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May. 1st, 2009 11:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellerkayTitle: A Pair of Pistols
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ellerkay (previously published under collectively)
Challenger:bdan32
Challenge: “the two captains! "Haha, dangely parts"”
Fandoms: Pirates of the Caribbean and Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog
Word count: 960
Summary: Penis jokes. More Hammer than Sparrow.
Warnings: Drunkenness and complete absurdity.
It was really, really unfair.
Captain Hammer had spent months in therapy, discussing his issues with pain and his mother and really why wouldn’t the emergency doors open if they were there for an emergency? He had discovered that there was always all this pressure on him, he had to be the big, strapping hero, and save all those screaming people and what did he get in return? Adoration, sure, and endorsements, and well, he couldn’t complain about the tail, but did anyone really know him? Had anyone ever made the time to get to know the real Hammer? Also, his girlfriend had died.
But after all the sharing and grieving and crying and therapy bills, finally, he had been ready to go out again. It was time to be the hero. Not the hero the world deserved, but the hero it needed.
(He’d also watched The Dark Knight several dozen times. It was a good film. Inspirational. Although he was kind of scared of the Joker. He was glad his nemesis was a quiet nerdy type.)
And then, after all that, during his big comeback showdown, Dr. Horrible had hit him with a “time ray,” whatever that was. (What was it with that guy and rays? Hammer had a feeling there was something Freudian going on. He had picked up some psychology terms during his therapy, but he didn’t understand most of them.)
Captain Hammer woke up with a headache like he’d been hit in the skull with…something. A wrench, maybe. As he slowly gathered his bearings he found he was face-down on the ground. The air was tropical. He was on a dirt path somewhere. The path was lit with what looked to him like some kind of tiki torches. There were no houses in sight, but he thought he could hear shouts and – was that gunfire? – nearby.
With a groan, he stood up, and immediately collided with someone who only came up to his chest.
“Oof – watch where you’re going, mate.” The figure in front of him, dreadlocked hair clicking with beads and medallions, stood unsteadily with a drink in one hand. He looked Captain Hammer up and down, then poked admiringly at his gloves.
“I like those,” he said. “Where did you get them, ey?”
Captain Hammer puffed out his chest. “They were specially made for me,” he said, flexing his hands open and closed.
The man looked unimpressed. “Aye – who made them?”
Captain Hammer shrugged. “I don’t know, some little man with a needle. I think he was – you know.” He waggled his hand back and forth. The man watched, frowning, with a great deal of concentration.
“What?” he asked.
“You know. A little bit…faggy.”
A light of understanding utterly failed to dawn on the man’s face, but he had evidently decided not to belabor the point. He stuck out a hand.
“I like the cut of your weird clothing,” he said heartily. “Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service.”
“Captain Hammer,” Hammer replied, returning the handshake with a bone-crushing grip. He was pleased to meet another superhero, even if his name was a little derivative.
A gleam came into Jack’s eye. “Captain, ey? Do you have a vessel, then?”
Hammer thought longingly of the HamJet. He hadn’t had it with him when he went to the showdown, a fact which he deeply regretted. It would have made a much more dramatic entrance. And possibly an excellent getaway vehicle. Not that he needed to escape Dr. Horrible. He wasn’t afraid of him. Not at all.
“I don’t know where it is right now,” he replied. “I wish I had it.”
Jack wagged a finger at him. “I know just how you feel, mate.” He attempted to sling an arm around Hammer’s shoulder, but between the height difference and Jack’s unsteadiness, his arm ended up closer to Hammer’s waist. “Let’s go find us something to drink, what d’you say?”
***
It was the strangest bar Hammer had ever been in. He was starting to wonder if he had fallen into one of those…loser…festivals, where everyone pretended they were from a hundred years ago and still gross. There was no electricity or running water, and everyone was dressed in costumes. Hammer felt out of place. It seemed more like something Dr. Horrible would frequent.
“I sort of missed the little guy,” he mumbled drunkenly into the ale Jack had bought him upon discovering he had no valid currency of his own.
“What’s that, mate?”
“My nemesis. You know how it is. You fight them and you fight them but somewhere along the line, you start to need them.” He took another swig of ale. “He’s not a bad sort, really. Misguided, sure. And I think he has some sort of…complex. Oedipal, maybe. I’ve heard of that one. But he sure knows how to take a punch – by falling on the ground and crying over it. Not that bright, though. I had to explain to him about the hammer.”
“What about the hammer?” Jack demanded loudly, banging his glass of rum down on the table. He was quite drunk.
“You know – how it’s my penis,” Hammer said. Jack’s lips curled into a smile and he pulled out a pistol, looked at it significantly, looked at Hammer, then looked at the pistol again.
“Aye! Exactly!” he agreed, and promptly seemed to forget about the firearm entirely. Held lightly and unheeded in his hand, it waved dangerously.
“Ha-ha!” Hammer laughed heartily. “Dangly parts!” He raised his tankard and Jack hit it with his in celebration. Jack accidentally fired a shot into the air while he was drinking, and looked up towards the roof in the direction of the shot.
