Act or Skit IV
"The Plot's as Thick as this Paper Now."
It was morning again, or a close facsimile caused by the automatic timing of the overhead florescent lights to resemble morning light. Fox wearily dragged himself out of his bunk in his private room, and hauled himself down the corridors to the mess hall, putting his white over-jacket on slowly as he trudged along. Because of a sinus infection he was suffering from, he could barely smell the strong aroma of the cheap coffee bubbling in the pot, or the artificial egg substance frying on the electric hot plate.
He pulled himself into the galley, and realized immediately something was amiss. The single polymer and steel table that dominated room was broken in the middle, but it was possible for someone to sit right on the end. The walls were completely splattered with various liquids, many seeming to leave permanent stains. Wolf O'Donnell leaned on the side of the open refrigerator, staring deep in thought as he puffed away at a cigarette. Finally, McCloud realized what was wrong.
"We've really got to get in the habit of shutting that stupid thing," he thought to himself, as he walked over. Shutting the door, he glanced over at Wolf, who glanced over at him, and gave a quick nod of greeting.
"Oh, hey Wolf," said McCloud. "What are you doing here?"
Wolf moved the smoldering butt in his mouth over to the other side of his snout to ease in his conversing. "I joined back in chapter three, remember?"
"You did?"
"Yeah, don't you recall the huge shouting match, the gunplay, and the horse going through the paper folder?"
"Not entirely sure that I do O'Donnell, think you could relate it all again?"
So Wolf went through the entire fan fiction again, at least up to this point. When he was finished, Fox stared at him blankly, shrugged, and then pointed at the cigarette.
"You got another one of those?" he asked, all of a sudden seeming to grow very fond of the noxious, unattractive hobby.
"Sure thing," Wolf said, pulling a pack of Lucky Camels out of his jacket pocket. "I'm sure you have your own light."
So Fox took the nasty thing and sat down on the aforementioned end of the table, balancing out his weight to make sure the rest wouldn't fold in and take him along with. The two canines continued staring into space because it was just that kind of story (you know; long, psychological, very hard to jump in after the beginning and have any hope in hell to realize what was going on.) They continued that way for what seemed a very long time, but then they both heard a muffled, shuddering BOOM noise come from Slippy's bedroom and they both looked at the doorway leading to the hallway.
Just then, Fara stepped in, holding a large, smoking revolver, and wearing blue jeans, a white tank top, and a black leather jacket instead of her normal pilots attire. She glanced around the mess hall, and finally blurted: "Wot?"
Fox made a face of rather frustrated confusion, and then asked: "What's with the gun?"
"Oi, I just shot oul' slipster. He was lookin' me up and down all pre- verted as you please so I pulled out the .357 maggie and gave him what for."
"Oh, that's all?" added Wolf, slipping into an even more relaxed pose on the fridge. "I was afraid you had gone and done something drastic."
"Naw naw naw, it's not in me blood. Say, could I pinch of those fags?"
Wolf looked at Fox, who looked at Fara, and uttered "What's with the really fake accent?"
"Oh, you listen boy bach, I say if that the Cyclops could use to get away with sounding like a half-arsed kraut, I say I should bloody well get away with a terrible, muddled, Englaish accent. 'Sides, th'author doesn't have half a clue what he's doin' with dialogue, and he's just some wee runt who probably drinks the gas straight from the pump."
Meanwhile: The author, feeling hopelessly dejected and wondering just how in the world one of his own stories ended up making fun of himself, went to his room with a full pack of King Dongs and wouldn't come out for hours.
Besides, he only drank from the pump once. While writing this thing, he only chug-a-lugged mouthwash.
Dammit.
Wolf finally shrugged, and passed a cigarette to Phoenix, who grasped it in her mouth and lit it with a match she struck on her jacket sleeve.
"Thanks, luv." Fara said. "I owe you one."
"So," Fox asked after some time. "What's with the . er . getup?"
"Oh, this?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "I just thought I'd try somethin' new for a tad. You like?" she swiveled around as if she was showing a new dress.
Wolf nodded. "It's quite attractive, a lot better than those screwy elbow- length gloves."
"Aye, I threw those in the ash can. Had a bitta hard time gettin' rid o'them, but yeh know, in with the new, out with the old."
"Agreed. So. what now?"
