Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-06-26 01:30 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-06-26 01:30 am
Fake News: Oliver Through The Looking Glass, Part III
Title: Oliver Through The Looking Glass, Part III: Queen Oliver
Fandom: TDS/TCR, Alice in Wonderland
Genre: Comedy crossover crack
Rating: G
Words: ~3100
Disclaimer: This is a work of parody. Although reference is made to real persons and events, the actions, dialog, and content are products of the artist's imagination only. Themes and content swiped liberally from Through The Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll.
Notes: The final chapter of the sequel to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
formerlydf's Stewart in Wonderland.
Before you read this, read John Oliver's ComedyCentral.com bio. Don't look too much at the picture, as it's frightening.
The poem at the end, like the poem at the end of the original book, is an acrostic. (Alice Pleasance Liddell is the girl on whom the character Alice is based.) Lewis Carroll is the unabashed master of rhyme and rhythm.
Chapter I: I'm British, You See
Chapter II: Only Doing My Duty
Chapter III: [You Are Here]
*
*
"Hurry up," said the Red Queen. "We haven't got all day."
Oliver scrambled to his feet, holding his new crown in front of him like a shield. "Back off!" he exclaimed. "I've got a crown here, and I'm not afraid to use it!"
"Don't be silly," snapped the Red Queen. "It's time for the feast, and you mustn't be late."
"Why not? What feast is it?" inquired Oliver blankly.
"The feast in your honor, Queen Oliver," replied the Queen, "that's why." And without another word, she grabbed his wrist and dragged him forward, until they reached a great stone castle.
Directly inside was the banquet hall, hung with great red satin and velvet tapestries, and down the center was a long table piled high with all manner of delicious foods: bananas, cantaloupe, honeydew, falafels, BLTs, coffee, soda, muffins, sauswiches, peach cobbler, and more. The Red Queen sat down at the head of the table - "if this is my party," thought Oliver, "that ought to be my seat," but she seemed not at all inclined to give it up. All of the other seats but one were filled as far as he could see; he recognized the uniforms of a Bishop and a Knight, but a vast number of diners were apparently not players at all. With a shrug, he took the empty seat to the Red Queen's right.
"Pizza!" shouted the Queen, banging a fork loudly against her plate. "Let's have a pizza up here!"
A throng of servers was moving up and down the sides of the table; one of these, an Eagle, emerged with a flat square box. "Did somebody order a pizza?"
"He did," said the Queen, pointing to Oliver with her fork.
Althoug he had of course done no such thing, Oliver realized that he was really quite hungry, and looked eagerly at the box. The young Eagle opened it up to reveal a steaming pepperoni pizza, dripping with bubbly cheese. Oliver licked his lips.
"Pizza," pronounced the Red Queen, "this is Queen Oliver. Queen Oliver, pizza." To the Eagle she said, "Take the pizza away."
The Eagle moved off; Oliver's stomach growled angrily at him. "And after all," he said to himself, "I am a Queen now. Oughtn't I to do a bit of ordering about myself?" With that he cried, "Eagle! Bring back the pizza!"
In a twinkling the Eagle was back, but without the box. "You needn't call me 'Eagle'," he said testily. "I have a name."
"I'm sorry," said Oliver, quite humbled again. "What's your name?"
"Stephen Junior."
"Well, Stephen Junior, please bring back the pizza."
Junior hustled off, returned with the pizza box, and held it out. Oliver reached for a slice.
"You're not going to eat me, are you?" demanded the pizza.
Oliver jumped; but the talking pizza was by no means the most surprising thing he had seen that day, so he recovered quickly. "Er, yes," he admitted, "that thought had crossed my mind."
"It isn't polite, you know," admonished the pizza, "to eat someone to whom you've been introduced."
"But I'm so very hungry," protested Oliver. "Mightn't I eat just one slice?"
"I should say not!" cried the pizza. "How would you like it if I ate just one of your arms?"
"Not at all," admitted Oliver; "but then, I'm not food."
"Well, I never!" shrieked the pizza. "Junior, take me away!"
