Author's Note: SATURDAY: No, Liz, you're not seeing things. We really are updating.
DAKKI: After a most triumphant phone conversation last night.
DALTON: Which took about an hour and a half. I was ashamed.
SATURDAY: But it was worth it—oh, it was worth it, my friends. For I found that my dear Dakki is not a fourty-two-year-old rapist, but in actuality a sixteen-year-old girl with a voice!
DAKKI: ((gasps)) Who would have thought?!
Disclaimer: We own nothing, except for the ice cube, which belongs to Dakki, and the water bottle, which belong to Saturday.
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Chapter Three—The Amazing Singing Canadian Sasquatch
That night, we were freezing cold, terrified, eaten alive by mosquitoes, and tortured by Spot's sleep-singing of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." Every single time a leaf rustled or a twig snapped, we were convinced it was the vicious creature emerging from the woods to tear off our arms, snap our necks, mash us up, and eat us on toast. I spent the entire night unable to think straight, scared out of my wits, curled up next to David as I watched him sleep. And all in all, I don't think I had ever been happier in my life.
Apart from David, who I was beginning to thing could sleep through anything, none of us got any real rest that night. For the first few hours we actually tried to put the (enormous, eight-foot, red-eyed, fanged) monster out of our heads and get some shut-eye, but around midnight we had given up and begun to try to pass the time. First we pretended we were soldiers in a trench in World War I, which was fun for a while, with Racetrack speaking longingly about his doily collection back home and Swifty and Bumlets making out as if they would never see each other again (which, granted, wasn't all that different from how they normally acted). But Spot got pissed off at me when I claimed he was dead and we'd have to bury him, and tried to smack me upside the head, and ended up getting even more tangled up in the brambles he had been sleeping in, and then while he was struggling to get out he somehow got his tongue impaled on a thorn. Then he wailed miserably for about ten minutes until Racetrack finally got up and pulled it out (Spot couldn't do it because his hands were stuck too), at which point Spot's entire tongue swelled up and he developed a lisp.
"You sound like Jack that time he cut his tongue on an ice cube," Race said, laughing.
"Thut up."
"Remember that, Jack?" Racetrack asked me. "Winter break of Freshman year? And that was the day you went to dinner at Davey's house, and every time you smiled you had, like, a foot of tongue poking out."
"Yeah, Race, I remember…"
"Mrs. Jacobs wouldn't even let you in the house for a year. Remember that, Spot? Remember Jack's tongue?"
"Oh, go fuck yourthelf, Mithter Higginth," Spot muttered, at which point Racetrack laughed so hard that he nearly rolled into a tree.
Eventually, sympathy got the best of me and, since I felt so sorry for Spot, I let him choose the next game we would play. So until dawn we did really quiet charades, so that the monster wouldn't hear us, and David wouldn't wake up. He just looked so peaceful when he was asleep.
"All right, I know one thing for sure," said Bumlets around four in the morning. "When Jack cut his tongue that time, his lisp definitely wasn't as bad as Spot's right now."
"Hey!" said Spot sulkily. "That'th mean and entirely unnethethary. It'th not my fault the brambleth have it in for me."
"Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts," said Swifty.
"Shut up, Thwifty."
"Oooh!" Bumlets laughed. "That sounds like a term of endearment! From now on, I'm calling you Thwifty!", and with that, he and his boyfriend resumed their passionate game of tonsil hockey.
Spot stared longingly at the pair of them for a minute, and then remembered he was supposed to be upset, and pouted again. "That'th it," he said with conviction. "I'm pulling a David Thedaris and not uthing any more wordth with the letter 'eth' in them."
"HA! Good luck with that," Racetrack sniggered.
Spot stuck his tongue out at him, a gesture which was probably meant to be somewhat menacing, but the fact that his tongue was now about the size of my fist sort of ruined the effect. It was quite a while before Race could stop laughing. "So you really think you can avoid all words with the letter 's' in 'em?" he said with a grin.
