Subject: [fanfic] Furniture Warriors - Part 3!
From: "Stefan 'Twoflower' Gagne" <stefan@adobe.chaco.com>
Date: 12/29/1996, 10:28 PM
To: fanfic@fanfic.com

                       Furniture Warriors
            PART THREE, Coffee, Tea, or Manslaughter?

                    A Spoof Chase Production
             (http://adobe.chaco.com/~stefan/spoof)

      A Furniture Warriors FanFic by Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne

     (All characters copyright Nihana-san, obviously.  If I ever
     even considered claiming that these were my own characters
     I'd probably be thrown into a small cell where I'd be forced
     to eat my own post-chapter-2-written plot loopholes to
     live.)

-=-

     Author's Note :

     (sound of wild gunfire shredding a screaming prereader)

     I spell it Karoke. Anyone else with comment?

     Good. ^_^

-=-

     The staff of Le Radison / Fifi's personal servants / Fifi's
personal slaves hustled their bustles, a flurry of activity under
Fifi's master plan / whip.  No, she didn't have a whip.  At least
not a literal one.

     "FASTER!  FASTER!" she whipped.  "You'll never have this pit
prepared for tomorrow's ceremonies at this rate!  Work, peons! 
Your Mistress is not happy with your performance!"

     Hugh had to admit the floor show was amusing, with all the
scantily dressed maids hurrying to move tables and arrange chairs
and decorate rooms... but it was trivial.  It was pointless.  And
it was damn inefficient.

     "Fifi, this is trivial," Hugh commented, swirling the cognac
around in his finely chilled glass.  "It's pointless and damn
inefficient.  WHY are we treating our minions to a day of dinners
and frolicking?"

     "Hugh, we have a full day before they all HAVE to be at the
tournament location," Fifi noted.  "And I for one refuse to be a
poor hostess for our dear minions.  Forget not that this is MY
hotel, and La Bureau is MY hotel cafe.  It simply would not do
for gay Paris's number one socialite to shuffle her guests off to
their rooms without sufficient entertainments."

     Hugh sighed.  "Whatever.  They're all likely to die anyway. 
Seems like such a waste."
     "Of food, or of warriors?"

     "You pick," Hugh shrugged.

     "It'll go okay, don't you worry your adorable little head
over it," Fifi smiled.  "We just give them some food, a speech, a
nice floor show and a little mixer, then we can drag them all off
to their eminent, grisly deaths.  Fair?"

     "Fair.  Speech?"

     "Well, of course.  You simply MUST give a slightly ominous
speech!  You have three hours to write it."

     Hugh fell off his chair.

                              *

     The plane landed in Paris around seven in the morning, and
there wasn't a non-circles-underneath eye in the house.

     Lumi's excitement at the miracle of air travel was
overwhelming, to the point where everybody else was forced to get
excited too -- or more often than not, annoyed.  She personally
thanked the attendants, the passengers, the pilots, and the
baggage guys one by one for an interesting experience.  They
personally thanked her for leaving the airplane, and inwardly
hoped never to see her again.

     Ikea on the other hand was a picture perfect visage of
relaxation, meditation and righteousness.  He had prepared as if
the minute he left the plane he'd need to launch into a wild
chair swinging fury of violence; part of the reason most
airplanegoingpeople were avoiding him.

     "Ano, Lumi-chan is hungry," Lumi commented.

     "You just ate a fine meal of questionable food, Lumi," Ikea
replied.  "Assuming it was not plastic, it should provide you
with an adequate calorie base."

     "But I'm hungry!"

     Ikea did not sigh.  "Alright.  Next one of those strange
upright metal boxes that dispense candy and chips that you see,
you may insert the metal tokens we received from father."

     "Hooray, hooray!" Lumi cheered, bouncing around the airport.

     Turning a corner, both came face to face with a besuited,
besunglassed and besigned man holding up a sign reading TIBETIAN
FURNITURE WARRIORS DOJO.

     "WAAAH! Our sign!" Lumi said, proceeding to pulverize him.
     "No, Lumi-chan, that is just a paper sign," Ikea said, as
his sister continued to maul the kind fellow.  "If my
understanding of affairs in the outside world is correct, he
plans on taking us somewhere inside a similar oblong metal box."

