Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
05-18-2011, 03:32 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
The road and the station wagon were in a harmonious state of disrepair, jostling Greg, Tabby, Nate, Venison, and Moot like a particularly painful theme park ride.
“Sorry about the car,” said Greg, who was attempting to maneuver his right elbow out of Tabby’s left breast with about as much success as he had ever had getting prizes out of claw machines. “He’s kind of… well I don’t call him ‘she’ for one thing.”
“Don’t worry about it, New Guy,” said Nate. Greg wasn’t sure why any of these people, all of whom he had known for years, were calling him New Guy, but he assumed it was Nate’s fault and Tabby was only following his lead. Nate was a born leader and almost certainly descended from some sort of chief (not that anyone gave a fuck, this far off the reservation). Like most Navajo in Old Pukeson, he had a bit of wolf blood in him. Despite the fact that Nate could get commanding when he wanted to (for one thing, he had somehow ended up driving Greg’s car), Greg was consistently surprised by how laid-back he was most of the time, and he suspected it was racist of him to think this.
“Yeah, Greg, I’m kind of in love with your car,” added Tabby. Tabby seemed distant today, presumably because she had dyed her hair yesterday so that it would perfectly match her wardrobe of eight Three Wolf Moon t-shirts, and subsequently complained that the color didn’t end up “100% cottony enough.” Tabby was a nice enough girl and had a sort of Northern Belle look about her that led Greg to suspect he should probably be trying to get in her pants.
Greg sighed. Nowadays he felt he empathized more with the two non-verbal members of this little group, Moot and Venison. Moot was nearly seventy years old, didn’t or couldn’t speak a word, and still managed to project that if he could speak, he would be calling Greg “New Guy.” Moot was a hilarious guy, if you could understand his jokes, many of which he made entirely through eye gestures. There was a rumor about Moot that he was the former mayor of Pukeson, which Greg had to admit would explain absolutely everything.
The car turned into the Denny’s parking lot and Venison whimpered, as though begging for an expository paragraph. Venison was Nate’s partner-in-crime and rightful owner of the passenger’s seat. Like most dogs in Pukeson, he had a bit of wolf blood in him. He was the sort of mutt that just keeps getting bigger the more genes you throw into his lineage, and he was terrified of cars, which was disconcerting for everybody (read: Greg).
So when they were crossing the parking lot Greg’s guard partner was dead on the ground with a hole in his chest, a stump on his wrist, and his pockets turned out. Moot turned his head towards the corpse solemnly, and Venison licked its face. That was that. They proceeded.
Learning that the Denny’s he’d been guarding for so long was actually a very hygienic military establishment that only faintly smelled of breakfast came as something of a shock to Greg. This shock was allayed somewhat by the fact that the group quickly found itself faced with exactly the sort of crowd you’d expect to find hanging around a Denny’s in the afternoon: a good-looking young man with a prosthetic arm, a good-looking young man holding an old-fashioned typewriter like it were his mother or his heroin kit, and what appeared to be the bubble monster from the Prisoner.
The Bubble monster seemed to be the first to react to their entrance. “Code rainbow! Code rainbow!” came a voice from inside the bubble-thing. It began to hover over to a nearby door. “Listen, Gabe, Quantos, do not let those people near us. We’ll be in the next room doing anything we can to inoculate ourselves against infection, radio us if you need us.”
The sphere, which Greg had decided reminded him more of the Death Star, left the room for someplace that seemed to be the source of the breakfast-smell. Greg, Tabby, Nate, Moot, and Venison were left with the two human-looking fellows. “What did it mean by ‘code rainbow?’” Greg asked Moot, who shrugged. He was certain, for some reason, that it had been referring to him personally.
”Um, hi,” said typewriter guy. “I’m Gabe. You’re not in the, um, the contest, are you?”
”I don’t think so?” said Greg. “Nate can explain better than I—“
“Nah, New Guy, you got this one,” retorted Nate. Greg felt betrayed. Venison barked helpfully.
