fic: god save the queen - and the ninjas, too (tww/hp/to/30r)
god save the queen - and the ninjas, too
the west wing, harry potter, the office, 30 rock. it's like one giant practical joke after another, isn't it, mr. prime minister? gen. 945 words. pg.
notes: crossover city! for captaincatapult, who requested for the six degrees of separation meme Jed Bartlet, Karen Filipelli, Tracy Jordan and Fred Weasley. and i delivered, lol. consider all timelines to have been fudged to fit. no real spoilers.
1.
“Mr. President!”
“And, Mr. Prime Minister!”
The latter pounds the former on the back in greeting.
“Have a seat, sir. Do, have a seat.”
President Bartlet does.
“Now, what’s all this unpleasantness I’ve been hearing about today? Down in London, something about red smoke? A bomb? The people are red, I hear?”
“Oh, that,” Tony Blair demurs. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, turns out nothing to be alarmed over. No worries there, old pal.”
“No worries? Mr. Prime Minister, did a bomb or did it not go off this afternoon in a London shopping center?”
“In a certain stretch of the words…yes. But, see. It was just a little mix-up, accidental, courtesy of….er, Weasleys’ Wizards Wheees.”
“You’re telling me this has to do with a joke shop?”
Tony Blair chuckles. “Oh, sir. This is no ordinary joke shop.”
Jed Bartlet appears to accept this. Prime Minister Blair reaches into his pocket.
“Canary cream?”
2.
“Bloody hell, mate. We didn’t order these!”
George throws his hands down in total dissatisfaction. Fred shakes his head, holds up a sheet of paper.
“Oh no. We most certainly did not.”
See, it started well over a month ago, back in the beginning stages of the establishment of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
Firstly, there had been some disastrous first starts to testing various products, including, perhaps, setting off an accidental explosive device in the more crowded part of London. But nothing bad happened. Except some people had their skin dyed red for the better part of a week. But, other than that. Nothing bad.
And then there had been the issue of advertising. And, sure, Harry had been totally brill and given them all that money and gold, but it only goes so far, right? They really had to watch the pocketbook, so to speak.
And they had. They did responsible, adult things like price comparisons and research and stuff, and when it came down to it, as bizarre and ridiculous as it now seems in retrospect, some random, small paper company in the States - “Dunder-Mifflin? This a joke, mate?” - turned out to be their best bet.
Or so they thought.
“Ugh,” Fred groans, pilfering through endless stacks of useless paper. “Get me Dad’s fellytone.”
It takes them six trials before they dial out correctly -
Four less tries than last time.
3.
“Dunder-Mifflin! How can I help you!”
There is the rustling of paper and a frown of concentration on the receptionist’s face.
“I’ll put you through to Miss Filipelli, sir!”
She does.
“Karen Filipelli,” Karen says as a greeting.
“Er, yes, ah, can you hear me?” comes the voice from the other end, a loud shout in a really distracting British accent. “Can you hear me, ma’am? CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
Karen holds the phone away from her ear.
“Yes, sir. Yes, I can.” She frowns. It’s going to be one of those days. “What is it that we can help you with today?”
“It’s like this, right?” the voice yells. “We ordered a significant amount of paper…er, papers? from you and it seems as though you have shipped us the wrong ones, yes. And of course, we could have, you know, conjured our own papers for ads and what have you, had we bloody well felt like it, maybe a spot of transfiguration - ouch. Right. We just thought we’d do this right. Have some professional…uh, reputabilitiness.”
Karen is positive she didn’t understand ninety percent of what this man just said. And it’s not just because of the accent. She is also positive reputabilitiness is a totally made up word. Well, almost positive.
“I’m sorry, sir? I don’t follow.”
“It’s like this, love. We got the wrong order. We got the wrong, totally disgusting order, and, mate, that’s saying a lot coming from the two of us.”
Karen does some typing on the computer, some searching, both of which can be heard over the phone; Fred and George exchange confused glances. Just as Fred opens his mouth to yell, ma’am? Karen speaks.
“It seems,” she says slowly, trepidation shading her words, “your order was shipped by mistake, to one…
Tracy Jordan in New York City.”
It is so going to be one of those days.
4.
“What is this? What on the Martians’ green earth is this?”
Tracy throws an enormous amount of paper up into the air. Kenneth watches it rain down with a bemused expression, as par usual.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Jordan?”
“This, Kenneth. This!” He holds up a blank sheet of white paper with red trim in Kenneth’s face. “Kenneth, two weeks ago I picked up the phone. And I said, ‘Hello, you have the wrong number, sir. We only sell waffles on Thursdays. Good bye!’ And then! Then, I picked up the phone again, and I dialed a number and they said, ‘You have reached Dribbling Muffins, how can we be of assistance?’ And I said, ‘You sell paper, right? And I don’t mean no New York Times or Washington Post or no Western Nebraska Observer, you hear?’ And they heard, Kenneth. They heard.”
Tracy shakes his head, seemingly overwhelmed by the current situation he finds himself in. White paper with red trim and the heading Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes emblazoned across the top litters his dressing room.
“How am I going to write Jackie Chan my letters of recognition, adoration and regard without my pornographic ninja stationery? I ask you, Kenneth - how?”
