.--------------------. | Furniture Warriors | `--------------------' A Spoof Chase Production (http://spoof.maison-otaku.net) Ressurected by Improfanfic (http://pixelscapes.com/improfanfic) Improfanfic Edition : Part I : How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love the Chair Part II : The Gathering (or, The Lame, Generic Title) Part III : Coffee, Tea, or Manslaughter? -=- Author's foreward to the previous author's foreward : Well, if you build it, they will come... FW has been my longest running completely unfinished stagnant project, the first major Spoof Chase Productions release. After part three.. I just ran out of ideas and moved on to other things. Once in awhile, I'd get a letter from some crazed fan wondering when part four would be available, and I'd have to say that the project was basically dead. Unable to tolerate a Furniture Warriors-less existence, a few authors at Improfanfic suggested I make this an impro. I won't say I got a landslide of a response, but more than enough to make it so. And here we are. The actual text is identical to the stories as posted in 1996, including the 'karoke' misspelling and the supposed history of this video game. I just edited a few obsolete author's notes out. Share and enjoy. And remember... if you'd like to write a part of the Furniture Warriors saga, tune into Improfanfic. It's the most fun you can have without your pants on. -=- (1996) Author's foreword : I'd better explain the roots of this first. This is based on a Playstation game which was recently released in Japan to not-so-incredible reviews, that I managed to see on a friend's japanese-chip equipped system. It's the brainchild of one of the original designers of Street Fighter 2, and a CADCAM architect from Germany; the concept of a Virtua Fighter / Toshinden style one on one fighting game where the weapons are chairs and tables and desks and things. Most of the character design was outsourced, but the actual models for the weapons were ported straight from the architect's libraries for added realism. One thing all reviews mention is the incredibly lifelike furniture; it really adds to the game! The only problem with this is that it's absurd. They're hitting each other with CHAIRS, for crying out loud. I think I read an interview where the authors said they tried to make a serious game, but the fans assumed it was some sort of silly parody because of the 'furniture' aspect. As a result, when it came time to animate this beast, the OVA (which I couldn't find a fansub for, but located a plot summary for on some web page) was kind of dorky. It really went beyond stupid at times, especially with that half-assed Yellow Submarine tribute scene. I almost felt like vomiting at the superdeformed tribute to A Clockwork Orange, too. Although I hear Mamoru Oiishi is considering picking up the series for a movie called 'Furniture Warriors : Kanketshuen' in order to give the show some justice, I figured it couldn't hurt to jump on the ball now and fanfic how *I* think the story should go. I'll also be distributing a few scans from the manual of the game, so you can see what Ikea, Yarslov, Lumi-chan, Shelly, Mick, Fifi, Hugh and Otto actually look like. And I'm considering including Livewire or Queen Radiance in the story, because even though they were overlooked in the OVA (not too many people had seen these hidden characters, they made them pretty hard to access) they're just TOO cool to pass up. If I can fit them into the plot, I'll toss in the ULTRA secret hidden chars as well. Let's hope some american Playstation developer picks up this title to port; it's sure to be great for a laugh at how noncorporeal it is. It'd also be great to see other authors fanfic this wonderful non-game! -=- The mountains were quiet that day. The mountains are usually quiet. That was half the reason of picking them as a location for the monastery; a little peace and quiet to train in brutal combat alongside. The other half of the reason for the location was convenience to shopping. (Not THAT convenient, you still had a good day's hike to get to the nearest 7-11, but better than some mountaintop locales their neighbors bought into.) At the moment, nobody was out shopping. In fact, most of the monks were busy fighting. It was half past teatime, the traditional time for the Great Brawl, a test of skill, courage and speed. It resulted in a few bumps and bruises, but the monks could duck out of the brawl or just not attend if they didn't feel up to it -- whoever was left standing won the honors of being served first at dinner that night. The Ancient and Honorable Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo seated, fed, clothed and bedded fifty monks in all, including descendants and ascendant and pets. Sweaty, proud, manly men in all. Ikea was in particular very sweaty and proud. For the fourth day running, he had managed to outlast everybody else in the Brawl. When the last monk, Brother Ipswitch, decided to back off rather than face him, the flag was raised and Ikea declared the victor. Ikea didn't smile. He just wasn't a smiles and laughs and obvious shows of emotion person. He did give a rough nod of acknowledgement and a deep bow of respect before neatly sliding his folding wooden chair onto his back again, however. "Ikea-kun, you have done well!" Venerable Master Oakcraft said, clapping lightly. "Four wins in a row. I believe you are shaping up to be a most honorable heir to our ancient and wise fighting form." "Arigato, sensei," Ikea said, bowing. "Please, Ikea-kun, call me father." "Hai, sensei," Ikea said, bowing. Oakcraft sighed, and let it pass. The boy had been perhaps brought up a bit TOO strictly into the codes of honor and protocols of behavior and procedures of practice and what not... Oakcraft was chasing girls and eating bad food when he was the boy's age. Ikea just studied manuscripts of fighting and did katas. The boy would never get a wife at this rate and the school would die out. But it was better than the other choice for heir. "Waiwai! Over here, over here!" a voice giggled, from the front door. Much to Venerable Master Oakcraft's surprise, his daughter Lumi walked in, backwards, carrying a little sign reading DOJO TOURS and leading a bunch of gaijin carrying video cameras right into their sacred training ground!! The nerve! "LUMI-CHAAAN!" Oakcraft bellowed. The monks got nervous fast. Oakcraft only raised his voice when someone was about to receive compound fractures. "This is the ancient and venerable and complex Big Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo!" Lumi continued, leading the tour group around. "In here, all current furniture warriors, well, except maybe those in exile, and the guys who are busy getting food, because you know we ARE running low on bread and eggs, and maybe the folks who are over at the outhouses, which are in" (points) "THAT direction, right next to..." Oakcraft grabbed the Holy Venerable Megaphone from the side of his solid oak joinery with six penny nails assembled armchair with leather upholstered finish. "**LUMI-CHAAAAAN!!!!**" he bellowed into it, knocking most of the monks flat from the shockwave. The tourists scattered like frightened tourists. Lumi, who had less balance than most houses of cards, fell down as well. "Itai! Waaah! Daddyyyy!" Oakcraft tossed the megaphone to Brother Ixnay, and walked over to Lumi, Ikea following obediently. Lumi-chan got up and rubbed her sore behind a little, looking pouty and hurt. "LUMI-CHAN! What's all this bringing those weirdly dressed foreigners with their demonic picture taking boxes into our most holy and sacred dojo?!" Oakcraft boomed. "Ano, but we're running out of money," Lumi-chan said. "And I didn't have enough money to buy our yearly supply of wood glue and nails and jock straps, and I asked you, Daddy, how do you want me to raise the money and you said you didn't care, you just needed some glue to finish your coffee table--" Oakcraft smacked a hand over his face. He honestly should know better than to give Lumi such freedom -- like the time he asked her to warm up his tea, and she set fire to the roof. Or the time she was practicing with her lightbulb grenades and asked if she could set up an electrical generator, and the smoke got into all the sofas and wouldn't come out for weeks... But this was a more immediate, deal-with-able problem. "Lumi-chan, you know we don't like outsiders. The dojo must remain pure, united, and strong! And besides, what if one of them was one of those sick perverts you hear about from the fellows who own the dojo six miles to the west who own a television? You're