     "Oh.  Gomen!" Lumi apologized, helping the chauffeur to his
feet.  Twice, since he fell over the first time.

                              *

     The first of the gun fodder started to arrive before noon.

     The La Bureau Cafe was ready for them.  Fifi's various
slaves had done a good job decorating; in a tasteful, yet cheery
sort of manner that expressed not only good natured warriors'
comraderie but a sense of impending doom usually only achieved by
the dull whump and scraping sound of an airplane's left engine
falling off the wing.  There were also drinks with little
umbrellas in them.

     Shelly dropped her travel-worn schoolbag at the door, where
a servant promptly picked it up and whisked it off to her room
(presumably).  She had to admit, of all the two bit hoodlum
gangland hideouts she had visited in attempts to make a name for
herself, this was the best.  The little 'Hello, my name is' tags
were a nice touch.

     She wasn't up for finding a program and schedule of events,
so she just grabbed the nearest person in a french maid costume
by the scruffy little cloth thing that goes around their neck and
jerked them over.

     "I'm here to kick ass.  Where to?" she asked.

     "Th-the ballroom," the maid replied.

     Shelly let her go, and gave the maid her best uber-kawaii
smile.  "Great!  Lots of wide open space to fight in, and the
potential for lots of chairs and tables to throw around.  I'm
game."

     "Err, no," the maid said.  "First is the dinner gala and
karoke."

     Blink.

     Blink.

     "Karoke?"

                              *

     Fifi powdered her nose.  All was going according to plan. 
The guests were settled for a nice din-din of fine Parisian
style, she was dressed to kill and Hugh had supposedly finished
his speech after being locked in his room for three hours to do
it.  Fifi appreciated the finer points to showing someone a fine
evening before the disemboweling began, even if her partner in
crime didn't.

     'This is a waste,' he had whined.  'The master wants his
minions and his victims ready for theirs deaths!  Not wined,
dined and entertained!'

     Hugh could be such a bore sometimes.  But fortunately he was
easy to seduce, and Fifi got her way without much effort on her
behalf.

     By now, all the guests had arrived, save two.

     Hugh paced around in the spacious powder room, his Annoyance
Tolerance Limits being pushed to the envelope.  "Where are they.
Where are they.  I TOLD the limo driver to waste no time!"

     "Darling, do be calm," Fifi yawned, closing her makeup
compact (which doubled as a shuriken).  "My staff has orders to
tell us the minute they arrive."

     "They've arrived," a member of the staff said, leaning into
the room.

     "See?"

     "Feh," Hugh fehed.  "Let's get this over with."

                              *

     "Do you have a reservation?"

     "I do not need a reservation beyond my warrior's honor and
drive to uphold my dojo," Ikea replied.

     The receptionist frowned.  "I can't let you in without a
reservation."

     "Ne, Ikea-kun, let's bust in and fight our way to the sign! 
It'll be fun!" Lumi cheered, hopping up and down.

     "Patience, Lumi," Ikea recommended.  "Good things come to
the patient.  Like the rosebud opening in the spring blossom, or
the wintery ices melting with time, or the leaves of fall turning
and falling from their branches only to begin--"

     "Waxing poetic won't get you in any faster," the
receptionist warned.

     Ikea continued his prana-bindu relaxation exercises.  The
outside world could be so taxing to one who tries to maintain his
inner harmony.

     He was about to start a logical attempt to reason with the
receptionist about the true nature of valor and justice when the
doubledoors leading into the ballroom flew open, Hugh leaping
through like a snarling, white-hot ball of two fisted cool.

     "You've tracked me down, Ikea!" he bellowed.  "Now meet your
FATE!"

     Ikea drew his chair.  "It is you who shall reach the grave,
VILLAIN!"

     "WHOA!" Fifi yelled, waving her arms and leaping between the
two.  "Whoa, whoa.  Huuuugh!  What did we agree on?"

     Hugh blinked, memory searching backwards.  "Oh.  Right. 
Don't assault him until you explain things."

     Fifi sighed.  "Exactly.  Ikea-kun?  If you'd please?" she
said, gesturing to a seat.

     Ikea frowned, his idiom interrupted.  He ignored the padded
Parisian chair offered and unfolded his wooden weapon, plopping
down on that instead.  A bold move.  A rash move.  A dangerous
gamble.  A snake in the grass.  A pig in a poke.  But it paid
off.