Breaking news on the television in the background: the people in London are all dyed red.
fin.
the west wing, harry potter, the office, 30 rock. it's like one giant practical joke after another, isn't it, mr. prime minister? gen. 945 words. pg.
notes: crossover city! for captaincatapult, who requested for the six degrees of separation meme Jed Bartlet, Karen Filipelli, Tracy Jordan and Fred Weasley. and i delivered, lol. consider all timelines to have been fudged to fit. no real spoilers.
1.
“Mr. President!”
“And, Mr. Prime Minister!”
The latter pounds the former on the back in greeting.
“Have a seat, sir. Do, have a seat.”
President Bartlet does.
“Now, what’s all this unpleasantness I’ve been hearing about today? Down in London, something about red smoke? A bomb? The people are red, I hear?”
“Oh, that,” Tony Blair demurs. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, turns out nothing to be alarmed over. No worries there, old pal.”
“No worries? Mr. Prime Minister, did a bomb or did it not go off this afternoon in a London shopping center?”
“In a certain stretch of the words…yes. But, see. It was just a little mix-up, accidental, courtesy of….er, Weasleys’ Wizards Wheees.”
“You’re telling me this has to do with a joke shop?”
Tony Blair chuckles. “Oh, sir. This is no ordinary joke shop.”
Jed Bartlet appears to accept this. Prime Minister Blair reaches into his pocket.
“Canary cream?”
2.
“Bloody hell, mate. We didn’t order these!”
George throws his hands down in total dissatisfaction. Fred shakes his head, holds up a sheet of paper.
“Oh no. We most certainly did not.”
See, it started well over a month ago, back in the beginning stages of the establishment of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
Firstly, there had been some disastrous first starts to testing various products, including, perhaps, setting off an accidental explosive device in the more crowded part of London. But nothing bad happened. Except some people had their skin dyed red for the better part of a week. But, other than that. Nothing bad.
And then there had been the issue of advertising. And, sure, Harry had been totally brill and given them all that money and gold, but it only goes so far, right? They really had to watch the pocketbook, so to speak.
And they had. They did responsible, adult things like price comparisons and research and stuff, and when it came down to it, as bizarre and ridiculous as it now seems in retrospect, some random, small paper company in the States - “Dunder-Mifflin? This a joke, mate?” - turned out to be their best bet.
Or so they thought.
“Ugh,” Fred groans, pilfering through endless stacks of useless paper. “Get me Dad’s fellytone.”
It takes them six trials before they dial out correctly -
Four less tries than last time.
3.
“Dunder-Mifflin! How can I help you!”
There is the rustling of paper and a frown of concentration on the receptionist’s face.
“I’ll put you through to Miss Filipelli, sir!”
She does.
“Karen Filipelli,” Karen says as a greeting.
“Er, yes, ah, can you hear me?” comes the voice from the other end, a loud shout in a really distracting British accent. “Can you hear me, ma’am? CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
Karen holds the phone away from her ear.
“Yes, sir. Yes, I can.” She frowns. It’s going to be one of those days. “What is it that we can help you with today?”
“It’s like this, right?” the voice yells. “We ordered a significant amount of paper…er, papers? from you and it seems as though you have shipped us the wrong ones, yes. And of course, we could have, you know, conjured our own papers for ads and what have you, had we bloody well felt like it, maybe a spot of transfiguration - ouch. Right. We just thought we’d do this right. Have some professional…uh, reputabilitiness.”
Karen is positive she didn’t understand ninety percent of what this man just said. And it’s not just because of the accent. She is also positive reputabilitiness is a totally made up word. Well, almost positive.
“I’m sorry, sir? I don’t follow.”
“It’s like this, love. We got the wrong order. We got the wrong, totally disgusting order, and, mate, that’s saying a lot coming from the two of us.”
Karen does some typing on the computer, some searching, both of which can be heard over the phone; Fred and George exchange confused glances. Just as Fred opens his mouth to yell, ma’am? Karen speaks.
“It seems,” she says slowly, trepidation shading her words, “your order was shipped by mistake, to one…
Tracy Jordan in New York City.”
It is so going to be one of those days.
4.
“What is this? What on the Martians’ green earth is this?”
Tracy throws an enormous amount of paper up into the air. Kenneth watches it rain down with a bemused expression, as par usual.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Jordan?”
“This, Kenneth. This!” He holds up a blank sheet of white paper with red trim in Kenneth’s face. “Kenneth, two weeks ago I picked up the phone. And I said, ‘Hello, you have the wrong number, sir. We only sell waffles on Thursdays. Good bye!’ And then! Then, I picked up the phone again, and I dialed a number and they said, ‘You have reached Dribbling Muffins, how can we be of assistance?’ And I said, ‘You sell paper, right? And I don’t mean no New York Times or Washington Post or no Western Nebraska Observer, you hear?’ And they heard, Kenneth. They heard.”
Tracy shakes his head, seemingly overwhelmed by the current situation he finds himself in. White paper with red trim and the heading Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes emblazoned across the top litters his dressing room.
“How am I going to write Jackie Chan my letters of recognition, adoration and regard without my pornographic ninja stationery? I ask you, Kenneth - how?”
Breaking news on the television in the background: the people in London are all dyed red.
fin.