Please tell me I don't want to filk the Pratt case to "Goodbye,Earl." Cause I don't.

I have not done that yet, but there is some more L&O/Martha Stewart.

It was still early when they arrived, but Chez Stewart was teeming with activity. The domestic goddess herself was in the kitchen stirring up something red and congealing enough to make Lennie take a second look.

“Cranberry compote, gentlemen?” she offered. “I usually like to pick my own berries, but there’s some blight in Maine or something.”

“Don’t you hate it when that happens?” Lennie quipped.

“Well, yes, I do. But, you know, mustn’t grumble.” If she had any idea he was kidding, she gave no sign. Musn’t grumble? Must be Rich Bitch for “Shit happens.” Van Buren would get a kick out of it.

“I understand.” Green said. “But we’re here as part of a homicide investigation, not to eat.”

“Homicide? Well, I don’t have time to talk to you right now... come back, noonish, ok? If these berries set up they’ll be a bear to clean out of my pots.”

“We thought you might say that, so we had Serena make you a present. This is a subpoena. We ran out of time to make our own paper, sorry.”

connie, thanks - it was an upper-case I in inquisition that made me fasten on the formally-named Roman one, and I was pretty sure that was well after Cesare bought the farm.

erika, filk! filk! filk!

Oh, God, you really wanna see that? Even though when you play country backwards you get your wife, truck, and dog back? But it is a sick joke about domestic violence and revenge by a band Commandant Fuckwit hates, so it's "Homicide".

erika, that's precisely why. I still take my hat off to Dennis Franz for being Earl" in the video.

OMG...I forgot about that...there was such a kerfuffle about that video, I forgot that was him. Sipowicz rules.

Take That, Pratt

(to the tune of Goodbye, Earl, almost) Kay and the Munchkin were the best of friends,
Working long detective days,

Putting down cases, remembering faces,
Putting the braindeads away.
Kay was the first one in,

Nothing special about that,
But problems galore, they had the wrong door,

And Kay got shot by Gordon Pratt.
Munchkin struggled with his pain

And wrestled with his shock,

But he decided the best legal system,
Was himself and a Glock.
Cause Gordo had to die,
Let’s ventilate that brain.
Pratt. Cause you’re racist and insane.
Gordo had to die.
Take that, Pratt.
What’s ancient Greek for “dead”?
Take that, Pratt.
Timmy took the call, though he didn’t want to at all.

(It’s just his way.
) He had to say things weren’t ok
On that creepy back-up call.
Get to know that floor, Pratt.

Should’ve fired before, Pratt.

Cause Gordo had to die.

Things went okay with Munch’s plan.
Back to work Beau, Kay, and Stan.
Timmy trusts his fellow man.
Munchkin grouses day and night,

About his work, about the Right,
But he doesn’t lose any sleep at night,
Cause Gordo had to die.

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

erika, remind me to send you goodies when it comes time for our vow renewal.

Munch and a Glock. Meepmeepmeep.

I know he did it. I just know. Because despite his transformation into a law-protecting individual(certain, um, avenues of spiritual discovery aside) you touch his people, you'll have hell to pay.(He probably wouldn't go after somebody who shot *him* that strenously but Kay and Stanley are Munch's life.) And he was a pretentious little asshole, besides. And that's like, Munch's gig, left-wing version. People who've only seen him on L&O get horrified by the suggestion, but I want to have a telethon for them, anyway.

There is no doubt in my mind that he shot Pratt. None.

sighs. wishes she knew more/anything about H:LotS.

I wrote a little ficlet for this icon. Um. It makes no sense unless you know The Sandman canon, but, well, I rather like it. I hope you do too.

Meaningless

The library does go on and on in all the directions, up and down and left and right and wrong and forward and back. Dream wouldn't help her to find her doggy, even though they did it once before, went searching for something important, and she drove the car really nicely. They had such a nice time, and they got to see Destruction and Orpheus *and* find a doggy who could use big words – only Dream didn't seem to remember it like that. Maybe if she'd given him some of the cherries he might have been happier, and he could have found out what he would be when he grew up. Although – maybe it's too late for that, because Dream is already the grown-up-est person she's ever met or heard of. She secretly thinks he could do with growing down a bit.

It made her feel sort of gurgly in her stomach looking at her brother all pale and interesting, because there's something on the tip of her tongue that she can't quite – she can almost –

"Where have you looked for your dog, my lady?" asks the Borghal Rantipole politely, in a voice like dusty velvet armchairs. Delirium's brow clears, and her meandering walk turns into a purposeful march punctuated by occasional pirouettes.

"I looked in all the places I could think of. Timbuktoo, and Never Never Land, and the world without shrimp." As she speaks, she rakes her hand nervously through hair that changes its colour and length by the minute. The thought of her dog makes her bottom lip tremble, and her mismatched eyes grow moist, but the Borghal Rantipole, who is a very well bred nightmare, makes no comment. "And then I looked down the back of the sofa, but all I found was a chrysalis and a gold doubloon and a half-eaten apple with a worm in it. So I thought, I'll ask Destiny, because he knows all the things, but he didn't tell me where my doggy was, and then I saw Dream."

They walk on in silence for a little while, and Delirium thinks glumly that it isn't very nice when things go away. After a while she begins to sniff.

"Is there a word that means tear apart, and also means hold on tight?" she asks, her voice wobbling. She pats her pockets, suddenly remembering that they exist, and plunges both small fists deep inside, searching hopefully for a hanky. After a little rummage she produces a white linen one embroidered with strawberries, and blows her nose very noisily.

"Cleave," suggests the Borghal Rantipole, after she has finished wiping her nose.

"Oh. Yes."

She can almost – no. It's gone.

Around them the stacks go on forever and always, and she knows that what she should have done is told Dream it was all going to be all right. He can turn over a new leaf, or – that's not quite it, but she thinks she'd prefer him to be scary than sad. She can't ever remember him looking so sad, and it makes her cross, but also she feels like everything else is on the verge of turning into little coloured fish, leaving her the only solid thing in all the world.

There's something there, not quite – if she concentrates really hard, both her eyes can be the same colour, although afterwards she always feels like a birthday balloon with all the air gone out of it, and it hurts.

"He didn't look very happy," she confides. "I thought maybe I could sing him a song to cheer him up. I sing very good. Orpheus always liked to hear my songs." She trails a finger along the spines of books, and inside, all unnoticed, the letters start to dance and squirm, until at last everything is meaningless, and it looks like a hundred spiders dipped their feet in bottles of ink and then danced all over each page. "I think maybe he should leave the Dreaming for a bit. Have a holiday, with sand in the sun lotion and ice-cream melting too fast."

The Borghal Rantipole's mouth twitches, but he raises no objection to this image of the Lord Shaper. After a while Delirium's small hand finds his smaller one, and her fingers lace themselves between his leathery claws. She starts to hum something that wants to be cheerful, and around them, unnoticed, the bookshelves slowly give way to trees.