"Wait!" protested Oliver, but it was no use; the Eagle was gone. He signed and looked at the Red Queen. "Isn't there something here that I can eat without offending it?"
"You might try eating your words," suggested the Queen.
"Those aren't very substantial, I'm afraid," sighed Oliver.
"That's your own fault," snapped the Queen, and Oliver, feeling rather insulted by this, shut up.
He could see dishes being passed about the table, and tried to catch one when it came by; in this manner he managed to secure some tea and Twinkies. But no sooner had he taken a few bites than there was a blast of trumpets, and the whole company rose to its feet. "That'll be the White Queen," cried the Red Queen. "Seize him!"
In a trice, Oliver's arms were held fast, by a Red Knight on one side and a Fox on the other. "I say!" he cried. "Let me go!"
"Nothing doing," replied the Queen. "You'll be a perfect hostage when the rest of the White Company arrives."
Oliver wriggled and squirmed, but the grip on his arms was strong as iron. "Help! help!" he shouted, but it was no use; there was, he realized at last, not a single White piece at the table. He was alone.
And then, with a great crash, the doors burst open and a White Knight in full armor charged through on a white stallion, leaping in glorious slow motion and leaving tapestries whipping languidly in the wind of its passing. The company had time to dive out of the way before the Knight returned to normal speed; Oliver's captors dodged as well, just as the horse reached them. The Knight reached down with his strong arms and scooped Oliver up all in one smooth motion, all without breaking stride.
"Godless sodomites!" shrieked a Red Bishop from under the table as they rode out.
Back in the sunshine, Oliver could see a company approaching, dressed all in white with white trumpets and bearing white standards emblazoned with stars. The Knight had obviously ridden ahead of this company; Oliver squinted, but they were too far off to make out the other members. He turned back to the Knight. "That's the third time you've saved me," he said breathlessly. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Fourth, actually," said a deep and unfamiliar voice, and the Knight removed his helmet to reveal a face with a square jaw and thick brown eyebrows, one of which seemed permanently raised. "But I didn't think you knew about the others."
Oliver's face fell, and the Knight frowned. "You don't look pleased to see me," he said unhappily.
"It's not that," protested Oliver. "It's just - I thought you were Larry, you see."
"Ah. Nope. I'm Rob. We've been taking turns, all through the game, keeping you protected from a distance."
Oliver had had no idea that he had been in danger all along. "I didn't realize," he said sheepishly. "I'm sorry; I really do appreciate it."
They rode a little way from the castle as the Red company began to pour out of the front doors to face the approaching White company. One horse broke from the line and rode forward to where Oliver was being held (by, he could hardly help noticing, a very strong and muscular form); his face lit up when he realized that it was the other White Knight.
"You were right," said Rob as Larry approached. "He has a very charming accent."
"You think so?" asked Oliver, flushing. "Wait," he added, turning to Larry. "You've been telling people this?" he asked, flushing further.
"It's true," said Larry with a shrug. "But hush! The Queen is here."
The two Knights brought their horses up beside each other and stood at attention. From his position Oliver could look down the lines of either side: the Red Queen front and center of the Red crowd, and, now facing her directly, the White Queen.
He was short, with dark hair flecked with silver and an unassuming expression on his face. Though he hardly looked as stately as the tall and slender Red Queen, he had the unwavering respect of his supporters (who appeared, for whatever reason, to be mainly giant playing cards). Oliver could see this clearly in the way they all, including the Knights, stood a little bit straighter when they looked at him.
This man, the White Queen, looked over in Oliver's direction and smiled briefly - yet it was a smile so genuine that Oliver understood, all at once, why one might trust him with anything - before turning back to the Red Queen. "You have to give up," he said, firmly but gently. "We have the Red King. Show them, Stephen."
A covered carriage rode up behind the Queen, and its driver - a White Bishop by his uniform, but with a grin that Oliver was certain he had seen somewhere before - drew back the curtains. The interior was green, and there, on a cushioned seat, was the Red King, still fast asleep.
"He'll be snoozing in the green room for hours," said the White Queen. "So, you see, you've lost."
