HEY KIDS : How do YOU want to see all these whackos come about meeting
in Paris? Mail/post your ideas, so I don't have to do any work! :)
-=-
Furniture Warriors
PART TWO, The Gathering
(or, The Lame, Generic Title)
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 practical jokes to live.)
-=-
The cards were shuffled. The invisible pawns were arranged,
and moved; the hand was dealt and the dice were cast. The chips
were on the table. All bets were off. The game was afoot, the
jokers were wild and the stakes were high. Once the ball was
rolling there would be no going back.
Unless, of course, it didn't work. Hugh frowned.
He had sent out Dark Minions of Evil to carry the message to
all the Furniture Warriors that he, his master, and Fifi combined
knew about, but that was still a frightfully small number. His
master had assurances that this plan would be a booming
success... but if they only outnumbered the Tibetan
representatives by few, would that be a banging success, a
booming success or a piffle success?
No sense worrying about it now, Hugh thought, relaxing in
the large padded bed next to Fifi, cognac in one hand and a
television remote in the other. Simply wait for the chosen to
gather and let that be that.
He really hoped that idiot Yarslov wouldn't come, chosen or
not, however.
*
Yarslov liked to sleep. He liked to sleep because it was
cooler than television.
His dreams came to him very much like television shows.
Usually it was the Yarslov Show, a really well directed
retrospective on his life, with better acting and a really cool
frood to play himself. The soundtrack would always be surf
music. Sometimes it'd have a laugh track, unless it was one of
those 'serious' episodes like they had sometimes on 'M*A*S*H'.
In today's episode, young Yarslov was being trained in the
Tibetan dojo for furniture warriors. He got an exchange student
program to send him; he specifically wanted to try snowboarding,
which the mountains were great for. But once there, he found
cooler stuff to do than snowboarding.
In this scene (which came after the commercial break for
Corn Pops) Yarslov and his best bud Ikea were busy sparring.
They did that a lot, really; it was a blast, man, Ikea KNEW what
he was doing and would help Yarslov improve his form. Great guy.
Real frood.
"You need to get more power on the upswing," Ikea said,
assisting Yarslov in guiding his folding metal beach chair in a
more smooth arc. "Focus your ki. This will increase the impact,
and ensure a more perfect form."
"Whoa," Yarslov repliad.
Conversations usually went like that. Ikea was Tibetan,
with quite a refined speech pattern in several languages, even
Yarslov's native Swedish. His black hair which came to points
and determined look contrasted with Yarslov's kind of grungy
blonde hair and goofy dumb look... a point Yarslov always
admired. Damn, Ikea was smooth.
"Hey, Ike, what're you gonna do when you're done trainin'?"
Yarslov asked, practicing his chair katas.
"I will never be done training."
"Oh. Well, what about, like, aside from training or
something?"
Ikea considered. "Aside... I will eventually inherit the
dojo. I hope to lead it with a wise hand, like our Venerable
Master Oakcraft does."
"Whoa. Family business. Yeah, my dad wanted me to work in
the fish gutting plant back in Sweden. But man, that scene just
ISN'T cool. Fish guts! I'd rather be surfing forever."
"Is it not honorable to obey the wishes of your father,
Yarslov-san?"
"FISH GUTS, man. FISH GUTS."
Ikea had to admit it was unappealing, even if he had no
outward signs of it.
This is when the soundtrack to Yarslov's Nielsen-approved
dream swapped to the Villain Theme. It was hindsight that
Yarslov knew this dude wasn't cool, but the audience was in on
the gag, and the audience WAS Yarslov.
Hugh had entered the dojo. He was wearing his usual truly
whacked out threads, which Yarslov kinda dug. But he had that
perpetual frown. That wasn't cool at all.
Yarslov didn't really like anything about Hugh other than
his wardroba. The dude was in on the same exchange student
program he was on, but he just had no class. Way too Snidley
Whiplash for any decent person.
"Hello, Ikea, Yarslov," Hugh nodded. "Practicing. Very
good. You realize you will not likely be able to defeat me if we
sparred. It's wise to play amongst yourselves."
"Greetings, Hugh-san. And how are you today?" Ikea said,
bowing.
