#but voted against it b/c i hate the venue that it’s it

[larrysblooming]

i literally hate myself so bad rn 🙂🔫

[kumkaniudaku]

Wild N Out

A/N: A request for the amazing and patient @queenbutterfly2018 . This was a challenge that I did not expect but had a lot of fun with. I hope you enjoy! If it isn’t what you want, let me know and we’ll take another stab at it. 

“Wild’n, wild’n...”

Chadwick stood in the hallway of the downtown Los Angeles venue, bouncing on his toes to shake some of his anxious energy away. When he got an invite to appear on the improv comedy show hosted by Nick Cannon, he allowed his wife to pressure him into accepting the invitation against his better judgment. To Chadwick, sketch comedy wasn’t his idea of a good time. He didn’t mind watching live during a date night with CoCo, or even spending hours of mindless time watch the popular television show, but participating was a different beast.

“I got somebody that’s gon’ try and take my comedy crown. You seen him be Jackie Robinson, James Brown, T’Challa and probably ya uncle. Tonight, he’s the Captain of the Black Squad. Y’all know him, Chadwick Boseman!”

Taking one last deep breath, Chadwick started a slow trot to the stage. In the short time beneath the bright lights, he noticed that the person responsible for his appearance on the show was suddenly absent from her front row seat. There was no time to process Tasha’s absence before he was pulled into a dap and hug by Nick Cannon.

“Now I know you like the Master Actor out here these days, but we've never seen you in a comedy role. You think you can hang tonight.”

Chadwick scoffed and smiled, “C’mon man. I’m me.”

“Alright, alright,” Nick laughed in the midst of the oohs and ahhs from the crown. “See, I knew you were coming, so I made sure the Red Squad was stacked. We had to bring out the big guns.”

“Hopefully it’s a ghostwriter. I’ve seen you in the wild style and it ain’t nice.”

“It’s terrible,” Emmanuel Hudson yelled from across the stage. “Worst shit I ever heard. You should throw all of your studio equipment in the middle of the ocean. Then jump in behind it. And drown.”

A chorus of laughter erupted in the building, becoming contagious as Chadwick let go of a few chuckles and some of his nerves.”

“Anyway,” Nick interrupted. “For the first time in Wild N Out history, I’m giving up my captain’s seat to somebody that I know can beat you. She told me to call her the HBIC and the B stands for Boseman. We got your lady in the house, Tashaaaa Boseman!”

With “Last Time That I Checc’d,” playing as her walk out music, CoCo confidently strolled onto the stage with a smug smile and a mischievous grin on her face. She’d been intentionally quiet about her invitation to appear being the catalyst behind her working double time to convince her husband to step out of his comfort zone.

Once Chadwick was over the shock of seeing Tasha step through the tunnel, his eyes flickered with a competitive drive.

“Hey, baby,” Tasha sultry voice spoke into the microphone. “You ready for me to whoop that ass in front of all these people?”

“I hear you talking big shit. Just don’t be surprised when I have on my championship belt in the bedroom tonight, Co.”

After sharing a friendly kiss, Chadwick and Tasha turned to join their respective teams and listen to the instructions for the first game.

“Alright, the name of the game is Got Damned,” Emmanuel started, imitating an old school referee. Even though they were on opposite teams, Chad and CoCo caught eyes and burst into giggles at the act.

A member of each team was called to the center of the stage to participate in an old fashioned game of the dozens. By the middle of the game, Chadwick was in tears from the sheer absurdity of the jokes. Tasha wanted in on the action.

“Give me Tasha! Give me Justina!”

The crowd’s cheers became lost in the background as Tasha stepped forward and grinned from ear to ear.

“Girl, if you don’t get your 'Thank you for being a friend,' Golden Girls old ass outta here,” Justina started.

“I know you ain’t talking with your big back, Clay Matthews from the Packers built ass.”

“If I’m built like Clay Matthews then you must be Spock with them gahdamn Star Trek ass ears.”

Tasha took the joke like a pro while assessing the competition. “Sis, if you don’t get your Frank Sinatra’s face, Khloe Kardashian’s old body having ass outta here!”