Spot nodded firmly. "I do indeed," he said.
"Well then." Racetrack rubbed his hands together, his dark eyes sparkling maniacally. "I challenge you to a battle of wits."
"For Jack?" asked Spot eagerly.
"HEY!" I said indignantly.
"For Jack," Race agreed, nodding.
"To the death?" Spot continued.
Race nodded again.
Spot smiled. "All right, then. I'll take you on. Pour the wine."
We didn't have any wine, but a great procedure was made of passing around Bumlets' water bottle and swearing, Dead Poet's Honor (or, in Spot's case, The Honor of More Than One Dead Bard), that whoever won the battle of wits would get me. I wasn't quite sure what this meant, but I decided to wake David up just in case. He was very clever, and I wanted him to win me. Mwaha.
"So Spot," said Racetrack, clapping his hands together and smiling in a sinister sort of way. "Let's begin quite simply. What is your name?"
And Spot smiled back and answered quite smoothly, "In my homeland they call me Gabriel, but I prefer 'Pot' with the nineteenth letter of the alphabet attached to the beginning."
Wow. Something Spot was actually good at.
"What do you think of Leonardo DiCaprio?" I asked.
"A very good-looking and talented young man."
"Which do you think is his best work?"
There was a pause. We all knew that Spot loved 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape', but there was definitely an "s" in that title. And he would rather swallow the rest of the bramble bush than change the title of such a masterpiece.
"...'Titanic'," he said.
"Liar," I said immediately.
"Be quiet, my love," said Spot evenly.
"HE LIKES 'WHAT'S EATING GILBERT GRAPE'!" I insisted.
David touched my arm, smiling at me. "Jack, even if he does; do you really want to win yourself?"
I didn't talk much after that point.
"Continue the battle, gentlemen; I find it quite thrilling, to be truthful," said Spot airily.
"Nice vocabulary," said Bumlets with a grin. "You sound absolutely bizarre, did you know that?"
"Yeah, I know." This did not seem to be going over very well with Spot's ego. He kept sending me fleeting glances which I tried to ignore... At least he couldn't make disturbing gestures with his tongue anymore.
"I'm out of ideas," said Race after a moment. "Let's consider our old high school. What was your favorite subject?"
"Lunch doesn't count," said David.
Spot glared at him. "The language in which we talk," he said slowly.
"English, then," said Bumlets.
"Mm-hmm."
Race drummed his fingertips against the log upon which he was seated. "And what was your favorite kind of sandwich during lunch?"
Spot scowled. "During lunch I frequently ate chopped marine life on white bread," he said grudgingly.
At which point Swifty burst into hysterical laughter and Spot scowled even more. "You shouldn't belittle me and my limited vocabulary," he said grumpily.
"But you called seafood salad 'marine life'!" Swifty gasped through tears of laughter. "I am putting that on my profile when we get back!"
"You are such a girl," said Bumlets fondly, kissing his boyfriend on the temple.
"No, I'm jutht a walking homothexual thtereotype," Swifty answered, grinning, and they began to make out again.
David sighed, and I squirmed slightly and tried to discreetly pull him closer to my chest. "What did you think of Race when you first met him?" he asked Spot, completely unaware of my desperation to be near him.
"An idiot," said Spot without hesitation.
"HEY!" Race snapped, smacking him.
"And me?"
"Cute, but annoying."
"Um, thanks... I guess..." David shuddered slightly. "Oh, and Bumlets and Swifty?"
"The latter I believed to be completely mute, and the former appeared to be very attractive but not very intelligent," said Spot.
"And my trig teacher, Mr. Fenster?" David prompted.
"A heroine addict."
"Race's dog?"
"A bat lacking the ability to fly."
"Your French teacher?"
"An convict from the Czech Republic."
"And Johnny Damon?"
"A Neanderthal."
"And Jack?"
"A thexy beatht."
There was a pause, and Swifty and Bumlets actually stopped kissing (something that happens very rarely) and stared at Spot. And then at David. "You win," said Race slowly. "Now we see who is right, and who is dead."
