Post by Norris on Jul 9, 2008 0:53:50 GMT -5
This is a Harry Potter story I wrote for another website, and before I post it up here, I want to point out that it's not a criticism of Harry Potter himself, but a criticism of the "Harry Potter will die" rumours that circulate every time a new book comes out.
Harry Potter and the Long Awaited Death Scene
Harry Potter stumbled into the darkened hallway of his Kensington flat late one evening, an empty bottle of vodka in his sweaty hand, and his coarse beard matted with peanuts and vomit. Through the darkness, he staggered towards the sofa that was covered in a thick layer of cigarette ash, and brushed aside a few copies of Playboy so he could lie down and stare up at the ceiling.
Harry's life had really gone downhill since the incident with the Deathly Hallows 20 years earlier. For a time, Hogwarts had been doing pretty well, but when the Ofsted inspectors found the group of Rockgobbling Rats swimming in the water tank, things began to go downhill for Harry.
Because Hogwarts was now closed, Harry was forced to come out of hiding and into the real world. It was hell. When he wasn't being stalked by overzealous fans with no lives of their own, he was being attacked or boycotted by countless groups who wanted to see him dead. Voldemort wasn't among them, though, because he'd retired to Bognor Regis and had become a Labour Party donor.
No, the main attackers were not just the usual conservative Christians who take the Bible too seriously either, but were a handful of children's authors who had gone out of business because kids were only ever reading Harry Potter books. R.L. Stine was among the biggest attackers against Harry, and had even begun writing a new series of Extra-Gory Goosebumps to fund his anti-Harry campaign.
And then came the sci-fi writers, who were out of business because fantasy was the most popular choice. The spirits of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne had plagued Harry constantly in J.K. Rowling's failed attempt to get more money, Harry Potter and the Angry Scientists, and Harry had lost two-nil.
Then came the final onslaught, the parodies. After he'd been bullied by Goosebumps and maimed by scientists, the job was finished by a gang of spoofs who were sick and tired of being compared to Harry. To name just a few, Barry Trotter, Hairy Pothead and Larry Topper. Their lawsuit for libel forced J.K. and Harry to jointly fork out £30 million, and had ruined J.K. Rowling, because she couldn't complete the final payment to Canada for buying Newfoundland, and she was forced into bankruptcy, never to be seen again.
The entire magical world collapsed about Harry's ears after that. Ron was kidnapped by a crazed fan and dragged back to California, never to be seen again. Hermoine married a roofer in Newcastle and turned to the pill, whilst nearly everyone else was forced on the dole or became obsessive gamblers in some vain hope of becoming rich again, the stupid fools. To add insult to injury, the Hogwarts Express was forced to close after protestors complained about the usual carbon footprint bullshit, and the Knight Bus crashed into the Post Office Tower, killing all muggles and non-muggles in the vicinity. After that, it was sold for scrap, as it was running at a loss anyway.
The incident with the Knight Bus was just three weeks ago, by which time Harry had turned to drink, and had become a terrible alcoholic. He'd even sold Hedwig in lieu of payments, as well as his Nimbus 2000 and his collection of Hogwarts items. Overzealous they may be, but at least the fans had cash, Harry thought. He arose from the sofa, feeling thirsty, and stumbled towards the fridge, where he kept several six-packs and a few TV dinners. He took a can, and gulped down the beer inside, stumbling back into the apartment and walking out onto the balcony that overlooked the main road.
"God, it's high," Harry slurred, looking down at the busy road below him, where the Knight Bus had once travelled. Sadly for Harry, but fortunately for those who hate him, Harry leaned too far out, and lost his footing. Without his Nimbus handy or his magic books, Harry was helpless, and plummetted 56 floors down to the ground below, where he landed with a sickening "splat!", ending a long saga that had caused both love and pain for those who knew him.
On the roof of the apartment building, R.L. Stine watched with Barry Trotter and the spirit of H.G. Wells at his side. A smile spread across Stine's lips, knowing that the six-can of Monster Blood he'd put in place of the beer had done it's work, forcing Harry to lose his footing as he leaned over.
"Great," Barry murmured. "So, now what do we do?"
"There is still that confounded Lewis and his Nharnia chronicles to deal with," H.G. Wells suggested in a ghostly voice.
"Good idea," agreed Stine, standing up. "I know a few tricks we can use for people who are already dead,"
"As long as it doesn't involve that Monster Blood again," whined Barry. "It stains clothes real easy!"
And with that, the three victims of Harry's curse were set free, and set off to destroy the fantasy genre bit by bit until they were finally free from the lies of goblins and dragons that had plagued them for an eternity. And it had all started with the death of a perpetually drunk man who had destroyed and warped the minds of so many in so few years.
