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(no subject) [Apr. 26th, 2013|11:19 am]
Billy's Place

Keeping Billy's Place alive.
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A Reminder [Jul. 6th, 2010|11:32 am]
Billy's Place

From Wikipedia:

In contemporary usage, parody is a form of satire that imitates another work of art in order to ridicule or poke affectionate fun at either the work itself, or the subject of the work, or in some cases simply the subject of the parody.

Although a parody can be considered a derivative work under United States Copyright Law it can be protected under the fair use of 17 USC § 107. The Supreme Court of the United States stated that parody "is the use of some elements of a prior author's composition to create a new one that, at least in part, comments on that author's works.” in Campbell v. Acuff-Rose Music, Inc. ...

In the older sense of the word, parody can occur when whole elements of one work are lifted out of their context and reused. Pastiche is a form of parody, and parody can also occur when characters or settings belonging to one work are used in a humorous way in another, such as the transformation of minor characters Rosencrantz and Guildenstern from Shakespeare's drama Hamlet into the principal characters in a comedic perspective on the same events in the play (and film) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.

In Flann O'Brien's novel At Swim-Two-Birds, for example, mad King Sweeney, Finn MacCool, a pookah, and an assortment of cowboys all assemble in an inn in Dublin: the mixture of mythic characters, characters from genre fiction, and a quotidian setting combine for a humor that is not directed at any of the characters or their authors. This combination of established and identifiable characters in a new setting is not the same as the post-modernist habit of using historical characters in fiction out of context to provide a metaphoric element. However, in the postmodern sensibility, blank parody is common where an artist takes the skeletal form of another art work and places it in a new context with new content.

With thanks to tazlet
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Billy Walked into a Bar... [Jul. 5th, 2006|06:14 pm]
Billy's Place


Billy Walked into a Bar...

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Disclaimer: Highlander characters and universe created by Davis-Panzer; used without permission. Billy Smith originally framed by alysswolf; used without permission. Not written for profit or material gain.

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(no subject) [Jun. 22nd, 2006|10:59 pm]
Billy's Place

West Bound and Down (A Billy Smith Moment)
By Taz

About 40 miles outside of Yakima (Apple Capital of the USA!), Henrietta started jerking and coughing. Billy cursed and turned off the air-conditioning to ease the load on the Falcon’s engine. He knew he should have had that wiring harness replaced before he left Lone Pine. Thing was, he hadn’t been meaning to leave Lone Pine. Not when he’d been shacked up at the Cum-On-Inn all last week with Mary-Sue Prophet screwing the dog-balls off him twenty-four seven. Should’a knew there was a catch...if he hadn’t been so busy staring at those hooters, while his cock tried to salute the flag...a woman like that and a man like him...not gonna happen. It was her eyes. At first they’d seemed to be purple. Then amber. Then green. Turned out they were contacts.

He rolled the window down. Heat was building up inside the car and the sweat dripping down his back made the scratches from where she’d raked him with those fake finger nails last night sting like b'jeezus. Outside the car, that weird landscape they called scab lands rolled on by. It looked kind of like the Bad Lands east of Wall. Only, to the max. And he remembered cruising through Rapid City, 3-4 years ago. He’d stopped for breakfast at the Perkins and some impulse had made him look up Joy’s name (He’d remembered hearing she’d remarried.) in the phone book. He’d gone to the address. A split-level ranch in a nice suburb. He’d stood against the car, just smoking, waiting, until a blue minivan had driven up. A woman and two kids had gotten out. The kids running to the door hollerin’ ‘Gammaw! Grammaw!’ He’d seen the woman, heavy, gray streaks in her hair. She’d hustled everybody inside. He was sure she’d seen him, but what did he need with some old woman?

He’d gotten in the car and driven away. What was he gonna do, holler, ‘Joy! It’s me, Billy. Your husband’s finally home...?’ So she could scream and have a heart attack? That was trouble with women. You stop in some town. Get a job. Maybe meet a girl. And next thing you know they’re getting broody and circling ads in the back of Motorcycle Monthly or Road Bike that say there’s big money in long distance hauling. Enough money to get married...

And then he’d met Mary-Sue. It shoulda been hog-heaven. But she just wouldn't shut up. Kept on and on about some destiny of his, 'til he’d kissed her boobie, whispered he was going out for more beer and left her sleeping. The thought of that wet nest between her thighs made him want to bang his head on the steering column. He was never going to find a woman like that again. Never! And, with luck, she’d never find him. Especially since most of her clothes (Even that green tank top with ‘Grand Tetons’ on it.) were littering Rt. 23 between Lone Tree and Hastings and that should slow her down some.

