No challenge. Disclaimer: Power Rangers property of Disney; making no profit off of this; etc., etc.
Ethan was laughing so hard that breath seemed impossible. "What bet..." he wheezed, "did you lose...to wear that...stupid thing?"
If looks could kill, Ethan would be dead, buried, resurrected in a weird pagan ceremony, and then beheaded (Conner was pretty sure that was the only way you could kill a zombie) and left to rot. "Drop it now, or I'll drop you."
Ethan reached up a hand to stroke the pink fur on the rabbit ears Conner was wearing, but the Red Ranger slapped his hand away before he got the chance. Ethan was overcome with another bout of giggles.
"You are a horrible person," Conner informed him sourly.
Ethan only made a quacking sort of sound in reply. Conner plotted his best friend's imminent death in his mind, and was just getting to the dismemberment when the cause of his agony waltzed into the Cyberspace like nothing was wrong.
"Happy Halloween, guys," Kira said cheerfully, sitting down in her usual seat. "Conner, you look different. Did you get a haircut?"
Ethan almost choked on his smoothie. Conner wondered how much two coffins would cost. "Ha ha."
"Oh, cheer up, Conner. It's just one night out of the year."
"What I don't get is your obsessive need to dress me up in silly hats every time I lose a bet. The sombrero, the fez, the pith helmet, the jester's cap, the 'Kiss Me - I'm Irish' hat..."
"You liked that one."
"It's just weird, is all."
"You know what's weird," said Ethan. Conner sighed dramatically and started to rev up the death glare again, but it went unnoticed. "It's weird how despite constantly losing, and constantly being humiliated, he keeps agreeing to these stupid bets."
"Conner," Kira offered helpfully, "is not very smart."
Conner tried to think of a happy place to go to. A place where he could drive all day, listening to good tunes, preferably with a half-naked harem sprawled out in his backseat. That should be okay. Maybe they'd go to the Playboy mansion. And have a barbeque. Yeah, it was beginning to sound pretty good.
"So what did he lose this time?" asked Ethan, intent on stretching Conner's misery to its very bounds.
"Well, he bet me that he could go three days without saying 'dude.'"
The stare Ethan now fixed on Conner was akin to the look he'd had on his face when he discovered he couldn't use his superpowers to pass gym. "Did you get dropped on your head or something as a kid, Conner? For you, 'dude' is like air. You need it to live. I think you said it six times since I sat down."
"I know, right?" said Kira blithely, and Conner concentrated on how many times he could clench and unclench his fingers into a fist before developing a cramp. The number had increased since the last time he performed this semi-zen exercise. Which, he realized, was the last time he had lost a bet to Kira. "I even was generous enough so that he couldn't say 'dude' in my presence. That was more selfish than anything else, though."
"You mean you didn't want to tail him for three days and sleep on his bedroom floor?" said Ethan. "You know, his mom's a pretty decent cook. And I'm pretty sure she would have appreciated the intervention."
"You know, guys," said Conner, "I'm sitting right here."
"Sure you are, Peter Cottontail," said Ethan dismissively. "So when did the deal-breaking D-word take place, if not in his humble abode?" The question was, of course, directed at Kira. It was clear Ethan could care less what Conner said, only what Conner did, as retold by the devil reincarnated in Kira.
"English class yesterday afternoon. When he said," here, Kira dropped her voice to a growly bass that sounded absolutely nothing like him, "'Dude, Mrs. Alemino, I don't get what's up with this Mr. Rochester dude.'"
Ethan guffawed, slamming his fist against the table so hard that an orange jostled loose from the fruit bowl on the counter and rolled to the floor.
"You're paying for that," Hayley's voice called out from the beyond. The woman had superpowers of her own.
Stupid Jane Eyre, Conner thought mutinously. That book had gotten him into more situations this week than he would have ever imagined possible.
"That does it," rasped Ethan, "I'm transferring into your guys' English class."
"Dude, Jane Eyre is, like, half Mr. Rochester's age," Conner defended himself. "It's freaking creepy." He realized he was doing nothing to help his case when his friends started cracking up again.
Hayley finally emerged from the back room, not even bothering to look up from the sheaf of papers in hand as she greeted the group. "Nice ears, Conner. Lose another bet?"