When Justine opened her mouth to counter, her speech faltered, causing her to stutter. The misstep garnered a reaction from the audience and the cast on the stage.

“You’re out!” Emmanuel’s declaration came with a gesture for Justine to rejoin her team a bell indicating that the red squad had received the point.

“DJ D-Wreck, who won that game, man?”

“It was close but, it looks like the Red Squad got that one!”

Tasha felt a surge of pride, knowing that she contributed to the win. Her pride matched Chadwick, who tried to keep his admiration lowkey.

If anyone were to ask him, his wife was everything light and fun in their relationship. She had the better jokes, was voted best song singer by the kids and always became the life of the party when they would have their famous monthly gatherings. If circumstances were different and they weren’t on different teams, he’d be congratulating her on her went. Unfortunately, he was forced to defeat his wife on national television. He could apologize for the beatdown later.

Nick continued to fly through games, some that neither Tasha or Chadwick felt qualified to participate. They were content to bobbing their heads along with the rap portions or adding a couple of chuckles to the mesh with the audiences’ laughter. In others, like Plead the Fifth, the Black Squad took the lead when Tasha and Chadwick were pitted against each other.

“Mrs. Boseman. I hear your nickname is CoCo. Can I call you CoCo,” Conceited asked.

“Never in your life, sweetheart, but continue.”

“Oh-kay! I just have one question. On a scale of 1 to 10… how much does Chadwick...hate working with those white people at Marvel. We’ve seen the pictures! How much does he hate it, Tasha!”

Chadwick looked at his wife’s eyes shut, and her lips become tucked into her mouth as she tried to stifle a laugh, half hoping she wouldn’t answer for a variety of reasons.

“Oh my God,” Tasha groaned while “answer him” chants grew in intensity. “I...plead the fifth.”

When the next segment was introduced, the couple made it a point to try and interact with their respective teams.

“ATL makes some noise! We back like we never left. It’s been a wild night all because of Ms. Tashaaaa.”

CoCo made sure to make an animated face in the camera before waving to the crowd.

“Damn, you just gon’ act like I ain’t playing? I mean, my team is winning.”

“Not for long! I’m coming for your ass tonight,” Tasha hollered across the stage.

“Is that a promise?” Chadwick’s suggestive comment didn’t go unnoticed by Tasha or the crowd, earning a mixed back of reactions and a subtle wink from his wife.

“Okay, okay. Sound like y’all are ready for the next game. What you got for us D-Wreck?”

“This next one is called Let Me Holla. We’ll bring a Wild N Out girl to the stage, and each team takes turns trying to holla at her. Good pick up lines get a bell; bad ones get a buzzer. Let’s get a Wild N Out girl to the stage?”

As the pretty blonde made her way into the spotlight, both Chadwick and Tasha made it a point to turn the friendly competition up a notch. Both teams went back and forth with pick-up lines varying from hilariously innocent to suggestive and downright raunchy. After B. Simone received a buzzer on the Black Squad, the scores were even, leaving the door wide open for a win.

Chico Bean was next to step to the young lady. “Hey, baby, do you have sex with men you meet the first night?”

“Uh...no?”

“Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tasha could feel her face getting sore from laughter that halted the moment the noise from D-Wreck’s bell turned into excited cheers from the crowd. Looking over, she was shocked to see Chadwick swagging his way to woman on stage. In a rush of adrenaline, Tasha dashed to join him on stage, sandwiching the woman between them.

Neither Tasha or Chadwick spoke. Instead, they took turns pointing between each other and the young woman while smiling. When that didn’t work, Chadwick reached across to pull Tasha into a kiss before pulling away and resuming the silent charade. Their display of affection and its not so hidden meaning made the blonde’s face flush as she bit her lip. Finally, she linked arms with both of her “suitors” and began to walk off stage, giving both teams a bell and ending the game.

Nick Cannon’s face, a mix of shock and intrigue, was priceless as he stepped on stage to mediate as Tasha and Chadwick exchanged a high five and returned to their respective teams.

“We wild’n out for real, huh? That one was too close to call, D-Wreck. Tell us who won.”

“Even with the double bell, the Red Squad had the most luck with the ladies. Give it up for them!”

