Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
06-07-2011, 02:28 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Tabby had insisted on putting the clothes on in the store, leaving the twitchy-looking cashier in the awkward position of having to scan various parts of her newly purple-clad body. Apparently she had not banked on his abruptly grabbing one of her more sensitive areas, because she reacted with a sort of exasperated shock. “I usually m—scratch that. I was going to say that usually I make the boys take me out to dinner first,” she said, tenderly removing the man’s hand from her soft parts, “But that would be a lie. At the very least I make the boys let me start drinking before they try anything.”
Nate, who had spent the last half hour impotently standing around indulging Tabby in her shopping spree and wondering where his brother had gone off to, was wondering whether or not he should get chivalrous and punch the guy out. He wished Moot were here--Moot usually knew what to do in these sorts of social situations--but Moot was in the station wagon, trying to get New Greg to recover from his taser ordeal.
The cashier, whose name, coincidentally, was Greg, grabbed his right wrist with his left hand and yanked it away, making a sputtering apology. “I’m sorry, it usually doesn’t get like this,” said Greg, while his right hand flipped him the bird. “’Alien hand syndrome,’ they call it. It’s pretty random, it doesn’t reflect my subconscious desires or anything. Not that I don’t, um. Never mind. Total’s $87.65. Paying in cash?”
As Tabby nodded assent and pulled out her wallet, Greg’s right hand raised four fingers.
Then it lowered one of those fingers.
Then it lowered another one of those fingers. “Well, I guess your hand was being very sweet,” allowed Tabby. “In its own way.”
Then it lowered yet a third finger. As it lowered its fourth finger, the devil himself materialized in Pukeson Thrift, to nobody’s particular shock.
”A bit far afield, are we?” said the devil, grinning. Nate, Tabby and Greg looked around, confused, as though to confirm that they were still in Pukeson, which wasn’t far afield from anything except everywhere else. ”No, I wasn’t addressing you lot,” clarified the devil. ”I was addressing you.” He seemed to look past Nate, as though trying to find somebody hiding in the walls. ”Come on, now, where are you hiding?”
Greg’s hand suddenly perked up and waved at the devil. ”Oh, there you are!” laughed the devil, waving back. ”Clever little hiding spot, that. Listen, Convo—may I call you Convo?”
Greg’s hand gave a thumbs-up. “Convo?” whispered Greg, looking down at his hand in disbelief.
”Listen, Convo, you’re the talk of the town in my circle. We’re all just dying to see what happens when you get Networked.” Greg opened his mouth as if to say something, but decided he’d rather not intrude in the conversation any further. ”But hey, here’s the thing,” said the devil. ”I can understand why the genie would want to give you a little leeway, but I haven’t really been happy with the way Mr. Hedonist has been running this thing, and the rules of the round do specify ‘Denny’s.’ So I figured I’d come down here and… torment you, as it were.”
Greg’s hand flipped the Tormentor off. The Tormentor cackled. ”Sorry, Convo, them’s the breaks.” He turned towards Nate. ”Hey, puppet #4. Your brother and dog are both trapped at Denny’s. They’re in terrible danger and you need to go rescue them, besides which, if you run out to the car right now you’ll catch sight of Moot and New Greg making out in the backseat.” He turned back towards Greg’s hand and flipped it off right back, showing off a dangerous-looking claw. ”Convolute that, bitch.”
And with that, the devil disappeared. Greg’s hand tapped a tune on the counter, trying to look innocent.
“Shit, where is Venison?” asked Tabby.
“I never really got... that vibe... from Moot,” said Nate, absently. He turned towards Tabby. “We should go. Give me one of those purple jackets.”
Tabby had bought a lot of purple jackets. She gave one to Nate. It looked terrible on him, but in a good way.
As they strode out to leave, Greg said, “Wait!” Nate sighed and turned around.
Greg’s right hand formed the letter “L” and attached itself to Greg’s forehead as he prepared himself to make a speech. “My mom fucked the president,” he started.