"Oh, I don't think so," replied the Red Queen with a smirk, snapping her fingers. The ranks behind her separated to allow a quartet of Foxes through, and these were escorting a man with pale skin, pale hair, pale blue eyes, and the pale equivalent of the Red King's costume.
He smiled apologetically at the White Queen. "Should've let Colbert be the King after all," he said ruefully.
"I," said the White Bishop, "would not have been caught."
"Exactly," said the White King.
"We'll get you out of this," said the White Queen, almost too low for Oliver to hear. Then he rose his voice again. "So we come to a stalemate."
"It seems we do," agreed the Red Queen.
"This calls for a good old-fashioned duel," declared the White Bishop.
"I agree," said the Red Queen, and took a few steps forward.
"Ready your wit," replied the White Queen, doing the same.
"Wit? Oh, no, we shall not duel with wits," laughed the Red Queen. "As your side issued the challenge, it is my prerogative to choose the weapon of the duel."
"What else is there to duel with?" inquired the White Queen.
The Red Queen smirked. "Shouting."
A shocked murmur ran through the crowd. Both White Knights gasped. "He'll never make it," said Rob. "He's a joker, not a shouter."
"Don't do it, Jon," added Larry under his breath; and Oliver thought for a moment that the Knight was addressing him, but Larry's gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the Queen.
The White Queen swallowed and then, slowly, nodded. "So be it."
And thus the duel commenced.
Only the two Queens were involved at first, but then the moustached Red Knight shouted something, and the White Bishop fired one right back (it sounded to Oliver something like "itty-bitty Nixons minus the relevance or a hint of vision") only louder; and soon enough both sides were yelling wholeheartedly at each other.
Though the White pieces and their supporters fought bravely, it was clear that the Red side had the advantage. They were louder, they were angrier, and the White pieces had a crippling tendency to stop shouting in order to explain or support the things that they had shouted. This tendency was most pronounced in the White Queen himself.
"They all need to go soak their heads," murmured Oliver; and then he straightened up. "I've got an idea!" he exclaimed, clasping both Knights by the arms. "Come with me - quickly!"
All three of them climbed down from the horses' backs, and the Knights followed Oliver to slip unnoticed behind the Red party and into the castle.
The White party grew more and more flustered, their shouting more and more defensive. Several of the cards were blown backwards by the hot air that the Red party was spewing. Others began to run out of breath and fall gasping to the ground; while still others grew hoarse, their voices rasping and cracking. And still the Red side yelled on.
At the moment when defeat seemed inevitable, Oliver, Larry, and Rob appeared on the ramparts of the castle.
"NOW!" cried Oliver, and together they tipped three massive cauldrons - of the sort usually filled with boiling oil - down on the crowd below. Every shouter broke off in shock as he or she was doused with a torrent of icy water.
Over the muddle of dripping and gasping and shouting there rang a single voice, exasperated, shrill, loud, clear:
"BE REASONABLE!"
It echoed across the two crowds, the last blow struck and therefore - for this is how a shouting match works - the winning one. And it had come from the White Queen.
The Red pieces began to shrink back in fear. The White King took this opportunity to slip out of his captors' hold and rejoin his comrades; he was completely unfazed by the deluge, as though he experienced that sort of thing all the time.
"Be reasonable," repeated the White Queen, now flanked by his King on one side and his Bishop on the other, "and cease this foolish challenge," he continued, taking a step towards the Red Queen, "and begone."
The Red pieces shrank further; "and I do believe," said Oliver to himself, "they're actually shrinking! I'm certain they were taller than the White Queen when this began, every last one of them!"
He looked then at the Knights on either side of them; they were both watching the White Queen in rapt admiration, and Oliver felt a pang of jealousy, though he couldn't be sure on whose account he was jealous.
Whichever it was, he did not have time to consider it, for though the Red Queen and her fellow players had very nearly reached the size of ordinary chess pieces, the rest of the players - and indeed the entire landscape - was now shrinking as well. The stone wall before him dwindled away, and Oliver stumbled over it and fell towards the ground; though much closer than it had been when the castle was full-sized, it was still a daunting distance away. He threw out his hands and shut his eyes.
It was on something hard that he, with a thump, landed.
