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crack_van2005-03-24 11:06 am
gardendoor.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2005-03-24 11:06 am
Entry tags:
Bodypaint, Bartabs and Beer, by Andie P (PG-13)
Fandom: HIGHLANDER
Pairing: Not really
Author Website: The Seventh Dimension Archive
Why this must be read: This is another oldie but goodie: the morning after an absolute drunkfest, Joe's got something up his sleeve.
Joe Dawson was in an astonishingly good mood. Not a particularly rare occurrence but rather startling when you consider his present rained through, hungover circumstances. He *was* going to be in a good mood no matter what, however.
He was determinedly, relentlessly cheerful despite his suspicion that he was being followed by a particularly stealthy, though utterly deranged, psychopath who insisted on thumping invisible rocks off his head. He was deliriously happy although his stomach seemed to be planning a violent rebellion against the tyranny of a body that had gotten in a drinking contest with a man who had 4950 years more experience in such things. He was forcefully delighted about the fact that he had, at some point during the night, gotten up and sung "Auld Lang Syne" while draped over a Scotsman. Just before surrendering to the suddenly irresistible force of gravity and spending an hour or so studying the underside of a table and poking Immortal kneecaps with his cane until a broadsword had slammed into the ground about an inch from his groin. He was fiercely, grimly, ecstatic that Mike had had a video camera in the bar, and had captured his small "eeeep" of terror to be Immortalised (excuse the pun) for all eternity.
Bodypaint, Bartabs and Beer
Pairing: Not really
Author Website: The Seventh Dimension Archive
Why this must be read: This is another oldie but goodie: the morning after an absolute drunkfest, Joe's got something up his sleeve.
Joe Dawson was in an astonishingly good mood. Not a particularly rare occurrence but rather startling when you consider his present rained through, hungover circumstances. He *was* going to be in a good mood no matter what, however.
He was determinedly, relentlessly cheerful despite his suspicion that he was being followed by a particularly stealthy, though utterly deranged, psychopath who insisted on thumping invisible rocks off his head. He was deliriously happy although his stomach seemed to be planning a violent rebellion against the tyranny of a body that had gotten in a drinking contest with a man who had 4950 years more experience in such things. He was forcefully delighted about the fact that he had, at some point during the night, gotten up and sung "Auld Lang Syne" while draped over a Scotsman. Just before surrendering to the suddenly irresistible force of gravity and spending an hour or so studying the underside of a table and poking Immortal kneecaps with his cane until a broadsword had slammed into the ground about an inch from his groin. He was fiercely, grimly, ecstatic that Mike had had a video camera in the bar, and had captured his small "eeeep" of terror to be Immortalised (excuse the pun) for all eternity.
Bodypaint, Bartabs and Beer