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01 October 2007 @ 11:15 am
Prison Break Gen Crack: SONA, Arma, Muerto, Loco  
Title: SONA, Arma, Muerto, Loco
Author: HalfshellVenus
Characters: The whole damn crew, pretty much (Gen, Humor, Crack)
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: The beginning of Season 3 from an irredeemably rude perspective.
Author's Notes: No-one is spared, I'm telling you. Consider yourself warned.

x-x-x-x-x

It was dark when Michael came there, dark and rainy and dismal. Like Bladerunner, but without the flying cars.

I'm in Hell, he'd thought then, And I don't even speak the language.

By daylight, it doesn't look much better. Deranged prisoners and dirt everywhere, probably scorpions under the beds. And cooties, definitely cooties. Waterfall Zen…Frank Lloyd Wright, Michael intones to himself. A prisoner hacking up a lung in the next cell over breaks his concentration. Mommy! he thinks, but she's as dead as the hope he lost when they brought him in the night before.

A gladiator event breaks out at midday, half-naked thick-necked men steaming in the sun while the prisoners cheer like South Sea savages in a 1940s Hollywood movie.

Haven't these people ever heard of lockdown? But the guards are nowhere to be seen.

The better-looking man falls to the dust like a downed bull in a stadium, and Michael closes his eyes. Oh, my innocence…

*

Mahone's feeling twitchy-edgy-twitchy without his morning pill. He tried to plan ahead for the long trip, but there was stress and now there's more stress and he needs a pill already and that dealer is so fucking fired! He's about ready to kill someone right now, maybe starting with the lumpy mattress rotting in his cell. Fuck this place!

At least his hair looks good.

*

People say it's hot down in Panama, but Scofield's wearing a sweatshirt and long pants, so he clearly doesn't mind. Not that Bellick's thinking about Scofield, because he's totally lip-porn not. Jesus, where did that come from? Need some fucking water.

Bellick can't complain about the heat much—he's oddly cool, though his skin's turning red under the dirt. Wonder what happened to my clothes?

When he remembers that he's in a South American prison, he panics and does a butt-check. Still sacred, thank god. But how long can I keep it that way?

*

"So, Michael," Mahone starts in, all hand-on-the-shoulder-I'd-like-to-get-to-know-you-better friendly, "How 'bout busting me out of here? We're simpatico now."

"No deal, Daddy-killer." Damn Scofield's always so fucking dismissive.

Who? What? Did I really— okay, I guess I did. But that was so three weeks ago! We've moved beyond that now! "But Michael—"

"Die, you Fibbie scum." Scofield's gone, and Mahone's meal-ticket with him. Damn.

Mahone drifts back toward his cell, but someone comes up on the left.

"Señor—"

"Ngagh!" Mahone's blade is in the man's throat, as he staggers to the ground.

"Agua—" the man croaks out.

Oops. A little premature there, maybe. Oh well… He pushes the body out of the way and continues on back to his special bench for some quality brooding.

*

"Help me, Linc!" Michael works the tears up good, but Lincoln just looks at him like the third wheel on a date. Crap—the cachet from the Fox River miracle sure as hell didn't last.

"I'm looking into it, Michael, all that stuff. Suck it up, already."

Lincoln sounds bored and he looks like Darth Vader without the helmet because someone let him get at a razor again on the outside.

"I'll try," Michael sniffles as Lincoln walks away.

At least I'm the prettiest again, you ungrateful lummox. Chew on that one 'til you choke. Hah!

Michael practically skips back to the courtyard on that thought.

*

It's absolutely filthy in this place— completely unsanitary, and T-Bag isn't even sure the plumbing is real. I'll catch my death…

They'd better be paying him well for this little adventure. He's back in the pen—worse than ever—and he's kowtowing to a man with the wrong color and language to command the kind of allegiance T-Bag never really gives. It's a disgrace, no question about it.

His needs have changed since he first left Fox River, and he doesn't plan to linger this far South. It's hard to come by parts around here, and he's got one dead hand already and a stab wound that nearly severed half the tendons in his wrist. Slows a man down.

Theodore had promised himself he'd kill fifty people by his fiftieth birthday, and he's down twenty-count still and not that many years remaining. He'll pick up some numbers here if he has to, but the idea lacks a certain satisfaction.

