Furniture Warriors PART FIVE, The Many Maimings of Yarslov! or Railing Death! (Formerly) A Spoof Chase Production NOW An ImproFanfic Production (http://pixelscapes.com/improfanfic) A Furniture Warriors ImproFanfic created by Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne This episode by Yasha (aka C. DeBartolo) a girl with too many nicknames for anyone else's sanity. (All characters copyright Nihana-san, obviously. If I ever even considered claiming that these were my own characters I'd probably be thrown into a small cell where I'd be forced to eat my own ego to live.) Big thanks to Jonatan Streith for pre-reading, suggestions, and cheering me on!!! A-RI-GA-TOU!!! RECAP: It all began one sunny afternoon when HUGH, disguised as a dojo yaburi, stole the sign of the Honorable Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo (pizza deliveries to rear entrance) and IKEA (the leading Warrior of the Dojo) and LUMI (Ikea's ditzy little sister) were sent to track Hugh down. Well, actually, it began some few years before that, when Hugh was kicked out for violating the dojo furniture and swore vengeance on the dojo. No wait, it began a thousand years ago, when the Emperor of the Ottoman Empire decided to rig the next battle to decide the fate of the universe.. Well, whenever it might have began, it ended up causing quite a few Furniture Warriors to gather in Paris (France, not Illinois) to be transported to the Furniture Warrior Tournament to end all Furniture Warrior Tournaments! After an interminably long bus-ride through time and space and a stop to pick up two Furniture Warriors trapped in a small sub-dimension (the chilly amp-wielding non-Japanese NIN fan YOSHI, and TONY, the military-esque possessor of a floor-lamp and fake beard) as well as many unnamed targets -- *cough* er, fellow combatants -- the warriors have finally arrived at the ornate and excessively spacious citadel of the Evil Overlord. Here it is revealed that SHELLY has quite a few more relatives around than she suspected -- MICK is her long-absent father, and IKEA and LUMI are her extremely removed cousins! FIFI, the wearer of fluffy white lingerie, was outraged to discover another FIFI... a maid with an outrageously over-the-top French-ish accent is in the tournament as well.. But before Fifi-of-the-Lingerie can do anything about it, YARSLOV and Fifi-the-Maid open the tournament with the very first match! **************************** This, Yarslov decided, was Kind Of Bogus. When his opponent had minced into the arena, high-heels clicking and feather-duster waving, he had hoped for a quick win with as little harm dealt to her as possible. Hitting girls was Majorly Uncool. But she was a Furniture Warrior, too, and to think she wasn't capable of holding her own in a fight was a one-way ticket to getting his clock cleaned permanently. Besides, the light glittering off of a thousand faceted edges dangling from her chandelier didn't exactly inspire warm hopeful thoughts. "Ah wahrn you, mes ami, Ah ahm pray-pared to defeat you utterly, no?" Yarslov grinned. "You're not? Great! I don't like hitting girls!" Fifi the maid scowled. "You are making fun of me, yes? Ah theenk you will no be so making jokes when Ah have been defeating you, yes-no? Ah will defeat you in the name of France!" "YOU are NOT French!" The lingerie-clad Fifi shrieked from the sidelines. Hugh and Mick were struggling to keep the fluffy flailing figure from leaping into the arena (and, frankly, they seemed to be enjoying it). "You're as French as French-fries! *I'M* the Furniture Warrior of France!" The chandelier jingled as it swung in a deadly arc around the maid. Still, the chain it was on was fairly short -- Yarslov was well out of its range, and he had time to figure out some way to disarm her. "Zhoo-ta-loo! FACILE NETTOYAGE GRÈVE!" "Whoa, she's like way too far to -- YEEP!" Yarslov threw himself to the ground as the chandelier chain shot out to its full length, the massive rack of glittering crystal whizzing past close enough to clip some of his hair. [Giant killer yo-yo from hell attack -- uh-oh... yo-yos snap BACK.] He lunged to his feet, running towards the maid and pulling his chair back for a clean strike. Beside him, the chain began retracting. "RISING CHAIR FIRE OR SOMETHING!" Yarslov screamed as hot yellow ki flared. His chair caught her firmly in the midsection, knocking her down just as the returning chandelier struck him with a sound blow to the small of his back. Both fighters grunted as they hit the floor. "Double-knockout?" Hugh sneered. "How could they both be so weak?" "O-HOHOHOHOHOOO!" Fifi of the lingerie cackled. "Take THAT, you faux French femme! A true warrior of France could do better than that when handcuffed, bound in leather straps, and tied to someone's bed! And *I* should know!" The entire ensemble of Furniture Warriors sweat-dropped as one. In the arena, the fighters had regained their footing, and were eyeing one another warily. "You, sir, ahr toe-fer than Ah had ee-mah-jeaned! Ah weell now leet you bar weet-niss to Mah Ool-to-meet Attack!" Fifi began to spin her chandelier in a tight circle in front of her. Pale pink ki flared along the bright lattices of her weapon. Yarslov sweat-dropped. "Uh... could you maybe repeat that? I can't understand a word you're saying!" The maid scowled ferociously. "That ees eet! You have ahsked for eet! ATTAQUE DE ROTATION DE LA MORT!!" She shouted as she released the spinning objet de lumière and executed a neat forward flip to stand on it. Charged with ki, the chandelier managed to break several laws of physics by spinning like a top on its point, and the enraged maid rode the whirling weapon like the ultimate surfer. Er, if surfers ever used chandeliers to plow deep furrows of destructive force through the floor of an arena. Which, as a rule, they generally don't. That, Yarslov decided, would have to be put out of commission. Like, quick. "RISING CHAIR FIRE OR SOMETHING," he yelled as he swung his beach-chair, loosing a bright ki-blast towards the approaching whirling maid. It struck the spinning sides of the chandelier, and was deflected harmlessly into the watching entourage of fellow warriors. A small explosion, pained screams, and several clothing and furniture fires broke out. "Crap!" Yarslov backed off from the chandelier in a zig-zag pattern. [That ki-spinning thingie neu-- neutr-- stops my normal attack