Off to the right of the highway, a faded billboard announced that the Right Reverend Jerry Hekheimer welcomed the Righteous to the Church of the Redeemer --3487 Pioneer St--It Is Promised You Will Live Forever in Christ. He pictured himself walking in, introducing himself and saying, ‘too late Jer!’ But, hey, it was a sign of civilization.

He reached for Mary-Sue’s pocketbook on the seat beside him and fumbled inside. The first thing he pulled out was the purple thong panties she’d been wearing the day they’d met. He took a deep appreciative sniff before tossing them out the window. Next was her billfold. And, yes, there was more than enough to get the Falcon repaired. Not to mention credit cards. With several names on them. And a couple of driver's licenses. From different states. Also with different names. He’d known a Cassandra, once. God, she must be a pro, and he knew he looked like he’d fallen off the turnip truck yesterday, but to try and tell him it was his destiny to whack some guy he’d never met? Just 'cause Billy was Sioux? What had this Crow Nose ever done to him? It was his fucking destiny to stay the fuck out of jail!

Straight ahead was Yakima. He’d get the car fixed and then, maybe, head north. Maybe, Seacouver. Wasn’t likely he’d run into any immortals in a city that big, now, was it?


Note: Apologies are owed to carenejeans for certain elements of the above. In my defense I will point out that at least he didn't kill Mary-Sue at that midnight miniature golf game.
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Bela Lugosi's Dead and I Feel Fine [Jun. 20th, 2006|09:11 pm]
Billy's Place

[mood |creative]

Edward's storyCollapse )
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When Mary Met Billy [Jun. 20th, 2006|11:20 am]
Billy's Place

by Carene

Billy leaned against the chain-link fence and tapped a Marlboro out of the pack. He took a long drag and squinted through the smoke at the drowsy summer street, casting a gloomy eye over the people walking by. He'd been having one of those buzzy feelings, but whenever he stopped to look back, it faded out.

So he figured he'd just stand here and wait for the bastard. Nobody was gonna get whacked right out here in broad daylight, so he'd at least find out who was following him. Probably a friend of that sissy boy.

The buzzing got strong, all of a sudden, and at the same time, a woman sashayed around the corner, her entrance into Billy's consciousness spoiled only by a slight wobble when her spiked heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. Billy's mouth dropped open and his cigarette fell down his shirt. He stifled a yelp. Hitting his chest all over, he kept his eyes on the chick. She had red hair that went up to here, tits that went out to there, and legs that went all the way up. As she got closer, he noticed her eyes -- screwing up to look at him suspiciously -- they were some kind of purple color. No, green. No, amber. What the hell?

Forget the eyes, dude, he told himself. Look at them hooters. They'd give a guy a buzzy feeling, even without that, you know, other thing. And what she was wearing didn't hide much of 'em, either. That skirt, the old aunty that brought him up would have called it no bigger than a hanky.

He stood at attention (in more ways than one) as she sauntered up to him. Cool, he thought. I can do cool. He hooked his hands over his belt, leaning back on his boots. He caught himself before he tipped over. Cool, dammit.

The babe-arition was almost on him now (and wouldn't he like her to be on him now!). She stopped just outside of sword's reach, he noticed.

He also noticed the sword she held close to her soft, slinky thigh.

"My name is Mary Sue," she said, with a bob of her red-headed head. "How do you do?"

Billy tried to think of a snappy comeback. But all he could think of to say was, "Where'd that sword come from?"
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(no subject) [Jun. 20th, 2006|01:03 am]
Billy's Place

Could be Any Random Stranger
By Taz

"Trailer for sale or rent..."

Billy flicked off the radio but the song continued playing in his head as he parked the Falcon. He tugged the duffel bag out of the back seat and slung it over his shoulder. The peeling paint on the door was almost same vague grayish tan as the car and the key jammed in the lock, reminding him to one of these days get the trunk fixed, but the spare fit behind the passenger seat and he couldn't think of anything in there important enough to pay for someone to fix it.

"Room to let fifty-cent..."

He’d seen the sun bleached motel sign and pulled off the highway, remembering the sweet taste of fried clams and 39 flavors of ice-cream--raspberry, peppermint, licorice--but it wasn’t 1965 anymore and Room 7 cost him 29 dollars, nearly all the money he had.

"No phone, no pool, no pets..."

There was a pool, empty except for a few inches of slimy green water at the deep end, and the room smelled of stale cigarettes and Lysol. The bed sagged when he threw himself on it. Billy and Howard Johnson had both seen better times.

"Ain’t got no cigarettes..."

But Billy had cigarettes, a soft pack of unfiltered Camels in the pocket of his second-hand plaid polyester shirt. He lit one, sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, felt the rush and smiled. Fuck that Surgeon General an' the recommendation he rode in on.