A man should love what he does

*

The downstairs of the place is just nasty, but Bellick stays silent. Guys in their underwear have to stick together, and maybe his new friend will find them food and water. Or something near enough to survive on, anyway, because Bellick's this close to recycling his own urine right now.

Maybe the risk of being Avocado's personal butt-boy wasn't so bad. Nah—that's crazy talk.

They go back upstairs again for the rest of the five-cent tour, but Bellick's newfound companion goes loony in seconds and gets himself shot before what passes for lunch even makes an appearance on the timetable.

Great— gotta find a new date for the fights now…

*

Some kid glommed onto Michael in the prison yard that morning, but all he wanted was to talk sports and to see that American sheen up close. Mahone stopped Michael later on, but it turned out he only wanted a favor—that was all. Now the prison king's called a bunch of them in, but it's for random threats and a debriefing.

Something here is wrong.

Why has no-one hit on me yet? Michael thinks. Is it the sweatshirt? Does it make me look fat? He vows to give it a few more days before ripping the sleeves off for fashion.

*

LJ set up this meeting, but where the hell is he? Kid has no follow-through, Lincoln grouses. Must get it from his mother. Or, got it or whatever the hell it is. Dead people really hurt my brain...

Lincoln wonders who the babe is trying to flirt with him at the bar. Another time he might be interested (Might? Oh, who's he kidding?), but he's trying to be responsible here.

About five minutes later, he's responsible enough not to crush her like a grape when she lays it all out for him. But damn if he doesn't want to.

*

The smells and noises crowd in on Michael as he makes his way back to his cell and bunk. At least he thinks they're his. Hard to tell here—the place is really disorganized. They don't even have a schedule, as far as he can tell.

Something shiny catches his eye on the filthy brown blanket. He picks it up. It's a chicken foot.

Jesus Christ, and I thought the food at Fox River was bad!

*

Sara Tancredi has blood on her hands—metaphoric blood, from the man who wanted to kill Michael and whom she killed instead.

The fact that he was a creep ought to make her feel better, but she's not sure it's working. Dead is dead, and I pulled the trigger.

She has time to think about this again, because she's stuck in a room without windows or television or any kind of distraction. Thank god for air-conditioning. Even henchman must want creature comforts when they're stuck guarding their kidnap victims night and day.

Her hair sucks and she regrets the razor, but it was necessary at the time. When someone nearly kills you (three close calls that she knows of), you get the urge to disappear.

She'd barely set foot in the country, or so it seemed, before she was back in trouble again. All because of Michael…

She'd done some really foolish things all for the sake of blue eyes and a voice like steamy sin, a voice that promised trouble. And damned if she didn't find that trouble, too.

Never again, she vows. Never in a million fucking needlepoint-by-the-fireplace-dying-of-boredom years will I ever—

The door opens, and a man in a cream-colored suit steps in and lets it lock behind him. He's got movie-star looks and a villain's gun, and when he smiles at Sara it's genuine and soft.

Hello, stranger…

*

Michael's got a death sentence waiting for him already, some manufactured fight for the masses. At least I have a plan—gotta have a plan. It's time before he knows it.

He squares his shoulders and edges through the crowd, looking prison-level fine and ready to begin. Blue steel and a burning wit, that's me all the way.

He's feeling prepared until his opponent comes out, an enormous beast of a man whose bulky presence nearly blocks out the sun. Michael versus The Minotaur—I'm fucking doomed! Jesus, he totally hadn't planned for that!

Stick with the plan, stick with the plan. He does his thing, gives his speech, and throws a few punches. Feeling manly now, oh yeah.

"Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah to the death-cakes blah," Lechero announces.

Time stretches on and Michael's opponent gets up, and then he's got a weapon. Oh, fuck!

Michael's still processing that when a black blur whirlwinds in, taking the guy down in seconds.

"All for you, baby," Mahone says coyly. He smiles at Michael like there's a bunk with their names engraved on it.

Fucking psycho, Michael scowls. Though the guy does have really great hair...

*

There's no Xbox or Gameboy here and no TV, just some goon with a gun and Dad's girlfriend or Michael's or whoever she was, because LJ didn't look that hard before they put her in another room. Whatever. She was older.

It's been hours stuck in this place, and LJ's bored out of his mind already. He can't even spank the monkey here with a stranger in the room, and his life sucks—dead mom he got put in jail for, deadbeat Dad who dumped him off with strangers, and now he's been kidnapped over something that has nothing to do with him.