currently the ONLY female Furniture Warrior, and we don't want to lose you!" "Golly. I didn't think of that," Lumi said, scratching her head (careful not to bump the two lightbulbs she traditionally wore on either side of her head, in a battle sweatband). "But how am I supposed to get the money for food, daddy?" "A thousand pardons, but if I may be so impolite to interject my own simple opinions into this discussion?" Ikea asked roundaboutly. "Yes, of course, son, speak your mind. We're all brothers." "And sisters!" Lumi-chan piped in with. "The problem seems to be around raising capital," Ikea stated. "Furniture repair and development as well as housing and nutrition needs can be a drain. My recommendation is to consider reopening the doors to outside students, with training wages." "Ikea, Ikea, Ikea. You KNOW what happened last time we did that. I don't particularly desire a repeat episode," Oakcraft warned. "I understand, honorable sensei--" "FATHER!!" "--but I myself would be willing to sacrifice my free time for the good of the dojo to screen applicants. If I recall, you had Lumi-san working on screening the last time." "WAI! It was such fun! I met interesting people from all sorts of places and we swapped jokes and recipes and--" "I see," Oakcraft said, scratching his long and venerable beard. "Well, I suppose that would help. Of anybody I'd trust the duty, it'd be you, Ikea-kun." "Hai, sensei," Ikea said, bowing formally. "I will endeavor to uphold the honor of our clan." Oakcraft rubbed his temples. "Good, good. You can make the arrangements; you and Lumi work on the advertising. You kids are our best agents in the outside, scarily enough. I'm too old for this. I think I'll go lie down on the four poster teak jointed boxspring bed with canopy for a few hours." With that, he turned and left the honorable brawl-hall. Lumi-chan blinked a few times, looking around. "Ano... where did everybody go, Ikea-kun?" "They have dispersed, presumably to train or partake in the other activities fitting a Furniture Warrior," Ikea stated. "Gosh. That's honorable!" Lumi agreed, nodding her head rapidly and smiling. The next events happened faster than a single shot in an Oliver Stone film. Ikea's hair started to feel more spiky than usual. He knew what this meant; danger. Without hesitation, he grabbed his sister Lumi and leapt away -- avoiding a number of pointed brushes of some sort, which embedded themselves in the wooden dojo floor like finely thrown daggers. Ikea set Lumi down, who was confused, which was normal, and whipped out his folding polished wooden chair, adjusting the angle of fold to an appropriate 13-degree battle ready status. A dark figure dropped from the ceiling before him. "You've improved," the figure said, voice muffled behind thick layers of silk, felt, flannel, and other fabrics of his Ninja Costume. He dropped to a battle stance, readying another handful of paintbrushes, one between each knuckle of his fist. "You seem familiar, infidel," Ikea commented, eyes narrowing, chair at the ready. "What is your reason in violating this ground?" "Reason?" the figure laughed. "Ikea, if you HAVE to ask, then you are even more clueless than I suspected. Although admittedly, my specific reason is less forward... I'll be getting to that once you are destroyed, fear not." "If you will not answer my questions, I must break you," Ikea said calmly. "Prepare yourself!!!" With that, Ikea ran towards his opponent, chair swung low. The ninja threw his brushes, which Ikea glided by, not slowing for a moment. Swiftly skimming along the floor, Ikea gathered his ki, preparing the move. The ninja was not fast enough; the chair swung upwards, in a fatal glowing arc, knocking the enemy high into the air while Ikea ascended. "RISING CHAIR FIRE!!!" he screamed, as was customary when doing this sort of thing. Unfortunately for him this sort of thing was going on not six feet away, as Lumi's headmounted lightbulb bandanna glowed with energy. "I'll stop him, oniichan!" she shouted, drawing a number of energy saving halogen bulbs from her pack. "BEAUTIFUL LIGHTBULB ASSAULT!" The three bulbs arced out nicely and smacked Ikea in the back with pinpoint accuracy. Both him and the intruder smacked into the ground with a painful thud. "Oopsie," Lumi-chan commented, getting a big sweatdrop behind her head. "Lumi-chan missed, I think." The ninja flipped to his feet, laughing. "Make my job easier! Thanks a bundle." Lumi growled cutely, assuming a battle pose. "I'll get you, you meanie!" she totally failed to intimidate the enemy with. "Oh, you will, will you," he snickered. "Well, we'll just see about tha-- OH MY GOD LOOK BEHIND YOU!!" "Where?! Where?" Lumi asked, spinning around. "I don't see anything but the wall of the dojo and that picture of Brother Flipsknob with his prize winning ship in a bottle and the door and maybe a LITTLE of the garden in the center courtyard and..." By that time, the man was gone. * Venerable Master Oakcraft was furious. He was even using the megaphone when he didn't actually have to. "**BAKA YAROO!!**" he shouted, blasting in Lumi's ear, through her empty head and into Ikea's ear, who already had a headache to begin with. "Not only do you smite your brother when he was busy defending this dojo, but you fall for the second oldest trick in the book, and LET THE SCUM GET AWAY WITH STEALING THE SIGN TO OUR DOJO! Never before has a dojo been shamed in this way by a dojo yaburi, never!" "Waaah," Lumi replied wittily, sniffling. Oakcraft paced the room. "This is bad. This is so incredibly bad that I'm going to have to do something really, really drastic to compensate. And of COURSE, there's no precedent in the ancient and honorable lore of the Tibetan Furniture Warriors. We've never been dishonored this badly before. IKEA! You're partly responsible for this. What do YOU think we should do?" Ikea, despite the headache, did not bat an eye. "I think, sensei, we should follow the clues and track down the infidel and regain our dojo sign. Is it not the most honorable course of action?" "WAI! Ikea-kun is so smart!" Lumi cheered, waving a pair of fans. "WHAT clues?!" Venerable Master Oakcraft shouted. "The fiend didn't leave anything!" "Not so," Ikea stated calmly. "Examine the unusual stain on my gi, where several of his brushes streamed by." Oakcraft whipped out a magnifying class and bent down. "Hrm... red... were you injured?" "No, sensei. Red, blue, and green. The three primary colors. And if you look carefully, they come from an oil-based paint..." "M-Masaka..." Oakcraft stammered, jaw falling. "You don't mean... the dojo yaburi was..." "Hugh," Ikea nodded. * A black light pulsed through the black chamber, casting darkness into shadow. A figure in noir stepped through the fissure in reality, breathing hard. This was the sort of place that made writers jump for joy and gave animators headaches; plenty of nice darkness to describe and draw metaphorical parallels to, but not too much to draw. You could talk about the whispering wind bleeding words of insanity into the eardrums, quietly, like a thin trickle of hate, but when it comes down to visualizing such a thing you'd basically be up the creek. You could discuss the way the shadows moved and shifted, like so many dark omens passing on the horizons of fate, the way they flitter so and escape your view, and also go broke on india ink for the illo. Or you could just summarized by saying : Not Earth, Not Normal, Probably Hell. DID YOU OBTAIN IT? a voice boomed, like the slamming of lead coffin lids on stone obelisks or something to that extent. The figure (also in black) started to pull the hood off his makeshift ninja costume, but paused. "Yes, I did. They will surely send their finest warriors to reclaim the sign. And that means Ikea." AND THE OTHER. IT IS VITALLY IMPORTANT TO GATHER BOTH OF THEM FOR THE PLAN TO WORK. "Yes, yes, and the other. But more importantly Ikea. I thank you, sensei, for giving me this opportunity to crush him--" YOU MAY OR MAY NOT GET YOUR OPPORTUNITY, HUGH. I ONLY PROMISED A CHANCE AT THE POSSIBILITY OF AN OPPORTUNITY IN WHICH YOU COULD GET REVENGE. "It is enough. Can I get rid of this ridiculous costume and hood now?" NO. YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED YOUR USUAL TASTELESS GARB WITHIN MY PRESENCE. YOU'RE FALLING BEHIND, AS WELL; I HAD *REQUESTED* THAT YOU FINISH THE REMAINDER OF YOUR ASSIGNMENT BEFORE GOING TO TIBET. NOW YOU MUST WORK FAST TO ENSURE THAT ALL PAWNS ARE IN PLAY BEFORE THE FINAL MOVE BEGINS. Hugh frowned. The relationship with his new sensei still had a few kinks to iron out, notably