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Robber Rabbit : The Scaryduck Brain Dump

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Au revoir! Au revoir!

Another entry for the Guardian's kill-off-Dumbledore competition. I just can't leave it alone, can I?

It took Albus Dumbledore several minutes to realise where he was. One minute, he was in his rooms at Hogwarts, experimenting with a new combination of manticore dung and arcane ephemera, the next… the next… robes replaced with an apron, receding hairline, fatter than usual.

She was French. Darting eyes, long trench coat, black beret, red-hot lipstick of the kind that fired even Dumbledore’s ancient loins.

“Listen carefully, I shall say zis only once.”

Then it dawned. And he knew at once, there, in his laboratory, sixty years whence, a French café owner would be sitting inside his body, wandering what the hell was going on.

And the door burst open, and the room filled with the Wehrmacht’s finest, followed by a leather-coated Aryan thug with a limp.

“Ah! Rene! Ve have you and ze resistance at last!”

Dumbledore knew the way out, dredging the words from the deepest recesses of his potion-addled mind.

“Perambulus Perfecto” Dumbledore mumbled under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” sneered the Gestapo, “There is no point denying it – Yvette has been working for us for months, after we busted her little scam with ze flying helmet and ze celery. Zis little café of yours has been a right little bed of intrigue, ja?”

“Perambulus Perfecto!” he shouted again, this time in despair as it became clear that his wizardly skills had been lost in the transfer. Then quieter: “Perambulus Perfecto.”

Nazi justice was swift. He was dragged through the café by the arms, registering in his confusion what he knew to be the artist Van Klump’s great lost masterpiece laid out across the bar, and a large cake containing a partially dismantled bomb. Urine streaming down his legs, and terror rising, he and the resistance girl were lined up against a wall in the town square.

Dizzied, confused, all he could see were the muzzles of his executioners’ guns, and one German cavalry officer crying tears of sorrow.


Pain. Black.

posted by Alistair Coleman at 8:47 AM (0) comments

Tuesday, July 05, 2005


Save JK Rowling the bother, says The Guardian, and kill off Dumbledore. So I did:

Stephen Fry meets Terry Pratchett, with eye-peeling results:

The trouble with being a wizard, Albus Dumbledore realized, was that you knew the exact time, date and circumstances of one’s death in advance. It wasn’t so much the time and date that he had the problem with – after all, he had had what cricket players euphemistically called “a good innings” – it was the knowledge that, as far as he could recollect, he possessed neither a Manchester United home strip, nor a limitless supply of peek-a-boo lingerie.

So, it came as some surprise to the stately old wizard, then, as he approached the day violently ringed in bloody red ink in his 100-year diary, that those Slitherin boys should take their Rag Week pranks just a tad too far. Quite a big tad, as a matter of fact, if the red shirt and the worrying draught up the nether regions was anything to go by.

At least, he thought to himself as he rubbed the remains of Mr Botter’s patent sleeping potion from his tired old eyes, that he had no plans to visit Blackpool at any time in the near future. Not after that nasty business with the beach donkeys and the manticore that had left much of Lancashire slipping into the sea, at any rate.


“D-do I know you?” stammered the wizard, realizing, far too late, that he had several feet of the Blackpool Tower rammed into rather inconvenient parts of his body.

“AH.” said Death, eyeing Dumbledore as suspiciously as a skeleton can in the circumstances “WOULD SIR OR MADAM LIKE TO STEP THIS WAY?”

posted by Alistair Coleman at 12:15 PM (1) comments


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