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Title: Van Inanities

Van Inanities

Author:  Pam


Rating:  G

Warnings:  Badfic. (Pinky)-Purple prose. Run-on sentences, lots of commas, and silliness. You have been warned. ;-) 

Disclaimer:  I don't own the A-Team.

This was written in response to the Bulwer-Lytton Mini Challenge on the A-Team Story Board, although as it turned out, this isn't very "mini."  Parts 1 - 10, complete. 





This day had gone on far too long, 37 hours at last count,

that is, if BA had counted correctly and always assuming

that days could indeed have 37 hours instead of the

requisite 24, but that was a moot point because he'd

decided if he said so, then it did, but no matter how it was

counted, it had been a long day, or then again, maybe it

was two.




The pinky-purple sky didn't bode well for BA because

besides being a putrid shade as far as he was concerned

(one of those men-don't-like-purple things) since he was

partial to blue and yellow skies, the unrelenting pinky-

purpleness combined with cigar smoke was making him

wish he hadn't eaten that last tuna salad sandwich with extra

pickle relish, but he knew he had to stay alert because

something was going to go down, and he hoped it

happened before something came up.




Just what was it, BA wondered, about tuna salad sandwiches

with extra pickle relish that had given him this odd feeling in

his stomach -- was it to do with quantity to quality, or one

individual part, such as mayonnaise or maybe the hint of

onion in the pickle relish, he pondered as he realized, it could

simply be the cigar smoke, but that really hadn't bothered him

before, so maybe it was the combination of the two, but

regardless, he had decided that if his stomach made it to

noon or thereabouts intact, that he was going to have steak

and eggs for lunch, but the eggs would have to be scrambled

because the thought of shimmering egg yolks was not a

pleasant one at the moment, even though he normally loved

the color yellow, especially when it was in the sky, which

unfortunately was not right now, he mused as he drove

down the highway at a moderate, in his opinion, 73 miles

per hour, which was the optimal speed for the health and

well-being of his van.




BA prided himself on being just as mathematically inclined

when it came to things mechanical as Face was with things

financial, and Murdock was with things aeronautical, and

Hannibal was with things, well, whatever one word would

describe Hannibal, and BA was sure there was one, but he

just couldn't think of it right now as he continued driving at

73 miles per hour, which he had determined was the best

speed for maintaining the van's transmission, ball bearings,

and motor mounts, which is not to say that it was optimal

for the engine and tires, because the optimal speeds for them

were 72 and 75 miles per hour respectively, but all things

being equal and going with the law of averages, that being

one law that BA had determined it might be good to follow,

he had decided to drive 73 miles per hour when at all

possible, which in reality was not that often at all, he

thought with a sigh.




As they sped down the highway at precisely 73 miles per

hour, Murdock sat in his customary back seat and gazed

at the view, well, whatever little bit of view there was,

because in reality all he could see from back here in the

murky depths of the van, aside from the spiky hair atop

BA's head, was a vague pinky purpleness, but he loved

looking at the sky, no matter what color it happened to

be, and at the vast ocean waves of clouds, and he

wondered, not for the first time, that something that looked

so amazingly soft and fluffy when you looked up, well,

as best he could from this back seat viewpoint, which

really wasn't very well, could be so bumpy when you

flew through them, not that he ever minded bumpy as

long as it was confined to plane, train, and automobile

rides and Bette Davis nights, although he would just as

soon not have any more bumps on his head, knees,

elbows or any other body part, because that pinky

purple color didn't look nearly as good on him as it did

in the sky, but feeling refreshed by the seredipitous

nature of these pinky-purple thoughts, he powered up

his brainwaves to warpspeed once again, because time

was of the essence, and time and tide wait for no man,

and as he set to his task, he began to hum a medley of

"The Yellow Rose of Texas" and the theme from

"Star Trek". . .




King Kong was holding Face, er, Fay Wray and climbing

up the Empire State Building, and he, no, she was

screaming for help, terrified of either King Kong or maybe

heights, and the first one, Murdock could understand, but

the second one, well, anybody who loved to fly like

Murdock did, was definitely not afraid of heights, and he

sincerely hoped that Face, er, Fay Wray was merely

terrified of big hairy gorillas, moreso than of being carried

up a tall building that Superman might have leaped in a

single bound, but Murdock didn't really like to think of

Superman or King Kong either one carrying off Face,

who in fact, was sleeping in the seat next to him at this

very moment, and was, of course, totally oblivious to

the fact that Murdock was practicing his transmogrification

techniques, which he was sure with a bit more practice

would succeed and Face, yes, Face was to be the

instrument of Murdock's success, and Murdock knew

Face would be pleased, well, Murdock doubted very

seriously if Face would be pleased to be carried off by

King Kong, if for no other reason than that Face's suit

would get wrinkled and covered with those giant paw

prints, although it might not be so bad if Murdock

succeeded in having Face carried off by Superman

instead, who's outfit always seemed to be very clean,

if a bit, well, unstylish.




As Murdock pondered this quandrous dilemma, his

warpspeed brainwaves were sidetracked by thoughts of

those wondrous tuna salad sandwiches with extra pickle

relish he had eaten last night, which surely must be even

better than almost any other food he could think of,

except, of course, lime green jello with little cubes of

pear, which was infinitely better than lime green jello

with peaches or grapes, or even lime green jello with no

fruit at all, and he wondered if he would ever again in his

life experience a taste sensation that would even begin

to compare to that tuna salad epicurean delight, not that

Face had thought of those sandwiches in quite such

ecstatic terms, but Murdock felt sure that if the sandwiches

had been accompanied by potato chips with ripples

instead of the plain ones that were the only ones available

last night, that it would have made all the difference in

Face's perception of that delectable and delightful meal,

and then he sighed, realizing that Face was waking up

and that he'd have to put his transmogrification project

on hold until Fay, er, Face, went back to sleep, and

he decided to rest in anticipation of powering up his

brainwaves once again.




