Furniture Warriors Episode XII: The Futon Menace -or- E=MC^*DEATH!* A joint effort between the mighty SPOOF CHASE and the upstart IMPROFANFIC (http://www.pixelscapes.com/improfanfic) Furniture Warriors created by: Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne Episode XII written by: Geoffrey Tebbetts A man whose name Wheel Of Fortune contestants live for. --------------------------------------------------------- (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 iMac to live.) --------------------------------------------------------- LAST WEEK ON FURNITURE WARRIORS: + MARLO was overwhelmed by the drunk horde of SHELLY, REBECCA, and FIFI-nee-JOANIE-nee-FRIGIDAIRE FIFI. + HARRY, the middle-management-type executive and formidable wielder of the Swivel Chair, defeated JAN, the Ottoman Empire's Buddhist lackey. + HUGH defeated BOB MACKENZIE in battle, making back bacon out of the Canadian Balsa Wood fighter. + HARRY joined IKEA and YARSLOV's group! (Final Fantasy fanfare inserted here) All three squared off against the ANCIENT SWIVEL WARRIORS and managed to overcome them. + The EMPEROR was unable to remove the cuteness from LUMI and and finally got RED DWARF on his television, not in that order. --------------------------------------------------------- AND THE TOURNAMENT CONTINUES... The monitor lit up the room around Dr. Pfischer and reflected complex formulae and derivations in his spectacles. Ever since the defeat of the Ancient Swivel Warriors and the unheard-of preempting of Red Dwarf for a live concert performed by the Spice-Rack Girls, the Emperor had been pushing for the quite-mad scientist to finally unlock the true power and evilness in Lumi-chan. All those worries paled in comparison to the fact that the wide-eyed girl with the apparent IQ of a lightpost had never seen a hand-held calculator, let alone a lab filled with buzzing noises and bright buttons. "Golly!" Lumi boggled, her eyes shining more from curiosity than from the flashing lights. "All of this is so purdy! Lumi-chan just looooves all the pretty lights! Ano, what does this thing do?" Dr. Pfischer's head whipped around and his forehead wrinkled in fear. "Stop! Don't go touching my precious machinery!" he sobbed. "Those computers are expensive!" And apparently quite explosive with the push of a button. Lumi giggled and bounced away, the monitor in front of Dr. Pfischer freshly ruined and his face dark from the explosion. The saccharine-powered girl not only had caused $20,000 in accidental damage, but she had also scanned funny faces into the U-FAX-IT scanner and deleted more programs than 15 Y2K bugs combined. The doctor slid onto his knees and begged, the ash on his face now less darker with tears washing his face away. "Please, miss!" he cried out. "You'll ruin everything I¹ve accomplished in my career! As well as erase all of my hard-earned Sailor Moon MPEGs and doujinshi scans!" Suddenly, something in the doctor clicked. No, it wasn't the poor man's pacemaker or anything related to the doujinshi scans, but an idea. An idea that pushed the ethics of science. An idea that was just so crazy, it just might work. An idea...that was mad. Well, it'd have to be. You've never seen a sane idea come from a mad doctor, or vice versa, right? Dr. Pfischer disregarded the medical advice from his physician, sped past Lumi, and double-cartwheeled into his chair in excitement. He focussed all his attention on the only operating monitor left in the lab and punched the button on his intercom. "Miss Oeru! I want you...!" Had it been a visual connection between the two, Dr. Pfischer could have seen the rosy blush rise in Miss Oeru's cheeks. "I'm sorry, doctor, but I'm not attracted to you." "No, no...tell the lackeys to bring me the spare computer parts I have in the back room!" he called out. "And a triple-scoop sundae of low-sugar mint chocolate chip for the girl here!" Lumi's face lit up to 120 watts, while Dr. Pfischer made an insanely-wide grin. He opened his mouth to laugh, trying to decide whether Evil Laugh #67-G, a wide-eyed laugh that involved high pitches and loss of hearing for thirty minutes, or Evil Laugh #11-F, a snicker that crescendoed to a roomy echo that Dr. Evil would be proud of, would do. Instead, he agreed on Evil Laugh #113-A, a new laugh that involved a sharp-shooting pain caused from the realization he had done cartwheels with a withered body. "...and a few Advil please, Miss Oeru." --------------------------------------------------------- Yarslov was trying to sleep, but sleep didn't