Furniture Warriors Episode IX: Hot French Buns! -or- Did He Really Mean It? A joint effort between the mighty SPOOF CHASE and the upstart IMPROFANFIC (http://www.pixelscapes.com/improfanfic) Improfanfic started by Stefan Gagne. Characters by Nihana-san. Episode 9 written by Todd Harper (lina@inverse.org) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ AROUND THE DOJO IN EIGHTY SECONDS: An ancient and unique martial art focusing on using the power of inanimate objects to hit other people upside the head, the honorable Furniture Warrior sect has evolved into high and deadly art over the centuries. Conveniently, however, someone's been trying to take over the world lately and it's up to our supporting cast of red shirts to suffer and die while our heroes attempt to save the world from the evil Ottoman Empire. Yay plot! WHAT WAS DUG OUT OF THE COUCH CUSHIONS LAST EPISODE: Rebecca slung the curtain rod off her shoulders and shifted it to a vertical position, holding it up with both hands like a staff. "I'm only here for one reason -- to make my old boyfriend pay for all the pain he's caused me." "And yet," said Ikea calmly, "this is a tournament. And in order to get to him, you must first get through me." "Well, no," Rebecca said, and she lifted her curtain rod into a ready stance. "But you can think that if you want." Then she charged. <-----> If he were capable of it, Ikea might have frowned. Or possibly have sweated a little. This was due mainly to the fact that barreling at him across a cold stone arena was a short, blue-haired girl in excellent shape and brandishing the most violent window dressing since the invention of shuriken Venetian blinds. However, it was not in the tradition of the Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo to give in to such emotions. A warrior was supposed to be calm, collected. He used his opponent's anger against him, turned the tables and generally achieved geat feats of ass-whuppin' through the art of Zen and, generally, carrying large wooden objects around with a great deal of weight to them. Unfortunately for Ikea, Rebecca had grown up in the harsh streets of Montreal. Forced to eat beaver tails and cinnamon spread to survive in the urban Canadian wilderness had strengthened her into one tough cookie. Ikea's world view involved a lot of meditation, calm reflection, and the occasional chair kata. Rebecca's involved her hitting things until they stopped moving. "PROVINCAL PAISLEY PUNISHER!" Rebecca shouted, twirling the curtain rod and flailing it out at Ikea in an almost random motion, the pretty paisley curtains twirling out fiercely. She snarled as the Tibetan nimbly ducked out of the way, focusing on the moment and conveniently doing acrobatics even with a deck chair strapped to his back. Ikea's face remained as impassive as ever as he landed a good five feet behind his previous position, drawing his chair in one smooth, practiced motion. "Your technique is excellent," he said flatly; it wasn't that compliments were beyond Ikea's range of expression. Actually, no, that's false. They were, along with darn near every other emotion. "However, your anger lessens your skill." Rebecca sighed, twirling the rod expertly and drawing the heavy curtains back to it with a loud snapping noise that woke up half the attending Furniture Warriors who had previously been whacked unconscious by Hugh's incredible Knockout Speech. "Listen, drill head. We can make this quick and I get on with the whole vengeance thing, or we can make this long and painful and I can STILL get on with the whole vengeance thing. Your choice." Ikea almost sighed. "Unfortunately, I must defend the honor of the Big Tibetan Furniture Warrior Dojo," he replied. "You must understand. Forgive me." And with that, he leapt at Rebecca like a pouncing...well, like a pouncing pointy-haired monk with a large wooden chair in his hands, really. The Canadian Curtain Czarina was soon knocked off her feet by Ikea's Rising Chair Fire attack, but managed to right herself before the ground met her face with rather unpleasant results. Up in her box, Fifi flinched despite herself, but felt a twinge of relief as Rebecca picked herself up and counterattacked, twirling the rod in front of her and sending the lead-laced curtains of despair into a whirling tempest of cotton destruction. "DRAPE DELUGE!" Ikea brought his own weapon(?) to bear, calmly glancing the whirling blows away. "What kind of slight is so horrible as to make you lose yourself in anger?" he asked politely, all the while deflecting the curtains like