Yay! A new story! I really should finish my other one...but I'll get to it eventually ; But yeah, I was talking to ShikamaruNoMiko and got the idea for this little piece of doom and wrote it immediantly, then sent it off to her for beta'ing. I want to thank her again for that and tell anyone who reads this to check out her stuff, if they haven't already.
Disclaimer: If I owned it, I really wouldn't resort to fic writing, would I? But I'm not, I'm freakishly poor, so take your silly lawsuites elsewhere!
Dib sighed as he stared miserably at the building before him, if it could even be called a building. It seemed to be more along the lines of massive, often broken plates of dirty glass held together by duct tape and occaisional slabs of concrete. Lopsidedly hanging on one of the grimy double doors was a tattered notice proclaiming simply 'HELP WANTED.'
The sun beamed down as he stood before the dilipidated building, debating wether or not to go inside. Had it been fully summer, the decision would've been much easier. Even the filth of such a place would offer some escape from the heat.
"A summer job will be good for you! Jobs help build responsibility and teamwork skills! Working with other people might make you more SANE, so you can focus on REAL SCIENCE!" Prof. Membrane had said, hastily jotting down the results of his last experement. Simmons had managed to clear a little time in the great scientists schedule for this little heart-to-heart after being forced to take a barrage of calls from Dibs teachers saying that though he was a bright student, he didn't work well with others and was rather insane. Simmons had also been the one to suggest a summer job, mostly so Dib wouldn't have enough free time to pursue his 'parascience.'
So, the job chosen? A Poop-Cola mascot. Yes, one of the people who wander the streets in those absurd costumes pushing overpriced junk on random kids. Dib was going to be a gangsta-clown-dog.
Hesitantly, he reached towards the door, really not wanting to come in any sort of contact with the building that would secure his doom. His hand hovered over the handle as he tried to build the willpower to grasp it and go inside. With a quiet groan, he swiftly yanked the door open and hurried inside.
When his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw the interior decorating was as tacky as the building itself was dirty. Giant cardboard cut-outs of Poop-Dog lurked in the corners, surrounded by posters and shelves with little models of the dog, along with other assorted Poop-Cola merchandise. A desk piled with papers was stationed in one corner, and Dib made his way towards it.
"Hi, I'm here about...the job," Dib told the little goblin of a woman at the desk, unable to mask the distaste in his voice. The troll-lady didn't seem to mind how obviously he didn't want to be there and looked sadistically pleased with his statement.
"Wonderful!," she cackled, "Right this way, we'll set you up with your costume."
Dibs misgivings about the whole situation were made worse by the decidedly ominous tone she'd used. He began mentally racking up the many different kinds of monsters she could be.
He was lead down a tunnel-like hallway to a thick wooden door, which screeched when it was opend like it hadn't been used in years. For all he knew, it hadn't. The powerful reek of stale sweat assaulted him and almost knocked him off his feet.
On one wall was a rack with a few tattered, stained Poop-Dog costumes flung haphazardly over it. A little stall was set up in a corner, presumably for a dressing room, and a few sad, battered chairs stood shakily near the wall.
/Wow, a place with a lower budget than the skool/ Dib mused, looking critically around the room.
"This is where you will change every day. You report in to me and then come here. You must return here with the costume when the day ends."
"Do they ever get cleaned?" Dib asked skeptically, though he really doubted it. "And why so protective? Do you honestly think anyone would want to keep one of these things?"
The troll-lady glared at him. "Cleaning, young man, damages the costume."
She waddled over to the rack and, after looking back and forth between him and the costumes, she picked a particularly damaged one.
"This is the only one we have that will fit over that large head of yours," she said, tossing it at him and successfully muffling his cry of 'My heads not big!' and almost making him fall over. He ripped the mass of fabric off his face and glared at his new employer, who was hobbling towards the door. She turned back and countered his glare with a terrifying grin.
"Get changed. You're expected to be on the street in five minutes, and don't come back till eight. There is a tracking device in the costume that will tell me where you go and if you stop without informing another human about Poop-Cola products. I'll give you a script before you leave," she said, then turned again and slipped out the door.
Dib sighed as he looked in the cracked mirror adorning the dressing-room wall, for indeed it was a dressing room. The costume, though itchy and battered, had fit him well enough, even the head. The head had actually been a little difficult to get on, but theres no way he'd admit that.
"At least nobody will recognize me," he muttered, examining his reflection with distaste. No wonder Chickenfoot had been crazy! Being stuck in one of these things would be torture.
After modeling his costume for his frightening employer, he was given some index cards naming Poop products and the acceptable things to say about each and the things he had to say to avoid a lawsuit. Then he was given a huge stack of papers to sign, most of it stating that anything that might happen to him was entirely his own fault and had nothing to do with the company. Once finished, he was shoved out into the heat of early summer to begin selling to the brainwashed masses.
The heat of the sun was muderous, even this early in the season. Waves of heat rose from the sidewalk, warping the city around Dib, who cringed in horror at the thought of having to wear the heavy dog suit once summer got to be unbearable. He literally felt like he was going to roast, and for all he knew he very well could be.
With a heavy sigh, he resigned to his fate and began trudging down the street deeper into the city. At least he was getting paid, right?
Its over! So, how'd I do? Need I continue it? Was it horrible? Was it awesome? Do you never want me near a keyboard again? Yes, I am begging for reviews a little, because fic writing is hard! You like getting reviews, don't you? Okay, yeah, I'm being crazy again, so I'll shut up now