Mario's Epic Quest for Profits

Chapter 2

After a brief sadness-caused downpour, Mr. Sun was again shining over Diamond City. Mario, who had been attempting to take refuge under an umbrella smaller than the ones in Wile E. Coyote cartoons, now made his way over to the side of a busy street in the heart of town. He then set down a decrepit old crate on the sidewalk. With the hasty scribbling of the words 'Errands - $5' on a greeting card with puppies on it, Mario's business was now open for…um…business.

The plumber-gone-entrepreneur sat down on the cement and reclined against the brick wall of a building. It wouldn't be long before some co-dependent whiner paid him to pre-chew their food. Mario had once done that for free, but only because that lasagna had looked so good.

Trying to dismiss a few unpleasant images, Mario now wondered why no one was stopping to so much as glance at his pleasantly wood-rotted business stand. People were always asking him for favors when he didn't want them to; why couldn't they do it when he did?

Mario sighed inwardly. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, he thought miserably. He rested his chin on his hands. The sky started to cloud over yet again. But before Mario could ruin anyone else's day at the beach, a man in a tweed suit and bowler hat came up to him.

"Hi, there! I see you're selling favors," the man said.

"You bet! Only five bucks!" Mario's spirits were beginning to lift again.

"Good! Well, I have a favor for you. I want you…to sleep with my wife."

"What? Why?"

"Because she's mean and ugly and horny. And that's a bad combination."

"Then no, I won't do it."

"Come on! She's…um, really hot."

Mario was starting to get a headache. "You just said she was mean and ugly!"

"I…um…lied."

The plumber wasn't convinced. "That's a picture of her, isn't it?" He pointed to a photograph of an extremely ugly and wrinkly woman hanging out of the man's pocket.

"Gasp! How'd you…I mean, no! That's my, uh…sister…"

"Get lost!"

"Oh, poo."

After the psycho had left, Mario cursed his luck. Out of all the people in this city, he had to get the weirdo.

Mario didn't have much time to dwell on this, however, as another man was briskly walking toward him.

"Howdy! You do favors?"

"Yup! Five greenbacks!"

"Oh, goody. Uh…so, the favors you do. Do they include being a hit man?"

"…No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Pretty please?"

"No."

"Pretty please with a cherry and sugar and pecans and syrup and a marshmallow on top?"

After rolling his eyes at the extremely masculine sentence he had just heard, Mario told this psycho to hit the road.

"Oh, fiddlesticks."

Mario decided he needed time to think, so he turned his greeting card around. His stand was now closed. Were there nothing but lunatics around here? It would figure that on the day he could actually profit from doing things, no one needed anything done. And to irritate him further, another man was now walking up to him. Was he stupid? The decrepit box was closed for business.

"Hi! I see your decrepit box is now blank Hallmark greeting card one dollar and fifty cents."

Before Mario could think too much about how much sense that didn't make, he realized he had forgotten to write "CLOSED" on the back of the card. He quickly did so before the man could request something sick or illegal.

"You're closed? Oh, popcorn."

Mario was now quite irritated. Would the stream of weird people with weird favors and weird expletives never end? He wagered that the rest of them were probably over in that mass of people crowding around something. Hey, wait…what is everybody doing over there? Fearing he would miss a street performer, or at least a particularly graphic public display of affection, Mario ran across the street and elbowed his way through the swarm.

But when he reached the center, he immediately regretted it. For, at the epicenter, was something so horrible, so evil, it was like finding a piece of poo in the middle of a chocolate truffle.

"Well, well, look what we have here. Let's just say that I decided to put my idea into action!"

In the center of the congregation was none other than Luigi. He was seated at a wooden crate, which was painted green and had less wood-rot than Mario's. Behind him was a cardboard box filled with something Mario couldn't see. But the worst part was, there were people crowding around and actually throwing their money at Luigi.

Luigi shoved his way through the crowd, which was almost as civilized as Overeaters Anonymous at All You Can Eat night. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, people, settle down. Hang on, I'll get you next. Yes, I know you were here first…ugh! Whew!"

As soon as Luigi had managed to distance himself at least two inches from the rest of the people (by use of several fireballs), he haughtily walked toward Mario, smirking.

"Mario, Mario, Mario. Isn't this a surprise? How's business going for you?"