He had some stability for like three weeks before yesterday went sour, not that it was all that great. This sucks more though, definitely.

His life's a soap opera and he's not even the fucking star…


*

Water-water-water-water-water-sweatshirt-lips.

Oh.

Bellick would strangle or maim for some water—not the sludge downstairs, because that'll kill you and god he's actually thought about it far too much already.

But he needs it, more than he ever dreamed he could need anything but food. More than he wants to introduce Scofield to Bradwurst and put that smart mouth to perfect use. He's that unmistakably desperate now.

He actually begs Scofield for some of his share, until the man asks a question and the wily part of Bellick's brain fires up for a few useful seconds. Trade some favors, get water and pants for information that doesn't even really matter.

Yeah, baby. That victory turns into a sweet, liquid spill that washes the dust out of Bellick's aching throat.

*

Michael wanders through the sewers, calling for Whistler like a kid with a runaway dog.

Nobody says no to these lips! C'mon you worm-bellied freak—we're talking freedom here!

"Last chance."

"Oh, hi." A voice speaks from the wall—what else is new?

"Escaping. You, me, now—let's get moving."

"Can't do it—the other prisoners will kill me. By the way, I'm an innocent pawn in a larger conspiracy."

Oh, aren't they just fucking all?

*

Back at the fence Michael's waiting for a sign of hope from his I'm-out-here-and-you're-in-there brother, but instead he gets the impossible on a platter with a side of guilt. It's too damn much after a lizard-leg breakfast.

"I can't break Whistler out. I can't even break myself out—that was a one-time thing, with a ton of planning!"

"Do it, or LJ's toast. And then I'll never look you in the eye again, knowing you let him die."

"It's a suicide mission, Linc!"

"Yeah? Cry me a river, Michael. I've got a Happy Hour to get to at the hotel."

Michael pulls out all the stops, evokes the plea of baby-brother-angstpuppies-on-a-stick-with-big-teary-eyes-and-sorrowful-pity-inducing-farewell-speeches.

Lincoln buffs his nails on a new pair of trendy pants. "Outta here. Get busy, bro."

Michael's tears fall unnoticed into the dust.

*

Mahone squints into the sunshine on still another day where Scofield has spurned his co-conspiring glances. He knows he's fucked—he can kill every prisoner in this rat-hole if he has to, but only Scofield can help him escape.

Scofield's got that digging-out-with-a-spoon magic, and Mahone wants to hitch a ride on his wagon like a sailor wants a pretty girl waiting on shore leave. Except not. Mostly not.

"You American?" It's some wannabe in a basketball jersey, hovering at his shoulder. "Cause if you are, I've got some random and significant information for you about a get-out-of-jail-free situation that I suddenly feel like sharing."

The day's looking up…

*

"Hey, Sucre, long time no see," Lincoln says.

"Yeah, Linc, how you doing?"

"Deep shit and desperation. You gotta help us."

"What? I'm saving Maricruz right now, maybe after..."

"Walk away, man, let her go. All for the best. Meanwhile, Michael's got this thing—"

"Save your family by leaving, that's what you're selling now? What about Michael?"

"Fucker clings like a monkey."

"Oh. Yeah, man, I hear you. Still, you ditched the kid though, gotta count for something."

"I had it good until about yesterday. Those teenage years are a total bitch…"

*

Armed with yet another disappointing piece of information, Michael makes his plea to the king.

"Excuse me, but I have a highly reasonable request to make about lifting the bounty off of a prisoner's head for my own secret special schemes."

"Aren't you the guy that tried to throw a wrench into my whole fighting system earlier?"

"Maybe," Michael hedges. "But let's try to stay on topic: drop the decree, and I'll make it worth your while."

"Already got a regular hooker that comes through, so forget it. I've got much larger problems to deal with."

I'll say—the Bastille's about to fall, and you're worried about a rain barrel. Michael offers Lechero the blue steel of thoughtful-but-no-promises, and slinks back through the crowd.

*

"Come on out of there, fucker, it's not safe for you down here!" Mahone smacks a pipe against the brick wall, cracking the mortar that separates him from the sacrificial lamb that'll buy him his freedom.

"I'll take my chances down here inside this little fortress, thanks ever so much."

Is that sarcasm? Fucking Brits! Mahone swings the pipe like a sledgehammer, like salvation. He can see the outside world already, and it's shaped like an endless, tranquil stream dotted by beautiful little blue pills. Wham! "Out Whistler, now, I'm not kidding! I'll huff and I'll puff and—"

"I've already got a date, thanks. He came by earlier, much more of a gentleman really."

