Sorry been a little busy and took a while to get this one started (I hope i'm not hitting the early signs of writer's block...). Anyway here is another hopefully amusing version of one of the BMFM episodes, I thought the mice could do with a break from being crushed/suffocated etc so I went for something a little less horrible. And I couldn't resist having Limburger in his own little predicament either.
Alternative Endings: When things go horribly wrong
8. Pwetty Wady
If it hadn't been for the fallen arches and the angry looking bunions glowering on his webbed big toes, he would have enjoyed this most strange of weeks much, much more. It all started with him having been once again at the receiving end of those indomitable rodent doo-gooders, and thus enduring his latest scheme failing spectacularly at their hands. He had thought his day couldn't have gotten much worse, until that is he picked himself up out of the shop window he had just been blasted through and found himself completely attired in ladies clothing. Somehow in that undignified tumble he had even managed a splash of lipstick and foundation to complete the feminising appearance. But ultimately this embarrassing mishap had provided him with an unexpected advantage, and the following few days had by contrast been very good indeed... if a little bit odd.
That old fish-school rival of mine must be missing more brain cells than I ever could have imagined.
How on earth the impossibly obese (not to mention tall) figure of Lawrence Limburger could be mistaken for a woman was anyone's guess. Even in a floral dress and pointed heels he still looked distinctly masculine... although his efforts to raise the pitch of his voice, while comical, were highly effective. Somehow that day when he had staggered out of the high street shop dressed like a woman, with a blonde, shoulder-length wig crowning his ugly human mask, that crazy Plutarkian from the neighbouring state of Detroit had actually believed he was female. More disturbingly, the squat little sociopath had also thought 'her' to be highly desirable.
Who'd have thought pretending to be my non-existent long, lost niece could be so useful?
The feminine-looking fish examined himself in the mirror again, making sure his mascara hadn't smudged when he pulled on the dress. The black streak on the collar told him otherwise.
"Karbunkle! I thought I told you to get me Maybelline not Max Factor!" For heaven's sake now I have to change again...
Limburger's mad scientist had borne the brunt of the sudden obsession with cross-dressing, but that didn't mean his other half-witted henchman, Greasepit, had been left out of all the fun completely. After all, who else would be dumb enough to believe he even had a niece called Gwendolyn..? And someone had had to test all those flowers and chocolates he had been sent for hidden toxins and such like.
Being the object of someone's desire had given Limburger a bit of a power trip... and he soon had that lusting loser run ragged with all the things he could think of to manipulate the foolish folly to his own gain. This latest development though was something else entirely. On the one hand it may prove to be an effective means of getting rid of the Biker Mice. On the other hand...
"Greasepit, my dear lad... how many times do I have to tell you..? YOU ARE NOT BEING MY BEST MAN!"
The gormless goon had, unfortunately, witnessed the whole embarrassing spectacle of him being proposed to, and was actually expecting him to go through with it. So he had been forced to think of something quick, something to put an end to the ridiculous efforts at romance his rival was bombarding him with. Limburger... or rather Gwendolyn... had said yes... but only if the love-struck lunatic could prove his undying commitment to him by dealing with three rather large thorns in his side. Brie's chances were slim at best.
"Aww but boss..." The oil-covered henchman had been so excited that his employer was getting married. He simply loved weddings... even if he had never actually been to one himself.
"No buts... besides it is customary here on Earth for the groom to choose his best man, not the bride." There was no way Limburger was letting Greasepit be his maid of honour. The Plutarkian shuddered at the thought of the goon in a gown. It was bad enough that Karbunkle was regularly raiding his wardrobe without his expensively-acquired lingerie being contaminated with rancid grease as well.
What he was going to do if Brie succeeded in wiping out those Martian mice was something else he didn't want to think about right now. He had other business to attend to, and make-up issues aside what he really needed was to go shopping for a new girdle.
That maniacal laughter was going to really start getting on their nerves. They had seen a few (usually hasty) victory dances in their time, but this one was simply off the scale in terms of crazy. The weird thing about it was that he kept on going on about some woman he wanted to marry, and how pleased she would be with him. But for what... capturing us?
"You know you really should be more careful with who you choose to flirt with, Vincent..."