"I AM NOT DEAD!" Spot yelped.
"No, but you have just officially lost Jack."
Silence.
I stared down at my fingers, focusing on entwining them together in a complicated sort of knot so as to avoid eye-contact with David—who was focusing on entwining his shoelaces together in a complicated sort of knot, too. Spot appeared to have lost the capacity to speak altogether, and was now mouthing wordlessly at Racetrack. Swifty and Bumlets had lost interest; they were making out again.
Finally, Spot spoke. "But—but he'th myJacky-boy!"
"Not anymore," said Race, smirking. "He's Dave's Jacky-boy now."
"HE ITH NOT!"
"You agreed to it, Spot. Dead Poet's Honor. You swore on the holy water bottle!"
"Race, Thwifty lookth like he'th trying to force the water bottle down Bumletth' panth at the moment. I don't think it'th very holy anymore."
"How dare you!" I snapped suddenly. They all looked at me, surprised, except David, who continued to examine his shoelaces. "All of you, sitting around deciding my future? I am not a prize to be won!"
Which turned Spot on much more than I initially hoped.
By the time the sun rose and no one had yet been eaten, we were all feeling pretty sure that Bigfoot was not coming to get us today. We finally managed to get Spot out of the brambles, started up Race's MountainMan 3000 and were just about to leave, when all of a sudden the thing we had been dreading happened at last. And, as usual, it was completely Spot Conlon's fault.
Maybe he was overcome by the glory of the sunrise. Maybe he had just gone too long without singing. I don't know. But for whatever reason, as we were packing up and I was trying to get up the nerve to try to kiss David, Spot climbed up a hill, flung back his arms in operatic pose, and began to sing.
"I WANNA BE! WHERE THE PEOPLE ARE! I WANNA THEE! WANNA THEE 'EM DANTHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN…."
Oh my God. The Little fucking Mermaid.
"UP WHERE THEY WALK! UP WHERE THEY RUN! UP WHERE THEY THTAY ALL DAY IN THE THUN!..."
And then, a strange thing happened. Another voice joined Spot's: a voice that was loud, and low, and booming. And sounded to me like it was coming from a mouth that had an awful lot of teeth in it.
"Wanderin' free! WITHH I could beeeeeeeeee…..part of that WOOOOOOOOOORRRRLLD!"
Spot turned around, grinning like an idiot, and took a bow. Then, he saw the expressions on our face, and noticed that we were staring at him in horror.
Or, more accurately, staring at something behind him.
"What ith it?" Spot asked, oblivious.
"Oh, my God," Swifty muttered, clinging to Bumlets's toned bicep for support. "It's Spot's ex-boyfriend."
We all stared at him. "What the fuck," said Racetrack after a minute.
Swifty sighed, obviously exasperated that we didn't understand. "It's DROGGO!" he said with the air of speaking to someone either very small or very stupid.
"It's BIGFOOT, you dumbass!" Race snapped.
"Oh." Swifty squinted. "Wait, are you sure? Because I really could have sworn it was—"
"SWIFTY! Eight feet tall, covered with fur, enormous teeth? Vocabulary limited to grunts? Could that be anyone but Bigfoot? Has Bumlets finally sucked your brain out through your mouth?"
Swifty just rolled his eyes and skipped off down th hill to make out some more with Bumlets. Sighing, Racetrack turned to me, running a hand through his hair. "God, what an idiot," he muttered.
"Actually," David said thoughtfully, "He does have a point."
I looked at the enormous figure that was standing behind Spot (who was still completely oblivious). Davey was right. If you got him at the right angle, Bigfoot could have easily passed for Spot's ex-boyfriend.
