This is Sacagawea-HHH. Here, the Mormon Church is a superpower. And depending on the day and age, they're in a personal union with the Shiites.
It's against this website's rules to use real, still-alive people as characters. Hence, in this story, the roles of the Robertson family will be filled by characters from Marvel Comics, whose names are either "Robert," "Roberts," "Roberta," or one or any of that name's many variants.
Ah, Alaska... Up here, it's dark for more than nine months out of the year. Winters are especially dark. And it's always colder than any winter your southern kin would recall...if they're even the recalling type. (And personally, I'd know what that's like, if they weren't.)
The Last Frontier is half-taiga. It's also the only state in Deseret where caribou live. But of course, father west, they're called reindeer. (Farther East, if you're Carolinian.) Although yes, the East does apply out here, too; Alaska, after all, is the northernmost, easternmost, and westernmost point in Deseret. (The "easternmost" thing has to do with the International Date Line, if that confuses you.)
The Rockies also dead-end in Alaska...although it's hardly an abrupt stop. Or rather, it depends on where you are. If you're in Nome or Utqiagvik, it is abrupt. But as for the center of the state...odds are, it orbits a mountain...even if it doesn't revere it. The Christians here, after all, take it VERY personally when anything, no matter how majestic, is used to usurp their precious Jehovah.
Tonight, the mutant Bobby Drake goes on a cryokinetic spree. (That's "ice-controlling," in case you didn't make good grades in vocabulary.) Tonight, he's the ice-monger. He's usually the Iceman. And of late, he's been one of Kitty Pryde's/Red Queen's Marauders.
He has a job at Duck Commander...but he doesn't get very many hours. The reason being is because he's gay...and the Robertson family doesn't really stand for that. He's in some company, though; the Robertsons don't give Rob Silverman enough hours, either.
Shit; the Robertsons probably harbor the same opinion of Bobby that most of the Carringtons harbor for Steven, their gay son, on the old Dynasty TV show...
Silverman is here, in Alaska. He keeps the lodge warm, while Bobby goes on his icing spree, up in the highlands. Rob is the ex-boyfriend of Jean-Paul Duchamp...a great warrior known as Frenchie. He was also a good friend of Marc Spector, the Moon Knight...until recently. It seems as though Spector doesn't approve of Rob's love with Duchamp. But then, as far as Rob and Bobby are both concerned, Spector and the Robertsons should have a beer sometime. Hell, they should have a whole tavern. Maybe then, they'll ALL be "happy happy happy."
For this story, neither Bobby nor Rob have beards. They're both gay; hence, they'll take more after the "Robertas" and the "Barbaras" in this story. And there WILL be Barbaras... Hell, there's probably going to be two Barbaras for every Roberta... It's almost as if "Barbara's" the new "Roberta," nowadays...
Bobby doesn't build anything specific. It turns out that he's getting over a heartbreak, himself. And as you might expect, Rob is his rebound lover. And so far, he's proven himself very reliable. Almost TOO reliable, in fact...
Up here is where the mountain goats, Dahl sheep, and cougars dwell. Or rather, that's how things often are when a mutant isn't on a heartbroken rampage. Otherwise, Alpha Flight barely ventures into Alaska, while protecting the Canadian Provinces. Alaska is no official enemy of the Canadian Provinces...but you'd be surprised what ridiculous excuses both sides can come up with, to have rivalries over... But at least they don't have leaf-blower wars, like they do on the border with North Dakota. But then, they virtually can't, up here. Up here, most of the trees are softwoods; they don't shed their leaves.
Up here, it takes a very long time for Bobby to shed his excess emotion. He still can't believe he has this much to shed in the first place. But at least the Hulk, and all of his products, make men feel more secure about having big emotions. Hell, from what Bobby's heard, one of the Hulk's many proteges is a gay man, himself. His name is Theodore Altman. If Bobby wasn't so worried about child molestation charges, he'd consider courting Teddy. It's just as well that he doesn't, though. From what he's heard, Hulkling and Wiccan are VERY much in love, these days.
Bobby rides one of his own icy ramps down the mountain slopes. Icemaking is fun...but he needs a breather. He just...hopes he can remember his way back to the lodge. But it's in the taiga; that much he remembers.
Sadly for him, the path through the taiga is no short road. Plus, parts of the path are infested with caribou, moose, grizzlies, and wolves. He's tired; he might not stand as big of a chance against the grizzlies, as he would if he were at full-strength...or even if this were daytime. Again, Bobby will be waiting a long time for daytime. Days in Alaska do get bright at this time of year; they just don't get started until after 0900, as the clocks at Ft. Wainwright tick.