feel like the froody thing to do at the time. Every time he was close to zonking out, his little television show of a dream was surprisingly off the air with one of those funky circle patterns and plenty of TV snow. Bummer. It took a few dream-thwacks to get the tube back to normal. The screen was fuzzy, but it actually looked like a news bulletin. Reporting for WYAR was, naturally, Yarslov. "Hey, Yarslov!" the Yarlsov scoping the tube greeted. Your Yarslov-on-the-street didn't look as reassuring. "Um, I'd wave back and stuff," he spoke into a microphone, "but I have to be real serious, you know? These bulletins are special or something." "Oh. Oh, yeah. Go ahead." Yarslov-on-TV cleared his throat. "Anyways, just to follow up things, still don't trust that Fifi in the lace. The fridge one is still cool, even though she and Shelly did beat us up after that match. By the way, how's the back after that?" Yarslov made an OK sign. "Feels better." "Cool. So's mine." Yarslov looked a bit optimistic. "Hey, can you tell me what happens between Shelly and me?" he asked. "Dude, this is a report. I can't go around doing that. You're going to have to find out. That's, like, not fate. Something like that." Yarslov-on-TV looked at his paper. "Anyways, I can tell you that you need to help Ike find his sister. Lumi's going to become really evil, not just froodingly evil." Yarslov stroked his chin. "Gee. Ike's not going to like that." Yarslov-on-TV nodded back. "Yeah! Oh, and you'd better wake up and stuff. Someone's going to knock on the..." --------------------------------------------------------- Yarslov woke not to a knocking, but to a rather loud clonk against the door. He opened the door, expecting a pizza guy or some stray splintered wood from an impromptu fight or something. He was only met by a slumping figure that draped an arm around him. "H...hey!" The figure sleepily reared its head to look eye to eye with Yarslov. It probably didn't recognize (or care) exactly who the subject was, due to the half-lidded appearance and fuzzy vision of that eye. All Shelly Thompson could see through the haze of alcohol was a Brad Pitt-lookalike or a Chippendale dancer, whichever came first. She had enjoyed the night of drinking so much that she had a few for the road, enough "Heeeeeeey! *hic*" Shelly hiccuped. "How'z it goin'? You seen Yarzlov around 'ere?" Yarlsov was stricken with numbness. He prayed the question was rhetorical. He knew he'd get a beating somehow. "Um...no?" he winced. Shelly draped herself over Yarlsov, running a finger over Yarlsov's chest. "Say, yer kinda cute! I've been waitin' for -*hic*- for a guy like you!" she babbled. "C'mon, give Sheila some love!" She grinned drowsily and exhaled in Yarlsov's face. Now, Yarlsov enjoyed a drink sometimes, like one of those fruity daiquiris, but this was just bad juju. "Shelly, uh, maybe you ought to sober up or something," he offered. "I hear hot tea or coffee works." He started to work towards the coffeemaker, only to have Shelly latch onto his back, burrowing her chin into the small of it. "Oh, c'moooon! Show Shelly som' nookie!" she practically slobbered into his back. It was enough to make Yarlsov shiver from a sorta-groovy girl like Shelly saying that, but it also made him shiver that she was still going to tar-and-feather him anyways. "Uh...it's okay. I like my nookie...umn...mostly hidden." The advances didn't stop, as Shelly locked in for the ride, grabbing Yarlsov firmly around the neck with a headlock from behind. "Oh, jus' a little?" she whined. "I may be jus' a schoolgirl, but I'm up f'r a roll in the hay sometimes." This just plain shocked Yarlsov. Sure, Shelly was cool, but this was too far! He stumbled forwards in an attempt to escape, only to have a thump sound in the room. It was the sound of his own toe whacking against the bed frame. This sent Yarslov and Shelly tripping over the bed, landing square on the mattress, both staring at each other, Shelly halfway on top of Yarlsov. Well, only Yarlsov. Shelly passed out even before she hit the bed. This left Yarlsov both embarrassed and trapped--hey, he had the decency not to wake up Shelly. He knew it meant instant death. But he also felt illuminated, like a TV game show buzzer went off in his mind. "Whoa. I stubbed my toe. That TV me was right." He wasn't able to sleep a wink with Shelly-the-human-chainsaw cutting logs all night. --------------------------------------------------------- Click. Click. His crude walking stick clicked along the floor as he supported his