Chapter 3
"So, Timon, where do we start on our grand quest?" Pumbaa queried. Timon took up a scouting position on top of Pumbaa's head and shaded his eyes with one paw. He observed the small, inconspicuous housings of the town, and his gaze settled on a run-down pub. He pointed triumphantly at it.
"Right over there, Pumbaa!"
"Um... why would we want to go there?" replied Pumbaa. He wasn't too sure that a place that sported the name "The Swarthy Soot Muncher" was the best place to start a search of any kind. Timon huffed at his friend's ignorance, and bent forwards to give Pumbaa an upside-down view of his face.
"Ahh, how little you know, Pumbaa. Don't you know that the first place anyone goes to advance the storyline is any inn, tavern, salon, or otherwise incongruous meeting place for those of ill reputations and dispositions?" he explained, showing a saccharine grin as though he pitied Pumbaa's lack of "culture". Pumbaa stared dumbly; it always confused him when Timon used such large words in a single sentence. However, it also improved his respect of Timon and impressed him greatly. So, instead of giving an actual reply, he simply gazed at the upside-down meerkat in front of him and said, "Ohhhhh... right."
"Right?" blurted out Timon. "Of course I'm right! Why wouldn't I be right? I am a genius after all!" Timon righted himself and pointed at the dirt little shack. "Now, onward!"
The run down shack of a drinking establishment was, as expected, one of the most horrifyingly dirty, smelly, violent, and overall unsafe places to be. As Pumbaa pushed open the door with his prodigious tusks, a wave of stench crashed into them, nearly forcing them to bow their heads as they would against a strong wind. It was an odd mixture of sweat, cigar smoke, bad breath drenched in alcohol, and... armpit. Pumbaa instantly cringed and placed a hoof over his snout, trying to breathe through his mouth. Squinting through teary eyes, he glanced up at Timon, who took a deep whiff of it and seemed duly unaffected.
"Ahhh... can ya smell that, Pumbaa?"
"What is it, Timon?!"
"That my friend is the sweet smell of progress! We're going to get a breakthrough here, Pumbaa, I can feel it!"
Shaking like a leaf in the wind, Pumbaa reluctantly plowed on through the wall of stink, and to the nearest huddled group of shady men bunched over a table playing cards. They all looked very unfriendly, dressed in dirty, unkempt clothing and all with very surly looks on their faces. They completely ignored the Timon and Pumbaa as they approached. Timon puffed out his chest and greeted the men in an upbeat manner, throwing up his paws and speaking very loudly and cheerfully, like he was trying to make a sale.
"Greetings and salutations, my maleficent benefactors! I require your dissident personalities in a small dilemma of mine. I was pondering whether there was a way to discover the cause of the recent disappearance of the locusts in this area. Do any of you lowbrow, foul-mouthed, rag-tag, lice ridden ne'er-do-wells know of the location of one who might assist us in this matter, or otherwise personify the aforementioned informant?"
He ended his speech with a huge, overly benevolent grin on his face, leaning forward on Pumbaa's head. As one, all the men at the table turned and glared at the two small animals. Pumbaa gulped.
5 minutes and one savage beating later...
"AHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"YAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
Whomp!
Timon and Pumbaa jettisoned out the door of the pub and landed face-first in the dirt side by side, creating small furrows as they skidded a few inches. They groaned in pain from the bruises covering their hapless bodies. The lower half of Timon's tail stood at an angle it obviously was not supposed to bend to, and one of Pumbaa's tusks looked oddly bent out of shape. The warthog forced out a few words to Timon.
"Uggh... Timon? I think I've had a breakthrough..."
"Really?" wheezed Timon. "Where?"
"In my femur..."
Some time later...
