Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
06-20-2011, 08:40 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
”Wow, this is really not a Denny’s,” said Old Greg, helpfully.
Nate looked around. No crazies in sight—they must have all progressed further in. He sighed. “Alright, we have no idea how deep this place goes or where Ned and Venison might be. We might as well split up.”
New Greg snorted. “Split up? Please. The first thing I learned from Scooby-Doo is never to split up when there are monsters running around.”
“What, because Shaggy and Scooby get dismembered in the second act of every Scooby-Doo episode?” countered Old Greg.
“Yeah, New Greg, Old Greg’s right,” said Nate. “The mystery gang had this down to a science. Form teams of two, wander around, lose your glasses, find some clues, wrap up the operation in twenty-three minutes.” Moot and Old Greg’s hand made confirmatory gestures.
“On the other hand,” Tabby pointed out, “Their idea of splitting up was leaving Velma by herself and sending Shaggy and Scooby off to do all the legwork while Fred and Daphne found a closet somewhere to fuck in. So, teams of two? I’m with Nate.” Tabby put an arm around Nate’s waist and they slinked off together.
“I’ll take Moot,” said Old Greg. Moot saluted. “New Greg, you can be Velma.”
New Greg was indignant. “I’m not Velma!” he demanded. “You’re Velma! I have seniority!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, New Greg. How could you have seniority? You’re new.” Moot nodded and fistbumped Old Greg’s alien hand. They walked off in a different direction and were lost among the corridors, leaving New Greg alone.
New Greg sulked. He didn’t think he was a Velma. In fact, he thought he’d make a pretty damn good Daphne.
A damn good Daphne.
* * * * *
The door said “BEWARE OF CREATURE” and there was scratching on the other end. Old Greg looked at Moot; Moot shook his head; Old Greg’s hand lashed out and opened the door before either had a chance to react.
Moot turned to run, but Old Greg held him back. “Moot,” he whispered in awe, “Look.”
Standing (well, crouching sort of) before them was a true cultural legend. Old Greg understood on a mental level that it could have been just any guy in a brown suit with a paper bag over his head but… his heart knew that the guy was the real deal.
His hand knew, too. It outstretched to shake the hand of the Unknown Comic. “Sir,” said Old Greg. “I own… multiple VHSes of your work. I had no idea you were in town, I would have—“
The Unknown Comic made a shrieking noise like a hyena giving birth under a lawnmower and jumped onto the ceiling. Old Greg screamed and ran. Moot did not scream, but ran anyway, in another direction.
* * * * *
New Greg was wandering the corridors in a huff when he heard a high-pitched whimpering noise coming from behind an unmarked door.
“Jinkies!” he didn’t say, despite the protestations of the shameful part of him that wanted to. “A clue!”
Instead, he just opened the door. Behind it was a small, scared-looking Asian man in a white lab coat. “Are you rescuing me?” said the man. “Is the furry man away?”
New Greg tried his best to give a reassuring smile. “That would be Ned,” he said. “He’s still in here somewhere, but he’s been at this long enough that he’ll probably burn out. I’m Ne—I’m Gr—I’m New Greg.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “Talk slower. My English is not good.”
New Greg nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, offensively slowly. “I’m New Greg. I’m here to recue you. What is your name?”
“My name is Takashi Hutaro. I work at, uhhhhhhhh, the Denny’s restaurant. I do the astronuclear acoustics there.”
“That is good,” said New Greg, loudly and encouragingly. “I work here too. I am a security guard. I stop people from getting in, but if people have already gotten in and killed everybody, then I rescue the people who are still alive, like you.”
“Well, thank you for being here to rescue me, Newgreg,” said Takashi, a tad impatiently. “I am glad at being rescued, but must ask if I may go bring my clothes first.”
“That is okay,” said New Greg. “We have some time before the monsters and psychopaths find us and kill us or taser us.” He gave a shaky thumbs-up.
“Okay!” Takashi walked over to the computer console behind him and slapped a button. The wall to the right began to hum and move upwards like a garage door.
