An Auto-Parody of a Palmer Ranma 1/2 Fan fiction
By Joseph Palmer
The war ignited near the bridge of his nose. A singular bead of sweat had prospered, stretching and expanding its borders until it had met another. The two pushed, tested and probed each other, each seeking advantage, each straining for dominance. Suddenly the truce enforced by surface tension failed and armies of water and salt molecules poured into each other, surging and mixing. Then as suddenly as it began, it ended. The armies were now united, the battle forgotten.
Ranma blinked his eyes.
The motion was only enough to cause the bead to slip a tiny fraction of an inch, just enough to cause the drop to encounter a new, isolated drop. The borders touched, and a new battle was joined. The result was the same as before, for in this war there were no casualties, only courageous battles and glorious victories. Again and again the war surged, the lines advancing down his nose. Soon a new enemy was there, an irresistible enemy, an enemy from the outside; gravity. For the bead of sweat, its very success became its literal downfall. It quavered at the tip of his nose, clinging valiantly and defiantly, then fell. In the air it regrouped, smoothing the shattered battle lines, withdrawing and reinforcing, minimizing its borders into the perfect fighting sphere.
Ranma watched as it fell, he thought briefly of flicking it with his finger as a martial arts exercise, but decided instead to watch it fall, as he had with all the others.
The drop hit squarely in the middle of one of the fir floorboards, some splattered nearby, but in an instant the wood pulled the drop apart, stretching and torturing it with its grain. In seconds the water was drawn into the wood, the only memorial a tiny field of salt.
Ranma leaned back slowly, closing his eyes as they passed through a ribbon of searing sunlight. He lay flat upon the floor, waiting. Relief came as the fan finally turned his direction. The fast moving air dried the sweat that glistened from every pore, cooling and relaxing him. He stretched, bathing in the luxury of the breeze.
He heard bare feet padding up the hall, and lazily opened his eyes to see who was coming. Nabiki approached, chopping up a bowl of shaved ice with a long spoon. She carefully lifted a spoonful of the green tinted ice and put it in her mouth. She sucked the spoon to draw the coolness from it, closing her eyes in relief. When she opened them, she noticed Ranma, and stopped. She was wearing her short shorts, and a halter, which appeared to be woven from no more cotton than is usualy found in a Band Aid.
Ranma stared openly a moment. To call it a halter seemed so out of place, since ‘halt’ neither described its apparent function, nor was ‘halt’ any part of the message it screamed in Ranma’s mind. Nabiki smiled innocently, and gently pulled he spoon from her mouth, leaving her lips wet from the ice. Slowly she hid both the spoon and the bowl behind her back, perilously testing the halter. Hiding her treat, she stepped over him and sank to her normal place at the table.
She eyed Ranma warily, then placed her bowl close in front of her, wrapping her arm around it protectively. She took a spoonful and ate it, watching him the whole time.
Ranma sighed and looked outside. The top edge of the wall shimmered in the heat. The pond looked refreshing, but the water had become tepid and murky.
A second set of footsteps announced Akane’s arrival. She carried two bowls of ice, each sporting a long spoon at a jaunty angle. She was dressed for the heat, in shorts and a crop top. It must have been a bad crop this year, Ranma thought, for the makers to have run out of cotton, leaving Akane’s bikini top tan line clearly visible below the billowy edge of her top.
She stepped over him, untanned skin flashing, and sat at the table. She held one of the bowls out to Ranma, he stared past it as the fan found Akane and rippled the edge of her top.
“C’mon Ranma, make up your mind. Do you want it, or don’t you?” Nabiki prompted from across the table.
Ranma blushed and shook his head in the affirmative, and to clear it. He sat up and took the bowl of ice.
Akane took a spoonful of ice and munched it slowly.
“’Che, I can’t believe this heat,” she said. She rolled her head then stretched, the fabric of the top lifting well above her tan line. “So, what do you think, Ranma?”
The fan found Akane’s top.
Border wars broke out all over Ranma.
“It’s hot,” he answered.
August 8, 1997
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“Hot” 1997 Joseph Palmer
A few weeks back White Wolf sent out a message asking if I might be interested in doing a parody of my own work. I thought about it while I took a lunchtime walk, and realized that it might be pretty easy to do parody of my own stuff.
1. "Ninja no Himitsu" aside, the title should be one word.
2. It must be short. The truest parody would be a single torturously long sentence.
3.Excruciatingly detailed descriptions of irrelevant events.
4. Twisted metaphors, like a raccoon with a hard hat.
5. Sporadic dialog of short utterances. In this case, I’ve followed the example of "Red" and put all of the dialog at the end.
6. Transparent to the reader, but true of my work, this story took about 8 hours to write. No Joke.
I’ve had a couple of comments already and they hadn’t even seen it as a parody. I’d hoped that 5 paragraphs about a drop of sweat might seem to meet #3 above, Oh well.
— So, what do you think?
I honestly love to get Email from folks who have read my stories, if you liked it, please drop me a little note: email@example.com
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