After doing a quick mental inventory, during which he determined that nothing appeared to be broken or bleeding or missing, Oliver opened his eyes to find himself sprawled on the floor beside his own bed in his Brighton flat. His chess set had fallen over during the night, and the pieces were strewn across the floor.
Of course it had been a dream. He might have known. Still, though he tossed the Red pieces back in their box haphazardly, he was very careful with the White ones. He had not let go of the White Knights - he had no idea which was Larry and which Rob, but it did not seem to matter now - when the doorbell rang.
"Just a minute!" he cried, and went scrambling for some pants.
When the minute was up, Oliver was fully, if sloppily, clothed: he expected no one terribly important at this hour. Thus, when he opened the door, his mouth dropped open. Although they were no longer in the uniforms of the game, the three men standing before him were without a doubt the White Queen, King, and grinning Bishop.
"I didn't get the chance to thank you, or even properly introduce myself," said the Queen. "Which seemed a little rude, since you did save my throne and all. I'm Jon Stewart, Queen of Wonderland. These two are Anderson, the Prematurely Grey Vanderbilt, and Stephen, the Cheshire Colbert."
"Pleased to meet you," said Oliver. "John Oliver, White Pa-- er, White Que-- um, that is to say, John Oliver." He glanced surreptitiously behind his visitors, hoping to see Rob or Larry with them.
"They aren't here," said the Colbert, replying to Oliver's thoughts rather than his words in a most disconcerting fashion as he grinned that familiar grin. "They're back at your castle."
"You mean your castle," corrected Oliver.
"No, that's the thing," said the Queen. "It's yours, if you want it."
"Wonderland's a big place," explained the Vanderbilt. "And the Queen can't be everywhere at once. So we're setting up administrative districts - counties, if you will - and recruiting trustworthy people to watch over them and correspond with the Queen about their well-being. We've actually put one of the Red Pawns in charge of his own county; he's gone and named it after himself, but he's not a bad sort, and quite devoted to the Queen. And, in short, we'd like you to be one of these correspondents. You'd have to move to Wonderland, which is why we have the castle ready."
"Can I do that?" asked Oliver breathlessly.
"Sure," said the Queen. "I did."
Oliver leapt into his arms with a relish that knocked the smaller man to the floor. "Brilliant!" he cried. "I'm in! --Wait," he added. "Both Rob and Larry are going to be there? That could get awkward..."
"Not necessarily," said the Queen. "There's this trend that I accidentally started when I got the throne - long story short, polygamy's currently in fashion for rulers. These two here are my, er, consorts." He nodded at the Colbert and the Vanderbilt, both of whom were looking sternly down at Oliver in a way that made him feel abruptly self-conscious. "Don't worry, guys. He'll be off of me soon."
"Unless..." began the Colbert, raising an eyebrow at the King and letting the phrase trail off suggestively.
"He is quite cute," mused the Vanderbilt.
"I say!" cried Oliver, scrambling hastily off of the Queen. "I think two, um, consorts is the absolute maximum that I could handle, thank you very much!"
"Suit yourself," purred the Colbert, as he and the Vanderbilt helped Jon to his feet. "Our door is always open. Now, come along."
Oliver glanced in the direction of his bathroom looking-glass, then fell in step with his companions. "How are we going to get there, exactly?"
"We'll go down a rabbit-hole," replied Jon, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps, relatively speaking, it was.
* * * * * * *
When calculating the acrostic, change the U in the eighth line to a V, which is proper Latin anyway.
*
*
Fandom: TDS/TCR, Alice in Wonderland
Genre: Comedy crossover crack
Rating: G
Words: ~3100
Disclaimer: This is a work of parody. Although reference is made to real persons and events, the actions, dialog, and content are products of the artist's imagination only. Themes and content swiped liberally from Through The Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll.
Notes: The final chapter of the sequel to
formerlydf's Stewart in Wonderland.Before you read this, read John Oliver's ComedyCentral.com bio. Don't look too much at the picture, as it's frightening.
The poem at the end, like the poem at the end of the original book, is an acrostic. (Alice Pleasance Liddell is the girl on whom the character Alice is based.) Lewis Carroll is the unabashed master of rhyme and rhythm.