"All right Pumbaa. Obviously this nice guy gig just doesn't cut it. We're going back in... but this time we're going back in... in style!" Timon announced with a triumphant smile, his eyes narrowed mischievously. After some consideration in traction, they had returned to the dusty street in front of the pub, which was still marred by the imprints of Timon and Pumbaa's unfortunate collision with the ground. This time, though, Timon had made sure that they were prepared. They were dressed in long black trench coats tailored to fit their unorthodox sizes. Timon had given himself a pair of tough looking black gloves and a wide-brimmed hat. Pumbaa had the same hat, but of course lacked the gloves. Timon perched himself once more on Pumbaa's head and ordered him to go back inside. "This time we'll show 'em!" he had declared. Pumbaa still remembered their first experience, and was reluctant.
"But Timon," he objected, "what if they want to beat us up again?" Timon laughed derisively. "The thought definitely crossed my mind, Pumbaa. That's why I have this!" he said, holding up a small, blue, perfectly square booklet. The words "Professional Insulters Inc." were written on the cover in big white letters. "I took a look through this baby while we were indisposed at the hospital. From the knowledge I have gleaned, no one will want to mess with us in there! You just let me do the talking, and we'll be the personification of bad boys to the bone!"
Soon, they were inside, again. They wisely stayed away from everyone, allowing the conflict to come to them. Pumbaa glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, his eyes wide and worried. Timon had narrowed his eyes to mean looking slits, sending glares at anyone that got too close. He wasn't going to be foiled this time! The bartender came up, cleaning a glass while he spoke.
"You boys want some drinks?" he said in a gritty, gravelly voice. Pumbaa was sweating with nervousness, and held up his hoof slowly like he was asking a question in school.
"Uhh... I'll just have some water-" Timon suddenly leapt up onto his stool and slammed his fist on the bar counter in a "tough" fashion. "Two Bloody Maries, on the rocks!" Pumbaa leaned away from Timon's outburst, settling only when no one came up to smack them around. Timon remained gruff, whispering through the side of his mouth to his friend.
"Calm down, Pumbaa! We just need to stay here until we find some shady character to help us along a bit!" Pumbaa leaned closer and covered their conversation with a hoof as the bartender dropped their drinks off in front of them.
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Timon? I mean, I don't think we're going to get much help here..."
"Nonsense, Pumbaa! We just need to put up the act that we're lonely travelers just blown in and everything will become clear... Trust me, the only way to deal with guys like this is to get tough!"
Suddenly, a burly bearded man walked up and pointed at Timon's stool.
"Hey, little guy, would you mind if you-" Without really thinking, Timon whirled on the newcomer and shook a small fist in his face.
"Hey man, we're trying to drink here! Buzz off!" The man looked genuinely surprised. He pointed below Timon's seat at a wallet Timon took no notice of.
"Well I was jus' tryin' to get my-"
"What, liposuction? That's a laugh! I'm surprised you could even find the money, ya bum! You look like you just blew in from a homeless guy convention! Now get lost!" He turned to Pumbaa, muttering, but loud enough for the man to hear. "Can you believe this guy? No manners at all!" Pumbaa groaned as the man's face grew more and more annoyed with each passing second, shaking his head to try and shake Timon off his little tirade, but the feisty meerkat thought Pumbaa was agreeing with him, and went on.
"Hey, would you mind? Move your ugly face, it's making my drink go sour! I doubt even your mother would love a face like this! Hey, everybody! Get a load of the ugly, uh... non-mother loved idiot over here!" Now the bearded man looked positively furious. He glowered at Timon, his voice dangerously low. "Did you just insult my mother?" Timon looked to be losing some of his luster, but he plowed on nonetheless, still thinking he could bluff his way out of it.
"Uh... well, I mean, yes! Of course I did! What are ya, deaf?"
The man suddenly brought up one beefy hand and pinched Timon's head between two chunky fingers. He lifted the small, now helpless meerkat bodily up to his hairy face. His breath reeked of ale.
"Bad idea, little man."
Timon grinned disarmingly, but it was obvious he was now close to shrieking like a little girl.