thingie.. uh, now what? Maybe I should, like, wait until her ki runs out or something? Or --] A thought struck him. [Oh, like, duh! I should've thought of that sooner.] He reversed his path to run directly towards the oncoming chandelier, charging his chair with ki once more. The crowd immediately flattened itself to the ground to avoid any stray blasts. "Oh-ho-ho! Come and meet your death!" The maid cackled. [Right about... NOW!] Yarslov launched himself into the air, swinging his chair in an wide overhand sweep. "FALLING CHAIR FIRE OR SOMETHING!!" He howled as he struck. Fifi blocked the combined blow of overhand strength, gravity, and ki with her face. The two fighters crashed to the ground, leaving the chandelier to whine a random path through the crowd, who couldn't get back to their feet fast enough to suit themselves. It stopped spinning after destroying two walls, part of the staircase, a china cabinet filled with thirty Collector's Edition plates and injuring twenty not-so-innocent bystanders. "And the winner is... Yarslov!" Even while shouting into the microphone, Hugh managed to sound unenthusiastic. "The next match will be held in six hours.. in a much less breakable arena! The combatants will be... Lumi of the Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo and Piers Juan, hailing from California! Be sure to visit the concession stands and mini-mall before you go watch! In the meantime, Miss Oeru," he waved to a petite woman dressed in a business suit, "will show you where the dining hall is, take you to your rooms, and that sort of thing." "I'm, like, sorry about having to hit you and stuff, Miss." Yarslov offered a hand to help the maid up. "I... I can't believe I lost! WAAAAAAAHHHHH!" Bursting into a flood of tears, Fifi-the-maid fled from the arena. "Oh, man... that's so bogus! I made a girl, like, CRY?" Yarslov sighed. So far this tournament was, like, not turning out to be a Good Thing. He became aware that someone was standing next to him. "Oh, hey, Shelly -- what happened to you?" Shelly growled menacingly. Her uniform looked slightly scorched, her hair looked as though someone had tried to use it as a mop, and her face was liberally dusted with soot. "SOME clumsy idiot didn't watch where his STUPID ki blasts were being aimed." Yarslov frowned. "That's uncool! Want me to, like, have a talk with him?" Shelly cracked her knuckles. "Oh, that's okay.. I can handle it." **************************** "Wai!" Lumi wai!ed. "I get to fight next, oniichan! Doesn't that make you happy?" Ikea's usual look of Cool Righteousness (tm) was replaced by a look of Cool, Yet Slightly Concerned for the Imminent Doom of My Little Sister Righteousness (tm). "I am sure you shall acquit yourself with the honor and dignity as befits a student of the Ancient and Honorable Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo, Lumi-chan," he intoned gravely. "Wai!" Lumi giggled. "I'll do my very best!" Ikea's look of Cool, Yet Slightly Concerned for the Imminent Doom of My Little Sister Righteousness (tm) was replaced by a look of Cool, Beginning to Be Very Concerned Over the Imminent Doom of my Little Sister and the Probable Destruction of the Reputation of the Ancient and Honorable Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo Righteousness (tm). **************************** Yarslov staggered into the men's room, looking much worse for wear. "Man, I will NEVER get chicks... what was she upset at ME for?" A light, mocking laugh echoed at him. Yarslov swiveled about, blinked, and scowled. "Hey.. you're that... that guy that's named after a turtle!" The blonde pretty-boy sniffed derisively, his eyes narrowing slightly in irritation. "That's Leonardo. Leonardo DiMario, you uncultured buffoon." "Whatever. Like I care." The Swedish boy stalked to the nearest sink to splash water on his abused face. Leonardo returned to his task of carefully and fastidiously combing and primping his hair. "And the bella Shelly was upset for your rather idiotic move of attacking that chandelier with a ki bolt." "Huh?" "That deflected ki attack of yours nearly permanently scarred that deliziosa little thing for life." "Scarred?" Yarslov echoed in horrified tones... then he tuned into the rest of the Italian playboy's sentence. "Hey, man, calling her a thing is totally bogus! And delicious? What's she supposed to be, a doughnut?" Leonardo flicked his fingers in a condescendingly dismissive wave. "Far too inadeguato a description for the affascinare Shelly. And delicious is 'squisita,' you rube. Deliziosa means delightful." His gaze focused on the middle distance, concentrating on some private vision. "If she were a food.. ah, cara Shelly would be something far more intriguing than any sticky-sweet doughnut... something light and fresh, sweet yet spicy.. and perhaps just poco un acido." "Girls aren't food!" A slightly amused smile flickered across the young man's face. "Of course not... but like a fine meal, they are to be savored and appreciated to the utmost. To do less, it would be an insult. And I do consider myself a connoisseur and a gentlemen, above all else." "Why, you sleaze-ball --" Yarslov started forward, clutching at his beach-chair. "Attacking an unarmed opponent?" Leonardo purred. The Swedish boy faltered, and frowned. "No... I'm not that kind of uncool dude." "Then it's fortunate I'm *always* armed." The pretty-boy smiled at his reflection charmingly, then whipped out a four-poster bed, which he brought crashing down on Yarslov's head. (From where, exactly, he pulled it from is a mystery that only the wielders of the larger furniture know the answer to -- and they're not telling.) "See you around, mia Svedese polpetta." Leonardo exited in a smooth, gliding cloud of charisma. "I REALLY hate that guy.." Yarslov's muffled voice echoed out from under the large and VERY heavy bed that now dominated the floor of the men's bathroom. He sighed. "Today just isn't my day." **************************** "And here is the guest wing, where I'm sure you all will enjoy your stay while you wait to fight to death for the fate of the world." Crisp would be a good word to describe Miss Oeru -- from her clipped words to her efficient hair-cut to her professionally pressed business suit, she embodied the word. "Wooooowwww." Shelly tilted her head waaayy back and tried to see the ceiling of the place. It eluded her. Balconies, stairways, and walkways that criss-crossed mid-air extended through and past the vanishing point. It broke all the laws of architecture, and severely bent a few of nature on the way there, too. An incredibly loud *THUMP!!