"Bored," Hugh repliad, not bowing back. "Bored and bored
and bored. This dojo is boring. You people have no creativity.
I've been considering adding a splash of color..."
"The dojo is fine," Ikea repliad. "It does not need
'color'. The fine grain of wood, the form and functionality of
furniture as comfort and support as well as weaponry... it is
decorative in its own right and perfect in integrity of form."
"What he said," Yarslov yes-manned.
Hugh snorted. "You'll see," he said, turning to leave. And
leaving.
"That dude needs to loosen up," Yarslov said, pushing his
hair out from on front of his eyes to watch Hugh go. "Honestly."
"I hope he does not do anything foolish," Ikea mused.
The soundtrack immediately played a note of forewarning.
Because if you had seen the reruns, you know that was the
beginning of the end for Hugh... after the Coloring Incident, he
was no longer welcome. But that was for tomorrow's episode.
Then the screen interrupted, with a NEWS BULLETIN card. The
announcer explained how he really hated to interrupt such a
totally awesome show, and turned it over to the most righteous on
the spot reporter, Yarslov.
"Hey, dude," Yarslov told himself. "You awake?"
"Uh, no," he repliad. "I was gonna wait for the cartoons.
Why, is something going on?"
"Kinda. It's like, I'm gettin' this vision. It's a weird
one, man. You're about to go really really far. I mean like on
an airplane or something. There's gonna be a chair, a lamp and a
desk. And a strange long journey. And someone's gonna stub
their toe. I think there's a duck somewhere in this, too. And
it's SO totally important that you protect some chick. Ohhmmmm."
"Whoa! This is the first time you did predictions!"
"Yeah. Cool, isn't it? I amaze me sometimes."
"Most cool! Hey, what're the lotto numbers for tomorrow?"
"Uhhh... sorry, dude. I forgot. Anyway, you got all that?"
"I dunno. It's pretty vague. What chick? They got a good
meal on that airplane?"
"Look, all I know is what this vision told me. I think we
got some cool psychic stuff going on. You know, like on that
episode of the X-Files where that dude was, like, um, doin' stuff
with his mind? You know?"
"YEAH! That was a cool episode!"
"Wasn't it? I dunno, I thought the music wasn't up to
snuff. Snow can do better."
"Hey, it was fine. Um, why'm I arguing with myself?"
"You tell me. Maybe you're just bored."
"Got anything else to report?"
"Uh, yeah. You remember that chick six umbrellas to the
left of us? Some dude's hasslin' her. I can pick up a bit of it
through the ears. You wanna wake up and do something most
righteous about it?"
"Okay, okay. I don't wanna sunburn anyway. Hasta, mon!"
"Hasta," he nodded to himself. Then the TV turned off.
*
Yarslov blinked awake, in the noon day sun. The beach was
hot, but this was normal; it was really warming the metal on his
folding beach chair, but he could handle it. He quickly assessed
the situation.
Skin; nicely tanned. Sand; gritty. Tide; Low, heading
towards high. What was he supposed to be doing again?
"I said, BACK OFF, you Singled Out reject!"
Oh, yeah. That.
Yarslov hopped out of his chair (making sure to take it with
him), and adjusted his swim trunks. He skipped over the
scorching hot sand to approach the groovy chick that was being
harassed by that big dude.
"But honey, we could really hit the town! Paint it all red
and stuff. And I have a GREAT vibrating bed!"
"Ahem," Yarslov said, trying to act all cool and collected
like Ike used to.
"Whadda you want?" the guy asked.
"The chick don't like you," Yarslov pointed out. "Let's be
all honorable or something and leave her alone, okay?"
"What's it to you, punk?"
Yarslov didn't like to talk. Wasn't his scene. So he just
swung his folded chair low, gathering Ki, and drove up in a
massive uppercut into the guy's jaw.
"RISING CHAIR FIRE!!! OR SOMETHING!" he yelled, as the guy
went sailing into a series of hot dog vendor carts.
Sometimes it was, like, too easy.
He wandered back across the hot sands, intent on resuming
his slumber so he could see if Slappy Squirrel was gonna be a
rerun. Everything was in order; cooler full of Mountain Dew, big
ass beach umbrella, and a nice spot where he could chill. He put
his trusty folding beach chair back down after dinging out the
dent in its framework caused by the loser he previously whacked,
and sat.