Greg stepped up to typewriter guy and arm guy, who looked at him suspiciously. “Um, hi,” he said. “I’m New G…reg. New Greg.”
“New Greg!” shouted Tabby. “I like that.”
“We, uh, we heard, or rather, um, they heard from me, that, you know, some crazy shit was going down over by Denny’s, and we were all pretty hungry anyway, and Nate’s little brother’s gone missing, so—”
”Oh,” said the guy with the arm. “Ooooooh, I get it. Yeah, Gabe, this is the eighth player.”
That didn’t sound good. “Me?” asked Greg.
”All of you. A set of ideas that… manipulates cultural… something. The Convolution. Listen, New Greg. I think you’re only here because your thoughts are being guided by some sort of… crazy entity made of ideas who is going to try and manipulate you into killing us.”
Everything suddenly clicked for Greg. Everything he had said or done today made so much sense in the context of the realization that he was gay and had always been gay. This epiphany gave New Greg some measure of confidence. “Cool,” he said about that other thing. “Is he hot?”
* * * * *
Itzel stopped panicking when N’ghm informed her that they were out of range, just in time to start panicking again. Someone handed her a note. On it was written, Psi-defenses prevented 99.8% of cultural contamination. “Not good enough,” the High Admiral said, to nobody in particular.
“Malfallow!” she growled. “Increase police presence in areas that might be contaminated. No, scratch that, decrease police presence. No, fuck it, increase police presence. No time for the velvet glove. LeBeau, Szindle, Aio, figure out which of you is in charge of this shit and begin preparing anti-body memes. I want posters, seminars, rallies… I dunno, sporting events, anything. Bread and circuses. How fast can we reform education? Can we do that?”
“Asssk the edjucasshion minnnissterrr.”
“We have an education minister?”
Itzel put her hands up in front of her, which wasn’t a universally recognized symbol for “everyone shut up for a second,” but it ought to have been. A wave of confidence washed over her, and she allowed herself to take a deep breath. “Shit, that could have been bad,” she groaned.
The road and the station wagon were in a harmonious state of disrepair, jostling Greg, Tabby, Nate, Venison, and Moot like a particularly painful theme park ride.
“Sorry about the car,” said Greg, who was attempting to maneuver his right elbow out of Tabby’s left breast with about as much success as he had ever had getting prizes out of claw machines. “He’s kind of… well I don’t call him ‘she’ for one thing.”
“Don’t worry about it, New Guy,” said Nate. Greg wasn’t sure why any of these people, all of whom he had known for years, were calling him New Guy, but he assumed it was Nate’s fault and Tabby was only following his lead. Nate was a born leader and almost certainly descended from some sort of chief (not that anyone gave a fuck, this far off the reservation). Like most Navajo in Old Pukeson, he had a bit of wolf blood in him. Despite the fact that Nate could get commanding when he wanted to (for one thing, he had somehow ended up driving Greg’s car), Greg was consistently surprised by how laid-back he was most of the time, and he suspected it was racist of him to think this.
“Yeah, Greg, I’m kind of in love with your car,” added Tabby. Tabby seemed distant today, presumably because she had dyed her hair yesterday so that it would perfectly match her wardrobe of eight Three Wolf Moon t-shirts, and subsequently complained that the color didn’t end up “100% cottony enough.” Tabby was a nice enough girl and had a sort of Northern Belle look about her that led Greg to suspect he should probably be trying to get in her pants.
Greg sighed. Nowadays he felt he empathized more with the two non-verbal members of this little group, Moot and Venison. Moot was nearly seventy years old, didn’t or couldn’t speak a word, and still managed to project that if he could speak, he would be calling Greg “New Guy.” Moot was a hilarious guy, if you could understand his jokes, many of which he made entirely through eye gestures. There was a rumor about Moot that he was the former mayor of Pukeson, which Greg had to admit would explain absolutely everything.