"Ahh, heh heh... gee, that beard of yours really defines the contours of your cheeks..."
The man made no reply, instead bringing back his arm. At the end of that arm was a fist. A very large, hairy fist. Pumbaa barely had time to gulp again.
Afterwards...
"Ohhh, I knew that was a bad idea Timon, I just knew it!" said Pumbaa, emphasizing the last two words with vigorous tosses of his head. Timon glared up at him from his bed, barely recognizable under the numerous bandages wrapped around his small frame.
"Just shut... up," he muttered, barely audible for the gauze covering his mouth.
/=/
"All right Pumbaa! This is the last straw! We are going to get what we need, and we aren't leaving that stupid mook house until we have it!" exclaimed Timon that evening after his second round in the hospital, looking very determined and exasperated all at once, slamming a fist into his paw for emphasis. Pumbaa was now very, very unsure about taking one hoof back into that bar.
"Are we gonna go back inside there Timon?"
"Of course not! We're gonna get our dirt the old fashioned way... a stakeout! I got all we need right here!" Timon whipped out his trusty blue suitcase and reached deep inside of it, pulling out several binoculars, small bottles of camouflage paint, and two pairs of deep black sneaking suits somehow tailored to match their exact sizes. He dropped Pumbaa's bundle of equipment on the warthog's spacious snout.
"Here, put these on!"
After a great deal of fumbling around and complaining about how itchy the new garb was, the duo was soon set for a full night of intelligence gathering. Stationing themselves on the roof of a nearby building, they pulled out their scopes and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.
....And waited...
Some time later, Pumbaa was fast asleep, but Timon was still pressing his eyes into the viewing specs of his binoculars. He was so intent on not missing anything his eyes were larger than the circumference of his binoculars, and bloodshot to boot. But still he was not dissuaded.
Finally, it seemed, his persistence paid off. He saw someone approaching the bar. Without turning away from the view, he nudged Pumbaa in the ribs to wake him up.
"Pssst! Pumbaa! Pumbaa, wake up! I see something!"
"Blurgh... huh... what? Wasn't me... oh, hi Timon!"
"Shhh! Quiet! Look down there, at the front door of the pub!"
"Ohhh... who is that guy?"
"I don't know, but it looks like he's holding a... pitchfork?"
The mysterious figure approached the door of the bar and knocked on it quietly. Another man answered the summons. Pumbaa gasped.
"Timon, that's gotta be the bartender!"
"Right... but what's he doing with that other guy?"
As they watched, the first man gave a small, lumpy package to the bartender in exchange for some other small, square looking load. Timon and Pumbaa watched on intently. After one or two phrases tossed between the two men, the first, shady figure departed and hurried down the street. Timon snagged Pumbaa's binoculars and tossed both pairs into the bag.
"That does it. We're going after that guy!"
Trailing the figure was hard work. Timon couldn't keep up, so he had to hop on Pumbaa's head. After what seemed like hours, they finally caught up enough to where Timon was able to hop off Pumbaa's head and challenge the stranger.
"Hey! You! Yeah, you with the rake! Stop!"
The figure of course, did not stop, and dodged into a nearby alley. Pumbaa snorted in resolution, Timon groaned because he had to run some more, and both of them gasped when they saw a large car barreling down at them when they breached the mouth of the alley.
There was an odd squelching noise, and the car continued on. Timon spoke into the dirt road his face had been plastered to.
"Pumbaa?" "Yes?" answered the hog, staring up at the sky with big, pancake eyes, the rest of him flattened into the ground.
"That really, really hurt." "I think I agree, Timon..." "But that won't stop us!" said Timon, jumping to his feet with a pop as he freed himself of the dirt, leaving a three-inch deep impression of himself. "We're going after that guy! Nobody runs Timon and Pumbaa over with a car and gets away with it! Come on, Pumbaa! We're off!" He suddenly bent over forwards and put a paw on his back, limping away with Pumbaa in tow.
"Oy... to the chiropractor...
