Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
05-21-2011, 08:30 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Being ignored was making Tabby upset.
By which she means of course she was upset that the dude with the typewriter had gone all Terminator and dropped New Greg with something that looked suspiciously police-y. That was simply awful and there would need to be an accounting. But the fact that all the crazies had subsequently elected to completely disregard the other four people in the room was simply insulting. Tabby elected to resolve this situation by insulting them back.
When it became evident that Gabe and Quantos didn’t care a whit whether or not they were shitfucking cyborg psycho cops, Nate stepped in. “I don’t think there’s much we can do to get them to notice us.”
Tabby whimpered. “What if you punched one of them?”
Nate made a fist, held it up in the air in front of him and seemed to consider it. He shook his head. “Either they keep ignoring us, or they hurt me back. Lose/lose.”
Moot walked up to Quantos and began waving his hands in front of the man’s face. He jumped back like a frightened dog when Quantos brought his robo-arm up and slapped
Gabe in the back. Nate beckoned and Moot returned to the huddle.
“Did you hear what they were talking about?” whispered Nate, as though worried about being heard. “’An entity made of ideas,’ right? They think we have some kind of brain-virus but it’s obviously them that have it, and it’s making them ignore us and carry around typewriters in a Denny’s and shit.”
Tabby and Moot nodded and Venison growled affirmatively. “We’d better get New Greg and get out of here, then,” advised Tabby. “Before we catch the super-Alzheimer’s too.”
Moot gave a thumbs-up and walked over to New Greg’s prone form, dragging him by the arms. Tabby put an arm on Moot’s shoulder, stopping him. “Aww, Moot honey, don’t strain yourself. Your back.” She intoned the words “your back” as though that settled it, but Moot shot her a stubborn look and picked up New Greg’s hands. Nate got his feet and they began to carry the unconscious man out of Denny’s.
Before Tabby could follow, Venison began to bark at Gabe, who, after briefly puzzling over the area where New Greg had been, had finally decided to head out of the room. Tabby followed the dog’s gaze to a chic-looking purple badge on the man’s back. She hadn’t noticed it before, and it was an interesting look, to the extent that it slightly changed her opinion of the man.
Tabby looked down at her Three Wolf Moon t-shirt, which still didn’t quite match her hair. Maybe it was time for a change.
She ran to catch up with Moot and Nate. “Well, if we’re done here, can we go to the thrift store? I need new clothes.”
* * * * *
Venison stayed behind. He smelled bacon. Not that “dogs don’t know it’s not bacon” shit (that advertising campaign is about as patronizing as an ad for meth with the slogan “junkies don’t know it’s not heroin”) but real, greasy, straight-out-the-pig bacon.
Venison knew that his master would be worried about him, but the dog took a “make-money-fuck-bitches” attitude towards that sort of thing, and bacon was like a bitch wrapped in money. The bacon was easy to find, but he also found a man and a girl-man and a hideous giant-bug abomination and a bunch of sharp-looking things there. And a cat. “Wüf,” said Venison, by way of introduction.
Being ignored was making Tabby upset.
By which she means of course she was upset that the dude with the typewriter had gone all Terminator and dropped New Greg with something that looked suspiciously police-y. That was simply awful and there would need to be an accounting. But the fact that all the crazies had subsequently elected to completely disregard the other four people in the room was simply insulting. Tabby elected to resolve this situation by insulting them back.
When it became evident that Gabe and Quantos didn’t care a whit whether or not they were shitfucking cyborg psycho cops, Nate stepped in. “I don’t think there’s much we can do to get them to notice us.”
Tabby whimpered. “What if you punched one of them?”
Nate made a fist, held it up in the air in front of him and seemed to consider it. He shook his head. “Either they keep ignoring us, or they hurt me back. Lose/lose.”
Moot walked up to Quantos and began waving his hands in front of the man’s face. He jumped back like a frightened dog when Quantos brought his robo-arm up and slapped
Gabe in the back. Nate beckoned and Moot returned to the huddle.
“Did you hear what they were talking about?” whispered Nate, as though worried about being heard. “’An entity made of ideas,’ right? They think we have some kind of brain-virus but it’s obviously them that have it, and it’s making them ignore us and carry around typewriters in a Denny’s and shit.”
Tabby and Moot nodded and Venison growled affirmatively. “We’d better get New Greg and get out of here, then,” advised Tabby. “Before we catch the super-Alzheimer’s too.”
Moot gave a thumbs-up and walked over to New Greg’s prone form, dragging him by the arms. Tabby put an arm on Moot’s shoulder, stopping him. “Aww, Moot honey, don’t strain yourself. Your back.” She intoned the words “your back” as though that settled it, but Moot shot her a stubborn look and picked up New Greg’s hands. Nate got his feet and they began to carry the unconscious man out of Denny’s.
Before Tabby could follow, Venison began to bark at Gabe, who, after briefly puzzling over the area where New Greg had been, had finally decided to head out of the room. Tabby followed the dog’s gaze to a chic-looking purple badge on the man’s back. She hadn’t noticed it before, and it was an interesting look, to the extent that it slightly changed her opinion of the man.
Tabby looked down at her Three Wolf Moon t-shirt, which still didn’t quite match her hair. Maybe it was time for a change.
She ran to catch up with Moot and Nate. “Well, if we’re done here, can we go to the thrift store? I need new clothes.”
* * * * *
Venison stayed behind. He smelled bacon. Not that “dogs don’t know it’s not bacon” shit (that advertising campaign is about as patronizing as an ad for meth with the slogan “junkies don’t know it’s not heroin”) but real, greasy, straight-out-the-pig bacon.
Venison knew that his master would be worried about him, but the dog took a “make-money-fuck-bitches” attitude towards that sort of thing, and bacon was like a bitch wrapped in money. The bacon was easy to find, but he also found a man and a girl-man and a hideous giant-bug abomination and a bunch of sharp-looking things there. And a cat. “Wüf,” said Venison, by way of introduction.