“Aye, we all tied up around here, and we’re coming back to settle it the Wild Style battle. So, sit ya ass down because we’re coming right back!”

Tasha felt her stomach churn at the mention of the final battle. There was a laundry list of things she didn’t consider herself good at, and freestyle rapping was at the top. A quick break for some crowd shenanigans gave Chadwick time to break away from his group and check on CoCo.

“You good,” he asked as he handed her a bottle of water and bumped her shoulder. “Ready for this to be over as much as I am?”

“If I could end it right here and not have to rap in front of all these people, I’d gladly take my win and leave.”

“Oh, so you think you can just beat me without a fight, Cookie. Nuh uh! We play all the way through in this household.”

“But I can’t rap!”

“And I can’t do improv,” he laughed. “But I did that stupid props game and ended up winning. I got out of my comfort zone, and now it’s your turn.” A quick signal from a producer on set let the couple know that it was time to split up and wrap the taping, prompting Chadwick to end the conversation. “Get on out there Champ. If I lose, I want it to be because you beat me. Got it?”

His reassuring smile came with an extended fist which CoCo bumped to complete the gesture. “I got it. But if I suck, we never speak of it again.”

“Now you know damn well I can’t do that.”

She didn’t have time to respond before Nick was returning from the planned television break and introducing the Wild Style battle. Though nervous, CoCo tried to push all thoughts of possible humiliation from her mind and focus on coming up with rhyming words while others around her rapped. With the number of people on stage, she hoped she’d easily be looked over. Most hosts that weren’t known musicians or comedians tended to skip out on participating even if bated. Tasha hoped she could do the same.

“Aye, Tasha.” The mention of her name made her body still with fear before settling back into reality. “Bring that ass here, girl!”

CoCo’s mind pinged with all of the ways being called out by resident funny guy, DC Young Fly, could turn into a disaster. He was known for not only being outlandish in his delivery but also being good at his craft. She’d watched him completely eviscerate opponents all night and joining in on a laugh here and there. Now, she was on the receiving end and terrified of what was coming.

She didn’t move from the back of the pack under her own power. All she felt was several hands pushing her forward as she willed her facial expressions to morph into something that screamed confidence.

“Now Ms. Tasha, I know you old but I still think you groovy, so when are you gon’ stop fucking this nigga that gets his ass whooped in all his movies?”

Chadwick took the joke in stride with a cool laugh and shook his head. With the end of the game drawing closer, he didn’t care what went on as long as it was on its way to being over. Instead, he chose to give Tasha a subtle nod for encouragement.

Tasha had two options. She could laugh and return to the crowd without a rebuttal or take a stab at defending her man. CoCo chose the latter. Grabbing the mic, she took a deep breath and prepared to give her first televised freestyle a fair shot.

“DC, I’ll tell you a secret, real quick, don’t no woman want a man built like a used toothpick.”

The reaction to her response was instantaneous laughter from both teams and the audience. D-Wreck rewarded her effort with a quick bell before the battle progressed to an old school showdown between Chico and Karlous. She was excited and proud at the same time as she moved back to the side to make room in the center of the group. Chadwick was happy for her too, giving her a subtle wink and nod from across the room.

By the end of the battle, the bells and buzzers had become so mixed in everyone’s heads that no one was aware of the score until Nick called over to the DJ booth for an official tally.

“I got a feeling I get to keep my comedy belt this time, D-Wreck, but who won that game, man?”

“That battle was crazy...but the Black Squad got more bells in the end for the win!”

Chadwick smiled as he was presented with the gold plated souvenir and led to the spot beside Nick Cannon to end the show.

“You came in here, stole, and stole my belt. What you got to say to the people?” “Not much, man. Thank you for having me out here to whoop yo ass and give my lady and me something new to add to the trophy case. C’mere girl.”

Tasha smiled as Chadwick pulled her to his side and handed her the mic. “Let the record reflect that I technically won too because what’s his is mine,” she laughed.

“There it is! Let’s get to it. Everybody get out ya seats, turn your TV up and make some noise for Lil Baby!”

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[leupagus]

you will miss the green and the woods and streams

A Schitt’s Creek AU thing I wrote for @broadlybrazen, which boils down to “lol what if Schitt’s Creek had been Schitt Records can you imagine.” 