Only, not all was harmonious. There was something really
funny lookin' on top of his styrofoam cooler; sorta like one of
those wooden tube things Ikea's dudes would put their scrolls in.
Exactly like one, actually.
Yarslov picked up the tube, tried to remember how to open
the silly thing, giving up and just snapping the tube in half.
The scroll, somewhat bent, toppled out; it was written in good
'ol english, and read :
-----------------------------------------------------------------
FURNITURE WARRIORS TOURNAMENT! MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY!
Just the right thing for shiftless,
restless beach bums to have a little fun, slack and combat.
YOU ARE INVITED
HEAD TO THE LA BUREAU CAFE in PARIS, FRANCE
-----------------------------------------------------------------
There was also a plane ticket in there and a coupon for six
bucks off a Motorola pager.
Hmmm.
France was pretty far and kinda a strange long journey,
Yarslov pondered. He loved it when his dreams were this cool.
What was the chick his dream told him about, though?
*
"What do you MEAN, I can't enter?!" Shelly yelled, slamming
both palms on the application desk.
The clerk, behind his bulletproof, punchproof, kickproof,
chiblastproof transparent plastic shield simple shrugged. "You
can't enter because your fighting style is too silly. Like the
ad said, we want SERIOUS warriors."
Shelly paused, counting from ten to one backwards, like her
therapist recommended whenever she had to deal with mindless
dorkwad loser jerkoff loser stick in the mud cretins like this
guy.
It hadn't been a good day. She spent the last of her
allowance on the Valu-Jet flight down here to Thailand, only to
be hassled by clowns like these who didn't take her entry into
the tournament seriously. It was hard getting respect as a
newcomer to martial arts; which is why she had taken a year off
from her private school (without actually telling anyone) to
train and fight and win trophies and things. Shelly hadn't
counted on never getting an actual chance at fame, though,
because her style was 'too silly'.
"I'll have you know this style was passed down from
generation after generation after generation! I'm almost 1/26th
Tibetan!" Shelly boasted proudly.
"And that matters to me because...?"
Shelly blinked. "I'm a descendant of the Tibetan Furniture
Warrior Monks, of course."
"Never heard of them."
"Never heard-- it's the fifteenth most popular martial art
in Tibet!" Shelly proclaimed, realizing how pathetic that sounded
after the fact. Why couldn't her heritage be cool, like some
sort of Order of Light who have to defend the world from evil
every thousand years or so?
"Let's look at the logistics, shall we?" the clerk said,
reviewing over the applications stamped APPROVED. "We already
have filled the quota of under eighteen applicants set by Mr.
Bison. What's more, we already have a girl in her school
uniform--"
"It's all I had in my closets when I ran away from school!"
"--who may I add is much cuter than you--"
"WHAT?!"
"--in addition, any more schoolgirls than that would make us
lose credibility. Besides, these claims to your powers are
ridiculous and I don't believe them for a minute."
"Why, you little stinking--"
"Application deniad. Next?" the clerk said, stamping a big
red REJECTED on Shelly's papers.
Shelly started from ten to one, but only got to seven bafore
she proved the manufacturer's claims on the safety class didn't
bank any money on being desk-proof. With a resounding CRASH, the
simple oaken schooldesk flew nicely into the clerk's face,
knocking him back and making Shelly feel so much better, despite
Security escorting her off the premises shortly after.
"So what if my style involves throwing desks at people?!"
Shelly yelled to no one in particular in the parking lot. "So
what if I'm wearing a uniform for Miss Pifflemoore's Academy for
Privileged Girls? SO WHAT IF I'M NOT CUTE?! Ain't I too a
warrior?!! I'll prove them all WRONG, mark my words!"
The cars made no attempt to reply, not even the ones with
voicebox enabled auto alarms.
Shelly sulked, her Anger swing downshifting easily into
Depression. "If only there was a tournament for Furniture
Warriors."
A wooden cylinder rolled along the vacant lot, urged on by
the gentle breeze. Shelly didn't notice it until it bumped her
toe.
Curious, she picked it up. She couldn't quite get the cap
off (it was one of those child proof safety caps) so she dropped
a Kindergarden-grade metal desk on it, cracking it like a nut.