Before we started going out at the end of Freshman year, Spot had been having a long-term romance for some time with a Canadian soccer player named Droggo, who was nearly seven feet tall, furry, and had a vocabulary that seemed to consist entirely of bad scrabble hands. For almost nine months he lived pretty much exclusively in the room that Spot shared with Bumlets, drinking all the instant coffee, stretching out Bumlets' legwarmers, and leaving the entire place smelling "like Canada." Finally, after Droggo and all of his soccer team friends managed to break Bumlets' prized first-place dance trophy during an impromptu soccer game, Bumlets snapped. He packed his bags, had a quiet nervous breakdown, and moved into Swifty and Dave's room, and it can be said that the one good thing that came of Spot and Droggo's courtship was Bumlets and Swifty getting together. I only wish that David could have seen it as an opportunity to move into my dorm room.
"What ith it?" Spot asked in exasperation, after none of us had said anything for nearly five minutes, all staring, as we were, at Bigfoot. "What'th going on?"
"Spot," Race said, "I want you to listen to me carefully. Take a deep breath. Don't panic. And slowly turn around."
Sensing the importance of the situation, Spot followed directions. He took a deep breath, turned around, and came face to face with Bigfoot. And shrieked.
"Jethuth Chritht!" he cried. "It'th DROGGO!"
"I TOLD YOU!" Swifty shouted from the bottom of the hill.
"Spot, you idiot!" Race moaned. "It isn't Droggo. It's Bigfoot."
"Are you pothitive?" Spot asked. He turned to Bigfoot and poked him in the chest. "Ith that you, Droggo? I thought you were back in Thathkatchewan!"
"Grf," Bigfoot said, and without another word, he picked up Spot, slung him over his shoulder, and stalked off into the woods.
"Do we really have to save h—"
"YES," Racetrack said, "don't even argue."
"Really?"
"Jack, it's not Spot I'm worried about. It's Bigfoot. Think about what that hormone-driven Brooklynite could do to him in two hours."
"Um," said David. "I'd really rather not."
"Exactly," said Racetrack, adjusting his fedora, and with that, we set off into the woods.
-----
"Is this entirely necessary? I think we're wasting our time. Do you really think the world's gonna miss a horny flaming sixteen-year-old and an eight-foot fuzzy Alaskan man?" I demanded, poking Race in the chest.
"He's not a man, he's a Big Foot!"
"Brilliant observation, Bumlets," said Race, rolling his eyes. He turned back to me. "In all honesty, I don't think the world would miss either of them."
"Well then why are we going to find them?" I demanded.
"Because Big Foot is part of the Alaskan culture!" David yelped.
He was so sexy when he was being smart. Which was all the time. Goddammit, he was always so frickin' sexy!
Wait, I forgot. I was in the middle of arguing. Must—get—mind—off—David—
"There is no Alaskan culture!" I cried, throwing my hands into the air. "It's, like, nonexistent! I've never even met an Alaskan, let alone many Alaskans, which would create an entire culture!"
"Actually, there are approximately 324,112 males and 302,820 females in the state of Alaska as of 2000," David mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.
"Besides—Spot is our friend!" said Bumlets.
We all stared at him for a good long while. "You really are a meathead, Bumlets," said Race after a moment. "How in HELL you managed to get into such a good college, I'll never know."
"It's because I'm so good-looking," said Bumlets seriously.
"Amen to that," Swifty with a giggle, pinching his boyfriend's ass. "I love boys with dark hair."
"So do I," said Bumlets, and they began to make out again. While walking. I was very impressed with their talent.
Race frowned. "Well... I like blondes!" he said, obviously wishing he had a snappier comeback.
"I like brunets," said David quietly, sounding almost wistful.
Racetrack shot him a sidelong glance. "So he really is your Jacky-boy, then," he said slyly.
David choked. "What?!"
"You like brunets!" Race crowed. He tried to pat my head, but I wiggled out of the way, bright red. "This is hysterical. How long have you been crushin' on Jack? Man, if Spot only knew you were—"
"I am NOT attracted to Jack!" David yelped.
"Suuuuure, I believe you."
"I'm not!"
"You aaaaaare!"
"No I'm NOT! There is no way that I could possibly be attracted to Jack Kelly of all people—oh, no offense, Jack."
