl or a boy who could tour with the Vienna Boys' Choir -- singing that she wanted to dance with somebody. Could this day get any more Twilight Zone? Whoever it was must really like to sing, because the radio wasn't even on. They reached the passenger side door, and Clark stood watching the other boy swing up into the cab. The girl on the driver's side turned towards them, fixing Clark with a baleful glare as she finished a verse and stopped singing.
Okay, so not only was Pete not black, but Whitney was a black girl and, judging by her attitude towards him, still dating Lana? Clark wished fervently for Chloe and the bizarre but likely correct theory she'd have to explain what was going on; then again, who could guess what sort of... person would appear in Chloe's place?
"Earth to Clark, come on," said the strange, fey boy who was supposed to be his best friend.
"Are you coming or not, Clark?" the driver asked, sounding bored in that challenging way Whitney sometimes had.
He shook his head, in confusion at first, then negation, and he stepped back, closing the door. "No, that's okay. I'll um, see you at school, I guess."
"You all right?"
He shrugged. "Just need some air."
"Yeah, which you'll obviously get on the bus."
"Forget it, Pete, if he doesn't want a ride, he doesn't have to come with us," the girl said, turning the key in the ignition. The radio still didn't come on, but as the truck pulled away Clark heard her voice again, singing, "...always love youuu."
Since I doubt most people will get all of these:
Clark Kent
Martha Stewart
The Amazing Jonathan
Peter Pan
Alex Krycek
Whitney Houston