     Fifi smiled, gesturing to Hugh.  "Now, Ikea-kun, I
understand you've come to annihilate my fine friend Hugh here
over the matter of a dojo sign.  Which is well and good, but we
have a better offer."

     "My golden path of vengeance is clear without alternative
offers," Ikea stated, eyes narrowing.

     "Ah, but you're not quite aware of the aeon-old Furniture
Warrior's Tournament!" Fifi said, waving her face with a fan.

     "Which is?"

     "Simply THE event of the year.  All furniture warriors
around the world are invited to compete against the forces of the
Ottoman Empire.  The rules are simple; if anybody defeats the
reigning champion of the Empire, Earth stays nice and safe.  If
the Empire defeats the Tibetian School -- and let's face it,
darling, all Furniture Warriors trace back in some way to your
adorable little shack in the mountains -- the Empire's minions
invade, taking over the planet and plunging it into a thousand
year rule of darkness and destruction the likes of which have
never been seen before."

     "Waah!" Lumi yelped, hiding behind Ikea.

     "I suspect you of falsehood," Ikea stated flatly.  "Since
such a story seems absolutely ridiculous, and our records--"

     "Have been erased!" Hugh sputtered.  "You've been kept in
the dark by the legions of the Ottoman Empire!  Now it's time to
put up or shut up, Ikea.  If you decline to enter, there will be
no representatives from your dojo, and in the eventuality of our
achievement you will be shamed and dishonored for letting down
the whole human race!"

     "Well, I wouldn't have put it in such nasty terms..." Fifi
shrugged.  "But basically, yes.  And if you win, of course you'll
get your silly sign back.  As we say in Paris, 'Est it une
deale?'"

     Ikea pondered the manyfold consequences of the actions taken
at this nexus in time.  On one hand, they could be lying.  On the
other hand, he didn't have the sign he came for, Hugh was still
unpunished, the truth of the situation could lead to the
extermination of the human race including Tibet and generally the
entire planet would not be pleased at his noble dojo for the
actions taken here today.  On the third hand, this could all be a
twisted story concocted by a writer who is making it up as he
goes along.  But since Ikea had only two hands he saw that the
choice was obvious.

     "I accept," he said.

                              *

     A lone figure walked the streets of Paris.  The figure
walked silently; the figure walked quickly.  The figure crossed
streets even when the 'NE PAS WALKE' sign was lit.  The figure
was almost hit by a car but fortunately the figure was silent and
quick enough to avoid this.

     She wasn't happy.  First of all, she had to march all the
way across the presumed grasslands of France because she wasn't
invited to the tournament and couldn't afford a train fare. 
Second, she had to deal with SIX idiots on this trip making jokes
about the brass curtain rod with draperies attached she
traditionally carried as her instrument of vengeance.  And third,
she couldn't find a damn quarter pounder with cheese on the menu
and had thus gone hungry.

     Someone was going to pay for these hardships, past hardships
and hardships yet to be.

     "Just you wait, Fifi!" she shouted at a mime, swinging her
draperies around in a menacing, foreboding manner.  "When I get
you, you'll be FINISHED!  FINISHED!"

     "Don't you mean 'it's curtains for you'?" a bystander asked.

     Poor bystander.

                              *

     "What is this thing?" Mick asked, poking his unidentifiable
yet oddly avian roast meat.

     "Food!" Lumi cheered.

     "No, I mean what IS it?"

     "Ano... food."

     Mick sighed, rubbing his temples.  This wasn't what he was
expecting.  He was HOPING to get right into the combat, sort of a
tiddly woo fighting biddle, but Fifi had... changed.

     'Darling, I can't very well host a tournament without being
a HOST!' Fifi had explained when he came looking for her.  Odd,
that.  The droog Fifi he had knew was a rough 'n tumble sort. 
Didn't really bandy wandy about with the silly things in life.

     He could tolerate the namby pamby high society treatment if
not for this awful little gel they had seated him with.  She was
so... so... if there was a word for the kind of cheer and
happiness and adorable levels of cute that can physically damage
your nerves simply by being in close proximity, Mick would've
used that word.

     Now, the brother was another matter.  Stern, that one. 
Quite calm and solid, like a oaken desk that's sat in one place
for years and won't be moving anytime soon.  Mick grinned
inwardly -- the brother would be one to look out for in the
coming battles.