"Yeah bro, whoever she was you must have p***** her off grand style for her to sick this slimy little stink-fish on us."
The white mouse looked affronted. How his two bros could always assume it was his fault when something went wrong he didn't know... but the only lady he could think of who he might have upset from time to time (probably a lot more times than he would admit to) wasn't this vindictive surely..?
"No way bros, there's no way anyone in their right mind would ask that nut-job a favour..." It took him a few seconds to interpret the withering looks his two friends were giving him. "Uh, and that doesn't mean this is my fault!"
The three mice weren't in a position to debate the fine details of their latest predicament. They didn't usually have many dealings with the Plutarkian from Detroit, but for whatever the purpose his of business in Chicago, capturing them must have been a part of the plan. Napoleon Brie had just succeeded in luring them straight into his cleverly concealed trap... a large cage of Plutarkian glass steel, mounted (for convenience) on the back of a trailer. A second of these contained their bikes. He had even installed a set of automatic, heat-seeking manacles to ensure his captives had less chance of escape, and these had shot straight out at the mice's wrists before they had even registered their surprise at being caught.
With Modo's arm cannon pinned by the cuff, and with their laser pistols confiscated, all they could do was wait and see what the malodorous maniac had in store for them.
"Gwendowyn my wuv, I have done as you asked, I have those thwee wascally wodents in my cwutches, and now we can finawy get mawweed!"
"Anyone have any idea what he just said?" Throttle had been straining his ears to eavesdrop on the phone conversation going on outside their enclosure, but it had been extremely difficult to decipher anything that came out of the fish's mouth.
"Umm... apparently we are some kind of dowry... Who in this galaxy would want to marry him anyway?" The very thought made Modo wrinkle his face in disgust.
"What's a dowry?"
"Honestly Vinnie... do you ever listen to anything Charley tells you?" The tan mouse looked down at his smaller cousin in disbelief. Must go in one ear and out the other... Unlike him and Modo, the white-furred biker was crouched down between them, as his chains had shot upward from the steel floor and promptly tethered him to it.
Brie had concluded his gushing garbling down the phone, and pranced over to his prisoners with unconcealed glee. Once there he paused by their trailer, looking suddenly very thoughtful.
"Hmm... how best to pwesent you to my deawest Gwendowyn... you will make a fine gift for the wedding, yes... but I want this to be special... hmm..."
Brie's lead henchman leant against the steel bars, leering up at the chained mice. He was hoping his exuberant executive would give him a few moments alone with them before he presented the three to his ludicrously large-bosomed love-interest.
"You low-rent Chicago boys aren't so tough now huh...? Just let me in there for five minutes Brie, i'll make sure they are all nice and presentable for your lady friend..." He flashed a wicked grin through his thick, ginger beard, and rubbed his rather large laser rifle menacingly with his gloved fingers. I owe them for the last time, just give me chance...
"Hmmm... no I think not... too bwuddy... Gwendowyn won't want to us to wuin her wedding dwess..." He rubbed his own podgy fingers over his hideous-looking mask. Taking them to her in a cage wasn't nearly going to be good enough for his special lady. It had to be something better... something spectacular... something dazzling yet... devious. And he knew exactly what that something would be.
Limburger had seriously been hoping it wouldn't come to this, and if there was any way at all he could get out of it he would be sure to give it a go. Short of actually killing the miniature monstrosity... he felt certain Lord Camembert would take exception to that (he had always favoured Brie), he was going to have to find some wriggling room and pronto. If he could just find a way for those mice to meet their makers before he was forced to see this calamitous charade through to the end...
"Damn that Brie, why is it that he can spend an afternoon in my city and defeat those wretched rodents, whilst I live here and have to put up with failing to even lay a finger on them day after day after day?"
There was one other option available to him to avoid a life of hellish holy matrimony. Brie was going to have to fail. If it came to it he would release those mice himself, and hopefully get to enjoy watching them take their revenge on his rival... and if he was really lucky they might just leave him and his tower alone for once. But i'm not that lucky, if I was I wouldn't even be considering this... again. There's only so many times a villain can be nice to his arch nemeses.
Limburger hadn't forgotten that day in the warehouse. Sometimes he really wondered what side of the line he actually stood on.
