Drabble (Not) 200-The T Stands for "Thriller"
Today's Wiki article: "Thriller" (YESSSSSSSSSS)
Today's prompt: ...Thriller!
Title: The T Stands for "Thriller"
Characters: Kirk, Bones (not to be mistaken with Kirk/Bones)
Rating: R (ridiculous amounts of swearing; talk of Kirk's manhood)
Summary: Twenty-six beers deep into a boy's night, Kirk and McCoy get a listen at McCoy's collection of hits from the 20th century.
Important Notice: This prompt was too epic to do it in 200 words. It's now 1650. XD
A/N : When I first got the prompt, I was excited but almost abandoned it. How could I make Michael Jackson work with TREK?! Moonwalk was too easy. Red Jacket = Red Shirt just didn't work...until the_odd_one came up with a viciously brilliant idea...
Thank you, darling, for being my muse. :)
"Don't throw it, for fuck's sake, man!" Kirk shouted, fumbling around a bottle of beer in his fingers.
McCoy rolled his eyes, cracking open a new beer of his own. "Just don't open it for a second, jackass."
Kirk was too excited and parched to listen to McCoy now. "But I'm thirsty!" he cried as he picked the bottle opener off of McCoy's desk. He put it under the cap and and pushed the opener down. The bottle then erupted with foam, soaking Kirk's face, shirt and seat. He threw the foaming bottle to his mouth, trying to save some of his precious beer. When he tipped his head back so far he almost fell out of his chair, McCoy couldn't contain his laughter anymore.
"Fuckin'...fucker!" Kirk mumbled, slamming the bottle down on the table. It was mainly empty, save for some foam he didn't care to swallow. "See what happens when you throw bottles of beer?"
From Kirk's overuse of obscenities to McCoy's uncontrollable laughter, it was obvious to anyone walking by McCoy's private quarters that Kirk and McCoy were having a boy's night and were deep into their own cases of beer. Twenty-three bottles were haphazardly placed on McCoy's currently empty desk.
Wait, make that twenty-four.
McCoy stopped his laughter for one second to slam the rest of his own beer (which was unfoamy and perfectly suitable for chugging) and then throw it onto the desk. It crashed into other bottles, knocking them over and sending some to the floor. He started laughing-again-at a bottle that was still spinning on its side as he tipped his chair much too far back to reach into the fridge for two more beers.
"If you fall out of that and shake my fuckin' beer up again, I will pour the foam down your god damn throat," Kirk threatened, huffing once.
But McCoy did not fall out of his chair. He came back up to a normal sitting position with a beer in each hand and a satisfied look on his face. He placed one between his legs, opened his own, then picked up Kirk's to hand it to him. Just as Kirk reached his hand out, McCoy turned the bottle on his palm...three times. Kirk's hand stopped in mid-air, and his eyes focused evilly on his CMO. McCoy's satisfied look quickly turned into a shit-eating grin. Kirk would have none of this fuckery.
He quickly snatched the bottle in McCoy's hand, dove for the opener as he shook the bottle aggressively, then opened the bottle as fast as he could. McCoy was in the process of preparing himself for what was going to be a face full of beer, but he wasn't fast enough. Some caught him right in the eyes. McCoy started laughing yet again as Kirk stood from his chair, pouring the rest of the beer over his head.
"Does it taste flat, Bones? It should, because that's what happens when you shake beer," Kirk said, trying to hold back his own laughter this time. His anger turned to a smile when he realized how much his friend reeked of Budweiser and how much lager was running into his eyes. Just as he plopped himself back down into his chair, McCoy stuck his own beer out for Kirk. It was not foamy, just how Kirk wanted it.
"I will get you back for this," McCoy smirked, reaching behind him again to get yet another beer.
"I warned you fair and square." Kirk returned the smirk, then threw back a deep pull from the brown bottle.
It was a rare minute of silence, but they were both too busy concentrating on enhancing their levels of intoxication to notice the buzz of the stillness around them. Well, for a second.
"Have we really been sitting in pure silence for the past hour?" Kirk said with exasperation as he caught the bright red numbers of McCoy's bedside clock. It read 0122. Wait, did it? Really?
McCoy looked at his own clock as well. He looked at it far longer than he should of, rubbed his eyes, then pulled his face back. "I think it's been two hours. I think."
"I don't really care how long we've been drinking just as long as we are both incredibly drunk. We haven't done this in forever, Bones-y," Kirk slurred, holding his bottle up in the air. McCoy mimicked, and they both chugged the rest of their bottles. When both the bottles hit the desk at the same time, McCoy spun the chair around so he was facing the fridge.
