humorist + humanist (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
erinptah) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
andthatstheword2008-09-19 12:13 am
erinptah) wrote in andthatstheword2008-09-19 12:13 am
"Fan" Fiction, 4/5: Stephen Colbert Season One of the Wire
This crossover appears to be a sendup of really terrible writing, with random topic changes, repetition, contradiction ("he hurried, slowly") and tense shifts. It reminds me of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xlormp, only not actually funny.
One of the characters is named Stephen, but he's completely unrecognizable. Can anyone who's seen The Wire confirm whether or not the other people here resemble their canon selves?
There is at least one saving grace here: random Ho Yay.
Stephen Colbert Season One of the Wire Fan Fiction
By: Sean Fennimanica
Rating: A (Aramaic)
Dateline: March 4, 2002. Baltimore. The drugs are on the streets again. Wee-Bay is in the stash house. Wallace is doing his thing with the drugs, being the lookout. Nobody knows where the drugs are. D'Angelo Barksdale is sitting on the couch, holding down the fort in the jects. Everywhere he looks there are buildings and drugs.
Detectives office. Baltimore. It's the same Baltimore the drug dealers know...or is it? The office is in the basement of a secret building. Nobody knows where it is. Inside is Roland Prez Pryzbylewski, Lester Freamon, Cedric Daniels (he is the lieutenant), Jimmy McNulty, Rhonda Pearlman, and Kima Greggs. Greggs has not been shot yet; Lester Freamon is at his desk listening to a shortwave radio.
Today the situation is bleak. There are drugs on the streets and people are buying them left and right. The man behind it all is Avon Barksdale, who is a drug businessman hanging out in a secret hideout location above Orlando's Gentlemen Club. Nobody knows where he is except Stringer Bell, who is a businessman/college student by Avon's side at all times. Bell is fierce. He goes to college during the day to learn about the business.
Dateline: American college.
"Hey Stephen," says Stringer, calling out to his roommate, Stephen Colbert. "Can you help me with this problem in my economics homework?" Stringer has his smaller glasses on that help him read. It is difficult for him to operate in the outside world without the glasses, but Avon needs him to stay strong.
"No problem, Bells," Stephen says. He is on his bed, sitting in nice silk underwear that has little smiley faces on it. Every three or so smiley faces has its eyes X'd out. This is American college. Stephen is reading DeLeuze for his advanced grad classes in French Film Theory. He has faith in the liberal arts and isn't worried about his job prospects. "Come on to the bed with me, Stringer. Just come here and I'll help you with the problem."
Stringer comes over to the bed with Stephen. He knows the rules. No pants on the bed. Stringer removes his pants to show that he too is wearing a pair of nice boxer shorts. They are of Frosty the Snowman, a famous Christmas character with no possible other allusions. Every third or fourth Frosty has a pipe in his mouth. The pipe is empty. Or is it?
"Here's the problem, Stephen. The current national rate, by which I mean percent, of civilian unemployment, has a conversational relationship with economic growth as measured by the Producer Price Index. Then there's the Comstock quotient. What I'm struggling with is, who's the seller and who's the buyer?" Stringer said. He was on the verge of tears, as hinted at by the slight fog on his glasses. Now Stringer was actually crying.
Stephen put his arm around Stringer. As usual Stephen, knew the answer to the economics problem, but had to be delicate. He didn't want to seem like a know-it-all, which was always a danger with Stringer Bell. All Stringer had for himself was Stephen, his glasses, and Avon Barksdale's extremely lucrative, extremely dangeorus drug business for which he was Avon Barksdale's right-hand man.
Stephen pretended to take off glasses from his face, then looked at Stringer straight in the eye. "This isn't the problem though, is it, Stringer," said Stephen. "What really is the problem?"
"I'm leading a life of crime, aren't I."
"No, that's not it. There are no fine lines between good and evil in Baltimore. The police are corrupt. The dealers are corrupt. And vice versa. It's six in one, seven in the other. Give or take a break me off. You know?" Stephen pretended to put glasses back on his own face.
"No, I guess I don't know then," said Stringer. He hyperventilated and started crying all over himself.
"Hey, it's OK, Stringy. Put this on." Stephen handed Stringer a saffron yellow bathrobe. It was from the Sorrento Palace Hotel in Sorrento, Italy. It had deep pockets, deep enough to fit a whole can of shaving cream, a few disposable razors, and some moisturizing cream to prevent razor burn. Stephen was confident that Stringer wasn't allergic to aloe, which was in the moisturizing cream. "Go take a shower. Shave your face. Then come back here. It'll be good for you."