beaten body. The days were getting worse and worse for poor Marlo, but the vengeance still burned in his eyes. He had tried everything he had left in his arsenal to show these so-called fighters just how he deserved to be in this tournament; he had tried guns, a flamethrower, a grenade, a bow-and-arrow set, even that stupid cricket-bat thing. Nothing was working, but Marlo didn't know the meaning of the word "quit". In fact, he didn't know the meaning of many words, including "portentous", "quizzical", and apparently "furniture". "This is ridiculous," the teen sobbed. "These are destructive weapons I'm using! Why can't they work? Why can't they see that furniture won't work?" His disappointment turned to glee with a few more steps in the barroom. There in the room was a middle-aged man enjoying tea. Marlo made the correct assumption that the man was British, but made an equally wrong assumption that he was offenseless. Master Tickingclock wiped at his mouth and looked at his watch. His scones were delightful, especially when served at exactly 4 PM, but all he could afford was to set the clocks for 4 PM instead. He felt worried at the fact that time was a problem in this odd dimension, something he always had control of before. However, he had more pressing problems. The young man addressing him was either looking for a fight or looking for a snack. Either way, the British man was calm. "I'm afraid I'm out of scones, lad," he said properly. Marlo had no bloody idea what scones had to do with white hot revenge. "I don't care about them!" he said with the reoccurring blaze of hate in his eyes. "I just want to defeat one of you! Just to show I belong here and that furniture pieces are the most useless forms of weaponry out there!" Tickingclock set his teacup aside and faced Marlo. "Perhaps if you were to realize their use as instruments and not artillery, you may understand." "SHUT UP!" Marlo boomed in a voice that would make the Emperor wonder who was stealing his lines. "I challenge you, old man! I shall fight you with this...!" The smile fell, did a half turn with a pike, and landed as a frown. The truth was he didn't *have* any weapons left. He abandoned each one after every loss out of anger, his supply now gone. The only thing he had left was... "I will use my WALKING STICK!!" With that, Marlo raised his knobbed staff of wood at Tickingclock like either a mage on top of a mountain summoning lightning or a little-leaguer pointing his Louisville Slugger towards left field. However, there was a particular reason it was a walking stick; the pain in his legs from when that chick dropped a wooden schooldesk on them was too great. His knees shook as he stood in a faulty attack stance. Tickingclock nodded and dusted off the grandfather clock next to him. Funny, Marlo thought, I don't remember seeing that... The wise fighter opened the glass to the clock's face, adjusting it to midnight (or noon for those on the opposite side of the world). "Pardon, but this may sting the ears a little," he mentioned. By the time the clock struck seven, Marlo's brain was rattling from the din. By the time it struck twelve, he was practically deaf in one ear. By the time Tickingclock had raised the pendulum up to about chin-high and let go, the clock had struck one again. The one it struck was Marlo, as the weight smacked him in the chin as it swung forward. Tickingclock got out his timepiece and readjusted the time to 9:05 PM. Marlo got out his Advil and readjusted his jaw when he came to at 12:30 AM sharp. Tickingclock was long gone by then. Marlo sneered in his state of mental imbalance. "Fools. Don't they realize the true power of the Emperor? Don't they know just what the 'Futon Menace' can do?" He limped away, looking for the next person to threaten and lose to. --------------------------------------------------------- Dr. Pfischer was too excited to knock on the Emperor's door. "Emperor!" he shouted, running into the Emperor's quarters. "I believe we finally have a chance to...unlock..." Dr. Pfischer's glasses slid into an askew position on his face. He expected the Ottoman Emperor to be laying on his stomach like a kid, watching the idiot box's display of the latest antics of Rimmer and laughing it up. Instead, he was just watching a busted TV. Dr. Pfischer made the accident of clearing his throat. "Sir...? She was here already?" The Emperor made his way out of his dark room, looking both victorious and defeated. SHE BROKE IT RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LOTTO NUMBERS, he boomed. THE QUEEN IS GETTING BETTER AT BEING EVIL. Dr. Pfischer straightened up his labcoat and spectacles. "Sir, I believe we have finally broken through with the Queen's awakening!