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Old 10-14-2003, 03:25 PM   #83
Diamond18
Eidolon of a Took
 
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Silmaril

Vogonwë and Pimpi strolled along the glamorous walkways of the Glizty Caverns, taking in the sights and sounds of cold, hard cash (and the lack thereof). Any quibbling quarrels they’d had earlier in day were forgotten, as both parties were given to mood swings and emotional amnesia. Besides, a Casino/Arcade/Carnival/Amusement Park is no place to be at odds with one’s honey.

Pimpi’s blue eyes were wide as saucers as she surveyed the many wonders of Dwarven entertainment swirling around them. She cocked her head innocently at the bright lights, sales pitches, greedy drooling and subsequent rending of clothing and sprinkling of ashes as races from all over Muddled-Mirth were cajoled, fleeced, hustled, cheated, and shanghaied out of their money. Vogonwë walked with one hand holding his love’s, and the other holding onto his purse. (Yes, purse. A little leather pouch containing his livelihood in gold coins. What, you thought it was a handbag with powder and lipstick?)

“What should we do, Voggy?” Pimpi asked, her head fairly swirling with the glitz and glam calling out to her. Fortunately, this did not extend to the literal sense, otherwise she may have been forced to cough up the peas she’d eaten for afternoon snack.

“Strolling’s nice,” Vogonwë said, with a gulp as he witnessed a naked Elf being shaven by a pair of Dwarves running a kabob pawn stand (after V & P passed by, the Elf cashed in his hair to buy more kabobs. He lost them all within ten minutes, and the Dwarves began to debate what to cut off of him next).

“What, you mean we’re not going to do anything?” Pimpi pouted.

“We’re doing something, we’re window shopping.”

She sighed. Vogonwë realized that it would be in his best interests, perhaps, to find something to do. Something moderately safe, expenditure-wise, that is, something not guaranteed to suck his purse dry within ten minutes. Something that would restore the light in Pimpi’s eyes and not force him to go through another “you-are-boring-and-you-don’t-understand-me” conversation. Something he could win at, by Emu!

After a few more minutes of strolling along silently, observing the antics of the monetarily challenged and the desperation of the losing endowed, fortune smiled upon the Half-Elf and Half-Halfing. They came upon a game called “Spin the Dart-Board”, where contestant after contestant failed miserably at the task of throwing darts at designated spots on a circular spinning board. The aim was not so easy as getting a bull’s-eye, nay, for a bull’s-eye remains in the same spot not matter what the torque on the rest of the board. Instead (the observers learned) the impossible goal was to hit all eighteen of the little glowing diamond-like icons ringing round the rosy bulls’s-eye.

The Dwarf running the game, one Fungus by name, we reeling in the dough from hapless wretch after hapless wretch drawn in by the hypnotically spinning wheel. “This looks like fun,” Vogonwë said, stepping up to the back of the nearly catatonic line. “Start picking out the prize you want, Pimps.”

“Oooh,” Pimpi mused, looking at the full shelves of Dwarven trinkets—jewelry and silverware and candlesnuffers and other cheap imitation odds and ends. “There’s so much of choose from, how will I ever…?”

“Well, you’d better,” Vogonwë preened, “because I could win this contest with my eyes half-shut. Maybe I will….”

“Oh Voggy,” she hung on his arm in a cloying yet gratifying display of affection, “knock ‘em dead!”

When they reached the head of the line, several minutes and many more broken banks later, Vogonwë flung a coin into the grubby hands of the Dwarf, then gathered up a handful of darts with a jaunty air. Winking at Pimpi, he threw them lazily in the general direction of the whirling board.

*FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP*

Eighteen arrows hit eighteen icons in quick succession. One Dwarf jaw hit one pair of Dwarf feet.

“I’ll take the purple palantír plush toy!” Pimpi proclaimed.

“B-b-b-b-b-b-u-t—” the Dwarf stammered.

“You heard her, Master Longbeard,” Vogonwë said, relishing Fungus’s expression. “One triple P for my Lady.”

“Who are you?” the Dwarf picked up his jaw and reinserted it in his skull.

“Vogonwë Brownbark, Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud One Hundred Years Running,” Vogonwë puffed out his chest.

“Hmmm…” Fungus reluctantly picked up the plush purple palantír and handed it over to the eager young girl with the golden curls.

On the shelf behind where the palantír had been, sat a dusty and forlorn looking breadbox. Vogonwë and Pimpi began to turn away, with visions of other unsuspecting Dwarves and their seemingly un-winnable games dancing in their heads. But then they heard a strangely wooden voice say, “Oh pick me, pick me, oh pick me!”

They halted, and turned around. Fungus began to whistle and then broke out into a chorus of,

”Oh pick me, oh pick me,
Pick me pick me pick me,
A picka picka picka meeee!”