“It’s true. JFK. I mean, a lot of women had that honor—hundreds, maybe—but God dammit if my mom wasn’t one of them. Right in the White House, too. She was seventeen.” Greg’s right hand shaped itself into a gun and mimed shooting its host repeatedly in the temple. “My oldest brother might be a bastard Kennedy. He was always the successful one. Off to Dartmouth before I knew how to read.” All my life I’ve had these… feelings of inadequacy--" his hand punctuated these revelations with some explicitly masturbatory gestures, "--And people would say, ‘oh, he always just wanted to be like his brother.’ But I didn’t want to be like my brother.”
Tears began to well up in Greg’s eyes. His left hand tried to wipe them away, but his right gave it a punitive slap, so the tears rolled down his face unhindered. “I didn’t just want to be some rich, ‘successful,’ boring lawyer. I wanted to be like my mom. I wanted to have a story to tell. I WANTED TO FUCK THE PRESIDENT.”
Greg was now sobbing openly. Tabby went to comfort him, but decided not to advance any further when his right hand snatched at her greedily. “All my life I’ve been rotting away as a cashier in Pukeson Thrift. But I get the feeling that this trip you guys are taking to Denny’s… this mission… it might be my president. And I will not give up the chance to fuck that president. I’m coming with you.”
Greg’s left hand ripped off his nametag in triumph while his right gave a sarcastic-looking salute. Nate stood at the door, unimpressed. “We already have a Greg.”
“I can be the new Greg,” said Greg.
“We already have a new Greg.”
“You can be Old Greg,” Tabby told Old Greg. “Here, have a purple jacket.”
Old Greg took the purple jacket with both hands. Nate understood in his heart that the jacket represented a higher authority than his own. “Come on, Old Greg, what are you waiting for?” he asked, smiling.
The three of them left, leaving Pukeson Thrift empty. When they got to the car, New Greg and Moot were sitting on opposite seats, conspicuously not looking at each other.
* * * * *
Ned had thought he was beginning to come down off the drugs and back into his own skin, until he saw the giant centipede monster that had zapped him earlier standing in front of him—or, um, stuck to somebody who was standing in front of him. Also, Ned seemed to be eating a cake with his face, and there was a robot holding him by a leash.
He had a nagging suspicion that this wasn’t a hallucination, but he ignored it.
“HAVE you c!o!me to take my dog aw(a)y?” said the robot, indicating Ned. Ned, owing to the wad of cake still in his mouth, failed to point out that the “dog” was the other guy, and he was Ned, who had only been wearing the Wolf’s skin or else allowing the Wolf to wear his skin for a bit. Instead, he chewed in silence. It was good cake.
The guy stuck to the bug monster and the bug monster stuck to the guy exchanged a look. ”I don’t know what will happen to me if you, um, do your thing to it,” said the human one.
”Don’t worry, I can control 'my thing' pretty well,” said the not-quite-so-human one (Ned felt faint, and his burns itched). ”I can take care of this.”
The robot, having stood by and allowed the two-bodied monstrosity to deliberate with itself, chimed in with a polite chiming noise that seemed to come from its elbow. “Chime! ‘U’ have (2x3x5) ‘sec’s (2) Va.Ca.Te this facillillillillillity.”
”No, I mean if you inflict pain on something I might—“ Before the man could finish his sentence, there was a flash of light coming from the centipede, and everything got very hot and started to smell less like cake. The light subsided. Ned, who had a nasty habit of taking sides when he hallucinated things fighting each other, was rather hoping the robot would be dead, but it was just glowing.
“You(x2)r attempt (+2) BRIBE >me< with: a battery charge; failed. >My< directive-2-guard the k’Zoos [not]is negotiable[/not]. Deploying intruderdeterrencesalvo in (30-17) ‘sec’s.”
The guy and the centipede exchanged another look. ”Well, I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas,” said the bug.
Ned tried curling up on the floor and going to sleep. He had always prided himself on his ability to fall asleep anywhere, and this would be his greatest challenge.