² he speculated. "I have a theory on exactly how we can turn Miss Lumi into pure evil." The Emperor couldn't be seen that well in the dimly-lit room, but it was assumed that he was happy. EX-CELLENT, he said in a manner that would truly get him sued from a one "Montgomery Burns". BUT HOW EXACTLY DO YOU PLAN TO DO THIS, DOCTOR? Once again, he adjusted his glasses, looking down at a clipboard. "Well, this is strictly a hunch that we have," he analyzed, "but I have seen something of a similar transformation in which the subject exhibited pure evil." AND WHERE EXACTLY HAVE YOU SEEN THIS? The doctor pulled at his collar. "Well...considering that I am a mad scientist...I can't say that the test study I looked at was that authentic of a study..." GET ON WITH IT! "I...saw it happen in an anime once." You couldn't see the Emperor's reaction, but you could hear it in the side-splitting laughter that sounded in the room. Okay, maybe you *could* see it, since the Emperor had doubled over in laughter. YOU MUST BE JOKING, DR. PFISCHER! he boomed after he restraightened up. HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT SOMETHING THAT WORKED IN AN ANIME WILL WORK HERE? The mad doctor/scientist looked at some more files. "There are plenty of signs that such a procedure will work," Dr. Pfischer pointed out, "due to the fact that this tournament has so many devices that resemble...what you would call 'anime'. Miss Oeru?" The officewoman mumbled something about not being the doctor's secretary, but quickly came in with a projector, borrowed on loan from the Visual Arts Aikido Dojo at the tournament, and turned it on. The Emperor squinted as the light shone in his face, and he stood aside to watch as a fourth-grade "science film" was shown. "Miss Oeru, please change the frame at the beep." Miss Oeru grumbled. "I am the *Emperor's* secretary, Doctor. Not yours." MISS OERU. HUMOR US. THIS COULD BE IMPORTANT NEWS. *BEEP!* The screen showed profiles of Ikea and Yarslov. The doctor adjusted his glasses. "Subjects Ikea and Yarslov exhibit signs of what we call 'buddiness'. Note that both subjects resemble fighters that live on opposite ends of the globe, yet are close friends with each other. One has dark hair, the other blonde. The dark-haired fighter is usually Asian in origin, while the blonde exhibits profuse Americanism. This can be seen in many fighting anime titles out there." *BEEP* The film switched to a picture of Shelly, although it did need a little more focus. "Subject Shelly Thompson fits the category of 'violent tomboy'. She shows a high level of anger, of which she is able to glow with auras registerable on the visual spectrum. The fact she wears a school uniform while she fights only backs up our theories." *BEEP* The next frame had various females involved in the tournament. "Another point is that this tournament has drawn many of the female persuasion. Normally, these tournaments would be expected to draw only males, but for some reason, it does not." *BEEP* There was a scene of Lumi, face smeared against the pane of glass the scanner has. The three were silent a moment. "I have no idea how the Queen managed to sneak this in..." the doctor denied. *BEEP* The last frame had lines drawn between various characters, some of them stretching around Yarslov and Shelly. "Finally, we have seen hints of love triangles start to develop. This is not typical to see, as most tournaments would normally have no time for such relationships to blossom." Miss Oeru was kind enough to turn on the lights slowly, as to not give the Emperor a headache from the light. The Emperor was perplexed at the information. WOW. I GUESS IT IS A LOT LIKE ANIME, NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT. The doctor had a slight look of victory on his face. "So I have 75% confidence that our experiment can work, sir. I feel we can encourage more evil into the Queen by showing just how bad her life is right now and pitting her against her brother Ikea." The Emperor brightened up about as much as a dark lord of the Ottoman Empire can brighten up. AH! SO YOU MEAN TO DO LIKE THEY DID TO THAT SICKENINGLY-CUTE PINK-HAIRED GIRL IN THAT SHOW? Dr. Pfischer nodded. ³I have dubbed the phenomena as 'the Reenie Effect', sir," he noted. The Emperor oozed smugness. WONDERFUL. I EXPECT THIS PROCEDURE TO NOT FAIL, DR. PFISCHER. AND