his pushiness. "In that case, link the portal to France and I'll continue the plan." There was no sound of acknowledgement. Hugh simply stepped backwards through the fold once more. He had to blink a few times to adjust his eyes to the light, seeing as how his previous locale brought new meaning to the word 'dim'. A fine Parisian street, near the art district. Perfect. First thing's first, he thought, stripping the annoyingly drab black clothing off, to uncover his day-glow tie dyed shirt and pants beneath, and his shocking pink hair. A bit more of a splash of color, he thought. Nothing dull, nothing boring. Absolutely nothing like his sensei's tastes. Loud and bright and painful. Like him. Hugh spun the wooden sign reading TIBETAN FURNITURE WARRIORS DOJO AND MONASTERY, PLEASE LEAVE PIZZA DELIVERY AT REAR ENTRANCE under one arm, and walked off to mix with his crowd. * "...so you understand the seriousness of this matter," Ikea concluded. Lumi nodded, in the dim light of three candles and the two everpresent lightbulbs she wore. "Gosh, this Hugh person sounds bad. Ano, why did he leave the dojo again?" Ikea patiently repeated the key point he had repeated six or seven other times that night. "Venerable Master Oakcraft banished him from the clan when he was caught violating the furniture." "How does one violate furniture?" "He was painting it all teal, mauve and aqua-marine. A shameful act of vandalism." "Ohhhhh. Lumi-chan sees!" "That was the end of our open-door policy to students," Ikea said solemnly. "He swore revenge against the clan for insulting his art, and double-revenge against me for bringing the matter to the sensei like an honorable Furniture Warrior should. I believe he is still sore, if he would resort to stealing our dojo sign." "Ano... oniichan... I'm sorry I sort of knocked you out when you were fighting him today." "It is alright, Lumi-chan. What is in the past cannot be changed. But like a shattered set of collapsible tray tables, it can be mended. We will simply set out and trace his path back to its origin." "But oniichan, we don't know where he came from. All of our neighbors are six miles away, and they didn't see him!" "Yes, strange, that. Considering we're in the middle of a white, snowy mountainside and he was wearing black. But I do not worry. He will likely taunt us in some fashion; it was his style." "You mean like this?" Lumi said, holding up an envelope. Ikea didn't react beyond blinking. "It just came in the mail an hour ago," Lumi shrugged. "Ano, it was addressed to 'That Squealing Fink Ikea and his Fetid Dungheap the Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo', but I thought maybe it was one of those sweepstakes things..." Ikea quietly snatched the envelope from his sister, opened it with a sharpened wood screw, and read. Ikea, you ignorant bastard. I've got your sign and you're never getting it back. You can live in the shame, the same shame you shamed me with, for the rest of your life. You deserve it, you miserable little wretch. Don't even try to find me. You'll never find me. I'll blend in, fade out, you'll never see me again. This is goodbye forever. Love, Hugh ------------------------------------------------------- LE RADISON, 1034 MONSEIR BLVD, PARIS, FRANCE. ROOM 103 "Pack your things," Ikea stated, crushing the letter in his hand. * Six miles down to the exit onto the interstate and a few day's travel along the biways over to the east coast and onto an airplane and a short ride during which mixed nuts and an inflight movie are available and a short cab ride from there, the delicate stomp of high heels was audible. The woman in excessively layered white lingerie paced in tight circles, frustrated. She had the makings of a headache coming on and her temper ran out six minutes ago. Life was about to get really unpleasant for the poor maid who fluffed her pillows the wrong way. "How DARE you fluff the pillows the wrong way!?" the woman shouted, breaking the silence (and making the maid jump slightly). "I've explained the method to you; you tuck the corners, puff the middle, circle-beat around the center and THEN squeeze. NOT TUCK THE CORNERS, PUFF THE MIDDLE, SQUEEZE AND THEN CIRCLE-BEAT AROUND THE CENTER!!" "But Mistress Fifi--" "No! No. No buts. You know what the punishment is for disobedience around here!!" she said, raising a hand. "Noooo!!!" the maid shouted. "No Internet access for a WEEK!!" Fifi proclaimed. "Attendants, take her away." The two reasonably buff female doorguards grabbed the sobbing maid and hauled her away. Fifi draped herself like an expensive doily over a nearby fluffy white armchair. Well, one problem down. It's so hard to get good help nowadays, Fifi mused. Even so, if it wasn't for the occasional screamings at the service around here, she'd be bored to death. Le sigh. The intercom gave a pleasant buzzing sound. (She had the one that made the annoying buzzing sound hurled from a sixth story window overlooking the Champs d'Elyse.) "Yes, what?" Fifi asked, fanning herself. 'You have a Mr. Hugh Gogh here to see you, Mistress Fifi,' her personal secretary responded. "AH! Hugh!" Fifi sighed, clasping her hands to her chest. "If anybody knows how to make a dull day cheerful, it's Hugh. Please show Mr. Gogh in. Oh, I hope I'm not overdressed..." Fifi scrambled around her office / bedroom, removing and adjusting six or seven layers of frilly lace and silk before the doorguards let Hugh in. Hugh was wearing his usual outfit, which he and Fifi designed one dull day last August; sort of an odd tye-die fractal motif with a hint of paisley. Fifi rather liked it, despite the simple smocklike shirt it was on. Complicated color for ordinary clothing. "Fifi, darling," Hugh said, bowing with a sweeping gesture. "You're as radiant as ever." "Hugh darling! You're as sign-carrying as ever. Hrm. What's the sign?" "Oh, this? Souvenir," Hugh smirked, tossing it onto a nearby bed/table. "How charming. Been touring, have we? Gallery tours? I do so hope my funds to sponsor your art have come in handy, I still look at your 'Blood and Semen Cover Nebraska' montage work and sigh." "'fraid I'm here on business, love," Hugh sighed. "We'll have to parley the amusing at a later point. I require your OTHER talents." "What, you mean--" "No, no, I mean your skill with a pillow." "You still need to be more specific, honeykins." Hugh laughed. "The SPECIAL pillows. The ones with depleted uranium lining?" Fifi blinked. She approached Hugh, suspicious. "Now, you KNOW I'm more a lover than a fighter. Even if I'm perfectly proficient in both. Why exactly would you need a warrior, Hugh bunnycakes? Financial troubles you need quelling?" "Oh, more complex than that," Hugh smiled. "Fifi... how would you like to enter THE tournament of the twentieth century? One that's right up our alley?" "A tournament for Furniture Warriors?" Fifi asked, scratching her chin. "That's the plan," Hugh nodded. "It's kind of clever, actually. The last time they held this tournament was... a hundred or a thousand years ago, I forget." "Now that's long term planning," Fifi commented, sipping her refreshing tropical fruit beverage. "You bet. See, my mast... bos... well, employer, he's determined not to lose this time. He's lost every time the tournament was held, since there's only really one school for Furniture Warriors other than his, and they always send their best opponents. It's overwhelming." "So he stacks the deck, and makes sure every fighter other than the two from the Tibetan school is under his thumb," Fifi smiled. "Then once we outnumber THEM, the fight will go the other way for a change!" "Exactly. He's also sent agents out hundreds... yes, it must have been a thousand years since the last tournament... anyway, he sent out folks hundreds of years ago to destroy all evidence that there IS a tournament in Tibet. The fools don't know they're sending the heirs to their school into this! Once we bribe or coerce all the ronin Furniture Warriors in the world into teaming up against that idiot and his idiot sister, it's practically over with," Hugh said, sipping his drink. "Now, Hugh darling, you know I don't keep track of the ronins. Fighting is more of a hobby for me, inbetween fashion design and pointless sadism! Why, I only know vague things about two of them, and I haven't seen Mick in years--" "One way or another, Fifi, if we can get all of them together and ally under my employer, once we crush the two Tibetan louts we'll all have good places in the New World Order. Once my employer is free from his prison with the victory, there are gonna be some changes to this planet." "Oh. So he is planning on taking over the world? How delightful!" Fifi clapped. "I was hoping the plan was going in this direction. I want France and control of all the pretty girls in it and the entire leather and lace industry!" "Done," Hugh smiled. "Me, I just want to feast upon the stillbeating heart of that infidel, Ikea... the others can have various bits of the planet if they want, as long as the Big Guy gets overall control. He's not planning on running it all himself, after all. Say, would you like control of his sister after we win?" "Oh, certainly. I suppose that kind of prize is worth a little digging through my rolodex! OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOO!!" Fifi laughed, posing femininely, evilly and cutely. "To evil!" Hugh toasted cheerfully. "To evil!" Fifi replied, clinking plastic glasses. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The cards were shuffled. The invisible pawns were arranged, and moved; the hand was dealt and the dice were cast. The chips were on the table. All bets were off. The game was afoot, the jokers were wild and the stakes were high. Once the ball was rolling there would be no going back. Unless, of course, it didn't work. Hugh frowned. He had sent out Dark Minions of Evil to carry the message to all the Furniture Warriors that he, his master, and Fifi combined knew about, but that was still a frightfully small number. His master had assurances that this plan would be a booming success... but if they only outnumbered the Tibetan representatives by few, would that be a banging success, a booming success or a piffle success? No sense worrying about it now, Hugh thought, relaxing in the large padded bed next to Fifi, cognac in one hand and a television remote in the other. Simply wait for the chosen to gather and let that be that. He really hoped that idiot Yarslov wouldn't come, chosen or not, however. * Yarslov liked to sleep. He liked to sleep because it was cooler than television. His dreams came to him very much like television shows. Usually it was the Yarslov Show, a really well directed retrospective on his life, with better acting and a really cool frood to play himself. The soundtrack would always be surf music. Sometimes it'd have a laugh track, unless it was one of those 'serious' episodes like they had sometimes on 'M*A*S*H'. In today's episode, young Yarslov was being trained in the Tibetan dojo for furniture warriors. He got an exchange student program to send him; he specifically wanted to try snowboarding, which the mountains were great for. But once there, he found cooler stuff to do than snowboarding. In this scene (which came after the commercial break for Corn Pops) Yarslov and his best bud Ikea were busy sparring. They did that a lot, really; it was a blast, man, Ikea KNEW what he was doing and would help Yarslov improve his form. Great guy. Real frood. "You need to get more power on the upswing," Ikea said, assisting Yarslov in guiding his folding metal beach chair in a more smooth arc. "Focus your ki. This will increase the impact, and ensure a more perfect form." "Whoa," Yarslov replied. Conversations usually went like that. Ikea was Tibetan, with quite a refined speech pattern in several languages, even Yarslov's native Swedish. His black hair which came to points and determined look contrasted with Yarslov's kind of grungy blonde hair and goofy dumb look... a point Yarslov always admired. Damn, Ikea was smooth. "Hey, Ike, what're you gonna do when you're done trainin'?" Yarslov asked, practicing his chair katas. "I will never be done training." "Oh. Well, what about, like, aside from training or something?" Ikea considered. "Aside... I will eventually inherit the dojo. I hope to lead it with a wise hand, like our Venerable Master Oakcraft does." "Whoa. Family business. Yeah, my dad wanted me to work in the fish gutting plant back in Sweden. But man, that scene just ISN'T cool. Fish guts! I'd rather be surfing forever." "Is it not honorable to obey the wishes of your father, Yarslov-san?" "FISH GUTS, man. FISH GUTS." Ikea had to admit it was unappealing, even if he had no outward signs of it. This is when the soundtrack to Yarslov's Nielsen-approved dream swapped to the Villain Theme. It was hindsight that Yarslov knew this dude wasn't cool, but the audience was in on the gag, and the audience WAS Yarslov. Hugh had entered the dojo. He was wearing his usual truly whacked out threads, which Yarslov kinda dug. But he had that perpetual frown. That wasn't cool at all. Yarslov didn't really like anything about Hugh other than his wardrobe. The dude was in on the same exchange student program he was on, but he just had no class. Way too Snidley Whiplash for any decent person. "Hello, Ikea, Yarslov," Hugh nodded. "Practicing. Very good. You realize you will not likely be able to defeat me if we sparred. It's wise to play amongst yourselves." "Greetings, Hugh-san. And how are you today?" Ikea said, bowing. "Bored," Hugh replied, not bowing back. "Bored and bored and bored. This dojo is boring. You people have no creativity. I've been considering adding a splash of color..." "The dojo is fine," Ikea replied. "It does not need 'color'. The fine grain of wood, the form and functionality of furniture as comfort and support as well as weaponry... it is decorative in its own right and perfect in integrity of form." "What he said," Yarslov yes-manned. Hugh snorted. "You'll see," he said, turning to leave. And leaving. "That dude needs to loosen up," Yarslov said, pushing his hair out from on front of his eyes to watch Hugh go. "Honestly." "I hope he does not do anything foolish," Ikea mused. The soundtrack immediately played a note of forewarning. Because if you had seen the reruns, you know that was the beginning of the end for Hugh... after the Coloring Incident, he was no longer welcome. But that was for tomorrow's episode. Then the screen interrupted, with a NEWS BULLETIN card. The announcer explained how he really hated to interrupt such a totally awesome show, and turned it over to the most righteous on the spot reporter, Yarslov. "Hey, dude," Yarslov told himself. "You awake?" "Uh, no," he replied. "I was gonna wait for the cartoons. Why, is something going on?" "Kinda. It's like, I'm gettin' this vision. It's a weird one, man. You're about to go really really far. I mean like on an airplane or something. There's gonna be a chair, a lamp and a desk. And a strange long journey. And someone's gonna stub their toe. I think there's a duck somewhere in this, too. And it's SO totally important that you protect some chick. Ohhmmmm." "Whoa! This is the first time you did predictions!" "Yeah. Cool, isn't it? I amaze me sometimes." "Most cool! Hey, what're the lotto numbers for tomorrow?" "Uhhh... sorry, dude. I forgot. Anyway, you got all that?" "I dunno. It's pretty vague. What chick? They got a good meal on that airplane?" "Look, all I know is what this vision told me. I think we got some cool psychic stuff going on. You know, like on that episode of the X-Files where that dude was, like, um, doin' stuff with his mind? You know?" "YEAH! That was a cool episode!" "Wasn't it? I dunno, I thought the music wasn't up to snuff. Snow can do better." "Hey, it was fine. Um, why'm I arguing with myself?" "You tell me. Maybe you're just bored." "Got anything else to report?" "Uh, yeah. You remember that chick six umbrellas to the left of us? Some dude's hasslin' her. I can pick up a bit of it through the ears. You wanna wake up and do something most righteous about it?" "Okay, okay. I don't wanna sunburn anyway. Hasta, mon!" "Hasta," he nodded to himself. Then the TV turned off. * Yarslov blinked awake, in the noon day sun. The beach was hot, but this was normal; it was really warming the metal on his folding beach chair, but he could handle it. He quickly assessed the situation. Skin; nicely tanned. Sand; gritty. Tide; Low, heading towards high. What was he supposed to be doing again? "I said, BACK OFF, you Singled Out reject!" Oh, yeah. That. Yarslov hopped out of his chair (making sure to take it with him), and adjusted his swim trunks. He skipped over the scorching hot sand to approach the groovy chick that was being harassed by that big dude. "But honey, we could really hit the town! Paint it all red and stuff. And I have a GREAT vibrating bed!" "Ahem," Yarslov said, trying to act all cool and collected like Ike used to. "Whadda you want?" the guy asked. "The chick don't like you," Yarslov pointed out. "Let's be all honorable or something and leave her alone, okay?" "What's it to you, punk?" Yarslov didn't like to talk. Wasn't his scene. So