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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.
-
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.]