an octopus playing paddleball. He felt he owed it to a fellow Furniture Warrior to help her better get in touch with her feelings. It was, after all, the Right Thing To Do. Rebecca was sweating, but her relentless assault did not let up. With each ringing impact of curtain on chair her voice did likewise through the large arena. "Because my old boyfriend is a LYING..." *WHACK* "THIEVING..." *CRACK* "DELUDED..." *MAIM* "BASTARD!" *HURT* Up in the box, Fifi's eyebrow twitched more and more with each accusation. A sinking feeling moved up her body from garter to leather choker: she wasn't going to get out of this one easily. The Canadian found, much to her increasing fury, that the honorable Ikea didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at the list of accusations. "I'm sorry, but that's just not an honorable reason." Of course, with that he nimbly dodged the incoming flurry of paisley pain and slipped easily inside Rebecca's defenses. "RISING CHAIR FIRE!" With a yelp of pain and flash of bobbed blue coif, Ikea's opponent was launched into the air. The audience held its collective breath, and Fifi stood up and ran to the side of the box, confusing Hugh to no end and biting her lip. Rebecca seemed about to right herself, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. < I can still win... > Rebecca considered. Then...her eyes met Fifi's. She saw concern in those eyes, and she knew that Fifi was hoping against hope that Rebecca would get up. That she would fight on. The blue-haired girl was suddenly struck with a bout of horrible, horrible angst, her emotions twisted as much as her curtains. She could almost forgive Fifi. Maybe. But after what she...no, what HE'D done... Of course, it was during this moment of indecision that the slow-mo emotional scene ended and the ground connected with Rebecca's head, knocking her quite unconscious. Hugh sighed and grabbed the mic. "And the winner, much to my annoyance, is Ikea of the damnable Tibetan dojo. Now let's eat." The crowd cheered, as was standard, and then trampled each other like Brazilian soccer spectators in an attempt to get to dinner. Ikea bowed to Rebecca's prone form once as was traditional (even if your opponent couldn't tell anyway) and then joined the teeming masses. Soon only Fifi, Hugh, and Rebecca were left. There were a few moments of tense silence, before Hugh spoke up. "Shouldn't we do something about her?" Fifi shrugged and made her way out of the box, trying very hard not to do something rash and dramatic that would give everything away far too early and make future authors hunt the current one down with pointy objects. "She'll be up and around soon enough. Come, Hugh darling, let's go get something to eat. All this angst has made me positively famished." <-----> Meanwhile, back at the toy-filled room of our very own plot-device-to-be, Lumi-chan of the Big Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo and Waffle House (tm) was pondering the button. The red button. The jolly, CANDY-LIKE button...could she hold out, folks? WILL she hold out? Of course not. Duh. "Wai! Ice cream! Lumi-chan loves rocky road," she squealed cutely, before slamming the button hard enough to crack the phone's LCD screen. There was a slight pause. Lumi-chan, with an attention span measured in nanoseconds, pouted. "Oh well. And Lumi-chan was so set on ice cream." With a shrug, she chucked the phone over her shoulder and let it settle in a heap somewhere in the mountain of plushness. It was then, of course, that the portal of swirling darkness (per union regulations) opened and Sophia, in all her Teutonic glory, stepped out. She glanced around, trying to find the little lightbrat in the heap of stuffed toys, and, failing to do so, summoned up a carton of ice cream. "Ja, liebchen! I come bringing ice cream! Please come out where Sophia can see you and kidnap you, yes?" A pair of halogen bulbs, soon followed by the head they were attached to, emerged from the mound of gunds. "Wai! Ice cream!" Her prayers answered, the cutest Furniture Warrior since the days of her obvious previous incarnation bounced along like a Gummi Bear on crack, until she was standing right next to Sophia. "All set!" She paused, a flicker of intelligence moving across her cerebral areas like the first proto-being oozing onto land. "You're not my secret admirer, are you?" Sophia grinned, leading Lumi through the Evil Portal (tm). "Oh, no, liebchen. I'm merely, how you say...one of his incorrigably evil servants." "Oh. Well, that's good then!" Lumi said, the flame of wisdom