"I'll get more beer, you put on some music. The cheesier the better, please."
Kirk almost fell over as he stood up. He had to place his hand on McCoy's bed as he stumbled to the other side of it, where a computer sat. Kirk rummaged through playlists with one eye open and his tongue stuck out in concentration. When he ran across one playlist he stopped for a second, slowly turned his head back to McCoy (who was trying to twist off the untwistable caps), then back at the computer.
"You really have a collection of hits from the 20th fuckin' century," Kirk mumbled. It wasn't a question. It had tones of disbelief in it. A statement he had to repeat to make it real.
"Yuuupppp. Great for nights like these."
"I probably won't even know two of these songs but we're gonna give it a go, an-y-way," Kirk said as he pressed on the first song. High notes from quick-moving electric guitars filled the private quarters. Kirk was taken back. "What the fuck is this?"
"It's a hair band. 1980s. They're called...Venom. No. Toxin. Fuck! What is it...Poison."
Kirk continued to stare at the screen as he inched his way back to his seat; he wasn't even gonna ask what a "hair band" was. He didn't even look for his beer; he just let his hand idly search for the bottle on the desk. He picked up three empty bottles before he finally found the full one. Once again, not foamy. McCoy was on a roll.
They slowed down their paces a little bit, starting to get too into the ridiculous music that was pulsing through the room. A couple disco hits (when McCoy tried to explain disco he choked on beer and coughed for two minutes straight), some Frank Sinatra..."Cat Scratch Fever"...a young female singing "hit me, baby, one more time" (Kirk thoroughly enjoyed the lyrics to that one)...
Then it stopped on one that started out slow. And scary, as Kirk pretty much put it. He hit the bottle off of his teeth as he flailed in his seat. His eyes looked suddenly alert as footsteps rang throughout the track.
"Do you mind telling me what kind of fuckin' music this is or are we really being attacked by strangers with heavy footsteps?" Kirk's instincts told him to bolt for the hallway so he could fight this...fucker.
Just as he got up to check the situation out, McCoy rolled his eyes and yanked on the captain's jacket sleeve to sit him back down. "This is a great song, thank you. It's a pop hit from the 80s. Guy's name was Michael Jackson."
The music started to build up as McCoy took another deep pull. When it reached it's highest notes, Kirk's bewildered face snapped to McCoy. "You've got to be fuckin' kidding me."
"You start to screeeeaaam!" McCoy sang, moving his head to the beat. Kirk could not believe what he was seeing. The bewilderment on his face grew even more apparent.
McCoy continued to jam to the song; Kirk continued to be amazed. Scared, even. Not at the lyrics and background instrumentals anymore; no, no, but by his fully-grown CMO.
A couple minutes into the song McCoy stopped suddenly. He listened for a second before bursting into even harder laughter than he had previously in the night. He doubled over, dropping his beer to the ground with a dull thud. He instinctively even slapped his knee a couple times. Kirk was worried that McCoy had gone insane.
"What? I don't...Bones, what the fuck is going on?"
"Listen, just listen," he said, in between bits of laughter. "The lyrics...it's like the...theme song..."
Kirk waited for him to finish but he never did. Peeved, he chugged the remainder of that beer before asking McCoy to finish his sentence.
"'You hear the door slam and realize there's nowhere left to run'? 'You feel the cold hand and wonder if you'll ever see the sun'? Kirk...this is your new nickname."
"What?" Kirk shouted, not sure if he heard his best friend correctly.
"You've been lookin' for a nickname for your dick since we fuckin' started at Starfleet. This...this is the nickname!" McCoy exclaimed, excitement joining the amusement on his face. "The lyrics fit perfectly!"
Kirk wanted to believe in this (he had been trying to come up with suitable name for years) but, really? After a horrible pop song about creatures in the night? He would hate for girls to know where the name came from. The name was fantastic, but the reasoning? Not so much. "Thriller? Really?"
"Wait!" McCoy had noticed it just as Kirk had. He violently rolled his eyes when McCoy started laughing again. "James T Kirk...James Thriller Kirk..."
"Wait, aren't these lyrics sounding evil? I'm far from evil. You can ask the dozens of women-"
"'There's demons closing around on every siidddeeeee...'"
"I'm getting the fuck out of here before you make another other stabs at my fuckin' pride. I am not evil," Kirk said as he stood up. "I'm a fuckin' saint. Go ask Lieutenant Harley. Her and I had a great time last night. She will tell you what's up."
McCoy kept going."'Your body starts to shiver, for no mere mortal can resist the evil of the Thriller."
"I fuckin' hate you," Kirk spat as he quickly marched-rather, stumbled-out of the quarters, leaving McCoy to continue laughing.