     "First tournament, mate?" he asked, engaging Ikea in
Smalltalk Level Two.

     "My first outside of my dojo," the brother said, timing his
words around the small bites of his meal.

     "You'll get used to it fast," Mick said, leaning back in his
chair, pushing the pheasant? pigeon? crow? aside for now.  "Lots
of wonking about figuring out where to go and who to fight, but
it's good fun, all.  Is your kid sister here participating?"

     "HAAAI!  Lumi-chan is a great fighter!" Lumi perked in with,
with such emphasis on perk that it made Mick wince.

     "So, who was your mate you were chatty watty with back
there?" Mick asked, ignoring the girl.  "The scandinavian
fellow?"

     "An old friend," Ikea said.  He was quite pleased to see
Yarslov again, actually, even if their initial meeting at the La
Bureau went something like this :

     'Yo, Ikea!'

     'Hello, Yarslov.'

     (pause)

     'I gotta take a whiz, excuse me.'

     'Alright.'

     Not quite what he was hoping, but Ikea was not unsettled.

                              *

     Yarslov splashed water in his face, extremely unsettled. 
This was bordering on that which Truly Sucks.

     Ikea was here!  No way, man!  That was bad.  Kinda on two
levels, really; 'cuz there was no way he could beat Ikea, for
starters, and he didn't really WANNA have to face down his old
compadre.  But, like, if he DIDN'T, then maybe this ultra-cool
philoso... premini... presci... dream thing wouldn't come true
'cuz he didn't stay in the tourney.

     "Whoa," Yarslov said, summarizing his mood in one neat
syllable.

     There was a flush from the nearby stall, and out walked
Hugh.  Hugh looked at Yarslov and blinked.  Yarslov looked at
Hugh and blinked.

     "YOU!" they each said.

     "What're YOU doing here?!" they replied.

     "I'm here for the tournament!" they answered.

     "STOP THAT!" they demanded!

     Then both were silent.

     "'The seagull perches on the steeple in the rain'," Hugh
stated.

     "...what?" Yarslov asked.

     "Well, I wanted to make sure I didn't say something you'd
say as well."

     "Oh.  Um.  YOU!  You scum, you're that dickweed that messed
up our dojo all those years ago!" Yarslov said, getting back into
the mood of things and cracking his knuckles.  "I oughtta teach
you a lesson!"

     "Noooo, I don't think so," Hugh laughed.  "In fact, I
believe I have a lesson to teach you."

     "Bring it on!  You're gonna get hurt."

     "It is YOU who shall get hurt, fool!"

     "You're goin' down, pal!"

     "We shall see!"

     Hours passed.

     "You're going home in a box, man!" Yarslov taunted.

     "And you won't be going home at all!" Hugh replied.

     "There can BE only one!"

     "And I shall be that one!"

     Fifi peeked into the men's room door. "Are you two done yet? 
Hugh, you need to give your speech!"

     Hugh paused in his taunting, realizing he hadn't actually
attacked yet.  "But... but I'm not done!"

     "You can play LATER," Fifi said, grabbing him by the arm and
dragging him out of the bathroom.

     "...so's your mother," Yarslov finished.  Sort of after the
fact.

                              *

     Someone tried to approach the Karoke mike, but a sharp glare
from Shelly made them decide to turn around and go back.

     She had actually been doing Karoke for the last forty five
minutes.  There were objections -- some from people wanting a
turn, mostly from people wanting her to shut up -- but she wasn't
about to give up the stage to anybody.  She was the Karoke master
of her dorm and she KNEW it.  No so much because she was good at
singing but because anybody who didn't think she was good at
singing put their foot in their mouth.  Sometimes with help.

     She was about to launch into a rousing chorus of 'New York,
New York' when she found the karoke machine had been unplugged
and the spotlight turned to another part of the stage, where Fifi
was shoving a very protesting Hugh in front of a podium.

     "HEY!" she protested as well, and stomped off to find the
spotlight controller so she could express her discontent in a
violent manner.

     Hugh stood like a deer in headlights.  He was never one for
public speaking, having mastered the Introverted Artist Mentality
of shying away from public affairs.  Then he remembered an old
Martial Arts Public Speaking trick he learned from Master Wae San
Phillips : imagine everybody in the audience in their underwear.