Chapter I: I'm British, You See
Chapter II: Only Doing My Duty
Chapter III: [You Are Here]
*
Oliver Through The Looking-Glass
- III -
Queen Oliver
*
"Hurry up," said the Red Queen. "We haven't got all day."
Oliver scrambled to his feet, holding his new crown in front of him like a shield. "Back off!" he exclaimed. "I've got a crown here, and I'm not afraid to use it!"
"Don't be silly," snapped the Red Queen. "It's time for the feast, and you mustn't be late."
"Why not? What feast is it?" inquired Oliver blankly.
"The feast in your honor, Queen Oliver," replied the Queen, "that's why." And without another word, she grabbed his wrist and dragged him forward, until they reached a great stone castle.
Directly inside was the banquet hall, hung with great red satin and velvet tapestries, and down the center was a long table piled high with all manner of delicious foods: bananas, cantaloupe, honeydew, falafels, BLTs, coffee, soda, muffins, sauswiches, peach cobbler, and more. The Red Queen sat down at the head of the table - "if this is my party," thought Oliver, "that ought to be my seat," but she seemed not at all inclined to give it up. All of the other seats but one were filled as far as he could see; he recognized the uniforms of a Bishop and a Knight, but a vast number of diners were apparently not players at all. With a shrug, he took the empty seat to the Red Queen's right.
"Pizza!" shouted the Queen, banging a fork loudly against her plate. "Let's have a pizza up here!"
A throng of servers was moving up and down the sides of the table; one of these, an Eagle, emerged with a flat square box. "Did somebody order a pizza?"
"He did," said the Queen, pointing to Oliver with her fork.
Althoug he had of course done no such thing, Oliver realized that he was really quite hungry, and looked eagerly at the box. The young Eagle opened it up to reveal a steaming pepperoni pizza, dripping with bubbly cheese. Oliver licked his lips.
"Pizza," pronounced the Red Queen, "this is Queen Oliver. Queen Oliver, pizza." To the Eagle she said, "Take the pizza away."
The Eagle moved off; Oliver's stomach growled angrily at him. "And after all," he said to himself, "I am a Queen now. Oughtn't I to do a bit of ordering about myself?" With that he cried, "Eagle! Bring back the pizza!"
In a twinkling the Eagle was back, but without the box. "You needn't call me 'Eagle'," he said testily. "I have a name."
"I'm sorry," said Oliver, quite humbled again. "What's your name?"
"Stephen Junior."
"Well, Stephen Junior, please bring back the pizza."
Junior hustled off, returned with the pizza box, and held it out. Oliver reached for a slice.
"You're not going to eat me, are you?" demanded the pizza.
Oliver jumped; but the talking pizza was by no means the most surprising thing he had seen that day, so he recovered quickly. "Er, yes," he admitted, "that thought had crossed my mind."
"It isn't polite, you know," admonished the pizza, "to eat someone to whom you've been introduced."
"But I'm so very hungry," protested Oliver. "Mightn't I eat just one slice?"
"I should say not!" cried the pizza. "How would you like it if I ate just one of your arms?"
"Not at all," admitted Oliver; "but then, I'm not food."
"Well, I never!" shrieked the pizza. "Junior, take me away!"
"Wait!" protested Oliver, but it was no use; the Eagle was gone. He signed and looked at the Red Queen. "Isn't there something here that I can eat without offending it?"
"You might try eating your words," suggested the Queen.
"Those aren't very substantial, I'm afraid," sighed Oliver.
"That's your own fault," snapped the Queen, and Oliver, feeling rather insulted by this, shut up.
He could see dishes being passed about the table, and tried to catch one when it came by; in this manner he managed to secure some tea and Twinkies. But no sooner had he taken a few bites than there was a blast of trumpets, and the whole company rose to its feet. "That'll be the White Queen," cried the Red Queen. "Seize him!"
In a trice, Oliver's arms were held fast, by a Red Knight on one side and a Fox on the other. "I say!" he cried. "Let me go!"
"Nothing doing," replied the Queen. "You'll be a perfect hostage when the rest of the White Company arrives."