Tabby had insisted on putting the clothes on in the store, leaving the twitchy-looking cashier in the awkward position of having to scan various parts of her newly purple-clad body. Apparently she had not banked on his abruptly grabbing one of her more sensitive areas, because she reacted with a sort of exasperated shock. “I usually m—scratch that. I was going to say that usually I make the boys take me out to dinner first,” she said, tenderly removing the man’s hand from her soft parts, “But that would be a lie. At the very least I make the boys let me start drinking before they try anything.”
Nate, who had spent the last half hour impotently standing around indulging Tabby in her shopping spree and wondering where his brother had gone off to, was wondering whether or not he should get chivalrous and punch the guy out. He wished Moot were here--Moot usually knew what to do in these sorts of social situations--but Moot was in the station wagon, trying to get New Greg to recover from his taser ordeal.
The cashier, whose name, coincidentally, was Greg, grabbed his right wrist with his left hand and yanked it away, making a sputtering apology. “I’m sorry, it usually doesn’t get like this,” said Greg, while his right hand flipped him the bird. “’Alien hand syndrome,’ they call it. It’s pretty random, it doesn’t reflect my subconscious desires or anything. Not that I don’t, um. Never mind. Total’s $87.65. Paying in cash?”
As Tabby nodded assent and pulled out her wallet, Greg’s right hand raised four fingers.
Then it lowered one of those fingers.
Then it lowered another one of those fingers. “Well, I guess your hand was being very sweet,” allowed Tabby. “In its own way.”
Then it lowered yet a third finger. As it lowered its fourth finger, the devil himself materialized in Pukeson Thrift, to nobody’s particular shock.
”A bit far afield, are we?” said the devil, grinning. Nate, Tabby and Greg looked around, confused, as though to confirm that they were still in Pukeson, which wasn’t far afield from anything except everywhere else. ”No, I wasn’t addressing you lot,” clarified the devil. ”I was addressing you.” He seemed to look past Nate, as though trying to find somebody hiding in the walls. ”Come on, now, where are you hiding?”
Greg’s hand suddenly perked up and waved at the devil. ”Oh, there you are!” laughed the devil, waving back. ”Clever little hiding spot, that. Listen, Convo—may I call you Convo?”
Greg’s hand gave a thumbs-up. “Convo?” whispered Greg, looking down at his hand in disbelief.
”Listen, Convo, you’re the talk of the town in my circle. We’re all just dying to see what happens when you get Networked.” Greg opened his mouth as if to say something, but decided he’d rather not intrude in the conversation any further. ”But hey, here’s the thing,” said the devil. ”I can understand why the genie would want to give you a little leeway, but I haven’t really been happy with the way Mr. Hedonist has been running this thing, and the rules of the round do specify ‘Denny’s.’ So I figured I’d come down here and… torment you, as it were.”
Greg’s hand flipped the Tormentor off. The Tormentor cackled. ”Sorry, Convo, them’s the breaks.” He turned towards Nate. ”Hey, puppet #4. Your brother and dog are both trapped at Denny’s. They’re in terrible danger and you need to go rescue them, besides which, if you run out to the car right now you’ll catch sight of Moot and New Greg making out in the backseat.” He turned back towards Greg’s hand and flipped it off right back, showing off a dangerous-looking claw. ”Convolute that, bitch.”
And with that, the devil disappeared. Greg’s hand tapped a tune on the counter, trying to look innocent.
“Shit, where is Venison?” asked Tabby.
“I never really got... that vibe... from Moot,” said Nate, absently. He turned towards Tabby. “We should go. Give me one of those purple jackets.”
Tabby had bought a lot of purple jackets. She gave one to Nate. It looked terrible on him, but in a good way.
As they strode out to leave, Greg said, “Wait!” Nate sighed and turned around.
Greg’s right hand formed the letter “L” and attached itself to Greg’s forehead as he prepared himself to make a speech. “My mom fucked the president,” he started.
