Mystique and Magneto's Great Culinary Caper
By Persephone
AN: First of all, thanks to Goldylokz, Alison Sky, Red Witch, Eileen, DragonBlond, and todd fan. Reviews make me a happy kitten. I'm glad no one was put off by my bringing my OC Charlie into the story. He doesn't make an appearance in this chapter, alas, but he does make quite the impression on Magneto in the next one :) Before you read this chapter, I should mention that I know absolutely nothing about fine fabrics. I just kind of made it up as I went along. So, without any further ado...
Chapter Three
Of Linen and Gumbo
Magneto's Lair: 5:30
After the news of the dinner had been broken, and after the Rascals fled to their respective hiding places, Magneto stalked back and forth in his large hall. This hall was used for strategic planning, group meetings, and he also had a nifty throne in the corner that he sat on when no one else was in here. He kept it covered with a blue plastic tarp the rest of the time.
This dinner needed to go well. That was all there was to it. He'd noticed a lack of respect for the Cause, as well as for his superiority, amongst the minions lately, and he hoped that by bringing them all together, and giving the special speech he had written, they might be more prepared to go along with his plans. He needed to show the young ones that he thought they were real people, not just kids, so that when they did eventually become powerful, influential mutants rather than the hormonal, insecure teenagers they were today, they would still be willing to follow him.
He also had a plan for winning over Wanda using cookie dough ice cream.
He continued to pace, back and forth across the room, before giving in to temptation, and sitting in his throne. It was metal, like everything else in the large hall. Magneto had considered upholstering the bare metal furniture. He had even taken a trip to the fabric store.
Wilma's Cloth was the name of the particular establishment he had visited. He had been there a few times before to pick out material for his costume and his cape, which he was proud to say he had sewn all by himself. This time, just like the last times, the woman at the counter had immediately sensed his overwhelmed state almost as soon as he got in the door.
"Hello, dear, I'm Gertrude." The tiny woman had introduced herself. She was all of five feet tall, and could not have weighed ninety pounds even if she wore chain mail. She looked about four hundred, and was very wrinkled. Her thin white hair was cut short, and she had a purple streak in it just behind her left ear. "Hi, Gertrude. I am Erik." It didn't hurt to be polite to your elders. He stared at the purple streak for another minute. It matched her jumpsuit.
Gertrude, through the virtues of observation, and the fact that she wasn't yet blind, noticed that Erik was staring at her hair. She briefly wondered why, then remembered with a start the purple streak.
"My granddaughter got a hold of my wig with a marker." Gertrude said pointedly, wishing that somebody would just ask about the purple, rather than stare at her like she was a freak.
"Oh." Erik seemed disappointed with this explanation.
"Can I help you in some way?" Gertrude asked pointedly, motioning around the fabric store. Row upon row of colored cloth in every shade, texture, and pattern were lined up in a seemingly mismatched fashion, but Gertrude knew where everything was. She'd been working here since 1954, after all, before most of these newfangled fabrics, like polyester and nylon, and that horrid spandex, had even been invented.
"I need to upholster my furniture." Erik answered, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the hundreds of possibilities.
"I see." Gertrude replied. Why did she always end up with the difficult ones? "What type of fabric were you considering?"
Erik looked stumped. "Uh..."
Gertrude sighed. "Cheap or expensive?" Okay, that might not have been as delicately worded as she might have done, but it worked. She worked for commission, too, after all.
"Expensive."
She led him to the finer fabrics in the store. She showed him several options, and many different colors and designs, but the man seemed indecisive.
"I don't know..." He'd said, holding a bolt of fine beige cashmere. It doesn't have much...class."
Gertrude managed to not scream. What in the world had more class than beige cashmere? She showed him the finest linen the store possessed, and then moved on to the Egyptian cotton. Still no approval from the man. She was looking through the back room for some new swatches of imported Chinese silk when she hear a cry. "Eureka!"
She ran back out into the outer shop to see what had finally caught the man's eye as "classy." She stared in shock.
Erik had chosen a bolt of shiny, metallic silver polyester.
Gertrude felt like banging her head against the wall.
"Are you quite sure that... that is what you want?" She finally ventures, still aghast that he had turned down the finest cloth in the store for a bolt of $3.99 a yard silver material.
"Quite. I also believe that I will take some of this." Erik replied, pulling another bolt of fabric from the rack.
Gertrude stared. It was purple.
Not just a nice, lilac purple. Not even a rich plum color. This shade of purple was that alarming shade of Barbie-purple that practically glowed in the dark. The only thing that the purple cloth had over the silver was the fact that it was a nice cotton blend, rather than the shimmering metallic silver.