At this, Bobby feels bad for the warriors at Ft. Wainwright who have to answer reveille every morning...if not every dawn. He feels even worse for reveille's bugler. The sun doesn't always shine, when that bugle has to be blown. But then, Bobby's probably over-assuming things, when he assumes that Uncle Sam's garrison at Ft. Wainwright even DOES reveille...
Even if they did to reveille, though, Bobby wouldn't hear it. He's WAY too far from Ft. Wainwright for that. It's just as well; the garrison there would most likely hate him for being gay. And to think there's still a Duck Commander facility nearby, even if Ft. Wainwright isn't...
Up the path, Bobby sneezes a few times. This is spooky; Bobby didn't know he could even get colds. OTOH, he's tired. Hence, when a mutant is tired, they start to show more human weaknesses than they usually do. Even so, Bobby is usually more likely to get heatstroke and sunburn, than he is to catch colds. But at least he's not an albino, like Caliban...or even a Morlock, like Caliban.
The taiga path dead-ends, alas...before Bobby realizing that what he's following is not the path. Shit; he's lost. And he's too tired to forge his way back home, with ice. Plus, he'd hate to destroy a good healthy chunk of taiga...even of Alaska does have more than it wants.
But of course, Bobby's also aware that if not for the taiga, humanity wouldn't have so much clean air to breathe. He'd sure hate to take THAT away from humanity...even if he's still very-much hated, as a mutant, by the bulging non-mutant part of the human population...
He can't get back to the lodge in a hurry...so, in desperation, he crashes between the trees. He prays against prayer that the bears and wolves don't find him like this. If they ate him, they'd wake up, next night, MUCH stronger than before. And that's just assuming that bears and wolves can process mutant meat... Pyro, at least, would sure hate to think so. God, Bobby hates Pyro... But then, who can blame him?
For much of the night, Bobby shivers. He should. It's cold outside tonight...as it is almost every night up here.
Nonetheless, he's so distracted by his heartbreak, he doesn't hear the hoofbeats approach...or stop on either side of him. Bobby's not sure how...but he falls asleep. And he feels warmer out here than he ever has in bed, at the lodge...or even in bed at the X-Mansion...which, of course, has always been more like an actual home to him than the Drake residence ever has.
Now, it's after 0600. It's still dark, of course. The sun won't likely show itself until after 1000.
Bobby's bedding is so comfy. GOD, it's so comfy. He's had threesomes at the X-Mansion before, but... This sure takes the cakes. And Bobby means that as a compliment. He just...wishes he could count on hotcakes for breakfast, doggone it. If he gets through this, he might never have another icy mood swing so far from home again.
Somewhere in the taiga, two cow caribou lie next to one another. They'd face away from each other, if they weren't parked right next to one another. They're not too far from their herd. Even so, they're both lesbians. Sometimes, they have to get away from all of the annoying bull caribou in rut. For some reason, they keep mistaking these two cows for straight cows.
If things go expectedly, these two cow caribou might very well be the only lesbians who appear in this story.
These two lesbian lovers have a guest, sleeping between them. Right now, he's barely visible. But then, he's so comfy in his new bed right now, he's virtually masturbating. He's sure having a stiffy. Good thing his bedmates are just caribou; they wouldn't know a human stiffy, or even human rut, if they slept right next to it. And right now, that's very obvious; because it's literally between them right now.
"O Kitty," a male voice mutters, from between them. "Kitty, you know how much I appreciate your human charm, but... I have a confession to make. I... I don't really love you. Don't worry; I don't love Anna, either. The truth is, I can't love any woman. And it's not your fault; you can't help it. I can't, either. It's just... It's just part of how mutantity made us."
Elsewhere in the taiga, the caribous' herd starts doing a "roll call." They bugle transponder signals to one another, giving the herd a chance to reunite.
"The truth is, Kitty," the man's voice mutters. "The truth is, that I... I think I might be having an affair...with one of our classmates. Yeah. Yeah, you might know him. His name, I think... Yeah, I think his name is... Benji. Yeah, Benji Deeds, I think. Yeah. Yeah, I know! Look, I'm sorry, I hated to break it to you this way, but..."
Right on cue, one of the two she-caribou bugles.
Now, Bobby wakes. He's sandwiched between two huge fur-covered masses. "O shit," Bobby mutters. "What the fuck... Where am I?!"
Both caribou cows stand, and start bugling. Meanwhile, Bobby struggles between them. He...can't seem to get free. The two cows can't seem to leave one another's side.
"O shit," Bobby stammers, "O shit! Rob! Rob, where are you?! Rob, get these two hideous creatures away from me! Rob! Logan! Leo! Walter! Jimmy! Anybody! Someone get these infernal monsters away from me! They smell like bog! I'm going crazy! And it might already be bad enough that I'm gay! HELP!"