extinguished by the ocean of character schtick. "It's good to have a purpose." <-----> Ikea quietly sat, eating his gruel in silent contemplation of the meaning of life as expressed through furniture. Today's match had been helpful. The curtain fighting style was not popular in Tibet; seeing a master of it at work had been very educational. Cataloguing that info in a way that would make Ifurita jealous, he continued to eat impassively. There was the brief flicker of concern about Lumi. However, having grown up with her and Master Oakcraft, he had a sense that she would be okay in the long run. As a student of universal truth, Ikea was aware that small, cute things that are short on intelligence have a very disturbing habit of survival via blind luck. Or, in the case of Lumi-chan, incredibly bright, energy-saving halogen luck. However, she was usually quicker about it. This might not bode well. Ikea paused as Yarslov joined him at dinner. "S'up, Ikea?" the Swede asked in his cheerfully, remarkably non-Swedish voice. "Nice match today, even if it was a total betty you floored." With a look of distaste, he began to suck down gruel at a remarkable rate. The Tibetan nodded once. "It was a worthy match." Although the possibility that he would have said more was relatively slim, any chance he would have had was interrupted by the sound of a rock being thrown through a dimensional portal and landing on the table with a loud WHAM. Yarslov immediately panicked and assumed a fighting stance, folding beach chair menacingly held in both hands. Ikea, unphased, untied the obligatory ransom note from the rock and held it up to the light: Dear Ikea: Ve are having your schwester, ya? If you would like to rescue her, be at this location at precisely midnight. Come alone. Ohohohohoho. -The villains PS: Bring a dessert. Attached was a map of the compound. Yarslov blinked as Ikea dispassionately read the letter aloud, stowing his chair in FurnitureSpace (tm, soon to be an omake!) and blinking. "Dude. She even writes out her laugh." Were emotion his gig, Ikea might have shown some. Instead he folded the letter neatly and stored it in the rock-hard starchness of his gi. "This is a most distressing turn of events," he flatlined. Yarslov nodded simply, inured to Ikea's general personality. "You're probably going, so, like, be careful, dude." Ikea nodded once. "Certainly. One can't be too careful around Lumi-chan, after all. She might hurt someone on accident." <-----> ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE THAT I SHALL NOT BE FAILED BY THIS PLAN, DR. PFISCHER? The labcoat-wearing man nodded excessively, convinced of proving himself to Emperor Ottoman with this, his last and potentially greatest parod...plan. "I'm sure, Your Evilness," Pfischer replied, cueing the Beethoven tapes and prepping the films reels and sound equipment. "She'll be like putty in your hands afterwards." GOOD. IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GO DELIVER SOME ICE CREAM. "Ice cream, milord?" DON'T ASK. <-----> Aquamarine of Knossos was not in good shape. Considering that she had been sacrificed to the Cthonic plot gods in a most dairy-like fashion two episodes ago and had yet not been given a chance to recover, her bathrobe still stank of milk and her bones still felt of fracture. This was probably a bad time, then, for a psychotic, obsessive young man to approach her unawares. "No talking this time!" he ranted, one eye twitching and bloodshot. "I've got this thermite grenade, see? I'm going to take this entire place with me if you don't sponsor me into this damn tournament!" It was obvious that if this boy had forehead kanji, they would read "Bates Motel." Aquamarine, tired of being used and tossed away like a red shirt, viciously cut the respondent dialogue about the way of the Furniture Warrior short and got to the chase. "Go to hell," the Greek responded, pulling a suddenly-appearing bell rope and watching with pride as a giant, Monty Python animation-esque toilet fell from the sky and clobbered the poor bastard, thermite grenade conveniently rolling out a nearby window and into the home of a very likely lonely Star Wars toy collector. And there was much recurrance of plot themes. <-----> Meanwhile, back at the ranch, cows were being milked. Elsewhere, in a bar, Shelly and Frigidaire Fifi alias Faux French Fifi alias Joanie alias Chandelier Chick were having a rousing game of "Bash Your Awful Life!" "Shtupid schientisht bashtard!" Fifi drawled, sipping from her (necessarily) frosty mug of whatever served as ale in