Bea N Art

It's well past midnight here in England, and I can't help but think about ways we can improve Good Omens.

While I'm a fan of Michael Sheen and David Tennant, I feel that the show has a lack of Hollywood appeal. To make it more appealing to American audiences and to be taken more seriously, I suggest that we push to have the main actors recast for season 3.

I have two actors in mind who I believe would make great replacements.

By banding together and sharing my suggestions, we can make this happen! Let's strive to improve the show and make it even better than it already is.

Rated Teen for non-graphic spicy tension. Inspired by this delightful bit of fanart by @bea-n-art.

Mr. Brown landed in a heap, cracking his shoulder on the coldest, dampest floor he’d ever encountered. Somewhere, behind the pain and terror of the last several seconds, he thought that if any floor needed a carpet it was this one.

“Name?” There was a bored voice above him. It came from behind the rickety metal office desk that loomed over his prone form. It took a moment, but he was able to prop himself up into a sitting position. The room around him was as dank as the floor. A lone fluorescent bulb above provided sickly, flickering light. Dirty water dripped down filthy, windowless walls. Was that a poster advising the reader not to lick them? He shuddered at the thought.

“Where am I?” Mr. Brown grabbed onto the edge of the desk and hauled himself up to standing. His shoulder protested, and he grimaced.

“Where do you think? You see any pearly gates? Your dear old grandma floating around on a silver cloud, playing a harp?” The figure seated at the desk had distinguished graying hair swept back from his face. He wore a dusty black jacket, and was flanked by messily stacked boxes of documents. He gestured to their surroundings, indicating the lack of clouds of any color. Mr. Brown wondered what his grandmother had to do with anything. He’d just gone to visit her last weekend, and she seemed to be in the peak of health.

“Now, if you would be so kind. Name.” The man picked up a clipboard, apparently preparing to write Mr. Brown's moniker on the paper attached to it. He brought up the tip of a sharpened pencil and opened his mouth to lick it. A forked tongue longer than anything Mr. Brown had ever seen on another human flicked out and twirled around the wood and graphite. He almost couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. It was grotesque, and yet … there was a flutter of something in Mr. Brown’s belly. It wasn’t revulsion.

The unearthly tongue slipped back into the man’s mouth. His only acknowledgment of Mr. Brown’s stunned expression was to raise his eyebrows in a “you getting the picture now?” movement. Mr. Brown swallowed. Hard. The room titled around him. He swayed forward, catching himself on the lip of the desk.

“I’m in Hell, aren’t I?”

“Ding ding, give the man a prize!” The fiendish office worker smirked. “Oh wait, there aren’t any prizes here. It being Hell and all.” Mr. Brown barely heard the words. His thoughts were spinning. How did he end up here? His confusion must have shown, because the smirk faded from the man’s - no, he must be a devil? demon? - face.

“Look, it can come as a bit of a shock to some. You die, and suddenly you find out that the books just didn't balance in your favor. But, we can’t do anything about it now, can we? So, if you’ll give me your name, we’ll have you sorted and sent on to your eternal reward that much quicker.”

“But, I’m not dead!” Mr. Brown sputtered. He struggled to remember how he had gotten here. The last few hours were a bit fuzzy. He ticked off the events of the evening on his fingers. “I was at a meeting, in Mr. Fell’s bookshop. But there was dancing, I think? Which I thought was highly unconducive to discussing this year’s Christmas light display, let me tell you. Some vandals threw a brick through the window. Mr. Fell and his friend tried to talk to them. But there really is no reasoning with hooligans, so I offered to call the proper authorities. And then…” Mr. Brown faltered. After that there were only flashes of memory. Had he flown through the air? Been tossed down a stairwell? Surely not.

“Did you just say bookshop?” The demon stood up, the force of it sliding his chair. Mr. Brown took a step back. The flash of dark emotion from the other man - demon, whatever - made his breath quicken. Was it fear? Not quite… Oh, wait, he hadn’t answered.

“Er, yes? Do you know it?” Mr. Brown cringed inside. What a ridiculous question. Why would a resident of the underworld know about a bookshop in London?

“Oh, yes. I’m quite familiar with it. Tell me,” The demon leaned forward over the desk. Mr. Brown felt himself wanting to match the motion, to close the gap between them. What was going on? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so affected by someone else’s mere proximity.

“Was Mr. Fell’s friend,” that word was sneered, “a tall bloke? Red hair? Dark glasses? Moves like he forgot to install his bones?” The strange turn of phrase about bones aside, that was an accurate description of Mr. Fell’s dance partner. Mr. Brown nodded, utterly at a loss as to how the demon would know that.

“Ugh, Shax! You didn’t tell me there would be humans there!” There was a thump of a fist on the abandoned clipboard, then a finger pointed at Mr. Brown. “And you say you’re not dead?” Before he could answer, the demon rounded the desk. He caught Mr. Brown’s forearm in one hand and pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist. The grip was firm, but not rough, and it sent a ripple of shivers up Mr. Brown’s arm. He felt his heart skip a beat.

“There’s a pulse, alright. You’re alive.” All the frustrated bluster seemed to leave the demon. He sighed and released the arm. Mr. Brown could still feel a tingle where fingers had touched his skin. “What am I supposed to do with you? There aren’t exactly forms for this sort of situation. I can’t intake living humans.” The demon’s eyes roamed Mr. Brown’s face, as if he would find the answer to his question there. This close, Mr. Brown could see that they were a striking shade of blue. The memory of that long, forked tongue flashed across his mind. He tried to stop it, but his body knew exactly what it wanted this infernal stranger to do with him.

The demon must have picked up on the subtle change in Mr. Brown’s stance. Or, maybe his pupils had dilated? Whatever it was, it surprised him. Eyebrows were raised again, this time accompanied by a bit of a smile.

“Well, whoever you are, it looks like you’re going to be here for a while. At least until we can locate the proper paperwork to have you sent back topside, anyway. In the meantime, perhaps there’s something I can do to make you more...” The demon took a step forward. Mr. Brown didn’t back away. The smile widened. “Comfortable?”

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So three months ago I uploaded a picture of a very silly ship called "Furcarpet". It is what you think it is. Furfur/Mr. Brown, and it's honestly usually quite funny and sweet.

Today the actor Tim Downie who plays Mr. Brown (And Gale from Bg3) liked, shared and commented on my Mr. Brown Furfur ship saying he love this ship, not only on Instagram but also on my Twitter!

....so that's a thing that happened.

He seems genuinely sweet and I am very flattered, but mostly I am amused that the actor of Mr.Brown loves the "Furcarpet" Furfur/Mr.Brown ship.

The Good Omens fandom needs to know, if only to bring a smile to peoples faces.