*, accompanied by a veritable explosion of dust that caused those in the front of the crowd to burst into a fit of coughing and sneezing, brought Shelly's attention back to ground level. Miss Oeru walked back to the now quite-dirty registration counter and pointed to the massive tome that now loomed across the large desk. "All guests must sign in the Traditional Ottoman Empire Furniture Warrior Guest Book -- only then shall you receive a room key. Please do not lose your key, as it is punishable by a large fine and being thrown in a pit to be torn apart by wild beasts. Have a nice stay." Miss Oeru's heels clicked crisply on the marble floors as she left the premises. The various tournament invitees quickly formed a neat and orderly line. Well, uh, except for a bit of shoving. And shouting. And hitting each other with heavy items of... furniture. Ikea very nearly smiled. It was almost as though he were home again, participating in the honorable and sweaty past-time of the Big Brawl Before Dinner. A touch of home after all this time of traveling in metal boxes and eating plastic food. There was nothing like a group of warriors armed with furniture and intent on bodily harm to restore one's faith in the fact that life really *wasn't* as insane as one sometimes suspected. Shelly switched to using a metal kindergarten desk, swinging it left-handedly as she scrawled a signature in the gigantic tome. The crashes of furniture against furniture, furniture against flesh, furniture against floor, and furniture against face were occasionally punctuated with screams of "RISING CHAIR FIRE," "DEADLY FEATHER FLUFF," or "KOOKY CUCKOO STRIKE." And, to be perfectly honest, sometimes the fight was accented with mere screams of the ordinary pained variety. Pocketing her newly acquired room key, Shelly struck out through the crowd again, now laying about her with one of her larger desks -- a finely varnished antique roll-top that would never be the same again. Some minutes later, she collapsed into couch some distance from the edge of the brawl and concentrated on catching her breath again. [Heh, not bad,] Shelly thought smugly. [I was the tenth person to sign in. If I win this tournament, people will HAVE to take me seriously and stop treating me like some 'little girl' that doesn't have a 'real' fighting technique.] She smiled a little darkly. "Perdono me, bella signora, is this seat taken?" Shelly glanced up, her train of thought mildly derailed. [Oh, it's that weirdo hand-smoocher.] She shrugged. "It's a free couch." She frowned at him. "And if you try anything funny like last time, you'll end up hospitalized." Leonardo smiled widely, unfazed. "For a young woman as lovely and vivace as you, it would be worth it." He slid onto the couch next to her, carefully arranging his Armani suit to avoid wrinkling. Shelly frowned again. [I oughta smack him for that... but, he called me a woman -- that's actually kind of cool. I'm tired of being called 'girl.'] "So, is that Swedish fellow your boyfriend?" She started violently. "WHAT?! That-- that-- interfering ki-misfiring idiot?! NO WAY!!" Leonardo smiled a smile that wouldn't have looked too out of place on a shark. "I'm glad." Shelly blinked at him. He leaned back against the couch, tilted his head *just* so, and modified his smile into something a little softer and sweeter -- a gentle smile, perfect for disarming even the most hot-headed of girls. It was one of his finest creations. "If he were your boyfriend I couldn't ask you out to dinner, and I would have to regret that for the rest of eternity." Shelly blinked again, somewhat at a loss for words. [Jeez... he asked me out? Should I hit him? He doesn't look like he meant anything weird by it...] "Well," she began, mentally searching for a good way to let him down easily. "Get away from her, you sleazy jerk!" "Ah, mia Svedese polpetta! What timing you have!" Leonardo grinned in a crocodilian manner. "Shelly, don't listen to this guy! He's a creep and sleaze-ball, and he called you a doughnut!" "..." Shelly stared at the both of them. "...doughnut? Are you out of your tiny little mind?" "I take offense at that, parassito." Leonardo sniffed haughtily. "I spoke for quite some time on the reason that the attraente Miss Shelly could never be a doughnut. YOU were the one who first compared her to such a childish foodstuff." Yarslov paused, and mentally reviewed his earlier conversation with the bed-wielding pretty-boy. "Oh, yeah," he admitted, "I guess I kinda did, but that wasn't --" "You called me a DOUGHNUT?!" Shelly yelled. She bounced half of an L-shaped office desk off of the unfortunate Swedish boy's head. "Ow! That's not what I meant!" Leonardo interrupted the burgeoning argument. "I'm sure Miss Shelly is uninterested in being insulted by a mannerless oaf such as you. Cara mia, you never answered me -- would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner this evening?" "WHAT?! No way is she going out with a creep like you!" Shelly turned a color that could only be called Infuriated Red. "This is none of your business, Yarslov!" She threw the other half of the L-shaped office desk at him. Narrowly ducking the flying furniture, he shook his head earnestly. "You don't know what this guy is like! He'll probably try something funny on you before you know it! I'm only trying to keep you safe!" Infuriated Red gave way to Outraged Mauve. "I don't need your stupid protection! I can take care of myself!" "No way, he's way too clever and sneaky! You probably wouldn't even see it coming!" Outraged Mauve was booted out by Nearly- Apoplectic-With-Anger Purple. Yarslov didn't notice. "I'm only trying to keep you from getting into something way over your head, ya know!" *WHAM!!