Mario sensed Luigi already knew the answer, so he lied. "Good. In fact, I think I have to be going. Wouldn't want to keep the news cameras waiting." Before he could make a hasty escape, Luigi grabbed him by the arm.

"That's your stand over there, isn't it?" he said, pointing across the street to the crate, which promptly crumbled into dust.

Mario hung his head. "Yeah…"

"Ooh, too bad. But just think of this as a victory for justice. The man who got his idea stolen won out in the end."

Mario looked back at Luigi's place of business. Mario's crate didn't look much different from Luigi's. At least not before it crumbled. So what was driving the business? Mario decided to ask.

"Hey, Luigi?"

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

"What exactly is selling your favors? It's not like your place is any fancier than mine."

"Ah, Mario, how naïve of you. You see, if we simply had competing businesses selling things at the exact same prices, it would come down to a matter of which of us the customers preferred. And we all know who would win that, don't we?" Luigi stopped to shoot a dirty look at Mario, then continued: "See, I give people an incentive to choose the nice, handsome, neglected brother over the pompous, swelled-headed, egotistical, pot-bellied, Goomba-abusing--"

"Get on with it!"

"Uh, ahem. Anyway, what I'm doing is handing out free t-shirts with every purchase. Wanna see?" He reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a white t-shirt with a picture of Mario's head drawn in black marker. There was also a caption below the head which read "I Pooed Myself."

"You're making hundreds of dollars giving these away? And did you trace that picture from the Super Mario Bros. manual or what?"

"Maybe…but wait! There's more!" He pulled out several more shirts, each with the same picture as the first, but with different captions. Among them were "I Need to Eat More Fiber," "Church is the Cool Place to be," "I Eat Babies," and "I Cheated on Peach with Zelda."

"Ha ha! Pretty insulting, eh?" Luigi cackled evilly.

"Those aren't insulting, they're stupid! Not to mention they contradict each other. If I pooed myself, then why do I need to eat more fiber?"

"Well, see…"

"And everyone knows that Zelda's way outta my league."

"Okay, Mr. Critic, buy something before my orderly line turns into fisticuffs."

Since the line was anything but orderly before, Mario thought he would hate to see Luigi's definition of fisticuffs. "Okay," he said, "I'll take one of those 'I Cheated on Peach with Zelda' shirts."

"Ten bucks."

"Deal!"

Hee hee, this shirt's so cool, Mario thought to himself as he walked back to his pile of dust. Oh, wait. Dangit, I haven't made a cent, and Luigi's getting rich off my brilliant idea!

Mario sat back against the wall, despondently wondering how he was ever going to compete with his brother. It took Mario a few seconds to realize that the "wall" he was reclining against was in fact a man.

"Oh, excuse me, homeless vagrant. I didn't notice you."

The "homeless vagrant" was like no one Mario had ever seen. The stranger was wearing a blue parka, and he had a handlebar mustache, a style that Mario would never even consider.

"Whoa! Popo, have you grown facial hair?"

"I am no Popo," the man said. "I am a man whose help you need desperately."

"What? How do you know that I need help? Who are you, anyway?"

"I am known by many names," the parka guy said in the cryptic fashion of an important person. "I have been called the Eskimo Entrepreneur, the Snowy Salesman, That Creepy Guy in the Parka, and Mithrandir."

"Really?"

"Well, all except for that last one. But most call me…the Sage of Business."

Sage of Business…Mario racked his brains for where he could have heard something like that before, and then it hit him.

"Are you related to those Seven Sages from Hyrule?" Mario asked.

"Ah, very perceptive, you are," the Sage said. Mario could just imagine the fit of giggles Luigi would be in if he had heard that. "But no," the Sage continued, "I am not part of the Seven Sages. If I were, it would be the Eight Sages, and that's much less alliterative. Plus, the Sage of Sages doesn't like me very much."

"Why not?" Mario couldn't think of anyone that Zelda didn't like, with the possible exception of Ganondorf.

"Well, let's just say I defrauded her out of a thousand Rupees when I told her what I was selling was an antique piece of jewelry from the early days of Hyrule, when in fact it was just an antique prawn."

Suppressing the gag reflex, Mario managed to ask: "So can you help me?"

"Oh, yes. I was once in this predicament in my younger days. I shall impart everything I know about business, entrepreneurism, and salesmanship to you. Who knows? You could be my heir."

