Furniture Warriors PART EIGHT, Curtains For You! or Is A Bird A Bird? (Formerly) A Spoof Chase Production NOW An ImproFanfic Production (http://pixelscapes.com/improfanfic) A Furniture Warriors ImproFanfic created by Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne This episode written by Mal, an artist -- I mean, writer -- who isn't -- I mean, is -- very eager to be writing this chapter of this fanfic. (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 disturbingly inflamed libido to live.) ---------------------------------------------------------------------- A BRIEF HISTORY OF FURNITURE The ancient discipline of the Furniture Warrior stretches back eons, possibly, being the Most Pure Martial Art there is. And perhaps, if some of the previous authors weren't lying, the fate of the world hangs in the balance of the now-ongoing FURNITURE WARRIORS TOURNAMENT. At any rate, Furniture Warriors from around the world and all walks of life have gathered here in this hideous subdimension to do battle with the champion(s) of the Ottoman Empire -- and each other, while they're at it. PREVIOUSLY IN FURNITURE WARRIORS... Standing in the middle of the arena was a nightmare. It *looked* a little like Joanie - the uniform was right, anyway. But since when had Joanie been six foot tall and made out of aluminium and plastic? And the ice crystals covering her? Where'd they come from? "I am FRIGIDAIRE FIFI!!" the thing proclaimed, her breath steaming in the arena air. She pulled out another two milk bottles from her stomach, eyeing Shelly menacingly. "And I will have my REVENGE!!" - - - If you were standing outside the door of the arena at this particular moment, and not exactly paying a hundred percent of your attention to it, you might have heard the arena let out a GASP. But then, arenas don't gasp, or generally make much noise at all on their own. The gasp in fact belonged to a gathered audience of fierce warriors from around the world, all of whom were staring at a daunting figure in the center of the floor. And ten feet in front of that was where Shelly Thompson, schoolgirl extraordinaire, happened to be standing, a profound expression of shock on her face. "Joanie?" she finally croaked. "Is that you...? Geez... what happened to you?" Shelly gaped, stared, gawked, squinted. Last night- ish, Joanie (known to the world in general as Fifi, faux french maid extraordinaire) had been a kind, sweet, somewhat gentle chandelier- wielding furniture warrior. Today she was a giant monstrosity, constructed from aluminum, plastic, floor tiles, milk bottles, grungy mop hair and kitchen utensils. Somewhere underneath all that kitchen crap, Shelly could only barely make out parts of Joanie's face and some bare skin, a little pale and slightly blue-tinted. And the creature wore most of Joanie's already-skimpy french maid costume, although it covered far less on her new bod. "I will have my revenge," Frigidaire Fifi repeated with a bionic sneer, "for my humiliating defeat. Only one person knows what it feels like to be the first loser of this tournament!" In each hand, whirling as if mounted on an electric mixer, Fifi held a milk-bottle-bomb -- a deadly mix of milk, nitro-glycerin, and a dash of bourbon."SPILT MILK ASSAULT!!" she shrieked, and the audience watched in shock as the bottles spun hazardously towards Shelly. The schoolgirl moved to block with a heavy iron-clad prison director's desk. "Joanie, it's me, Shelly!" she cried. The milk bottles impacted, twin explosions sounding out. It was a good thing the desk's faux-mahogany finish was scratch-and-stain-resistant. She lifted the desk over her head and peered out. "Remember me? I'm your friend. Shouldn't you be kicking someone else's ass?" But Frigidaire Fifi wasn't about to give Shelly an inch. She leaped into the air like a blue streak and arced towards her reluctant opponent, shouting "FRIGID FORCE DIVE!!" Shelly, still holding the heavy desk up, just let Fifi bounce off. The frozen maid hit the ground with a nasty crash. Sighing, Shelly tossed the desk aside and peered down at her (former?) friend. "Joanie, are you going to--GAK!" Fifi's frigid fist shot up and clamped, vise-like, around Shelly's throat. The maid shot to her feet, holding Shelly up into the air, the schoolgirl's loafer-clad feet kicking uselessly a few feet above the ground. "You will be the first to pay!" Fifi snarled. Her other hand raised into the air, and her grip tightened visibly around Shelly's neck. Tears streamed down the smaller girl's face, which, incidentally, was starting to turn purplish. Of course, that's when Yarslov leaped out of the audience and into action, tearing Fifi away from her victim with a quick leg-back- fold-snap chair combo, topping it off with a "RISING CHAIR FIRE OR SOMETHING!!" Fifi landed on her feet a few yards away. Yarslov rushed to Shelly's side. The tender expression on his face could have melted many a heart. "Are you, like, okay?" he asked gently. Shelly raised up to what