The Hot Plate Escapade

Summary: Mark and Roger get drunk... and they accept their hot plate as their lord. DRUNKEN!fic. Starring James Earl Jones as the voice of the hot plate, Christopher Walken as the voice of the refrigerator, and Johnny Depp as the stove.

Me and Mark got drunk the other day... the hot plate said some things... we signed some contracts... and then all of a sudden, it's our lord.

1. The Beginning

— —

There is a God—Mark brought home alcohol.

That evening, I was going to angst for a few hours, and then eat some cereal, and then possibly angst some more. I was going to attempt to drown myself in the shower, or hang myself with tooth floss from my lawnmower, or maybe even strangle myself with a honkytonk badonkadonk. However, when the vodka came into the situation, I was not going to angst. Alcohol in our loft is a cause for celebration, not angsting. Of course, last time we got to celebrating the presence of alcohol was... ah... glum.

No more alcohol for two years. I was at loss... and I angsted a lot.

We got so very wasted, and suddenly, the room was speaking to us. The inanimate objects of our house were speaking to us.

"Maybe the vodka I found is—"

"You found? You told me you bought it with your own money! I was so proud for five minutes!"

"No, silly," he hissed at me... Mark can't hold his alcohol or handle alcohol. "I found it! It was that really strong, straight stuff that Collins left that time—remember?"

My thoughts ran back to Christmas two years ago—Mark and I, partying with lamps, screaming "I can't hold me ale!" and wearing lipstick and eyeshadow as well, as we polka danced with our lighting.

Long story.

Don't even ask me about the penguins.

I slapped my forehead and threw my vodka angrily at the floor, before realizing just what I'd done and then dove for it, making a loud thud, but still saving the sweet beverage of gleeful indulgence. "You idiot! Collins is going to muuuuuurder us! Ahhhhhh! He doesn't like us to handle his alcohol—remember the last time two Christmases ago? He walked in on us with the lamps, and—and the penguins!"

"What about the penguins? There were penguins?"

"DON'T ASK ME ABOUT THE PENGUINS!" I waved my hands flamboyantly and spit everywhere. "That's not the point! Collins is going to strip off our skin piece by piece, and slap it on a big old-fashioned grill and serve it up to the penguins from the party! And the penguins are going to peck at it with their little orange beaks and squeak, 'Tweet tweet tweet!' Even though they don't like it! And that's obviously the translation for, 'I love this, thank you Uncle Collins!' in penguinese, because certain breeds of penguins are obviously human flesh devours, and the penguins we had at our party only feasted upon radio cables! Collins told us to—"

Mark blinked. "Uncle Collins? Collins is a penguin?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Yes. YOU DON'T REMEMBER THIS? You drunkard!"

"Roger—"

"YOU SCUMLICKERBOBBYPINSMASHERPUMPKINZEBRARIDER!"

"Roger," Mark began, and I let him speak this time. He swayed dangerously and his eyelids fluttered from obvious dipsomania. "You are druuuunk."

"No," I retorted stupidly, waving my head in his face, "yoooooou are druuuuunk."

"No, you are—"

DIIIIING.

"AHHHHHH!" I screamed and waved my arms even more flamboyantly than before, my legs also swinging wildly as I fell off my chair, landing with a long thunk on the floor. "THE BRITISH ARE COMING, MARKY JANE!"

"I told you not to CALL ME THAT!" he threw a pen at me and it puncture my EYE! I waved my arms in my face, trying desperately to get the stupid thing out of my eye, for it was puncturing my retinas, and I've had pretty bad retinas since I was five. "And it's just an instant message."

"Oh. I knew that," I said, confidently as I regained my balance and returned to my feet, rocking for a moment but then steading myself and making it to my chair safely.

"Sure, whatever, loser." He put his hand up in my face, and I immaturely licked it.

"EWWW!" he cried, wiping his hands frantically on his pants. "You gave me RAAAABIES! HEPATITIS! INSOMNIA! HERPES! THE MUFFIN MAN! THE DISEASE OF THE MOLE PEOPLE! YOU'RE GIVING ME ALL THESE DISEASES YOU FIEND!" he shoved me off my chair, leaving me, once again, in need of balance. All of this standing and falling was doing a number on my thighs. I must have lost ten pounds that day.

"Lookie here," he cried, flipping his wrist, "it's Hot Plate God."

"Hot Gate Shot?" I asked. "Do you know anyone Hot Gate Shot?"

"NO, Hot Plate God."

"Well do you know—"

"No."

"READ THE MESSAGE!" the room boomed.

So we did. We always listen to our room when it speaks—don't you?

Hot Plate God: Bow before thy God!
Boho Boyz: Um...

Mark looked at me, as if asking what he should type. I shoved him away and began to type.

Boho Boyz: DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE HOT PLATE GOD! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE ELECTRICAL APPLIANCES! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE LITTLE CHILDREN SKIPPING IN THE MEADOW WITH PINK APRONY DRESSES, AND FROU-FROU DIARIES! DIIIIIIIE PEOPLE WITH PINK SCARVES! (Sorry Marky Jane) DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE FLESH-DEVOURING PENGUINS! DIIIIIIIE PEOPLE WITH ORANGE NOSTRIL HAIR! AND DIIIIIIIIIIIIE DONALD TRUMP! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE298730293874psisuyr

I glared at Mark as he ended my speech and ruined my groove. So, as he hit enter, I persistently banged on the keyboard with my fists in perfect timing.

Boho Boyz: cxkxjcqwkdzsji
Boho Boyz: 983w745pouisertpioagfphsfw3
Boho Boyz: oau098
Hot Plate God: ENOUGH!!!

Mark glared at me again and took the keyboard back over to him, shadowing over it like some evil older brother. He typed with two fingers and glared at me as he did it, and it was kind of scary. I whimpered like a little child and went to find my bunny slippers, Ronald and Reagan. Upon returning, I found the following three IMs.

Boho Boyz: Sorry, that was Roger.
Boho Boyz: Who is speaking?
Hot Plate God: Your Hot Plate!

Mark and I glanced nervously our shoulders and saw the hot plate, ablaze in blue flame. A metallic voice ran through the kitchen. "I speak to thou through thy instant message software, turn back to thy computer device immediately and heed to My warnings and words of awesomeness and shweetness!"

Mark, clearly drunken, looked at the hot plate angrily with his eyebrows knitted together. "Why can't you just talk to us in this scary voice?" he challenged, slurring all the way through the sentence.

"DO NOT QUESTION THE GOD!" the hot plate, with a voice that sounded oddly like Jams Earl Jones', fired back, and that was all I needed—I sunk down in my chair and turned back to the computer.

"Mark, I think we better listen to him," I mumbled, and Mark nodded, almost falling out of his chair. Man, we would so fail a DUI test right now.

Sighing frustratedly that our appliances were speaking again, we clicked the screen back open and observed as words appeared before us. Apparently this odd hot plate wanted to speak to drunken Mark and Roger... which was quite odd. If I ever told my mom that I'd had a conversation with a hot plate, I'm pretty sure she'd chuck me in a loony bin.

And lo, we read.

Hot Plate God: I have ten commandments for you. Oblige to them and worship Me on a weekly basis, as according to these commandments that are of the number ten. READ NOW!

A/N: This was too long, so we had to separate it into two parts. Next up—the Ten Commandments of the Hot Plate God.

Until next time—

Sara and Steph.