Gertrude also noticed that this cloth was also on the sale rack. A dollar a yard. How was it that the ones willing to pay a lot still bought out of the bargain bin? Was it some sort of cruel joke? She was old, darn it! She deserved to get paid well, and this little demented tightwad was determined to keep her in the poor house.
She glared up at the man. She was a mother of four, grandmother of seven. She knew how to glare. Erik quailed under her scrutiny, and shifted uncomfortably.
"Um... What do you think?" He asked cautiously.
"I," Gertrude began, "Think that I just spent the last half hour looking at the most expensive materials in the store. I think that you decided that you wanted classy furniture. I think that you had best get back over there, pick up that bolt of cashmere, and perhaps think on buying some of the new imported Chinese silk, because I work on a commission. NOW!"
Erik scurried to the discarded bolt of beige cashmere, and picked up a bolt of Chinese silk. He then made his way to the cash register, and meekly held out his charge card. Gertrude stood there, and rang up his purchases. She then swiped his platinum card, knocking him back a considerable sum, and handed him his bag.
"Thank you, have a good day!" She said pleasantly, and a mollified Magneto left the fabric store.
"Boss?"
Magneto visibly jumped, and looked at the speaker. It was Creed.
"What? What do you want?" Snapped Magneto, embarrassed to caught in his throne, pondering fabric sales. Though Creed had no way of knowing that he was pondering fabric sales. Probably Creed thought that he was pondering how to take over the world in eight easy steps. He suddenly realized that Creed was speaking.
"You told me to tell you when it was almost six?" Vic was trying his best not to laugh. Magneto was looking around, all paranoid-like, and acting all skittish. Undoubtedly he was embarrassed to be caught in his Evil Throne. Or maybe he'd been thinking back to his unfortunate fabric store adventure.
Vic chuckled to himself, recalling the look on Old Mag's face when he got told off by that little old lady. Bless that little brat Pietro and that video camera he had stolen from somewhere or another. Copies of the escapade were meant to be sent out to every evil villain in the world, as well as Xavier, in the case that Magneto ever got too full of himself. Of course, only Mystique and himself knew about that particular plan.
Magneto looked like he'd bit into something especially sour as the huge feral in front of him chuckled suddenly to himself for the second time in two minutes. Hopefully he was just planning some sort of evil prank for the dinner.
Then Magneto realized that it was almost time for the dinner, and said, 'Let's go. It's almost time."
He swept off his throne, grabbed his helmet because Wanda was coming, and marched out into the hall. Creed followed, and they made their way to the dinning room to be joined with the remaining members of the Rascals.
A Little While Before:
In the large, stainless steel, industrial-looking kitchen of the Lair of Magneto, a fight of possibly colossal proportions was mounting. The two Rascals who had taken it upon themselves to help cook for the horrid affair which was to take place that evening had reached a cultural deadlock.
"No! We are not having gumbo!" Poitr Rasputin declared. He was the Iron Man. He could declare anything he wanted. His word was Law.
The fact that something had been declared, and was Law, however, had no effect on Remy LeBeau, rule-breaker extra ordinaire.
"I'm making gumbo and you'll eat it!" He avowed.
Poitr glared at Remy.
Remy glared at Poitr.
And so they stood for fifteen minutes, until Pietro came whizzing into the kitchen.
"It's time! Where's the side dishes?"
Poitr and Remy both turned to the speed demon, and began to rant in Russian and French, respectively.
Pietro decided that it would be simplest to simply whip up something simple. Two minutes later, the table was set, the food was done, and the Rascals were crowded around the large table. Well, maybe not crowded, as the table was, as aforementioned, large, and there was room left for the Brotherhood, who by the way had more female members than the Rascals, and why were they called the Rascals, and not something cool like the Annihilators? Anyways, they sat around the table.
And so they sat.
And they sat.
And they sat.
The big hand on the clock ticked its precious way all the way around the clock, and still they sat.
And they sat.
And they sat.
Victor was staring at the food on the table with something akin to raw lust in his eyes, and Pietro looked like he was ready pass out from hunger. Remy was fine due to the fact that he was using his finely honed thieving skills to steal himself rolls, peas, corn, and even a teeny tiny piece of the great big honey ham that sat in the center of the table. St. John had a glazed look to his eyes, and Poitr had gotten hold of two bread sticks, and they were being treated to the constant drumming of "Iron Man" on the table.
Magneto just looked like he had a migraine.
****
Reviews are greatly appreciated.