seemed like twice Yarslov's size and gave him an evil eye that would kill lesser men. "WOULD YOU JUST QUIT IT, YARSLOV?? I can fight for MYSELF!" She whomped him right in the kisser with a solid oak antique, originally belonging to the headmaster of an english boarding school in the 1800s, now augmented with a plexiglass finish on its surface to protect from scratches and wear (which came largely from blood, concrete, and dragging on teeth and bones, these days). Yarslov hit the ground with a wet slap. Shelly, standing over him and panting, red-faced with rage (not to mention the still-fading purple from her recent strangulation), felt the temperature of the air behind her drop sharply. There came in her ear a warm voice and a cold gust. "That's the guy who beat me in the first match," Fifi-nee-Joanie said. To Shelly, she sounded a lot more like her old self. "You didn't kill him, did you?" "Hell no," Shelly said with a snort. "He's not even unconscious." That was true enough, as the two somewhat-unfriendly girls watched him pick his face off the concrete floor, wiping a trail of blood from his nose and jerking his jaw back into place. But "not even unconscious" was a far cry from feeling awesome, dude. Yarslov staggered to his feet and struggled awkwardly to stay vertical. Fifi, also known as Joanie from Brooklyn, stepped forward. She looked over at Shelly, standing beside her, and flashed a warm smile -- too warm for anyone calling herself Frigidaire Fifi. It looked like Joanie was starting to feel a little more like herself. Shelly turned to Yarslov and a mad, wicked grin spread across her face. "That's it, me luvvy-wuvvy," Mick shouted approvingly from the audience. "Show our Yarbleslov a little bit of the old ultra- violence." Normally Shelly would have given him a withering look and yelled something mean back, but at the moment she was high on adrenaline and far from the mood. Yarslov peered up at the two dim figures before him. One of his eyes was swelling (he could never remember which one was right and which was left), he was still bleeding out of several places on his face, and he could feel a loose tooth somewhere in his mouth. "Uh... hi," he said, lamely. "Uh, like, how are you ladies doi--" That's when the ladies jumped Yarslov and jointly beat the snot out of him. This went on for a few minutes while the audience merely stared on, perhaps in awe, perhaps in disbelief. And then Hugh, whom they all knew as their boring-ass announcer and host, hastily grabbed the microphone and addressed them. "Um. Ladies and gentlemen... uh. I suppose we're going to have to reschedule the match between Shelly Thompson and Ultramarine of Knossos--" he cupped his hand over the mic for a moment and shouted, "Make sure she isn't dead!" to a flunky, "-- uh, for tomorrow morning. And, uh, I guess tomorrow morning's match will be... uh..." The lovely lingerie-clad OTHER Fifi, beside Hugh, whapped him out of the way and took hold of the microphone. "We'll have that match before dinner today. Five o'clock sharp. Be here for... uh..." She looked down at the schedule. "Ikea of Tibet versus... *gasp* Rebecca!" And with that, Fifi sat down heavily on her pink frilly half-bare butt, a look of shock and fear plain on her face. On the other side of the arena, Ikea of Tibet stood, grabbing his little sister (who was still gawking at the spectacle of Yarslov's latest maiming) by the back waistband of her pants, and graced the world with a stoically puzzled expression. "Ne, oniichan, who's Rebecca?" Lumi burbled, finally tearing her gaze from the beating and coming along as her brother followed the herd into the hallway. Ikea, typically unsmiling, blinked one long, slow blink. He was one with his art. The carefully polished folding teak chair strapped to his back pulsated in rhythm with the flow of the mystical forces beneath the earth. His meditation kept his mind clear and unobstructed. "I have no idea," he said. - - - A little while later, deep beneath the extra-dimensional tournament arena and furniture health spa complex, a familiar group of evil villains met around a familiar table within the depths of a familiar darkness. The catacombs were extra crispy today, walls dripping with a goopy slime, no doubt of tentacled origin. This particular villainous gathering happened to be taking place around noon, and so the crumbling zombie butlers graciously served up bowls of fresh, leafy greek salad adorned with pungent feta cheese, accompanied by a round of pleasant pink lemonade. "What are these dark shadowy things?" Hugh asked, his voice raising to a really irritatingly sharp pitch. He poked at his salad suspiciously. "They look like bugs. Or... raisins," he hissed. On his left, Fifi examined her own meal and snorted derisively in Hugh's general direction. "Hugh darling, they're just olives. Push them to the side if you don't want them." Defiantly enough, Hugh stuffed his mouth with lettuce and crumbly cheese, mumbling something incoherent. What