Furniture Warriors Episode XIII: Ice Cream, You Scream! -or- Call Me Queen! Formerly a product of Spoof Chase Now an Improfanfic (http://www.pixelscapes.com/improfanfic) Furniture Warriors created by: Stefan Gagne Episode XIII written by: NeoPuu ---------------------------------------- What has gone before: Lumi-chan stood up in the center of the room, only it wasn't Lumi-chan. The hair was longer and a brighter shade of red. The outfit Lumi once had was probably shredded and replaced in a magical transformation with a glorious dress. The doctor made a mental note; get sturdier glasses to witness such a... transformation. Dr. Pfischer's mouth hung open. "Y...your Luminescence..." he babbled. An orb of light formed in her left hand. "My subject," she spoke after a bubbly giggle escaped her lips. "Tell the Emperor that Queen Radiance has returned. And I expect that urchin Ikea to return my ice cream." Dr. Pfischer made another mental note; refine the process. ---------------------------------------- "Well?" Queen Radiance said. "Don't just stand there, silly, take me to him!" Dr. Pfischer stammered a reply. "Yes, yes, of course, your Highness. Right this way." The Queen exited the room, with the evil scientist leading the way. *** Meanwhile, in the throne room, the Emperor was ranting before his assembled minions. ...AND LET US NOT FORGET THE TRUE PURPOSE OF THE TOURNAMENT: THE CONQUEST OF EARTH. BY DESTROYING THE WORLD'S FURNITURE SUPPLY... "Why are you telling us all this?" Hugh butted in. "We already know the plan." SILENCE! YOU DARE TO INTERRUPT ME WHILE I AM EXHORTING THE GLORIES OF THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE? He fixed Hugh with an icy stare. "Uh... no, not at all, sir." The others snickered at the ironic justice of Hugh being forced to listen to someone else's boring speech. GOOD. AS I WAS SAYING, BY DESTROYING ALL THE FURNITURE IN THE WORLD, USING THE MYSTICAL DIMENSION WHICH CONNECTS ALL FURNITURE, WE WILL ENSURE VICTORY. FOR AS EVERYONE KNOWS, WITHOUT FURNITURE, THE WORLD WILL COME TO A GRINDING HALT. WITH NO CHAIRS TO SIT ON, NO TABLES TO EAT AT, NO BEDS TO SLEEP ON, NO LAMPS TO READ UNDER, THE PEOPLE OF EARTH WILL BE UTTERLY HELPLESS, EASY PICKINGS FOR CONQUEST. WITH A MONOPOLY ON FURNITURE, WE WILL RULE THE WORLD. The Emperor paused. OF COURSE, BEFORE WE CARRY OUT THE PLAN, WE MUST DEFEAT OR COOPT THE FURNITURE WARRIORS, WHO WITH THEIR INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE OF FURNITURE AND OWN METHODS OF ACCESSING THE FURNITURE DIMENSION, MIGHT HINDER OUR PLANS. OF SPECIAL CONCERN IS THE TIBETAN FURNITURE WARRIORS DOJO. THEY MUST BE DEFEATED AT ALL COSTS. HOWEVER, THE MALE TIBETAN REPRESENTATIVE, IKEA, REMAINS FREE TO ACT AS HE PLEASES. WHERE ARE THE LEGIONS OF WARRIORS WHO WILL OPPOSE HIM? HE HAS NO ENEMIES OF CONSEQUENCE. Hugh attempted to protest this statement, but a look from the Emperor silenced him. ALL OF THE WARRIORS SO FAR HAVE RESISTED OUR ATTEMPTS TO BRING THEM UNDER OUR SPHERE OF INFLUENCE. SOME OF THEM HAVE EVEN BEFRIENDED IKEA. OUR EFFORTS HAVE NOT BEEN HELPED BY THE FACT THAT _SOME_ OF US, he noted, glaring at his underlings, HAVE LOST MISERABLY, TARNISHING OUR REPUTATION LIKE A POORLY MAINTAINED ANTIQUE CABINET. Sophia and Jan hung their heads in shame. Livewire would have as well, were he not a pile of scrap metal at the time. SPEAKING OF WHICH, WHERE IS THAT IDIOT DOCTOR? "He's busy brainwashing the Queen," Miss Oeru helpfully supplied. AH, FINALLY, SOMETHING USEFUL. FORTUNATELY, WITH ONE OF THE TIBETAN REPRESENTATIVES, QUEEN RADIANCE, AS OUR PAWN, IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE THE OTHER FALLS. "A pawn? Who said that?" a regal voice announced. "We are no such thing." Everyone turned in the direction of the voice. Striding into the throne room were Dr. Pfischer, looking mightily pleased with himself, and a tall woman with flowing red hair, dressed in a sparkling red gown. As one, the assembly gasped, "The Queen!" The Emperor beamed, pleased to see the Queen's new, evil form. AH, MY BELOVED QUEEN RADIANCE, YOU HAVE FINALLY SEEN THE LIGHT AND COME OVER TO THE DARK SIDE OF FURNITURE. WITH YOU AT MY SIDE, VICTORY WILL SURELY BE MINE. NOW, COME TO ME, MY QUEEN. THERE IS MUCH THAT NEEDS TO BE DONE. Queen Radiance giggled. "We are evil, yes indeed, but we don't take orders from you, silly man. Hee hee!" The Emperor frowned as he absorbed the meaning of the Queen's words. THIS IS NOT BEHAVIOR BEFITTING A PROPER QUEEN. DO NOT DEFY MY WILL, FOR I AM THE RULER OF THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE. NOW, SUBMIT GRACIOUSLY TO MY WISDOM AND... The Queen watched while the Emperor ranted on about his