![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ooc: To this tune…. And, uh, yes. Bob is dancing like that for you too. Enjoy! :D
The drum beat started before Bob was ready for it and the fur hat on his head wobbled slightly as he turned to squint at the band. It had taken a long time for the Mountie to convince the Powers That Be to let the rest of the Group of Six back him but eventually, he’d received the nod and the entire crew had been kitted out in matching Inuit gear. But now he was starting to wonder whether they should have spent a bit longer working on their timing.
However, Sergeant Robert Fraser, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was nothing if not professional, and he turned back, face broken out into a wide beam at his one-woman audience. He swayed a little on the spot as the beat hastened and he tapped a snow-shoe on the ground to hold the tempo. The first few claps were out of time but he just smiled brighter and began the show.
[Christmas lights twinkle in the background]
He began to bob his head forward and back like an pigeon and puckered his lips to look seductive. He’d seen plenty of women go wild over rock stars before, he didn’t see why he was any different. Sure, he might be dead but he could still shake it with the best of them.
He made a mental note to ask Benton just what “it” was.
The rubber chicken he’d rediscovered shortly before the Yank propositioned him to serenade the lovely AND VERY GENEROUS young Yankette in front of him, now served as his makeshift microphone. It hung limp from his fist, the bald head poking out the top.
He turned to the side, did a few more emu head-pops and the only sign that he was about to start was the full-blown hip thrust he performed when the cymbals clashed.
“Are you ready to rock like a caribou on stilts?! Go! Don’t stop!” He grabbed the collar of his atiqik and ripped it half off his chest. “Rock your body! You know you wanna!” Somehow his voice echoed. He hadn’t been allowed to request an actual echo machine, he was told funds didn’t stretch that far, so the only possibility was that he was doing them himself. Sure enough, he tore off the other collar to reveal an extremely tight Henley underneath, still mouthing the echoing word. “Wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna.”
[over-enthusiastic cymbal clashing]
“Let’s go, don’t stop!” Off came the fur coat, thrown into the audience as a keepsake. Bob spun on his heels, what heels there were on show-shoes anyway. The kamiks were next to go. He ended up hopping around the stage on one foot for quite some time trying to pull off a particularly stubborn boot. But he was a PROFESSIONAL! He kept singing, the body of the rubber chicken swinging wildly beneath his fist. “Rock--- your body,” he panted, “I know you wanna…wanna…wan…..ahhhhhh.”
He stopped singing entirely as he whipped off his pants and sauntered back to the centre of the stage in nothing but the Henley and a pair of RCMP regulation boxers. Starched, of course. And his snow-shoes. They clip-clapped as he began to dance seductively again - what passes for it as his age - his fur hat slipping down one side to sit on a jaunty angle.
“Yeah! Umphf, umphf, umphff,” he hip-thrust his way across stage, hopping from place to place.
A loud clearing of a throat could be heard from behind the curtain. Bob looked highly annoyed for being interrupted. “I’m performing,” he cried. The BRUNETTE English girl who was definitely NOT a feline tapped her clipboard with a pen. Tap. Tap. Tap. And stared blankly at her dead ghost.
“Ahem.”
When Bob stamped his feet like he was shaking off snow, she hissed at him. “Aren’t you for-get-ting something?” She demanded.
“Entertain the guest, you said! Get the bald Yank to come out here if you don’t like my style. But I am in the grooooooove,” Bob licked his finger and waved it in front of his face, “don’t you be getting’ up in my face, sistah!”
The BRUNETTE English girl who was NOT a feline (and is still not) put his out-of-characterness down to the stress she was under and shrugged it off. “Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” Bob faithfully repeated.
“Not to me, you moron, to Nikki.” Frantic pointing at the audience ensued. “And for God’s sake, put on some clothes.”
Bob sighed theatrically and signalled to his band to stop the music. They too were in an indecent state of undress. “Thank you so very, very kindly,” he recited, “for the paid time and userpics, you wonderful…” He glanced back the curtain. “Wonderful, wonderful person.” He held out his arms and gazed off the stage.