"Thanks, Stephen. I'll be back soon."
"That's a good idea." Stephen got back to lying on his bed. It was very stressful, the college lifestyle, and Stephen valued time to himself, in his smiley face boxer shorts, lying on his bed while his roommate Stringer Bell worked on economics problems. He knew he needed to be there for Stringer.
"Hoody-hoo!"
It was somebody at the door. Was it Omar?
"It's me, Omar!" said Omar. "Open up for Omar!"
Stephen threw on his own saffron yellow robe from the Sorrento Palace Hotel in Sorrento Italy, and hurried, slowly, to the door. Sure enough, it was Omar.
"Just like I said it was me. Hey, have you seen your roommate Stringer Bell?" asked Omar. He looked nervous. Stephen wondered if there was a problem. No. Stephen knew there was a problem.
"Omar, now tell me the truth. Are you trying to hurt Stringer Bell? Tell the truth, Omar."
Omar took down the hood from his sweatshirt, put down his shotgun, and looked Stephen straight in the eye. His skin was very smooth, as if he had just shaved. Stephen always respected a man with a nice shave.
"I'm trying to hurt him, yeah."
"What happened, Omar."
"You wouldn't understand, Stephen. It's a street thing."
"Hey, I've been on the streets too," said Stephen. "I've been a cop. I've been on the streets. I've crossed streets. You name it, I've streeted it." He winked at Omar.
"Well then you have to understand what's going on here. I don't want to get into it. But it's a big deal."
"A really big street."
"An information superhighway," said Omar. "The internet of streets."
"Well look. I have an idea. Why don't you let me talk to Stringer. I'll let him know what's up. And why don't you go home and sleep on it. There's no need for all the violence," said Stephen. "All the hating."
"You're right, Stephen. Thanks for supporting our city." Omar gave Stephen a firm, confident hug, unworried about the knot of terry cloth that protruded from Stephen's waste, the knot that held his robe together.
"You're too kind, Omar. Now I'll see you later."
"Bye." Omar walked away.
Stephen closed the door quietly, watching Omar walk down the hall of the dorm, and leave through one of the doors. He picked up the phone and called Detective Jimmy McNulty on the cell phone.
"McNulty."
"Hey, it's me, Stephen Colbert."
"What's up, Stephen? How is the college life?"
"It's fine, McNulty. Totally cool."
"So what's up?"
"It's Omar, McNulty. I'm worried Omar's failing math."
xlormp, only not actually funny.One of the characters is named Stephen, but he's completely unrecognizable. Can anyone who's seen The Wire confirm whether or not the other people here resemble their canon selves?
There is at least one saving grace here: random Ho Yay.
By: Sean Fennimanica
Rating: A (Aramaic)
Dateline: March 4, 2002. Baltimore. The drugs are on the streets again. Wee-Bay is in the stash house. Wallace is doing his thing with the drugs, being the lookout. Nobody knows where the drugs are. D'Angelo Barksdale is sitting on the couch, holding down the fort in the jects. Everywhere he looks there are buildings and drugs.
Detectives office. Baltimore. It's the same Baltimore the drug dealers know...or is it? The office is in the basement of a secret building. Nobody knows where it is. Inside is Roland Prez Pryzbylewski, Lester Freamon, Cedric Daniels (he is the lieutenant), Jimmy McNulty, Rhonda Pearlman, and Kima Greggs. Greggs has not been shot yet; Lester Freamon is at his desk listening to a shortwave radio.
Today the situation is bleak. There are drugs on the streets and people are buying them left and right. The man behind it all is Avon Barksdale, who is a drug businessman hanging out in a secret hideout location above Orlando's Gentlemen Club. Nobody knows where he is except Stringer Bell, who is a businessman/college student by Avon's side at all times. Bell is fierce. He goes to college during the day to learn about the business.
Dateline: American college.
"Hey Stephen," says Stringer, calling out to his roommate, Stephen Colbert. "Can you help me with this problem in my economics homework?" Stringer has his smaller glasses on that help him read. It is difficult for him to operate in the outside world without the glasses, but Avon needs him to stay strong.
"No problem, Bells," Stephen says. He is on his bed, sitting in nice silk underwear that has little smiley faces on it. Every three or so smiley faces has its eyes X'd out. This is American college. Stephen is reading DeLeuze for his advanced grad classes in French Film Theory. He has faith in the liberal arts and isn't worried about his job prospects. "Come on to the bed with me, Stringer. Just come here and I'll help you with the problem."