"He's a tease, man, I'm telling you—I'll come through for you!"

"Ye-es, about that. He mentioned you having a bit of a Black Widow reputation…"

Well, fuck.

*

When Michael returns to the sewers, he's a little put out to see his conquest stepping out on him with another man. Gotta work on the pout, maybe lift a few weights—get the bod back in shape, he thinks. Then we'll see who's Mr. Magic around here again.

Whistler and Mahone are looking pretty damn cozy, what with Mahone's hand on Whistler's neck yanking him through the corridor.

"I saw him first!" Michael blurts.

"And I've still got the advantage. See?" Mahone brandishes the pipe, does a toss-and-twirl baton routine like a Midwestern majorette in a Fourth of July parade.

Nuts. "Let me have him and I'll be yours. We'll plot an escape for the three of us."

Mahone shakes his head in disgust. "That's too twisted even for me."

Michael grinds his teeth as he sees Whistler using their argument as a chance to sneak off into the dust…

*

This babe is totally hot for me, Lincoln tells himself, until she opens her mouth and starts issuing orders like he's some kind of lapdog.

"Who what?" like he doesn't know exactly what she wants, but it's all part of the game. Just like the threats…

"I'll cut you," she says.

"I'll cut you back!" Lincoln counters. "And I'll hunt down your family and cut them too."

"I already have your family," she points out, "that's why we're here. Also? Gun." She waves it menacingly.

"Oh all right." Lincoln hands over the book and thinks about paying another visit to Michael to apply a little more pressure because this shit's definitely getting old.

"I'll be keeping tabs on you," she says, leaving him with a glimpse of the gun and her gams on her way out the door.

Whatever. Tell me something I don't know. As soon as the door swings shut, he fishes around in his other pants pocket.

Why looky here…

*

Michael's frustrated, and the uprising is still going on. Time to get desperate.

"Hey, Sucre 2.0," he hails the kid that keeps following him around like a puppy, "I need some supplies."

"Sucre what?" the kid asks. "And what makes you think I can get you anything?"

Because you're obviously doing better than me right now—I've seen how the other prisoners look at you. "I'll talk basketball with you for a solid hour…" Michael tempts.

"What kind of supplies we talking about?"

The kind that'll flood this place with enough bacteria-infested water to make Lechero give me Whistler on a plate. And when you're all struck down with dysentery, this place will be mine!

"Oh, nothing much," Michael hedges. "Let's step into my office…"

*

"Mami, I love you so much," Sucre babbles over the phone. "That's why I'm letting you go."

First the drama over the wedding, and then hours on a plane to some godforsaken chicken-infested patch of dirt in Mexico. For this, she nearly gave up indoor plumbing? "Have you gone loco?"

"It's best for everyone, I'm telling you, you're better off without me."

No shit, Maricruz thinks, digging around in her purse. Maybe she still has Hector's number.

*

Through the dust thrown out by the pipe-bursting blast, Michael emerges with Whistler staggering behind him.

"Here we are," Michael says cheerfully.

Whistler surveys the courtyard, filled with cheering maniacs all in serious need of bathing. "Yeah. Lovely. So, what's the plan then, mate?"

"Plan?" Michael asks incredulously. "The plan is that you're out of that sewer—I rescued you! We'll work out the other details later."

"Ah. Right." Whistler scans the area again. "Got any rats up here, then?"

"Rats?" Jesus, if this guy can't focus on the big picture this is going to be more of an uphill battle than it already was. "I certainly hope not. You've got a much better situation up here. We can be roomies!"

"Eh…" Whistler hesitates, edging away.

What the fuck is it, Michael wonders, The clothes? The hygiene? What?

He is seriously off his game.

"Knight in shining armor," he offers with a smoldering smile.

"Where did that other fellow get to, do you suppose?" Whistler ponders.

"You mention him again and I'll gut you like a fucking fish!" Michael screams.

Two genius prison breaks to pull off in less than three months, and he doesn't even have the beginnings of a blueprint for this one.

Maybe he's already nuts.