Inside was a weird looking scroll on that cool yellow paper,
reading :
-----------------------------------------------------------------
FURNITURE WARRIORS TOURNAMENT! MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY!
It's perfect for young warriors
having trouble proving themselves because nobody will
take them seriously.
YOU ARE INVITED
HEAD TO THE LA BUREAU CAFE in PARIS, FRANCE
-----------------------------------------------------------------
All that, and a plane ticket from the nearest Thailand
airport to France and a free coupon for a Hootie and the Blowfish
album. She discarded that down a nearby sewer grate, pocketed
her ticket and ran for the airport, kicking up a little dustcloud
behind her.
"Fame and glory, here I COME!" she laughed, ignoring funny
looks from various Thailand natives.
*
On the other side of the world, smoke curled.
The air was thick with tension. The entire snooker hall had
been cleared out, so this one match could take placa; twenty K
was on the line, and this last shot would determine who got it.
Already the various folks who had cast side bets were chain-
smoking, rubbing lucky rabbit's feet, or doing Hail Marys (some
of them even correctly).
Mick studied the table in front of him. It'd be a tricky
bank shot, getting that piddly widdly eight ball into the pocket
wocket, but he was good at that sort of thing. And if he wasn't
good at that sort of thing, he pondered, your humble narrator
would be quite dead; if not from the various thugs who had no
clue he could not pay his share if he lost, but from his lawyers
who said his next child support payment would annihilate him
financially should he fail in the here and now.
"Mate, you go'in ta stand around all day, or take a shot?"
his opponent asked, leaning uneasily against his pool cue.
"Patience, my brothers," he said, chalking his cue for the
fourth time in a row. "No need to get your yarbles in a bind.
Mick will take the shot soon enough, mark my words."
Mick bent towards the table, his trusted cue (used in every
game he had played since a young boy, running about the streets
of Wallingsforthshire with his droog brothers) at the ready. It
would be quite a shotty wotty, but he could do it.
Clack of cue on ball, of ball on ball. Rolling along the
soft green felt.
The eight ball stopped short one full inch from the pocket.
Betting tickets were hurled in the air in frustration at the
same time the cheer rose from the audience. The mate who'd
challenged him was all smilas, little dollar signs almost but not
quite lit in his eyes.
"Pay up, Mick," he said, resting a comforting, but
restraining hand on Mick's shoulder. "Ye lost."
"That I did, that I did," Mick smilad right back. "Well
then, I shall simply go and fetch my money from its hidey hole.
It's a fair cop. So if you'll excuse me, my brother..."
"I donae think ye unnerstand, mate," the enemy said. "I
want the money NOW. If ye don't have it, well... we can get it
out of ye, one way or another."
In the time it took to say that, the creep's brothers had
poor Mick surrounded.
This is about the time that one might think the protagonist
would be in a spot of trouble. Not so for Mick. For what the
fools lacked in smarts and made up for in brawn Mick more than
had covered in the sport of the brawl. Specifically, with the
cue.
With a deft flick of the wrist, Mick shifted his pool cue
(reinforced with a solid core of iron) from game time position to
fight time position. In a spin of wood and clack of cue on bone,
he knocked the hand away. The foul fellow gripped his wrist and
bawled like a little baby in agony, as Mick flipped easily over
the pool table itself, snagging a few items from its pockets, and
pitching them rapid fire into the crowd, like large, spherical
shuriken. The crowd, not quite wanting to be smacked upside the
head with a hard, polished wooden ball, made way. Up and out and
Mick was out the door.
But his troubles did not end there, for naturally they had
the exit guarded. And once said exit guards had noticed they
should be resuming guarding, because Mick was sort of getting
away, they chased him with glee.
Mick smilad, spinning, doubling back at them. A chorus of
smacks and groans and crunching sounds followed; for Mick's
second favorite pastime, beyond pool, was ultraviolence,
something he was rather good at when in a bind. One of his mates
was a genuine Furniture Warrior, and had taught him and his
droogs the ins and outs of unconventional weaponry; a positive
boon in the days before Mick moved on from being a thug to being
a hustler.