he just swung his folded chair low, gathering Ki, and drove up in a massive uppercut into the guy's jaw. "RISING CHAIR FIRE!!! OR SOMETHING!" he yelled, as the guy went sailing into a series of hot dog vendor carts. Sometimes it was, like, too easy. He wandered back across the hot sands, intent on resuming his slumber so he could see if Slappy Squirrel was gonna be a rerun. Everything was in order; cooler full of Mountain Dew, big ass beach umbrella, and a nice spot where he could chill. He put his trusty folding beach chair back down after dinging out the dent in its framework caused by the loser he previously whacked, and sat. Only, not all was harmonious. There was something really funny lookin' on top of his styrofoam cooler; sorta like one of those wooden tube things Ikea's dudes would put their scrolls in. Exactly like one, actually. Yarslov picked up the tube, tried to remember how to open the silly thing, giving up and just snapping the tube in half. The scroll, somewhat bent, toppled out; it was written in good 'ol english, and read : ----------------------------------------------------------------- FURNITURE WARRIORS TOURNAMENT! MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY! Just the right thing for shiftless, restless beach bums to have a little fun, slack and combat. YOU ARE INVITED HEAD TO THE LA BUREAU CAFE in PARIS, FRANCE ----------------------------------------------------------------- There was also a plane ticket in there and a coupon for six bucks off a Motorola pager. Hmmm. France was pretty far and kinda a strange long journey, Yarslov pondered. He loved it when his dreams were this cool. What was the chick his dream told him about, though? * "What do you MEAN, I can't enter?!" Shelly yelled, slamming both palms on the application desk. The clerk, behind his bulletproof, punchproof, kickproof, chiblastproof transparent plastic shield simple shrugged. "You can't enter because your fighting style is too silly. Like the ad said, we want SERIOUS warriors." Shelly paused, counting from ten to one backwards, like her therapist recommended whenever she had to deal with mindless dorkwad loser jerkoff loser stick in the mud cretins like this guy. It hadn't been a good day. She spent the last of her allowance on the Valu-Jet flight down here to Thailand, only to be hassled by clowns like these who didn't take her entry into the tournament seriously. It was hard getting respect as a newcomer to martial arts; which is why she had taken a year off from her private school (without actually telling anyone) to train and fight and win trophies and things. Shelly hadn't counted on never getting an actual chance at fame, though, because her style was 'too silly'. "I'll have you know this style was passed down from generation after generation after generation! I'm almost 1/26th Tibetan!" Shelly boasted proudly. "And that matters to me because...?" Shelly blinked. "I'm a descendant of the Tibetan Furniture Warrior Monks, of course." "Never heard of them." "Never heard-- it's the fifteenth most popular martial art in Tibet!" Shelly proclaimed, realizing how pathetic that sounded after the fact. Why couldn't her heritage be cool, like some sort of Order of Light who have to defend the world from evil every thousand years or so? "Let's look at the logistics, shall we?" the clerk said, reviewing over the applications stamped APPROVED. "We already have filled the quota of under eighteen applicants set by Mr. Bison. What's more, we already have a girl in her school uniform--" "It's all I had in my closets when I ran away from school!" "--who may I add is much cuter than you--" "WHAT?!" "--in addition, any more schoolgirls than that would make us lose credibility. Besides, these claims to your powers are ridiculous and I don't believe them for a minute." "Why, you little stinking--" "Application denied. Next?" the clerk said, stamping a big red REJECTED on Shelly's papers. Shelly started from ten to one, but only got to seven before she proved the manufacturer's claims on the safety class didn't bank any money on being desk-proof. With a resounding CRASH, the simple oaken schooldesk flew nicely into the clerk's face, knocking him back and making Shelly feel so much better, despite Security escorting her off the premises shortly after. "So what if my style involves throwing desks at people?!" Shelly yelled to no one in particular in the parking lot. "So what if I'm wearing a uniform for Miss Pifflemoore's Academy for Privileged Girls? SO WHAT IF I'M NOT CUTE?! Ain't I too a warrior?!! I'll prove them all WRONG, mark my words!" The cars made no attempt to reply, not even the ones with voicebox enabled auto alarms. Shelly sulked, her Anger swing downshifting easily into Depression. "If only there was a tournament for Furniture Warriors." A wooden cylinder rolled along the vacant lot, urged on by the gentle breeze. Shelly didn't notice it until it bumped her toe. Curious, she picked it up. She couldn't quite get the cap off (it was one of those child proof safety caps) so she dropped a Kindergarden-grade metal desk on it, cracking it like a nut. Inside was a weird looking scroll on that cool yellow paper, reading : ----------------------------------------------------------------- FURNITURE WARRIORS TOURNAMENT! MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY! It's perfect for young warriors having trouble proving themselves because nobody will take them seriously. YOU ARE INVITED HEAD TO THE LA BUREAU CAFE in PARIS, FRANCE ----------------------------------------------------------------- All that, and a plane ticket from the nearest Thailand airport to France and a free coupon for a Hootie and the Blowfish album. She discarded that down a nearby sewer grate, pocketed her ticket and ran for the airport, kicking up a little dustcloud behind her. "Fame and glory, here I COME!" she laughed, ignoring funny looks from various Thailand natives. * On the other side of the world, smoke curled. The air was thick with tension. The entire snooker hall had been cleared out, so this one match could take place; twenty K was on the line, and this last shot would determine who got it. Already the various folks who had cast side bets were chain- smoking, rubbing lucky rabbit's feet, or doing Hail Marys (some of them even correctly). Mick studied the table in front of him. It'd be a tricky bank shot, getting that piddly widdly eight ball into the pocket wocket, but he was good at that sort of thing. And if he wasn't good at that sort of thing, he pondered, your humble narrator would be quite dead; if not from the various thugs who had no clue he could not pay his share if he lost, but from his lawyers who said his next child support payment would annihilate him financially should he fail in the here and now. "Mate, you go'in ta stand around all day, or take a shot?" his opponent asked, leaning uneasily against his pool cue. "Patience, my brothers," he said, chalking his cue for the fourth time in a row. "No need to get your yarbles in a bind. Mick will take the shot soon enough, mark my words." Mick bent towards the table, his trusted cue (used in every game he had played since a young boy, running about the streets of Wallingsforthshire with his droog brothers) at the ready. It would be quite a shotty wotty, but he could do it. Clack of cue on ball, of ball on ball. Rolling along the soft green felt. The eight ball stopped short one full inch from the pocket. Betting tickets were hurled in the air in frustration at the same time the cheer rose from the audience. The mate who'd challenged him was all smiles, little dollar signs almost but not quite lit in his eyes. "Pay up, Mick," he said, resting a comforting, but restraining hand on Mick's shoulder. "Ye lost." "That I did, that I did," Mick smiled right back. "Well then, I shall simply go and fetch my money from its hidey hole. It's a fair cop. So if you'll excuse me, my brother..." "I donae think ye unnerstand, mate," the enemy said. "I want the money NOW. If ye don't have it, well... we can get it out of ye, one way or another." In the time it took to say that, the creep's brothers had poor Mick surrounded. This is about the time that one might think the protagonist would be in a spot of trouble. Not so for Mick. For what the fools lacked in smarts and made up for in brawn Mick more than had covered in the sport of the brawl. Specifically, with the cue. With a deft flick of the wrist, Mick shifted his pool cue (reinforced with a solid core of iron) from game time position to fight time position. In a spin of wood and clack of cue on bone, he knocked the