The car turned into the Denny’s parking lot and Venison whimpered, as though begging for an expository paragraph. Venison was Nate’s partner-in-crime and rightful owner of the passenger’s seat. Like most dogs in Pukeson, he had a bit of wolf blood in him. He was the sort of mutt that just keeps getting bigger the more genes you throw into his lineage, and he was terrified of cars, which was disconcerting for everybody (read: Greg).
So when they were crossing the parking lot Greg’s guard partner was dead on the ground with a hole in his chest, a stump on his wrist, and his pockets turned out. Moot turned his head towards the corpse solemnly, and Venison licked its face. That was that. They proceeded.
Learning that the Denny’s he’d been guarding for so long was actually a very hygienic military establishment that only faintly smelled of breakfast came as something of a shock to Greg. This shock was allayed somewhat by the fact that the group quickly found itself faced with exactly the sort of crowd you’d expect to find hanging around a Denny’s in the afternoon: a good-looking young man with a prosthetic arm, a good-looking young man holding an old-fashioned typewriter like it were his mother or his heroin kit, and what appeared to be the bubble monster from the Prisoner.
The Bubble monster seemed to be the first to react to their entrance. “Code rainbow! Code rainbow!” came a voice from inside the bubble-thing. It began to hover over to a nearby door. “Listen, Gabe, Quantos, do not let those people near us. We’ll be in the next room doing anything we can to inoculate ourselves against infection, radio us if you need us.”
The sphere, which Greg had decided reminded him more of the Death Star, left the room for someplace that seemed to be the source of the breakfast-smell. Greg, Tabby, Nate, Moot, and Venison were left with the two human-looking fellows. “What did it mean by ‘code rainbow?’” Greg asked Moot, who shrugged. He was certain, for some reason, that it had been referring to him personally.
”Um, hi,” said typewriter guy. “I’m Gabe. You’re not in the, um, the contest, are you?”
”I don’t think so?” said Greg. “Nate can explain better than I—“
“Nah, New Guy, you got this one,” retorted Nate. Greg felt betrayed. Venison barked helpfully.
Greg stepped up to typewriter guy and arm guy, who looked at him suspiciously. “Um, hi,” he said. “I’m New G…reg. New Greg.”
“New Greg!” shouted Tabby. “I like that.”
“We, uh, we heard, or rather, um, they heard from me, that, you know, some crazy shit was going down over by Denny’s, and we were all pretty hungry anyway, and Nate’s little brother’s gone missing, so—”
”Oh,” said the guy with the arm. “Ooooooh, I get it. Yeah, Gabe, this is the eighth player.”
That didn’t sound good. “Me?” asked Greg.
”All of you. A set of ideas that… manipulates cultural… something. The Convolution. Listen, New Greg. I think you’re only here because your thoughts are being guided by some sort of… crazy entity made of ideas who is going to try and manipulate you into killing us.”
Everything suddenly clicked for Greg. Everything he had said or done today made so much sense in the context of the realization that he was gay and had always been gay. This epiphany gave New Greg some measure of confidence. “Cool,” he said about that other thing. “Is he hot?”
* * * * *
Itzel stopped panicking when N’ghm informed her that they were out of range, just in time to start panicking again. Someone handed her a note. On it was written, Psi-defenses prevented 99.8% of cultural contamination. “Not good enough,” the High Admiral said, to nobody in particular.
“Malfallow!” she growled. “Increase police presence in areas that might be contaminated. No, scratch that, decrease police presence. No, fuck it, increase police presence. No time for the velvet glove. LeBeau, Szindle, Aio, figure out which of you is in charge of this shit and begin preparing anti-body memes. I want posters, seminars, rallies… I dunno, sporting events, anything. Bread and circuses. How fast can we reform education? Can we do that?”
“Asssk the edjucasshion minnnissterrr.”
“We have an education minister?”
Itzel put her hands up in front of her, which wasn’t a universally recognized symbol for “everyone shut up for a second,” but it ought to have been. A wave of confidence washed over her, and she allowed herself to take a deep breath. “Shit, that could have been bad,” she groaned.