~Persephone
By Persephone
AN: First of all, thanks to Goldylokz, Alison Sky, Red Witch, Eileen, DragonBlond, and todd fan. Reviews make me a happy kitten. I'm glad no one was put off by my bringing my OC Charlie into the story. He doesn't make an appearance in this chapter, alas, but he does make quite the impression on Magneto in the next one :) Before you read this chapter, I should mention that I know absolutely nothing about fine fabrics. I just kind of made it up as I went along. So, without any further ado...
Chapter Three
Of Linen and Gumbo
Magneto's Lair: 5:30
After the news of the dinner had been broken, and after the Rascals fled to their respective hiding places, Magneto stalked back and forth in his large hall. This hall was used for strategic planning, group meetings, and he also had a nifty throne in the corner that he sat on when no one else was in here. He kept it covered with a blue plastic tarp the rest of the time.
This dinner needed to go well. That was all there was to it. He'd noticed a lack of respect for the Cause, as well as for his superiority, amongst the minions lately, and he hoped that by bringing them all together, and giving the special speech he had written, they might be more prepared to go along with his plans. He needed to show the young ones that he thought they were real people, not just kids, so that when they did eventually become powerful, influential mutants rather than the hormonal, insecure teenagers they were today, they would still be willing to follow him.
He also had a plan for winning over Wanda using cookie dough ice cream.
He continued to pace, back and forth across the room, before giving in to temptation, and sitting in his throne. It was metal, like everything else in the large hall. Magneto had considered upholstering the bare metal furniture. He had even taken a trip to the fabric store.
Wilma's Cloth was the name of the particular establishment he had visited. He had been there a few times before to pick out material for his costume and his cape, which he was proud to say he had sewn all by himself. This time, just like the last times, the woman at the counter had immediately sensed his overwhelmed state almost as soon as he got in the door.
"Hello, dear, I'm Gertrude." The tiny woman had introduced herself. She was all of five feet tall, and could not have weighed ninety pounds even if she wore chain mail. She looked about four hundred, and was very wrinkled. Her thin white hair was cut short, and she had a purple streak in it just behind her left ear. "Hi, Gertrude. I am Erik." It didn't hurt to be polite to your elders. He stared at the purple streak for another minute. It matched her jumpsuit.
Gertrude, through the virtues of observation, and the fact that she wasn't yet blind, noticed that Erik was staring at her hair. She briefly wondered why, then remembered with a start the purple streak.
"My granddaughter got a hold of my wig with a marker." Gertrude said pointedly, wishing that somebody would just ask about the purple, rather than stare at her like she was a freak.
"Oh." Erik seemed disappointed with this explanation.
"Can I help you in some way?" Gertrude asked pointedly, motioning around the fabric store. Row upon row of colored cloth in every shade, texture, and pattern were lined up in a seemingly mismatched fashion, but Gertrude knew where everything was. She'd been working here since 1954, after all, before most of these newfangled fabrics, like polyester and nylon, and that horrid spandex, had even been invented.
"I need to upholster my furniture." Erik answered, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the hundreds of possibilities.
"I see." Gertrude replied. Why did she always end up with the difficult ones? "What type of fabric were you considering?"
Erik looked stumped. "Uh..."
Gertrude sighed. "Cheap or expensive?" Okay, that might not have been as delicately worded as she might have done, but it worked. She worked for commission, too, after all.
"Expensive."
She led him to the finer fabrics in the store. She showed him several options, and many different colors and designs, but the man seemed indecisive.
"I don't know..." He'd said, holding a bolt of fine beige cashmere. It doesn't have much...class."
Gertrude managed to not scream. What in the world had more class than beige cashmere? She showed him the finest linen the store possessed, and then moved on to the Egyptian cotton. Still no approval from the man. She was looking through the back room for some new swatches of imported Chinese silk when she hear a cry. "Eureka!"
She ran back out into the outer shop to see what had finally caught the man's eye as "classy." She stared in shock.
Erik had chosen a bolt of shiny, metallic silver polyester.
Gertrude felt like banging her head against the wall.
"Are you quite sure that... that is what you want?" She finally ventures, still aghast that he had turned down the finest cloth in the store for a bolt of $3.99 a yard silver material.
"Quite. I also believe that I will take some of this." Erik replied, pulling another bolt of fabric from the rack.
Gertrude stared. It was purple.
Not just a nice, lilac purple. Not even a rich plum color. This shade of purple was that alarming shade of Barbie-purple that practically glowed in the dark. The only thing that the purple cloth had over the silver was the fact that it was a nice cotton blend, rather than the shimmering metallic silver.