hand away. The foul fellow gripped his wrist and bawled like a little baby in agony, as Mick flipped easily over the pool table itself, snagging a few items from its pockets, and pitching them rapid fire into the crowd, like large, spherical shuriken. The crowd, not quite wanting to be smacked upside the head with a hard, polished wooden ball, made way. Up and out and Mick was out the door. But his troubles did not end there, for naturally they had the exit guarded. And once said exit guards had noticed they should be resuming guarding, because Mick was sort of getting away, they chased him with glee. Mick smiled, spinning, doubling back at them. A chorus of smacks and groans and crunching sounds followed; for Mick's second favorite pastime, beyond pool, was ultraviolence, something he was rather good at when in a bind. One of his mates was a genuine Furniture Warrior, and had taught him and his droogs the ins and outs of unconventional weaponry; a positive boon in the days before Mick moved on from being a thug to being a hustler. Snapping his cue between the heads of two goons, letting them drop to the cobbles, Mick spun his cue back onto its holster behind him and ran down the street, laughing all the way. Until he stepped on some sort of cylinder left lying around and splatted face first into the nastiest gutter in England. Annoyed and rather smelly, he lashed out at the offending object with a thrown cue ball; smashing it open, to reveal a rather lovely little scroll. Curious, he read it. ----------------------------------------------------------------- FURNITURE WARRIORS TOURNAMENT! MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY! Just dandy for mates hard up for a little money woney. PS - Fifi says hi! YOU ARE INVITED HEAD TO THE LA BUREAU CAFE in PARIS, FRANCE ----------------------------------------------------------------- All that, plus a plane ticket and a small towel. What a pleasant turn of events, Mick pondered. A tournament, some prize money and a chance to see Fifi again. He had wondered what the chap was up to since leaving his gang. Mick dried up with the towel, and hailed a taxi. * A lone figure walked through the grasslands of France, assuming France has grasslands. The figure walked silently, and quickly; without exerting effort like a full jog, but nevertheless and extremely quick walk. More of a glide. Sort of a sliding motion wherein it was almost like the legs didn't move at the right rate for motion. It was strange, in summary. Strange and quiet. Quiet and oddly fast. Silent, but certainly speedy. Very much so. Indeed. The figure did not have an invitation, but damned if that was going to stop her. * "Wai! What does this button do?" Lumi asked, pushing the attendant callbutton for the third time. Ikea relaxed, meditating. He wasn't one for air travel, since he tended to stay in the Tibetan mountains, where all you needed to visit your pals was a pickaxe, snow shoes, climbing ropes with locks and pulleys, safety gear, six day's rations, heavy winter clothing, an emergency flaregun and dogsled with no less than six dogs of a husky breed. This unusual method of transport consisting of hurling a big metal container in the air until presumably it crashes into the ground somewhere on the other side of the planet upset him. He'd supposedly survive the crash, otherwise a hundred others wouldn't have jammed themselves into the container with him. Unless they were all stupid, a possibility he wasn't counting out yet. Lumi, on the other hand, was having a ball. She was particularly fascinated by the little buttons that turn on a light above you, and provide a refreshing, gentle stream of air; she alarmed a few people when she managed to get an oxygen mask to drop from her panel, and the attendants were trying to avoid her since she kept buzzing them asking for pillows and peanuts and little airplane pins... but other than that life was good for Lumi-chan. "Ano, Ikea-kun, when do we crash in this France place?" Lumi asked. "According to our ticket, in approximately three hours," Ikea replied, keeping his eyes closed and continuing to meditate. "Wai! Lumi-chan's heard so many good things about France. Do you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in France?" Ikea blinked. "What's a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?" "Uhhh..." Lumi pondered, scratching her adorable yet empty little head. "I dunno. ^_^ So do we get to fight Hugh-san when we land?" "Not right away. We'll have to find him. I doubt he'll stay in his hotel room all day waiting for us," Ikea said, resuming relaxation. "But make no mistake. For the honor of our brothers we shall defeat him and retrieve the sign, no matter where this journey takes us." "I hope it takes us to EuroDisneyland!" Lumi giggled. "What's that?" "Lumi-chan doesn't know. But she hears it's fun!" Ikea frowned, but only by a millimeter or so. The outside world was strange. * All the other folks who got scrolls are basically gunfodder for the tournament scenes and will not be included in this chapter. (This is not an author's note.) * "Awww, Hugh-kun, come back to bed," Fifi said, tugging on Hugh's arm. "You worry too much." "I have right to worry," Hugh said, gazing out the window at the Parisian Moon. (They didn't technically own it, but he was fairly sure that a poem or something once said the moon over Paris was important in some regard.) "This Monday we embark on the greatest tournament the world has ever seen. And I'm not sure our minions will be very good minions." "They'll be fine, don't you worry about that," Fifi said. "And if not, I have a plan..." -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The staff of Le Radison / Fifi's personal servants / Fifi's personal slaves hustled their bustles, a flurry of activity under Fifi's master plan / whip. No, she didn't have a whip. At least not a literal one. "FASTER! FASTER!" she whipped. "You'll never have this pit prepared for tomorrow's ceremonies at this rate! Work, peons! Your Mistress is not happy with your performance!" Hugh had to admit the floor show was amusing, with all the scantily dressed maids hurrying to move tables and arrange chairs and decorate rooms... but it was trivial. It was pointless. And it was damn inefficient. "Fifi, this is trivial," Hugh commented, swirling the cognac around in his finely chilled glass. "It's pointless and damn inefficient. WHY are we treating our minions to a day of dinners and frolicking?" "Hugh, we have a full day before they all HAVE to be at the tournament location," Fifi noted. "And I for one refuse to be a poor hostess for our dear minions. Forget not that this is MY hotel, and La Bureau is MY hotel cafe. It simply would not do for gay Paris's number one socialite to shuffle her guests off to their rooms without sufficient entertainments." Hugh sighed. "Whatever. They're all likely to die anyway. Seems like such a waste." "Of food, or of warriors?" "You pick," Hugh shrugged. "It'll go okay, don't you worry your adorable little head over it," Fifi smiled. "We just give them some food, a speech, a nice floor show and a little mixer, then we can drag them all off to their eminent, grisly deaths. Fair?" "Fair. Speech?" "Well, of course. You simply MUST give a slightly ominous speech! You have three hours to write it." Hugh fell off his chair. * The plane landed in Paris around seven in the morning, and there wasn't a non-circles-underneath eye in the house. Lumi's excitement at the miracle of air travel was overwhelming, to the point where everybody else was forced to get excited too -- or more often than not, annoyed. She personally thanked the attendants, the passengers, the pilots, and the baggage guys one by one for an interesting experience. They personally thanked her for leaving the airplane, and inwardly hoped never to see her again. Ikea on the other hand was a picture perfect visage of relaxation, meditation and righteousness. He had prepared as if the minute he left the plane he'd need to launch into a wild chair swinging fury of violence; part of the reason most airplanegoingpeople were avoiding him. "Ano, Lumi-chan is hungry," Lumi commented. "You just ate a fine meal of questionable food, Lumi," Ikea replied. "Assuming it was not plastic, it should provide you with an adequate calorie base." "But I'm hungry!" Ikea did not sigh. "Alright. Next one of those strange upright metal boxes that dispense candy and chips that you see, you may insert the metal tokens we received from father." "Hooray, hooray!" Lumi cheered, bouncing around the airport. Turning a corner, both came face to face with a