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[...well done, jones...]
Rather short, this one.
Title: Down and Out in Brazil (or Venezuela)
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen.
Summary: A portrait of the homicidal Irishman as a young Indiana Jones fan. Vaguely inspired by Sean Patrick Flanery’s brief stint as a Young Indiana Jones. Duffy owns and I lie, except for the part where I said Duffy owns.
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Down and Out in Brazil (or Venezuela)
They were ten, eleven years old at the time, must have been, the day they stayed out all Sunday playing Indiana Jones. They both wanted to be Indy, so they both were. Simple as that.
The two of them had just barely conquered a tunnel that shot spikes out of its walls (a back alley down on Stowe Street) when the church bells began to toll, distant but clear. It was a rude awakening, yanking the boys back to reality, which was an unsavory place compared to the South American jungle. Reality was the church service they were missing and the mud on their Sunday shoes. Reality was the volume of their mother’s voice when she was in a rage, as she would later be that evening. Connor and Murphy stood as if transfixed by the bells, by the anticipated reprimand.
“It’s…” Murphy wet his lips. “It’s the Nazis.”
“The Nazis.”
“The Nazis. It's the Nazis, Indy.” Murphy’s voice became steadier and clearer as this new development slowly shifted their world back in place. “The Nazis! It's the fucking Nazis!”
“Fucking hell!” Connor shouted, and Murphy echoed him, both of them shrill, self-conscious, and high on their own daring.
Connor yelled, “They’re gettin’ closer, Indy!”
The words segued into a war cry and Ireland became Brazil once again. (Murphy would later say they were in Venezuela, but Connor insisted it was Brazil because he couldn’t pronounce Venezuela.) The peeling paint on the project housing became green leaves on towering trees. Puddles became lethal quicksand that the brothers would sidestep and jump over with great relish.
Connor shouted, “Quick, the idol! Don’t let them get the fucking idol!”
Murphy snatched an empty bottle from the ground. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
Out of the alley and down the street they ran, feet pounding the pavement. They dodged men and women, making their way through the dense foliage, arms pumping, eyes wide, exhilarated and triumphant. Clang, clang, went the bells and never mind what a Nazi alarm bell was doing in the middle of the jungle. It just was, and everything was brilliant.
A few streets away, the priest began to speak and a tight-lipped, red-faced Mrs. MacManus found herself sitting alone in the second-row pew.
“The Nazis are coming!” Connor yelled, and Murphy yelled something that started out as something along the same lines, but ended up as an incoherent stream of vowels.
Connor turned right off the main street and grabbed Murphy before the momentum carried him too far. Their footsteps became heavier, slower as the boys came to rest against a building to catch their breaths.
“She’s...” said Connor, vision blurring and blood rushing to his head, “she's going to kill us.”
Murphy nodded, swallowed. “She will.”
“She will.”
But what was done was done, amen. Connor looked sideways at his brother and grinned, and Murphy grinned back.
“Well done, Jones,” said Connor.
“Aye,” said Murphy. “You too, Indy. Fucking brilliant.”
[end.]
Title: Down and Out in Brazil (or Venezuela)
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen.
Summary: A portrait of the homicidal Irishman as a young Indiana Jones fan. Vaguely inspired by Sean Patrick Flanery’s brief stint as a Young Indiana Jones. Duffy owns and I lie, except for the part where I said Duffy owns.
Down and Out in Brazil (or Venezuela)
They were ten, eleven years old at the time, must have been, the day they stayed out all Sunday playing Indiana Jones. They both wanted to be Indy, so they both were. Simple as that.
The two of them had just barely conquered a tunnel that shot spikes out of its walls (a back alley down on Stowe Street) when the church bells began to toll, distant but clear. It was a rude awakening, yanking the boys back to reality, which was an unsavory place compared to the South American jungle. Reality was the church service they were missing and the mud on their Sunday shoes. Reality was the volume of their mother’s voice when she was in a rage, as she would later be that evening. Connor and Murphy stood as if transfixed by the bells, by the anticipated reprimand.
“It’s…” Murphy wet his lips. “It’s the Nazis.”
“The Nazis.”
“The Nazis. It's the Nazis, Indy.” Murphy’s voice became steadier and clearer as this new development slowly shifted their world back in place. “The Nazis! It's the fucking Nazis!”