Face lurched forward in his seat, awake in an instant at

the thought of -- horrors! -- lime green jello, jiggling

and swaying on a plate with little pieces of pear, and he

pondered where that nightmarish vision had come from,

and he wondered for a moment whether the undistinguished

diet his body had recently been subjected to was

manifesting itself in this weird dream about lime green

jello with little cubes of peach, no, it was pear, definitely,

pear, or whether something else might have triggered the

association, a something that was most likely a tuna salad

sandwich with extra pickle relish, not that it had been

untasty, because Face had to acknowledge that it had

tasted very good indeed, but on the other hand, it was so

very, very, very ordinary, not to mention those potato

chips that didn't have any ripples, and were, therefore,

wholly inadequate, because Templeton Peck's palate was

refined and exceptional, and just not used to food that

was ordinary or inadequate, or so he liked to think,

because in reality, his stomach had been subjected to lots

of things that were ordinary and inadequate, but what

was the point of having such an exceptional appreciation

of extraordinary food if he was to be subjected to such

run-of-the-mill food fare as tuna salad and jello, although

he hadn't actually eaten any jello, because that would

have been too, too horrendous to even think about, but

unfortunately he was thinking of it, and that was very

nearly the same experience in his opinion, and he sighed

at the indignity of it all.




Cigar smoke curling and twirling, seemingly synchronized

with the clouds swirling in the pinky purple sky, Hannibal

allowed his mind to wander, as he plotted and planned

not the next great maneuver that his team would execute,

oh, no, that was going to be a piece of cake, a piece of

chocolate cake with fluffy coconut seven-minute frosting

just like his mother used to make, to be exact, and not

worth worrying over, although after experiencing last

night's tuna salad sandwich with extra pickle relish, he

thought he might have to alter one of his signature lines,

but of course, what he really wanted to do was direct,

thinking to himself of his experiences of a lifetime,

because what was his life but a great epic, one vast

production number after another where all the players

moved according to his prolific plans and directions,

but before he moved to that stage of his career, he was

determined to stretch his acting muscles a few more times,

keep in touch with the inner muse, which strangely enough

was giving off signals about. . . King Kong climbing up

the Empire State Building, and Hannibal knew there had

to be a role there that he was perfect for, something that

showed off his method and motivation and mood,

because he knew he could be just as methodical and

motivated and moody as Marlon Brando, and he decided

he was going to talk to his agent, and see if there was

anything in the air, anything besides his own cigar smoke,

that is, but he knew he wasn't just blowing smoke, that

this was a sign of vivid proportions, something that was

going to reinvigorate and rejuvenate his thespian

endeavors, and if "King King" didn't pan out, well, maybe

someone would be remaking "Mighty Joe Young" instead,

and he could wear the pith helmet and carry a whip, and

he grinned and chuckled, thinking that might be better





BA slid his eyes off the pinky-purple sky long enough

to take in the grin on Hannibal's face, and wondered

just what "piece of cake" plan the Colonel was going

to come up with next, but something told him it was

going to involve scaling tall buildings and a damsel in

distress, and BA found that kind of confusing because

he knew there wasn't anything for miles around taller

than two stories, and as for that damsel in distress,

well, he hoped she could hold on a little longer till they

got there, or someone showed up with a ladder or

maybe one of those things that firemen hold and yell

at you to jump into, only BA didn't think he'd ever be

able to do that, jump, that is, but banishing those terrible

thoughts from his mind, he looked back down the road,

and was pleased to see that the pinky-purple sky was

finally moving towards, in his opinion -- and that's the

one that counted, also in his opinion -- a more acceptable

shade of blue with a few fluffy white clouds and peeks

of yellow where the sun was shining through, and he

gave a mudsucker sigh, feeling relieved that his stomach

had recovered from that peculiar odd feeling, seemingly

completely over the effects of tuna salad sandwiches

with extra pickle relish, or maybe it was the cigar smoke,

but anyway, his appetite was once again restored, and

feeling pleased with the fact he'd been able to drive his

van the optimal speed of precisely 73 miles per hour

for the past 47 minutes and 15 seconds, certain that

the van's transmission, ball bearings, and motor mounts

would be feeling as robust as Mighty Joe Young, he

slowed and turned into the gravel parking lot of Fay

and Ray's Egg-ceptional Diner, and seeing as he was

really hungry for that steak and about six eggs,

shimmering yellow yolks and all, he turned to the

others with the most ferocious glare he could muster,

because, after all, he did have his angry mudsucker

reputation to uphold. . .


"Lunch!" And for a bit of emphasis, which in all reality

wasn't really necessary because he had their undivided

attention, but that didn't really matter to King Kong, ah,

BA, as he shook his bejewelled fist and added, "Ah said!"


And life was good. Just as good as tuna salad sandwiches

with extra pickle relish -- but BA would see to it that no

one had that for lunch.


Although he might take one to give that damsel in distress,

whoever she was. He figured she'd be hungry, too.



The End. . .

and aren't you glad!



Van Inanities by Pam



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