glory and greatness. Eventually, she grew bored, conjuring an enormous orb of light and throwing it at the Emperor's feet. It exploded with a blinding flash of light, temporarily obscuring the Emperor from view. When the light faded, the Emperor stood there, blinking, his red eyes the only thing standing out from the rest of him, charred and totally black with soot. THAT HURT, YOU KNOW, he mumbled, before toppling over. The Queen strode up to the throne, sitting down and enjoying the luxurious plush seating. "Greetings, my loyal subjects. I am Queen Radiance, your new ruler..." NO! the Emperor shouted, jumping up from his spot on the floor. I AM THE EMPEROR OF THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, NOT YOU! "Well of course I can't be an emperor, I'm a woman!" THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT! I AM THE SOVEREIGN RULER. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A TOOL IN MY MASTER PLAN... Another orb struck the Emperor, setting his hair on fire. He ran around frantically, trying to put the fire out, while the Queen laughed hysterically. After performing the "Stop, Drop, and Roll" maneuver, he managed to extinguish the flames. YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR INSOLENCE, GIRL... Radiance raised another deathbulb threateningly, and the Emperor scurried away. "Now, as your new ruler, I think it is time we made a few changes around here..." Meanwhile, the Emperor had beckoned Dr. Pfischer over to his side. WHY IS THE QUEEN OUT OF CONTROL? YOU PROMISED ME THAT YOUR PLAN WOULD SUCCEED, he whispered, as much as an Evil Overlord can whisper. The little old man gulped and tugged on his shirt collar. "There's been a slight problem with the process, just a minor miscalculation..." MINOR MISCALCULATION? The Emperor grabbed the mad scientist by the collar and lifted him into the air, strangling him with one hand. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, YOU OLD FOOL. THE NEW EVIL QUEEN RADIANCE IS FAR WORSE THAN THE OLD ONE. AT LEAST IN PAST TOURNAMENTS, I DID NOT HAVE TO SUFFER THE INDIGNITY OF LOSING MY OWN THRONE. WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? Dr. Pfischer didn't have a whole lot to say, as his oxygen supply was being cut off. He twisted his head and looked at his colleagues pleadingly, silently begging for help. They smirked and watched him struggle helplessly with amusement. In his long and distinguished career, Dr. Pfischer had annoyed a lot of people, and now his lack of friends was coming home to roost like a fifty pound turkey. With his lifeforce ebbing away, he caught the Queen's eye in a desperate gambit. "Your... Highness..." he wheezed. "I have... many... pretty... shiny... electronic... gadgets... if you... will just... spare me.. please..." The Queen's eyes sparkled with interest. She waved the Emperor away. "Release him." When the Emperor failed to comply, she bounced another light orb on the palm of her hand, and he released the scientist reluctantly, stomping off to a corner to sulk. "Tell me about these... gadgets..." she purred. *** In another corner of the palace, Shelly was fuming over her recent public humiliation and suffering the effects of a lingering hangover. The nerve of that Yarslob! How dare he! Pretending to be interested in her well-being so he could get close to her and... and... it was too painful to think about. Not that she believed his act for a single minute; she knew Yarslov was a pervert from the moment she met him. What she hadn't counted on, though, was getting drunk and passing out, leaving herself open to the creep's tender mercies. Since she awoke in the bastard's bed, it was obvious that he had lurked in the shadows until she was vulnerable, then tossed her over his shoulder and carted her off to his room where he... An image of Yarslov with wolf ears, snout, and fangs, howling at the moon, popped into her head. The picture, combined with her current queasiness, made her stomach churn. She grabbed a kitchen sink from a passing warrior and vomited in it until her stomach emptied. As she lifted her head from the sink, a thought crossed her mind. "Oh god... I feel so sick... maybe it's not a hangover... maybe it's... morning sickness!" she thought, seized by a feeling of impending doom. "That means I'm..." Shelly broke into a dead run, rubbing furiously at her red-rimmed eyes. Without looking at where she was going, it wasn't long before she crashed into a familiar frozen figure. "What's the matter, Shelly?" a baritone voice boomed. Shelly looked up and saw Frigidaire Fifi looking down at her with a concerned expression. "Oh hi, Fifi, nothing wrong, I'm just..." Shelly