Stringer comes over to the bed with Stephen. He knows the rules. No pants on the bed. Stringer removes his pants to show that he too is wearing a pair of nice boxer shorts. They are of Frosty the Snowman, a famous Christmas character with no possible other allusions. Every third or fourth Frosty has a pipe in his mouth. The pipe is empty. Or is it?
"Here's the problem, Stephen. The current national rate, by which I mean percent, of civilian unemployment, has a conversational relationship with economic growth as measured by the Producer Price Index. Then there's the Comstock quotient. What I'm struggling with is, who's the seller and who's the buyer?" Stringer said. He was on the verge of tears, as hinted at by the slight fog on his glasses. Now Stringer was actually crying.
Stephen put his arm around Stringer. As usual Stephen, knew the answer to the economics problem, but had to be delicate. He didn't want to seem like a know-it-all, which was always a danger with Stringer Bell. All Stringer had for himself was Stephen, his glasses, and Avon Barksdale's extremely lucrative, extremely dangeorus drug business for which he was Avon Barksdale's right-hand man.
Stephen pretended to take off glasses from his face, then looked at Stringer straight in the eye. "This isn't the problem though, is it, Stringer," said Stephen. "What really is the problem?"
"I'm leading a life of crime, aren't I."
"No, that's not it. There are no fine lines between good and evil in Baltimore. The police are corrupt. The dealers are corrupt. And vice versa. It's six in one, seven in the other. Give or take a break me off. You know?" Stephen pretended to put glasses back on his own face.
"No, I guess I don't know then," said Stringer. He hyperventilated and started crying all over himself.
"Hey, it's OK, Stringy. Put this on." Stephen handed Stringer a saffron yellow bathrobe. It was from the Sorrento Palace Hotel in Sorrento, Italy. It had deep pockets, deep enough to fit a whole can of shaving cream, a few disposable razors, and some moisturizing cream to prevent razor burn. Stephen was confident that Stringer wasn't allergic to aloe, which was in the moisturizing cream. "Go take a shower. Shave your face. Then come back here. It'll be good for you."
"Thanks, Stephen. I'll be back soon."
"That's a good idea." Stephen got back to lying on his bed. It was very stressful, the college lifestyle, and Stephen valued time to himself, in his smiley face boxer shorts, lying on his bed while his roommate Stringer Bell worked on economics problems. He knew he needed to be there for Stringer.
"Hoody-hoo!"
It was somebody at the door. Was it Omar?
"It's me, Omar!" said Omar. "Open up for Omar!"
Stephen threw on his own saffron yellow robe from the Sorrento Palace Hotel in Sorrento Italy, and hurried, slowly, to the door. Sure enough, it was Omar.
"Just like I said it was me. Hey, have you seen your roommate Stringer Bell?" asked Omar. He looked nervous. Stephen wondered if there was a problem. No. Stephen knew there was a problem.
"Omar, now tell me the truth. Are you trying to hurt Stringer Bell? Tell the truth, Omar."
Omar took down the hood from his sweatshirt, put down his shotgun, and looked Stephen straight in the eye. His skin was very smooth, as if he had just shaved. Stephen always respected a man with a nice shave.
"I'm trying to hurt him, yeah."
"What happened, Omar."
"You wouldn't understand, Stephen. It's a street thing."
"Hey, I've been on the streets too," said Stephen. "I've been a cop. I've been on the streets. I've crossed streets. You name it, I've streeted it." He winked at Omar.
"Well then you have to understand what's going on here. I don't want to get into it. But it's a big deal."
"A really big street."
"An information superhighway," said Omar. "The internet of streets."
"Well look. I have an idea. Why don't you let me talk to Stringer. I'll let him know what's up. And why don't you go home and sleep on it. There's no need for all the violence," said Stephen. "All the hating."
"You're right, Stephen. Thanks for supporting our city." Omar gave Stephen a firm, confident hug, unworried about the knot of terry cloth that protruded from Stephen's waste, the knot that held his robe together.
"You're too kind, Omar. Now I'll see you later."
"Bye." Omar walked away.
Stephen closed the door quietly, watching Omar walk down the hall of the dorm, and leave through one of the doors. He picked up the phone and called Detective Jimmy McNulty on the cell phone.
"McNulty."
"Hey, it's me, Stephen Colbert."
"What's up, Stephen? How is the college life?"
"It's fine, McNulty. Totally cool."
"So what's up?"
"It's Omar, McNulty. I'm worried Omar's failing math."