You’re welcome/I’m sorry.

***

“Okay, but why are you making me do this.” David doesn’t ask, because it’s not a question; it’s a declaration, something he’s learned in the long years since he and Stevie were coworkers, then friends, then — something, almost, not quite — and now they’re people who drag each other to shitty bars in shitty basements in shitty Toronto, except only Stevie is that.

“I’m not making you do anything,” Stevie lies right to his actual face as they collect her beer and his wine from the bartender. “You offered to comfort me.”

“I don’t think I said ‘comfort’ so much as I said ‘support you in your time of—‘“ he waves at her generally, carefully not to spill. “Loss, or whatever.”

Not that Jake qualifies as a loss, per se; he hadn’t even tried to get out of the contract, which Stevie keeps saying is the important thing. And David of all people knows that above-average sex can only take you so far when the other guy is an emotionally illiterate carpenter/rockstar who responded to a breakup text with “bummer :P”

“Well, this is you supporting me.” Stevie takes a swig and leans back against the bar; David admires the clean line of her neck and chest the way he’s done a thousand times before, absentminded appreciation the way he looks at a beautiful coat or listens to a new record; letting it slip through his fingers, like everything else.

“You’re not…performing, are you,” David doesn’t-ask.

Stevie gives him a long look. “You’ve known me for over two years,” she says, even. “Do you think I’m likely to break out into song?”

“You’re a talent scout for a major record label,” he feels obliged to point out.

“Uh, first of all, it’s not major, and second of all, so are you,” she says.

This is, sadly, irrefutable.

*

When Ira disappeared to God knew where with the keys to the Rose family fortune, their lawyer had pulled them all into the living room with a chipper expression and a folder. David hadn’t listened, the sounds of furniture, paintings, his life being carted out the door overwhelming everything else. But Dad’s voice cut through.

“Schitt Records? That was a joke—“ and it still is a joke, almost two and a half years later. The biggest joke in the music industry, and David hears the laughter everywhere he goes.

*

Roland Schitt had been managing his wife and an extremely chipper singer-songwriter who went by “Twyla” and did tarot card readings after every set. Schitt Records was worth approximately nothing; probably why the government had let them keep it. When Dad finally exercised his ownership clause and made Roland an ex-officio (read: non-voting) board member, Roland had actually cackled with delight and wished them all the best, taking his “President of” title and a small stipend with him. Jocelyn and Twyla stuck around, although David still isn’t sure that Twyla’s all that aware of the change in management.

And anyway, as far as David’s concerned, the only thing of value at Schitt Records, at least at first, was Stevie.

*

They’d put Alexis back in the studio for want of any better ideas; David had found a semi-decent, semi-sober songwriter to give her some of the songs Meghan and Ariana had rejected. “Pullin’ Up Alexis” didn’t so much as crack the top 200 but it had put Schitt Records in the black, at least, even if Alexis did go white-faced and brittle at the awful venues David coaxed her into for the better part of a year — county fairs and no-name festivals where the audience wanted to jeer and heckle, where her dancing would get her laughed offstage if her singing didn’t. But every time he’d tell her she could quit (she couldn’t) and that they’d find another way to get the company on its feet (they wouldn’t), she’d lift her chin and smile and ask her where they were going next, and David loved her more than he’d ever, ever tell her.

And when the tour ended, David gritted his teeth and went out with Stevie to find something else. They found Ronnie, who hates them all but has hands like an angel on the piano; Jake who’s prettier onstage than off but who can draw a reliable crowd; even Ray, whose one-man band act is surprisingly lucrative, though David suspects that’s because anyone who listens can’t actually believe what’s happening.

Schitt Records still isn’t worth buying, but it’s worth something, now; worth spending late nights in small towns, worth sleepless weekends working festivals, worth more than David had ever expected to find.

But he’s still looking, he knows, for something else.

*

Even more insultingly, the open mic has a theme; “90’s Nostalgia!” which means too many bad covers of Alanis and one truly offensive attempt at “I Will Always Love You” that has David ordering his next glass of wine in a pint glass.