began. "Don't lie to me, girl, I can see something's got you upset." Shelly sniffled. "I think I'm..." She patted her stomach. "You're pregnant?" Fifi was shocked. "Aren't you a little young to be having a baby?" When Shelly didn't answer, she continued. "Who's the father?" "Yarslov," Shelly mumbled. Fifi raised an eyebrow. "Yarslov? Who would've figured? You were so angry at him before... I would've guessed it was Leonardo, myself." "Fifi!" "Sorry, sorry. So... what made you change your mind about him? He is kind of cute." "I didn't change my mind! He is not cute! I didn't consent or anything! After we got drunk, I passed out... and when I woke up, I was in a strange bed, and there he was, with this big stupid grin on his face, like it was all a big joke, and oh god, I can't believe he did this to me..." "It's all right." Fifi offered Shelly a comforting cold shoulder to cry on. "We'll track down Yarslov, and make him do the right thing." Shelly looked up. "The right thing?" "We'll force him to confess and make him marry you. It'll be a shotgun wedding." "Marry that creep??!" Shelly was horrified, with visions of herself and Yarslov (stupid grin and all) posing for an American Gothic-style portrait. "Never! He probably planned it that way, so he could force me to stay at home and do the chores and take care of the kids and... ooh, I'm going to kill him!" Fifi smiled sadly. "Sure you don't want to change your mind? Raising a child alone isn't an easy task, you know." "What do you mean?" Shelly was confused. "I'm a single mother myself." Shelly's eyes widened in shock. "No way! I don't believe it!" "It's true. I have a little one-year old boy. I left him with my folks back in Brooklyn to come to the tournament." Fifi wiped away an ice crystal tear. "It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, but I needed to do this for myself, to find out how good I really am. Not very, huh?" "But... where's the father?" Fifi snorted. "He skipped town as soon as he found out I was pregnant. I raised the baby by myself, working as a waitress." "Oh... that's so sad!" Shelly scowled. "Men are all pigs!" "My son probably won't recognize me when I get back... maybe he'll be scared of me... I don't know if I can go back..." "It's ok." Shelly patted the cybernetic pseudo-maid on the back. "You're a wonderful mother. "I'm sure he'll love you just the way you are." Fifi gave her a wry smile. "At least I'll have a good use for these," she said, holding up a bottle of chilled milk. The two of them shared a chuckle. Shelly squirmed. "I don't know if I can raise a kid. They're messy and noisy and always hungry. I'm scared." Fifi smiled reassuringly. "You'll do fine..." "Still sure you don't want to marry Yarslov?" "Definitely not." Shelly looked positively ill. "I'd rather marry a warthog." "Ok! Then we'll track him down, and beat him up instead!" Shelly nodded, feeling a little better. The two of them split up and went off in different directions, searching for one soon to be dead Yarslov. *** The Swede in question was strolling through a different hallway, wondering how to deal with one angry schoolgirl. "Man, this totally sucks," he thought. "I like, tried to explain that it was all a big misunderstanding, but she knocked me out of the arena before I got a chance. Bogus." He scratched his head thoughtfully. "If I get close enough to her to straighten things out, she'll just wail on me again. If I don't say anything, she'll think I'm hiding or something. That would be uncool. Maybe I should go take a nap and have one of those really awesome dreams." Yarslov didn't get the chance to make his decision, because at that moment, a glove flew through the air and smacked him in the face, followed by a twin- sized bed. After he dragged himself out from under the bed, he got to his feet and came face to face with... "Leonardo! You slime! What're you doing here?" The handsome Italian cad smirked. "I'm here to punish you for what you did to Shelly. The thought that a lowlife fishgut eater like you could despoil mia bella sickens me. I, Leonardo DiMario, hereby challenge you to a duel!" Yarslov's jaw dropped. "Whoa, that's like, totally ironic. You were planning to do the same thing to her, you slimeball!" "Aha!" Leonardo cried. "So you admit to your guilt!" "Whuh? No way, that's not what I meant!" Leonardo sneered. "It's too late to take it back now. En garde!" He waved his bed menacingly. "Dude, I've been waiting, like forever, for the chance to kick your sorry butt," Yarslov retorted. "I didn't do anything to Shelly, but I'll fight you, or something, to make sure you don't get your filthy hands on her." He pointed his chair at