the darker dimensions found beneath the cushions of bad little couches that couldn't. "He makesh me into thish...THING..." the bionic, Mr. Freeze-esque voice muttered harshly. "...And then he doeshn't have the DESHENSHY to change me BACK!" Shelly could only nod sullenly, lulled into a false sense of security thanks to her friends with the English names and pretty labels. "Men are all bastards," she snapped suddenly, her voice a bit more acute than Fifi's Darth Vader imitation. "They come in, they screw up your life, and then they wander off right when you need them most and never come back when they oughtta." The women, too distracted at first to notice, were suddenly aware of a keen giggling from around the multi-entranced bar. Suddenly paranoid (and, maybe, with a twinge of hatred building up inside), the pair immediately began to inspect their table and clothing for signs of leakage, unzipping, splinters, or in the case of Fifi, rust. What they found was a sign on Fifi's back. Instead of "Kick Me", it read: WE HAVE PARTY ICE BY THE BLOCK. There was suddenly quiet. A LOT of quiet. Eyes were narrowed. Desks were readied. Bottles of milk clinked. And the giggling came to an abrupt halt. It was, of course, dramatically appropriate that at that moment, all three doors to the bar opened wide with loud, silence-busting CRACK noises. Followed by three, silence-busting male voices: "There you are, Sheila-luvvy-wuvvy. Talk to Daddy." "Aaaaagh! Shelly AND Fifi! Angry! Bogus!" "Ah, mia bella, I found you..." These are the sounds you hear, shortly before the world explodes. The resulting carnage began in earnest, left many scarred physically and emotionally, and instilled a new fear of yogurt, milk, rolltop desks, and women in general in most of the attendees of the tournament. The shouting/yelling/fighting/hurting/maiming lasted well into the night, which just goes to show that Shelly was wrong. When you really need a man to sit there and be violently attacked with any handy piece of furniture for multiple hours, he'll generally provide. <-----> In the throne room of the generally poorly-lit, stock-staged Ottoman Empire, Emperor Ottoman propped his feet up on a namesake and gave some thought to his situation. Originally, the plan had been to grab the girl and simply hold her hostage. Of course, once he found out who she was, that simply wouldn't do. So the plan had been altered to kidnap her, then steal her power and leave her for naught. It was a good plan, a simple plan. Then Hugh had introduced him to video games, and a whole new world of evil possibilities opened up before his eyes. Of course, the long and generally forgettable name was going to be an issue, but it had worked so well in furniture-less fighting styles that he simply HAD to try it. Satisfied that he had justified his plan to himself suitably, the emperor yanked a bell rope, sounding a gong. On cue, Miss Oeru and Sophia entered his throne room and bowed. REPORT, MY SERVANTS. AND QUICKLY, I HAVE A HEADACHE. Miss Oeru nodded crisply, snatching a clipboard from FurnitureSpace (tm) and flipping through it. "There have been some unexpected developments since last night's altercation at the bar in section 38-G, my lord." EXPLAIN. Miss Oeru coughed slightly. She was not a stupid woman. She understood dark lords and generals and as such knew that in their eyes, the correct plea was not "Don't kill the messenger" but rather "Don't kill the messenger FIRST." "The warrior scheduled to fight Sophia this afternoon, Leonardo DiMario, will be unable to participate." UNABLE? FOR WHAT REASON? MY DARK VENEGANCE WILL NOT BE SUBJECT TO DELAY, MISS OERU. Emperor Ottoman paused. UNLESS ALLY MCBEAL IS ON. "Medical expects to have the desk drawer removed from his skull any day now, my lord." AH. There was the sound of rustling paper as Miss Oeru flipped through sheets of available competitors, looking for a replacement. "There are two warriors as yet untested, sir. They've been skulking around for days." GOOD. THEY MIGHT PROVE A WORTHY TEST. SOPHIA! "Ja, mein herr?" PREPARE YOURSELF FOR THE MATCH. IT WILL TAKE PLACE TOMORROW MORNING IN THE ZEN ROOM. "Ja. I vill crush zem viz ze power ov my Ahnold accent!" Miss Oeru and the emperor took a moment to sweatbead. THIS MEETING IS CONCLUDED. I MUST NOW CHECK ON DR. PFISCHER AND OUR GUEST. "How's your headache, my lord?" WE'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT, AREN'T WE? <-----> Lumi-chan was, meanwhile, completely content as she sat in the well-apointed lobby of the Ottoman Empire Multiplex Theatre and