Chapter Two: Fangirls with Pets
Eggman crushes a half-empty 40 oz. can of malt liquor he had been drinking from in order to "better understand Shadow's people." The sugary ale drips from his closed fist. "Motel 6 of Station Square," he proclaims, looking at the thing that he just said. "A worthy nemesis."
Before them, in all its callipygian glory, stands the Motel 6 of Station Square: bars on its windows, doors off their frames, cars on blocks in its parking lot. A rat child scurries on all fours, quailing from one end of the cracked asphalt to the next. Gunfire echoes in the distance.
"This place doesn't seem safe for us to," what's the word, "nidificate… for the night," Shadow mutters, but Eggman interrupts by hitting him square between the shoulder blades.
"Nonsense!" the callipygian scientist pauses to wordlessly vocalize his amusement. "Poppycock! You're black! We'll fit right in!"
"And you're sure this is where that pink bitch has," what's the word, "absconded? With the goo?"
"Sure as the thick dark hairs on Maria's ample udders!" Eggman roars. "Now. What to do about the bars on the windows here." He ruminates on the thought, scratching at his chin with his non-sticky hand. "If only I had brought Egg© with me, we could have merely disintegrated the hotel with the heat of our lasers, abdicated with the girl and her goo, and been on our merry way back to Eggtropolis by now!"
"Why do you always go to the plans that injure people," Shadow remarks.
"Or kill!" expounds Eggman on the subject of their current discussion. "I do so enjoy causing others great agony. I believe there is a term for that. What's the word?"
"Sadism?" the callipygian hedgehog offers his compatriot. "Aren't you like, one of the last things made of flesh in your weird automated city? Don't you like, abduct people and turn them into robots, rewriting their brains with your will?"
Eggman merely shrugs.
The peregrination of the pair comes to an end after a short expression of their legs' motor functions in a repetitive fashion—that is to say, they walk into the lobby of the Motel 6. Inside, the two are greeted by fluorescent lights, a sanitized floor of beige linoleum, and a wall-mounted television playing a looped clip of Alex Jones carving a pumpkin and screaming about Black Ops helicopters trying to stick their penises in his mouth.
By the stroke of some lazily written luck, there was no receptionist behind the front counter. In fact, there was, on some scrawled parchment folded horizontally so as to make it stand on its own, a hand-written note: "Back in 15, which is the perfect amount of minutes to access this non-password-protected computer and find out the room number of anyone staying at this motel if that is what you want, it's your right to free speech, but there are cameras pointed at this computer so in case anyone is brutally murdered, I'll have footage to give to the cops. Nobody's getting disemboweled and having their organs sold out of MY motel, or my name isn't—" At this point, the writer seems to have run out of room on the parchment and neglected to get a second one to finish her or his tirade.
"This plan doesn't involve maiming or killing or exploding anything, and so now I am bored," screeches Eggman in a high-pitched voice. Shadow ignores the human's puerile ramblings and begins manipulating the computer at the station, inputting commands by means of the keyboard, which is the input device by which many choose to interact with a computer. You can learn all about this at your local community college. Enroll today!
"I have correctly summoned the correct information," the callipygian genet proclaims. "Our future benefactress of goo is currently residing in Room 237. Let us depart for that domicile immediately."
"Now, where was the fun in that?" Eggman ripostes, still stuck on the topic du jour. "No destruction. No violence. No Egg©. Sure, we came into possession of the information we needed, but nothing was earned. Especially not by means of an incendiary device or a dozen."
"Don't you think that blowing things up tends to, what's the word, attract attention we don't need?" Shadow explains.
"Maybe I WANT attention," the mad scientist pouts, folding his arms. "Did you ever stop to think about MY needs?!"
But just as the pair attempt to exit the lobby of the Motel 6, they are interrupted by the returning concierge, who looks like an anemic Wham!-era George Michael but with less facial hair and more myocarditis. His eyes travel up and down, scanning the pair suspiciously.
"Can I HELP you two?" asks Milo Yiffapoodelos, who is a completely original creation of mine and is in no way whatsoever meant to resemble the character of political pundit and all-around unfunny comedian Milo Yiannopoulos, on whom Milo Yiffapoodelos is based.
