It is cold at Hol's north pole - bone chillingly cold. Tooth
numbingly cold. Sinus-achingly cold. Testicle- freezingly cold.
The sort of cold that hangs icicles of snot from your beet-red nose and
causes you to shiver so violently that traumatic brain injury may result.
The sort of cold that forces you to huddle around any source of warmth
until the liquid oxygen that falls like rain evaporates from your clothes.
The sort of cold that freezer-burns your skin in milliseconds, and turns
you into a slick, blue statue of your former self quicker than you can
say "Damn, it sure is cold!"
In short - it's rather chilly.
Shelter is hard to come by at the north pole, and is highly coveted by all. Fire fights have erupted and raged for hours simply for the warmth generated by the exploding plasma frenzy bolts, and mass genocide has been committed over the rights to the shelter afforded by an old cardboard stereo box (without Styrofoam inserts, it must be added). In this cold and unforgiving land, piled high with every sort of discarded frozen meat imaginable - from Swan Song Salisbury steaks to desiccated "butter-balls" turkeys to those unrecognizable scraps of gristle that are left over on your plate when you finish up a steak - there is only one sure place of shelter where Hol's pathetic denizens can momentarily escape the wrath of nature.
Bucket-o-Weenies.
Yes, Bucket-o-Weenies - the ONLY fast food chain to have escaped the great Church-n'-Munch amalgamation. Featuring, for the satisfaction of its customers- virtually every sort of hot dog, sausage, wiener, banger, grinder, lunch meat, etc. known to any culture anywhere any time - even the members of the SNEE can come here to feast upon their holy foods "Elpparcs" and "Eseehc Daeh". Bucket-o-Weenies, an oasis of peace in an otherwise crazed and uncertain world, where you can rub shoulders with Sodomy Bikers (or not - its actually your choice!), meet peacefully with PIGs, and converse (or try to) with Dump Techs in their strange language. In fact, a veritable bazaar has grown up in the main restaurant area where the residents of Hol can negotiate with the Dump Techs for needed items.1 Only two of Hol's better known groups are seldom or never seen in Bucket-o-Weenies: the Nortons (who almost never leave their beloved Diaper Swamp) and the Fleshtenders.2
INTO THIS PLACE OF PEACE AND HARMONY COMES THE PARTY. Don't ask me why they all hang out together - they just do. If you are expecting some long, involved backstory of how Captain Wacky and Led Pighp came to be pals you can just forget about it! This isn't "Two Mules for Sister Sarah" and even if it were nobody's playing the Man with No Näm yet! If you want a backstory, you write it! Don't you think I have better things to do with my life? Well, ok, so maybe I don't, but you still don't get a backstory. Too bad - so sad - bye bye!
Anyway, everybody is here eating.3 A brief rundown of the party:
Keeping an eye out for those loathsome, gnarly, treacherous, mind-bending creatures one always seems to spot just a little too late on Hol -- babies, Led makes his way to the counter. Because of his diminutive stature (despite the hairdo), and of the unfair competition offered by the presence of The King and Captain Wacky, he has a little trouble getting the attention he DESERVES. To help move the gawkers from his path, he takes gleeful pleasure in swinging the sharp pointy parts of the Harbinger of the Void into balloon animal constructions (all pathetic shadows of Captain Wacky's creations anyway) and into buttocks. Any ballons missed by Led's best friend are delt with using a sharpened sponk (that still leaves lots of untouched balloons and buttucks since Led's reach is at best limited.)
Upon reaching the counter, he hoist himself up with practiced ease and sits on the edge to give his order (he's used to having all counters lie about a foot above his nose.)
"Hey, yo, you have a customer here!" he bellows in the clerk's ear. "One mortadella and boudin sandwich with fries, no anchovies, NO MAYO, extra horseradish, with a Mega-Slurpee, NO ICE!"
With each item he lists, he jabs its image on the little picture-menu by the cash register with a small but grimy finger.
After standing around and looking at the menu for much longer than anyone else would deem necessary, Mphmmum shuffles his way to the register. Amazingly, the other customers do their best to get out of his way, though several unfortunates do end up getting their toes run over by the Volkswagen he trails behind him. Over their cries of pain, he does his best to articulate his order to the poor pimply-faced freak standing behind the counter. In spite of his flailing gestures and garbled speech, the miserable little puke apologizes profusely and scuttles off to find his manager.