IF IT DOES FAIL... He paused to turn towards the camera with narrowed eyes. ...I WILL FORCE YOU YOURSELF TO PARTICIPATE IN THIS TOURNAMENT. The doctor was quite nervous after this. "B...but you know how weak my...fighting skill is, sir..." EXACTLY. I EXPECT THE QUEEN TO BE AVAILABLE BY THE SECOND ROUND, DR. PFISCHER. The doctor adjusted his glasses. "Uh...so is this a single- elimination tournament? I *would* need more time if so." The Emperor was deathly quiet. I ALWAYS ASSUMED IT WAS A DOUBLE-ELIMINATION TOURNAMENT, he commented. --------------------------------------------------------- Hugh's late-night speech was finally ending. Officials made sure to wake combatants up with smelling salts. It was rare for a fight to occur in the late-night hours, but the Emperor had insisted on it. It figured that evil had no closing hours. Perhaps it was that, the time of night, that made the microscopic crease on Ikea's forehead just a hint longer. Or perhaps not. "How dare Hugh fight with an Ancient and Honorable Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo maneuver," Ikea spat without spitting. Of course, Ikea said it with as much ferocity as a teddy bear. "It's dishonorable to mock our school." He thought back to earlier that day. While he was taught not to harp about the past, he did know that it was best not to ignore it. After all, this was war Hugh was approaching with the Tibetan school, and sometimes judgment had to be suspended for one to defend his own dojo. At this point in the thought pattern, Lumi would usually pipe up and mention just how honourable it all was. He sighed internally. He really missed Lumi's company. Oh, yes. The flashback of sorts. --------------------------------------------------------- Yarslov had insisted previously that Ikea shouldn't come into the room where he was staying for some reason. He could smell a hint of alcohol, but figure it to come elsewhere. With that, he traveled alone to the main stage area. Ikea literally bumped into a familiar figure on the way to the arena. Ikea couldn't mistake him, with the pink hair and the pile of notes for the next opening speech. Both Hugh and Ikea paused, inches in front of the other, before skirting back and taking out proper instruments of wooden death. "Hugh! You scoundrel!" Ikea declared righteously, opting for his folding chair. "I demand you return Lumi-chan to her rightful place." Hugh himself opted for a two-fold attack. He held an easel in one hand as a shield, his other unsheathing the so-called "Exchairibert" he had vanquished Sir Bob of Canada with. "Make your move, Ikea! This is the one-on-one revenge I had been waiting for!" Ikea had reason enough to pause, confounded by the glow-in-the- dark chair in Hugh's hand. "I thought you had been banned from practicing the Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo's arts, Hugh," he warned. Hugh looked at his illuminated chair. "Oh, you've noticed?" he quipped, turning off the glow by taking a "AA" Dura-Volt battery out of its place. "This is my way of mocking and taunting you, Ikea!" He posed in goofy poses. "Lookit me! I am Ikea of the Pansy-Arts Furniture Warrior Dojo! Flaming Idiot Fire!" If Ikea couldn't stand one thing, it was Hugh. He also couldn't stand watching his precious craft mocked in such a manner. Having both in the same line of sight produced a crease on his forehead that was actually visible to the naked eye. "TIBETAN FURNITURE SLASH!" Ikea launched a disk of energy at Hugh, smacking the metal chair away with a distant clang. For now, the legend of Exchairibert returned to being a legend in Hugh's own mind. Hugh was now sprawled on the floor, holding his hand but grinning. "Not bad, Ikea, but we shall have the last laugh!" he cackled. This only wedged the top edge of Ikea's chair against Hugh's Adam's-apple. Ikea was calm, but icy in voice. "Bring back Lumi-chan," he ordered. Hugh still laughed, albeit higher in pitch. "We do not cater to...oh my! There's a loaded pillow heading straight for you!" "That trick will only work against my sister, Hu..." Isn't that how the punch-line goes? The first time, the hero looks and finds no distraction. The second time, he doesn't look, and there actually is a powder-filled pillow that floomps against the ground and releases an irritating gas. Ikea hid his eyes and heard Hugh scuffle away. "This is not over, Ikea!" he could hear Hugh cry with Fifi o-ho-hoing in the background. "The next time we meet I shall mock you a second time!" Ikea did not scowl at the act of complete