"We're close acquaintances of the callipygian magenta hedgehog, Amy Rose, who is currently residing in Room 237," exclaims Eggman. "Now, good sir, if you would please let me and my recalcitrant companion pass—"
Yiffapoodelos takes a deep breath through his nose, apparently attempting to completely extricate the oxygen from the antagonists' auras.
"Excuse me, SIR," vociferates the vitamin-deficient concierge. "This is not a SAFE SPACE for you delusional transgender PSYCHOPATHS. If you wish to be referred to as a WOMAN, you may go back to TUMBLR."
"I, uh," says Eggman. "Sorry?"
"And YOU," Yiffapoodelos then directs his ire to the callipygian hedgehog before him. "It seems that you are not on your LEASH. You are NOT to SHIT on the CARPETS while you're in here. This is not a SAFE SPACE for YOU."
"Excuse me?" Shadow responds. "You're implying that I'm going to shit on the carpets because I'm a hedgehog?"
Yiffapoodelos rolls his eyes. "Hardly," he explains. "It's because you're BLACK."
Swiftly, Eggman and Shadow find themselves deposited on their asses in the gutter outside, which is weird because that is where they were trying to go anyway. I mean, ahem, which was a most serendipitous expulsion as the pair was attempting to exit the locale for a clime that neighbored their current goal. Their impressively Brobdingnagian buttocks, to which we have been making grandiloquent references throughout the story so far, softened any physical damage that might have occurred to their bodices from their short trajectory to a hard surface.
"I believe that, due to recent developments, this scenario is now an appropriate one for Egg©," Eggman declares, wiggling his mustache degradingly.
"Hold up," his callipygian companion commands. Damn, that alliteration turned my pants into Montana—a river runs through it. "If you think about it, we've been on target so far."
"Forsooth!" exclaims Eggman. "I declare this plan of yours to be a spectacular failure. See the motel around us not reduced to ash and rubble."
"That… isn't really a plan," clarifies the sable erinaceinaead, a nearby streetlight reflecting devilishly off his devilish devil-like face. "That isn't really anything at all, actually. I'm talking about getting the goo. We know where the goo is, yes?"
"Affirmative, my little dark one."
"And we're here, aren't we?"
"According to most philosophers, my little dark one," says Eggman.
Shadow rubs his eyes in exasperation. "Just—you got a credit card on you?"
Eggman begins patting down his many pockets for the purpose of finding a credit card. After pulling out a plethora of disposable punch cards for the same coffee shop with only one or two holes each, he finds the prize which he doth seek. "Would it please you to accept American Express?"
Upon obtaining the magical plastic square of substitute money from his companion, Shadow swiftly makes haste back inside the motel, only to be faced with the smug face of the smug receptionist who is smugly mugging behind the receptionist's smug.
"Hello again, darkie," says the parody of the man who once referred to himself as the Gay Rosa Parks. "Have you come to charm welfare checks from my pockets with all manner of minstrelry?"
"No, I—"
"Perhaps there's a succulent watermelon in our kitchen for you, if you'd be willing to tap dance for it," says the parody of the man who once referred to himself as the Jewish Martin Luther King, Jr. "Of course, I am granted the right to say these things to you not merely by the First Amendment, but by experience."
"We'd like—"
"Indeed, it's true; I once let an octoroon insert an inch of his penis into my otherwise-pure asshole for somewhere between nine and eleven seconds. The filthy (((Jewish))) blood that taints my veins incensed me to commit this depravity, but as the bliss of black cock faded from my gaping white anus, I swore upon the Catholic god I would never allow such an oversight to happen again."
"Listen, whitey," Shadow slams the credit card down on the counter, startling even Eggman, who had casually sauntered to his place in front of the reception desk from the curb during Yiffapoodelos's racist tirade. Like you needed to know that. "We're here to rent a motherfucking room from you, not to hear about how you tried to taste the difference between shit and Shinola with your ass pussy!"
"Wow, it's 2017; don't be so homophobic," Milo Yiffapoodelos frowns, picking the card up from the counter. "Now, Mr. Eggman—if that is your LEGAL and non-DELUSIONAL name—I would like to see your ID."