“It’s true. JFK. I mean, a lot of women had that honor—hundreds, maybe—but God dammit if my mom wasn’t one of them. Right in the White House, too. She was seventeen.” Greg’s right hand shaped itself into a gun and mimed shooting its host repeatedly in the temple. “My oldest brother might be a bastard Kennedy. He was always the successful one. Off to Dartmouth before I knew how to read.” All my life I’ve had these… feelings of inadequacy--" his hand punctuated these revelations with some explicitly masturbatory gestures, "--And people would say, ‘oh, he always just wanted to be like his brother.’ But I didn’t want to be like my brother.”
Tears began to well up in Greg’s eyes. His left hand tried to wipe them away, but his right gave it a punitive slap, so the tears rolled down his face unhindered. “I didn’t just want to be some rich, ‘successful,’ boring lawyer. I wanted to be like my mom. I wanted to have a story to tell. I WANTED TO FUCK THE PRESIDENT.”
Greg was now sobbing openly. Tabby went to comfort him, but decided not to advance any further when his right hand snatched at her greedily. “All my life I’ve been rotting away as a cashier in Pukeson Thrift. But I get the feeling that this trip you guys are taking to Denny’s… this mission… it might be my president. And I will not give up the chance to fuck that president. I’m coming with you.”
Greg’s left hand ripped off his nametag in triumph while his right gave a sarcastic-looking salute. Nate stood at the door, unimpressed. “We already have a Greg.”
“I can be the new Greg,” said Greg.
“We already have a new Greg.”
“You can be Old Greg,” Tabby told Old Greg. “Here, have a purple jacket.”
Old Greg took the purple jacket with both hands. Nate understood in his heart that the jacket represented a higher authority than his own. “Come on, Old Greg, what are you waiting for?” he asked, smiling.
The three of them left, leaving Pukeson Thrift empty. When they got to the car, New Greg and Moot were sitting on opposite seats, conspicuously not looking at each other.
* * * * *
Ned had thought he was beginning to come down off the drugs and back into his own skin, until he saw the giant centipede monster that had zapped him earlier standing in front of him—or, um, stuck to somebody who was standing in front of him. Also, Ned seemed to be eating a cake with his face, and there was a robot holding him by a leash.
He had a nagging suspicion that this wasn’t a hallucination, but he ignored it.
“HAVE you c!o!me to take my dog aw(a)y?” said the robot, indicating Ned. Ned, owing to the wad of cake still in his mouth, failed to point out that the “dog” was the other guy, and he was Ned, who had only been wearing the Wolf’s skin or else allowing the Wolf to wear his skin for a bit. Instead, he chewed in silence. It was good cake.
The guy stuck to the bug monster and the bug monster stuck to the guy exchanged a look. ”I don’t know what will happen to me if you, um, do your thing to it,” said the human one.
”Don’t worry, I can control 'my thing' pretty well,” said the not-quite-so-human one (Ned felt faint, and his burns itched). ”I can take care of this.”
The robot, having stood by and allowed the two-bodied monstrosity to deliberate with itself, chimed in with a polite chiming noise that seemed to come from its elbow. “Chime! ‘U’ have (2x3x5) ‘sec’s (2) Va.Ca.Te this facillillillillillity.”
”No, I mean if you inflict pain on something I might—“ Before the man could finish his sentence, there was a flash of light coming from the centipede, and everything got very hot and started to smell less like cake. The light subsided. Ned, who had a nasty habit of taking sides when he hallucinated things fighting each other, was rather hoping the robot would be dead, but it was just glowing.
“You(x2)r attempt (+2) BRIBE >me< with: a battery charge; failed. >My< directive-2-guard the k’Zoos [not]is negotiable[/not]. Deploying intruderdeterrencesalvo in (30-17) ‘sec’s.”
The guy and the centipede exchanged another look. ”Well, I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas,” said the bug.
Ned tried curling up on the floor and going to sleep. He had always prided himself on his ability to fall asleep anywhere, and this would be his greatest challenge.