Oliver wriggled and squirmed, but the grip on his arms was strong as iron. "Help! help!" he shouted, but it was no use; there was, he realized at last, not a single White piece at the table. He was alone.
And then, with a great crash, the doors burst open and a White Knight in full armor charged through on a white stallion, leaping in glorious slow motion and leaving tapestries whipping languidly in the wind of its passing. The company had time to dive out of the way before the Knight returned to normal speed; Oliver's captors dodged as well, just as the horse reached them. The Knight reached down with his strong arms and scooped Oliver up all in one smooth motion, all without breaking stride.
"Godless sodomites!" shrieked a Red Bishop from under the table as they rode out.
Back in the sunshine, Oliver could see a company approaching, dressed all in white with white trumpets and bearing white standards emblazoned with stars. The Knight had obviously ridden ahead of this company; Oliver squinted, but they were too far off to make out the other members. He turned back to the Knight. "That's the third time you've saved me," he said breathlessly. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Fourth, actually," said a deep and unfamiliar voice, and the Knight removed his helmet to reveal a face with a square jaw and thick brown eyebrows, one of which seemed permanently raised. "But I didn't think you knew about the others."
Oliver's face fell, and the Knight frowned. "You don't look pleased to see me," he said unhappily.
"It's not that," protested Oliver. "It's just - I thought you were Larry, you see."
"Ah. Nope. I'm Rob. We've been taking turns, all through the game, keeping you protected from a distance."
Oliver had had no idea that he had been in danger all along. "I didn't realize," he said sheepishly. "I'm sorry; I really do appreciate it."
They rode a little way from the castle as the Red company began to pour out of the front doors to face the approaching White company. One horse broke from the line and rode forward to where Oliver was being held (by, he could hardly help noticing, a very strong and muscular form); his face lit up when he realized that it was the other White Knight.
"You were right," said Rob as Larry approached. "He has a very charming accent."
"You think so?" asked Oliver, flushing. "Wait," he added, turning to Larry. "You've been telling people this?" he asked, flushing further.
"It's true," said Larry with a shrug. "But hush! The Queen is here."
The two Knights brought their horses up beside each other and stood at attention. From his position Oliver could look down the lines of either side: the Red Queen front and center of the Red crowd, and, now facing her directly, the White Queen.
He was short, with dark hair flecked with silver and an unassuming expression on his face. Though he hardly looked as stately as the tall and slender Red Queen, he had the unwavering respect of his supporters (who appeared, for whatever reason, to be mainly giant playing cards). Oliver could see this clearly in the way they all, including the Knights, stood a little bit straighter when they looked at him.
This man, the White Queen, looked over in Oliver's direction and smiled briefly - yet it was a smile so genuine that Oliver understood, all at once, why one might trust him with anything - before turning back to the Red Queen. "You have to give up," he said, firmly but gently. "We have the Red King. Show them, Stephen."
A covered carriage rode up behind the Queen, and its driver - a White Bishop by his uniform, but with a grin that Oliver was certain he had seen somewhere before - drew back the curtains. The interior was green, and there, on a cushioned seat, was the Red King, still fast asleep.
"He'll be snoozing in the green room for hours," said the White Queen. "So, you see, you've lost."
"Oh, I don't think so," replied the Red Queen with a smirk, snapping her fingers. The ranks behind her separated to allow a quartet of Foxes through, and these were escorting a man with pale skin, pale hair, pale blue eyes, and the pale equivalent of the Red King's costume.
He smiled apologetically at the White Queen. "Should've let Colbert be the King after all," he said ruefully.
"I," said the White Bishop, "would not have been caught."
"Exactly," said the White King.
"We'll get you out of this," said the White Queen, almost too low for Oliver to hear. Then he rose his voice again. "So we come to a stalemate."
"It seems we do," agreed the Red Queen.
"This calls for a good old-fashioned duel," declared the White Bishop.
"I agree," said the Red Queen, and took a few steps forward.
"Ready your wit," replied the White Queen, doing the same.
"Wit? Oh, no, we shall not duel with wits," laughed the Red Queen. "As your side issued the challenge, it is my prerogative to choose the weapon of the duel."
