isclaimer: I do not own Rob Van Dam, nor would I really want to, heh. And
these events have NOT taken place. At least, not to my knowledge. I
repeat: THIS IS NOT TRUE. As far as I know, Rob does not do drugs. I can thank Jen for all the inspiration with this story, lol, and she knows why! I
think that covers everything. ;)
Rob Van Dam sighs as he looks into his empty cabinet. Well, okay, maybe it wasn't really empty, but it might as well have been. After all, there was no
brownie mix. And he needed some badly.
"Aww, man. Where'd it all go?" he asks himself aloud. Suddenly remembering the party he had two days prior, he softs says, "Oh yeah. Duh. I made it all
then."
Closing the cabinet doors slowly, he thinks about what he could possibly do. He was getting hit with one of the worst cravings for brownies, with his own
little special ingredient, of course, he had ever experienced.
"If I don't get some browneeds today, I'm so gonna go crazy!" he exclaims, pacing back and forth across his kitchen floor, his shoes squeaking with each
step.
Ah, yes, "browneeds". They were Rob's most appreciated invention. Well, to him they were. Sick and tired of all the same old way to get high, he was
intent on finding an alternative to reach that wonderful state. It didn't take him long to come up with the idea of mixing his favorite food with his
favorite herb. Buy a regular box of brownie mix from the local grocery store and add a bag of the most excellent weed into the mix. Or two bags, if you
really wanted a high, then bake as normal. It was no surprise that he was high when he came up with the idea.
Frowning, Rob grabs his keys from the table by the door and quickly leaves. He had no other choice but to go to the store and buy some mix.
*******
Furrowing his brow in confusion, Rob stands in front of the display of brownie mixes fifteen minutes later. There were just so many of them. And in a
bunch of different varieties, too. Regular, fudge, extra fudge, double chocolate, dark chocolate, chocolate chip. The list just went on and on.
"Which is the one I usually use?" he questions aloud. He never really did check out the box when he was baking and even if he had once or twice, he
wouldn't remember. He had an awful short-term memory. A small price to pay for the wonders of his favorite herb. Meanwhile, the elderly lady, who was
a few feet away from Rob, gives him a somewhat petrified glance. The young man talking to himself whilst standing in front of the baking goods was quite
a disturbing scene to her indeed.
Rob, however, doesn't notice. He was beginning to get a headache because of all the boxes looking back at him. Why could they just have one brand, huh?
He had no clue which box his wife always picked up, and since she was gone for the week, he couldn't ask her. Hell, if she was home, she would be the one
picking up the brownies.
"Hmm, maybe one of the dudes that work here could help me," he suggests to himself aloud, further convincing the elderly woman that he was indeed
crazy.
Rob leaves the aisle in search of an employee. No, he couldn't ask that middle-aged balding man near the cereal aisle because he was already helping a
woman, who had a very agitated toddler pulling at her skirt. Besides, what would that guy know about browneeds, anyway? He had to ask someone young,
for they would know exactly what Van Dam was talking about. The only problem was finding one.
Damn it, he thinks, walking around the store. Are they all like, hiding from me or something?
As he nears the freezer section, a young male worker, around the age of nineteen, comes into view.
"Dude! Dude!!" Rob calls, quickening his pace. With each step he took, the squeak from his sneakers grew louder.
The employee turns his head in Rob's direction. "Are you calling me, squeaky?"
"Yes, I am. Dude, I need your help."
"Um, okay," the guy answers. "I'll help you, but, let's get something straight here: my name is *not* dude, it's Brian." He points to his name tag that said
"Brian" in bold letters.
What a little uptight snot, Rob thinks. I bet some brownies would get him more relaxed, laid-back and friendly like me, R V-
"Sir?" Brian waves his hand in front of Rob's eyes. "What's wrong? The lights on but nobody's home?"