with the rolling shadows in the dark cavern defying the laws of physics and behaving unlike any normal light sources on earth, sometimes a villain could get jumpy down here. SIMPLY DELIGHTFUL, spoke up Emperor Ottoman from the head of the table, chewing thoughtfully on his salad and then washing it down with a gulp of lemonade. MY COMPLIMENTS TO THE CHEF, he said, making an "OK" gesture at the head zombie butler with his thumb and forefinger. Several villains around the table did their best to conceal small, embarassed sweatdrops. VERY WELL, the Emperor said eventually, re-clasping his intricately wrought helmet beneath his chin. MISS OERU. The resident villainous businesswoman looked up from her clipboard (where she'd been writing "Hang on to these caterers!!") and nodded crisply. "First, our customary update on the progress of your insidious plans, my Emperor." She cleared her throat and sipped from her lemonade before going on. "Our first plan continues to be a complete success. None of them suspect a thing, not even the Tibetan. The easy defeat of Livewire seemed to... encourage them, although another incident like this morning's fiasco could jeopardize all of our best-laid plans." As one, the gathered villains turned to stare ominously at Dr. Pfischer, the dimunitive, bedraggled-looking mad scientist at Miss Oeru's right, who was still poking at his salad. THIS, the Emperor said firmly, IS YOUR LAST WARNING, DOCTOR PFISCHER. The doctor sunk down even further in his seat. A stray leaf of lettuce hung out of his mouth offensively. "Yes, milord," he blurted. WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH 'FRIGIDAIRE FIFI'? Miss Oeru glanced around the table. "Well. That is. Er. Nothing, really. She is no longer a threat." AH, BUT THAT IS WHERE YOU ARE WRONG, MISS OERU. The Emperor, leaning back in his chair, lurked darkly behind the dancing shadows, a distasteful expression coating his face like dirt. "My liege?" YOU WILL DISPOSE OF THIS FRIGIDAIRE FIFI, MISS OERU, the Emperor stated flatly. AND YOU WILL BE SURE THAT THE OTHER FURNITURE WARRIORS KNOW NOTHING OF HER IN THE FUTURE. "Yes, of course," Miss Oeru said, bowing slightly and making a note on her clipboard. "And, my Emperor, as to your second plan... the girl has received the packages, but I do not understand how--" MISS OERU, THAT IS THE LAST TIME YOU WILL QUESTION MY ORDERS, the Emperor said. "Yes, of course, my liege," Miss Oeru said hastily, sitting down as quickly as she could. The Emperor slowly gazed across the table at the rest of his flunkies, an intense frown playing across his features. They all tended to be staring shiftily down at their plates, nervous and embarassed, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else. That is, all of them except for Lady Sophia. She was staring off into space with a very odd expression on her face. The Emperor was suddenly, to his own very sincere shock, filled with dread. He shot to his feet. Sophia's enormous bosom slowly rose as she filled her lungs with air, taking a deep breath and ready to launch into-- THIS MEETING IS CONCLUDED! the Emperor boomed, and scooted out of the room lickety-split. Sophia's eyes widened, her deep breath and curious intentions forgotten. "Vas ist das?" she squeaked. The other villains looked at each other curiously. "Our Emperor is a man of mystery," Miss Oeru said sagely. "I would advise you to return to your rooms for training and meditation. Sophia, your unscheduled battle is scheduled for tomorrow, before the rescheduled match that is taking the place of our regularly scheduled match, which itself has been rescheduled for this afternoon. Do not disappoint us." - - - Hundreds of feet above, in the cafeteria lounge of the extra- dimensional tournament arena and furniture health spa complex proper, the unsuspecting Furniture Warriors gathered for lunch. The stainless steel cafeteria tables and chairs did little to impress any of them (except for Cafeteria Joey, the eight-year-old grade school lunchroom Furniture Warrior, who regaled his companions with entertaining tales of lesser cafeteria furniture), but they would do in a pinch. Ikea was filled with satisfaction on seeing the glob of unimpressive goo slung onto his plate by one of the faceless minion cafeteria ladies. Tasteless, textureless gruel was the true food of warriors. Flavor -- such as that found in plain rice, for example -- only created weakness. His smile was imperceptible to all but Lumi- chan. "Wai!" she shrieked happily. "Oniichan, your favorite!" She scampered along, holding her plate up high, and chose a seat. It happened to be at a table across from Mick, who gave her a curious look. Ikea sat down beside her, a constant restraining presence in the young girl's exuberant life. "You are Mick," Ikea stated, making conversation while he let his gruel settle. Lumi, on his left, was already wolfing hers down. "Aye," Mick said, smiling vaguely. "Ol' Mickey-wickey, as the boys back 'ome call 'im." "The