* The massive antique roll-top desk (with slightly dented and scraped varnish, due to the brawl of some few minutes ago) descended on Yarslov like the Wrath of Shelly. Which, technically, it was. "I don't need your stupid help, I can take care of myself! And I'm going on that stupid date, you stupid jerk!" Leonardo smiled silkily. "Such delightful words bring joy into my life, Miss Shelly. Shall I come for you at eight?" Shelly blinked. "Uh... sure." "Then, addio until tonight, mia bellezza. I look forward to spending more time with you." He oozed off the couch, gliding towards the stairs within an aura of smugness. [Oh, man... what have I gotten myself into?] "This is all YOUR fault!" She told the unconscious form of Yarslov. He didn't reply. **************************** The lounge off the Guest Lobby sparkled. Colored lights filtered through thick glass counters, reflected off of dark glass bottles and glittered in racks of delicate crystal glasses that hung from the ceiling above the bar. Delicate sets of glassy chimes jingled faintly. Glass-topped tables were surrounded by flimsy spindle-legged chairs. It was all gorgeous, stunningly lit, and eminently breakable. Shelly wondered absently how long this place would last before someone got in a fight here and shattered the peace into pieces. At the moment, the bar's continued survival was safe: the only occupants were herself, a barman intent on polishing the slick clear counter, and a depressed girl in a French maid outfit. The school-girl considered for a moment, then grabbed a seat at the bar next to the maid. The irritable young girl waved impatiently to gain the barman's attention, who instantly ignored her in favor of putting another layer of Windex on the counter-top. A muffled sniffle attracted Shelly's attention. She glanced over at the maid. [Aw, jeez.. she's crying! She looks like she's about to start doing that whole 'heaving sobs' sort of thing, too... Yuck. I can't stand being around bawlers. Hmm...] Shelly rummaged in her official Miss Pifflemoore's Academy for Privileged Girls school uniform, eventually finding the lacy white handkerchief that all the Academy girls were supposed to keep clean and neatly folded at all times. It was still clean, but looked as though it had been crumpled into a ball and sat on for three weeks straight. Which, considering the amount of traveling she'd been doing, probably wasn't that far off. She made a futile attempt to smooth it out, gave up, and offered the wrinkly hanky to sniffling maid. "Um, here. You look like you need it." Fifi blinked. "Thank you." She took the hanky and delicately dabbed at her watering eyes. [Huh. I wonder what happened to her silly accent?] *SCHZFWOOOOONNNKKK!!* Shelly jumped as the maid blew her nose loudly into the hanky. Five times. "Uh, by the way... feel free to keep that. I never use it. Um... are you okay?" "I'm fine... sort of. Just a little depressed. Here I am, a participant in the first Furniture Warriors tournament in centuries, and I get to be remembered as the first loser." She sniffled again, then glowered down the length of the counter. "Yo, barkeep! I've been waiting for a quarter of an hour here! Where's that restorative I ordered?" Shelly blinked. "If you don't mind my asking... what happened to your accent?" "Huh? Oh!" The maid posed. "Ah! You mean zhe Fifi-la-Maid schtick, yes-no?" The barman ambled over with a steaming cup of something that smelled of apples and cinnamon. She sipped from it, and leaned towards Shelly in a confidential manner. "I'm not really French. Heck, my name's not really Fifi, either." Shelly blinked again. "If your name isn't Fifi, why did you introduce yourself as that?" She turned to the barman. "Mocha cappuchino, please." He nodded and ambled off. Not-Fifi snorted derisively. "I fight with a chandelier! You've got to stick with the spirit of these things, you know! By your school outfit, I'd guess that you probably fight with desks." "Well, yes, but that's just coincidence, really..." "And I'll bet that other Fifi -- the one running around in her underwear -- probably uses beds or pillows or something." "I really wouldn't know --" Shelly began. "I mean, how would it sound, anyway? 'Hi, I'm Joanie from Brooklyn, a practitioner of Chandelier Furniture Fighting?' " "It's no odder than Fifi the Maid," Shelly argued. "True," Fifi-nee-Joanie agreed pensively. "One should really be a butler for chandeliering. My teacher, Jervis, was an English butler, actually." Shelly tried to picture an English butler wielding a chandelier, and failed miserably. She tried imagining an English butler using that final attack of surfing on the spinning chandelier, and had even less luck. "Actually, you don't look too happy yourself right now." Joanie sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Want to talk about it?" "Well..." Shelly considered. [Eh, why not?] She recounted the recent disastrous scene between herself, Leonardo, and Yarslov, being careful to avoid naming either of them. "Hmmmm. That's a toughie. Have you considered just standing this guy up, if you dislike him so much?" Shelly shook her head. "I can't do something like that! I mean, I said I'd go. If I didn't, it'd be like breaking my word." "Well, if you have to go... go armed. If he tries anything, hit him until he stops moving." "That was sort of my plan." **************************** Nearly an hour later, the last of the more luckless signers had been ferried up to their rooms, the clerk had finally managed to get the desk clean and was in the midst of penning his resignation, and a pair of mysteriously cute eyes were peering about, as if checking for enemies in every corner. Finding no immediate threats, the shadowy figure slunk to the front counter. "Sign the register before you receive a key, please." The clerk had a firm grasp on monotone. He also had a firm grasp on his letter of resignation, and didn't bother looking up from it. The girl shrugged, holstered her curtain-rod, and scrawled her name with a flourish. The clerk tossed her a key, still absorbed in his missive. "You're on the X2-EOE23874th level, Chartreuse section. Be careful of the alligators, and have a nice stay." Nodding brief acknowledgment, the mysterious girl disappeared into the shadows, which was a neat trick, considering that the entire lobby was extremely well-lit. **************************** Ikea turned the key and opened the door to his room. The hinges creaked with a depth of groaning unable to be caused by time and age alone... the sounds that squealed from the door were something that could only be caused by careful application of hot water for months at a time. The door stuck at least three times before he was able to jam it open enough to slip inside. The floor was flat cement, rough and untouched by anything resembling a carpet or rug. The only furniture in the room was a simple iron