"...none taken..."
Race sighed slightly, running a hand through his hair. "All right then, Dave. Prove it," he challenged.
David groaned. "How?!"
I really, really wished he hadn't left it up to Racetrack to decide; he was the type of kid who was too creative for his own good when it came to evil plots. He had mapped out our entire high school in his freshman year, and was all set to plant stink bombs in all of the drinking fountains and toilets on April Fool's. Luckily, the teachers found the map before he could begin to execute his plan, and April Fool's Day was blissfully stink bomb-free.
"Kiss Jack," he said after a moment, putting his hands into his pockets and grinning. "If you're so secure in the fact that you're not attracted to him, then kiss him. Bumlets, Swifty, and I will watch your groin and make sure you don't get an erection."
"RACE!" David and I yelped, both looking involuntarily down at his groin and then turning pink and looking away again.
"I think it's a great idea!" said Bumlets, and Swifty nodded vehemently. "If you don't like each other it's not gonna hurt anyone, and if you do like each other, then you might end up like Swifty and me!"
"God forbid," said Race, shuddering.
Swifty threw his water bottle at him.
David glanced at me, eyes wide. "Um..." he said awkwardly, and he looked away again and shoved his hands into his pockets.
"Aw c'mon, Dave, it'll only take a minute!" Swifty laughed.
"I don't like Jack!" said David desperately.
"And I'm sure Jack doesn't like you, now just go and kiss him!" said Race impatiently, grabbing David's arm and pushing him against my chest. He stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.
I swallowed with difficulty. This can't be happening this can't be happening this can't be happening this can't be—
"Um... Okay." David coughed. "Let's just get this over with, all right? I mean, I like you, just..."
"Yeah, I know," I answered, studying his shoelaces.
There was a brief, awkward pause.
David reached forward and tipped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. Jesus Christ, did that boy have nice eyes. Clear and blue and cold and smoldering and terrifying and peaceful all at once, and I was having difficulty breathing. He moved his hand from my chin and smoothed it along the back of my neck, and then leaned forward—
"ONLY YOOOOU CAN MAKE THITH WORLD THEEM RIIIIIIGHT! ONLY YOOOOOU CAN MAKE THE DARKNETH BRIIIIIIGHT! ONLY YOU AND YOU ALOOONE CAN THRILL ME LIKE YOU DOOOO AND FILL MY HEART WITH LOVE FOR ONLY YOOOOOOOU! Thing with me, Droggo! ONLY YOOOOU CAN MAKE THITH CHAAAAANGE IN MEEEEEE! FOR IT'TH TRUUUUUUUE, YOU ARE MY DETHTINYYYYYYY! Or denthity, if you're George McFly, I gueth. Have you theen that movie, Droggo? 'Back to the Future'? Michael J. Foxth ith tho cuuute!"
David pulled back. I groaned and closed my eyes, my heart sinking to around my knees. WHY?!
"It's coming from over there!" Bumlets announced, pointing dramatically. "It's Spot, and he's singing that creepy song from 'So I Married An Axe Murderer'! WE MUST GO AND SAVE DROGGO!"
Which is exactly what we did.
I got there first. This was mainly because Bumlets and Swifty had insisted on running in slow-motion, and Racetrack, inspired by the drama of the situation, was trying to take photos of everything we passed as we chased after Spot and Droggo, while narrating. He tripped over a tree root right in the middle of saying "now this tree-shaped blur is actually a tree shaped tree, if you'll notice the distinct tree shape," and then he started crying and wanted to have his owie kissed, and then Swifty had to give him his last Big Bird Band-Aid, which he wasn't very happy about. For someone who wears pink bunny pajamas with footies, Racetrack isn't so tough.
And then, finally, we arrived in a clearing in the middle of the woods. I don't know what we had been expecting, exactly. Maybe Spot trying to rape Droggo. Or Spot being chased by Droggo. Or Spot having been torn to pieces by Droggo (I liked that one especially). But whatever it was, that wasn't what we saw. Because we came into the clearing and stumbled across our two friends, there was no mistaking the position they were in: Droggo was holding Spot in a passionate embrace, crushing him to his hairy chest, and kissing him passionately.