All three of them stared into space again, because it's just that kind of fic. It's light hearted, yes, but you see, it's all so dramatic when you look in the subtle meanings. For instance, you know that one story with the terrorists and Fox and Wolf getting to know each other? I mean. REALLY getting to know each other? If you look at all the psychological undertones, it's all about one thing: revenge.
The seething, dominating desire for hardcore vengeance that brushes away all the precedents and ends up a shining, incandescent ball of fire, burning and searing the common held truths and practices held very deal to the old guard, the bourgeois, the social upper class who cluck their tongues, stroke their beards, and say "What's to be done with this pack of beatniks?"
But then again, it's probably more of just a story of Fox and Wolf doing horrible things.
You didn't hear me say that.
More time passed, and finally, Falco and Krystal walked into the room, hand and hand.
"Well look at the Mistah and Missus Lombardi!" Fara chimed in.
"Wait," Fox said looking around and being even more confused than he thought was possible for him. "What do you mean Mrs. Lombardi?" "Don't you know you senseless twit?" sneered Fara. "They bloody got married in chapter eight. Don't you remember?"
"Wait, did he run into the wedding chapel, pounding on the glass and going `Mrs. What's Your Face! Mrs. What's Your Face!' and they ran out and caught a bus and you and I actually got married in chapter seven, although it was never mentioned and is only referred to, hoping the audience puts two and two together?"
"Yes. That'd be right."
"Okily doke. Well, I'm just going to sit here and hope that this all blows over before someone ends up dead-"
Falco interrupted. "Oh hey, Slip's dead. Someone shot him."
"That was me, guv," Fara said, giving a firm nod.
"Yep, it was her," assured Wolf.
"Ah crap," said Fox. "Well, we need to get on with this fic, let's say we get on with a point to this chapter."
WE NOW INTERUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU SOME ADVERTISING YOU OBVIOUSLY DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT, BUT YOU MUST SEEING AS HOW YOU HAVEN'T LEFT THE FICTION YET.
(General Pepper is sitting at his desk, moving uncomfortably in his seat.) Narrator: You're supposed to be leading the largest armed force that the Lylat system has ever seen, but you're twitching from the itching, squirming from the burning. (Pepper looks at the camera with a grimace: ) Pepper: I should have used Preparation- H.
NEXT CHAPTER: TO THE BOWELS OF THE PITS OF SOMEWHERE!
"The Plot's as Thick as this Paper Now."
It was morning again, or a close facsimile caused by the automatic timing of the overhead florescent lights to resemble morning light. Fox wearily dragged himself out of his bunk in his private room, and hauled himself down the corridors to the mess hall, putting his white over-jacket on slowly as he trudged along. Because of a sinus infection he was suffering from, he could barely smell the strong aroma of the cheap coffee bubbling in the pot, or the artificial egg substance frying on the electric hot plate.
He pulled himself into the galley, and realized immediately something was amiss. The single polymer and steel table that dominated room was broken in the middle, but it was possible for someone to sit right on the end. The walls were completely splattered with various liquids, many seeming to leave permanent stains. Wolf O'Donnell leaned on the side of the open refrigerator, staring deep in thought as he puffed away at a cigarette. Finally, McCloud realized what was wrong.
"We've really got to get in the habit of shutting that stupid thing," he thought to himself, as he walked over. Shutting the door, he glanced over at Wolf, who glanced over at him, and gave a quick nod of greeting.
"Oh, hey Wolf," said McCloud. "What are you doing here?"
Wolf moved the smoldering butt in his mouth over to the other side of his snout to ease in his conversing. "I joined back in chapter three, remember?"
"You did?"
"Yeah, don't you recall the huge shouting match, the gunplay, and the horse going through the paper folder?"
"Not entirely sure that I do O'Donnell, think you could relate it all again?"
So Wolf went through the entire fan fiction again, at least up to this point. When he was finished, Fox stared at him blankly, shrugged, and then pointed at the cigarette.
"You got another one of those?" he asked, all of a sudden seeming to grow very fond of the noxious, unattractive hobby.
"Sure thing," Wolf said, pulling a pack of Lucky Camels out of his jacket pocket. "I'm sure you have your own light."
So Fox took the nasty thing and sat down on the aforementioned end of the table, balancing out his weight to make sure the rest wouldn't fold in and take him along with. The two canines continued staring into space because it was just that kind of story (you know; long, psychological, very hard to jump in after the beginning and have any hope in hell to realize what was going on.) They continued that way for what seemed a very long time, but then they both heard a muffled, shuddering BOOM noise come from Slippy's bedroom and they both looked at the doorway leading to the hallway.