Leonardo. "You're going down, bed boy." *** Shelly had her head down as she turned a corner, and as a consequence, she bumped into someone going in the opposite direction. "Watch where you're going, you clumsy..." she began. "Sheila, luvvy-wuvvy!" Shelly growled. "It's Shelly, you good-for-nothing deadbeat. Out of my way!" "C'mon now," Mick gestured. "Let's talk. Give your dad a hug." Shelly slapped his hand (and the rest of him) away with a titanium military- grade desk. "Get away from me!" she screamed. "I'm not your daughter! I'm nothing like you! I'm not a drunken bum with no future!" And with that, she ran away crying, leaving Mick scratching his head. *** "Your Majesty?" Miss Oeru asked as she timidly approached the throne. "It's almost time for the match. Are you planning to attend?" "Certainly!" the Queen replied. "We are always up for ultraviolence." The Queen left the room and made her way to the press box, attended by her minions. When she got there, she immediately went over to the rows and rows of television monitors to have a look. "Oooh... interesting," she said, peering into a camera and watching her face appear on every screen. The warriors of the Ottoman Empire, lined up in a row, sweatdropped as one. "From now on, I want a camera to follow me at all times," she decreed. "Um... your Majesty?" "Yes, Miss Oeru?" "We were wondering if you could settle a bet for us. What is the format of the tournament?" The Queen gave her a blank look. "I haven't the faintest idea." While the other warriors grudgingly paid up, Pon gleefully collected on her "No Clue" stake. *** The usual crowd of warriors had assembled for the night's match, but Ikea noted the absence of Yarslov, as well as several casual acquaintances. It was a disturbing trend. After all, as a furniture warrior, it was one's duty to observe one's fellow warriors in honorable combat and learn from their victories and defeats. As Hugh took the stage, a massive groan rumbled throughout the audience, followed by a massive Pavlovian snore. Ignoring the negative crowd reaction as usual, Hugh cleared his throat and launched into another long, meandering speech. "In the beginning... there was light... and furniture. And all was right with the world..." The gathered warriors settled in for a long, comfortable nap, with the fortunate ones sleeping or lying on their own chairs, sofas, and beds. But this time, Hugh was interrupted by a glowing orb that sailed through the air and struck him in the head, detonating with a colossal explosion. The audience awoke with a start, trying to peer through the smoke rising off the ground. When the dust settled, Queen Radiance stood next to the microphone, surveying the crowd with a regal air. The crowd members gasped and began muttering among themselves, wondering who this new arrival was. Except for one man. Ikea recognized his younger sister, although her sudden growth spurt and strange mannerisms troubled him greatly. His normally stoic face took on a stoic, but grim countenance. "We are not amused by your long, boring speeches," the Queen declared. "They make us sleepy and irritable. Begone, and do not show your face around here ever again!" Hugh considered standing his ground, but on further consideration, decided fleeing was the wiser course of action. He stomped out of the arena to the catcalls of the crowd, vowing revenge. "Who needs you buffoons, anyway?" he muttered under his breath. "I'll kill Ikea by myself!" As Queen Radiance was the one who vanquished Hugh, the audience cheered her wildly, even tossing a few bouquets of roses in her direction. After the applause died out, the Queen spoke. "Fellow furniture warriors, there has been a slight change in plans." At that, the crowd murmured in consternation. "The tournament will go on as scheduled, but the Emperor is no longer in charge. Instead, I, Queen Radiance, will oversee things, including the conquest of Earth. We hope you are not inconvenienced by this." "Tonight's match is between Ken, practitioner of Ottoman-style Barbershop Martial Arts, and Bud Meister of the Sports Fanatic Reclining School of Combat. Let the match begin!" As the Queen stepped away from the microphone, she caught Ikea's eye and mouthed something that only he could make out. WE WANT OUR ICE CREAM. This cryptic statement perplexed Ikea, although he did not outwardly show it. First, while he knew Lumi-chan was fond of ice cream, one of the few luxuries available in their isolated Tibetan abode, he did not understand why the statement was addressed to him. Had she not consumed enough ice cream recently to feed a small village, or perhaps, make them sick for a week? Second, it was