"So, Timon, where do we start on our grand quest?" Pumbaa queried. Timon took up a scouting position on top of Pumbaa's head and shaded his eyes with one paw. He observed the small, inconspicuous housings of the town, and his gaze settled on a run-down pub. He pointed triumphantly at it.
"Right over there, Pumbaa!"
"Um... why would we want to go there?" replied Pumbaa. He wasn't too sure that a place that sported the name "The Swarthy Soot Muncher" was the best place to start a search of any kind. Timon huffed at his friend's ignorance, and bent forwards to give Pumbaa an upside-down view of his face.
"Ahh, how little you know, Pumbaa. Don't you know that the first place anyone goes to advance the storyline is any inn, tavern, salon, or otherwise incongruous meeting place for those of ill reputations and dispositions?" he explained, showing a saccharine grin as though he pitied Pumbaa's lack of "culture". Pumbaa stared dumbly; it always confused him when Timon used such large words in a single sentence. However, it also improved his respect of Timon and impressed him greatly. So, instead of giving an actual reply, he simply gazed at the upside-down meerkat in front of him and said, "Ohhhhh... right."
"Right?" blurted out Timon. "Of course I'm right! Why wouldn't I be right? I am a genius after all!" Timon righted himself and pointed at the dirt little shack. "Now, onward!"
The run down shack of a drinking establishment was, as expected, one of the most horrifyingly dirty, smelly, violent, and overall unsafe places to be. As Pumbaa pushed open the door with his prodigious tusks, a wave of stench crashed into them, nearly forcing them to bow their heads as they would against a strong wind. It was an odd mixture of sweat, cigar smoke, bad breath drenched in alcohol, and... armpit. Pumbaa instantly cringed and placed a hoof over his snout, trying to breathe through his mouth. Squinting through teary eyes, he glanced up at Timon, who took a deep whiff of it and seemed duly unaffected.
"Ahhh... can ya smell that, Pumbaa?"
"What is it, Timon?!"
"That my friend is the sweet smell of progress! We're going to get a breakthrough here, Pumbaa, I can feel it!"
Shaking like a leaf in the wind, Pumbaa reluctantly plowed on through the wall of stink, and to the nearest huddled group of shady men bunched over a table playing cards. They all looked very unfriendly, dressed in dirty, unkempt clothing and all with very surly looks on their faces. They completely ignored the Timon and Pumbaa as they approached. Timon puffed out his chest and greeted the men in an upbeat manner, throwing up his paws and speaking very loudly and cheerfully, like he was trying to make a sale.
"Greetings and salutations, my maleficent benefactors! I require your dissident personalities in a small dilemma of mine. I was pondering whether there was a way to discover the cause of the recent disappearance of the locusts in this area. Do any of you lowbrow, foul-mouthed, rag-tag, lice ridden ne'er-do-wells know of the location of one who might assist us in this matter, or otherwise personify the aforementioned informant?"
He ended his speech with a huge, overly benevolent grin on his face, leaning forward on Pumbaa's head. As one, all the men at the table turned and glared at the two small animals. Pumbaa gulped.
5 minutes and one savage beating later...
"AHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"YAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
Whomp!
Timon and Pumbaa jettisoned out the door of the pub and landed face-first in the dirt side by side, creating small furrows as they skidded a few inches. They groaned in pain from the bruises covering their hapless bodies. The lower half of Timon's tail stood at an angle it obviously was not supposed to bend to, and one of Pumbaa's tusks looked oddly bent out of shape. The warthog forced out a few words to Timon.
"Uggh... Timon? I think I've had a breakthrough..."
"Really?" wheezed Timon. "Where?"
"In my femur..."
Some time later...
