Me Am Hulk
27-05-2004, 03:58
***PRE-EMPTIVE APOLOGY*** To all the Spanish Speaking fans out there who read this, I humbly ask not to take offense at the character from Spain in this fic. Don't think of the character as having a heavy accent. Rather, see the character as someone who takes great delight in mangling the English language.
OH! You Pretty Things!
By Me Am Hulk
HYDE PARK - LONDON, ENGLAND - 1968
Helena Katina felt out of place – as usual – among the caterwauling mass of hippies in the vast public park. She was sitting cross legged on a Sherpa mat next to Lionel, her boyfriend of way
too many years. She gazed with half lidded jade eyes as Lionel attacked his sunburst-chassis acoustic guitar with reckless strokes. She grit her teeth as he grated out the lyrics for the Stones’ “Street Fighting Man.” For the past fifteen minutes, Lionel would bungle up the chords and the first line to the second verse, backtrack and start from the first verse, only to snag himself on the second verse AGAIN. Stones riffs are so easy to learn, Helena mused, even a bloody caveman could work them out. But not dear Lionel… oh no.
“Ah said Hey…” Lionel growled like Jagger while he abused the guitar, “said the… TIME … is right… for a Paaaaal-ace… Re… Rev… Revo-lu… looooo… looosh… um, Rev-o-lu-shuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnn… Yeah, that’s it! Re-vo-luuuuuuuuuu-tionnnnn!” He grinned at
Helena, who indulged him with a sweet smile even as she thought, “Good GOD your singing is atrocious! Now PLEASE get onto the next line!”
As she feared though, Lionel kept struggling with that bloody line. Ruining his already awful voice in the process. “Said HEY, the time is RIGHT fo’ a PAL-ace RE-vo-LUUUUU-tion… er, LUUUUUU-shoooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnn…”
Helena decided it was time to be gracious to her boyfriend. She clasped his shoulder and sang in a sensuous voice that did not fit with the song: “But where I live the game to play is compromise so-luuuuuuuuu-tion…”
Lionel regarded her with a blank face for three beats, then said “Yeh, I’m getting ‘round to that, love.”
The smile slowly melted from Helena’s face. Sweet Heaven, she prayed silently, tell me he’s NOT going all the way back to the first line of the first verse!
Her worst fears were soon confirmed. “Ev’rywhere, ah HEAR the SOUND of POUNDING, MARCHING feet…. boy – eeeeeeeeeee!” Lionel – damn his ears and throat – took the song right from the top.
Helena let loose a sigh, making it as musical and theatrical as possible so Lionel would think she was cooing over his rusty pipes. She rustled her globe of curls and lay back on her Sherpa mat. She scanned the blue skies idly, took a breath, and fixed her ears on any sound in the park that would deliver her from Lionel’s Jagger-isms. All her acute ears could pick up though were ragged abuses of the Beatles-Stones-Hendrix-Dylan catalogs.
“Let… let me, uh… let me take you down, ‘cos I’m going to…”
“Pa-ra-chute Wo-maaaaannnn… Land on me to-niiiiiiiight…”
“Let me stand next to your fire… no, that’s not it…”
“Johnniesinthebasementmixinupthemedicineimonthep avementthinkinboutdagubuhmintmaninatrenchcoat… got a bad… cough… FUCK! Johnniesinthebasementthinkin- NO! Johnniesinthabackdoormaaaaaan…”
“One million chimps with typewriters and not a bloody one can write ‘Hamlet’,” Helena murmured with a groan. She resigned herself to falling asleep for an hour or so when a bold voice in a high register pushed its way through the cacophony. It grew louder, meaning the singer grew closer. Helena propped herself on her elbows and scanned the entire park, seeking the source of the voice which grew louder and closer.
Her eyes fixed on a bizarre sight. Just a few feet away, a slim diminutive creature weaved through the obstacle course of stringy-haired vagabonds. The creature’s dark hair was in a neatly trimmed mop-top, wore sunglasses, a penciled-in moustache and what looked like the pinstripe vest, shirt, tie and pants of a business suit. The fetching thing pressed its figngers in its ears,sang in a mellifluous, girlish voice that contrasted with the butch outfit. The lyrics were Spanish:
Dulce esta el sueno mano a mano / Mas dulce esta el sueno corazon a mismo!*
“Sweet is the sleep of hand to hand, sweeter still the sleep of heart to heart,” Lena murmured. To her surprise, the singing Spaniard leapt over a couple snogging in the grass, and got in the face of her boyfriend, Lionel. The Spaniard’s voice took on an adversarial rasp.