Center for the Study of Dark Science. She'd never been a big fan of red velour, mind you. She probably couldn't identify it in a line up, either. But the nice man with the white coat had given her Milk Duds and a soda and told her to sit still until her secret admirer came. This was, of course, his biggest mistake. Telling Lumi to wait was more or less like asking a star if it could maybe shine a little less brightly, we're having ozone problems down here, thanks. Putting her in range of sugar was even worse. It wasn't until she had finished most of the snack bar candy, accidentally blown up a projection room, and redecorated most of the ladies restroom with pictures of the Backstreet Boys that Emperor Ottoman and Dr. Pfischer made an appearance. "Miss Lumi!" the scientist cried out, surveying the carnage carefully. "Miss Lumi, I've brought someone to see you!" There was no response. Long moments passed before Pfischer's super-intellect kicked in. "We brought sundae cones!" Moving at the speed of cute, Lumi-chan arrived in front of the evil pair in record time. "Wai! Sundae cones!" She paused. "Who's the big evil-looking man?" I AM EMPEROR OTTOMAN, QUEEN RADIANCE. I HAVE COME TO BRING YOU UNDER MY SWAY SO THAT I MAY ONCE AGAIN BE UNOPPOSED IN THE FURNITURE WARRIOR TOURNAMENT, he answered honestly. The emperor was not, after all, much for beating around the bush. He was more up for beating about the head soundly with a footstool. "Wai! It's good to have goals," Lumi replied solemnly, sundae cone long forgotten in the wash of new stimuli. A puzzled look crossed her face. "Who's Queen Radiance?" Dr. Pfischer leaned down and smiled at Lumi with the condescending look that most adults give to children they are about to sweep under the proverbial rug with bribes. "Lumi-chan, would you like to see a movie? We've got one especially for you!" He smiled, although of course ringing in his ears was Evil Laugh #68-F ("Haha, we've got you now!") "Oh, wai! That would be fun!" Lumi agreed agreeably. Dr. Pfischer smiled, half to Lumi and half to the emperor. "Oh, good. I think you'll like this movie," he explained. "It'll change your life." <-----> Yarslov blinked and sat up. "I, like, totally felt a tremor in the Force." In the hospital bed beside him, Leonardo nodded, desk drawer making loud wooden clapping noises as it swung through the air. "Millenium hand and shrimp." "Dude, shut up." <-----> Ikea arrived at the appointed place - an abandoned training room - at approximately midnight, to the second. He was, of course, prepared for battle. He was also very worried about Lumi-chan. Granted, none of this would have been ascertainable without the benefit of third-person omniscient narrative, because as far as Ikea's face was concerned, everything registered the same. So of course, there was no reigsterable change when Hugh stepped out of the shadows. Granted, Hugh's incredibly tasteless outfit precluded him hiding in anything short of pitch darkness, but this was of course immaterial. "I knew you'd come, Ikea, you fool." "Return Lumi-chan," he said flatly. Hugh smiled darkly with Villain Grin #45-A ( "Oh, we'll capitulate, alright..." ) and motioned to the darkness covering most of the training room. "Can't you tell, Ikea-kun? She's already here!" Out of the shadows stepped another figure. A short, cute figure in a maroon Big Tibetan Furniture Warriors robe, a backpack, and two black light bulbs strapped to her head with a headband. "Wai! I'm evil now, oniichan!" Shadow Lumi said cheerfully. "Isn't that sugoi?" <-----> END PART NINE! Stay tuned for more Furniture Warriors! Part Ten: Is That An Evil Lightbulb In Your Pocket? LAUGHTER! LINGERIE! VALKYRIES! ROMANCE! VIOLENCE! FURNITURE! In the next part of Furniture Warriors, written by... Brian Stricklin! [applause] AUTHOR'S NOTES: Wow. My first real impro writing since the much underpublicized end of Controversial Jack. ^_^ I know it's short, but it's summer and I don't have a job yet so I'm short on time. All I ask is your forgivness for stealing the Foul Ole' Ron joke, when I bash people for snagging Pratchett jokes in fanfic all the time. This just seemed like such an appropriate place for it. I am a hypocrite now, if it makes any of you feel better. ;) Thanks to all the prereaders who responded to my last minute please for help: NeoPuu, Aaron Bradley, Tiffa, and Pete Hudson. Sorry about not using the idea, Pete: you can use it in your chapter someday, maybe. ^_^ Any comments, criticisms, what-have-you, please mail them off to lina@inverse.org Thanks for reading!