"What else is there to duel with?" inquired the White Queen.
The Red Queen smirked. "Shouting."
A shocked murmur ran through the crowd. Both White Knights gasped. "He'll never make it," said Rob. "He's a joker, not a shouter."
"Don't do it, Jon," added Larry under his breath; and Oliver thought for a moment that the Knight was addressing him, but Larry's gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the Queen.
The White Queen swallowed and then, slowly, nodded. "So be it."
And thus the duel commenced.
Only the two Queens were involved at first, but then the moustached Red Knight shouted something, and the White Bishop fired one right back (it sounded to Oliver something like "itty-bitty Nixons minus the relevance or a hint of vision") only louder; and soon enough both sides were yelling wholeheartedly at each other.
Though the White pieces and their supporters fought bravely, it was clear that the Red side had the advantage. They were louder, they were angrier, and the White pieces had a crippling tendency to stop shouting in order to explain or support the things that they had shouted. This tendency was most pronounced in the White Queen himself.
"They all need to go soak their heads," murmured Oliver; and then he straightened up. "I've got an idea!" he exclaimed, clasping both Knights by the arms. "Come with me - quickly!"
All three of them climbed down from the horses' backs, and the Knights followed Oliver to slip unnoticed behind the Red party and into the castle.
The White party grew more and more flustered, their shouting more and more defensive. Several of the cards were blown backwards by the hot air that the Red party was spewing. Others began to run out of breath and fall gasping to the ground; while still others grew hoarse, their voices rasping and cracking. And still the Red side yelled on.
At the moment when defeat seemed inevitable, Oliver, Larry, and Rob appeared on the ramparts of the castle.
"NOW!" cried Oliver, and together they tipped three massive cauldrons - of the sort usually filled with boiling oil - down on the crowd below. Every shouter broke off in shock as he or she was doused with a torrent of icy water.
Over the muddle of dripping and gasping and shouting there rang a single voice, exasperated, shrill, loud, clear:
"BE REASONABLE!"
It echoed across the two crowds, the last blow struck and therefore - for this is how a shouting match works - the winning one. And it had come from the White Queen.
The Red pieces began to shrink back in fear. The White King took this opportunity to slip out of his captors' hold and rejoin his comrades; he was completely unfazed by the deluge, as though he experienced that sort of thing all the time.
"Be reasonable," repeated the White Queen, now flanked by his King on one side and his Bishop on the other, "and cease this foolish challenge," he continued, taking a step towards the Red Queen, "and begone."
The Red pieces shrank further; "and I do believe," said Oliver to himself, "they're actually shrinking! I'm certain they were taller than the White Queen when this began, every last one of them!"
He looked then at the Knights on either side of them; they were both watching the White Queen in rapt admiration, and Oliver felt a pang of jealousy, though he couldn't be sure on whose account he was jealous.
Whichever it was, he did not have time to consider it, for though the Red Queen and her fellow players had very nearly reached the size of ordinary chess pieces, the rest of the players - and indeed the entire landscape - was now shrinking as well. The stone wall before him dwindled away, and Oliver stumbled over it and fell towards the ground; though much closer than it had been when the castle was full-sized, it was still a daunting distance away. He threw out his hands and shut his eyes.
It was on something hard that he, with a thump, landed.
After doing a quick mental inventory, during which he determined that nothing appeared to be broken or bleeding or missing, Oliver opened his eyes to find himself sprawled on the floor beside his own bed in his Brighton flat. His chess set had fallen over during the night, and the pieces were strewn across the floor.
Of course it had been a dream. He might have known. Still, though he tossed the Red pieces back in their box haphazardly, he was very careful with the White ones. He had not let go of the White Knights - he had no idea which was Larry and which Rob, but it did not seem to matter now - when the doorbell rang.
"Just a minute!" he cried, and went scrambling for some pants.
When the minute was up, Oliver was fully, if sloppily, clothed: he expected no one terribly important at this hour. Thus, when he opened the door, his mouth dropped open. Although they were no longer in the uniforms of the game, the three men standing before him were without a doubt the White Queen, King, and grinning Bishop.