“Oye! Hey joo, meester! Do us de favor, ZHAAT UP!”
*Translated from Sumerian Hymn
OH! You Pretty Things!
By Me Am Hulk
HYDE PARK - LONDON, ENGLAND - 1968
Helena Katina felt out of place – as usual – among the caterwauling mass of hippies in the vast public park. She was sitting cross legged on a Sherpa mat next to Lionel, her boyfriend of way
too many years. She gazed with half lidded jade eyes as Lionel attacked his sunburst-chassis acoustic guitar with reckless strokes. She grit her teeth as he grated out the lyrics for the Stones’ “Street Fighting Man.” For the past fifteen minutes, Lionel would bungle up the chords and the first line to the second verse, backtrack and start from the first verse, only to snag himself on the second verse AGAIN. Stones riffs are so easy to learn, Helena mused, even a bloody caveman could work them out. But not dear Lionel… oh no.
“Ah said Hey…” Lionel growled like Jagger while he abused the guitar, “said the… TIME … is right… for a Paaaaal-ace… Re… Rev… Revo-lu… looooo… looosh… um, Rev-o-lu-shuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnn… Yeah, that’s it! Re-vo-luuuuuuuuuu-tionnnnn!” He grinned at
Helena, who indulged him with a sweet smile even as she thought, “Good GOD your singing is atrocious! Now PLEASE get onto the next line!”
As she feared though, Lionel kept struggling with that bloody line. Ruining his already awful voice in the process. “Said HEY, the time is RIGHT fo’ a PAL-ace RE-vo-LUUUUU-tion… er, LUUUUUU-shoooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnn…”
Helena decided it was time to be gracious to her boyfriend. She clasped his shoulder and sang in a sensuous voice that did not fit with the song: “But where I live the game to play is compromise so-luuuuuuuuu-tion…”
Lionel regarded her with a blank face for three beats, then said “Yeh, I’m getting ‘round to that, love.”
The smile slowly melted from Helena’s face. Sweet Heaven, she prayed silently, tell me he’s NOT going all the way back to the first line of the first verse!
Her worst fears were soon confirmed. “Ev’rywhere, ah HEAR the SOUND of POUNDING, MARCHING feet…. boy – eeeeeeeeeee!” Lionel – damn his ears and throat – took the song right from the top.
Helena let loose a sigh, making it as musical and theatrical as possible so Lionel would think she was cooing over his rusty pipes. She rustled her globe of curls and lay back on her Sherpa mat. She scanned the blue skies idly, took a breath, and fixed her ears on any sound in the park that would deliver her from Lionel’s Jagger-isms. All her acute ears could pick up though were ragged abuses of the Beatles-Stones-Hendrix-Dylan catalogs.
“Let… let me, uh… let me take you down, ‘cos I’m going to…”
“Pa-ra-chute Wo-maaaaannnn… Land on me to-niiiiiiiight…”
“Let me stand next to your fire… no, that’s not it…”
“Johnniesinthebasementmixinupthemedicineimonthep avementthinkinboutdagubuhmintmaninatrenchcoat… got a bad… cough… FUCK! Johnniesinthebasementthinkin- NO! Johnniesinthabackdoormaaaaaan…”
“One million chimps with typewriters and not a bloody one can write ‘Hamlet’,” Helena murmured with a groan. She resigned herself to falling asleep for an hour or so when a bold voice in a high register pushed its way through the cacophony. It grew louder, meaning the singer grew closer. Helena propped herself on her elbows and scanned the entire park, seeking the source of the voice which grew louder and closer.
Her eyes fixed on a bizarre sight. Just a few feet away, a slim diminutive creature weaved through the obstacle course of stringy-haired vagabonds. The creature’s dark hair was in a neatly trimmed mop-top, wore sunglasses, a penciled-in moustache and what looked like the pinstripe vest, shirt, tie and pants of a business suit. The fetching thing pressed its figngers in its ears,sang in a mellifluous, girlish voice that contrasted with the butch outfit. The lyrics were Spanish:
Dulce esta el sueno mano a mano / Mas dulce esta el sueno corazon a mismo!*
“Sweet is the sleep of hand to hand, sweeter still the sleep of heart to heart,” Lena murmured. To her surprise, the singing Spaniard leapt over a couple snogging in the grass, and got in the face of her boyfriend, Lionel. The Spaniard’s voice took on an adversarial rasp.
“Oye! Hey joo, meester! Do us de favor, ZHAAT UP!”
*Translated from Sumerian Hymn