-------- fin --------



 
 
 
why don't you go sit on a spear?: t-bagsavepureness on October 1st, 2007 06:23 pm (UTC)
Adding this to memories after reading only three lines. It was enough said that Scofield doesn't speak the language used in Hell :))

I'll sure read it as soon as RL spares me of any annoying stuff, namely tonight. Will be back with comments.
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: TBag-Zilla OTPhalfshellvenus on October 1st, 2007 09:07 pm (UTC)
It was enough said that Scofield doesn't speak the language used in Hell :))
I just couldn't resist.

Hope the rest of it meets your expectations, when you get a chance to read it. Crackfic! \o/
why don't you go sit on a spear?: t-bag rejectedsavepureness on October 1st, 2007 09:09 pm (UTC)
lol. lol. and more lol.
Your icon is twisted, beyond redemption - love! I can't stop lol-ing.

Getting a change within hours, I'll feed you back when it's done.
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: TBag-Zilla OTPhalfshellvenus on October 1st, 2007 09:26 pm (UTC)
That icon is from my very first crackFic, here. Definitely worth reading too! :D
The Good, The Bad and The Lanathelana on October 1st, 2007 06:26 pm (UTC)
At least his hair looks good.</>

Heh, clearly the fist sign of withdrawal induced delusion.

Why has no-one hit on me yet? Michael thinks. Is it the sweatshirt? Does it make me look fat?

Heh.

Also? Gun." She waves it menacingly.

*snort*

But no fair, mixing the serious and true stuff with the humor!



But still, Zombie!Lincoln approves.
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: TBag-Zilla OTPhalfshellvenus on October 1st, 2007 09:28 pm (UTC)
Mixing serious and true with humor is one of the best ways I know to make crack work. It just twists the knife a little bit more. Hah!

If Elissa ever reads this, the fat joke will crack her up, I'll bet.

Your zombie!Linc is scary, though they've definitely got the forehead down. He looks awfully jowly for Dominic, though. Plus, where's the open-collared shirt? It was one of the stars of Season 2. ;)
PamalaX: KissmeALEXpamalax on October 1st, 2007 06:59 pm (UTC)
Bwahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!

Love it!

Love you to bits for writing it :o)

And yeah... the hair is mighty good! LOL

The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: PB Casthalfshellvenus on October 1st, 2007 09:29 pm (UTC)
I could not HELP myself. The opening episode was so all-over-the-place, and half the characters were in the same prison. It begged to be lampooned.

Though Alex's hair looks '70s star sexy, so far. :D

Glad you liked it!
The Good, The Bad and The Lana: ajay bw smokethelana on October 1st, 2007 09:33 pm (UTC)
Hah, I was just gonna comment that the all over the placeness of the fic sort of mirrors the all over the placeness of the episodes. It's almost kind of disturbing to read.
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: M/L postcoital crawdadshalfshellvenus on October 2nd, 2007 01:33 am (UTC)
It's almost kind of disturbing to read.
Try writing it instead! Argh!

Supernatural follows this nice long story arc, and Prison Break goes in snippets back-and-forth again and again in every darn episode. When I write close to canon, that aspect of the show nearly drives me nuts.

I had to consult online sources to get the exact timeline for this thing! :0
The Good, The Bad and The Lanathelana on October 2nd, 2007 09:01 am (UTC)
BTW, I just found the perfect "Does this make me look fat?" screencap:

The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: wetMichaelhalfshellvenus on October 2nd, 2007 03:06 pm (UTC)
Ouch! There were parts of S2 where he DOES look fat. And maybe he was. :0
The Good, The Bad and The Lanathelana on October 2nd, 2007 03:07 pm (UTC)
Well he did mention that he stopped smoking a while ago so maybe that explains it.

He his hips and legs looked really slender though in that scene where he is leaning with Whistler.
(Deleted comment)
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: PB Casthalfshellvenus on October 2nd, 2007 06:39 am (UTC)
WTF is this? I fuckin LOVE IT!
It's crackfic, baby! Half-insanity running on top of humor. Whoo!

This is the funniest PB fic I have ever read. Seriously.
Whahoobies! It's definitely the longest PB humor fic I've ever written-- boy, but those episodes snaked around a lot. And crack is even MORE fun than humor. :D

Can I add to my Rec List?
Please do! I would be thrilled! \o/
(Deleted comment)
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: TBag-Zilla OTPhalfshellvenus on October 2nd, 2007 10:57 pm (UTC)
I fear all the time you've been spending with Rosie may have had something to do with this...
Oh, not at all! My crackfic is rare, but it is THERE.