coat-rack, which was partially blocking the door. The room was chilly and forbidding, probably due to the icy winds that howled down through the chimney. It fluttered the cobwebs in the long unused fireplace. Stepping through the only other door in the room, he discovered the bathroom. Consisting of a grill in the tiled floor, the only other things in the room was a hand-operated water pump and two buckets -- one large, one small. Ikea smiled... but only by a millimeter or so. Truly, this was the perfect room for a warrior. No unwanted distractions, no fluffy softness that encourages laxness in training. This was a room where it all boils down to a Warrior and His Chair. He took a brief moment to breathe in the simplicity of it all, then squeezed out the door into the hallway, manhandled the door shut, and went in search of his little sister. He doubted she would remember to get to the arena in time for her match on her own. **************************** "Wai, wai, WAI!!" Lumi cheered, then giggled, as she bounced on the super-huge and super-springy California King-sized bed. This was even more fun that the metal box thing with the air and lights and peanuts and plastic food! There were about twenty little plastic things that were just FILLED with buttons, and in a very short time she had managed to turn on the stereo system, the big-screen TV, the VCR, the Laser Disc player, the DVD player, and the other stereo system that was actually hooked up to a turntable. All at full volume, of course. She was just about to see if the funny thing with a crank (it was labeled a 'Victrola' -- whatever that was) worked when her brother came in. Ikea winced infinitesimally. The noise was abominable. The deeper tones made his bones thrum in a disturbingly unnatural way. "Lumi," he called sternly. Unsurprisingly, she didn't hear him. At the other end of the suite, the windows shuddered in a way that indicated they were about to shatter. He very nearly frowned, and turned his attention to the strange button-laden contraptions scattered around the bed his little sister was enthusiastically bouncing on. After some hesitant experimentation with the buttons, Ikea finally managed to turn most of the noise-making items off, and at least dim the volume on the others. "Awww!" Lumi-chan pouted adorably. "I was having fun, 'niichan!" "Your match begins soon, Lumi. We should endeavor to arrive at the site of the battle early, so as to gain an enhanced understanding of the potential tactical and strategical plans you should employ to defeat your opponent and bring honor the dojo." Lumi-chan smiled and nodded vacantly. Ikea resisted the tiny urge to shake his head and sigh. **************************** Somewhere in the myriad catacombs beneath the palace, darkness lurked in Stygian pools of blackness. Dim hellish red light flickered along the rough-hewn rocky walls, casting malformed shadows. Dark, disturbing shapes twisted into strange forms, occasionally almost obscene -- "Will you knock off those stupid shadow puppet games?" The absurdly short man in a lab coat sniffed haughtily, but put down his hands. "You have no sense of fun, Miss Oeru." "We are here for a meeting, Dr. Pfischer.. not to play games." "This meeting can't get underway until the Emperor shows up." He adjusted his Coke-bottle bottom glasses. "I could be in my lab, creating new and insane uses for small household appliance! Or even.. Project Deep Freeze." He giggled insanely, as mad scientists are wont to do. Miss Oeru frowned forbiddingly. "I am sure that none of us here are interested in your obscene plans for air-conditioning and refrigeration units." One of the figures lounging about the solid rock-slab table perked up and leaned forward. "Well, I would be quite intrigued, actually..." "I'm sure you would be, Hugh, but this meeting is not to discuss Pfischer's latest mechanized obsession." Oeru made a dismissive gesture. The diminutive scientist glowered at the chilly business-woman. "I should remind you, MISS Oeru, that my skills have eminently served His Imperial Majesty's wishes! Or have you forgotten our first little trip hazard that has been arranged only by the genius of Dr. I. M. Pfischer!" All of those seated at the rough table glanced surreptitiously towards the far end, where a humanoid silhouette slumped. Details were obscured by the dim lighting of the room, but it seemed subtly inhuman. "Pfagh!" One of the other figures boomed, making everyone jump. "Ve do not be needingk such mechanisch play-tingks! I vill be cruschingk das veaklingk baby varriors vith vun hand tied behind my back!" The figure leaned back into the shadows, causing her chair to groan with strain under the weight redistribution. "Hah!" The midget scientist screeched like a howler monkey as he stood on his chair to shout at the land-born leviathan. "Livewire could turn you into so much diced bratwurst, Sophia!" Sophia loomed across the table like a mountain come to life. She had the build of an opera singer (or possibly two opera singers, duct-taped together) and tended to give the immediate impression that she not only had a metal brassiere in her closet, but the winged helmet and the spear that went with it. There was a standing bet amongst many in the Ottoman Empire that one day she would forget herself and burst into a chorus of "Hoiyotoho!" So far, she had never done such a thing, but quite a few gamblers retained hope, as well as a large betting pool. She leaned on the table, causing the monolithic stones to creak dangerously. "Hah to you! I vould be turningk Livevire back into das toaster it vas startingk out as! No mere overgrown mechanisch blender could be stoppingk *me*!" Miss Oeru sighed exasperatedly. "In case you two have quite forgotten, we happen to be on the same side -- hard to believe as that is -- in-fighting gains us nothing but the displeasure of the Emperor. Now, who wants that to happen, hmm?" Uncomfortable silence reigned. "I thought not. Now, until His Imperial Majesty arrives, I want --" YOU NEEDN'T WAIT ANY LONGER, the voice resounded through the cave with the finality of the last slamming door. I HAVE ARRIVED. HAVE YOU PREPARED THE MEETING AGENDA? Miss Oeru got to her feet, bowed solemnly, replied, "Of course, My Liege," and re-seated herself. "Brown-noser," Hugh grumbled under his breath. WHAT PLANS HAVE YOU PUT INTO ACTION TO DISRUPT THE FURNITURE WARRIORS WHO MAY TURN AGAINST