A look of confusion comes across Rob's face. "What? No, I didn't leave my lights on when I left my house," he tells the employee, not entirely too sure
about what his statement though.
Brian looks at the other man, completely blown away by the idiocy of him. Surely no one could be *that* stupid!
Meanwhile, Van Dam is thinking back, remembering *if* he did leave the lights on or not. He hoped not. The electricity bill was a bitch as it was.
"Hey! Wait a minute! How would you know if I left my lights on or not?" he suddenly asks suspiciously. "Huh? Are you some weird stalker type dude
that-"
"Okay, that's it. Goodbye, sir. And please... don't bother me ever again," Brian pleads. He then not walks, but *jogs* away from Rob, who is left standing
there surprised.
"Talk about a weirdo," he finally mutters to himself, shaking his head. Now who was going to help him on his quest? He makes his way back to the baking
goods aisle to try again. The elderly lady, who was still there herself, glances at him and sighs. The crazy young brownie man was back.
Scratching his head in deep thought, Rob picks up the box closest to him and examines it. He reads the back, but doesn't seem to find this one familiar. He
tries it with three more boxes before growling in frustration and tossing the box back onto the shelf. The lady at the end has seen all she has wanted to see
and leaves the aisle by her end. Now the man was throwing brownies around!
Why don't you just grab any old box? he mentally suggests. Smirking, the idea seems like a great one, so he picks up the nearest box - extra fudge - and
begins to head toward the registers.
"Hello, sir," the woman cashier greets shyly. "How are you today?"
"I'm doing good and I'll be doing even bet-" Suddenly, he remembers *why* he had to find that certain mix and not just any old one. The last time he was
in a situation such as this one, it didn't sit well with him. It didn't sit well with his stomach, actually. He had spent almost an entire day on his knees in
front of the toilet bowl. That was the last and *only* time he didn't use his trusty mix. He definitely didn't want a repeat day of that.
"Oh no, oh no!" he cries, his eyes widening. He runs from the register and back down to the brownies. The squeak from his shoes were louder than ever.
"Which one is it? Which one is IT?!" He falls to his knees, his hands in the air. His sanity was quickly fading as his craving grew and grew. If he didn't
have some sooner or later- preferably sooner to him- he'd end up in a hospital. Mental or physical. Most likely mental though.
"Um, sir?"
Rob looks up to see two security guards looking down at him. Instead of the usual frowning, angry expressions that are on such people's faces that have
this profession, they have a look of amusement on theirs. Why shouldn't they? In front of them was a man in his late 20's-early 30's on his knees,
shouting at the baking products. This guy was most definitely a freak show.
"Y-yes? Are you two here to help me?" Rob asks eagerly.
The two standing men exchange amused glances. "You could say that. Could you please get to your feet?"
Rob obliges, glad to be getting some help. It didn't matter *who* helped him now, as long as somebody did.
"Okay, you see what my problem is? I need some - hey! What's going on?" he shouts as each of the men grab one of his arms.
"We're getting you *much* needed help, sir," the blonde-haired, taller one informs.
They begin to assist him towards the exit doors of the grocery store. Rob frantically turns his head, looking back at the aisle. "You're supposed to be
helping me with my brownies!"
The dark-haired, shorter one laughs. "Where you're going, they'll help you with *all* your needs. Brownie needs or not."
This catches Rob's interest. "Really?" he asks just as the three exit the store. "Where am I going?"
"First, we're going downtown to the station and then the lovely little psychiatric hospital because its obvious you're in need of serious help and- "
"The mental place? There's nothing wrong with me though!"
