my fanfics
a fanfics, by janet
i didn't make a header, lol. i won't get on the torchwood_three daily list. lol.
beta: gwen_e_cooper
WARNINGS FOR BITE ME.
i am hungry. this isn't new, to tell you the truth. i'm always hungry. i really want cheese toasties, but they bind me up, so the 'suit-clad-lol-king-hero of torchwood' doesn't give them to me.
that's okay though, because i have a lockpick and mad skillz. i know you all don't think i have mad skillz, but i do.
so while it took hart like, three minutes to fail to get everyone out of the cells, what torchwood doesn't know (jesus, what torchwood doesn't know could fill the medusa cascade) is that weevils are telepathic with machines, and we get out all the time, and use our mad skillz to dial the phones, order pizza and talk like sailors. when they were in tibet, i ate like, fifteen pizza delivery people. good luck finding those bodies, suckers. i hid them in really nasty places.
i work on the lock while i hum 'lancelot' to myself. atonally. it's hard, but i know all about schoenburg. mad skillz. don't question. (a/n: i bet you're all wondering what it means to talk like a sailor. it goes like this: "avast, me hearties! weigh the anchor! it's twenty five pounds, sir! arrrr. what is our destination? sir! we are bound for nipples! i mean naples! keel haul him! put a lobster in his britches!" weevils like to roleplay. you should see my priscilla, queen of the "dessert". yeah, two s's. eat it, bitches.)
the lock gives with a little pop of pleasure and i glance at the cameras that are fucking everywhere. the truth is that a bunch of them have pictures taped over them so that assk and suitboy can grope and it looks like the room is empty. the camera that points to my cell has a picture of my great grandmother beulah taped to it, but we have the same eyes, so it's all good. no one will ever know!
it's very easy to slip out of the hub. in fact, i'd make you a drawing, but i'm busy. when everyone is at lunch, i take the invisible lift right up onto the plass and stand there in the sunshine. seriously, people, all you have to do to invade torchwood is toss a couple of meat feasts in there like fucking frisbees and they all go a-running. aim for the hub pool. that'd be fucking funny.
i hate fucking sunshine, like i hate hell, all montagues and torchwood. (a/n: this is a joke on a very famous fucking play. i'm fucking well read, bitches!).
so after standing on the perception filter for like five minutes, minding the sun and everything, i remember that i am fucking starving. i want chips. and a kebab. three kebabs. and someone's xyphoid process.
i stuff my hands into the pockets of the trousers i stole from hart's crate and shamble off into the fray, like the end of that shawshank redemption movie, when morgan freeman finds tim robbins on the beach and then they have hot ex-con sex.
the end.
oh yeah. this is all autobiographical, because i'm posting this from a net café. ha ha ha. SUCKERS.
i leave you with a poem about how i'm going to get hammered tonight:
i saw him across the pub.
he saw me & his breath quickened. then he-----squirrel--
bolted (oh yes)
the chase was on.
he got as far as the alley ------wet eyes like crunchy dew----
and i asked him for a breath mint
oh i only have binaca! take it all! don't hurt me!
as if.
i'm going to vegas.
to see elvis.
i tried to get the ee cummings feel, but the last volume i had was eaten by my roommate. there has to be a bookstore somewhere in cardiff. don't you welsh fuckers ever read?
laters, hopefully never again, bitches--
*~*janet~*~
ps-- okay. maybe i'll post more from an internet café. or cousin thomas has wi-fi in the sewer junction. back off. i'm addicted. and also, i'm a weevil. just back off.
i didn't make a header, lol. i won't get on the torchwood_three daily list. lol.
beta: gwen_e_cooper
WARNINGS FOR BITE ME.
i am hungry. this isn't new, to tell you the truth. i'm always hungry. i really want cheese toasties, but they bind me up, so the 'suit-clad-lol-king-hero of torchwood' doesn't give them to me.
that's okay though, because i have a lockpick and mad skillz. i know you all don't think i have mad skillz, but i do.
so while it took hart like, three minutes to fail to get everyone out of the cells, what torchwood doesn't know (jesus, what torchwood doesn't know could fill the medusa cascade) is that weevils are telepathic with machines, and we get out all the time, and use our mad skillz to dial the phones, order pizza and talk like sailors. when they were in tibet, i ate like, fifteen pizza delivery people. good luck finding those bodies, suckers. i hid them in really nasty places.
i work on the lock while i hum 'lancelot' to myself. atonally. it's hard, but i know all about schoenburg. mad skillz. don't question. (a/n: i bet you're all wondering what it means to talk like a sailor. it goes like this: "avast, me hearties! weigh the anchor! it's twenty five pounds, sir! arrrr. what is our destination? sir! we are bound for nipples! i mean naples! keel haul him! put a lobster in his britches!" weevils like to roleplay. you should see my priscilla, queen of the "dessert". yeah, two s's. eat it, bitches.)
the lock gives with a little pop of pleasure and i glance at the cameras that are fucking everywhere. the truth is that a bunch of them have pictures taped over them so that assk and suitboy can grope and it looks like the room is empty. the camera that points to my cell has a picture of my great grandmother beulah taped to it, but we have the same eyes, so it's all good. no one will ever know!
it's very easy to slip out of the hub. in fact, i'd make you a drawing, but i'm busy. when everyone is at lunch, i take the invisible lift right up onto the plass and stand there in the sunshine. seriously, people, all you have to do to invade torchwood is toss a couple of meat feasts in there like fucking frisbees and they all go a-running. aim for the hub pool. that'd be fucking funny.
i hate fucking sunshine, like i hate hell, all montagues and torchwood. (a/n: this is a joke on a very famous fucking play. i'm fucking well read, bitches!).
so after standing on the perception filter for like five minutes, minding the sun and everything, i remember that i am fucking starving. i want chips. and a kebab. three kebabs. and someone's xyphoid process.
i stuff my hands into the pockets of the trousers i stole from hart's crate and shamble off into the fray, like the end of that shawshank redemption movie, when morgan freeman finds tim robbins on the beach and then they have hot ex-con sex.
the end.
oh yeah. this is all autobiographical, because i'm posting this from a net café. ha ha ha. SUCKERS.
i leave you with a poem about how i'm going to get hammered tonight:
i saw him across the pub.
he saw me & his breath quickened. then he-----squirrel--
bolted (oh yes)
the chase was on.
he got as far as the alley ------wet eyes like crunchy dew----
and i asked him for a breath mint
oh i only have binaca! take it all! don't hurt me!
as if.
i'm going to vegas.
to see elvis.
i tried to get the ee cummings feel, but the last volume i had was eaten by my roommate. there has to be a bookstore somewhere in cardiff. don't you welsh fuckers ever read?
laters, hopefully never again, bitches--
*~*janet~*~
ps-- okay. maybe i'll post more from an internet café. or cousin thomas has wi-fi in the sewer junction. back off. i'm addicted. and also, i'm a weevil. just back off.