The bed had Magic Fingers. He still had a few quarters but the ripe smell a ham sandwich someone had left in the trash reminded him that he'd missed lunch today. Four hours and two hundred miles ago, at the Hob-Nob back in Coeur d’Alene, he’d been sitting at the counter all set to chomp into a Philly cheese-steak double onion and that damned buzz had hit. The outraged bellows of the waitress had followed him as he beat it out the back but he knew better than to stick around. She’d been flirting hard and he'd been horny but he hadn't lived for fifty years (Or maybe it was only thirty-seven--did you count from when you were born or when you died?), without learning a thing or two. And the thing was--when the buzz hits, hit the road.

No way was he going to risk his neck or suck up to some pouf who thought they were better than him because they could do things with a sword. Fancy prancer, jabbering about how things were in the really old days, making him want to puke. He'd gone to a hotel with one of them once, a dutchlander, like his grammaw, with scars on his face, yapping about some game—-and what a pretty boy Billy was--how he had to learn to defend himself. Heidelberg. Shmeidelerg. Hell, he had been in more danger from that prancy boy than from some stranger—-you could die of boredom. So he let the guy do him and stayed around long enough to learn that the buzz meant one of them was close, where he kept his money, and that if he was real careful, he could, maybe, live forever. Billy wasn't sure how long forever was, but he liked the sound of it. You could drink a lot of beer, smoke a lot of weed and fuck a lot of women in forever.

Billy grinned. He knew he wasn’t the brightest peach in the basket. He had a temper. He didn’t take no crap off nobody. But he'd had a lotta time to think about it and he was a practical guy. He was going to need money, soon.

"A man of means, by no means..."

Billy sat up, unzipped his duffel and removed the long case that held his pool cue and the dutchlander’s sword. He'd passed the Cue Club on the way in. A few beers, a few bets, maybe he could talk some twat into comin' back to the room. If not, and the TV worked, there was Leno. Leno was no Johnny Carson. But, Hell, Johnny Carson was no Jack Paar.

"King of the road..."

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Meet Billy Smith [Jun. 19th, 2006|11:39 pm]
Billy's Place

This is me, Billy Smith, as originally wrote:

Billy Smith parked his vaguely gray sedan, that might once have been a tan Ford Falcon about twenty-five repairs ago, in the motel lot. Billy tugged his duffel bag out of the back
seat and slung it over his shoulder. One of these days he'd get the trunk fixed, but he couldn't think of anything in there he needed that was important enough to pay for someone to fix the lock.

The ripe smell of the remnants of yesterday's ham sandwich reminded him that he'd missed lunch today. He'd been all set to chomp down on a Philly cheese with double onions when that damned buzz hit. The bellows of an outraged waitress followed him out the door, but he knew better than to stick around. He hadn't lived for a fifty years, or maybe it was only thirty-seven, without learning a thing or two. When the buzz hit, leave town. No way was he going to waste his life by making friends with people who fancied themselves better than him because they could do fancy things with a sword.

Fancy boys who pranced about jabbering about how things were in the really old days made him want to puke. He'd run into one of them once and nearly died of boredom listening to all that talk about some game and how he had to learn to defend himself. Hell, he'd probably been in more danger from the fancy boy with his damned foreign accent than from some stranger. He'd stayed around long enough to learn that the buzz meant one of them was nearby, where the fancy boy kept his money, and that if he was real careful, he could live forever. Billy wasn't sure how long forever was, but he liked the sound of it. You could drink a lot of beer in forever.

Billy considered himself to be a practical man of the streets; quick with his fists and not about to take gruff from any man. Talk radio told him all he needed to know and what it couldn't tell him, he'd pick up off the TV. The fancy boys and their swords couldn't be very important if they hadn't made it to reality TV or even got a mention on talk radio.

She says I'm a dullard and a stereotype, a mockery, and not even a real OC.
Won't you find a place in your heart, your fic, your house o' shaggin' men for Billy Smith?
An OC is a terrible thing to waste.
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Billy's Place: Original Character Rescue and Shelter [Jun. 19th, 2006|08:26 pm]
Billy's Place

You may have seen them: poor, homeless OCs, abandoned due to the mistaken belief that they are Mary Sues. Others are in homes where they are mistreated, insulted, or neglected. Many OCs who seemed adorable when first written about are no longer wanted once they grow up and develop personalities.

Billy's Place finds and cares for these unwanted OCs. Some will spend time in foster homes, where they can learn social skills and develop personality traits that will serve them well in their forever homes. Others are given makeovers, or even converted to different fandoms where they will be happier. We do whatever we can to give these OCs a chance for a happy life.

A few OCs have been so cruelly abused, poorly socialized, or badly written that they may never be able to function in fic. They can stay in our no-kill shelter where they can live out their lives safely.

Here at Billy's Place, original characters can safely find their way into the stories of their lives.
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