Harry Splutter & the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 5

“Yeah,” said Harry, “And for purposes of plot exposition I need you to explain what Horcruxii are.”

“Horcruxii are thingamajiggies that contain the whozeewhatsis of you know who—“

“Don’t get technical on me you mangy gasbag.”

“Who are you calling mangy?” asked the disheveled wizard wearing worn robes as he played with a moth eaten hole in the robe.

“Forget it. Get back to your polysyllabic dissertation. Just put it into plain English.”

“A Horcrux contains a piece of a person’s sole.”

“You mean S-O-U-L, right?”

“Whatever,” Bumblebore said making a dismissive gesture with his wand. Four cars in the loading/unloading zone were thrown into the air.

“Whoops. better put this away,” he said sheepishly. Several sheep driving by in a Renault gave him the hoof.

“Go on, get on with it,” said Harry peevishly. Fortunately for the author, Peeves was still ensconced in the the bewitching Smogworts School of Wizarding.

“Right, where was I?” Bumblebore took a moment to read the preceding page. “So, Count Wal D’Mart has—“

“Count Wal D’Mart? I thought he was Lord Wal D’Mart.”

“He was. He needed money so he pawned his title for the needed scratch and dropped down to a Count.”

“Huh. Well okay.”

“You know my boy, all this talkifying dries out the vocalization cords.” Bumblebore made disgusting smacking sounds with his lips and tongue. “D’ya s’pose we might retire over to yon libation station for a liquefied refreshment?”

“You mean go over to the bar for a drink?”

Bumblebore put one foot behind the other and did an ‘aw shucks’ move though, since it was under his robes, this was blocked from view of anyone but the omniscient narrator and a couple of mice that fell out of an inner pocket.

“Well, yes, I would love a drink,” Bumblebore said. “I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a Harvey Wallbanger today.”

By this time Hermione had made it through the line in the little witches room and washed her hands. She walked quickly toward the two wizards, that is toward Harry and Bumblebore—a length of toilet paper trailed behind her, stuck to her foot.

To be continued…

Post to Twitter

Hey Taxi!

Harry’s taking the morning off. So here’s another of my writing yoga. I’ve cleaned up the spelling errors and a bit of the punctuation.

Blindbaby Lemon Butterbean pulled his rusting Checker cab onto the curb. Two tires bounced off and he brought the tub to a halt when his dog Butterball barked, which meant stop. He’d gotten Butterball from the pound in Queens for $30.

Blindbaby Lemon Butterbean had a thing about butter. He loved butter on everything. He used it for lubing his cab. The cab ran on rendered butter.

The 1973 Checker throbbed with anticipation as his fare got into the backseat of the cab. Butterbean hit the fare thingie and the meter started at 5 bucks and counting.

“Where to?” Butter bean asked.

“To the airport.” said his client.

Butterbean pushed the GPS navigation system on. “Which one he said.”

“La Guardia”

“La Guardia, huh?” He said La Guardia louder than huh to set the navigational system.

“Turn around, you are going the wrong way,” cooed the GPS in a sultry woman’s voice.

Butterbean loved the technology that gave him the freedom to do what he loved doing—driving. Butterball told him when to stop and when to go by barking—one bark to stop and another bark to go. Butterball also had inflection and tone in his bark that let Butterbean know how urgent the need was to go or usually stop.

Once Butterball went nuts about another dog and Butterball caused $100,000 damage. Now Butterbean had to work harder to pay off that debt.

Butterball barked once. The immense cab lurched off the curb and bounced. Butterbean turned the wheel hard to the left and kept turning until the wheel would not turn any longer. Horns blared from drivers that dodged to get out of the way.

“Get out of the way a**h*les [editor’s note: can’t have swearing now can we?]! Can’t you see I’m blind? Look at the license plates for chrissakes,” Butterbean yelled out the window.

Other drivers yelled back. Butterbean rolled up the window with the squeaky crank.

“You’re blind?” shrieked the woman in the back. “Let me out of this thing.”

“Hey don’t I know you? Your voice is familiar.”

Blindbaby Lemon Butterbean heard pounding from the rear dusty part of his cab.

“I used to be somebody before I got into this deathtrap,” she screamed. “Let me out of here!”

The pounding increased in intensity.

“There aren’t any door handles back here.”

“That’s for your own safety. Too many people threw themselves out of the cab while it was moving.”

“I shouldn’t wonder at that. I can’t roll down my window.”

“Same reason,” Butterbean said.

Butterball woofed his agreement. Either that or he meant stop. The cab bumped into something.

“Hey you idiot watch where you’re going!”

“Bite me,” yelled Blind Lemon Butterbean out through his open window. “Can’t you see the white cane on the front bumper? Are you blind too?”

Butterbean pulled his head back in the cab and leaned toward his passenger. “They’re always throwing obstacles in front of the handicapped. I tell you it’s discrimination. That’s what it is.”

“Woof.” Agreed Butterball.

Butterbean lightly goosed the gas.


“Woof,” woofed Butterball.

The cab stopped.

“A little late on that one, furball.”

“That’s it, Mac. I’m calling the cops,” yelled the driver of the whatever Butterbean had bumped into.

“Like they’re going to get through this traffic.”

Post to Twitter

Harry Splutter and the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 4…Back, as if by magic (because it certainly wasn’t popular demand), the latest Harry Splutter installment. Note the latest title. Still a work in progress…

Harry grabbed Hermione’s hand and yanked her down the up escalator. No matter how fast they ran, they couldn’t make any headway down. Finally, a knot of witches and wizards traveling to a seminar on Microbrewing (of potions) in Pasadena forced Harry and Hermione off the escalator.

They ducked as the now underpantsless witches attempted to grab the two young spellers. The security witches became entangled in the knot of travelers. Harry and Hermione galloped away down the stairs, which were much easier to negotiate.

Outside the terminal, they took a breather.

“I wonder what Bumblebore would do,” wondered Harry with a slight frown on his face.

A pile of newspapers rustled on a park bench. A homeless guy dressed in fraying purple robes and a moth-eaten Washington Wizard’s ball cap got up rather wobbly then fell back over.

“Bumblebore!” they shouted incredulous at their lack of good fortune.

“Huh? Wh-what do you want, you filthy urchins?” said the disheveled wizard as he shambled to his feet.

“Who you calling filthy? You swill drinking boozehound?” cried Hermione indignantly, shaking with rage. The locket with the Horcrux throbbed with contentment from its place between her bosoms.

“Tis but a silly figure of speech child from an addled old wizened wizard,” the wizened old wizard chided soothingly. “Pay me no mind.”

“That’s bloody more like it,” Hermione said sotto voce so that only Harry heard it.

“Bumblebore,” began Harry.

The ancient wizard rooted around in his robes; his tongue moving from side to side and his eyes unfocused skyward as he obviously looked for something within and rearranged something else in the front.


“You said that Harry,” said Bumblebore as he wrenched a lit stogie from his voluminous robes.


“No wonder these stories are so damned long,” sighed Bumblebore. “You want to know where to find the other Horcruxes, which in the made up Latinate that we use should be Horcruxii.” Bumblebore used the end of Hermione’s still sparking wand to re-light the cigar, which seemingly by magic, had gone out. He held her hand several heartbeats too long.

Hermione yanked her hand away and stomped off to find the little witches’ room to wash.

Bumblebore sighed. “Am I right?” he asked disinterestedly as he watched Hermione stomp away. He elbowed Harry in the ribs. “She does fill those robes out nicely, eh, Harry.”

Post to Twitter