MY DESIGNS? The cool business-woman shuffled her papers and stood once more. "Our first initiative, the psychological attack, has begun. All the guest fighters have been placed in overly opulent rooms to encourage them to relax and to think of this as a vacation, rather than a life-or-death struggle for the fate of the Earth. My projections indicate that ninety-five percent of them will be less likely to train seriously for the tournament battles, and that as high as fifty percent will be more likely to be taken off-guard by Phase Two." Hugh started, a look of abstract horror briefly crossing his face. Fortunately, the many shadows that lurked in the cavern concealed this from his fellow conspirators. AND THE... SECONDARY PLAN? "It proceeds as planned. She will receive the... package after the next tournament." GOOD. YOU ALL HAVE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS. DO NOT FAIL ME. YOU ARE DISMISSED. The figures rose, bowed to the dark form of the Emperor, and quietly left the cave. Several minutes passed in silence, then a laugh like a rock-slide in a canyon echoed out. ONCE YOU WERE MINE, QUEEN RADIANCE. I SHALL BEND YOU TO MY WILL ONCE MORE... AND THIS TIME YOU SHALL NOT ESCAPE ME -- NOT EVEN IN DEATH, AS YOU DID ONCE BEFORE... **************************** "Hey! Like, wait up, okay?" Fifi-nee-Joanie paused at the stairwell landing, and frowned slightly at the originator of the shout. It was that Swedish boy who'd defeated her earlier. Her shoulders slumped. [Like I need a reminder that I'm a loser. Thank you, God -- would you like to take this time to start parading past all the guys that have ever dumped me, too? Maybe even WITH their current-and-much-prettier girlfriends alongside them? I really don't think I've been humiliated enough today...] "Yo, Fifi!" Above the stairway, in the concealing shadows of a balcony, a cute pair of ears perked up in intense interest. "What do you want?" "Well, I just wanted to say I was sorry I had to hit you like that n' everything..." The girl shrugged, doing interesting things to the bust-line of her rather scanty outfit. "We're both Furniture Warriors -- some injuries will happen in the course of a fight." She paused and looked a bit more closely at him. "What the hell happened to you? You look like someone hit you over the head with a refrigerator!" "That's about the only thing I *haven't* been hit with," he told her mournfully. "But that's not important. I just wanted to tell you it was a way groovy fight -- you nearly had me there, a couple of times." Yarslov grinned goofily. "Really?" She brightened up a bit. "Thanks!" "Oh, I gotta go now... my buddy Ikea's little sister in the next match, and I gotta do the cool frood thing and cheer her on and stuff. See ya around!" "Au revoir!" She waved cutely as he dashed off. [Well, maybe it isn't *quite* so bad that I lost... after all, only a few people every thousand years can say they fought in a mystical tournament of Furniture-wielding fighters to decide the fate of the Earth! And that Yarslov guy seems kind of cute, in a sort of clueless way... I wonder if he's got a girlfriend?] Distracted by her thoughts, Fifi wandered vaguely up the staircase. Her reflections were interrupted by a mysterious stranger leaping from a balcony onto the stairs before the distracted maid and emitting a rather venomous snarl. "Fifi! At last I'll take my vengeance!" The curtain waved menacingly in a non-existent breeze. "P-p-pardon?" The maid took a startled step back. "I'm sorry, have we met?" The figure blinked several times, then looked the girl up and down. Twice. "Fifi?" "Um... one of them... my real name is Joanie, though..." She had the sneaking suspicion that being known as Fifi to this mysterious whacko that leapt off of balconies to menace innocent girls with a curtain rod would NOT be good for her health. There was a long pause. Then the figure shuffled past the girl with a mumbled, "Sorry -- honest mistake," and dashed down the stairs. Joanie sighed. "Mom was right. I should have been a dental hygienist." **************************** Empty silence echoed through the gigantic halls of the Imperial Palace of the Ottoman Empire. Well, most of the halls, anyway. Over in the Cool Blue Arena Wing of the palace quite a bit of inane yammering over the odds and various private bets were echoing about as Lumi and Piers prepared for their match. The Guest Wing was *nearly* silent, though. Only stumbling footsteps and maniacal giggling from an crazed- looking teen broke the quiet there. The psychotic-looking boy *grinned*. He was READY. Yeah, he'd prove to these weirdo Furni-whatevers that he was MORE than skilled enough to take on whatever goofy stuff they had going on their tournament. He'd show 'em! He prowled nervously up the stairs in the main guest area, caressing his recently-acquired new weapon. The next Furniture Warrior wasn't going to find defeating him as easy as plugging in some NIN, no sir! He'd kick names and take butt -- or was that supposed to be the other way around? Well, anyway, he'd get into their stupid contest and win it! Yeah, and then they'd all have to give him the respect he so richly deserved. The sound of soft footsteps came to his ears. He grinned. This had to be one of those Furni-whatsits now... the place was full of them! Granted, most of them seemed to be a bit scarce right now, but that didn't matter -- his target was here right now! He drew his weapon and leapt around the corner. "HAAA!" He ended up yelling at a slightly startled and very cute (in a mysterious sort of way) girl... holding a curtain rod. She blinked at him. Not one to let even the most gorgeous of creatures throw him from delivering a speech he had practiced for over six minutes, the boy chose to ignore the brief urge to ask her out for tea. "I'm here to enter the tournament by any means necessary -- and if I gotta do it over your dead body... well, I'll do it!" The girl gave him a puzzled look. "Where is your weapon?" she asked in a smooth voice redolent of honey and warm afternoon sunshine, and other things that generally make one's toes tingle. She leaned casually on the brass rod, and straightened the draping of one of her curtains. The boy cleared his throat several times, before regaining his train of thought. "I use my... MACHETE!" He waved it menacingly for emphasis. An icy look of disapproval crossed the girl's face. She still managed to look cute while doing it, though. "The way of a Furniture Martial Artist eludes you." "Oh, yeah?! I'll show you!" He leap forward, the oversized knife describing a deadly arc through the air. *KTANGG!