Snapping his cue between the heads of two goons, letting
them drop to the cobblas, Mick spun his cue back onto its holster
behind him and ran down the street, laughing all the way. Until
he stepped on some sort of cylinder left lying around and
splatted face first into the nastiest gutter in England.
Annoyed and rather smelly, he lashed out at the offending
object with a thrown cue ball; smashing it open, to reveal a
rather lovely little scroll. Curious, he read it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
FURNITURE WARRIORS TOURNAMENT! MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY!
Just dandy for mates hard up for
a little money woney.
PS - Fifi says hi!
YOU ARE INVITED
HEAD TO THE LA BUREAU CAFE in PARIS, FRANCE
-----------------------------------------------------------------
All that, plus a plane ticket and a small towel.
What a pleasant turn of events, Mick pondered. A
tournament, some prize money and a chance to see Fifi again. He
had wondered what the chap was up to since leaving his gang.
Mick dried up with the towel, and hailad a taxi.
*
A lone figure walked through the grasslands of France,
assuming France has grasslands. The figure walked silently, and
quickly; without exerting effort like a full jog, but
nevertheless and extremely quick walk. More of a glide. Sort of
a sliding motion wherein it was almost like the legs didn't move
at the right rate for motion. It was strange, in summary.
Strange and quiet. Quiet and oddly fast. Silent, but certainly
speedy. Very much so. Indeed.
The figure did not have an invitation, but damned if that
was going to stop her.
*
"Wai! What does this button do?" Lumi asked, pushing the
attendant callbutton for the third time.
Ikea relaxed, meditating. He wasn't one for air travel,
since he tended to stay in the Tibetan mountains, where all you
needed to visit your pals was a pickaxe, snow shoas, climbing
ropes with locks and pulleys, safety gear, six day's rations,
heavy winter clothing, an emergency flaregun and dogsled with no
less than six dogs of a husky breed. This unusual method of
transport consisting of hurling a big metal container in the air
until presumably it crashes into the ground somewhere on the
other side of the planet upset him. He'd supposedly survive the
crash, otherwise a hundred others wouldn't have jammed themselves
into the container with him. Unless they were all stupid, a
possibility he wasn't counting out yet.
Lumi, on the other hand, was having a ball. She was
particularly fascinated by the little buttons that turn on a
light above you, and provide a refreshing, gentle stream of air;
she alarmed a few people when she managed to get an oxygen mask
to drop from her panel, and the attendants were trying to avoid
her since she kept buzzing them asking for pillows and peanuts
and little airplane pins... but other than that life was good for
Lumi-chan.
"Ano, Ikea-kun, when do we crash in this France placa?" Lumi
asked.
"According to our ticket, in approximately three hours,"
Ikea repliad, keeping his eyes closed and continuing to meditate.
"Wai! Lumi-chan's heard so many good things about France.
Do you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in
France?"
Ikea blinked. "What's a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?"
"Uhhh..." Lumi pondered, scratching her adorable yet empty
little head. "I dunno. ^_^ So do we get to fight Hugh-san when
we land?"
"Not right away. We'll have to find him. I doubt he'll
stay in his hotel room all day waiting for us," Ikea said,
resuming relaxation. "But make no mistake. For the honor of our
brothers we shall defeat him and retrieve the sign, no matter
where this journey takes us."
"I hope it takes us to EuroDisneyland!" Lumi giggled.
"What's that?"
"Lumi-chan doesn't know. But she hears it's fun!"
Ikea frowned, but only by a millimeter or so. The outside
world was strange.
*
All the other folks who got scrolls are basically gunfodder
for the tournament scenes and will not be included in this
chapter. (This is not an author's note.)
*
"Awww, Hugh-kun, come back to bed," Fifi said, tugging on
Hugh's arm. "You worry too much."
"I have right to worry," Hugh said, gazing out the window at
the Parisian Moon. (They didn't technically own it, but he was
fairly sure that a poem or something once said the moon over
Paris was important in some regard.) "This Monday we embark on
the greatest tournament the world has ever seen. And I'm not
sure our minions will be very good minions."
"They'll be fine, don't you worry about that," Fifi said.
"And if not, I have a plan..."
END PART TWO!
Stay tuned for Furniture Warriors...
PART THREE : Coffee, Tea, or Manslaughter?