Disclaimer: Nothing related to ATTWN is mine, book, movie, or game! Also, this fic makes absolutely NO sense since ATTWN takes place in the thirties and therefore the internet or TV wouldn't be invented and these adaptations had not been made yet, and everyone dies and therefore are unable to see any movie adaptations about themselves, so…yeah. Only read this if you're into silly stories that make zero sense.
It was Lombard who suggested it: "I've heard that Hollywood loves us so much, they made several movie adaptations about us! How about we watch one of the movies made about us and that terrifying adventure we all had? I can only afford three, though."
"Hear, hear!" declared the guests.
So Lombard went on NetFlix and swapped his three seasons of Desperate Housewives (and wept bitterly in the process of doing so) in exchange for And Then There Were None (1945), Ten Little Indians (1965), and Desyat Negrityat. The following three movies arrived on a Sunday afternoon and since the ten guests had nothing better to do, they watched all three movies all afternoon in Blore's house on his big screen TV. When they were done watching, they were all quite opinionated about the issue, especially Blore.
"Those…those wretched filmmakers!" spat out Blore, his face turning an interesting shade of lavender. "How dare they portray us in that way! How…dare…they!"
"And yet they did," said Marston. "How awesome."
"Awesome? AWESOME?!" spluttered Blore. "They changed your name in two of those three movies and you're calling it awesome?!"
"Actually, I'm really a German spy and therefore must undergo several identities in order to keep the enemy from capturing me, so I think the filmmakers captured that part of me rather well," said Marston, unaware that a nearby enemy spy had overheard every word he had said and was now lining up his shot to blow Marston away for foolishly giving himself away. "Out of those three films, though, the Russian version captured my sexiness perfectly. I even look sexy with shards of glass in my face! Now, if they really wanted to show my sexiness, they'd even show shards of glass sticking out my—"
Glad to be rid of that nuisance, Blore went on: "And another thing: I am personally insulted that the filmmakers would have the nerve to portray me as a blundering idiot!"
"I agree," said Lombard. "You're only a stumbling idiot."
"Ha, ha," sneered Blore. "You know what I mean; I'm not that stupid! By the way, I have to ask: Just earlier, I parked my car in a tow away zone. What's going to happen to my car?"
"Oh, that's easy," said Lombard sarcastically. "It'll spout wings and fly!"
Deciding he was dealing with an insensitive imbecile, Blore marched into the kitchen and saw Rogers. "Ah, Rogers!" he declared. "I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say that the films have completely destroyed our integrity as people! Look at the 1945 version for instance: They portrayed you as a drunk who speaks through his nose!"
"Sorry, whadid you say?" slurred Rogers, the whiskey slowly setting in as he talked through his nose.
"And then there's the 1965 version," continued Blore, barely noticing Rogers was drunk. "They not only changed your name, they also made you German! German!"
"My great-aunt Jenny was German," said Rogers, quickly sobering up.
"And then there's the worse offender of them all," said Blore darkly. "The Russian version."
"What was so bad about that movie?" asked Rogers. "I thought it was the only movie to capture my wife and me for what we really were: Dirty, rotten sneaks who only appear innocent."
"No, no, you don't understand, sir," said Blore. "I'll tell you what's wrong with that sorry excuse of an adaptation: It takes place in England and yet everyone speaks in Russian."
There were crickets chirping in the background. "I don't get it," said Rogers. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go upstairs for my daily BDSM session with my wife, which I absolutely hate since she never uses the safe word."
"You see, that just proves my point!" exclaimed Blore as Rogers headed up the stairs. "The other adaptations make Mrs. Rogers look like an absolute wimp! Not only that, but the 1945 movie made it look like the judge and the doctor were madly in love with each other! I was practically expecting them to go into an intense make out session!"
Blore opened the pantry for no particular reason at all—and saw Armstrong and Wargrave caught up in an intense make out session, letting out moans of pleasure and running their hands through each other's hair.
Blore shut the door without a word, scarred for life at what he had just witnessed. He shuddered and nearly bumped into the General. "Oh, hullo, General," grumbled Blore. "The world has gone crackers."
"My dear boy, the world has always been crackers," chuckled General Macarthur. He merrily strutted along, casually whistling to himself.
"I take it then that you enjoyed those monstrosities?" called out Blore.
"Huh? Oh yes, boy," said the General. "I felt they all captured my character perfectly."
"Even in the one where you led your men to a suicide mission?" challenged Blore.
"Even then, I like to pretend those men were clones of Arthur Richmond," said the General. And with that, he merrily skipped off.
"Well, I can at least count on Miss Brent," shrugged Blore. "She's still perfectly sane, I'm sure."
Once again, Blore was proven wrong.
When he walked into the bathroom, he saw Miss Brent trying on different wigs while wearing a skimpy dress. "Miss Brent!" he gasped. "What has gotten into you?"
"Chanel is what's gotten into me," said Miss Brent cheerfully.
"But—but—you're supposed to be an old spinster who thinks everyone will go to hell except for yourself and George Bush!" sputtered Blore.
"Not anymore," said Miss Brent. "After seeing that lovely 1965 adaptation, I had an epiphany: Being a Bible-thumping spinster just wasn't what I was meant to do. I was born to be an actress who relies on her cleavage-flashing abilities to get into the show business!"
"What about the other two adaptations?" burst out Blore. "What about the ones that show you for what you truly are—an old spinster who thinks everyone will go to hell except for yourself and Laura Mallory?"
"You said George Bush earlier," said Miss Brent.
"Forget what I said!" snapped Blore.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid those adaptations didn't capture my character quite well enough," shrugged Miss Brent. "True, they captured what I used to be, which I deeply appreciate, but it was the stunning masterpiece from 1965 that made me realize my purpose in life. Now if you'll excuse me, Bill Clinton will be here in half an hour. Get lost before he gets the wrong idea."
Blore drudged his feet out of there. Had everyone lost their minds? Didn't they realize how God-awful those adaptations were, especially that forsaken Russian version that should be burned and buried six feet under?
"Those movies had Lombard having sex with Vera, no less," muttered Blore. "They didn't do it in the 1945 adaptation, but it's pretty obvious that's what they were going to do once they raced out to that boat in the end. Why, they've had sex so many times, I'm amazed Vera isn't pregnant! Speaking of which, where is she anyway?"
At that moment, Lombard came dashing around the corner. "It's a boy!" he panted. "Vera just gave birth to my son at the hospital!"
"You've got to be kidding," muttered Blore.
"I'm not," said Lombard. "Remember that one time you were foolish enough to leave Vera and me alone in the pick-up truck? Well, that's where our bouncing baby boy came from!"
Blore screamed to the Heavens out of frustration—because all three movies he had seen had captured each and every one of their characters perfectly.
Especially the God forsaken Russian version.