"All right Pumbaa. Obviously this nice guy gig just doesn't cut it. We're going back in... but this time we're going back in... in style!" Timon announced with a triumphant smile, his eyes narrowed mischievously. After some consideration in traction, they had returned to the dusty street in front of the pub, which was still marred by the imprints of Timon and Pumbaa's unfortunate collision with the ground. This time, though, Timon had made sure that they were prepared. They were dressed in long black trench coats tailored to fit their unorthodox sizes. Timon had given himself a pair of tough looking black gloves and a wide-brimmed hat. Pumbaa had the same hat, but of course lacked the gloves. Timon perched himself once more on Pumbaa's head and ordered him to go back inside. "This time we'll show 'em!" he had declared. Pumbaa still remembered their first experience, and was reluctant.
"But Timon," he objected, "what if they want to beat us up again?" Timon laughed derisively. "The thought definitely crossed my mind, Pumbaa. That's why I have this!" he said, holding up a small, blue, perfectly square booklet. The words "Professional Insulters Inc." were written on the cover in big white letters. "I took a look through this baby while we were indisposed at the hospital. From the knowledge I have gleaned, no one will want to mess with us in there! You just let me do the talking, and we'll be the personification of bad boys to the bone!"
Soon, they were inside, again. They wisely stayed away from everyone, allowing the conflict to come to them. Pumbaa glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, his eyes wide and worried. Timon had narrowed his eyes to mean looking slits, sending glares at anyone that got too close. He wasn't going to be foiled this time! The bartender came up, cleaning a glass while he spoke.
"You boys want some drinks?" he said in a gritty, gravelly voice. Pumbaa was sweating with nervousness, and held up his hoof slowly like he was asking a question in school.
"Uhh... I'll just have some water-" Timon suddenly leapt up onto his stool and slammed his fist on the bar counter in a "tough" fashion. "Two Bloody Maries, on the rocks!" Pumbaa leaned away from Timon's outburst, settling only when no one came up to smack them around. Timon remained gruff, whispering through the side of his mouth to his friend.
"Calm down, Pumbaa! We just need to stay here until we find some shady character to help us along a bit!" Pumbaa leaned closer and covered their conversation with a hoof as the bartender dropped their drinks off in front of them.
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Timon? I mean, I don't think we're going to get much help here..."
"Nonsense, Pumbaa! We just need to put up the act that we're lonely travelers just blown in and everything will become clear... Trust me, the only way to deal with guys like this is to get tough!"
Suddenly, a burly bearded man walked up and pointed at Timon's stool.
"Hey, little guy, would you mind if you-" Without really thinking, Timon whirled on the newcomer and shook a small fist in his face.
"Hey man, we're trying to drink here! Buzz off!" The man looked genuinely surprised. He pointed below Timon's seat at a wallet Timon took no notice of.
"Well I was jus' tryin' to get my-"
"What, liposuction? That's a laugh! I'm surprised you could even find the money, ya bum! You look like you just blew in from a homeless guy convention! Now get lost!" He turned to Pumbaa, muttering, but loud enough for the man to hear. "Can you believe this guy? No manners at all!" Pumbaa groaned as the man's face grew more and more annoyed with each passing second, shaking his head to try and shake Timon off his little tirade, but the feisty meerkat thought Pumbaa was agreeing with him, and went on.
"Hey, would you mind? Move your ugly face, it's making my drink go sour! I doubt even your mother would love a face like this! Hey, everybody! Get a load of the ugly, uh... non-mother loved idiot over here!" Now the bearded man looked positively furious. He glowered at Timon, his voice dangerously low. "Did you just insult my mother?" Timon looked to be losing some of his luster, but he plowed on nonetheless, still thinking he could bluff his way out of it.
"Uh... well, I mean, yes! Of course I did! What are ya, deaf?"
The man suddenly brought up one beefy hand and pinched Timon's head between two chunky fingers. He lifted the small, now helpless meerkat bodily up to his hairy face. His breath reeked of ale.
"Bad idea, little man."
Timon grinned disarmingly, but it was obvious he was now close to shrieking like a little girl.
"Ahh, heh heh... gee, that beard of yours really defines the contours of your cheeks..."