     It didn't do much for his nerves, but did help his libido
enough to compensate.  He pulled a set of index cards out from
his pocket, assumed a Dominating Evil Voice, and read.

     "Ladies... gentlemen.  Warriors alike," he opened with.  It
was a solid opening.  Much better than his early draft of 'A
funny thing happened on the way to the tournament'.

     "You stand today on the brink between obscurity and
greatness.  This, the only tournament BY Furniture Warriors, FOR
Furniture Warriors, will prove you to be the sole master of your
art.  In the next twenty four hours we will see who is the best,
and who is the rest.  I can assure you a very challenging fight,
indeed, as the noble Ottoman Empire has provided quite a grounds
for our combat.  You should savor these moments... as if they
were something to be savored."

     Dramatic pause.

     "And now, for a taste of things to be around the corner,"
Hugh said, with a sweeping arm gesture.  "We've arranged a little
demonstration, if you'd direct your attention to the center of
the room..."

     The spotlight guy didn't move the spotlight.  Hugh squinted
into the distance, and saw what looked like a heavy oaken
schooldesk dropped on the guy's head.

     Hugh sighed.  "Full lights, please?"

     One of the maids hit the light switch, turning on the less
dramatic but still effective overhead lights... illuminating the
nine foot tall wall of power made flesh flexing in the center of
the room.

     "This is Gaston Moosculare," Hugh introduced.  "The
strongest man in all of Paris.  He's here at the personal
invitation of our gracious host, Fifi L'Enfer.  He can bench
press a Volvo and eats a slab of raw plywood for fiber every
morning.  He has pectorals the size of toddlers.  Clearly an
opponent worthy of our demonstration.  And this..."

     Hugh gestured to a tiny, maybe two foot tall man in black
ninja robes, brandishing a salad spoon and a little wooden
mallet.

     "This is Shrimp, master of Ottoman Empire Crack Claw Seafood
Restaurant Style Furniture Warrior Martial Arts.  He can lift
three pounds and eats rice and water.  Ready?"

     The two opponents squared off, the shadow of one completely
covering the other.

     "BEGIN!" Hugh shouted.

     Shrimp made a lightning fast striking motion with his
mallet, and Gaston fell down with a WHAM, clutching his genitals
and whimpering in a higher octave.

     "Let this be a warning," Hugh said.  "The Ottoman Empire
will break you in the most humiliating ways possible and
resistance is futile and you will be crushed like an eggshell
beneath our mighty iron boots.  Now, everybody get up and go to
the door.  Our ride is waiting."

                              *

     The large-scale tour bus was black.  Really black.  So black
that light could not escape it.  So incredibly totally black that
it stood out against the daylight like a black bus standing out
against the daylight.  Even the windows were black.  It was
completely black.  The bus was black.

     "Ano, that bus is black," Lumi commented, trying to resist
being bustled onto the bus.

     "This bodes of forewarning," Ikea muttered.  "I do not like
this turn of events."

     "Everybody on!" Fifi cheered, waving a fluffy white fan. 
"Off we go to the tournament!  Lots of fun for all!  Settle in
the back row first, please."

     "Quit shoving, mate, I know where to go," Mick grumbled.

     "Watch those hands, bub!" Shelly said, smacking the guy
directly behind her.

     "Uh, sorry," Yarslov stammered.

     "Come along, come along," Hugh said, urging the crowd along. 
"In you go."

     Eventually all had gathered onto the bus.  Its engine roared
to life like the stirring of evil powers in a kettle of
damnation, flames roaring out of the tailpipe, the entire bus
shaking with unholy fury.  (The lone figure was having trouble
hanging onto the roof baggage rack what with all that unholy
fury, but she was managing well enough.)

     "IT HAS BEGUN!" Hugh yelled.

     "Down in front!" the evil bus driver yelled back.

     And with that, the ground split open, rended asunder, and
the bus drove into the fissure, vanishing in a burst of flame and
evilness.

END PART THREE!
Stay tuned for Furniture Warriors...
     PART FOUR : Remember the Alamo!

----
Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne, Streetsweeper for the Village of the Damned
SEND PUBLIC REPLIES TO THE FFML.
SEND PRIVATE REPLIES TO twoflowr@glue.umd.edu