unclear as to who "we" referred to- possibly the Ottoman Empire. "I had no idea the Ottoman Empire was interested in desserts," he thought. After that slight moment of discomfort, he turned his attention to more serious matters- the sudden and unexpected transformation of his sister. He recalled her prior transformation, although perhaps that was too strong a word. True, she believed herself to be evil, but other than a slight change in clothing, she was no different than usual- no more destructive, hyperactive, or confused than she ordinarily was. Of course, she was already all of these things to a degree unachievable by normal humans, but that was beside the fact. Now, however, he was uncertain of her moral standing. Besides the obvious changes- her premature adulthood, there were the changes in her demeanor. Although her eyes glittered like they always did when she watched warriors commit great acts of furniture-related violence upon each other, the boundless optimism and friendliness which permeated her every word and deed were absent. She seemed... distant, somehow, as if the childlike innocence had been sucked out of her. As loathe as he was to admit it, Lumi's hyperactive and carefree behavior was a reassuring constant in his life. It reaffirmed his beliefs in the goodness of mankind and furniture. While she was not disciplined or thoughtful or tranquil, she was at heart an honorable warrior. Was. Truly, the depths of the Ottoman Empire's evil were bottomless indeed, if they could turn a fun-loving, cutezerk young girl into a dull, dreary monarch. He wondered what unholy rituals they performed to get their results. Ikea reminisced about the events in his sister's life: watching with pride over his sister in her crib as she gurgled and waved her lightbulb-rattle; her tenth birthday party, when she tried to break open a pinata with a lawn chair blindfolded and wound up hospitalizing half a dozen monks; witnessing her first successful special technique, which set fire to Master Oakcraft's hair... These memories brought a near-smile to his stalwart face and strengthened his resolve to return Lumi-chan to her rightful state. "Fear not, dear sister," he thought. "I will return you to the path of honor, on my honor as a Furniture Warrior." While Ikea contemplated the plight of his sister and the best course of action to take, the rest of the spectators were paying attention to less philosophical matters. Like the fight, which promised to be interesting indeed. In one section of the arena, the Ottoman flunky, Ken, casually leaned against his barber's chair, gigantic shears in hand. With his other hand, he brushed his long black hair out of his eyes in a way that made the female warriors present swoon and the male warriors snicker about his manliness, or lack thereof. He regarded the other combatant with an air of disdain, turning up his nose with a nonchalant sniff. "I am the beautiful hairdressing warrior, Ken!" he announced with a flourish. "And I will snip your unfashionable life short with my lovely shears!" he added, lifting an effeminate hand and pointing at his opponent in an elaborate gesture. The other fighter in the ring didn't even bother looking in his direction, because he was glued to a television set, watching a football game. He was a middle-aged, balding man with a paunchy stomach, wearing shorts and a t-shirt that revealed his hairy chest. With one hand, he chugged a can of cheap beer, with the other, he held an enormous remote control. What made him unusual was the fact that he declined to stand, preferring to lean back and relax in the comfort of his plush La-Z-aZZ recliner instead. "Hello? Yoohoo, I'm talking to you! Hey, stop watching that idiot box and fight me!" Ken whined. After a minute of ignoring Ken's hissy fit, Bud turned away from the tv and shouted angrily. "Hey, shuddup and quit your yapping, ok? You just made me miss the last play! I'm missing the big game right now, so you better not plan on dragging this fight out." He waved a hairy forearm and punctuated the statement with a long, drawnout belch. "Buuuuurrrrp." Ken, purple with rage, shouted back, "You dare ignore me in favor of your silly game? Very well, then! I'll end this battle quickly, by defeating you utterly!" He waited for Bud to attack, but the middle-aged man merely sat in his recliner and scratched his belly. The seconds ticked by as the foppish hairdresser waited for his opponent to make a move, a move that never came. The crowd began to grow restless. Shouts of "Boring!" and "Do something!" filtered down from the stands. Ken fidgeted. "Hurry up! Stop lying there and fight me!" "Keep your pants on! I'm working