(no subject)

[therealpm]

Received confirmation that I have been removed from the no-fly list. Welcome news, albeit delivered within one of the most patronising letters I have ever had the misfortune to receive.

Corfu beckons.

Comments

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter bares his teeth, one of the very few habits he picked up during The Incident that he hasn't managed to break.*

I'll remember that, should a relapse occur.

It was a perfectly reasonable moustache, and 'whom', Alastair, not 'who'.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

*Peter's teeth aren't scary any more, but the look on his face when he bares them like that kind of is. Alastair makes a valiant effort not to care.*

You must be thinking of a different moustache. I meant the one you used to have for frightening children.

Forsooth, with whom can you share them? Prick.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

Only your children, others didn't seem to care, it's just your sprogs that have been warped by your complete inability to grow facial hair into thinking that there's anything odd about it.

John, thus far, has not made any serious attempt to kill or maim me. It's what most people look for in a friend.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

Peter, the whole reason you got rid of it was that the kids found it repellent. Not just mine, Philip's as well. Also, I think you're confusing the inability to do something with the common sense not to.

Like you can talk! You're the one who tried to eat me and got away with it!

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

I demonstrated a commitment to democracy.

That was entirely unintentional and I'll thank you not to bring up what was a very traumatic time.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

Yes, to the democratic principle that your moustache was shit.

Traumatic? You found it traumatic? How do you think it was for me, you massively self-centred arse?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter gracefully chooses to ignore the first comment.*

I thought you enjoyed exercise? The thrill of the chase, the great outdoors, etcetera, etcetera.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

Only when it's not accompanied by the threat of violent death.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

One wonders how you made it around Paddy's assault course at all in that case.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

I never said I enjoyed that - how could I with you there, cheating and being smug?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter raises an eyebrow.*

I won that on my own merit, entirely fairly, I think you'll find. Stop being such a sore loser.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

It must be lovely in your personal alternate universe where that's in any way true. Fuck you and your condescending fucking eyebrows, you cheat.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

I am a little unfamiliar with the rules of marathon racing, and perhaps it is true that they do not apply to cross country assault course, but nevertheless I find it difficult to conceive of a set of rules whereby my tugging you into some netting was prohibited, but your attempt to murder me by drowning was not.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

I wasn't seriously trying to kill you! Christ, Peter, I let you up for air almost straight away, didn't I? And anyway, you started it. I was just engaging in some harmless, non-lethal, heat-of-the-moment retaliation.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

...

...

Feel free to leave.

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

What, why? Are you going to faint?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

No, but I may engage in some harmless, non-lethal, heat-of-the-moment retaliation of my own.

*Alastair seems to be more amused than appropriately terrified.

Sod it.

He dials into The Machine, presses a button and takes a few swift paces back, careful to be out of range when the spell hits a few seconds later.*

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

That's not a proper threat, that's just... what are you doing?

*A tingling sensation in Alastair's stomach makes him look down, only to see a ruddy ball of light protruding from just above his belt. It seems to be growing. His first instinct is to panic.*

You - you can't do that. Whatever that is, stop it now. Peter, I'm fucking warning you! You can't do voodoo on me, I'll sue you to bits!

*Now the ball has enveloped him from above his nipples to below his knees, and it's still expanding.*

Peter! Cut it out!

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter makes himself a cup of tea and grins. As the spell envelopes Campbell entirely, Peter rummages through the cupboards to find a large, empty pickle jar. He pokes a few holes in the lid with a kitchen knife, then makes his way back over to the rug where a very worried Alastair is rapidly becoming smaller and smaller.*

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

*Through the distortion of the field of light, the furniture seems to grow. Alastair looks down at himself in alarm and realises that the floor is suddenly a lot, lot closer than it was before. Peter, who is fussing around with the kitchen cupboards, is taller than he is. Alastair's blood runs cold.*

All right, you win, you demented bastard! I'm sorry, I'm sorry for trying to drown you! Now please tell it to stop?

*But it doesn't stop, and Alastair wonders just how far this will go. He's already smaller than a ten-year-old child. The room looks oddly vast and Peter terrifyingly massive.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter smirks as Alastair passes 1 ft the wrong way and brings the jar down over Campbell's head. He slides a magazine under the rim, knocking Alastair off his feet, then gently turns the jar over, magazine clamped tight at all times.

By now, Alastair is 6 inches or so and has stopped shinking. Peter whips off the magazine and screws the lid (with the holes poked in the top) on tight.He brings the jar up to eye level and smirks.*

[bigalcampbell.livejournal.com]

*As the jar is brought down over his head, Alastair's panicky brain concludes that Peter's actually going to go through with his threat of cannibalism. He starts to beat against the glass when suddenly the magazine trips him up, and then the world turns upside down.

Above his head, the lid is screwed into place with a deafening grinding sound. Alastair gazes out from his oddly pickley-scented prison and sees Peter's enormous face smirking at him. Furious and slightly terrified, Alastair starts banging on the glass again, throwing his whole body at it and shouting as loud as he can - which, it turns out, isn't very loud, and in a painfully high-pitched squeak at that.*

LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT! YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

...no, I don't think so.

*He places the jar on the sideboard, out of Jack's reach, then covers it with a cloth.*

Sleep well.