“Fucking hell!” Connor shouted, and Murphy echoed him, both of them shrill, self-conscious, and high on their own daring.
Connor yelled, “They’re gettin’ closer, Indy!”
The words segued into a war cry and Ireland became Brazil once again. (Murphy would later say they were in Venezuela, but Connor insisted it was Brazil because he couldn’t pronounce Venezuela.) The peeling paint on the project housing became green leaves on towering trees. Puddles became lethal quicksand that the brothers would sidestep and jump over with great relish.
Connor shouted, “Quick, the idol! Don’t let them get the fucking idol!”
Murphy snatched an empty bottle from the ground. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
Out of the alley and down the street they ran, feet pounding the pavement. They dodged men and women, making their way through the dense foliage, arms pumping, eyes wide, exhilarated and triumphant. Clang, clang, went the bells and never mind what a Nazi alarm bell was doing in the middle of the jungle. It just was, and everything was brilliant.
A few streets away, the priest began to speak and a tight-lipped, red-faced Mrs. MacManus found herself sitting alone in the second-row pew.
“The Nazis are coming!” Connor yelled, and Murphy yelled something that started out as something along the same lines, but ended up as an incoherent stream of vowels.
Connor turned right off the main street and grabbed Murphy before the momentum carried him too far. Their footsteps became heavier, slower as the boys came to rest against a building to catch their breaths.
“She’s...” said Connor, vision blurring and blood rushing to his head, “she's going to kill us.”
Murphy nodded, swallowed. “She will.”
“She will.”
But what was done was done, amen. Connor looked sideways at his brother and grinned, and Murphy grinned back.
“Well done, Jones,” said Connor.
“Aye,” said Murphy. “You too, Indy. Fucking brilliant.”
[end.]
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I'm almost afraid to ask, y'know? 'Cos the original Indiana Jones movies are so cool, and I'm afraid to ask about this odd spin-off thingy, even if Connor MacManus is in it.
went to europe for 6 yrs to film those young indy shows.
Ngeh. Lucky bastard.
Anyway, glad you like it. Thanks. :)
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~fangirls you~
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So good, so funny, so them!
Hehe. Rock. I'm happy you think so!
Thankyouthankyou. *bows*
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Well done! :D
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Loved this bit: Murphy would later say they were in Venezuela, but Connor insisted it was Brazil because he couldn’t pronounce Venezuela.
Reminds me of playing with my own brother when we were little. Except I'm the older one, so I always got the final say in who was who and where we were. :)
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Oh! I'm so glad you like it! Thank you. :)
Reminds me of playing with my own brother when we were little. Except I'm the older one, so I always got the final say in who was who and where we were.
Those were the days.
...Gee, that made me sound ancient. And what am I talking about, I always get the final say anyway or else I give him a noogie. ;)
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:-)
turb@n3r than j00!
This one is wearing a cool new turban.
Re: turb@n3r than j00!
:-)
Mine's a bare-headed skinhead psycho f*ck.
It's one of those days.
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That's just perfect in every way - every god damn word.
I love it.
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I think this begs for a sequel when Mrs. MacManus catches up with them.
Very well done!
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I'm glad you like the ficlet. Thanks!
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*fangirls*
There's never anything for me to really say about your fics apart from squeal and jump up and down, because they're always so...right. Everything is spot on and...wow. I feel like a broken record telling you over and over how freaking awesome you are.
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See...when I'd play with my cousin, (closest person to my age) it didn't matter who wanted what...because my older sister got the last call...so those two are lucky. And it's just endearing how Connor can't pronounce Venezuela.
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OH my flailing lord, you have pwned me in a whole new light. I have been pwned in positions and by means in which I never before have been pwned. I think that was a bastardised statement, but that's bloody okay with me. Holy higher power, you just... *squees quietly* Teh cute, it never ends!
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Now i'm gonna have to hunt down all your other blasted stories. read them. and have to write whole seperate reviews for each. and who knows how many more you've got fluttering about this place, i haven't event reached 2005 yet. brilliant.
i was really very hessitant on clicking the link to this because i liked your first one so much and just knew that all proceeding fics would only get better. you are off the charts, m'am.
I have amounted to a mass of putty in my seat.
again, rock on.
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