Bogwitch (bogwitch) wrote,

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Fic: Good Lordi

I woke up this morning with a sudden urge to write a Buffy/Eurovision Song Contest Crossover because these people won:

Good Lordi by Bogwitch
(BtVS/Eurovision Song Contest Crossover. Humour. Rated R for yucky bits. Set in 2006, so Post-Chosen/Not Far Away. Buffy, Illyria, Spike, Willow, and Lordi as themselves.
Lordi, a Death Metal band with weedy Kiss pretensions and a Lord of the Rings dressing up box, were the 2006 winners of the contest for Finland. Many people were surprised. I was not one of them.
Most of the preposterous claims for their characters in this fic are the bands own. I didn’t make them up. Honestly, I want to stress that. Just in case you don’t believe me - I did make the magazine up, so you can’t get a subscription.

Lordi, Hulk of Hell, Most Fearsome Khan of all (as voted by readers of Lapland Dark Lord Magazine, who had rated him higher than Santa for the third year running) lifted the trophy and growled in victory for the last time. They had won! Their Master in Hell would be most pleased. Soon this whole dimension would be theirs for the taking and Lordi would be raised King.

He stomped off the stage, leading his band back through the Green Room, not caring that his mighty boots crushed the toes of the Irish entry when he got too close. He was but a loser and not fit to get so close to a Eurovision winner. Besides, he wouldn’t need his feet once they ate his head.

The rest of the competitors cheered them in relevant but jealous tones as they passed. Lordi drank in the adulation and raised his mighty fist in celebration. This was good. This was very good.

“Is it time yet?” Amen the mummy asked over the clamour. He was hungry for some killing. He’d been restrained since the semi-final, when they’d ripped the viscera from the Finnish band they had replaced, but a few back-packers near the beach weren’t enough to satisfy the raging bloodlust of this assassin for long.

Lordi took in the praise for one last time. Sadly, his lesser brethren did not appreciate the heady power of exhalation. They only understood war and mayhem and the slashing of throats; but Lordi would concede that they had done their part and they deserved their reward. He was looking forward to it himself. He would swing his battleaxe and lop the head off the Swedish entry first. Her blood would spurt most satisfactorily and would spray the white costume of the Israeli singer in a splatter of red mist. The cheers would turn to screams and panic as the band got stuck in to the slaughter. With a thunderous war cry, Ox would charge the UK entry, tearing the young man and his naughty schoolgirl backing singers to pieces with his horns. Kita, the self-confessed extraterrestrial manbeast, would descend on the Spanish Las Ketchup and make his own Bloody Mary from their entrails with his Jaws of Terror. Amen would throttle the young man from Russia that, for a time, had threatened their success, until his eyes popped out. “Braaaaaainss! They taste good!” Awa, his she-devil would shout, speaking with her mouth full of the Moldova team. Yes, life would be good. His band would be happy, and he would be too.

His huge, compensatory battleaxe cut a wide path through the glitter and the sequins as people jumped out of their way. Lordi imagined cutting them down with each great swoop in a large swath of hosts, competitors and hangers on. It would almost be too easy. If the rest of this dimension would fall so easily, he would have time to take on another.

He swung the axe again. In his mind’s eye, he lazily mowed down France and Norway, but this time it met resistance. A woman. A young blonde woman that barely came up to the height of his crotch. She held the battleaxe steady with just one hand and she was so strong he couldn’t wrench it back from her grip.

“I think your Arockcalypse is over.” She winced, wrinkling her nose. “Ugh. I don’t believe I just said that in public.”

“I am Lordi,” he growled in his best threatening voice that he saved for intimidating lost souls and press officers. “I am the Unholy Overlord of Tremors. I am the bastard son of a thousand megalomaniacs…”

The woman didn’t even flinch. “And I’m Buffy. Vampire Slayer. Daughter of Joyce, the um… Maker of Cocoa.”

“My band is the scourge of Lapland. Betrayers! Murderers! Usurpers all!”

Buffy rolled her eyes and looked at the vampire currently separating Ox from his head, the witch zapping Amen into oblivion and the God King throwing Kita and Awa together into the wall. “I have Spike, Willow and a blue woman who once ruled the universe. I think I have you trumped.”

Lordi raged. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen! How was he supposed to find another bass player now? “You will not defeat me!”

“I think I have a sword that begs to differ.”

Lordi looked down, finally noticing the sword that was pressed against his exo-skeleton. He laughed. “My armour is symbiotic, small woman called Buffy. You cannot kill me with that.”

“I don’t have to,” Buffy smiled. She waved at the skinny wench with vibrant blue hair, distracting her wistful attention away from the scatter of corpses, which was all that was left of the band. “Now! Illyria.”

Illyria raised an arm. Lordi saw a spiralling vortex appear beside her out-stretched palm. He felt himself rising from the floor. Buffy had picked him up, battleaxe and all, and was tossing him into the portal! “No! Small woman! Stop!”

He tumbled down the wormhole; arse over platform boots, rolling over and over, the voice of his foes echoing around him as he fell.

“Where did you send him?” Buffy asked.

“I am still but a reflection of my former glory. I cannot choose the place to which my portal opens.” Illyria paused for a moment as she thought. “I believe it is a dimension that lacks small crustaceans. He will do well there.”

A third voice piped up, a man’s. “Er... Buffy? This bloke’s wearing a mask. He’s human…”

The End


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