* The brass rod struck upwards with cobra-speed, sending the machete flying over the side of the stair-railing to eventually thunk point-down in the registration desk far below, mere inches from the duty-clerk's right hand. He ended up taking his break early. *SWIPPP!* A long, flowing, flower-print curtain snapped out like a flag in a high wind, wrapping completely around the startled boy's head and torso. With only the slightest grunt of effort, the mysterious and rather violent girl swung her weapon and its unwilling passenger overhead, twisting the curtain rod in *just* the right way to make the entangling curtain release her challenger at the highest point of the arc. With a faintly despairing scream, he exited the staircase the hard way. She permitted herself a faint, satisfied smile before fading back into the shadows. On the ground floor of the guest quarters, two furniture warriors glanced up, attracted by the sound of a scream. "Railing death." Tony remarked with considerable aplomb, scratching under his fake beard. [Damn glue -- itches like nobody's business!] "Mm. Perhaps not," his companion intoned coolly. "The palace of the Dread Ottoman Empire can be strange indeed." "Well, railing injury, then -- hey, look at that!" The hapless teen had begun to fall upwards. Tony gawked. "Isn't that supposed to break all the laws of physics?" Yoshi shook his head slightly. "The Ottoman Empire does not exist in normal space... recall that sub-dimension we resided in for so long?" Tony shuddered, his dog-tags jingling. "Ugh. Don't remind me." "The entire Empire is composed of tens of hundreds of fragmented worlds, sub-dimensions, and time-space bubbles haphazardly cobbled together to form a semi-cohesive whole. This sometimes has an unfortunate effect on the normal laws of time and space. This effect is intensified within the palace, which is the nexus through which most of the sub-dimensions join." "Wow. I think that's the most words I've ever heard you say at one time." "....." At this point, Yoshi would have sweat-dropped, if he weren't too cool, dark, and bishounen for that sort of thing. The upwards-falling figure changed his course by a sixty-degree angle. Ever so often, distorted echoes of his terrified screams bounced down to dimly resound through the halls. "You know... that looked kind of like that stupid kid with the gun." Yoshi shrugged, indicating he really didn't care. "Think he'll show up again?" Yoshi shrugged, this time indicating that the whims of fate were many and varied, and who was he to care, anyway? "Out of curiosity, Yoshi, how exactly do you know all this stuff about the Ottoman Empire? Does it have anything to do with how you knew that weird bus would pick us up?" "Ah. The only answer to that can be... sore wa himitsu desu." Tony -- not being too cool, dark, and bishounen for it -- sweat-dropped. **************************** The Cool Blue Arena Wing was aptly named. Firstly, it was quite chilly. Secondly, it was painted in various shades of blue. Thirdly, it boasted a huge arena. Fourthly was a bit inaccurate, as it didn't really make a whole wing of the palace.. it was more of a wing-offshoot, but, sensibly, the architects of the Imperial Ottoman Palace had realized that calling it a wing-offshoot would severely lack in the Impressive Department. Most of the Furniture Warriors had stopped at the mini-mall to pick up the Official FW Tournament Blankets -- the seating around the arena was coated with a thin layer of snow, and icicles dripped liberally from under the seats themselves. Clouds of breath fogged visibly in the air, and the Plexiglas barrier around the arena was edged with frost. The arena itself had a chilling aspect [and the writer was malleted for even *thinking* that pun]. Icicles of stalactitian proportions loomed out of the ceiling, and correspondingly icy stalagmites extruded grotesquely from the rough icy floor. Snow mounded in great drifts here and there, and the general color scheme was white on off-white. Hugh sat in the control booth far above the arena, a mug of hot coffee in one hand, a thick blanket around his shoulders, and a lingerie-garbed Fifi sprawled across his lap. "Fifi, did you have your servants take care of that little matter we discussed?" "Of course, honeykins! Ikea's room was stripped down to utter nothingness. A rat would refuse to live in such barrenness!" Fifi giggled cutely and evilly. Hugh winced, partially because she was cackling directly in his right ear, but mostly because he wasn't looking forward to the Emperor finding out that one his own plans had clashed with the currently-VERY-much-in-Imperial-favor Miss Oeru. "The two idiots are here for the fight, lamb-chop," Fifi pointed out. Hugh snapped out of his reverie, cleared his throat, and turned on the microphone. "Welcome to the Ice Arena, and the second fight of our esteemed tournament," he droned, "here, we will witness the skills and training..." Far below in the stands, the assembled warriors tuned out Hugh's voice -- something they felt would be practiced for some time to come. Tony winced as he munched on some hot churros (available at the concessions stand, for only five times the normal price!). "I really hope that Hugh guy gets a match in the tournament soon.. and that someone breaks his jaw." "Mm." Yoshi intoned, which, when translated from Cool Bishounen Speak, means, 'I completely agree with that sentiment, and, if honor did not prevent it, would go as far to hold him down while you struck.' Lumi-chan giggled a little as she slid easily down one of the slippery ice-slopes that walled the arena. "Wai! Fun! Just like playing by the lake at home!" Her opponent stepped out into the ring. Unlike Lumi-chan, he appeared positively morose. Gangling scarecrow limbs protruded from a fairly thin white tee and khaki cargo shorts. His Berkenstocks scuffed slightly on the ice, and loose snow immediately began to soak through his sports socks. He shivered convulsively, and gripped his wicker chair tightly. "...and let the match between Lumi-chan of the Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo and Piers Juan of the San Diego Wickerwork-Branch Furniture Dojo begin!" The crowd