"Your…heir?" said Mario dreamily. He imagined himself in a tweed suit and a bow tie, handing out pamphlets. "Oh man, I'd be such a chick magnet."

"Yes, well…here is your first task…"

At the mansion…

"Moan…whine…rrrghhh…"

Bowser was lying in a leather Barkalounger making hideous whining noises. Not to mention irritating the rest of the Smashers and severely damaging the fabric with his spikes.

Marth, who was sitting across the room, put down his book called A Long-Winded and Extremely Detailed History of Everything (Complete with Quotes from God or At Least Crazy Religious Fanatics Who Think They Are).

"Bowser, would you please stop groaning? You sound and look like a dying cow. And you smell like one, too."

"Well," the Koopa King said, "it's just that I'm bored. See, I was supposed to have a practice match with the Mario Bros. today, but they're not here."

"I'll tell you where they are if you stop whining."

"Deal!"

"Well, I believe that they went out to sell favors."

"Favors? You mean like…"

"No, the other kind. Anyway, I think they're now business rivals and Luigi's winning. That's all I know."

"Hmm," Bowser said. "Plumbers, golfers, princess-rescuers, kart drivers, plus royal pains-in-the-ass, and now entrepreneurs. How do they do it?"

Marth made a noncommittal noise from behind his book.

"Of course, there's no way they could stand up to my friend Wario," Bowser continued. "Now there's a businessman. That guy could kick their puny Italian butts into mezzogiorno."

"Midday?"

"I meant next week. All Italian words are made up of il, dello, mezzo, giorno, and pesci."

Marth rolled his eyes.

"As I was saying, the Mario Bros. would be no match for Mr. Wario, let me tell you. He'd crush 'em. Yep. Crush 'em…"

"Mazletov," said Marth absently.

"'Scuse me, I've got a phone call to make."

Marth gave Bowser a thumbs-up from behind his book.

Bowser walked into the next room and dialed a number on the telephone.

"Yes?" a voice growled on the other side of the line.

"Buon giorno! Il giorno é dello pesci!" said Bowser.

"What?"

"Wario, it's Bowser. I thought you knew Italian!"

"I do," said Wario. "You just said the day was made of fish. But, you know, Bowser, I'm not Italian. In fact, I don't know what nationality I am. Some have said I'm Polish as well."

"Oh, really? Then…uh…wladislaw kosciuszko czy ni polski grabowski!"

"Look, Bowser, I'd love to discuss gibberish with you, but I'm a very busy man. Now what do you want?" said Wario angrily.

"Well, do you know Mario and Luigi?" asked Bowser.

Wario sighed. "Do you mean to say that after seven of Mario's stupid parties, not to mention numerous stupid-ass sporting events, you think that I don't know them better than I'd like?"

"Oh, good, you've met them. Well, I've got a favor for you. I need you to knock them down a peg or two."

"What am I, your personal hit man? Don't think so, Bowser. It would be bad for my image as an honest businessman."

"Oh, no, you don't have to kill them," the King Koopa said. "See, they think they're hot stuff because they're out selling favors. So--"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Wario. "You mean favors, like--"

"No, the other kind. Anyway, what I want you to do is show them that they're not so cool after all. You know, lower their self-confidence a few notches. That way, they'll come back and I can torment them. What do you say?"

"Look, Bowser, I--"

"I'll even give you a pair of those fuzzy socks with the kittens on them that you like…."

"Don't mention that over the phone, Bowser! The line could be tapped!"

"Yeah, sure. So will you do it?"

"Fine. Just don't mention the, uh, uzzy-fay ocks-say, if you know what I mean."

"You mean the--"

"Goodbye, Bowser." Wario hung up the phone.

"Mweheheheheheh," laughed Bowser maniacally. "Hahahahaha--ack! I'm choking…somebody help me…gack!"

"He always does that," Yoshi whispered to Marth back in the living room.

Now, here's the answer to the question: the answer is WarioWare Inc.!

Congratulations to luigifan2234 and the pen pals for getting it right. And don't worry, I didn't forget about you, Xiao-Darkcloud or paperpenguin, even though you didn't get it right.

If you haven't played the WarioWare games, you really should. They're fun, especially if you have a short attention span.

Okay, so...yeah. That's it for this chapter. Review!