Today's prompt: ...Thriller!
Title: The T Stands for "Thriller"
Characters: Kirk, Bones (not to be mistaken with Kirk/Bones)
Rating: R (ridiculous amounts of swearing; talk of Kirk's manhood)
Summary: Twenty-six beers deep into a boy's night, Kirk and McCoy get a listen at McCoy's collection of hits from the 20th century.
Important Notice: This prompt was too epic to do it in 200 words. It's now 1650. XD
A/N : When I first got the prompt, I was excited but almost abandoned it. How could I make Michael Jackson work with TREK?! Moonwalk was too easy. Red Jacket = Red Shirt just didn't work...until the_odd_one came up with a viciously brilliant idea...
Thank you, darling, for being my muse. :)
"Don't throw it, for fuck's sake, man!" Kirk shouted, fumbling around a bottle of beer in his fingers.
McCoy rolled his eyes, cracking open a new beer of his own. "Just don't open it for a second, jackass."
Kirk was too excited and parched to listen to McCoy now. "But I'm thirsty!" he cried as he picked the bottle opener off of McCoy's desk. He put it under the cap and and pushed the opener down. The bottle then erupted with foam, soaking Kirk's face, shirt and seat. He threw the foaming bottle to his mouth, trying to save some of his precious beer. When he tipped his head back so far he almost fell out of his chair, McCoy couldn't contain his laughter anymore.
"Fuckin'...fucker!" Kirk mumbled, slamming the bottle down on the table. It was mainly empty, save for some foam he didn't care to swallow. "See what happens when you throw bottles of beer?"
From Kirk's overuse of obscenities to McCoy's uncontrollable laughter, it was obvious to anyone walking by McCoy's private quarters that Kirk and McCoy were having a boy's night and were deep into their own cases of beer. Twenty-three bottles were haphazardly placed on McCoy's currently empty desk.
Wait, make that twenty-four.
McCoy stopped his laughter for one second to slam the rest of his own beer (which was unfoamy and perfectly suitable for chugging) and then throw it onto the desk. It crashed into other bottles, knocking them over and sending some to the floor. He started laughing-again-at a bottle that was still spinning on its side as he tipped his chair much too far back to reach into the fridge for two more beers.
"If you fall out of that and shake my fuckin' beer up again, I will pour the foam down your god damn throat," Kirk threatened, huffing once.
But McCoy did not fall out of his chair. He came back up to a normal sitting position with a beer in each hand and a satisfied look on his face. He placed one between his legs, opened his own, then picked up Kirk's to hand it to him. Just as Kirk reached his hand out, McCoy turned the bottle on his palm...three times. Kirk's hand stopped in mid-air, and his eyes focused evilly on his CMO. McCoy's satisfied look quickly turned into a shit-eating grin. Kirk would have none of this fuckery.
He quickly snatched the bottle in McCoy's hand, dove for the opener as he shook the bottle aggressively, then opened the bottle as fast as he could. McCoy was in the process of preparing himself for what was going to be a face full of beer, but he wasn't fast enough. Some caught him right in the eyes. McCoy started laughing yet again as Kirk stood from his chair, pouring the rest of the beer over his head.
"Does it taste flat, Bones? It should, because that's what happens when you shake beer," Kirk said, trying to hold back his own laughter this time. His anger turned to a smile when he realized how much his friend reeked of Budweiser and how much lager was running into his eyes. Just as he plopped himself back down into his chair, McCoy stuck his own beer out for Kirk. It was not foamy, just how Kirk wanted it.
"I will get you back for this," McCoy smirked, reaching behind him again to get yet another beer.
"I warned you fair and square." Kirk returned the smirk, then threw back a deep pull from the brown bottle.
It was a rare minute of silence, but they were both too busy concentrating on enhancing their levels of intoxication to notice the buzz of the stillness around them. Well, for a second.
"Have we really been sitting in pure silence for the past hour?" Kirk said with exasperation as he caught the bright red numbers of McCoy's bedside clock. It read 0122. Wait, did it? Really?
McCoy looked at his own clock as well. He looked at it far longer than he should of, rubbed his eyes, then pulled his face back. "I think it's been two hours. I think."
"I don't really care how long we've been drinking just as long as we are both incredibly drunk. We haven't done this in forever, Bones-y," Kirk slurred, holding his bottle up in the air. McCoy mimicked, and they both chugged the rest of their bottles. When both the bottles hit the desk at the same time, McCoy spun the chair around so he was facing the fridge.
"I'll get more beer, you put on some music. The cheesier the better, please."
