Steve gritted his teeth, pen to paper, struggling to overcome his writer's block. Being a junior reporter at the Global Weekly was a tough job, and being assigned a story on wearing underwear when he'd gone commando since his mid-teens made it tougher. How was he supposed to know what the simpletons out there were going through? Not to mention that no one was interested in answering his questions on the subject. Whenever he turned the conversation to undergarments of all kinds and pulled out his audio recorder, people seemed to clam up.
"Damn you, Bufford," Steve mumbled silently, hand shaking with rage. When he'd asked for a more interesting story than the "Zombie Sighting Report," he didn't expect this. He'd known Bufford had it in for him from the day he hired him. He knew it from the big cheese's first words after he accepted the job.
"I don't like you, Steve," Bufford had said. "Knew it the second I saw you. Your strong core muscles and less than muscular limbs make me uncomfortable. But I'll be damned if the Global Weekly doesn't need you. Hell, I need you." He clapped Steve on the shoulder, looking into his eyes with a seething hatred. "Besides, you were the only applicant who showed up."
It was shortly after that that Steve had been given his first story, the weekly "Zombie Sighting Report." It was a short column the Weekly had been pressured into running by the local yokels who were terrified after watching Shaun of the Dead. Occasionally, it would seem like the outbreak(and the career-making story) was just around the corner, but no. It always turned out to be a drunk walking home from the Waffle House, or teens on bath salts.
Steve put down his pen and leaned back, stretching his limbs with a big yawn. He pulled the cord on his desk lamp, shutting it off. It was no use. No matter how he tried, he couldn't crack the nut that was underwear without giving in and wearing some. He opened the door leading from his office into the living room of his tiny 2 bedroom apartment. Seeing the light was on in the kitchen, he walked over and leaned on the doorframe. Once there, he saw that his gerbil, Nibbles, and his girlfriend, Dolly, hard at work over something on the stove. He just smiled at them.
"You two better not be gettin' up to anything raunchy while I'm working," Steve chuckled, laughing at the absurdity of it. Nibbles turned his head, a snarky look crossing his face.
"And if we are? What are you gonna do about it? Give it up, Plank. The dame is mine. You never had a chance." Steve stiffened. Drawing a pocket knife, he flicked it open, grabbed the gerbil, and pinned him against the wall, knife at his throat. His eyes burned with the intensity of a Canadian curling champion, while Nibbles' eyes were calm, like an elderly woman easing herself into a hot bath. Before Steve could react, Nibbles had kicked the hand holding the knife, knocking the blade up into the ceiling, and dropped to the floor, whipping out his gun. Holding it to Steve's ankle, he looked up into Dolly's terrified eyes before lowering his weapon as he and Steve broke out in laughter.
"Dolly, you fall for our old 'I love her, no I do!' routine every time! Almost takes the fun out of it," Steve wheezed in between bouts of laughter. He reached down and picked up Nibbles, who'd put his gun away. "Maybe we should actually kill each other next time, might make things a little less routine!"
"Well I never know when y'all're gonna finally have it out over me. Ever since our threesome, you two fight harder than a catfish tryna escape my daddy's fishin' line!" Dolly exclaimed. "Y'all and I have a special connection, and I don't wanna lose that. Steve, y'all're the best thing that's ever happened to me, outside of my musical career and philanthropy. Nibbles, you and I have a friendship deeper than a gopher hole, and I don't wanna lose that!"
Pulling the knife from the ceiling and helping Nibbles up onto his shoulder, Steve looked at Dolly affectionately. "Babe, you and I are a rock. Nothing will ever change us, unless you count the slow and gradual process of erosion. Nibbles and I are the closest of friends, you don't have to worry about anything tearing us apart," Steve smiled reassuringly before clapping his hands together. "I need to go out. It's for a story. Would either of you like to come?"
Dolly shook her head. "You know how much I love to be the Ned Nickerson to your Nancy Drew, but tonight I'm a'fixin' something special for dinner. You and Nibbles go ahead, it'll be ready by the time you get back." Steve looked at Nibbles, eyes curious. "And don't you go askin' Nibbles what it is neither! I've sworn him to secrecy!"
A/N: I DO NOT SHARE STEVE PLANK'S VIEWS ON CHALLENGING GERBILS TO ARMED COMBAT
Steve and Nibbles donned their coats, Nibbles also putting on his fedora. When Steve looked at him, he said "It looks like rain." Steve just shrugged. He wasn't afraid of any rain, and besides, the hat made Nibbles look like an incel loser. Knowing that his gerbil best friend was still packin' heat, he didn't bother stating this part out loud. Calling a short goodbye to Dolly, the duo left the apartment.
"So what's this story you're working on? Needing to investigate another zombie sighting outside the Waffle House?" Nibbles chuckled at his own joke. Steve remained silent, his eyes set dead ahead. He was in no mood for Nibbles' usual teasing tonight. As Nibbles watched him, his face fell. "Steve? Is it that serious? Should I be worried about where we're going?"
Steve just sighed. "No. It's just that this story is making me have to do something I swore I would never do again. Damn that coreless son of a bitch Bufford and his insistence on humiliating me! One of these days, I'll be the Editor in Chief, and he'll have moved on to another job, or more likely, retire, because he's several years older than me, and his health is failing."