"Race," Bumlets said, "give me your fedora."
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm gonna puke in it."
Suddenly, Droggo broke away from Spot, looked off to the horizon, and, teary-eyed, began to sing. "NEVER KNEW, I COULD FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL LIKE THIS! LIKE I'VE NEVER SEEN THE SKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY BE-E-FORE!"
"WANT TO VANISH INTHIIIIIIIIIIDE YOUR KITH!" Spot sang, "EVERY DAY, I LOVE YOU MOOOORE, A-AND MORE! Oh, Droggo, what a lovely thinging voithe you have!"
"Ég ást þú, ákaflega stuttur manneskja með hlægilegur áhersla," Droggo remarked passionately.
"Oh, Droggo. I love you too." Spot smiled and sang: "LITHEN TO MY HEART, YOU CAN HEEEEEEEEEEAR IT THINGTH!"
"TELLING MEEEEE TO GIVE YOU EEEEEEEEEEEEV'RYTHING!" Droggo sang back.
"THEATHONTH MAY CHANGE! WINTER TO THPRING!"
"BUT I LOVE YOU…UNTIL THE EEEEEEEEEEEND OF TIME!"
Droggo actually had a pretty good voice. It was deep and gravelly, sort of like Louis Armstrong's.
"Oh my GOD," Racetrack murmured, staring at them. "Guys, do you know what this means?"
"What does it mean, Race?" I asked wearily.
"I AM GOING TO HAVE THE BEST BIOGRAPHY EVER! And better yet—I can bring Bigfoot back to Boston, and market him as the Amazing Singing Sasquatch! We'll be millionaires!" He gasped, a look of ecstasy crossing over his face. "…I'll finally be able to buy a pet elephant…"
"But what if he actually is Droggo?" Swifty asked.
"Then I'll market him as the Amazing Singing Canadian. It's win-win." I could practically see the dollar signs in Racetrack's eyes.
"Oh, Droggo," Spot said, breathlessly, once they had finished singing, "I've never felt thith way, about anybody. I love you more than life itthelf."
Droggo picked Spot up and hugged him. "Við skulum gera rt viðbjóðslegur!"
"Oh, Droggo," Spot murmured, blushing.
"Gera þú ást mig eins og mikill eins og blekkingar-kúreki?" Droggo asked earnestly.
"Droggo!" Spot said. "How can you even thay that? Of courthe I love you more than Jack! I uthed to love him, sure…I mean, he wath my Jacky-boy. But then I lotht him, and I found you. And you're tho much better. Because…you're my Droggy-boy!"
Both Spot and Droggo started to cry with joy. Swifty looked on fondly. "Young love," he murmured softly. "Hey Bumlets, you wanna make out?"
"SPOT!" Racetrack called. "ASK BIGFOOT IF HE WANTS TO COME BACK TO BOSTON WITH US!"
"Droggy-Boy," Spot asked breathlessly, "how would you like to leave Alathka, and come back to Bothton to live with me?"