Mphmmum places his order through the manager's solar plexus. "A dozen jumbo kielbasa and a diet soda, my good man."
After insuring that Timmy's Captain Wacky shirt doesn't hide any of his sexy silhouette, Brother Aristotle sends him to the counter for his order of small firm but juicy weenies (preferably no more than two inches long) with a lot of creamy white mayonaise (sorry, Led). Aritotle can barely get a grip on himself, with all those free young spirits all around him, ready to be taken under his wing (or his robe)...
He can't get his eyes from Led, the poor sod can live without his teachings, if only he knew... He wouldn't be shoving his damn gun up that fat guy's ass right now, there is something else to be done with that part of human anatomy... Dear Led... Following Captain Wacky around wasn't a bad idea after all...
Led Pighp's scowl changes into a fierce, maniacal grin, complete with unholy gleaming eyes, when Brother Aristotle orders the mayo with so much... relish. "Yo, salmonella-breath, you want that thawed or still on the popsicle so you can suck on it?" he snickers.
Really pleased to have made the contact with Led, Brother Aristotle replies, with as much sweetness as possible: "It is verry nice of you to ask, Led, my boy, but I am a little disappointed at the way you asked it, it looked as if it was meant to hurt me... Dear dear... I won`t hold it against you though, because I, as the Almighty, forgive... I may even give you private courses on mannerism, if you like..."
Led Pighp gestures eloquently in Brother Aristotle's direction with the Harbinger of the Void. "Hey, if I want cheese with my sandwich, I'll have Snuggly clean your toes for you." He tugs on his pet wästit's leash meaningfully. "Until then, keep your mannerisms in your pockets, and I'd better not hear your spare change jingle, burlap queen!"
He then turns back to the clerk and yells at the top of his lungs, his little stub of a nose about one inch from the employee's snout: "HEY!!! Where the HOL is my sandwich, you dirtwad! You gonna start working or do I help you retire?"
The crickets, sensing a lull in the storyline (before it has even begun, incidentally), begin turning their beady little camera eyes in the direction of Captain Wacky and the King. Viewers at home begin to wonder - this is not the sort of behavior they have come to expect from their media heros.
Far away (or maybe not so far) in his underground lair, Uncle Mickey begins to chortle evilly to himself. Could this be the end of his arch-nemesis, Captain Wacky?
Around Bucket-o'-Weenies the patrons begin to divest themselves of Captain Wacky paraphenalia and balloon animals, and musical instruments start to disappear as several of the crickets are seen to flex their razor sharp, high tensile steel legs in preparation for a leap!
With a loud mechanical "SPROING!" reminiscent of the sound effect of a bad cartoon show, two crickets launch themselves into the air. One each land on the heads of Captain Wacky and The King. Titanium claws sink into the media heroes' flesh, drawing gasps from the crowd and blood from the inactive media celebrities. Inquisitive robot cameras extend on their stalks for extreme close-ups of the horrified characters faces. Identical electronic voices speak, almost in unison, from mounted speakers...
"One, Mississippi..."
The crowd is stunned into absolute silence. Even the beeping of the fryalator alarm goes silent.
Far away (or maybe not so far) Uncle Mickey starts getting a woody.
Oh somewhere in this Goddamned Hol, a monstrous critter wanksYep, you guessed it, Captain Wacky was not in, and to keep the crowds from noticing, he had fashioned himself a lifelike balloon replica. From the bathroom, the selfsame Merry Prankster of the kidvid exits holding a copy of "Macho Women with Wet T-Shirts and Huge Phallic Guns", along with several pre-1986 issues of "Black Hobbit" [the gaming magazine for soul brothas, which featured such amazing miniatures as SM532667-Chick Strapped to X-Frame], and the infamous May 253 AR copy of the Galactic Enquirer's Profile In Shame.
And somewhere in suburbia, Eugene sits, reads, and stanks
But here at Bucket-O-Weenies, a cricket's surprised, no doubt
Cause there's no fear on Wacky's face, and air comes rushing out.