on it, ok?" Bud grunted, taking a sip from his beer. The hairdresser waited a little longer, but Bud did nothing except fiddle with the remote. Finally, he threw his hands up in disgust. "Sit there all day for all I care, you smelly man! The next thing you'll be seeing on TV is your own eulogy! SHI-NE!" Ken leapt into the air, gripping his enormous shears with two hands and pointing them downwards like a sword. Bud did nothing except shove his recliner back a few feet, until Ken was almost on top of him. Then he put down his remote and yanked a lever on the side of the recliner. With a loud creak, the recliner's footrest extended out from its storage compartment, striking Ken just as he was about to impale Bud. Ken rebounded off the footrest and tumbled head over heels, rolling to a stop a few yards away. "Heh heh heh, how did you like that, girly-man?" Bud taunted. "That was my favorite move, the Footrest Punt." Still seated in his recliner, he dragged it over to Ken. "Real men watch sports!" he yelled, lifting his television with both hands. Bud cracked Ken over the head with his tv, knocking him down as he attempted to rise. While Bud laughed and took a victory swig from his beer can, Ken backed away and jumped into the air again. This time, he aimed for a point behind the recliner, and with a strength that belied his effeminate appearance, he tilted the recliner backwards, then rocked it forwards, sending Bud hurtling through the air, still holding his beer and remote. Bud landed in the barber's chair with a thump. Ken rushed forward, holding his shears in front of him. "Witness the unstoppable power of Hairdressing Martial Arts! SUPER CUTTER!" Ken's shear-holding arm blurred into motion, the giant scissors striking hundreds of times in seconds. When the assault ceased, he swung the chair around and proudly held up a large mirror in front of Bud's face. "Now, gaze upon the humiliation I have inflicted upon you! From this day forth, you will have to live with the shame of your shaven head. How does it look?" Bud snorted. "You moron! All you did was cut up my toupee." He held up his ruined rug and plopped it back down on his head. "And I just got it, too." Ken growled. "My next attack will destroy you utterly." He spun the barber's chair, slowly at first, but rapidly picking up speed. "DEATH REVOLUTION!" Soon, Bud was a spinning blur. The beer can in his hand slipped from his grasp and flew out into the audience, ruining the upholstery on a nice leather couch, much to the dismay of its owner. When the chair finally ground to a halt, Bud wobbled around dizzily, trying to regain his sense of balance. Ken released a high-pitched laugh, gloating at the sports fan's discomfort. "Take that, you unwashed barbarian!" When Bud shook off his disorientation, the first thing he noticed was the absence of his beer. Tears streamed down his face as he mourned the loss of his beverage. "You S.O.B.! That beer was like a friend to me," he moaned. "I haaaaaaate yewwwwwww, man." Bud reached over and grabbed Ken by the scruff of his fine silk shirt. "This thump's for you!" He smacked Ken upside the head with his oversized remote, then followed up by pulling Ken's head close to his own and exhaling right in his face. "BITTER BEER BREATH!" Ken staggered around, coughing and retching from the rancid stench of cheap beer. Fortunately for him, Bud was too lazy to get up and follow him. Ken retreated to a safe distance until the beer vapors wore off, then attacked in force, swinging his shears to ward off any counterattacks. "You force me to use my deadliest technique! HEAVENLY CHAIR ASCENSION!" Ken pulled a lever on the base of the barber's chair, which caused the pole supporting the chair to telescope out, sending the seat shooting skyward with Bud still sitting in it. Upward the chair hurtled, crushing Bud against the ceiling high overhead. Just as swiftly, the pole retracted, bringing the chair and its occupant back to earth with a resounding thud. Bud lay there unconscious, dreaming of Super Bowls and World Series. The Queen applauded enthusiastically and took the microphone. "The winner is... Ken!" Ken blew kisses to the crowd, then dumped Bud out of his chair unceremoniously and dragged it away. The Queen, bored by the end to the fighting, strode off in search of something else to do. The crowd likewise dispersed, except for one man. Ikea had sat quietly throughout the entire fight, pondering his next move. His inner monologue went something like this: "In my time as a guest of the Ottoman Empire, I have seen many strange and wondrous things- rooms that are larger within than without, fighting arenas that dwarf those of my