Droggo smiled, overjoyed. "Innilega ástvinur við mér skilst hér til segja okkar kveðja hér hún lies enginn knew hana virði the seint mikill dóttir af móðir jörð á this nótt hvenær við halda hátíðlegan the fæðing í þessi lítill bær af við ala upp okkar gler þú veðmál þinn rass til til sem minnir á gömlu dagana af innblástur leika skróp gerð eitthvað út af ómerkingur the þörf til tjá til miðla til að fara aftur the frækorn að fara geðveikur að fara vitlaus til elskandi spenna neitun eftirlaun til fleiri en einn mælivídd til starving fyrir eftirtekt hating siðvenja hating tilkall ekki til umtal auðvitað hating yndi gamall mamma og pabbi til útreiðar þinn reiðhjól iðdegi fortíð the þrír stykki föt til ávöxtur til neitun alger til alger til val til þorp rödd til un til dans neitun vegur til gera a líf sjálfskvalarfýsn sársauki fullkomnun vöðvi krampi hnykklæknir stuttur starfsferill eating ringulreið filma ævintýri leiðinlegur neitun fjölskylda leiðinlegur staðsetning dimma íbúð fullkominn andlit egos peningar og skítseyði tónlist stærðfræði einangrun taktur tilfinning máttur samræmi og þungur samkeppni stjórnleysi bylting réttlæti öskrandi fyrir lausn gerð lystigarður til mig til mig til þú og þú og þú þú og þú til fólk líf iwth líf með líf með ekki deyjandi frá sjúkdómur láta hann á meðal okkur án synd vera the fyrstur tto fordæma."
"That means 'Yes'," Spot said helpfully.
--
Shoutouts!
--
Sapphy
DALTON: ((runs in slow motion)) K-K-K-K-K-K-K-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y!
KENNEDY: ((runs in slow motion)) C-C-C-C-C-C-C-C-C-C-C-C-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!
CRUTCHY: ((hobbles in slow motion)) W-W-W-W-W-W-W-H-H-H-H-H-H-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-T-T T-T-T-H-H-H-H-H-E-E-E-E-E H-H-H-H-H-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L I-I-I-I-S-S-S G-G-G-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-N-G O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-N-N-N-N-N-N-N?
DAKKI: ((grins)) While they're busy with that…Miss Sapphykins, we have decided that for your incredibly recognition of nearly EVERY Indiana Jones reference, and your incredibly use of exclamation points AND the fact that you are the best reviewer EVER, you shall be awarded a night on the town with Racetrack Higgins! Allow me to present you with this twenty-dollar gift certificate for Chuck E. Cheese's.
RACETRACK: ((proudly)) Where a kid can be a kid!
--
Uninvisible
RACETRACK: ((dances)) Who's got the sexiest hat on the block?
DAKKI AND SATURDAY: It's him! It's Race!
DALTON: And who wins first runner-up for the Indiana Jones reference recognition
prize?
RACETRACK: …Me?
DALTON: Er.
SATURDAY: For your brilliant recognition and uber-fannage of Indiana Jones, we present you with…a night on the town with Charlie Dalton! To get to the hottest nightclubs in town, you will be presented with this luxury…golf cart.
DALTON: ((honks the horn))
--
Dreamer110
DALTON: How DID Spot get all those potatoes into Alaska?
RACETRACK: A number of theories have been devised.
DALTON: Theory 1(a.)—he put a potato in his bag and forgot about it, and then the potato, which was above average intelligence, cloned itself using the technologies available, thus creating a race of super-potatoes. Theory 1(b.)—a baked potato—
DAKKI: Do you get the sense that she was just being polite, guys?
DALTON: No.
--
Erin Go Bragh
JACK: WHY IS ME SINGING SO FUNNY! I'm a good singer! I have a good voice!
((crickets))
JACK: Right? …RIGHT?
SATURDAY: Um…let's move on…
--
Braids21
DALTON: What? Am I not great?
JACK: Do I not sing great?
DALTON: YES! And so do I! Jack, we have been ignored for too long.
JACK: Indeed.
DALTON: A-one, two…
JACK: MARRRIIIIAAA, MAARRIIIIAAA, MARRRIIIIAAAA…I just met a girl named MARIAAA!The most beautiful sound I EVER heard…
DALTON: The most beautiful sound I EVER heard…
--
Aelia O'Hession
RACETRACK: Never question my sanity.
DALTON: For it is obvious that he has none.
RACETRACK: Yep! ((pause)) …Wait a minute…
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Author's Note: DAKKI: So... Yeah! Leave a review!
SATURDAY: A nice, long one.
DAKKI: With exclamation points.
DALTON: And many references to how much you love me.
SATURDAY: Good night to all! ((blows kiss))
-Saturday and Dakki