"Ah well, best get this over with." Picking up the phone to summon his demented doctor for dress duties, the purple-suited Plutarkian groaned inwardly. Karbunkle was going to moan at him for biting his nails again. Clearly the doctor didn't understand how stressful it was trying to pull off such a complex deception as this... and everybody knew that pre-wedding jitters were perfectly normal. Even if the wedding itself was anything but.
"Uh... bros... I'm not so sure we are going to have much of a good time at this wedding..."
From what he could see, Brie's idea for how to present them was going to be darn right unpleasant. The trailer had been driven into a large abandoned factory not far from the city limits, and it appeared the fish was using the place for practically all of his wedding preparations. And that included preparing the three of them.
Throttle was yanked out of the steel cage by the Plutarkian's number one goon, the long-haired, ginger-bearded thug who had once in a previous encounter almost knocked the tan-mouse unconscious with his gun. The Detroit-based doom rangers had no time for anyone from Chicago, especially not crime-fighting Martian bikers.
"I got one here for you Brie... you sure you don't want me to tenderise him for you first?"
The red-headed henchman pulled the struggling mouse towards his boss. "I'm sure once they're frozen she won't even notice the bruises..."
Brie was still fiddling with the controls to his latest piece of equipment... a large vat of translucent frothing liquid, with puffs of white vapour trickling downwards over the edge. This was the first time he had tinkered with cryogenics, and whilst he was sure the three mice would come out looking like the sparkling cake-decorations he was aiming for... he wasn't too confident they would survive the process.
"Not now number one... the wedding is tomowo and I want evewything weady... things have to be pufect...whatever my wuvwy Gwendowyn wants, my wuvwy Gwendowyn gets!"
"Fine... just don't come crying to me when she sees them running away from the reception because they've melted and you didn't let me incapacitate them first." Number one huffed. If Limburger's track record was anything to go by, he wouldn't be surprised if the mice escaped before the big day had even arrived.
Grabbing Throttle roughly by his tan-furred scruff, the doom ranger propelled him towards the giant tank of coolant. The mouse was bound by rope and unable to free himself, although he did initially make a valiant effort to swat the man across the face with his tail. Unfazed, the goon had simply grabbed the long appendage and used it to drag him from the trailer. He switched to the scruff hold because he knew that in some mammalian species this was meant to have a soporific, almost paralytic effect. And it had produced a remarkably similar result with the Martian mouse. Throttle went virtually limp in his grip, though his face still registered a look of shock that he had been so easily overcome. I'm toast... or maybe ice... oh crap...
His face was mere millimetres from the freezing fluid when Brie shouted. He was so close his sensitive whiskers had brushed the surface, freezing instantly as they did.
"Wait!" The Plutarkian's reservations about the scientific instrument's effectiveness had caused him to re-think his plans for the cake's rodent-shaped decorations. It would be much safer to find a method that definitely would not kill the mice. Gwendolyn might decide she wanted to keep them after their big day... and they would certainly be useful for jobs around the house. He was sure they would soon have plenty of offspring, so the three mice would make fitting babysitters for their spawn.
All three Martian bikers breathed a collective sigh of relief. None of them particularly wanted to be the first of their kind to experience such untested technology. And the possibility of them thawing out in several decades time to find the whole of Earth under Plutarkian rule... Charley would probably never forgive them.
"What you think he is going to do instead?" Vinnie whispered to his older friend chained above him, who shook his large grey head in response. As far as he was concerned, anything the fish came up with was not going to be for their benefit, and knowing beforehand what was in store for them wasn't any more comforting than being completely in the dark.
"I don't know bro... but at least he changed his mind before Throttle took a bath in that stuff."
Over by the vat the tan-mouse was thinking the same thing. His facial fur was frosted with a thin dusting of ice, and his whiskers were so brittle from the cold they had actually snapped clean off. It was a small blessing they were so numb that he hadn't been able to feel it.
"What is it you want with us you stinking scumbag?" he snarled, by now getting thoroughly fed up of being dragged around the place like a sack of potatoes.
He wasn't given an answer; Number one had found his chance to dish out some revenge of his own and was determined to take it before his boss could stop him. He grabbed the struggling mouse so hard by his scruff that he yelped loudly, and he was about to bury the heavy butt of his rifle into Throttle's belly when Brie interrupted. The doom ranger growled in frustration. This had better be good Brie... this had really better be good.