Kirk almost fell over as he stood up. He had to place his hand on McCoy's bed as he stumbled to the other side of it, where a computer sat. Kirk rummaged through playlists with one eye open and his tongue stuck out in concentration. When he ran across one playlist he stopped for a second, slowly turned his head back to McCoy (who was trying to twist off the untwistable caps), then back at the computer.
"You really have a collection of hits from the 20th fuckin' century," Kirk mumbled. It wasn't a question. It had tones of disbelief in it. A statement he had to repeat to make it real.
"Yuuupppp. Great for nights like these."
"I probably won't even know two of these songs but we're gonna give it a go, an-y-way," Kirk said as he pressed on the first song. High notes from quick-moving electric guitars filled the private quarters. Kirk was taken back. "What the fuck is this?"
"It's a hair band. 1980s. They're called...Venom. No. Toxin. Fuck! What is it...Poison."
Kirk continued to stare at the screen as he inched his way back to his seat; he wasn't even gonna ask what a "hair band" was. He didn't even look for his beer; he just let his hand idly search for the bottle on the desk. He picked up three empty bottles before he finally found the full one. Once again, not foamy. McCoy was on a roll.
They slowed down their paces a little bit, starting to get too into the ridiculous music that was pulsing through the room. A couple disco hits (when McCoy tried to explain disco he choked on beer and coughed for two minutes straight), some Frank Sinatra..."Cat Scratch Fever"...a young female singing "hit me, baby, one more time" (Kirk thoroughly enjoyed the lyrics to that one)...
Then it stopped on one that started out slow. And scary, as Kirk pretty much put it. He hit the bottle off of his teeth as he flailed in his seat. His eyes looked suddenly alert as footsteps rang throughout the track.
"Do you mind telling me what kind of fuckin' music this is or are we really being attacked by strangers with heavy footsteps?" Kirk's instincts told him to bolt for the hallway so he could fight this...fucker.
Just as he got up to check the situation out, McCoy rolled his eyes and yanked on the captain's jacket sleeve to sit him back down. "This is a great song, thank you. It's a pop hit from the 80s. Guy's name was Michael Jackson."
The music started to build up as McCoy took another deep pull. When it reached it's highest notes, Kirk's bewildered face snapped to McCoy. "You've got to be fuckin' kidding me."
"You start to screeeeaaam!" McCoy sang, moving his head to the beat. Kirk could not believe what he was seeing. The bewilderment on his face grew even more apparent.
McCoy continued to jam to the song; Kirk continued to be amazed. Scared, even. Not at the lyrics and background instrumentals anymore; no, no, but by his fully-grown CMO.
A couple minutes into the song McCoy stopped suddenly. He listened for a second before bursting into even harder laughter than he had previously in the night. He doubled over, dropping his beer to the ground with a dull thud. He instinctively even slapped his knee a couple times. Kirk was worried that McCoy had gone insane.
"What? I don't...Bones, what the fuck is going on?"
"Listen, just listen," he said, in between bits of laughter. "The lyrics...it's like the...theme song..."
Kirk waited for him to finish but he never did. Peeved, he chugged the remainder of that beer before asking McCoy to finish his sentence.
"'You hear the door slam and realize there's nowhere left to run'? 'You feel the cold hand and wonder if you'll ever see the sun'? Kirk...this is your new nickname."
"What?" Kirk shouted, not sure if he heard his best friend correctly.
"You've been lookin' for a nickname for your dick since we fuckin' started at Starfleet. This...this is the nickname!" McCoy exclaimed, excitement joining the amusement on his face. "The lyrics fit perfectly!"
Kirk wanted to believe in this (he had been trying to come up with suitable name for years) but, really? After a horrible pop song about creatures in the night? He would hate for girls to know where the name came from. The name was fantastic, but the reasoning? Not so much. "Thriller? Really?"
"Wait!" McCoy had noticed it just as Kirk had. He violently rolled his eyes when McCoy started laughing again. "James T Kirk...James Thriller Kirk..."
"Wait, aren't these lyrics sounding evil? I'm far from evil. You can ask the dozens of women-"
"'There's demons closing around on every siidddeeeee...'"
"I'm getting the fuck out of here before you make another other stabs at my fuckin' pride. I am not evil," Kirk said as he stood up. "I'm a fuckin' saint. Go ask Lieutenant Harley. Her and I had a great time last night. She will tell you what's up."
McCoy kept going."'Your body starts to shiver, for no mere mortal can resist the evil of the Thriller."
"I fuckin' hate you," Kirk spat as he quickly marched-rather, stumbled-out of the quarters, leaving McCoy to continue laughing.