Check the "crack" tag over to the right, and you'll see what else comes up. My first crack was the "When Godzilla Attacks" story. And the "Penguin Break" you saw on pbfic.net is another, though someone who doesn't understand crack gave it a 1/2-star rating! *cries* The perfection of the resemblance between Lincoln and that broody little penguin cannot be underestimated, not to mention the beverage-spewing picture of "Unfortunately, Lincoln would pretty much sleep with anything." That one even cracks me up. :0

And here's a test of a good fic, I just quoted you while dissing pamalax! *g*
! Must see! Where, where? :D
brushed_velvet: mahone bitchbrushed_velvet on October 1st, 2007 09:39 pm (UTC)
Crack!tastic! I love how you turned all teh angst upside down heh! And I really loved Michael being all moody cos no-one was trying to get wit him lol.

"All for you, baby," Mahone says coyly. He smiles at Michael like there's a bunk with their names engraved on it.

Fucking psycho, Michael scowls. Though the guy does have really great hair...


Pure gold! It's not just his hair that looks great either *drools*
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: wetMichaelhalfshellvenus on October 2nd, 2007 06:42 am (UTC)
I love how you turned all teh angst upside down heh!
That's actually one of the ways crack works best for me, for some reason. Lampoon the serious! And the more serious it is, the more ripe it is for destruction. :D

Pure gold! It's not just his hair that looks great either *drools*
:D Episode 1 was like a "catwalk" episode for him: See? I'm totally studly. Let's talk now Michael, just you and me. Whoo, I killed a man to save you-- how do you like me now, baby? Bring that sweet stuff over here now, I da man!
sassy, classy, and a bit smart-assy: MahoneHobbitsesbadboy_fangirl on October 1st, 2007 10:53 pm (UTC)
This is hilarious, and while I'm a bit partial to the references to Mahone's hair, my favorite parts (predictably) involve Lincoln:

Grousing about LJ having no follow-through and...

"Save your family by leaving, that's what you're selling now? What about Michael?"

"Fucker clings like a monkey."


LOLOLOL!

Priceless.

But this:

"Hey, Sucre 2.0," he hails the kid that keeps following him around like a puppy, "I need some supplies."

is the best.

The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: PB Casthalfshellvenus on October 2nd, 2007 06:44 am (UTC)
Hahaha! I'm so glad you quoted that one line of Lincoln's-- it's so evil, and yet so funny. Plus, you know how the S3 relationship between the brothers is paining me, and it deserves that kind of extreme treatment. Yes! That's what Lincoln's really thinking on those visits to the dirt.

Sucre 2.0 is the first thing I thought when I saw that kid in Episode One: "What? Must there always be some friendly Hispanic guy who's just dying to bond with Michael? Get a new formula already!"

So glad you liked it, Candy. Ah, crackfic... it's been awhile. ;)
I'm for wine and the embrace of questionable womenmissyjack on October 2nd, 2007 10:43 am (UTC)
What about Michael?"
"Fucker clings like a monkey."


Oh far too hilarious! It will have me cackling as I watch the next episode!
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: PB Casthalfshellvenus on October 2nd, 2007 06:42 pm (UTC)
That is by far the most evil line in this whole story, and yet SO deserved from the blase way Lincoln's reacting to Michael this season *kicks him in the cargo-pants-covered shins*.

Our comment discussion after the season premiere had a big part in kicking off this piece of insanity, I swear. :D
happy is as happy does: lmao - teardropdangelhappywriter06 on October 2nd, 2007 11:11 pm (UTC)
GENIUS!!! I would be here all day trying to pick a favorite line. And I could go on and on fangirling you for writing this. I hope you write more.
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: PB Casthalfshellvenus on October 3rd, 2007 06:52 am (UTC)
Hee! It was begging to be written, I tell you. My husband read it and,
"Ha. The guy in his underwear is funny."
"That actually happened on the show!"
"What? Why? That's dumb."
"Yes. Exactly."

Sometimes, the crack just writes itself. :0
chanchito_z on October 3rd, 2007 03:31 am (UTC)
I'm *So* glad you sent the link! I thought you were my Michael/Lincoln queen, but you are, in fact, also the crackfic goddess. I almost wet myself. Good god, this is TOO funny! There are like a million lines I want to quote or, hell, put on a t-shirt - but this one?

"Fucker clings like a monkey."

