fandomtownies | The streets of Fandom, Thursday afternoon

Roland's usual busking pattern had been disrupted today by a group of little scaley green things doing a very growly, not terribly verbal rendition of "White Christmas". He applauded politely when they wrapped up, and they were taking their bows when a little swarm of squirrels in Victorian dress came rushing over, gathered in front of the gremlins, and starting squeaking "Silver Bells". The gremlins, looking quite put out, answered with "Deck the Halls" -- the switch of "fa la la la la" to "ra ra ra ra ra" actually worked surprisingly well -- to which the squirrels, after a brief conference among themselves, returned with "A Soalin", complete with tiny mandolin. The gremlins, hopelessly outclassed, subsided with a series of angry grumbles. One of them reached a clawed hand out towards the nearest squirrel, only to get whacked on the chest and told off by his fellow gremlin. The squirrels cheered for themselves, toasted each other with tiny bottles of rum, and then went scurrying off.

Roland watched them go, then looked back at the now thoroughly grumpy looking gremlins. "I don't suppose any of you play an instrument?" The gremlins grumbled. The one who'd wanted to eat the squirrel started eyeing Roland's leg hungrily. "Look," Roland said, playing a soothing chord on his guitar. "How about you try something like this."

And that was how Roland ended up teaching a mob of gremlins how to sing "Carol of the Bells".

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well, that was an interesting thing for Éponine to see when she came by with a large cup of coffee in each hand and an apologetic expression that quickly turned into perplexed amusement.

"What is your secret, monsieur?" she asked, laughing. "Wouldn't I give a nice bit of change to convince some of them to help me reorganize the stockroom instead of stealing the mail from time to time!"

Pot/kettle? Maybe, but look, at least she was learning better.

Roland gave her a smile. "No secret," he said. "They want to sing. I know how to. So it works out."

"Isn't that always how it works," Éponine said dryly. "I've only got to sniff out what it is they want with the mail they steal, then."

As long as it didn't cost her, of course.

"Will they take requests, d'you think? Or will they take a page from the zombies and try to sell their own music next? Oh!" There she went, careening from one subject to the next with no preamble, and also holding out one of the coffees. "Since the last time I said I'd get you one didn't go terribly according to plan."

Roland didn't mind. He'd gotten used to seemingly nonsequitorial conversation swerves hanging out with Rebecca back in Toronto. "Thanks," he said, accepting the coffee and cradling it to his chest, letting his fingers soak up the heat. "That was a bit of a weird week for just about everyone, I think. The zombies are selling their music?"

He avoided Caritas and the zombie band as a general rule. The very idea of an undead album was just . . . weird.

"Yes, well, they're trying to at the very least. I helped Kitty try to sell them once or twice," Éponine said, matter-of-factly, like this was absolutely the kind of totally normal favor one did for one's friends. "Seems the sort of thing where people will buy one just to be nice."

And then put it on a shelf and forget all about it, probably.

"I'd certainly buy one from you," Roland said. "Not so much from a zombie."

He wasn't biased. It was just that one of his worst all time memories involved dead things talking to him.

. . . Which admittedly was a bias.

". . . Are they any good?"

But a totally understandable bias.

Éponine shrugged. "Lord knows I've heard worse, though I'd be willing to bet you're more particular about that sort of thing than I am."

After a moment she added, "So I wouldn't try to talk you into buying one unless I absolutely had to."

"You get fairly used to terrible music on the streets," Roland said. "But, ah, no, I don't think I need any extra in my life."

"It's better than nothing, some nights," agreed Éponine. "But what do you need that for, anyway?"

She gestured vaguely toward his guitar with her cup of coffee. "You've got all the music you want to carry around with you and more right there."

Roland patted his guitar fondly. "She does serve me well. But it's not like I don't want to sometimes hear other people's music. How will I ever learn new songs, otherwise?"

"That's true, I suppose," conceded Éponine. "I hadn't thought of it that way before. I don't think you'd learn much from them, though."

"From the zombies?" Roland made a face. "Nothing I'd particularly want to know, no."

"Well." Éponine considered for a moment. "They may know a new tune or two, but if you're hoping to learn the words from them you'd have rotten luck, so what's the use bothering, really?"

Roland shuddered. "I'm still catching up on a good twenty-five years of music, anyway. I think I'll have plenty of material to seek out without having to listen to it from dead people."

"That's quite a lot of music," said the girl who'd long since given up on trying to catch up on the better part of two centuries' worth of . . . well, most things. "How long d'you suppose it'll take you to get through it?"

"Forever," Roland said cheerfully. "It's not as though I'm completely familiar with all of western musical canon through 1989, either."

"Then you'll never be bored that's for certain, but what's a cannon got to do with anything?" Éponine was frowning a little bit; it was a sneaky, deceptive homophone and she sort of had bad associations with cannons.

"One N," Roland said, smiling. "Means, like, recognized work? I think. Doesn't mean big war machine."

"And now I've learned something new for the day. That's nice. I may owe you one for that." Éponine pretended to tip her hat to him, the way Gavroche used to do from time to time. "Well, it makes much more sense now that I know, even if it was funny trying to puzzle out how someone might shoot music at someone else."

"You can do a lot of things with music," Roland said. "But, uh, no, I don't think shooting people is one of them."

At least if you weren't, say, Pinkie Pie.

Well, Éponine had met Pinkie Pie, so it was probably not too surprising that she'd bothered to give the idea some serious thought.

"What would it do if you could?" she said, curious. "If it's loud enough you can feel it, I know. Sometimes when I'm out on the mainland, and I'm walking down the street, and someone drives by with music going really loudly in the car, good lord! Though . . ."

She glanced at the gremlins. "This is probably much more useful. At least as far as I can tell."

Roland thought back to his last summer solstice in Toronto, from breaking into Rebecca's apartment complex to the summoning that had nearly ended in him getting eaten by a dragon. "Shatter glass," he said. "And save the world." He shook his head, throwing off the introspective mood. "Or at the very least, give someone one hell of a headache." He looked down at the gremlin chorus. "I'll settle for saving folks from a nasty bite or two, for now, I think."

"From them? That's not such a small thing," Éponine said firmly. "Bit less messy than shattering glass, too, I think, and that's one or two less people who might have to worry about everyone hearing what a ridiculous thing they've done because a gremlin took a bite out of their ankle, and laughing about it."

The streets of Fandom, Thursday afternoon

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject