EIGHTEEN WHEELERS OF FORTUNE: LET'S PLAY BMFCT

SpoilerShow

SpoilerShow

I think that, the bardmobile, the crab-shaped lifter mech, one more rig, and then the rest can be a fleet of motorcycles with hang-gliders attached that allow them to fly, best of both worlds.

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"So what the hell are we supposed to be hauling again?" Piston Shrimp asks as he surveys the Double-Trailered Monstrosity parked in front of him. The Beast was one and a half stories tall, complete with a cow catcher that goes all the way up, and a bitchin' crab claw crane on the back. Strapped to the sides were a couple of fuckin' sick motorcycles and this weird ass flat looking mech thing that looked strong enough to lift a fuckin' building. On top of the main trailer was some kind of giant slingshot thing, and guarding the front was a MOTHERFUCKIN' FLAMETHROWER.

"We're moving a load of fucking puppies or something right?"

"Ice cream. Careful you don't point that thing at it!"

"Ice cream, ice cream, yeah..." Sweetcakes gazed over the selection of vehicles provided for their crew. Gosh, they didn't think they'd get a truck all to themself! But all these trucks were big and mean-looking, and they didn't wanna start any trouble. And then-

"Oooooh my fudging goooooooooosh~"

An ice cream truck! Well, a really big, powerful ice cream truck that can tow around a large quantity of iced creams. They always wanted to drive one of these~
They hop in and check the specs; yup, it has a thick insulated case with some cooling system in it, and it has a loudspeaker that will allow them to Talk Loudly. This is going to be a great first job! They start packing up, taking one of each flavor of ice cream case from the old truck to load onto their new ride.

Sweetcakes starts stuffing the back of their van with motherfuckin' Triple Mint Cookie Swirl. They've gone and got themselves a big fuckin' ice cream truck by ice cream truck standards, but your now-fucked up vehicle held A metric fuckton of ice cream. Considering your brand-spanking new Deluxe Truxe could fit in the back of the old trailer with a bit of a squeeze, there's no fuckin' way you're going to fit all that fuckin' ice cream in your new rig.

Vehicles procured:

• Amp truck with skull-shaped cab (piloted by Scab the Crab Bard)
  
• The Beast - Tractor with cowcatcher+flamethrower, one (non-refridgerated unless otherwise stated) trailer with (n) motorbike attachments on side (presumably piloted by Piston Shrimp), double-trailered to haul the crane claw unit
  
• Triple-scoop-sized Deluxe Ice Cream Truck (technically a van but who's fuckin' keeping track, not me, that's who) with refridgerated rear unit and intercom system (piloted by Sweetcakes)
  
• At least two motorbike (attached to side of Beast's trailer)
  
• Another motorbike, by convention of motherfuckin' plural usage
  
• A crane crab claw unit
  
• The Outer Bones McJonesmobile (double-trailered, extremely underpowered tractor unit, much candle)
  
• -

Snipsnaps should describe the vehicle, if any, they'd personally like to commandeer (or choose one to ride in a la Lobster Crab).

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"Oooooh my fudging goooooooooosh~"

Scab pipes up. "Hey, that's 'goshess!'"

The last of the vehicles pulls Snipsnaps in like a magnet, a magnet that works on crabs. Sliding behind the wheel feels like coming home again.



This rig had it all, jagged bits of rusted metal sticking out at the front and sides, a gimble-mounted high-caliber rifle on the roof and more personal firearms than you could count tucked away around the cab. It also came hooked up to a specialized trailer with the biggest gatling guns ever grafted onto the sides, with a double-walled interior holding massive amounts of belted ammo to feed to the guns. And of course, the whole trailer was refrigerated because otherwise the heat off those guns would probably set everything on fire, or melt it, whichever came first.

Snipsnaps was a little worried about the knob under a safety cover that was simply labeled EMERGENCY, but figured he could deal with that when the time came.

With your motherfuckin' fleet assembled, you now appear properly fuckin' equipped to haul your precious, caramel-and-raspberry-ripple-delight cargo down the motherfuckin' coastline.

If you can get it out of the old rig before it fuckin' melts, that is! This motherfuckin' confectionary was mined from the darker-than-darkest-chocolate Dairy Mines of Deepest Yukon. The legends tell of great chasms where prehistoric megafauna have hibernated since crabkind first walked the earth, undisturbed until discovered by an industry in its death-throes. The frozen diary moguls injected the aurochs with over 20 different flavours, producing the delectable selection quietly puddling before you today.

It's fuckin' delicious, and also quite lucrative motherfuckin' haulage! Getting it into the country is no mean feat, the armored trucks of your northern cousins, the yeti crabs, putting even Snipsnaps' motherfuckin' GUNNERTRUCKER to shame.

But you don't fuckin' care about any of that! All you know is by divine decree, this fuckin' cargo needs to be in Sacrabmento, California, by tomorrow lunchtime!

You've already lost about 5% of your ice cream to motherfuckin' global warming, and it looks like you've gotten some noise control on your tail to boot! Several sets of headlights wave their beams about as their attached vehicles come screaming around the corners of the local roads.

Fight! Load! Haul! Crabs!

---

You have one (1) Metric Fuckton of rapidly-melting ice cream, to haul by noon tomorrow (~18 hours) to Sacrabmento, California.

Who's getting lumped with repacking duty?

Where on the continent are you right now?

What the fuck are you all generally doing?

Sweetcakes pulls out their map, and with their superior directional skills, kinda taps somewhere around the west edge of Idaho.

"Because that's where um, potatoes come from, and so if there's potatoes, there's a farm. And cows are on farms, and cows make milk, and milk is somethin' that icecream is made of, thus why we're haulin' around this buttload of icecream. It's math, y'see."

"IDAGON, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU!" Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!

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Sweetcakes looks over at the hole in the truck.

"Welp, you can sure hop on, but you better be fixing that stinkin' hole you made all the while. Gotta keep the ice cream safe from this dang summer heat!"

Sweetcakes [...] somewhere around the west edge of Idaho.

NO FUCKIN' WAY!

I mentioned that you'd been cruising down the I5, which is at least two hours' away from any of Modern Idaho's borders.

Please put up your dukes Sweetcakes, and try and beat my-



Hm.

Well.

I'm going to go out on fuckin' a limb (I have at least eight, crab divinity, yo) and assume you're going to beat that, what with a crap roll and you getting best 2/3 from your Cartography! Trait.

So you're not far off the I5, and you're in Potato Country.

The easiest way to resolve this is to decree that motherfuckin' [i]Solanum tuberosum[/b], commonly known as the Potato, had no natural predators after mankind's fuckin' destruction from the top of this motherfuckin' planet's pecking order. From humankind's assorted cultural relics we understood Idaho to be "the place with all the fuckin' potatoes", and have mostly taken the westward invasion of the potato in our many-legged stride.

To demonstrate this point, you notice the local shrubbery has these waxy fuckin' sort of leaves, and there's motherfuckin' potatoes tumbling out of a bit of dirt you fuckin' excavated with a loose corner of your now-smoking truck (which is still full of fuckin' ice cream, you dudes should get on with Haul!ing that or the like.) Gross, who'd even eat those dirt apples? Not a self-respecting crab, that's whon't.

Either way Kitet, you should roll and we can figure out exactly how far fuckin' west the potatoes have spread in humankind's absence, thus estimating how many hours we can shave off your prospective travel time.

Well, this is a roll.

WHOOPSIE FUCKIN' DAISY I'M GOING FOR THE LOW-HANGING DIRTFRUIT AND PROCLAIMING THAT THIS SHOW IS GONNA GET ON THE FUCKIN' ROAD

You motherfuckin' crabs find yourself squarely situated in a truck lot on the eastern outskirts of Battle Ground, formerly Washington except the goddamn potatoes have got to it, so I guess this is Idaho now.

This puts your estimated travel time at ten hours, maybe. If you pack and hit the road fast enough, that's enough time for a potential fuckin' lunch break! Wicked sick.

Between the six of you, you've packed a pathetic six cases of ice cream (one of each flavour) in the back of Sweetcakes' Deluxe Dairy Truxe. At least 50-60 salvageable cases of each flavour still remain in the still-smoking Fux'd Trux. Every turn you spend generally fuckin' around, I'll roll to see how much more of it melts (unless someone proposes a motherfuckin' solution to temporarily halt the Great Liquidation).

---

Still on your to-do list before you can haul carapass (and one (1) Metric Fuckton of ice cream, in six delicious flavours) outta here:

Where on the continent are you right now?

Who's packing what and where?

What the fuck are you all generally doing, if you're not helping pack ice cream?

Who's going to fix that fuckin' hole in the side of Sweetcakes' truck?

Who wants to do something about the approaching assholes on their little two-wheeled assholemobiles?

Scab starts lifting ice cream crates and putting them in the trucks that look like they can handle it.

Outer Bones McJones heads to a nearby ditch and returns with pincers full of mud. He starts packing mud into the fuckin' hole in Sweetcakes' truck. The sun will dry it out, he figures. He's no mechanic, but if you're gonna be a crab trucker you gotta know how to improvise in a pinch- at least that's what they said back at Truck School. Those were the days, McJones thinks. Those were the days

Well, it's not pretty, but Sweetcakes is super appreciative of the patch all the same~

Since Sweetcakes took a nice good look at their truck, they're packing ice cream into it too, and attempting to make idle chatter with the other crabs. "You made sure your trucks are ready to go, right? We might have to leave at a moment's notice, if those darn gosh HOOLIGANS down the road catch up to us!"

Outer Bones McJones heads to a nearby ditch and returns with pincers full of mud. He starts packing mud into the fuckin' hole in Sweetcakes' truck. The sun will dry it out, he figures. He's no mechanic, but if you're gonna be a crab trucker you gotta know how to improvise in a pinch- at least that's what they said back at Truck School. Those were the days, McJones thinks. Those were the days

No fuckin' way!

Mud is just gonna make a mess and get all over the place! And I'm not sure Mr. McJones ever did go to truck school, and if he did those weren't the days because he took night classes!

7 + 1 = 8.

5 + 4 = 9

Yes fuckin' way!

He took day classes at Truck School, and he's doing a relatively fine job patching up the truck with mud. I mean, he grew up in mud! He's practically an expert on mud and truckin'

THE VERDICT

Outer Bones' patch job doesn't immediately crumble, though it almost definitely won't hold for the ten fuckin' hours of driving ahead of you.

It's also probably going to contaminate any fuckin' ice cream that gets stashed in next to it, but, hey. It's keeping the fuckin' thing sealed, right now, so that's gotta count for something, right?

---

There are now 18 cases of ice cream in the back of Sweetcakes' truck, unless either of Scab or Sweetcakes reckons they can claim to carry more than six crates per Arbitrary Time Unit.

There are six flavours of ice cream in the Fuck'd Truck, 48-57 crates of each flavour (~318 crates total). At least six crates have melted while the rest of you waltz around doing whatever the fuck.