"Sure there isn't buddy. You just-" The blonde doesn't get to finish as Rob chops him in the neck. He immediately lets go of Rob's arm. Before the second
guard can react, Rob flips him over his back. As soon as the guard hits the ground, Rob runs for his car. Luckily for him, his car was near the entrance. As
he runs, he pulls his keys from his pocket so as he reaches it, he has the key ready. Without turning around, he gets in and a moment later, speeds out of
the parking lot.
repeat: THIS IS NOT TRUE. As far as I know, Rob does not do drugs. I can thank Jen for all the inspiration with this story, lol, and she knows why! I
think that covers everything. ;)
Rob Van Dam sighs as he looks into his empty cabinet. Well, okay, maybe it wasn't really empty, but it might as well have been. After all, there was no
brownie mix. And he needed some badly.
"Aww, man. Where'd it all go?" he asks himself aloud. Suddenly remembering the party he had two days prior, he softs says, "Oh yeah. Duh. I made it all
then."
Closing the cabinet doors slowly, he thinks about what he could possibly do. He was getting hit with one of the worst cravings for brownies, with his own
little special ingredient, of course, he had ever experienced.
"If I don't get some browneeds today, I'm so gonna go crazy!" he exclaims, pacing back and forth across his kitchen floor, his shoes squeaking with each
step.
Ah, yes, "browneeds". They were Rob's most appreciated invention. Well, to him they were. Sick and tired of all the same old way to get high, he was
intent on finding an alternative to reach that wonderful state. It didn't take him long to come up with the idea of mixing his favorite food with his
favorite herb. Buy a regular box of brownie mix from the local grocery store and add a bag of the most excellent weed into the mix. Or two bags, if you
really wanted a high, then bake as normal. It was no surprise that he was high when he came up with the idea.
Frowning, Rob grabs his keys from the table by the door and quickly leaves. He had no other choice but to go to the store and buy some mix.
*******
Furrowing his brow in confusion, Rob stands in front of the display of brownie mixes fifteen minutes later. There were just so many of them. And in a
bunch of different varieties, too. Regular, fudge, extra fudge, double chocolate, dark chocolate, chocolate chip. The list just went on and on.
"Which is the one I usually use?" he questions aloud. He never really did check out the box when he was baking and even if he had once or twice, he
wouldn't remember. He had an awful short-term memory. A small price to pay for the wonders of his favorite herb. Meanwhile, the elderly lady, who was
a few feet away from Rob, gives him a somewhat petrified glance. The young man talking to himself whilst standing in front of the baking goods was quite
a disturbing scene to her indeed.
Rob, however, doesn't notice. He was beginning to get a headache because of all the boxes looking back at him. Why could they just have one brand, huh?
He had no clue which box his wife always picked up, and since she was gone for the week, he couldn't ask her. Hell, if she was home, she would be the one
picking up the brownies.
"Hmm, maybe one of the dudes that work here could help me," he suggests to himself aloud, further convincing the elderly woman that he was indeed
crazy.
Rob leaves the aisle in search of an employee. No, he couldn't ask that middle-aged balding man near the cereal aisle because he was already helping a
woman, who had a very agitated toddler pulling at her skirt. Besides, what would that guy know about browneeds, anyway? He had to ask someone young,
for they would know exactly what Van Dam was talking about. The only problem was finding one.
Damn it, he thinks, walking around the store. Are they all like, hiding from me or something?
As he nears the freezer section, a young male worker, around the age of nineteen, comes into view.
"Dude! Dude!!" Rob calls, quickening his pace. With each step he took, the squeak from his sneakers grew louder.
The employee turns his head in Rob's direction. "Are you calling me, squeaky?"
"Yes, I am. Dude, I need your help."
"Um, okay," the guy answers. "I'll help you, but, let's get something straight here: my name is *not* dude, it's Brian." He points to his name tag that said
"Brian" in bold letters.
What a little uptight snot, Rob thinks. I bet some brownies would get him more relaxed, laid-back and friendly like me, R V-
"Sir?" Brian waves his hand in front of Rob's eyes. "What's wrong? The lights on but nobody's home?"
A look of confusion comes across Rob's face. "What? No, I didn't leave my lights on when I left my house," he tells the employee, not entirely too sure
about what his statement though.