"Hurry up you malafact moron, i'm going to be late for my own wedding and you're worried about... whatever the hell you are doing down there!" Limburger couldn't believe he was in a hurry to go and tie the knot with his addle-brained adversary, nor could he fathom why it was this moment that Karbunkle had chosen to test his diminishing patience. How many pairs of shoes did that deranged doctor even own?
"I'm sorry your sumptuous stiltonness... i'm ready whenever you are." The mad scientist clambered into the purple limousine a few minutes later wearing what appeared to be a modified version of the Plutarkian's normal clothing... and he was also sporting a new pair of matching lilac suede, knee-high, kitten-heeled boots.
How the hell did he find a tailor good enough to do that I wonder... and at whose expense?
"Thank goodness I already sent that greasy gibboned goon of mine ahead to see if that narcissist i'm engaged to has indeed captured the biker mice." Secretly Limburger was relieved to get rid of Greasepit for a few hours... the dry cleaning bill for the oil spots on his clothing was surely going to bankrupt him, and with the gallingly high price tag this dress came at, it just wasn't worth the risk of ruining it. "If Brie really has those mice, I expect you to carry out my orders as already discussed, dear doctor. And have my lawyer on speed dial. If worse comes to the worse I can always go for an annulment."
It was a very peculiar feeling, though not altogether unpleasant. Once they had gotten over the trauma of what had to have been the single largest hypodermic needle they had ever seen coming their way, the resulting injection had pretty much wiped away any and all feeling in their well-formed bodies.
Number one had finally had his moment of glory when he stuck the 7 gauge needle directly into the bulging thigh muscles of each of the mice in turn, although only the two larger ones had had anything to say about it... Vinnie had passed clean out just at the sight of the syringe. After two short, sharp screams, all of the mice had fallen under the powerful effects of the paralytic, and then each had been mounted on the wire supports atop the giant wedding cake.
"Everything's ready Brie... let's go do this before they wake up."
The cake itself was five tiers of icing-encrusted fruit cake (appropriate considering the nature of the groom), although persuading any of the guests to consume it would be interesting to say the least. The fish-like alien had insisted on a generous helping of slime worms being added into the mix before baking. The idea to paralyse the mice struck him when he saw his top goon dangling one of them by the scruff.
With the cake and its furry decorations loaded up on the truck, Brie signalled his fleet of doom rangers to head on out to the chapel he had chosen for the ceremony. The reverend had been paid off generously for his discretion, and the reception was to be held back at the factory. There at least there would be plenty of ice for the guest's drinks.
"Ah here she is, my beautiful betwothed!" Brie was so eager to get to his bride-to-be he fell face first out of his truck, just missing a deep muddy puddle. "Gwendowyn my wuv, I knew you wud come to me."
Limburger groaned as he saw the wedding cake in the back of the truck. Drat it... why haven't they made mince meat of this madman yet – is it just me they always manage to escape from!
Putting on the best lady-like voice he could muster, the crossed-dressed Plutarkian allowed the groom to kiss his silk-gloved hand. "My dear little Brie... I see you have brought me those nasty, nasty mice... and oh my that cake just looks divine... how DID you manage it?"
"Don't you wowwy my wuvwy, they won't be bothewing you again...I thought you might wike to keep them aftewuds, they wiw make bwiwiant babysitters for ouw offspwing don't you think?"
"Our... offspwing... I mean offspring?" This alarming revelation was something he had not even considered before today. Karbunkle you dolt get a move on before this creepy cretin tries to get me into bed with him.
"Yes my wuv, we can have wots and wots of wittle ones, a huge nusewy, and those thwee wodents can wook afte them and we can make wots more!"
Clearly Brie was fed up of the lonely lifestyle a Plutarkian posted on Earth was expected to lead. Lots of children? If he even lays a finger on me I swear... Limburger was far too busy trying to destroy Chicago to expend any more energy indulging his insane competitor from the motor city. "Brie my darling... just give me a minute to freshen up won't you... I will follow you right in I promise."