Nibbles had heard Steve talk about Bufford before, and knew the guy was bad news, and also asthmatic, which caused him problems since the elevators at work were broken and he was out of shape. Even so, he still gave Steve all kinds of trouble, often relegating him to go nowhere stories and giving him little chance to prove that he had what it took to plank higher than anyone had ever planked before. Pulling his keys out of his pocket, he jingled them in Steve's ear. "I'll drive, you just tell me where to go."
"Downtown. We need to find a thrift store."
Nibbles hopped down off of Steve's shoulder, pressing the button on his key fob that opened the door of his Ferarri Portofino. Taking a running leap, he landed on the seat, and began to climb up the pile of dictionaries he had duct taped to the calfskin interior so he could operate the vehicle. Grabbing his limb extenders, he fitted the key into the ignition, and turned it as Steve climbed into the passenger seat. After pulling carefully out of his parking space, Nibbles floored the accelerator, peeling out before the duo rocketed out of the parking garage in what could only be considered top of the line Italian engineering.
"So what do we need a thrift store for, Steve? What aren't you telling me?" Nibbles pestered Steve with questions as he drove. Nibbles was an excellent driver, and had been a world class F1 racer before… the accident. He fluidly changed gear, giving Steve the ol' side-eye. Finally Steve mumbled something in reply.
"What was that? I didn't hear you," Nibbles responded.
"Bufford gave me a story about wearing underwear, and since no one will talk about the experience, I'm having to break the promise I made when I was 16!" Steve yelled at Nibbles, who was so aghast at what had been said that he nearly hit an elderly woman crossing the street.
"Steve, you can't do this. No one wears underwear anymore. Not if they've got an ounce of class!"
"If I don't, Bufford will fire me! I know he will!" Steve thought back to earlier in the week.
"Have this on my desk by Friday, or you're fired," Bufford had said.
"Steve, you've got a stronger core than anyone I've ever known. You're stronger than this. Don't give in to Bufford's pressure, he can't fire you, you're the best damned journalist at that craphole of a newspaper!" Nibbles was getting worked up! Steve appreciated his friend's reassurances. Thinking back on a conversation he'd had with Bufford on Wednesday, though, didn't convince him of what Nibbles said so emphatically.
"Just so you know, I'm perfectly able to fire you. I don't care if you are the best damn journalist at this craphole of a newspaper."
Steve's daydreaming was interrupted when Nibbles slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a dead stop. A bunch of shadowy figures in deep purple robes were lined up across the street, blocking the path. Hoods were pulled down over their faces, shadows obscuring all features, even in the mighty beams of Nibbles' headlamps. Upgraded from the standard OEMs to LEDs, they made drivers going the opposite way quake in fear. Tied around the middle of their robes were sashes, and hanging from their sashes appeared to be some beaded tassels, finishing in a hand sized ornately designed C.
Nibbles rolled down his window, and yelled out "Hey! Get off the road! I'm drivin' here!" Chuckling was heard from the robed figures. They began to walk slowly toward the car, reaching their hands out as if grasping for something. This made Steve feel a little uncomfortable.
"Hey, Nibbles, c'mon man, it's not worth it, let's just go a different way."
"What?! Are you a Plank or aren't ya? These coreless sons of bitches don't know who they're messing with!"
"I don't need this right now. Just turn around and let's go."
"I ain't doin' nothin, dig? We're gonna end this right here, right now," Nibbles yelled, drawing his gun and slamming on the accelerator. With reflexes that would make even Mario Andretti gaze in awe, Nibbles plowed through the robed freaks in front of him, sending them running for the curb. He stuck his gun out the window firing a few shots into the air before he put the pedal to the metal. Sticking his piece back into his shoulder holster, he looked at Steve. "What the hell happened to you, man? You used to rock, and now you're a coward."
"Better than being a rodent with a drinking problem, a Tokarev Type 54, and a Ferrari that I use as compensation for the percepted inadequacy of my phallus."
Nibbles chuckled, "You're a bastard, you know that?"
"Right back at ya, buddy."
A/N, I DO NOT SHARE STEVE PLANK'S VIEWS ON VEHICLES AND FIREARMS AS A PENILE COMPENSATION TOOL
Bufford Picklefeather stood in his office in the C.H.A.I.R. Headquarters. The plans were going along perfectly. That meddlesome Steve Plank had been relegated to doing a story that would ruin his career. His minions were around the world sanitizing the F.E.E.T., or the Fools Earning Extreme Termination. As the chair of C.H.A.I.R., he was responsible for sanitizing the world and ridding it of all the filth and dregs of society. What would be left would be pure.
His monitor pinged behind him, and he heard a gravelly voice emanating from the figure displayed upon it. Turning, he saw the visage of his Master.
"How goes our plans, my son?"
"Well."
"Good. Are we ready for phase 1?"
"Yes, Master."
"And that meddlesome Steve Plank?"
"He will be out of a job before the week is out."
"Good. Sit on it, my son."
"Sit on it, Master."
I do not own Steve Plank. He is a character from the Left Behind franchise. Dolly Parton is a real person. All resemblances to peoples living or dead is completely accidental, except for one of you. You know who you are. Yes, you, Ricardo.