girl, Shelly, who fought this morning... she is your daughter," Ikea continued. Mick shrugged. "Mick's daughter. That's right. You saw us this morning, you did." "I did," Ikea nodded, "but I still do not understand why you left her." He took his spoon up in his right hand and dipped it experimentally in the gruel, taking a tentative and restrained slurp. Lumi, having finished her gruel and long ago become bored with the conversation, interjected inanely. "Look oniichan! Lumi-chan got another present from her secret admirer." She fumbled with a small black plastic device, eventually getting it to light up while a short antenna popped out of the top like a switchblade. "It's a knee-kon sell foam!" She gestured wildly with it, possibly tossing radiation at all of them. "Look! Lookit Lumi-chan! Loooook!" "Some things," Mick said grimly, choosing to ignore the girl, "are not meant to be known, mate." And speaking of things that are not meant to be known... Skulking behind a nearby pillar, a certain handsome blonde Italian scumbag grinned to himself. "Shelly's father? Molto interessante." - - - Elsewhere, the most opulent woman in the dark dimension walked into its most opulent room. Fifi shed her gauze-like transparent pink robe, sat down on her bed and began to unclasp her garters. She briefly observed that none of her customary maids and servants were present. She began to roll the first sleek pink stocking from her smooth, silky leg, noting a bird perched on her windowsill through a crack in the paisley curtains, and leaned over to unhook the strap of her shiny pink stiletto heel. Humming to herself, she pulled the stocking from her perfect toes and moved on to unclasp the other. Then she stopped dead. There was a bird in her window. Fifi's gaze shot back to the window, and the bird was gone. And so were the paisley curtains. And damn it, she was NOT tacky enough to decorate her own room with paisley curtains. And, well, there were no birds in the dark dimension. She stood up, spun around, realized too late that she was off-balanced wearing one four-inch heel, and then her face said 'how do you do' to a cast-iron curtain rod. When she opened her eyes again, Fifi was flat on her back and an exceptionally cute blue-haired girl was standing with one foot on her stomach. The girl held a curtain rod to her throat like a deadly weapon (which it most certainly was in a dimension full of Furniture Warriors), the heavy lead-laced paisley curtains pinning her like heavy lead-laced curtains, and scowled, fiercely. "Hello, Fifi," she spat. "Good God -- who??" Fifi gasped, struggling to no avail. "Don't pretend you don't know!" the girl hissed, thrusting the rod into Fifi's throat painfully. "Gah -- alright... alright. But... what are you doing here?" Fifi asked, eyes wide with shock, lips moist and parted. The curtain girl's expression softened. "You always were a pretty thing, Fifi. That's why I fell in love with you." Fifi smiled softly, pursing her beautiful lips. "I know," she said, batting her eyelashes. "Too bad you're such a BASTARD!" the girl growled, grinding her foot hard into Fifi's washboard tummy. "That's why I fell OUT of love with you, you little thief." "I only did what I had to do," Fifi grunted deeply, her voice echoing the pain in her gut. "You can't blame me." "I DO blame you!" the girl shouted, knuckles whitening on the curtain rod. "What the hell is with this getup, anyway? You were a pretty BOY, not a pretty GIRL. I always wondered why you insisted on having people call you 'Fifi' instead of--" "Things change," Fifi interjected, averting her gaze. "People change." Rebecca glared. "I'll give you CHANGE--" But at that moment there was a curt rap on the door. "Fifi, darling," Hugh called, innocently. The girl lifted her curtain and swooped into the opposite corner of the room with a flourish and a curse. "This isn't over, Fifi. Not by a longshot." And with that, she was gone out the window. "Come in, darling," Fifi said, getting up and sitting back on her bed with a sigh. She continued to remove her shoes and stockings. Hugh entered, looking puzzled. "Was someone in here?" "Just... an old friend," Fifi sighed, turning her back on him. "Now would you be a dear and unclasp me?" - - - Across the complex, Lumi-chan bounced into her glorious toy- filled room and immediately began to examine all the toys and electronic devices that had been shuffled during her absence. They just kept changing! It was never the same selection twice. And, just about every time, there had been a special gift wrapped in white ribbons and bearing a card with bold, clearly printed letters. Lo, there was a giant, fuzzy plush toy, almost as big as Lumi- chan herself. It was cute and chubby with stylized plush intricate evil armor and sweet, beady, demonic eyes. Lumi glomped it with a muffled "Wai!" and buried herself in its sweet-smelling fuzz for a few minutes. Then she read the card. = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = DEAREST LUMI-CHAN, I HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED THE GIFTS I HAVE SENT. I NOW BELIEVE THAT THE TIME HAS COME FOR US TO MEET IN PERSON. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO MEET ME, PLEASE PRESS THE LARGE RED BUTTON ON THE CELPHONE YOU RECEIVED THIS MORNING, AND I WILL MAKE MYSELF KNOWN TO YOU. WITH ICE CREAM. YOUR SECRET ADMIRER. = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = Lumi shrieked with glee. "Waaaai! Ice cream!!" She pulled the miniscule phone from her pants and fiddled with it until the front flipped open and the buttons lit up. Yes, the red one was right there under the cute little LCD screen. She stared at the phone for a long time... ...and then made her decision. - - - When five o'clock rolled around, a number of furniture warriors made their meandering way to the Cold Concrete Arena for the scheduled match. Ikea, being an honorable and upstanding warrior, was among them, but as he stood in line he suddenly had a Very Bad Feeling. "Lumi-chan," he said quietly. For as any fool could see, his younger sister was not present. And speaking of fools (though honorable they may be), Yarslov was also nowhere to be seen. Ikea could attribute Yarslov's absence to his recent mauling (another quick scan revealed that Shelly and 'Frigidaire Fifi' were missing as well), but there was no reason for Lumi-chan not to be here -- she always loved watching people get beat up. Whatever the case, this was not good. But not even family duty could sway the honorable Ikea's honorable honor. He was, after all, here for a battle. And Lumi-chan, though her faults were many, had a charming way of getting out of trouble in inane and ridiculous ways while causing more trouble all the time. Yes, this match was slightly more important than determining his sister's current whereabouts. Ikea nodded grimly to himself and waited in line with his fellow honorable warriors. - - - "This afternoon's match," Hugh began (already droning on his first sentence, he put several people to sleep within seconds), "just happens to be taking place right before dinner. So I'll just introduce the damn competitors and get on with it, because I'm as hungry as you are." He sighed and looked down at the schedule. "Ikea of the original Tibetan Dojo of Furniture Warriors, Tibet, versus Rebecca, of the Upstairs Apartment Furniture Dojo, Montreal, Canada. Let the match begin," he finished sullenly, and took his seat beside a wide-eyed yellow-clad Fifi. "What the hell is wrong with you today?" he muttered to her irritably. "You're usually so... chipper." Fifi just stared. She was, he noticed, staring at that girl Rebecca -- so that was a start. Better than staring off at nothing, at any rate. Hugh sighed again, throwing his hands up in exasperation, then turned to watch the match like everybody else. - - - Ikea, clad as ever in his clean, white, freshly starched furniture gi, planted his feet firmly on the concrete floor and bowed slightly to his opponent. Rebecca didn't bow back, but she didn't seem to be in any hurry to attack, either. Ikea took the opportunity to size her up. She was small, caucasian, with brilliantly dyed blue hair cut in a short bob, and she looked comfortable with a long cast-iron curtain rod over her shoulders, heavy paisley-printed curtains hanging to the concrete floor. "Good evening," Ikea said to her cordially. "I don't know you, mister," said Rebecca, looking him over noncomittally, "but I won't go easy on you." "No," said Ikea, shrugging imperceptibly. "Why would you?" Rebecca slung the curtain rod off her shoulders and shifted it to a vertical position, holding it up with both hands like a staff. "I'm only here for one reason -- to make my old boyfriend pay for all the pain he's caused me." "And yet," said Ikea calmly, "this is a tournament. And in order to get to him, you must first get through me." "Well, no," Rebecca said, and she lifted her curtain rod into a ready stance. "But you can think that if you want." Then she charged. END PART EIGHT! Stay tuned for Furniture Warriors... PART NINE : "Did He Really Mean It?" HUMOR! VIOLENCE! ROMANCE! MAGIC! VIOLENCE! FURNITURE! In the next part of Furniture Warriors, written by... Todd Harper! [applause] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's Notes I did most of this over the weekend due to, ahem, extenuating circumstances during the week. This is my first real thought-out Improfanfic segment, done entirely because I love FW (also for nostalgia purposes, since I was there when it all began). Special thanks ("shouts" in trendy hip-hop circles) go out to Dan Wood and Terry Johnson for proofing. Word up home skillz. Oh, and I hope to God I made the Rebecca thing blatant enough to be picked up by the next authors, but subtle enough that I'm not hitting you over the head with it. Questions and/or C&C (or, hey, requests for commissioned art!) can be flung at me at this address: mal@maison-otaku.net Thanks, and good luck to y'all.