“Vogonwë, try another round, I’ve suddenly remembered that I’m in dire need of a breadbox,” Pimpi said.

“Whoops, sorry, we’re closed,” Fungus said, whipping out a “closed” sign.

“I really need that breadbox,” Pimpi whined.

“Yeah, you should see how stale our bread is,” Vogonwë agreed. “We really need that breadbox. I almost chipped a tooth last time I had a sandwich.”

“Hellllooo, Mister Tossing Champion of Workmud—”

“Arrow Throwing.”

“Whatever. I said, we’re closed,” the Dwarf crossed his stubby arms.

“Are you schizophrenic?” Pimpi inquired.

“What?”

“Never mind. Pleeease just let us go for the breadbox?”

“No! No breadboxes today! We’re CLOSED!” the Dwarf shrieked, snatching the breadbox from the shelf and tucking it under his arm.

“Oy vey, ever heard of bathing?” the wooden voice muttered.

“Listen, if you won’t let us earn it honestly,” Vogonwë offered, “just hand over the box now and no one will get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?” Fungus asked, eyes narrowing as he swept the darts off the countertop.

Vogonwë and Pimpi smiled in unison, looking as genial and innocent as they could manage (Pimpi did a smashing good job). Fungus found this extremely disconcerting, and began to back away. Suddenly, Vogonwë jumped over the counter and attempted to snatch the Entish Breadbox from the smelly pit of the Dwarf.

Fungus surprised the would-be thief by lowering his head and ramming it into said half-elf’s abdominal area. “Oooof,” Vogonwë gasped, and kicked Fungus in the shoulder. Unfortunately, he found that most of his karaté moves were useless against the Dwarf because of the difficult angle caused by his shortness. Fungus began to punch Vogonwë repeatedly in the knee-cap.

“Ow ow ow ow!” Vogonwë screamed, then swore rather unpoetically in Simian and Quixotic as he boxed the Dwarf’s ears.

“Do you need help, sweetheart?” Pimpi asked hopefully.

“Argghhh!” Vogonwë replied, as Fungus tripped him up. Dwarf and Half-Elf fell to the floor, kicking and biting and punching. Fungus clung tenaciously to the Entish Breadbox, which gasped, “Ooooh! They’re fighting over me!!!!”

Pimpi climbed on top of the counter awkwardly, lying on her stomach as she tried to swing her legs over the side. “Oof,” she grumbled, falling over the edge on top of the brawling males. “Aha!” she exclaimed, grabbing Fungus by the beard with one hand and fumbling to get Hush out of its sheath with the other. “Aha!” she repeated, pointing the hilt at the Dwarf. “Oops,” she turned the dagger around and held the point close to where she supposed his throat to be. “There. Aha! Say hello to Hush!”

“Hello, Hush,” Fungus gulped.

“Now ask Hush how Hush’s day was.”

“How was your day, Hush?”

“Not bad,” Pimpi said in falsetto, “you?”

“Uh, Pimpi…” Vogonwë interrupted from where he lay pinned underneath the Dwarf.

“Right. Hand over the breadbox or I’ll make you better acquainted with Hush!” Pimpi threatened, jabbing Hush at the Dwarf menacingly.

“Never!!!” Fungus declared with a fey look in his eyes. Vogonwë pushed the Dwarf up toward the point of the blade, and Fungus rethought his position. “All right! All right!” he thrust the breadbox at Pimpi, “here, take it, black hearted thieves!”

“Thank you,” Pimpi chirped, hopping off of him, breadbox in hand.

“Police! POLICE!” Fungus began to scream at the top of his lungs as soon as the blade was far away from his jugular vein.

“Shut up!” Vogonwë yelled, but Pimpi took a more drastic course of action, and bopped Fungus over the head with the breadbox.

“Uck,” the Dwarf passed out.

“Ouch!” the box protested, “why didn’t you just stab him?”

Vogonwë rolled the inert Dwarf off to the side and stood up, brushing his hair from his eyes. Ever since Pimpi had done away with his hairbow, snarls and the in-the-way factor had increased dramatically. “Wasn’t that fun,” he observed, pilfering an el ástick band from the trophy shelf.

“Are we really black hearted thieves?” Pimpi asked, knitting her brow in a fetching fashion.

“We,” Vogonwë said solemnly, “are liberators.”

“Oh,” Pimpi was relieved. “All right then.”

Vogonwë chivalrously lifted his love over the counter, then did a backflip over it, himself. As they left the scene of the liberation (dartboard still twirling away without a care in the world) Vogonwë began to sing,

”Won’t Merisu be so glad with us,
We’re bringing her an Entish Breadbox,
Yes.”


[ October 16, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]
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