Stevie is laughing, though — she’s happy, in tune with the crowd who are clearly here for their respective friends onstage, leading the shaky ones through their choruses and cheering with far more enthusiasm than is merited when each of them wraps up.

“This is horrifying,” David tells her as some guy in his 60s gets gently ushered offstage and there’s a blessed lull.

“I know,” Stevie replies, eyes shining. “It’s great.”

And it is, in a weird way that David would never have enjoyed in his other life; he would never have set foot in here, would never have been friends with someone as grounded and solid and plaid as Stevie in the first place. So he takes a drink and doesn’t suggest they leave, but does pick a fight about sending Ray to ACL.

Stevie obligingly takes the bait and they’re halfway through the comfortable old argument about riders when David realizes the strummy-strummy lala in the background is a) recognizable, b) good, and c) infuriating.

The guy onstage is best described as “unprepossessing accountant,” wearing an ugly shirt and ugly slacks and uglier shoes and an astonishingly ugly fringed vest that’s probably (hopefully) a joke, judging by the wolf whistles from a table near the stage. But he’s got a smile like a searchlight as he rounds the corner of the first verse:

“I’m caught up in the midst of you And I cannot resist…”

David flails around until he makes contact with Stevie’s — okay, her face, which she’ll probably complain about later, but he’s too incensed. “He’s singing Mariah?”

Stevie swats his hand away. “He’s not bad.”

“I—“ David clutches at his pint glass. Fringed Vest, still grinning into the crowd and unaware of David’s newborn vendetta against him, continues.

Boy, if I do The things you want me to The way I used to do Would you love me, baby Hold me, feeling now Go and break my heart

The entire bar joins in on the chorus, Fringed Vest leading them like some hick accountant Pied Piper:

Heartbreaker, you got the best of me But I just keep on coming back incessantly Oh, why did you have to run your game on me I should have known right from the start You'd go and break my heart

Fringed Vest does not, thank God, try his hand at rapping the break but the crowd seems reluctant to let him actually finish the song, the choruses getting progressively louder and more boisterous until Fringed Vest puts a line underneath and steps back from the mic and they finally take the goddamn hint.

“That was—“ awful, he’s about to say, but the problem is that it wasn’t. There’s not a whole lot a Canadian accountant can add to Mariah Carey, especially with the advent of Lip Synch Battle. But it hadn’t felt patronizing or mocking; Fringed Vest knew every word, sang with a voice that couldn’t hold a match to Mariah but still expressed some sort of longing. He’d been joyful, earnest where most people tonight had clung to trite. It… worked.

He’s even more enraged.

“C’mon,” Stevie says, slipping through the crowd with the weary ease of someone who’s been doing this half her life. David tromps behind in her wake, bumping up against the same people Stevie glides past and almost losing her twice before she gets to the dinky curtain that is the backstage and ducking inside.

Which smells like vomit; David immediately flips through the various acts tonight and makes a bet with himself that it was the very sweet otter with the beard and the accordion even while Stevie is making her way over to the side of the stage where Fringed Vest is talking to somebody else and drinking — god, Red Mountain, David is vetoing any contract Stevie tries to push on this guy for that alone.

But Stevie’s introducing them and Fringed Vest extends a hand. “Patrick,” he says, grip firm. Up close he’s — not attractive, exactly, no eyebrows to speak of and a haircut that screams middle management, that smile still the most interesting thing about him. But it’s very interesting.

“David,” he admits, aware of Stevie’s narrowed eyes.

“David Rose,” Patrick says, worryingly. “You own Schitt Records.”

He blinks; this is possibly the first time anyone’s said the name of the company without smirking. “Co-own,” he corrects.

“You manage a friend of mine,” Patrick continues, “Ray? Butani?”

“We only manage one Ray, don’t worry,” Stevie tells him.

“How are you friends with Ray?” David demands. “He plays a vibraphone.”

“We both went to Rotman,” and that explains so much about both Ray and Patrick. “He was pretty excited when he signed.”

“Yes, the glamour of the pub circuit,” David says. “Who can resist the allure of all this,” and he almost hits a girl with beads in her hair and a banjo in her hand climbing onstage.

“It’s got its charms,” Patrick says, still smiling.

*