Just then, Fara stepped in, holding a large, smoking revolver, and wearing blue jeans, a white tank top, and a black leather jacket instead of her normal pilots attire. She glanced around the mess hall, and finally blurted: "Wot?"
Fox made a face of rather frustrated confusion, and then asked: "What's with the gun?"
"Oi, I just shot oul' slipster. He was lookin' me up and down all pre- verted as you please so I pulled out the .357 maggie and gave him what for."
"Oh, that's all?" added Wolf, slipping into an even more relaxed pose on the fridge. "I was afraid you had gone and done something drastic."
"Naw naw naw, it's not in me blood. Say, could I pinch of those fags?"
Wolf looked at Fox, who looked at Fara, and uttered "What's with the really fake accent?"
"Oh, you listen boy bach, I say if that the Cyclops could use to get away with sounding like a half-arsed kraut, I say I should bloody well get away with a terrible, muddled, Englaish accent. 'Sides, th'author doesn't have half a clue what he's doin' with dialogue, and he's just some wee runt who probably drinks the gas straight from the pump."
Meanwhile: The author, feeling hopelessly dejected and wondering just how in the world one of his own stories ended up making fun of himself, went to his room with a full pack of King Dongs and wouldn't come out for hours.
Besides, he only drank from the pump once. While writing this thing, he only chug-a-lugged mouthwash.
Dammit.
Wolf finally shrugged, and passed a cigarette to Phoenix, who grasped it in her mouth and lit it with a match she struck on her jacket sleeve.
"Thanks, luv." Fara said. "I owe you one."
"So," Fox asked after some time. "What's with the . er . getup?"
"Oh, this?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "I just thought I'd try somethin' new for a tad. You like?" she swiveled around as if she was showing a new dress.
Wolf nodded. "It's quite attractive, a lot better than those screwy elbow- length gloves."
"Aye, I threw those in the ash can. Had a bitta hard time gettin' rid o'them, but yeh know, in with the new, out with the old."
"Agreed. So. what now?"
All three of them stared into space again, because it's just that kind of fic. It's light hearted, yes, but you see, it's all so dramatic when you look in the subtle meanings. For instance, you know that one story with the terrorists and Fox and Wolf getting to know each other? I mean. REALLY getting to know each other? If you look at all the psychological undertones, it's all about one thing: revenge.
The seething, dominating desire for hardcore vengeance that brushes away all the precedents and ends up a shining, incandescent ball of fire, burning and searing the common held truths and practices held very deal to the old guard, the bourgeois, the social upper class who cluck their tongues, stroke their beards, and say "What's to be done with this pack of beatniks?"
But then again, it's probably more of just a story of Fox and Wolf doing horrible things.
You didn't hear me say that.
More time passed, and finally, Falco and Krystal walked into the room, hand and hand.
"Well look at the Mistah and Missus Lombardi!" Fara chimed in.
"Wait," Fox said looking around and being even more confused than he thought was possible for him. "What do you mean Mrs. Lombardi?" "Don't you know you senseless twit?" sneered Fara. "They bloody got married in chapter eight. Don't you remember?"
"Wait, did he run into the wedding chapel, pounding on the glass and going `Mrs. What's Your Face! Mrs. What's Your Face!' and they ran out and caught a bus and you and I actually got married in chapter seven, although it was never mentioned and is only referred to, hoping the audience puts two and two together?"
"Yes. That'd be right."
"Okily doke. Well, I'm just going to sit here and hope that this all blows over before someone ends up dead-"
Falco interrupted. "Oh hey, Slip's dead. Someone shot him."
"That was me, guv," Fara said, giving a firm nod.
"Yep, it was her," assured Wolf.
"Ah crap," said Fox. "Well, we need to get on with this fic, let's say we get on with a point to this chapter."
WE NOW INTERUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU SOME ADVERTISING YOU OBVIOUSLY DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT, BUT YOU MUST SEEING AS HOW YOU HAVEN'T LEFT THE FICTION YET.
(General Pepper is sitting at his desk, moving uncomfortably in his seat.) Narrator: You're supposed to be leading the largest armed force that the Lylat system has ever seen, but you're twitching from the itching, squirming from the burning. (Pepper looks at the camera with a grimace: ) Pepper: I should have used Preparation- H.
NEXT CHAPTER: TO THE BOWELS OF THE PITS OF SOMEWHERE!