From their vantage point on the cake top the three immobilised mice were watching the bizarre drama playing out below them. Although the drug had completely impaired their ability to move (they were fortunate it still allowed them to breathe) they were not in fact unconscious, but very much aware of what was going on around them. And even from where they were mounted, they could see that the woman in the wedding dress for whom they had been captured was not a woman at all. They recognised that rank whiff of mouldy cheese and unwashed socks the moment it had reached their little black noses. Limburger!
If they had been able to move they probably would have cried laughing. Limburger in a dress. Limburger getting married? To Brie? No way. Now they really had seen everything.
Their ears were also functioning perfectly well, and each pair of large, furry lobes detected a shuffling in the container holding the cake.
"Hold still you ridiculous rodents." Karbunkle clearly hadn't realised the three mice could do little else. The skulking scientist was executing the orders given to him by his boss before they had left the tower. If he has the mice and they don't look like they are going to escape any time soon... go and give them a hand will you. I don't want to spend longer than I have to in this b***** white dress!
What Karbunkle hadn't prepared for was the mice being completely unable to escape, even after he had cut them from their supports. Oh dear... now what?
Though slight of build and feeble-framed, the skinny scientist was deceptively strong. As he had no other option available he had to resort to carrying the mice off the cake himself, dumping each of them in the back seat of the limousine (although he decided it would be fun to shove one of them in the trunk... and Vinnie was the only one who would easily fit). Having no idea what Brie had drugged them with, he decided it would also be a good idea to take further precautions. Several minutes and numerous swear words later, each felt-furred body was restrained with the only things available in the plush vehicle. Karbunkle had found a wad of extra-strong cable ties stored in the glove box (for emergencies like this apparently). With their wrists and ankles each tied together, none of the three mice looked likely to be able to free themselves even if the paralytic did wear off. Especially as poor Modo's arm cannon was cable-tied as well.
"I've done it your cherished cheesiness..." the doctor breathed exhaustedly into his radio.
"Excellent... and not a moment too soon..." whispered Limburger down his concealed microphone just as the reverend was reciting the vows. That was too close... how difficult can it be to get those vile voles to escape?
The white-clad 'woman' turned to her prospective partner on the altar, not caring at all that he was about to brutally break the groom's heart. "I'm sorry Brie, it's over... I can't love a man who can't even give me what I want."
"But... but Gwendowyn... wait! I don't understand!"
"The cake, Brie, my cake... those decorative mice.. they've gone. You've ruined my day, you've ruined my life, I HATE you, don't ever contact me again!" And with all the drama of a jilted spouse, Limburger stormed out of the chapel leaving the bewildered Napoleon Brie sobbing inconsolably into the priest's tunic.
The weird week had ended quite fantastically for the now-single Plutarkian. Not only had he over-indulged on sickly slime worm-centred chocolates, but he had also successfully shook off that lecherous loony and then captured the biker mice for himself after all. The unknown paralytic agent administered whilst in Brie's care had taken several hours to wear off, by which time Limburger had ensured the mice had been made quite 'comfortable' in his tower's laboratory. Karbunkle had been simply delighted to have a second chance to work on the three Martian rebels.
Not wanting to waste a moment of their vulnerable state, the doctor had had them strapped down onto a row of cold-metal examination tables and hurriedly began drawing off as much of their blood as he could safely get away with. With a drug powerful enough to actually knock the sturdy-bodied mice out, who was he to pass up the opportunity to try and find the mystery chemical residing in their helpless bodies?
By the time the paralysis had worn off, none of the furry freedom fighters had the energy to even try and escape. They spent the following few hours enduring being stuck repeatedly with a varied assortment of needles, as Karbunkle tested each and every batch of his reverse-engineered drugs on them. He mistakenly thought he had succeeded on the first try... but quickly realised Vinnie had only feinted.
Alas the doctor's fortunes were short lived. Just as he thought he had managed to reproduce the stupefying properties into a useable potion, the doors to the basement laboratory had burst open, revealing three revving motorcycles and one very angry female rider. The look on her face would have made Medusa jealous, and so Karbunkle decided to call it a day whilst he still could. Charley and the bikes made light work of the table's restraints, and soon three dazed mice were heading home to the glorious background melody of crumbling high-rise concrete. It turned out that Brie had been a little more than upset at being left at the altar. Gwendolyn's uncle evidently forgot that scorned psychopaths don't need an excuse for retribution.