“Hug her!”
“I have to TOUCH her?! I am a PROFESSIONAL!”
“Hu- go and HUG h- oh, never mind.”
Bob scratched his chest with the rubber chicken’s head and shifted his weight to one foot.
“I could go all the way,” he insisted, pinging the elastic of his boxers and making encouraging humming noises at his audience member. “You could experience the long lasting new smooth, long lasting extra super hunky long lasting BOBPHORIAAA!”
“Great Scott!”
Bob’s eyes widened. “Benton!” At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Dad!”
“Oops…” Chirped a voice from the audience, the Yankette tapped her temple. “My bad.”
Fraser Junior was sprawled on the floor by the entrance, out cold, before Bob could even open his mouth to explain why he was half naked whilst surrounded by the Group of Six.
Non-cat-like BRUNETTE English girl sighed and turned away.
“Next time,” she shoved the clipboard into Kowalski’s hands, “I’m sending you.”
“Hey,” Kowalski did a little shuffle, duck, one-two punch. “I got it. You know it.”
“So…” The Yankette stood up, tossing a quick glance over at Fraser Junior before turning back to Bob. “I’ll just…go resuscitate him. A little mouth-to-mouth should do it.”
“Perhaps I should-” Bob started.
“No, no!” She cut in, waving off the offer, already hooking her hands under Fraser’s arms and dragging him out of the theatre. “I’m on it.” Once she was out, it was Jesus Approves of Paul Gross Arms all the way! Fraser’s head thunked to the floor.
“…….……oops. No, seriously, my bad.”
[ooc: I lied! Only not really! Bob’s "original" song got as far as [to the tune of Dredel Dredel Dredel] Thank you thank you thank you, you don’t look like a caribouuu, thank you thank you thank, I’m too sexy too. And then it kinda went downhill from there. So you get stripping!Bob instead with some crazy muse/mun interaction! I haz immortalised you in the world of Weirdness!! \o/ Thank you so much again! And sorry this was so delayed! <3]
The drum beat started before Bob was ready for it and the fur hat on his head wobbled slightly as he turned to squint at the band. It had taken a long time for the Mountie to convince the Powers That Be to let the rest of the Group of Six back him but eventually, he’d received the nod and the entire crew had been kitted out in matching Inuit gear. But now he was starting to wonder whether they should have spent a bit longer working on their timing.
However, Sergeant Robert Fraser, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was nothing if not professional, and he turned back, face broken out into a wide beam at his one-woman audience. He swayed a little on the spot as the beat hastened and he tapped a snow-shoe on the ground to hold the tempo. The first few claps were out of time but he just smiled brighter and began the show.
[Christmas lights twinkle in the background]
He began to bob his head forward and back like an pigeon and puckered his lips to look seductive. He’d seen plenty of women go wild over rock stars before, he didn’t see why he was any different. Sure, he might be dead but he could still shake it with the best of them.
He made a mental note to ask Benton just what “it” was.
The rubber chicken he’d rediscovered shortly before the Yank propositioned him to serenade the lovely AND VERY GENEROUS young Yankette in front of him, now served as his makeshift microphone. It hung limp from his fist, the bald head poking out the top.
He turned to the side, did a few more emu head-pops and the only sign that he was about to start was the full-blown hip thrust he performed when the cymbals clashed.
“Are you ready to rock like a caribou on stilts?! Go! Don’t stop!” He grabbed the collar of his atiqik and ripped it half off his chest. “Rock your body! You know you wanna!” Somehow his voice echoed. He hadn’t been allowed to request an actual echo machine, he was told funds didn’t stretch that far, so the only possibility was that he was doing them himself. Sure enough, he tore off the other collar to reveal an extremely tight Henley underneath, still mouthing the echoing word. “Wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna.”