I gotta get me a screen cap with the riot scene and make my ass an icon with that quote....
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: M/L postcoital crawdadshalfshellvenus on October 3rd, 2007 06:56 am (UTC)
I SO rarely do crack, but I also love it. One of the harder parts here was researching the timeline of all the stupid interweaving stories (and the last 15 minutes of episode 2, since I kind of tuned it out). But the S3 premiere brought most of it out on its own, with half the cast back in prison (the same prison), the gladiator thing, Bellick in his underwear (dear god), the kidnapping (ack! Soap opera!), the need for another escape, and Lincoln being so "Yeah, whatever. Toughen up." when he visits his poor brother in that prison. That just sounds like crack already!

I so love that people are quoting the most evil line in the story. I couldn't resist throwing that one in, partly because you'd swear that's what Lincoln's actually thinking right now with that attitude! *stabs him. Stabs writers next*
Deutschtard: Dorkmare ;; Stormare ~ gendeutschtard on October 3rd, 2007 05:58 pm (UTC)
hehehehehehehe....crackfic FTW.

Verreh nice ^_^ I cackled about 5-8 times.
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: TBag-Zilla OTPhalfshellvenus on October 3rd, 2007 07:12 pm (UTC)
Oh, yay-- actual cackling!

Crackfic is SO much fun. And thus far, I think it's deserved, too. ;0

Nearly-Nekkid Bellick indeed! :0
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The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: PB Casthalfshellvenus on January 23rd, 2008 08:04 pm (UTC)
:D Glad you liked it!

Poor Michael-- it only got worse that first day. My husband keeps asking, "Where are the guards?" And I say, "What guards? They never go inside if they can help it-- they just hang out in their watchtowers with sniper rifles. The inmates have control of the inside." :0
bookstorejunkiebookstorejunkie on January 29th, 2008 01:50 am (UTC)
At least his hair looks good.
*
Who? What? Did I really— okay, I guess I did. But that was so three weeks ago! We've moved beyond that now!


HaHa. Whomever said in the previous story comments that you need to write for PB, I would guess you are currently writing for Mahone at any rate.

"Let me have him and I'll be yours. We'll plot an escape for the three of us."

Mahone shakes his head in disgust. "That's too twisted even for me."


You should put a warning not to eat/drink while reading. I found out the hard way that you can almost snort food through your nose. *shudder*

I so love that people are quoting the most evil line in the story. I couldn't resist throwing that one in, partly because you'd swear that's what Lincoln's actually thinking right now with that attitude! *stabs him. Stabs writers next*

I loved that line, too. Ah, so many little details from the show's leads this season [and who can blame them?]...

Lincoln- the much put-upon newly freed man
Michael- barely concealing the vanity of his looks/charm/intellect [love the array of nuanced expressions for every occasion]
Mahone- the swagger, the wit, the hair - all confirming that HE is the one to notice
T-Bag - making mental notes on all that will be changed once he is in charge

The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors: PB Final Hughalfshellvenus on February 2nd, 2008 08:10 am (UTC)
Whomever said in the previous story comments that you need to write for PB, I would guess you are currently writing for Mahone at any rate.
Hahaha! That's certainly how the character's acting-- "Michael, you know you want to love me now, and help me get out of here. What's past is past!" Or there's the horrifying possibility that Mahone doesn't actually remember killing Michael's father. :0 Darn those little pills!

You should put a warning not to eat/drink while reading. I found out the hard way that you can almost snort food through your nose. *shudder*
I remember far too many childhood experiences involving projectile milk through the nose. And that was just at school! :0 The memory of the exact pain that causes is pretty clear too, actually. o_O

I so love that people are quoting the most evil line in the story. I couldn't resist throwing that one in, partly because you'd swear that's what Lincoln's actually thinking right now with that attitude! *stabs him. Stabs writers next*
Oh, that's the thing-- the canon is what drove a good solid half of this (including the characterization). Lincoln's attitude is so "Yeah, you saved me and now you're in this rathole and people are trying to kill you. But could you pick up the pace already? 'Cause I've got places to be, man."

My husband had not been watching the show, and he read a copy of the story. "Oh, that's so funny, Michael in his sweatshirt down in all that heat." "Yeah, that's... actually happening on the show." "Bellick in his underwear! That's so funny, what made you think of that?" "That's actually happening!"

The first couple of episodes of S3 already were crack, when you get right down to it. :0



Edited at 2008-02-02 08:10 am (UTC)