disregard for honor that Hugh displayed. His look of decency was replaced only with a look of sheer positivity. Good always wins, Ikea mused in split- second meditation. His eye did catch something in the hall, just before he was about to leave for the day's final fight. It was a hand-held mirror that Fifi had probably left behind. After all, it was pink and rather elegant to the tastes. When Ikea picked the mirror up, only then did he realize that Hugh had drawn a big black mustache and goatee on Ikea's face. Now, *that* was reason enough to scowl. Slightly. --------------------------------------------------------- Ikea was still a little irritated by the time the flashback ended. He had spent the entire time staring at Hugh during his match-opening speech, of which most other people in the crowd could not do. They were too busy sleeping or staring at the artwork Hugh had done to Ikea's face. "Very well then, fighters!" Hugh finally finished, setting his sixty-page speech aside. "We are ready to begin! Our combatants will be Pon, of the very successful and not-to-be-messed-with Ottoman Empire..." The shortest and cutest (even though Ken denied it) of the "Jan-Ken-Pon" triad jumped up and raised a fist in celebration. She wore a crisp business skirt and blouse, despite the fact that she was two or three years away from graduating from high school, let alone be in a business firm. Her method of fighting, a huge photocopier, fwammed on the ground down beside her. Hugh clapped in approval. After all, Pon provided him with many art supplies and free paper for his speeches. "...and Wilton Bagel of the Cuisine-Arts School in America." "That's Ba-GUELLE, sir!" the fighter instructed. "Wilton Baguelle, five-star chef and fourth-level black belt in Kitchen Karate." Sure enough, the thirty-something Baguelle stood as if ready to cook in the literal and figurative sense. He was rather stiff in his cooking get-up, the noticeable difference being the black belt tied around his chef's apron. Pon was already laughing. "You¹re kidding!" she grinned. "I'm fighting against this guy? This will be so easy!" She jumped onto her copier and pointed, ready to kick the cook. "SUPER PAPER WRAPPER!" Pon's copier began to work, the eerie green light signaling the attack. Starched-white paper began to flow rapidly out of the machine and quickly whirled around Wilton in a tornado, holding him tight. The chef squirmed, but luckily had a trump card. The papers suddenly began to wad up in a ball, as Baguelle had snuck a hand-mixer in his hand. The giant spitball he formed was easily discarded. Pon appeared furious. "No fair!" she whined. "That's not furniture! No fair, no fair, no fair!" Her tantrum atop the copier looked anything but professional. Baguelle was in motion. His place in furniture-dom was enforced with the introduction of a microwave oven in his possession. "Appliances are most definitely furniture!" the cook chimed with dinner-table elegance. "Shall I get the counter top and stove-top oven to prove it?" Pon growled, but retained her cuteness. The copier again whirred into operation, now churning out clear transparencies. The chef appeared unfazed at the initial attack, as the plastic gathered at his feet like autumn leaves. "Nice try, little girl," Chef Baguelle laughed. He bent over to pick up the transparencies, only to yelp out when he grabbed one. Pon grinned impishly. "Oh, did it burn?" she laughed. "Everyone knows how hot copies get when they get out of the copier!" Sure enough, the transparencies had congealed around Baguelle's feet, immobilizing him. Pon was now ready for another attack. "Here we go!" she shouted. "FIFTY-REAM PAPER CUT!" Papers once again flew out of the copier, this time hurtling past Wilton, grazing at him to produce painful paper cuts. Baguelle's howls were loud enough to wake the dead... --------------------------------------------------------- ...or at least those hung-over and sleeping like the dead. It was only early morning when she woke up, but even a painful wail can occasionally snap drunks out of their stupor. After all, if one paper cut was bad enough, picture a few hundred. She woke up with barely a recollection of the evening before. The only thing she could remember was getting plastered beyond all shadow of a doubt with Joanie and Rebecca. The mind-splitting headache certainly proved that Shelly did not yet have the tolerance her deadbeat dad had. Her eyes darted around to gather in information. The room? Dark, but not to the point of being pitch-black. The