The man made no reply, instead bringing back his arm. At the end of that arm was a fist. A very large, hairy fist. Pumbaa barely had time to gulp again.
Afterwards...
"Ohhh, I knew that was a bad idea Timon, I just knew it!" said Pumbaa, emphasizing the last two words with vigorous tosses of his head. Timon glared up at him from his bed, barely recognizable under the numerous bandages wrapped around his small frame.
"Just shut... up," he muttered, barely audible for the gauze covering his mouth.
/=/
"All right Pumbaa! This is the last straw! We are going to get what we need, and we aren't leaving that stupid mook house until we have it!" exclaimed Timon that evening after his second round in the hospital, looking very determined and exasperated all at once, slamming a fist into his paw for emphasis. Pumbaa was now very, very unsure about taking one hoof back into that bar.
"Are we gonna go back inside there Timon?"
"Of course not! We're gonna get our dirt the old fashioned way... a stakeout! I got all we need right here!" Timon whipped out his trusty blue suitcase and reached deep inside of it, pulling out several binoculars, small bottles of camouflage paint, and two pairs of deep black sneaking suits somehow tailored to match their exact sizes. He dropped Pumbaa's bundle of equipment on the warthog's spacious snout.
"Here, put these on!"
After a great deal of fumbling around and complaining about how itchy the new garb was, the duo was soon set for a full night of intelligence gathering. Stationing themselves on the roof of a nearby building, they pulled out their scopes and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.
....And waited...
Some time later, Pumbaa was fast asleep, but Timon was still pressing his eyes into the viewing specs of his binoculars. He was so intent on not missing anything his eyes were larger than the circumference of his binoculars, and bloodshot to boot. But still he was not dissuaded.
Finally, it seemed, his persistence paid off. He saw someone approaching the bar. Without turning away from the view, he nudged Pumbaa in the ribs to wake him up.
"Pssst! Pumbaa! Pumbaa, wake up! I see something!"
"Blurgh... huh... what? Wasn't me... oh, hi Timon!"
"Shhh! Quiet! Look down there, at the front door of the pub!"
"Ohhh... who is that guy?"
"I don't know, but it looks like he's holding a... pitchfork?"
The mysterious figure approached the door of the bar and knocked on it quietly. Another man answered the summons. Pumbaa gasped.
"Timon, that's gotta be the bartender!"
"Right... but what's he doing with that other guy?"
As they watched, the first man gave a small, lumpy package to the bartender in exchange for some other small, square looking load. Timon and Pumbaa watched on intently. After one or two phrases tossed between the two men, the first, shady figure departed and hurried down the street. Timon snagged Pumbaa's binoculars and tossed both pairs into the bag.
"That does it. We're going after that guy!"
Trailing the figure was hard work. Timon couldn't keep up, so he had to hop on Pumbaa's head. After what seemed like hours, they finally caught up enough to where Timon was able to hop off Pumbaa's head and challenge the stranger.
"Hey! You! Yeah, you with the rake! Stop!"
The figure of course, did not stop, and dodged into a nearby alley. Pumbaa snorted in resolution, Timon groaned because he had to run some more, and both of them gasped when they saw a large car barreling down at them when they breached the mouth of the alley.
There was an odd squelching noise, and the car continued on. Timon spoke into the dirt road his face had been plastered to.
"Pumbaa?" "Yes?" answered the hog, staring up at the sky with big, pancake eyes, the rest of him flattened into the ground.
"That really, really hurt." "I think I agree, Timon..." "But that won't stop us!" said Timon, jumping to his feet with a pop as he freed himself of the dirt, leaving a three-inch deep impression of himself. "We're going after that guy! Nobody runs Timon and Pumbaa over with a car and gets away with it! Come on, Pumbaa! We're off!" He suddenly bent over forwards and put a paw on his back, limping away with Pumbaa in tow.
"Oy... to the chiropractor...