besuited, besunglassed and besigned man holding up a sign reading TIBETIAN FURNITURE WARRIORS DOJO. "WAAAH! Our sign!" Lumi said, proceeding to pulverize him. "No, Lumi-chan, that is just a paper sign," Ikea said, as his sister continued to maul the kind fellow. "If my understanding of affairs in the outside world is correct, he plans on taking us somewhere inside a similar oblong metal box." "Oh. Gomen!" Lumi apologized, helping the chauffeur to his feet. Twice, since he fell over the first time. * The first of the gun fodder started to arrive before noon. The La Bureau Cafe was ready for them. Fifi's various slaves had done a good job decorating; in a tasteful, yet cheery sort of manner that expressed not only good natured warriors' comraderie but a sense of impending doom usually only achieved by the dull whump and scraping sound of an airplane's left engine falling off the wing. There were also drinks with little umbrellas in them. Shelly dropped her travel-worn schoolbag at the door, where a servant promptly picked it up and whisked it off to her room (presumably). She had to admit, of all the two bit hoodlum gangland hideouts she had visited in attempts to make a name for herself, this was the best. The little 'Hello, my name is' tags were a nice touch. She wasn't up for finding a program and schedule of events, so she just grabbed the nearest person in a french maid costume by the scruffy little cloth thing that goes around their neck and jerked them over. "I'm here to kick ass. Where to?" she asked. "Th-the ballroom," the maid replied. Shelly let her go, and gave the maid her best uber-kawaii smile. "Great! Lots of wide open space to fight in, and the potential for lots of chairs and tables to throw around. I'm game." "Err, no," the maid said. "First is the dinner gala and karoke." Blink. Blink. "Karoke?" * Fifi powdered her nose. All was going according to plan. The guests were settled for a nice din-din of fine Parisian style, she was dressed to kill and Hugh had supposedly finished his speech after being locked in his room for three hours to do it. Fifi appreciated the finer points to showing someone a fine evening before the disemboweling began, even if her partner in crime didn't. 'This is a waste,' he had whined. 'The master wants his minions and his victims ready for theirs deaths! Not wined, dined and entertained!' Hugh could be such a bore sometimes. But fortunately he was easy to seduce, and Fifi got her way without much effort on her behalf. By now, all the guests had arrived, save two. Hugh paced around in the spacious powder room, his Annoyance Tolerance Limits being pushed to the envelope. "Where are they. Where are they. I TOLD the limo driver to waste no time!" "Darling, do be calm," Fifi yawned, closing her makeup compact (which doubled as a shuriken). "My staff has orders to tell us the minute they arrive." "They've arrived," a member of the staff said, leaning into the room. "See?" "Feh," Hugh fehed. "Let's get this over with." * "Do you have a reservation?" "I do not need a reservation beyond my warrior's honor and drive to uphold my dojo," Ikea replied. The receptionist frowned. "I can't let you in without a reservation." "Ne, Ikea-kun, let's bust in and fight our way to the sign! It'll be fun!" Lumi cheered, hopping up and down. "Patience, Lumi," Ikea recommended. "Good things come to the patient. Like the rosebud opening in the spring blossom, or the wintery ices melting with time, or the leaves of fall turning and falling from their branches only to begin--" "Waxing poetic won't get you in any faster," the receptionist warned. Ikea continued his prana-bindu relaxation exercises. The outside world could be so taxing to one who tries to maintain his inner harmony. He was about to start a logical attempt to reason with the receptionist about the true nature of valor and justice when the doubledoors leading into the ballroom flew open, Hugh leaping through like a snarling, white-hot ball of two fisted cool. "You've tracked me down, Ikea!" he bellowed. "Now meet your FATE!" Ikea drew his chair. "It is you who shall reach the grave, VILLAIN!" "WHOA!" Fifi yelled, waving her arms and leaping between the two. "Whoa, whoa. Huuuugh! What did we agree on?" Hugh blinked, memory searching backwards. "Oh. Right. Don't assault him until you explain things." Fifi sighed. "Exactly. Ikea-kun? If you'd please?" she said, gesturing to a seat. Ikea frowned, his idiom interrupted. He ignored the padded Parisian chair offered and unfolded his wooden weapon, plopping down on that instead. A bold move. A rash move. A dangerous gamble. A snake in the grass. A pig in a poke. But it paid off. Fifi smiled, gesturing to Hugh. "Now, Ikea-kun, I understand you've come to annihilate my fine friend Hugh here over the matter of a dojo sign. Which is well and good, but we have a better offer." "My golden path of vengeance is clear without alternative offers," Ikea stated, eyes narrowing. "Ah, but you're not quite aware of the aeon-old Furniture Warrior's Tournament!" Fifi said, waving her face with a fan. "Which is?" "Simply THE event of the year. All furniture warriors around the world are invited to compete against the forces of the Ottoman Empire. The rules are simple; if anybody defeats the reigning champion of the Empire, Earth stays nice and safe. If the Empire defeats the Tibetian School -- and let's face it, darling, all Furniture Warriors trace back in some way to your adorable little shack in the mountains -- the Empire's minions invade, taking over the planet and plunging it into a thousand year rule of darkness and destruction the likes of which have never been seen before." "Waah!" Lumi yelped, hiding behind Ikea. "I suspect you of falsehood," Ikea stated flatly. "Since such a story seems absolutely ridiculous, and our records--" "Have been erased!" Hugh sputtered. "You've been kept in the dark by the legions of the Ottoman Empire! Now it's time to put up or shut up, Ikea. If you decline to enter, there will be no representatives from your dojo, and in the eventuality of our achievement you will be shamed and dishonored for letting down the whole human race!" "Well, I wouldn't have put it in such nasty terms..." Fifi shrugged. "But basically, yes. And if you win, of course you'll get your silly sign back. As we say in Paris, 'Est it une deale?'" Ikea pondered the manyfold consequences of the actions taken at this nexus in time. On one hand, they could be lying. On the other hand, he didn't have the sign he came for, Hugh was still unpunished, the truth of the situation could lead to the extermination of the human race including Tibet and generally the entire planet would not be pleased at his noble dojo for the actions taken here today. On the third hand, this could all be a twisted story concocted by a writer who is making it up as he goes along. But since Ikea had only two hands he saw that the choice was obvious. "I accept," he said. * A lone figure walked the streets of Paris. The figure walked silently; the figure walked quickly. The figure crossed streets even when the 'NE PAS WALKE' sign was lit. The figure was almost hit by a car but fortunately the figure was silent and quick enough to avoid this. She wasn't happy. First of all, she had to march all the way across the presumed grasslands of France because she wasn't invited to the tournament and couldn't afford a train fare. Second, she had to deal with SIX idiots on this trip making jokes about the brass curtain rod with draperies attached she traditionally carried as her instrument of vengeance. And third, she couldn't find a damn quarter pounder with cheese on the menu and had thus gone hungry. Someone was going to pay for these hardships, past hardships and hardships yet to be. "Just you wait, Fifi!" she shouted at a mime, swinging her draperies around in a menacing, foreboding manner. "When I get you, you'll be FINISHED! FINISHED!" "Don't you mean 'it's curtains for you'?" a bystander asked. Poor bystander. * "What is this thing?" Mick asked, poking his unidentifiable yet oddly avian roast meat. "Food!" Lumi cheered. "No, I mean what IS it?" "Ano... food." Mick sighed, rubbing his temples. This wasn't what he was expecting. He was HOPING to get right into the combat, sort of a tiddly woo fighting biddle, but Fifi had... changed. 