decor? Pretty much a regular hotel room, much like her own, but with a lumpier bed. The reason for the lumps? Yarslov. The time? 3 AM... Wait. Rewind. Shelly stared in shock. There the big doofus was, still awake and with a nervous smile on his face. And there *she* was, lying on top of him like like a firm shellac to a hardwood desk. "Uh, good morning?" Yarslov intoned. "Or is it 'good night'? I don't know; which does 3 AM...uh...qualify as?" The room got three degrees hotter when Shelly blushed. The thermometer broke from going too high when she got angry. --------------------------------------------------------- Without a doubt, had this been a wrestling program on cable, the fight between Pon and Baguelle would have been the best never to make it on the air. The chef and copy-specialist had gone back and forth. Projection screens and hot plates were strewn around the ring area, with neither giving way until Pon's copier thunked. "What?!" Pon yelled. "A paper jam? Now?!" She quickly threw the copier's door open and leafed through a manual. "Darn it! Does it need toner, too?" Baguelle launched himself into the air, an oven hoisted high over his head in a fit of Herculean strength. "Now, feel the glory of my cooking!" he shouted. He brought the oven down hard, and the two appliances smashed together in a sickening crunch, throwing up flour and pulp into the air. Things proceeded in slow motion with all the dust in the air. Pon lurched to the side, toner smeared on her face, but was still in action. She threw two small projectiles at Baguelle after the oven met the copier. Each bottle of Liquid Paper(tm) nailed Wilton in the eyes, and since Liquid Paper is rather irritating there, the chef was temporarily blinded. This wouldn't have been enough to defeat him, but an echoing, unladylike scream floored Baguelle. After a section of the ceiling had somehow fallen on top of him first, that is. The two people that had caused this were Yarslov and Shelly, as Shelly had stomped on the poor Swede so hard that they had caused the bed to fall two stories through the floors and on top of the gourmet. Shelly was barely aware she was in the arena, for she was too busy choking Yarslov. "HOW DARE YOU!" she crooned. "How dare you take advantage of me when I was drunk! And to think I was a virgin before all this! You probably stripped me of my womanhood!" Yarslov didn't choke from this, but the room certainly was swirling a lot faster. "Ack! Shelly! I didn't do that! You passed out in my room! Nothing happened, dudette!" Shelly didn't care. "Thanks to you, I've been stained!" she howled. "Thanks to you, I..." She slowed the chokehold down a little. The entire crowd was staring at the two. The twenty-five second silence broke with everyone speaking at once. Fifi clapped with a flurry of lace. "The winner is Pon of the Ottoman Empire!" he cheered. "Viva L'Empire!" Mick winked at Shelly. "'At's my girl," he grinned. "My little baby-waby is all grown up now." "How could you, Shelly?" Leonardo wept. "Was I not meant to be the first?" Shelly had no answers, only three fat statements for Yarslov. "You. Lousy. Good-for-nothing." "Wait, Shelly! I can...!" We never did learn what Yarslov could do, as he never finished the statement. He certainly could fly from the shot Shelly's "desk upper" gave him. "So am I going to the next round?" Pon asked after the chaos ended. "This is the playoffs, right?" The crowd began to murmur in disagreements. "I thought it was single-elimination." "Isn't this supposed to be like a World-Cup format or something? Like with divisions?" "I always thought it was like a bowling tournament and you go up as you win?" The crowd all seemed to stare at Hugh. "What kind of tournament is this exactly?" most of them asked in unison. Hugh grinned and took out a seventy-seven-page, pre-typed speech. "I am so glad you asked," he grinned. The other half of the crowd joined the rest of the people in groaning. Ikea was too busy trying to help Baguelle out of the rubble. The poor cook was crying in despair. "Are you okay, sir?" Ikea asked. "Do not weep, for the fight was quite impressive." "That's not it!" Baguelle sobbed. He threw open the door to his broken oven to show the mess inside it. "My soufflé fell!" Ikea's forehead showed a small sweatdrop. With that and the crease, his facial muscles were getting quite a workout. --------------------------------------------------------- Dr. Pfischer stared intently. "And do you now understand?" he asked in a voice that could grill steak. Lumi