cheered, delighted at the fact the Hugh was stopping his speech. Oh, and they were a bit enthused about the fight itself, too, but mostly they celebrated the fact that Hugh was shutting up for the time being. Lumi-chan's light-bulbs (ever so conveniently held in her cute head-band) glowed with energy. At this point, a wise warrior would hold back, observing their opponent closely for any weaknesses in their defense that could be taken advantage of. Lumi-chan being Lumi-chan, this method was discarded for the Charging Heedlessly Into the Fray. "BEAUTIFUL LIGHTBULB A---Whooop!!" Three energy-saving halogen bulbs arced out wildly as she skidded on the ice and lost her grip on the deadly charges. Two of them exploded harmlessly on the ice. The third scored a direct hit on Piers Juan's wicker chair. "Itaiiiii! Lumi-chan slipped and hurt her bottom!" Lumi wailed, rubbing the injured portion of her anatomy. This would have been the perfect time for her opponent to strike. He might have done so, too, if he hadn't been occupied with trying to beat the flames out of his flimsy furniture. "This 'as got to be the stupidest rum-diddley-poo of a fight I've ever seen." Mick snorted derisively. "'Ere, love, pass the nachos would ya?" "Drop dead, Dad." Shelly gave her erstwhile father Glower #274 -- 'Hoping you spontaneously contract flesh-eating bacteria for being such a jerk and not paying child-support.' In the arena, Piers had finally extinguished the flames (though his chair was now blackened and emitted a rather foul-smelling smoke) and Lumi-chan was still distracted from her recently fall to the ice. [Ha! Now's my chance! I'll go directly for my ultimate attack!] "TRENDY WICKERWORK SECRET STRIKE!" He yelled in her ear. While she was wobbling, stunned from the high volume, he dropped his chair, and shoved her so she ended up sitting in it. "Ha-ha-ha-ha-HAA! Witness the secret attack of the San Diego Wickerwork-Branch Furniture Dojo! NO ONE can stand against the inherent itchiness of wicker furniture!" The only sound in the building was the chirp of a single cricket. Then the facefault to end all facefaults struck the crowd like the tsunami of slapstick. Lumi-chan tiny-sweated. "Anooo... I don't think this works through pants." "You... you've spotted a flaw in my technique!" Piers clutched at his hair. "Truly, you must be a master of Furniture Warrior Martial Arts!" The crowd, having just regained its seating, was once more leveled by a massive facefault. Lumi-chan hopped to her feet. "Lumi-chan is hungry! Let's get this over with!" She drew a massive fluorescent tube from her pack. "PRETTY LIGHT-TUBE STRIKE!" Her aim was dead-on, and would have caused massive damage to her scrawny opponent if he hadn't eeped and leapt back. It exploded harmlessly on the ice before his feet. "Ha-ha-ha-ha-HAA!! You MISSED!" He stamped his foot for emphasis. *CRICK!* "Huh?" He stared down at the ice. [Are there supposed to be big cracks in it like that?] *CRACKK!!* "Aaiiiieee!" *SPWOOOOSH!!* Eventually, a large Piers-shaped ice-cube bobbled to the surface. "And the winner is... Lumi! Medics, please report to Ice Arena in the Cool Blue Wing! The next matches will be announced tomorrow! "Waiii! Ikea-niichan, I won!" Lumi-chan bounced up and down like a super-ball. **************************** In the control booth above the arena, Hugh scowled. "The Emperor is out of his mind." Fifi glanced at him as she rearranged several layers of her lingerie. "What makes you say that, Hugh darling?" "At first, I thought he simply wanted me to ensure that bastard Ikea's brat sister would be brought along as... insurance... in case the wretched fetid dung heap started causing trouble for us." "A hostage," Fifi purred, "I like the way this Emperor thinks!" "I'm not sure that's his plan anymore. He deliberately set it up so that the brat would fight that wicker wanker -- possibly the only one in the tournament she could defeat easily. Losing a match doesn't get anyone sent home, so there must be some other reason he wants her to stay in the tournament." "Such as?" Hugh shrugged. "I have no idea. One way, or another, I intend to find out." He scowled. "I won't let anything get between me and my vengeance on Ikea, even if I have to go against my employer!" END PART FIVE! Stay tuned for Furniture Warriors... PART SIX : Burning Rubber Tires! HUMOR! VIOLENCE! ROMANCE! MAGIC! VIOLENCE! FURNITURE! In the next part of Furniture Warriors, written by... Philip Barkow [applause] Author's notes: So... this episode suffered from Really Bad Timing (tm). I like to think it's not too horrible for be rushed.. as it is I'm doing the final draft right after getting back from 48 hrs without sleep, which involved physicals, aptitude batteries, and Way Too Much Time on the Road -- gah, babbling, aren't I? Oi, Jonatan! Couldn't have gotten through this without your encouragement! Ei, John! Thank you for the nitpickiness! The little things sneak up behind me and mallet my prose when I'm not looking, really! Hugs and kisses, you guys, and a Mega-Hug to everyone on the DGML -- y'all make me laugh! ^_~ Ah... now to finally indulge in sweet, sweet sleep... and try to get those manga pages done by Saturday... @_@ Oh! Almost forgot: Comments & Criticisms are always welcome. ^_^ Yasha ryuuyasha@telebot.net http://members.tripod.com/ryuuyasha/index.html TRANSLATIONS -- FACILE NETTOYAGE GRÈVE = (French) "Easy Clean Strike" as in the way an easy-clean chandelier is designed with a longer chain to let it be pulled down for easier cleaning. ATTAQUE DE ROTATION DE LA MORT = (French) "Spinning Attack of Death" Hearty thanks to John Evans for coming up with this cool spinning-top-like attack! Arigatou! objet de lumière = (French) "object of light" deliziosa = (Italian) "delightful" bella = (Italian) "beautiful" squisita = (Italian) "delicious" cara = (Italian) "dear" inadeguato = (Italian) "inadequate" affascinare = (Italian) "fascinating" poco un acido = (Italian) "a little tart/acidic" mia Svedese polpetta = (Italian) "my Swedish meatball" Perdono me, bella signora = (Italian) "Pardon me, beautiful lady" vivace = (Italian) "lively" parassita = (Italian) "pest" attraente = (Italian) "attractive" cara mia = (Italian) "my dear" addio = (Italian) "farewell" mia bellezza = (Italian) "my beauty" sore wa himitsu desu = (Japanese) "that is a secret" mechanisch = (German) "mechanical" bratwurst = (German) "roast sausage"