Such a request cannot be denied. Eggman reaches into his pockets, discovering more punch cards to the same coffee shop (You like how I brought that completely unnecessary detail back? Was it funnier the first time or the second? Please tell me your answer in a PM or in the chapter review.) before finally producing his ID card. He gives it to the concierge by hand.
"Why, it says here on your card that your TRUE gender is MALE," Yiffapoodelos smugs. "Take THAT, you precious SNOWFLAKE. This Motel 6 is not a SAFE SPACE for you."
"I must confess," says Eggman. "I have no idea what you're insinuating about my character with all this discussion of crystalized water or shelters."
"I'm INSINUATING that no matter how many secret E-MAILS you STUFF in your SHIRT, you'll NEVER be a TRUE woman, you SICKO."
"Cram in my chemise?" the mad scientist reiterates, but in a more eloquent fashion to show off my fancy pants English skills. "Why, I have not jammed anything in my jersey save for my plentiful bosom!"
And at that, he frees the adipose deposits around his pectorals from his shirt, letting the floppy nipple areas bounce freely in the lobby air. The very sight makes Yiffapoodelous gush, his hands raising to the sides of his face a la Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone.
"Why, what a pale and massive display of superior whiteness," shrieks Yiffapoodelous. "Nothing says white masculinity quite like the physique of an overweight basement dweller! A room shall be yours, posthaste." Hey, if fat jokes are good enough for a magnificent writer such as Lord Kelvin, then they're good enough for me.
"Two rooms, please," adds the hedgehog, but his rotund, cisgender partner in crime quickly intercedes.
"That request cannot be validated, Shadow," he states, "for I have recently scrutinized my credit score on Free-credit-report-dot-com©. Once again, that's Free-credit-report-dot-com©. It's free; no credit card required©."
Similarly, the concierge tuts. "As it is, I only have one room available at the moment because of the Blue Lives Matter rally happening tomorrow," he says. "I trust you will follow our leash policy while you're on the premises, however."
He then points to a sign that reads "NO NEGROES OFF LEASH."
"This is—" Shadow rereads the sign to ensure he understood it correctly. "I can't—I have so many problems with this."
"Hey, I didn't make the rules," says Yiffapoodelous, who clearly did. "If you want to stay at a hotel where you'd be able to walk around freely and shit on the carpets as you please, why didn't you just BUY one yourself?! Oh, right, because you're LAZY! Western civilization WINS AGAIN."
"I don't have to take this from you," grumbles the hedgehog, before his voice crescendos to a volume more appropriate for a monologue. "I'm the ultimate life form, and I have crushed greater mortals than you with one hand behind my back! I stand before you unshackled! I call NO man my master!"
It is at this moment that the malevolent, yet callipygian scientist slips a collar around the neck of the equally callipygian hedgehog and attaches it to a leash. Shadow's collar even has a little bell! Why, how darling!
"Negroes shall be accompanied by their superior white masters at all times," says Yiffapoodelous to Eggman. "If, for any reason, you need to let your little dark one off leash even for a moment, please call the cops beforehand and tell them that he's robbing a convenience store. Advise them to use lethal force."
"Eggman, I thought you had bought a safety pin," Shadow hisses between grit teeth.
Eggman doesn't respond but wordlessly drags Shadow by the leash to the front doors of the motel lobby. The hedgehog attempts to fight it, trying to pull his collar off, but to no avail.
"What would the safety pin think, Eggman? What would it THINK?!" he roars. In response, a cold sweat breaks out on the mad scientist's forehead.
The pair, albeit reluctantly, make their way to the door of their room: 268, which is on the same level as Amy's room; however, between the villainous antagonists and our rose erinaceinaead, the space is dimensionally bisected by a swath of asphalt, meaning they are on the other side of the parking lot.
In the original story, Lord Kelvin includes a rather drawn-out scene where Eggman attempts to figure out how a simple lock works while shouting quotes from Sonic Adventure 2, but as I'm a hack writer who is not even worthy of cohabiting the same website as our callipygian lord of the Brobdingnagian buttocks, the callipygian scientist finds the door ajar. And that the TV is missing. Something about it floating away in the dark. I'll leave you to draw your own racist conclusions.
