Blazing Addles
folder
1 through F › Boston Legal
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
12
Views:
1,588
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › Boston Legal
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
12
Views:
1,588
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Boston Legal, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Blazing Addles
"Denny Crane. Denny Crane." The dulcet tones rolled over his lips and off in continuous waves, creating a mellifluous lullaby to himself.
"Denny Crane, Denny Crane." One phrase came between each inhalation, each exhalation, keeping perfect rhythm with the rise and fall of his barbershop-striped pajama shirt.
"Denny Crane." He rolled over. Something wasn't right. He fumbled up through the layers of sleep, unclad succubae, kneeling associates, and fence-hopping sheep. There was a clamor from the side of the room—from his altar to, well, to you-know-who—and a loud clatter that forced him awake and as fully disoriented as if it were mid-day.
"Denny Crane!" He shouted into the blackness. He blinked around in a frenzy, but could see nothing at all. He thrashed in the sheets, turning every which way, but still there was only black.
As an afterthought, he pushed the satin sleep mask up off of his eyes.
But it was too late. A shot cracked the air and a searing pain through Denny's body. Without his volition, his hand reached behind and to the pain. It came away coated bright red with blood.
That, Denny could see all too well.
I've been shot, Denny thought as he slumped back amongst his pillows. It was either supremely proper or tragically ironic that Denny Crane would go out in support of the right to bear arms. As he lost consciousness, his most acute regret was that he couldn't decide which of the two it would be.
His second regret was that he still had never gotten around to having sex with Glenn Close.
"Denny Crane, Denny Crane." One phrase came between each inhalation, each exhalation, keeping perfect rhythm with the rise and fall of his barbershop-striped pajama shirt.
"Denny Crane." He rolled over. Something wasn't right. He fumbled up through the layers of sleep, unclad succubae, kneeling associates, and fence-hopping sheep. There was a clamor from the side of the room—from his altar to, well, to you-know-who—and a loud clatter that forced him awake and as fully disoriented as if it were mid-day.
"Denny Crane!" He shouted into the blackness. He blinked around in a frenzy, but could see nothing at all. He thrashed in the sheets, turning every which way, but still there was only black.
As an afterthought, he pushed the satin sleep mask up off of his eyes.
But it was too late. A shot cracked the air and a searing pain through Denny's body. Without his volition, his hand reached behind and to the pain. It came away coated bright red with blood.
That, Denny could see all too well.
I've been shot, Denny thought as he slumped back amongst his pillows. It was either supremely proper or tragically ironic that Denny Crane would go out in support of the right to bear arms. As he lost consciousness, his most acute regret was that he couldn't decide which of the two it would be.
His second regret was that he still had never gotten around to having sex with Glenn Close.