"I didn't get the chance to thank you, or even properly introduce myself," said the Queen. "Which seemed a little rude, since you did save my throne and all. I'm Jon Stewart, Queen of Wonderland. These two are Anderson, the Prematurely Grey Vanderbilt, and Stephen, the Cheshire Colbert."
"Pleased to meet you," said Oliver. "John Oliver, White Pa-- er, White Que-- um, that is to say, John Oliver." He glanced surreptitiously behind his visitors, hoping to see Rob or Larry with them.
"They aren't here," said the Colbert, replying to Oliver's thoughts rather than his words in a most disconcerting fashion as he grinned that familiar grin. "They're back at your castle."
"You mean your castle," corrected Oliver.
"No, that's the thing," said the Queen. "It's yours, if you want it."
"Wonderland's a big place," explained the Vanderbilt. "And the Queen can't be everywhere at once. So we're setting up administrative districts - counties, if you will - and recruiting trustworthy people to watch over them and correspond with the Queen about their well-being. We've actually put one of the Red Pawns in charge of his own county; he's gone and named it after himself, but he's not a bad sort, and quite devoted to the Queen. And, in short, we'd like you to be one of these correspondents. You'd have to move to Wonderland, which is why we have the castle ready."
"Can I do that?" asked Oliver breathlessly.
"Sure," said the Queen. "I did."
Oliver leapt into his arms with a relish that knocked the smaller man to the floor. "Brilliant!" he cried. "I'm in! --Wait," he added. "Both Rob and Larry are going to be there? That could get awkward..."
"Not necessarily," said the Queen. "There's this trend that I accidentally started when I got the throne - long story short, polygamy's currently in fashion for rulers. These two here are my, er, consorts." He nodded at the Colbert and the Vanderbilt, both of whom were looking sternly down at Oliver in a way that made him feel abruptly self-conscious. "Don't worry, guys. He'll be off of me soon."
"Unless..." began the Colbert, raising an eyebrow at the King and letting the phrase trail off suggestively.
"He is quite cute," mused the Vanderbilt.
"I say!" cried Oliver, scrambling hastily off of the Queen. "I think two, um, consorts is the absolute maximum that I could handle, thank you very much!"
"Suit yourself," purred the Colbert, as he and the Vanderbilt helped Jon to his feet. "Our door is always open. Now, come along."
Oliver glanced in the direction of his bathroom looking-glass, then fell in step with his companions. "How are we going to get there, exactly?"
"We'll go down a rabbit-hole," replied Jon, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps, relatively speaking, it was.
* * * * * * *
When calculating the acrostic, change the U in the eighth line to a V, which is proper Latin anyway.
Join them, won't you, for a bit;
On the castle chairs they sit,
Hearing John, our former Brit,
Now a Queen, and loving it.
On his arms, at either side,
Larry sits, and Rob: their pride
In ruler fair shall not subside
Until both he and they have died.
Expect this not. In Wonderland,
Recall, Death stops at Life's command.
*
THE END.
*
no subject
I had read that one (and even downloaded it) a couple months ago. It had pretty much been the one and only fic I'd read until I started reading you stuff.
(As I have already said somewhere else, as much as I love "Stephen" I was afraid with all the other less fictional characters involved it could be too much RPF (which for some reason normally makes me real uncomfortable), but then I'd found your "The Zen and the Damaged" site and decided to give it a try anyway)
But back to the story, I found it really hilarious (even though back then I didn't know anybody but the current TDS crew and Stephen). Rereading it and actually knowing who Beth Littleford, Matt Walsh, Ann Coulter & Co are made it better still, of course.
But maybe you can help me, I can't find again one story of yours (at least I'm about 90% sure it was yours) I only read two days ago: Jon was new at TDS, Kilborn was terribly drunk and told everybody at the welcome party about Stephen doing stuff for money. Do you know which one I mean?
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I think most people find RPF uncomfortable...until they start reading it =P
Glad I could spread the old-correspondent love!
And you're thinking of this fic. (It's one of the unsorted/untagged ones at the very bottom of the masterlist.)
no subject