[over-enthusiastic cymbal clashing]
“Let’s go, don’t stop!” Off came the fur coat, thrown into the audience as a keepsake. Bob spun on his heels, what heels there were on show-shoes anyway. The kamiks were next to go. He ended up hopping around the stage on one foot for quite some time trying to pull off a particularly stubborn boot. But he was a PROFESSIONAL! He kept singing, the body of the rubber chicken swinging wildly beneath his fist. “Rock--- your body,” he panted, “I know you wanna…wanna…wan…..ahhhhhh.”
He stopped singing entirely as he whipped off his pants and sauntered back to the centre of the stage in nothing but the Henley and a pair of RCMP regulation boxers. Starched, of course. And his snow-shoes. They clip-clapped as he began to dance seductively again - what passes for it as his age - his fur hat slipping down one side to sit on a jaunty angle.
“Yeah! Umphf, umphf, umphff,” he hip-thrust his way across stage, hopping from place to place.
A loud clearing of a throat could be heard from behind the curtain. Bob looked highly annoyed for being interrupted. “I’m performing,” he cried. The BRUNETTE English girl who was definitely NOT a feline tapped her clipboard with a pen. Tap. Tap. Tap. And stared blankly at her dead ghost.
“Ahem.”
When Bob stamped his feet like he was shaking off snow, she hissed at him. “Aren’t you for-get-ting something?” She demanded.
“Entertain the guest, you said! Get the bald Yank to come out here if you don’t like my style. But I am in the grooooooove,” Bob licked his finger and waved it in front of his face, “don’t you be getting’ up in my face, sistah!”
The BRUNETTE English girl who was NOT a feline (and is still not) put his out-of-characterness down to the stress she was under and shrugged it off. “Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” Bob faithfully repeated.
“Not to me, you moron, to Nikki.” Frantic pointing at the audience ensued. “And for God’s sake, put on some clothes.”
Bob sighed theatrically and signalled to his band to stop the music. They too were in an indecent state of undress. “Thank you so very, very kindly,” he recited, “for the paid time and userpics, you wonderful…” He glanced back the curtain. “Wonderful, wonderful person.” He held out his arms and gazed off the stage.
“Hug her!”
“I have to TOUCH her?! I am a PROFESSIONAL!”
“Hu- go and HUG h- oh, never mind.”
Bob scratched his chest with the rubber chicken’s head and shifted his weight to one foot.
“I could go all the way,” he insisted, pinging the elastic of his boxers and making encouraging humming noises at his audience member. “You could experience the long lasting new smooth, long lasting extra super hunky long lasting BOBPHORIAAA!”
“Great Scott!”
Bob’s eyes widened. “Benton!” At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Dad!”
“Oops…” Chirped a voice from the audience, the Yankette tapped her temple. “My bad.”
Fraser Junior was sprawled on the floor by the entrance, out cold, before Bob could even open his mouth to explain why he was half naked whilst surrounded by the Group of Six.
Non-cat-like BRUNETTE English girl sighed and turned away.
“Next time,” she shoved the clipboard into Kowalski’s hands, “I’m sending you.”
“Hey,” Kowalski did a little shuffle, duck, one-two punch. “I got it. You know it.”
“So…” The Yankette stood up, tossing a quick glance over at Fraser Junior before turning back to Bob. “I’ll just…go resuscitate him. A little mouth-to-mouth should do it.”
“Perhaps I should-” Bob started.
“No, no!” She cut in, waving off the offer, already hooking her hands under Fraser’s arms and dragging him out of the theatre. “I’m on it.” Once she was out, it was Jesus Approves of Paul Gross Arms all the way! Fraser’s head thunked to the floor.
“…….……oops. No, seriously, my bad.”
[ooc: I lied! Only not really! Bob’s "original" song got as far as [to the tune of Dredel Dredel Dredel] Thank you thank you thank you, you don’t look like a caribouuu, thank you thank you thank, I’m too sexy too. And then it kinda went downhill from there. So you get stripping!Bob instead with some crazy muse/mun interaction! I haz immortalised you in the world of Weirdness!! \o/ Thank you so much again! And sorry this was so delayed! <3]