Brian looks at the other man, completely blown away by the idiocy of him. Surely no one could be *that* stupid!
Meanwhile, Van Dam is thinking back, remembering *if* he did leave the lights on or not. He hoped not. The electricity bill was a bitch as it was.
"Hey! Wait a minute! How would you know if I left my lights on or not?" he suddenly asks suspiciously. "Huh? Are you some weird stalker type dude
that-"
"Okay, that's it. Goodbye, sir. And please... don't bother me ever again," Brian pleads. He then not walks, but *jogs* away from Rob, who is left standing
there surprised.
"Talk about a weirdo," he finally mutters to himself, shaking his head. Now who was going to help him on his quest? He makes his way back to the baking
goods aisle to try again. The elderly lady, who was still there herself, glances at him and sighs. The crazy young brownie man was back.
Scratching his head in deep thought, Rob picks up the box closest to him and examines it. He reads the back, but doesn't seem to find this one familiar. He
tries it with three more boxes before growling in frustration and tossing the box back onto the shelf. The lady at the end has seen all she has wanted to see
and leaves the aisle by her end. Now the man was throwing brownies around!
Why don't you just grab any old box? he mentally suggests. Smirking, the idea seems like a great one, so he picks up the nearest box - extra fudge - and
begins to head toward the registers.
"Hello, sir," the woman cashier greets shyly. "How are you today?"
"I'm doing good and I'll be doing even bet-" Suddenly, he remembers *why* he had to find that certain mix and not just any old one. The last time he was
in a situation such as this one, it didn't sit well with him. It didn't sit well with his stomach, actually. He had spent almost an entire day on his knees in
front of the toilet bowl. That was the last and *only* time he didn't use his trusty mix. He definitely didn't want a repeat day of that.
"Oh no, oh no!" he cries, his eyes widening. He runs from the register and back down to the brownies. The squeak from his shoes were louder than ever.
"Which one is it? Which one is IT?!" He falls to his knees, his hands in the air. His sanity was quickly fading as his craving grew and grew. If he didn't
have some sooner or later- preferably sooner to him- he'd end up in a hospital. Mental or physical. Most likely mental though.
"Um, sir?"
Rob looks up to see two security guards looking down at him. Instead of the usual frowning, angry expressions that are on such people's faces that have
this profession, they have a look of amusement on theirs. Why shouldn't they? In front of them was a man in his late 20's-early 30's on his knees,
shouting at the baking products. This guy was most definitely a freak show.
"Y-yes? Are you two here to help me?" Rob asks eagerly.
The two standing men exchange amused glances. "You could say that. Could you please get to your feet?"
Rob obliges, glad to be getting some help. It didn't matter *who* helped him now, as long as somebody did.
"Okay, you see what my problem is? I need some - hey! What's going on?" he shouts as each of the men grab one of his arms.
"We're getting you *much* needed help, sir," the blonde-haired, taller one informs.
They begin to assist him towards the exit doors of the grocery store. Rob frantically turns his head, looking back at the aisle. "You're supposed to be
helping me with my brownies!"
The dark-haired, shorter one laughs. "Where you're going, they'll help you with *all* your needs. Brownie needs or not."
This catches Rob's interest. "Really?" he asks just as the three exit the store. "Where am I going?"
"First, we're going downtown to the station and then the lovely little psychiatric hospital because its obvious you're in need of serious help and- "
"The mental place? There's nothing wrong with me though!"
"Sure there isn't buddy. You just-" The blonde doesn't get to finish as Rob chops him in the neck. He immediately lets go of Rob's arm. Before the second
guard can react, Rob flips him over his back. As soon as the guard hits the ground, Rob runs for his car. Luckily for him, his car was near the entrance. As
he runs, he pulls his keys from his pocket so as he reaches it, he has the key ready. Without turning around, he gets in and a moment later, speeds out of
the parking lot.