Behind the wall there was a closet. An extensive closet, full of women’s clothing.
It was magnificent.
New Greg gasped. “We… have some time,” he said, after a pause. “Do… do you want to wear some of your clothes for me, Takashi?”
Takashi blushed.
* * * * *
Moot ran into the kitchen and slammed the door. The Unknown Comic banged on the door a couple times, hissed, and then went silent.
Moot waited by the door for a long time, unsure whether his pursuer had left or was simply waiting. It was then that he noticed the man with the spatula for a hand, poring over some menus.
Gabe looked up at Moot, a wild look in his eyes. ”All these breakfast slams,” he told Moot. ”I never realized—it’s the culinary equivalent of what the beat generation did with art and literature. It’s beautiful. I could never do this.” Gabe took a deep, rattling, existential breath, as though that one breath were the climax of his entire life. ”I could… I could never make a slam this grand.” He held up the picture on the menu. It was, indeed, a beautifully composed work of breakfast. Eggs, pancakes, bacon and sausages two by two on a single platter, like Noah’s Ark. The very geometry of it was mouth-watering.
Moot held up one hand. With his other hand he reached for the wall and took down a spatula. Then he began to gather ingredients.
Gabe looked upon Moot in awe. ”Can… can you teach me?” he asked, childlike in his eagerness for knowledge.
Moot held forth the spatula, and nodded.
* * * * *
Cailean opened the door to the restroom nervously. “I’m not entirely certain I’ll be able to do this with you here,” he confessed to Gaurinn.
“Oh, come on,” said Gaurinn. “All bathrooms have bugs in them. Just think of me as—”
He stopped when they both heard sounds coming from one of the stalls. Sexy sounds. Really intense sexy sounds.
Cail looked over at Gaurinn. “That doesn’t sound like Gabe and Elimine to you, does it?”
“We should go.”
“Yes we should.”
They went. Neither of them noticed a pile of purple clothes on the floor by the stall.
* * * * *
So there were two guys with robot parts for body parts having it out over some bullshit and Ned’s mouth tasted like—like knowledge.
And something in his loincloth felt cold and metallic. Conversely, it also felt warm, and humming with esoteric energies. The sum effect was not unpleasant, but curiousity dictated there was no way Ned wasn’t going to pull the thing out to look at it.
It was: a kazoo. A perfect kazoo, plated with a metal in a color that didn’t quite shine with all the colors of the rainbow, but it wasn’t exactly regular chrome, either. It was a kazoo that he could enjoy without shame nor fear of persecution, which is something that all men and women wish for, in their heart of hearts.
Ned wasn't going to let this opportunity go to waste, no matter how dangerous his current situation was. Making sure that the two cyborgs didn’t see him, he blew into the kazoo.
“BUZZ,” said the kazoo.
It was the ultimate high, as particles that didn’t regularly exist outside of music videos were generated and destroyed in his immediate vicinity. The pain of Ned’s burns vanished. Ned felt… powerful. He felt like a motherfucking rock star. A kazoo-themed rock star.
He was only half-aware of the strange and unholy transformation that was taking place.
* * * * *
So Eli was left alone in a room with the two big floating hunks of metal—the spherical one and the swirly one—the typewriter, her cat, and the dog, who seemed to be waiting for something. Having embarrassed herself a little in her ill-thought-out attack against the time cop, she had vowed not to have any conversations with anything that didn’t have flesh for the time being, which left her with little other option but to sit and try to look like she had a plan.
The dog and the cat pricked up their ears. Eli, trained to listen to the notes that weren’t being played, heard it too.
“I hear music,” she announced. “Unnatural music.” She gripped her trombone. Something was out there, and obviously she was the only person in the building musically talented enough to comprehend it, let alone stop it.
She was interrupted from this train of thought by a goofy-looking man in purple who walked in waving both hands. The dog trotted over to him loyally. ”Hi,” he said, addressing Eli and ignoring all the mechanical folks. ”I’m old Greg.” He pointed at Etiyr. ”Can I borrow that? I think my hand wants to tell me something.”
