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This is why my brain should not be let out.
Because I write Poirot fan-fiction wherein there are dinosaurs. And time scoops.
"It's a giant lizard," Captain Arthur Hastings observed with interest. He wasn't an afficianado of the larger kind, though he had shot the smaller versions, the crocs and alligators on more than one occasion (he had missed more often than not, as well).
"Not exactly, mon ami," replied Hercule Poirot, always willing to correct a mis-apprehension, "it is, I believe, a Brontosauri."
"I think that's the plural, actually."
Poirot gave a slight shrug, then nodded as though filing the information away for a later conversation, "And where would you say that we are?"
"Well, with a dinosaur sharing the street, perhaps some sort of theatre?"
The look Poirot bestowed upon him was one of amusement. Hastings didn't take it as an insult, however, merely waited for the inevitable correction. "Regard, if you will, those gentlemen in the red coats? British military of an earlier century. Too, there are several women in gowns that are so out of date as to not even be considered for stage costumery."
And that, as Poirot could have continued on, was even before one considered the strange attire of some of the other people milling about. Blue trousers of an unflattering cut, shirts that covered little and left nothing to the imagation--man or woman. And bulbous, round helmets of a sort once used in diving experiments, perhaps. There were other species of large lizard that should have been extinct, as well. Though Poirot was attempting to ignore them. Soon enough, they might decide that the crowd milling around their feet would be a rather delectable alternative to the already-denuded trees.
"Which means what, exactly?"
"Either we have fallen into a dream after our most delectable meal." And here Poirot paused, as though the very idea of what he would propose were unthinkable. He took in a breath, then let it out, reaching up to brush the edge of one curled mustache. "Or we are somewhere not of this world."
"It's a giant lizard," Captain Arthur Hastings observed with interest. He wasn't an afficianado of the larger kind, though he had shot the smaller versions, the crocs and alligators on more than one occasion (he had missed more often than not, as well).
"Not exactly, mon ami," replied Hercule Poirot, always willing to correct a mis-apprehension, "it is, I believe, a Brontosauri."
"I think that's the plural, actually."
Poirot gave a slight shrug, then nodded as though filing the information away for a later conversation, "And where would you say that we are?"
"Well, with a dinosaur sharing the street, perhaps some sort of theatre?"
The look Poirot bestowed upon him was one of amusement. Hastings didn't take it as an insult, however, merely waited for the inevitable correction. "Regard, if you will, those gentlemen in the red coats? British military of an earlier century. Too, there are several women in gowns that are so out of date as to not even be considered for stage costumery."
And that, as Poirot could have continued on, was even before one considered the strange attire of some of the other people milling about. Blue trousers of an unflattering cut, shirts that covered little and left nothing to the imagation--man or woman. And bulbous, round helmets of a sort once used in diving experiments, perhaps. There were other species of large lizard that should have been extinct, as well. Though Poirot was attempting to ignore them. Soon enough, they might decide that the crowd milling around their feet would be a rather delectable alternative to the already-denuded trees.
"Which means what, exactly?"
"Either we have fallen into a dream after our most delectable meal." And here Poirot paused, as though the very idea of what he would propose were unthinkable. He took in a breath, then let it out, reaching up to brush the edge of one curled mustache. "Or we are somewhere not of this world."
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*runs and hides*
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