sat on a stool, her eyes as transfixed and glazed as they have ever been. She didn't nod, but then again, she didn't squeal in delight, make any of those "Wai" noises, or cause any structural damage. Dr. Pfischer felt this was definitely progress. "Let us review, then," he instructed, plopping a graduation cap on his head. "What is 'ice cream'?" Lumi's big blue eyes stayed open, despite the ooey-gooey voice she made. "Ice cream is a confection made of milk, cream, sugar, cellulose gum, guar gum, carrageenan, dextrose, and other nummy, eeeevil things," Lumi robotically answered. "Wai." The doctor nodded, circling the once-dunce. "And why is ice-cream evil?" he asked. Lumi's resilience was cracking like unshelled peanuts. "Ano...it has lots and lots of fat and artificial flavors bad for you," she answered. "And that's eeeevil." Dr. Pfischer grinned, his last brick about to be set. "And since you eat ice-cream, what does that make you?" he grinned. Lumi's eye twitched, as she was fighting the urge to root through the doctor's lab for the ice cream he was teasing her with. "That makes Lumi-chan eeeevil for wanting eeeevil ice cream," she parroted from before. "Final question then. Who took the last bit of ice cream?" Dr. Pfischer had the last piece in place, showing an obviously- doctored photo of Ikea munching away at a bowl of ice cream. Any smart person could tell it was actually Hugh in the picture with a very-pointy brown wig, but this is Lumi-chan we¹re talking about here... Lumi's eyes narrowed. "Oniichan." It started with a slight rustle of papers, but it followed quickly with a sudden gust of wind. A miniature tornado developed, with Lumi as the epicenter. Dr. Pfischer couldn't see, thanks to the wind taking his glasses, but he knew just what was happening. The wind slowed, leaving the room an even bigger mess. Dr. Pfischer rummaged through the room, finally finding his glasses with one pane broken. He looked up from his kneeled position and saw her. Just like the book. Lumi-chan stood up in the center of the room, only it wasn't Lumi-chan. The hair was longer and a brighter shade of red. The outfit Lumi once had was probably shredded and replaced in a magical transformation with a glorious dress. The doctor made a mental note; get sturdier glasses to witness such a...transformation. Dr. Pfischer's mouth hung open. "Y...your Luminescence..." he babbled. An orb of light formed in her left hand. "My subject," she spoke after a bubbly giggle escaped her lips. "Tell the Emperor that Queen Radiance has returned. And I expect that urchin Ikea to return my ice cream." Dr. Pfischer made another mental note; refine the process. --------------------------------------------------------- END PART TWELVE! Stay tuned for Furniture Warriors. PART THIRTEEN : "Ice Cream, You Scream!" CHAOS! FURNITURE! CHAOS! GOOD HUMOUR! VIOLENCE! DID WE MENTION CHAOS?! The next installment of Furniture Warriors to be written by: NeoPuu! [crickets chirping!] --------------------------------------------------------- * Author¹s notes: Hello, folks! It's been two years since I've written any fanfiction at all, so pardon my mess here. I tried tying up some strings that I felt needed to be tied, but you wouldn't know just how hard it is to resist tying up *all* of them. I had a lot of fun reading FW, so I hope you have fun reading my story. I was a bit concerned with how I should treat this story, especially with all the "fourth wall" talk about the fanfiction, but it occured to me halfway through writing that this is supposed to be a *parody* and it should be silly sometimes. So I weighed the options. I easily had jokes about Red Dwarf awaiting, but I decided against it. All because of the "fourth wall." What about the fight? Well, I had to rewrite it with a better character. Call poor Wilton disposable. I saw a "Celebrity Death Match" between TV cooks and it seemed to fit well. I did have my first fighter to be a kid that fought with video games, but that wasn't quite furniture... What a way to break the monotony of reviews and articles. I hope you all enjoyed the story, considering it may be my last fanfic ever again. Thanks go out to Brian Stricklin, Philip Barkow, Jonathan Streith, and CyberMokona, for proofreading. I did have to change a lot, so these guys are your targets if this sucks as a story (I kid!). I thank you all for bearing with me while I recover from a nasty intestinal virus. Hope you have enjoyed what I enjoyed writing. Comments should be sent to daikun@earthlink.net. Thanks a bunch!