”Wow, this is really not a Denny’s,” said Old Greg, helpfully.
Nate looked around. No crazies in sight—they must have all progressed further in. He sighed. “Alright, we have no idea how deep this place goes or where Ned and Venison might be. We might as well split up.”
New Greg snorted. “Split up? Please. The first thing I learned from Scooby-Doo is never to split up when there are monsters running around.”
“What, because Shaggy and Scooby get dismembered in the second act of every Scooby-Doo episode?” countered Old Greg.
“Yeah, New Greg, Old Greg’s right,” said Nate. “The mystery gang had this down to a science. Form teams of two, wander around, lose your glasses, find some clues, wrap up the operation in twenty-three minutes.” Moot and Old Greg’s hand made confirmatory gestures.
“On the other hand,” Tabby pointed out, “Their idea of splitting up was leaving Velma by herself and sending Shaggy and Scooby off to do all the legwork while Fred and Daphne found a closet somewhere to fuck in. So, teams of two? I’m with Nate.” Tabby put an arm around Nate’s waist and they slinked off together.
“I’ll take Moot,” said Old Greg. Moot saluted. “New Greg, you can be Velma.”
New Greg was indignant. “I’m not Velma!” he demanded. “You’re Velma! I have seniority!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, New Greg. How could you have seniority? You’re new.” Moot nodded and fistbumped Old Greg’s alien hand. They walked off in a different direction and were lost among the corridors, leaving New Greg alone.
New Greg sulked. He didn’t think he was a Velma. In fact, he thought he’d make a pretty damn good Daphne.
A damn good Daphne.
* * * * *
The door said “BEWARE OF CREATURE” and there was scratching on the other end. Old Greg looked at Moot; Moot shook his head; Old Greg’s hand lashed out and opened the door before either had a chance to react.
Moot turned to run, but Old Greg held him back. “Moot,” he whispered in awe, “Look.”
Standing (well, crouching sort of) before them was a true cultural legend. Old Greg understood on a mental level that it could have been just any guy in a brown suit with a paper bag over his head but… his heart knew that the guy was the real deal.
His hand knew, too. It outstretched to shake the hand of the Unknown Comic. “Sir,” said Old Greg. “I own… multiple VHSes of your work. I had no idea you were in town, I would have—“
The Unknown Comic made a shrieking noise like a hyena giving birth under a lawnmower and jumped onto the ceiling. Old Greg screamed and ran. Moot did not scream, but ran anyway, in another direction.
* * * * *
New Greg was wandering the corridors in a huff when he heard a high-pitched whimpering noise coming from behind an unmarked door.
“Jinkies!” he didn’t say, despite the protestations of the shameful part of him that wanted to. “A clue!”
Instead, he just opened the door. Behind it was a small, scared-looking Asian man in a white lab coat. “Are you rescuing me?” said the man. “Is the furry man away?”
New Greg tried his best to give a reassuring smile. “That would be Ned,” he said. “He’s still in here somewhere, but he’s been at this long enough that he’ll probably burn out. I’m Ne—I’m Gr—I’m New Greg.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “Talk slower. My English is not good.”
New Greg nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, offensively slowly. “I’m New Greg. I’m here to recue you. What is your name?”
“My name is Takashi Hutaro. I work at, uhhhhhhhh, the Denny’s restaurant. I do the astronuclear acoustics there.”
“That is good,” said New Greg, loudly and encouragingly. “I work here too. I am a security guard. I stop people from getting in, but if people have already gotten in and killed everybody, then I rescue the people who are still alive, like you.”
“Well, thank you for being here to rescue me, Newgreg,” said Takashi, a tad impatiently. “I am glad at being rescued, but must ask if I may go bring my clothes first.”
“That is okay,” said New Greg. “We have some time before the monsters and psychopaths find us and kill us or taser us.” He gave a shaky thumbs-up.
“Okay!” Takashi walked over to the computer console behind him and slapped a button. The wall to the right began to hum and move upwards like a garage door.