THE END (DEFINITELY!)
Harry Potter and the Long Awaited Death Scene
Harry Potter stumbled into the darkened hallway of his Kensington flat late one evening, an empty bottle of vodka in his sweaty hand, and his coarse beard matted with peanuts and vomit. Through the darkness, he staggered towards the sofa that was covered in a thick layer of cigarette ash, and brushed aside a few copies of Playboy so he could lie down and stare up at the ceiling.
Harry's life had really gone downhill since the incident with the Deathly Hallows 20 years earlier. For a time, Hogwarts had been doing pretty well, but when the Ofsted inspectors found the group of Rockgobbling Rats swimming in the water tank, things began to go downhill for Harry.
Because Hogwarts was now closed, Harry was forced to come out of hiding and into the real world. It was hell. When he wasn't being stalked by overzealous fans with no lives of their own, he was being attacked or boycotted by countless groups who wanted to see him dead. Voldemort wasn't among them, though, because he'd retired to Bognor Regis and had become a Labour Party donor.
No, the main attackers were not just the usual conservative Christians who take the Bible too seriously either, but were a handful of children's authors who had gone out of business because kids were only ever reading Harry Potter books. R.L. Stine was among the biggest attackers against Harry, and had even begun writing a new series of Extra-Gory Goosebumps to fund his anti-Harry campaign.
And then came the sci-fi writers, who were out of business because fantasy was the most popular choice. The spirits of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne had plagued Harry constantly in J.K. Rowling's failed attempt to get more money, Harry Potter and the Angry Scientists, and Harry had lost two-nil.
Then came the final onslaught, the parodies. After he'd been bullied by Goosebumps and maimed by scientists, the job was finished by a gang of spoofs who were sick and tired of being compared to Harry. To name just a few, Barry Trotter, Hairy Pothead and Larry Topper. Their lawsuit for libel forced J.K. and Harry to jointly fork out £30 million, and had ruined J.K. Rowling, because she couldn't complete the final payment to Canada for buying Newfoundland, and she was forced into bankruptcy, never to be seen again.
The entire magical world collapsed about Harry's ears after that. Ron was kidnapped by a crazed fan and dragged back to California, never to be seen again. Hermoine married a roofer in Newcastle and turned to the pill, whilst nearly everyone else was forced on the dole or became obsessive gamblers in some vain hope of becoming rich again, the stupid fools. To add insult to injury, the Hogwarts Express was forced to close after protestors complained about the usual carbon footprint bullshit, and the Knight Bus crashed into the Post Office Tower, killing all muggles and non-muggles in the vicinity. After that, it was sold for scrap, as it was running at a loss anyway.
The incident with the Knight Bus was just three weeks ago, by which time Harry had turned to drink, and had become a terrible alcoholic. He'd even sold Hedwig in lieu of payments, as well as his Nimbus 2000 and his collection of Hogwarts items. Overzealous they may be, but at least the fans had cash, Harry thought. He arose from the sofa, feeling thirsty, and stumbled towards the fridge, where he kept several six-packs and a few TV dinners. He took a can, and gulped down the beer inside, stumbling back into the apartment and walking out onto the balcony that overlooked the main road.
"God, it's high," Harry slurred, looking down at the busy road below him, where the Knight Bus had once travelled. Sadly for Harry, but fortunately for those who hate him, Harry leaned too far out, and lost his footing. Without his Nimbus handy or his magic books, Harry was helpless, and plummetted 56 floors down to the ground below, where he landed with a sickening "splat!", ending a long saga that had caused both love and pain for those who knew him.
On the roof of the apartment building, R.L. Stine watched with Barry Trotter and the spirit of H.G. Wells at his side. A smile spread across Stine's lips, knowing that the six-can of Monster Blood he'd put in place of the beer had done it's work, forcing Harry to lose his footing as he leaned over.
"Great," Barry murmured. "So, now what do we do?"
"There is still that confounded Lewis and his Nharnia chronicles to deal with," H.G. Wells suggested in a ghostly voice.
"Good idea," agreed Stine, standing up. "I know a few tricks we can use for people who are already dead,"
"As long as it doesn't involve that Monster Blood again," whined Barry. "It stains clothes real easy!"
And with that, the three victims of Harry's curse were set free, and set off to destroy the fantasy genre bit by bit until they were finally free from the lies of goblins and dragons that had plagued them for an eternity. And it had all started with the death of a perpetually drunk man who had destroyed and warped the minds of so many in so few years.
THE END (DEFINITELY!)
) and thus try and put the rumours to rest.