own native Tibet, machines that walk and talk like men, while also producing nutritious toast. Truly, the denizens of the Ottoman Empire are as mighty as they are evil. Yet, as heir to the Tibetan Furniture Warriors Dojo, as an honorable warrior, and as brother to Lumi-chan, I cannot allow them to proceed with their diabolical plans unimpeded. I must stand tall like the mighty oak against their depredations and rescue Lumi-chan from a life of evil." "Nevertheless, it would be unwise for me to mount a direct assault upon their malevolent forces. I will be up against, not only the Emperor and his minions, but my own dear sister, who has been blinded by the light of evil and cannot be held responsible for her own actions. Perhaps upon further meditation, I will discover a suitable plan of action." Ikea folded up his chair, placed on his back, and strode off to his room to meditate and regain his center of calm. When he got there, his suspicions were immediately aroused. The door opened easily, instead of sticking like it normally did. The sight that greeted him inside chilled even his stoic heart. The walls dripped with... Pink. And purple. And more colors than he had ever dreamed imaginable, all of them hideous in their own way. Ikea's once barren white room was now an explosion of color, with every shade of the rainbow battling the others for dominance. And in the center of the room was a simple wooden table, with a message painted on it in an eye-gouging shade of green. Ikea, You're a pointy-haired fool with a face of granite and a brain to match. Your days are numbered. Don't bother trying to avoid your certain death. I'll paint a portrait on your bloody corpse. Ikea's left eyebrow climbed fractionally as he exercised ancient Tibetan breathing techniques to maintain his rigid expression. Only one man could be responsible for such an act of sacrilege. Hugh. Ikea came perilously close to frowning as he catalogued the latest of the infidel's crimes. Justice would be served, delivered by the solid frame of a folding chair. Drawing on his vast store of meditative techniques, Ikea shut out his unpleasant surroundings. After an hour of intense meditation, Ikea had his answer. "I will go to the archives which contain the sum total of human knowledge: the local library." *** Yarslov gasped for breath as he dodged another swing from Leonardo. The fight had dragged on for a while now and it was starting to tire him out in a most uncool way. Although Yarslov was quick with his metal beach chair and was a master of Rising Chair Fire (or something), he'd been clipped a few times by Leonardo's solid oak four-poster bed, and when you're dealing with a piece of furniture that heavy, even a glancing blow is way painful. Plus, he was mentally weighed down by all that worry about that Shelly chick, while Leonardo was eager to fight, even if it was for unfroody reasons. "RISING CHAIR FIRE, OR SOMETHING!" *** Elsewhere, a psychotic kid not-so-stealthily made his way through an empty corridor. Marlo was unhappy and in serious pain from a series of painful and humiliating beatings, but he didn't let that stop him, oh no. He had gone beyond pain, to that place where warriors go when they have transcended their earthly bounds and are fighting on sheer force of will alone, liable to drop dead once they have accomplished their goal. The fact that he was not a warrior, much less a furniture warrior, mattered not. He had been searching for a while now for another victim to challenge, without success. Finally, he spotted a fat guy in a recliner, watching television on a balcony. He smiled. Perfect. "All right, weirdo!" he yelled, jumping in front of the television and blocking the fat guy's view. "I wanna get in the tournament, and after I beat you, they'll have to let me in!" "Go away kid, you're bothering me," Bud said, shooing the boy away. Marlo refused to budge, ranting on and on about how he was going to kick some ass. Bud threw up his hands in exasperation. "Ok kid, you got yourself a fight. Happy now?" he grumbled. "Now, what weapon do you use?" "I USE MY... CHAINSAW!" Marlo proudly displained his shiny new chainsaw and started it up with a *brrrmm brrrmm* sound. Bud sighed. "Kid, that ain't a manly weapon. Don't you know anything about furniture?" "Furniture is for weirdos! I use real weapons!" "Says you, kid." Marlo charged, intent on carving Bud like a Thanksgiving turkey. Bud waited patiently for the boy to get close, then pulled the lever on his recliner. The footrest shot out, knocking the chainsaw from Marlo's grasp and sending it high into the air. Over and over it spun, reaching the peak of its trajectory and falling