Unmolested in the corner of the hotel room stands a minibar, plated in gold foil and heralded by a procession of six small cherubs playing French horns. On top of the fridge stands a placard, onto the plexiglass of which has been adhesively applied gold-dipped laurel leaves. "COMPLIMENTS OF THE MOTEL 6 CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST CHEF," the placard declares.
"FUFUFUFU," Eggman suddenly and uncharacteristically laughs like Kodachi from Ranma ½. "COMPLIMENTARY BEVERAGES AND/OR MORSELS MEANT FOR LIGHT EATING?! DON'T MIND IF I DO," he continues in all capital letters.
"Hold it, little buddy," Shadow says in the voice of Jaleel White. "Think about what you're doing! Does the free deal extend to the whole fridge? Or is there some kind of catch here? Use your head! I'm WA-AIT-ING!"
However, the genius cannot be dissuaded by logic, tearing into the minibar with the alacrity of an adult wannabe critic on a writing site meant for teenagers. Inside, he finds an infinite number of 40 oz. Hurricanes, a veritable mecca indeed. Oh, wait, am I allowed to use the word mecca in regards to alcohol or is that culturally insensitive? Is it automatically culturally insensitive if I have to ask? Please send me your answer in a PM.
The ebony erinaceinaead follows the slurps and belches of Belphegor worship to find Eggman upturning and swallowing the contents of 40 oz. cans. Shadow then attempts to reach into the fridge and grab one can of Hurricane for himself, but the mad scientist slaps his hand away with a sticky, malt liquor–stained glove.
"First you defy the safety pin, and now you refuse to share the Hurricane?"
"Why do you constantly clamor for handouts?" Eggman shouts, spewing flecks of malt liquor all over his companion's face. "Do you think you deserve a prize just for showing up? To drink Hurricane is a privilege, not a right!"
The bitterness within the ultimate lifeform only grows and grows. He reaches for the placard; upon closer inspection, a caveat is revealed. "COMPLIMENTS OF THE MOTEL 6 CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST CHEF: Novelty solid water, commonly used for displacing liquid and reducing its temperature, formed in the shape of members of the only bird family in the order Phoenicopteriformes."
My, what a wacky, sitcom-like misunderstanding!
"What's the DEAL with HOTEL MINIBARS being so EXPENSIVE?" Shadow says to no one in particular.
A slap-bass solo plays in the distance. The callipygian hedgehog crosses his eyes, then freezes. The camera rears back, showing Eggman, pouring the contents of a 40 into his mouth. All at once, a chorus of disembodied voices begins laughing and applauding, and credits start rolling across the screen. Pie-like eye. Concept by Lord Kelvin. Written by Lord Kelvin. Directed by Lord Kelvin. The camera goes to a wide-angle frame, revealing the pair frozen on a lit soundstage. More peals of laughter now crash over the previous chorus—which hasn't stopped. Starring: Lord Kelvin as Shadow. Lord Kelvin as Eggman. Lord Kelvin as Milo Yiffapoodelous. Lord Kelvin as himself. The camera pans over the studio's audience seating. The chairs are all empty; no one is there. Lord Kelvin as pie. Lord Kelvin as eye. Lord Kelvin as the word genet. Lord Kelvin as you. Especially you. The camera goes in for a close shot on Eggman, still pouring a 40 into his mouth; he hasn't swallowed, and now the malt liquor is overflowing out of his mouth and running off his chin to the floor. Filming, Lord Kelvin. Best boy, Lord Kelvin. Key grip, Lord Kelvin. The camera goes in close on Shadow; tears streaming down his face and blood down his snout as he desperately tries to continue remaining frozen. Another laugh track begins over the previous two, the sound approaching something resembling white noise. Special thanks to, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, and Lord Kelvin. The laughing doesn't stop. It only increases in volume. The screen fades to black but the laughing only continues. The laughing will never stop. ©1993. As Lord Kelvin says: Have a nice day without having to tell your friends that the bruises on your face were from falling down the stairs©!
This very special episode of Pie-like eye is dedicated to Milo Yiannopoulos. Congratulations on getting married, Milo! Too bad that your marriage contradicts your opinion piece on how gay marriage should be dissolved, allowing you to have more Pharaohs Gold 5 men for your amyl nitrate–fueled, raw-dog orgies down at The Crew Club?!