Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
04-24-2011, 09:31 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
The guard, whose name was Greg, had only recently become suspicious of the fact that this Denny’s had to be guarded at all times and admit no entrants.
Since he had seen Pulp Fiction, Greg was aware that restaurants could be robbed despite nobody ever really thinking to rob restaurants, so he considered that his job was to turn away people from robbing the place. He might be more suspicious had he ever actually had to turn anybody away from Denny’s, but Burger King was just up the road and there was an IHOP three blocks down, completely eliminating both the breakfast and lunch crowd. Furthermore, because the restaurant was open twenty-four/seven, the employees had entered three years ago and never once left.
For some reason Greg was feeling a bit smarter today, and he wasn’t willing to blame the Arizona heat boiling his brain nor the sudden arrival of something that wasn’t quite a giant centipede.
“Halt!” shouted his partner, whose name either Bill or Frank, or more likely both at the same time. Bill/Frank’s third name was Police Force Reject and could be read just as clearly as the others on the back of his underwear and on his Denny’s-authorized security badge. He was a repugnant man. “We can’t let you pass!” he roared, suddenly deciding to drag Greg into this.
Greg shrugged. “We’re guards,” he confessed to the oversized insect.
“We’re guards!” agreed FrankBill, with different intent.
The centipede seemed to consider this. He examined the typewriter he was carrying, and appeared to type out something on it while speaking to himself in a low voice. Greg shook his head. He knew that the bug was on drugs, foremost because it was heading to Denny’s.
It seemed then to agree with itself, put the typewriter back on its back, and said, “We’re here for breakfast,” as though that were some kind of code.
Greg, fighting back his sudden desire to experiment with drugs, reasoned that he supposed that if there were a password that got you into Denny’s, “we’re here for breakfast” wouldn’t be far off. He stepped aside. “Welcome to Denny’s,” he said, trying to sound as though he had ever said it before.
The guard who was named both Bill and Frank gave Greg a pained look of betrayal, then turned back to the drug addicted breakfast-crazed headcase, whose back legs were already moving towards the restaurant. “Hold it right there!” he screamed in a voice of primal policity. Greg had never hated anything more in his life.
The centipede’s back legs stopped moving, leaving it in a position that Greg figured had to be uncomfortable. Bfraillnk had drawn his gun. Then, complicating matters, a floating cloud of sharp metallic objects floated up by the centipede’s sides and asked it to become friends.
Frbrankill was apparently confused as to who was being addressed. “I’m not your friend,” he spat, addressing the floating entity as one addresses a teenager trying to spraypaint a high school wall. The metal cloud seemed to sag, but didn’t move. This seemed to make the guard braver. “Come on, get out of here or I’ll shoot,” he growled, firing his gun into the air.
The cloud expanded and drew both the bullet and the gun into itself, leaving FrillBank unarmed and enraged. He advanced towards the cloud.
Something in the cloud brushed by and crushed all the bones in Greg’s partner’s hands to powder, and that was when Greg ran. No breakfast establishment was worth this. Not even IHOP would have been worth this.
Still, Greg was intrigued and a little excited by the prospect that something interesting was finally happening in Pukeson. As he entered his station wagon, he opened up his glove compartment and pulled out a piece of paper upon which an address was written in violet gel pen. He turned on the car. They would want to hear about this in Old Pukeson.
The guard, whose name was Greg, had only recently become suspicious of the fact that this Denny’s had to be guarded at all times and admit no entrants.
Since he had seen Pulp Fiction, Greg was aware that restaurants could be robbed despite nobody ever really thinking to rob restaurants, so he considered that his job was to turn away people from robbing the place. He might be more suspicious had he ever actually had to turn anybody away from Denny’s, but Burger King was just up the road and there was an IHOP three blocks down, completely eliminating both the breakfast and lunch crowd. Furthermore, because the restaurant was open twenty-four/seven, the employees had entered three years ago and never once left.
For some reason Greg was feeling a bit smarter today, and he wasn’t willing to blame the Arizona heat boiling his brain nor the sudden arrival of something that wasn’t quite a giant centipede.
“Halt!” shouted his partner, whose name either Bill or Frank, or more likely both at the same time. Bill/Frank’s third name was Police Force Reject and could be read just as clearly as the others on the back of his underwear and on his Denny’s-authorized security badge. He was a repugnant man. “We can’t let you pass!” he roared, suddenly deciding to drag Greg into this.
Greg shrugged. “We’re guards,” he confessed to the oversized insect.
“We’re guards!” agreed FrankBill, with different intent.
The centipede seemed to consider this. He examined the typewriter he was carrying, and appeared to type out something on it while speaking to himself in a low voice. Greg shook his head. He knew that the bug was on drugs, foremost because it was heading to Denny’s.
It seemed then to agree with itself, put the typewriter back on its back, and said, “We’re here for breakfast,” as though that were some kind of code.
Greg, fighting back his sudden desire to experiment with drugs, reasoned that he supposed that if there were a password that got you into Denny’s, “we’re here for breakfast” wouldn’t be far off. He stepped aside. “Welcome to Denny’s,” he said, trying to sound as though he had ever said it before.
The guard who was named both Bill and Frank gave Greg a pained look of betrayal, then turned back to the drug addicted breakfast-crazed headcase, whose back legs were already moving towards the restaurant. “Hold it right there!” he screamed in a voice of primal policity. Greg had never hated anything more in his life.
The centipede’s back legs stopped moving, leaving it in a position that Greg figured had to be uncomfortable. Bfraillnk had drawn his gun. Then, complicating matters, a floating cloud of sharp metallic objects floated up by the centipede’s sides and asked it to become friends.
Frbrankill was apparently confused as to who was being addressed. “I’m not your friend,” he spat, addressing the floating entity as one addresses a teenager trying to spraypaint a high school wall. The metal cloud seemed to sag, but didn’t move. This seemed to make the guard braver. “Come on, get out of here or I’ll shoot,” he growled, firing his gun into the air.
The cloud expanded and drew both the bullet and the gun into itself, leaving FrillBank unarmed and enraged. He advanced towards the cloud.
Something in the cloud brushed by and crushed all the bones in Greg’s partner’s hands to powder, and that was when Greg ran. No breakfast establishment was worth this. Not even IHOP would have been worth this.
Still, Greg was intrigued and a little excited by the prospect that something interesting was finally happening in Pukeson. As he entered his station wagon, he opened up his glove compartment and pulled out a piece of paper upon which an address was written in violet gel pen. He turned on the car. They would want to hear about this in Old Pukeson.