The two lesbian cows keep bugling, hurting poor Bobby's ears. It's no wonder why they can't separate; it seems that Bobby has welded them together, in his sleep...with ice.
Not to worry, though; Bobby will find his way out of this. It'll just take him a while.
Hours later, Bobby sits in the lodge, petrified. He's got a cup of hot cocoa in his hands. It's hot. His hands should be burning. And they are. Bobby's just too catatonic to feel it.
The lodge's maids have unpacked the Christmas decor...as they've been ordered to, by the Robertsons themselves. The Robertsons are Evangelical Christians; hence, they wouldn't miss Christ's birthday for the world.
For that reason, there are many stuffed-and-mounted reindeer in this lodge. TOO many, if you were to ever ask some of the lodge's female patrons. There are reindeer cows that've been stuffed and mounted...as there are also calves. The cows, though, Bobby no longer minds so much; hence, he now feels safer in the company of the Robertsons...as much as they still hate him for being gay.
Funny; you'd think if a woman was conservative, she'd be less compelled to express disgusted emotions at the idea of her husband's less-refined habits. I mean, let's face it; one of the Robertsons' wives wrote a cookbook, of all things! You'd think that if she could get that down-and-dirty with a duck, she could do ten times as worse for a slain caribou. Alas, it's too bad that caribou aren't native to Louisiana.
Rob paces back and forth, before him. He still can't believe what he's heard from Bobby.
"So... A pair of reindeer...molested you?"
Bobby nods.
"You were alone in the woods. You'd lost your way. You were taking a nap. You were too tired to defend yourself, let alone blow a whistle. And these two caribou cows just...came out of nowhere, and...raped you?"
Bobby nods again.
"Good God," Rob shakes his head. "You'll be lucky if the Robertsons don't fire you."
"Just," Bobby stammers, "please don't tell anyone. It's just...so embarrassing." He guzzles some hot cocoa.
Rob slightly nods. "I can do better than that, actually." With that, he marches upstairs, leaving Bobby be.
Moments pass before Bobby realizes what's happened. He blinks. "Wait... What? Rob! Rob, what are you doing?!"
This is West Monroe, Louisiana. It's where the HQ of Duck Commander is.
In the streets, the flag of Deseret flies. Just beneath it, the flag of Louisiana does.
Before Duck Commander became a big-leagues company, there was no Mormon temple in West Monroe. Now there is...and it might actually be more financially endowed than the one in Baton Rouge, Jackson, and Little Rock.
California gulls fly everywhere, infesting the city. Some of them deliver post to both Mormon and non-Mormon patrons. In the bayous, the Deseret Postal Service maintains gulleries; marine roosts for entire flocks of California gulls. This is where the gulls go whenever the Postal Service has no need for them.
In the CEO's office, the phone rings. It goes to answering machine. The Robertson family's voice answers...concluding their OGM with their own signature, "HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY" motto.
Naturally, the CEO's office has been decorated for the holiday season. Many of the Christmas ornaments, on the Christmas trees, have been substituted for ones improvised from Duck Commander duck calls. (You can even blow into some of them, as if they were actual duck calls; but of course, most people would find this more convenient if they took one of these ornaments off the tree, first.) Some of the other ornaments are small groups of duck feathers, which hang from the tree via a short piece of golden twine. All of these such feathers are from duck cocks; naturally, the feathers of duck hens are missable.
This is a strange fact about duck culture. In humanity, the women wear the fashion, and attract men with it. With ducks, it's just the opposite; the duck cocks ARE the fashion. They're magnificently and brightly-colored, whereas the females are all-brown. They're like little brown jobs...only they're bigger than a sparrow.
In lieu of stars, the trees are topped with duck-winged angel dolls. Each of the Christmas lights is shaped like a Duck Commander duck call. Unlike the ornaments, of course, these CAN'T be blown into. Not only that, but the Robertsons are pretty sure that West Monroe's fire code forbids it.
At least in this facility, the stuffed-and-mounted ducks are more common than the caribou... Although yes, there is at least one stuffed-and-mounted bull caribou in this tower's lobby. (He wasn't gay, in life. As a matter of fact, he was in the middle of dry-humping a cow, right before a smoking .280-caliber rifle ended his life.)
"Hello?" It's Rob's voice, on the answering machine. "Mr. Robertson? This is Rob Silverman. I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but... Some reindeer have molested Bobby Drake. I know it sounds crazy, but... I know how much you probably hate me and Bobby for being gay, but... I think he really needs help right now."
And so, with that phone call...the Hunt for Rudolph the Christmas Dinner begins.