Harry Potter and the Pensioner of Azkaban

The black void of the dementor’s face opened, spreading a wave of horror and sorrow through the room. Its rotten hand reached across the table, drawing a red X over a number on a small square of crisp parchment.

A word issued from its mouth in a thin, sinister hiss.

“Bingo.”

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George Orwell Was Right (read why)

1984

A 1984 parody, with a twist

Winston tucked himself into the small alcove, the only place where Big Brother could not see him. With trembling hands, he reached for the tattered leather satchel at his feet. What he was about to do was forbidden. It could get him killed.

He pulled out a sheaf of newspaper clippings, the pages brown and faded. They were so old that they crumbled if he held them too tightly. A drop of sweat tickled its way down his brow.

His eyes darted back and forth as he searched for the right article. He knew it was in there, he must have read it a hundred times.

Finally, he found it. Though he knew the newspaper article by heart, he was certain that he had missed something. There it was, right at the top of the page with the headline Giant Panda Officially Declared An Endangered Species. 

The year it was written: January 23, 1984.

“That’s it.” Winston whispered. “George Orwell was right. It wasn’t our doom he foresaw, it was the pandas’.”

Panda
“Why, George? Why didn’t you warn us?”

Click here to see the TRUTH about when giant pandas were declared extinct.

Adopt a panda here with WWF.

Goon Girl

Gone girl

Based on a true Wikipedia summary.

Nick ran from one room to the next, a clammy hand dragging distractedly at his hair and the other clasped over his mouth. Sweat ran in great drops down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt.

“Amy, where are you?” He cried.

There was no response. His blood ran cold like slivers of ice and a chill shot up Nick’s spine. He could not find her, no matter how hard he looked. She was gone, girl.

A muffled shriek came from downstairs. Nick sprinted out of the bedroom and, with his mind turning at the thought of what might have happened to her, he thundered down the steps, two at a time.

Noises were struggling out of the cupboard beneath the stairs. Thumping and clattering mixed with sounds of distress. They were the sounds of a desperate struggle to the death. Nick pulled the door open, prepared to fight with his hair standing on end.

A small spider scuttled out through the open door. It left behind a woman with a red, flustered face. She was panting and gasping for air.

“Hah!” Nick shouted. “Found you. Now it’s my turn to hide.”

You can read 50 Shirts of Grey here.

Find my e-book here.

50 Shirts of Grey

A 50 Shades of Grey parody. 

I have tried to remain as loyal to the plot as possible based on what I remember from the film’s trailer.

Durian felt a tingling sensation run up his spine as his right hand touched the doorknob. Composing his face into an expression which conveyed calm and authority, he pulled the handle and flung the door open in one crisp movement.

A startled milkman looked up from where he was crouched on the front step. Smiling awkwardly with of the corner of his mouth, the man tipped his hat to Durian.

“Anastabella, you look different from your profile picture.”

That sort of thing happened all of the time, one of the many perils of online hookups. But Durian was not the sort of man who would let a little thing like a fake profile photo get in the way of what he wanted.

“You talking to me?” The milkman asked.

A woman came running around from the next-door driveway, panted up the steps and stood staring at Durian with eyes drowning in unrestrained enthusiasm. The milkman left the two full bottles on the porch and jogged back to his vehicle.

“I’m so sorry, I went to the wrong house and didn’t realize until I saw you out here.” She said.

Durian gave her the sort of cold, calculating look a butcher might give to a haunch of mutton. The milkman had possessed greater upper body strength, but there was no denying that the real Anastabella looked more suited to the work.

He led her inside, up the tall staircase with its plush crimson carpets and into his expansive master bedroom. They stopped in front of a pair of large doors set into the far wall.

“What’s this, your dungeon?” Anastabella asked with a chuckle in her voice.

“Let me show you something.”

Durian’s voice was like chocolate melting in a softly humming microwave. He raised one eyebrow, rested his hands on the two handles to build suspense for the great unveiling, then pulled the cupboard open.

Row upon row of plain, grey shirts. There were hundreds of them. But no two shirts were identical. Some had creased arms, others folded collars and some even bore stains down their fronts.

Anastabella gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. She had never seen anything so revolting or depraved in all of her life.

Reaching into the bottom of the cupboard, Durian pulled out a bottle of bleach, a canister of starch spray and a clothes iron.

“The agency said you were the best. Now what do you think I should do with these?”

 

Read a Gone Girl parody here.

You can find my e-book here.