straight toward Marlo... Missing him by a few inches. Marlo breathed a sigh of relief, until the still-buzzing chainsaw cut through the balcony floor, sending him plummeting to the deck below. "AAAAAHHHHH!" *** The Emperor grumbled as he sat on the luxurious bed in his bedroom. Although he was alone, this did not stop him from complaining to no one in particular. THE NERVE OF THAT GIRL, SENDING ME, THE RULER OF THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, TO BED WITHOUT SUPPER. AM I NOT THE MOST EVIL POWER IN THE UNIVERSE? Not getting a response from his collection of plush Evil Overlords, he continued ranting. MY THRONE HAS BEEN USURPED BY MY FORMER PAWN, MY FAITHLESS MINIONS WILL NOT LIFT A FINGER IN MY DEFENSE, AND I AM MISSING MY FAVORITE TV SHOW. THIS CANNOT BE! I AM A CONQUERER OF WORLDS, NOT A MOLDY OLD FOOT STOOL! His red eyes flared as he recalled the indignities that had been heaped upon him. I WILL REGAIN MY THRONE AND GLORY, NO MATTER WHAT THE COST. SO SAYS THE EMPEROR! An ominous rumble from his stomach cut short his monologue. I AM HUNGRY, the Emperor whimpered. *** Frigidaire Fifi trudged through the halls, sweeping the area for her intended target. If Yarslov tried to hide, it wouldn't help him any. Like all people, he gave off a unique heat signature, and Fifi was extraordinarily sensitive to that sort of thing. A smile played across her frozen face. "Either he confesses to being the father, or I turn him into ice cubes," she thought with grim satisfaction. Fifi would've continued her manhunt, but a loud clank caught her attention. A refrigerator coil fell off of her frame and rolled to a stop. Puzzled, she bent down and picked it up. A small sticker on one end read, "Warranty expires after 7 days. No refunds." *** Mick took a sip of his Guinness as he watched the younger pups try their hand at pool. Sure, he could show them a thing or two, but after he'd lost the last game and failed to come up with the money, they'd kicked him out, the ungrateful chaps. Now he had nothing to do but sit around, drink, watch the piano player play, and pour his heart out about his family troubles. "My little girl hates me," he mumbled. "Guess she's got a right to and all, after I left her mum, but I just thought maybe we could have a little father- daughter talk. Is that so wrong?" "BRAAAAAAAPPP," his drinking buddy replied. "That's another reason why a beer is better than a woman. A beer will never turn down the chance to talk." Bud wiped his mouth and gave his beer a kiss. "Ya-hey, eh?" his other drinking buddy agreed. "She can't call you a hoser if you at least try," he said, rocking thoughtfully in his rocking chair." Mick nodded. An outburst of raucous laughter grabbed his attention. Three burly men seated at a table were whooping it up. He recognized them as a group of professional furniture movers here to participate in the tournament. "And the funniest part of it all," the largest one said. "is that Yarslov bloke did it with the ugliest chick I've ever had the misfortune to set eyes on." "I mean, she's so ugly, if you saw her reflection in your tabletop, you'd turn to stone!" The three men guffawed loudly. "Excuse me, mate," Mick called out. "That's my little girl you're talking about there, and I'd appreciate it if you not insult her looks." "Oh," the large man said. "That explains a lot. I guess the desk didn't fall far from the furniture factory!" He howled with laughter, with his two comrades joining in. Mick said nothing, but he slid off his barstool and casually plopped down in the overstuffed high-backed chair next to it. "Hey you. You're sitting in my chair," the goon growled. "Why so I am, matey-watey. Gonna do anything about it?" The goons pushed away their chairs (or rather, the bar's chairs) and picked up their sofas. Mick took out his pool cue. Bud and Bob made as if to stand, then on further thought, changed their minds and went back to their beers. Mick grinned, flashing his bad teeth. "Ready for a bit of the old... ultraviolence?" ---------------------------------------- END PART THIRTEEN! Stay tuned for more Furniture Warriors! In the next episode: Ikea goes to the library! Shelly makes way for baby! And the barroom brawl to end all brawls breaks out! Tables are overturned! Bottles and chairs are smashed over heads! Even the piano player joins in! Or maybe this is all a blatant falsehood! In... Part 14: Barroom Rumble! HUMOR! VIOLENCE! ANGST! KNOWLEDGE! VIOLENCE! FURNITURE! In the next installment of Furniture Warriors, written by Omi no Miko! [wakka wakka!] Author's Notes: Thanks to pre-readers Nick Marquardt and Omi no Miko. Credit goes to Twoflower and Gourry for ideas.