Behind the wall there was a closet. An extensive closet, full of women’s clothing.
It was magnificent.
New Greg gasped. “We… have some time,” he said, after a pause. “Do… do you want to wear some of your clothes for me, Takashi?”
Takashi blushed.
* * * * *
Moot ran into the kitchen and slammed the door. The Unknown Comic banged on the door a couple times, hissed, and then went silent.
Moot waited by the door for a long time, unsure whether his pursuer had left or was simply waiting. It was then that he noticed the man with the spatula for a hand, poring over some menus.
Gabe looked up at Moot, a wild look in his eyes. ”All these breakfast slams,” he told Moot. ”I never realized—it’s the culinary equivalent of what the beat generation did with art and literature. It’s beautiful. I could never do this.” Gabe took a deep, rattling, existential breath, as though that one breath were the climax of his entire life. ”I could… I could never make a slam this grand.” He held up the picture on the menu. It was, indeed, a beautifully composed work of breakfast. Eggs, pancakes, bacon and sausages two by two on a single platter, like Noah’s Ark. The very geometry of it was mouth-watering.
Moot held up one hand. With his other hand he reached for the wall and took down a spatula. Then he began to gather ingredients.
Gabe looked upon Moot in awe. ”Can… can you teach me?” he asked, childlike in his eagerness for knowledge.
Moot held forth the spatula, and nodded.
* * * * *
Cailean opened the door to the restroom nervously. “I’m not entirely certain I’ll be able to do this with you here,” he confessed to Gaurinn.
“Oh, come on,” said Gaurinn. “All bathrooms have bugs in them. Just think of me as—”
He stopped when they both heard sounds coming from one of the stalls. Sexy sounds. Really intense sexy sounds.
Cail looked over at Gaurinn. “That doesn’t sound like Gabe and Elimine to you, does it?”
“We should go.”
“Yes we should.”
They went. Neither of them noticed a pile of purple clothes on the floor by the stall.
* * * * *
So there were two guys with robot parts for body parts having it out over some bullshit and Ned’s mouth tasted like—like knowledge.
And something in his loincloth felt cold and metallic. Conversely, it also felt warm, and humming with esoteric energies. The sum effect was not unpleasant, but curiousity dictated there was no way Ned wasn’t going to pull the thing out to look at it.
It was: a kazoo. A perfect kazoo, plated with a metal in a color that didn’t quite shine with all the colors of the rainbow, but it wasn’t exactly regular chrome, either. It was a kazoo that he could enjoy without shame nor fear of persecution, which is something that all men and women wish for, in their heart of hearts.
Ned wasn't going to let this opportunity go to waste, no matter how dangerous his current situation was. Making sure that the two cyborgs didn’t see him, he blew into the kazoo.
“BUZZ,” said the kazoo.
It was the ultimate high, as particles that didn’t regularly exist outside of music videos were generated and destroyed in his immediate vicinity. The pain of Ned’s burns vanished. Ned felt… powerful. He felt like a motherfucking rock star. A kazoo-themed rock star.
He was only half-aware of the strange and unholy transformation that was taking place.
* * * * *
So Eli was left alone in a room with the two big floating hunks of metal—the spherical one and the swirly one—the typewriter, her cat, and the dog, who seemed to be waiting for something. Having embarrassed herself a little in her ill-thought-out attack against the time cop, she had vowed not to have any conversations with anything that didn’t have flesh for the time being, which left her with little other option but to sit and try to look like she had a plan.
The dog and the cat pricked up their ears. Eli, trained to listen to the notes that weren’t being played, heard it too.
“I hear music,” she announced. “Unnatural music.” She gripped her trombone. Something was out there, and obviously she was the only person in the building musically talented enough to comprehend it, let alone stop it.
She was interrupted from this train of thought by a goofy-looking man in purple who walked in waving both hands. The dog trotted over to him loyally. ”Hi,” he said, addressing Eli and ignoring all the mechanical folks. ”I’m old Greg.” He pointed at Etiyr. ”Can I borrow that? I think my hand wants to tell me something.”