'Darling, I can't very well host a tournament without being a HOST!' Fifi had explained when he came looking for her. Odd, that. The droog Fifi he had knew was a rough 'n tumble sort. Didn't really bandy wandy about with the silly things in life. He could tolerate the namby pamby high society treatment if not for this awful little gel they had seated him with. She was so... so... if there was a word for the kind of cheer and happiness and adorable levels of cute that can physically damage your nerves simply by being in close proximity, Mick would've used that word. Now, the brother was another matter. Stern, that one. Quite calm and solid, like a oaken desk that's sat in one place for years and won't be moving anytime soon. Mick grinned inwardly -- the brother would be one to look out for in the coming battles. "First tournament, mate?" he asked, engaging Ikea in Smalltalk Level Two. "My first outside of my dojo," the brother said, timing his words around the small bites of his meal. "You'll get used to it fast," Mick said, leaning back in his chair, pushing the pheasant? pigeon? crow? aside for now. "Lots of wonking about figuring out where to go and who to fight, but it's good fun, all. Is your kid sister here participating?" "HAAAI! Lumi-chan is a great fighter!" Lumi perked in with, with such emphasis on perk that it made Mick wince. "So, who was your mate you were chatty watty with back there?" Mick asked, ignoring the girl. "The scandinavian fellow?" "An old friend," Ikea said. He was quite pleased to see Yarslov again, actually, even if their initial meeting at the La Bureau went something like this : 'Yo, Ikea!' 'Hello, Yarslov.' (pause) 'I gotta take a whiz, excuse me.' 'Alright.' Not quite what he was hoping, but Ikea was not unsettled. * Yarslov splashed water in his face, extremely unsettled. This was bordering on that which Truly Sucks. Ikea was here! No way, man! That was bad. Kinda on two levels, really; 'cuz there was no way he could beat Ikea, for starters, and he didn't really WANNA have to face down his old compadre. But, like, if he DIDN'T, then maybe this ultra-cool philoso... premini... presci... dream thing wouldn't come true 'cuz he didn't stay in the tourney. "Whoa," Yarslov said, summarizing his mood in one neat syllable. There was a flush from the nearby stall, and out walked Hugh. Hugh looked at Yarslov and blinked. Yarslov looked at Hugh and blinked. "YOU!" they each said. "What're YOU doing here?!" they replied. "I'm here for the tournament!" they answered. "STOP THAT!" they demanded! Then both were silent. "'The seagull perches on the steeple in the rain'," Hugh stated. "...what?" Yarslov asked. "Well, I wanted to make sure I didn't say something you'd say as well." "Oh. Um. YOU! You scum, you're that dickweed that messed up our dojo all those years ago!" Yarslov said, getting back into the mood of things and cracking his knuckles. "I oughtta teach you a lesson!" "Noooo, I don't think so," Hugh laughed. "In fact, I believe I have a lesson to teach you." "Bring it on! You're gonna get hurt." "It is YOU who shall get hurt, fool!" "You're goin' down, pal!" "We shall see!" Hours passed. "You're going home in a box, man!" Yarslov taunted. "And you won't be going home at all!" Hugh replied. "There can BE only one!" "And I shall be that one!" Fifi peeked into the men's room door. "Are you two done yet? Hugh, you need to give your speech!" Hugh paused in his taunting, realizing he hadn't actually attacked yet. "But... but I'm not done!" "You can play LATER," Fifi said, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him out of the bathroom. "...so's your mother," Yarslov finished. Sort of after the fact. * Someone tried to approach the Karoke mike, but a sharp glare from Shelly made them decide to turn around and go back. She had actually been doing Karoke for the last forty five minutes. There were objections -- some from people wanting a turn, mostly from people wanting her to shut up -- but she wasn't about to give up the stage to anybody. She was the Karoke master of her dorm and she KNEW it. No so much because she was good at singing but because anybody who didn't think she was good at singing put their foot in their mouth. Sometimes with help. She was about to launch into a rousing chorus of 'New York, New York' when she found the karoke machine had been unplugged and the spotlight turned to another part of the stage, where Fifi was shoving a very protesting Hugh in front of a podium. "HEY!" she protested as well, and stomped off to find the spotlight controller so she could express her discontent in a violent manner. Hugh stood like a deer in headlights. He was never one for public speaking, having mastered the Introverted Artist Mentality of shying away from public affairs. Then he remembered an old Martial Arts Public Speaking trick he learned from Master Wae San Phillips : imagine everybody in the audience in their underwear. It didn't do much for his nerves, but did help his libido enough to compensate. He pulled a set of index cards out from his pocket, assumed a Dominating Evil Voice, and read. "Ladies... gentlemen. Warriors alike," he opened with. It was a solid opening. Much better than his early draft of 'A funny thing happened on the way to the tournament'. "You stand today on the brink between obscurity and greatness. This, the only tournament BY Furniture Warriors, FOR Furniture Warriors, will prove you to be the sole master of your art. In the next twenty four hours we will see who is the best, and who is the rest. I can assure you a very challenging fight, indeed, as the noble Ottoman Empire has provided quite a grounds for our combat. You should savor these moments... as if they were something to be savored." Dramatic pause. "And now, for a taste of things to be around the corner," Hugh said, with a sweeping arm gesture. "We've arranged a little demonstration, if you'd direct your attention to the center of the room..." The spotlight guy didn't move the spotlight. Hugh squinted into the distance, and saw what looked like a heavy oaken schooldesk dropped on the guy's head. Hugh sighed. "Full lights, please?" One of the maids hit the light switch, turning on the less dramatic but still effective overhead lights... illuminating the nine foot tall wall of power made flesh flexing in the center of the room. "This is Gaston Moosculare," Hugh introduced. "The strongest man in all of Paris. He's here at the personal invitation of our gracious host, Fifi L'Enfer. He can bench press a Volvo and eats a slab of raw plywood for fiber every morning. He has pectorals the size of toddlers. Clearly an opponent worthy of our demonstration. And this..." Hugh gestured to a tiny, maybe two foot tall man in black ninja robes, brandishing a salad spoon and a little wooden mallet. "This is Shrimp, master of Ottoman Empire Crack Claw Seafood Restaurant Style Furniture Warrior Martial Arts. He can lift three pounds and eats rice and water. Ready?" The two opponents squared off, the shadow of one completely covering the other. "BEGIN!" Hugh shouted. Shrimp made a lightning fast striking motion with his mallet, and Gaston fell down with a WHAM, clutching his genitals and whimpering in a higher octave. "Let this be a warning," Hugh said. "The Ottoman Empire will break you in the most humiliating ways possible and resistance is futile and you will be crushed like an eggshell beneath our mighty iron boots. Now, everybody get up and go to the door. Our ride is waiting." * The large-scale tour bus was black. Really black. So black that light could not escape it. So incredibly totally black that it stood out against the daylight like a black bus standing out against the daylight. Even the windows were black. It was completely black. The bus was black. "Ano, that bus is black," Lumi commented, trying to resist being bustled onto the bus. "This bodes of forewarning," Ikea muttered. "I do not like this turn of events." "Everybody on!" Fifi cheered, waving a fluffy white fan. "Off we go to the tournament! Lots of fun for all! Settle in the back row first, please." "Quit shoving, mate, I know where to go," Mick grumbled. "Watch those hands, bub!" Shelly said, smacking the guy directly behind her. "Uh, sorry," Yarslov stammered. "Come along, come along," Hugh said, urging the crowd along. "In you go." Eventually all had gathered onto the bus. Its engine roared to life like the stirring of evil powers in a kettle of damnation, flames roaring out of the tailpipe, the entire bus shaking with unholy fury. (The lone figure was having trouble hanging onto the roof baggage rack what with all that unholy fury, but she was managing well enough.) "IT HAS BEGUN!" Hugh yelled. "Down in front!" the evil bus driver yelled back. And with that, the ground split open, rended asunder, and the bus drove into the fissure, vanishing in a burst of flame and evilness. -=- got impro? http://pixelscapes.com/improfanfic