Gertrude also noticed that this cloth was also on the sale rack. A dollar a yard. How was it that the ones willing to pay a lot still bought out of the bargain bin? Was it some sort of cruel joke? She was old, darn it! She deserved to get paid well, and this little demented tightwad was determined to keep her in the poor house.
She glared up at the man. She was a mother of four, grandmother of seven. She knew how to glare. Erik quailed under her scrutiny, and shifted uncomfortably.
"Um... What do you think?" He asked cautiously.
"I," Gertrude began, "Think that I just spent the last half hour looking at the most expensive materials in the store. I think that you decided that you wanted classy furniture. I think that you had best get back over there, pick up that bolt of cashmere, and perhaps think on buying some of the new imported Chinese silk, because I work on a commission. NOW!"
Erik scurried to the discarded bolt of beige cashmere, and picked up a bolt of Chinese silk. He then made his way to the cash register, and meekly held out his charge card. Gertrude stood there, and rang up his purchases. She then swiped his platinum card, knocking him back a considerable sum, and handed him his bag.
"Thank you, have a good day!" She said pleasantly, and a mollified Magneto left the fabric store.
"Boss?"
Magneto visibly jumped, and looked at the speaker. It was Creed.
"What? What do you want?" Snapped Magneto, embarrassed to caught in his throne, pondering fabric sales. Though Creed had no way of knowing that he was pondering fabric sales. Probably Creed thought that he was pondering how to take over the world in eight easy steps. He suddenly realized that Creed was speaking.
"You told me to tell you when it was almost six?" Vic was trying his best not to laugh. Magneto was looking around, all paranoid-like, and acting all skittish. Undoubtedly he was embarrassed to be caught in his Evil Throne. Or maybe he'd been thinking back to his unfortunate fabric store adventure.
Vic chuckled to himself, recalling the look on Old Mag's face when he got told off by that little old lady. Bless that little brat Pietro and that video camera he had stolen from somewhere or another. Copies of the escapade were meant to be sent out to every evil villain in the world, as well as Xavier, in the case that Magneto ever got too full of himself. Of course, only Mystique and himself knew about that particular plan.
Magneto looked like he'd bit into something especially sour as the huge feral in front of him chuckled suddenly to himself for the second time in two minutes. Hopefully he was just planning some sort of evil prank for the dinner.
Then Magneto realized that it was almost time for the dinner, and said, 'Let's go. It's almost time."
He swept off his throne, grabbed his helmet because Wanda was coming, and marched out into the hall. Creed followed, and they made their way to the dinning room to be joined with the remaining members of the Rascals.
A Little While Before:
In the large, stainless steel, industrial-looking kitchen of the Lair of Magneto, a fight of possibly colossal proportions was mounting. The two Rascals who had taken it upon themselves to help cook for the horrid affair which was to take place that evening had reached a cultural deadlock.
"No! We are not having gumbo!" Poitr Rasputin declared. He was the Iron Man. He could declare anything he wanted. His word was Law.
The fact that something had been declared, and was Law, however, had no effect on Remy LeBeau, rule-breaker extra ordinaire.
"I'm making gumbo and you'll eat it!" He avowed.
Poitr glared at Remy.
Remy glared at Poitr.
And so they stood for fifteen minutes, until Pietro came whizzing into the kitchen.
"It's time! Where's the side dishes?"
Poitr and Remy both turned to the speed demon, and began to rant in Russian and French, respectively.
Pietro decided that it would be simplest to simply whip up something simple. Two minutes later, the table was set, the food was done, and the Rascals were crowded around the large table. Well, maybe not crowded, as the table was, as aforementioned, large, and there was room left for the Brotherhood, who by the way had more female members than the Rascals, and why were they called the Rascals, and not something cool like the Annihilators? Anyways, they sat around the table.
And so they sat.
And they sat.
And they sat.
The big hand on the clock ticked its precious way all the way around the clock, and still they sat.
And they sat.
And they sat.
Victor was staring at the food on the table with something akin to raw lust in his eyes, and Pietro looked like he was ready pass out from hunger. Remy was fine due to the fact that he was using his finely honed thieving skills to steal himself rolls, peas, corn, and even a teeny tiny piece of the great big honey ham that sat in the center of the table. St. John had a glazed look to his eyes, and Poitr had gotten hold of two bread sticks, and they were being treated to the constant drumming of "Iron Man" on the table.
Magneto just looked like he had a migraine.
****
Reviews are greatly appreciated.
~Persephone