Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round 4: GBN2
06-24-2012, 08:05 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.
“Sir, we have reports of Grandmaster involvement.”
“Which one, Jennifer?” The Broadcaster-Not-Affiliated-With-The Broadcaster said, turning slowly in his CEO-grade swivel chair. His single eye scanned the blue-skinned secretary before him, before blinking in confusion.
“You aren’t Jennifer,” he commented, monotone.
“You uh,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “You fired Jennifer, remember? I’m Charlene.”
“Oh.”
“…”
“…”
“We’ve confirmed that the… interference is being caused by one Mr. The Hedonist.”
“That fucking obese djinni!?” The “Broadcaster” replied, throwing his robotic arms up into the air. “Him!? How thick can he be!?”
“A meter in diameter, sir.”
A pause.
“I meant… I meant that as rhetorical question, Charlene.”
“Sorry sir.”
“…”
“Sir, we’re pretty sure it’s a grand battle.”
“…What?”
“He’s hosting round…” she began, checking her clipboard for the specifics of the situation. “Round 4, here, at GBN2® Not Affiliated With The Network.”
“WHAT!?”
“Would you like me to repeat that sir?”
“What… what? No! NO! Just, fucking get The Lawyer on the line. I have a lawsuit I need to file.”
Nancy stared at the typewriter, incredulous. This wasn’t her typewriter! She started looking around, in her purse, on her podium, and so on, but her beloved robin-egg-blue Remington-Rand Portable №3 typewriter was nowhere to be seen! Replaced with this, this… Woodstock, and not just that; it was a boring old black one! Do people have no taste in typewriters? Goodness gracious!
Oh, and was it typing… typing by itself?
“CCCCCCCcccc oh good, it seems as though I’ve gotten your attention, miss. Would you mind picking me up?”
“You’re a Woodstock,” Miss Little replied, not quite grasping the ridiculousness of the situation. “You’re a horrid typewriter.”
“Wait…what?” Etiyr replied. “<span style="font-family: Courier New">...are, are you wearing period clothing?”</span>
“What do mean ‘period clothing!?’” Nancy insisted. “I bought this dress last week!”
“Oh, God. You’re one of those people.” Etiyr hated the 1920’s, and he hated everyone from the 1920’s. It kind of comes with the territory of being a sucky typewriter in an era that knows that, yeah, you’re, you know, pretty sucky.
“And what do you mean by that?” Nancy said, glaring at the typewriter. She was not amused. Not amused at all.
“Ok, look, miss,” Etiyr replied. “<span style="font-family: Courier New">I’m a self-typing typewriter. I don’t run out of ink, I don’t run out of paper, I don’t jam. I can type in italics on a whim. I also have feelings, and I don’t really take kindly to you making fun of my brand, you know? In many regards I’m the holy grail of typewriters, but people like you, you freaking prejudge me, and it makes me feel bad. It makes me feel horrible.”</span>
“Oh,” the police station secretary said, taken aback. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry…”
“Etiyr.”
“…Etiyr. My name’s Nancy. Nancy Little. It seems as though we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Could we forget all this and try again?”
“Sure,” the typewriter clacked. “<span style="font-family: Courier New">Just put me up on that, uh, that podium, and all will be forgiven… hey, uh, by the way, why is the podium a, uh, a translucent blue?”</span>
“Well,” she said, after a moment of thought, slowly lifting the typewriter. “It’s because we’re—”
“Quiet on the set!” the director yelled. “We’re live in 5…4…3…”
The spotlights leveled, slowly, upon a finely dressed, cube-headed man. The in-house audience went wild.
“WELCOME, EVERYONE,” he said. “I’M YOUR HOST, GAMEHOST SIX, AND THIS…”
Necessary dramatic pause.
“IS DICE OF DEATH.”
“Sir, we have reports of Grandmaster involvement.”
“Which one, Jennifer?” The Broadcaster-Not-Affiliated-With-The Broadcaster said, turning slowly in his CEO-grade swivel chair. His single eye scanned the blue-skinned secretary before him, before blinking in confusion.
“You aren’t Jennifer,” he commented, monotone.
“You uh,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “You fired Jennifer, remember? I’m Charlene.”
“Oh.”
“…”
“…”
“We’ve confirmed that the… interference is being caused by one Mr. The Hedonist.”
“That fucking obese djinni!?” The “Broadcaster” replied, throwing his robotic arms up into the air. “Him!? How thick can he be!?”
“A meter in diameter, sir.”
A pause.
“I meant… I meant that as rhetorical question, Charlene.”
“Sorry sir.”
“…”
“Sir, we’re pretty sure it’s a grand battle.”
“…What?”
“He’s hosting round…” she began, checking her clipboard for the specifics of the situation. “Round 4, here, at GBN2® Not Affiliated With The Network.”
“WHAT!?”
“Would you like me to repeat that sir?”
“What… what? No! NO! Just, fucking get The Lawyer on the line. I have a lawsuit I need to file.”
*
Etiyr, predictably, clattered to the ground. Angry, he, as was custom, started incessantly clacking.Nancy stared at the typewriter, incredulous. This wasn’t her typewriter! She started looking around, in her purse, on her podium, and so on, but her beloved robin-egg-blue Remington-Rand Portable №3 typewriter was nowhere to be seen! Replaced with this, this… Woodstock, and not just that; it was a boring old black one! Do people have no taste in typewriters? Goodness gracious!
Oh, and was it typing… typing by itself?
“CCCCCCCcccc oh good, it seems as though I’ve gotten your attention, miss. Would you mind picking me up?”
“You’re a Woodstock,” Miss Little replied, not quite grasping the ridiculousness of the situation. “You’re a horrid typewriter.”
“Wait…what?” Etiyr replied. “<span style="font-family: Courier New">...are, are you wearing period clothing?”</span>
“What do mean ‘period clothing!?’” Nancy insisted. “I bought this dress last week!”
“Oh, God. You’re one of those people.” Etiyr hated the 1920’s, and he hated everyone from the 1920’s. It kind of comes with the territory of being a sucky typewriter in an era that knows that, yeah, you’re, you know, pretty sucky.
“And what do you mean by that?” Nancy said, glaring at the typewriter. She was not amused. Not amused at all.
“Ok, look, miss,” Etiyr replied. “<span style="font-family: Courier New">I’m a self-typing typewriter. I don’t run out of ink, I don’t run out of paper, I don’t jam. I can type in italics on a whim. I also have feelings, and I don’t really take kindly to you making fun of my brand, you know? In many regards I’m the holy grail of typewriters, but people like you, you freaking prejudge me, and it makes me feel bad. It makes me feel horrible.”</span>
“Oh,” the police station secretary said, taken aback. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry…”
“Etiyr.”
“…Etiyr. My name’s Nancy. Nancy Little. It seems as though we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Could we forget all this and try again?”
“Sure,” the typewriter clacked. “<span style="font-family: Courier New">Just put me up on that, uh, that podium, and all will be forgiven… hey, uh, by the way, why is the podium a, uh, a translucent blue?”</span>
“Well,” she said, after a moment of thought, slowly lifting the typewriter. “It’s because we’re—”
“Quiet on the set!” the director yelled. “We’re live in 5…4…3…”
The spotlights leveled, slowly, upon a finely dressed, cube-headed man. The in-house audience went wild.
“WELCOME, EVERYONE,” he said. “I’M YOUR HOST, GAMEHOST SIX, AND THIS…”
Necessary dramatic pause.
“IS DICE OF DEATH.”