“Don’t read too much into that,” he said, and fell over unconscious.
Author:
ellerkay (previously published under collectively)Challenger:
bdan32Challenge: “the two captains! "Haha, dangely parts"”
Fandoms: Pirates of the Caribbean and Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog
Word count: 960
Summary: Penis jokes. More Hammer than Sparrow.
Warnings: Drunkenness and complete absurdity.
It was really, really unfair.
Captain Hammer had spent months in therapy, discussing his issues with pain and his mother and really why wouldn’t the emergency doors open if they were there for an emergency? He had discovered that there was always all this pressure on him, he had to be the big, strapping hero, and save all those screaming people and what did he get in return? Adoration, sure, and endorsements, and well, he couldn’t complain about the tail, but did anyone really know him? Had anyone ever made the time to get to know the real Hammer? Also, his girlfriend had died.
But after all the sharing and grieving and crying and therapy bills, finally, he had been ready to go out again. It was time to be the hero. Not the hero the world deserved, but the hero it needed.
(He’d also watched The Dark Knight several dozen times. It was a good film. Inspirational. Although he was kind of scared of the Joker. He was glad his nemesis was a quiet nerdy type.)
And then, after all that, during his big comeback showdown, Dr. Horrible had hit him with a “time ray,” whatever that was. (What was it with that guy and rays? Hammer had a feeling there was something Freudian going on. He had picked up some psychology terms during his therapy, but he didn’t understand most of them.)
Captain Hammer woke up with a headache like he’d been hit in the skull with…something. A wrench, maybe. As he slowly gathered his bearings he found he was face-down on the ground. The air was tropical. He was on a dirt path somewhere. The path was lit with what looked to him like some kind of tiki torches. There were no houses in sight, but he thought he could hear shouts and – was that gunfire? – nearby.
With a groan, he stood up, and immediately collided with someone who only came up to his chest.
“Oof – watch where you’re going, mate.” The figure in front of him, dreadlocked hair clicking with beads and medallions, stood unsteadily with a drink in one hand. He looked Captain Hammer up and down, then poked admiringly at his gloves.
“I like those,” he said. “Where did you get them, ey?”
Captain Hammer puffed out his chest. “They were specially made for me,” he said, flexing his hands open and closed.
The man looked unimpressed. “Aye – who made them?”
Captain Hammer shrugged. “I don’t know, some little man with a needle. I think he was – you know.” He waggled his hand back and forth. The man watched, frowning, with a great deal of concentration.
“What?” he asked.
“You know. A little bit…faggy.”
A light of understanding utterly failed to dawn on the man’s face, but he had evidently decided not to belabor the point. He stuck out a hand.
“I like the cut of your weird clothing,” he said heartily. “Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service.”
“Captain Hammer,” Hammer replied, returning the handshake with a bone-crushing grip. He was pleased to meet another superhero, even if his name was a little derivative.
A gleam came into Jack’s eye. “Captain, ey? Do you have a vessel, then?”
Hammer thought longingly of the HamJet. He hadn’t had it with him when he went to the showdown, a fact which he deeply regretted. It would have made a much more dramatic entrance. And possibly an excellent getaway vehicle. Not that he needed to escape Dr. Horrible. He wasn’t afraid of him. Not at all.
“I don’t know where it is right now,” he replied. “I wish I had it.”
Jack wagged a finger at him. “I know just how you feel, mate.” He attempted to sling an arm around Hammer’s shoulder, but between the height difference and Jack’s unsteadiness, his arm ended up closer to Hammer’s waist. “Let’s go find us something to drink, what d’you say?”
***
It was the strangest bar Hammer had ever been in. He was starting to wonder if he had fallen into one of those…loser…festivals, where everyone pretended they were from a hundred years ago and still gross. There was no electricity or running water, and everyone was dressed in costumes. Hammer felt out of place. It seemed more like something Dr. Horrible would frequent.
“I sort of missed the little guy,” he mumbled drunkenly into the ale Jack had bought him upon discovering he had no valid currency of his own.
“What’s that, mate?”
“My nemesis. You know how it is. You fight them and you fight them but somewhere along the line, you start to need them.” He took another swig of ale. “He’s not a bad sort, really. Misguided, sure. And I think he has some sort of…complex. Oedipal, maybe. I’ve heard of that one. But he sure knows how to take a punch – by falling on the ground and crying over it. Not that bright, though. I had to explain to him about the hammer.”
“What about the hammer?” Jack demanded loudly, banging his glass of rum down on the table. He was quite drunk.
“You know – how it’s my penis,” Hammer said. Jack’s lips curled into a smile and he pulled out a pistol, looked at it significantly, looked at Hammer, then looked at the pistol again.
“Aye! Exactly!” he agreed, and promptly seemed to forget about the firearm entirely. Held lightly and unheeded in his hand, it waved dangerously.
“Ha-ha!” Hammer laughed heartily. “Dangly parts!” He raised his tankard and Jack hit it with his in celebration. Jack accidentally fired a shot into the air while he was drinking, and looked up towards the roof in the direction of the shot.
“Don’t read too much into that,” he said, and fell over unconscious.