Casually sauntering in whilst the populace of the restaurant is gawking at his clone's contracting cranium, he tosses the literature (salacious bits down) upon any and all crickets that have seen fit not to latch onto his and the King's heads. Waiting five seconds for the metal bugs to detonate, he makes his enterance. Were he Adam Sandler, he would have thro0wn in a 'Whoooopideeedoo!' (then again, if he were Adam Sandler, he would have insisted on Chris Farley getting an occasional decent role so maybe he wouldn't have killed himself). Cartwheeling in, he begins puffing on a few balloons so as to spell out, in Morse code, "Hey, Uncle Mickee, go FUCK YOURSELF with a BIG RED DICK with BIG RED STRAPS"
The sudden reappearance of Captain Wacky throws the entire room into confusion. As salacious literature begins to rain down on otherwise unoccupied crickets, ominous words issue from the electronic paparazzi still attached to the King's cranium.
"Two Mississippi..."
"ITS GONNA BLOOOOWWWW!" someone screams, beginning a paniced exodus for the door, as desperate customers who, in innocently coming here to chew and swallow a big weenie, never dreamed that they might end their short and brutish lives in a hail of cricket shrapnel. The weak are trampled underfoot by the strong, and at least a dozen patrons vainly seek shelter inside Mphmmum's volkswagen.
Meanwhile, throughout the establishment, electronic voices begin to issue from under piles of tabloid newsprint.
"One one-thousand..."
Accompanied by a wailing klaxon and numerous flashing strobe lights a solid titanium blast shield slams down in front of the counter of Bucket-o'-Weenies with a force roughtly equivalent to what you would get if you hucked the Titanic off the World Trade Center and onto Leonardo diCaprio's goofy head, barely missing Mphmmum, Led, Brother Aristotle, and Snuggly.
And Timmy, innocent Timmy, sweet, darling, succulent Timmy, makes a break for the rapidly deflating likeness of Captain Wacky.
"Bawoon!" he squeels in glee.
Led was sitting ON the counter; when the blast door slams down just in front of it, Led Pighp makes a desperate effort to roll down behind the counter for cover, dragging with him a befuddled wästit and the largest gun on Hol.
In a thousand supermarket check-outs spread across the known galaxy, shoppers stop and turn with confused expressions to the inexplicably empty end check-out, as if expecting to see a shadowy figure materialising in the primal re-enactment of the one true cosmic law; but none comes. Shoppers return to their business, ten thousand check-out attendants click back into life. A moment has passed . . .
Back on Hol, Bucket-o'-weenies is in chaos. Not the sort that involves big-slavering-and-depraved-demons-working-to-bring-about-the-end-of-humanity , (although such clientele are arguably well represented and wearing black biker jackets) but the quick-run-for-the-nearest-exit-and-don't-worry-who-you-step-on-the-biggest-legend-in-the-universe-is-about-to-explode sort of chaos. Everywhere weenies lie half un-eaten, eerily lit up in the spinning lights of the counter alarms. If it is possible for crickets to grin, this one does. In moments its destiny will be achieved - the cricket that destroyed the King. The King stands beneath it, whimpering and wetting his gold trimmed white flares, unable to prevent the horrible fate that awaits; the cricket's grip tightens . . . and then its victims wig slips.
WIG?
The cricket begins to panic, hurrying its count. Now that it begins to think about it, there was something odd-looking about the king: a certain slightness of stature, a slant to the eyes . . .
"Three-miss -"
The cricket whirls around in surprise as an all too familiar figure at a (not-too) nearby table puts down his copy of Hol Regional Times (unwilling instigator of the saying "as entertaining as H.R.T.") and stands, swings his ample and supple hips to the side, and points at the luckless pair.
"Whointhehellis - uh - tha'meanttobe?"
The cricket explodes in shock, half-charged, showering bits of Bad Japanese Impersonator, half-eaten weenie, plascrete tables and chairs, and non-player character patsies everywhere. The King dusts himself down, peers through the smoke, and turns to the counter.
"Whatsamangottadoto - uh - gettadogaroun'here?"
Slowly, carefully, the staff of Bucket-o'-Weenies begin to busy themselves
with the Impersonators' unknowing destiny of initiating the use of a new
skill within the system: tolerate fatal amounts of bloody mutilation and
still BECOME fast food.
"Well lefty, this looks like a nice place to get some grub..." Ash speaks to his left hand and makes sure to give it a nice face wash in the snow bank.
Spitting out snow, his hand growls and attempts to bite its ungrateful host's nuts off. "Yeah, what the fuck are you thinking, this is HoL, you moron, nice places don't exist. Just walk in there and get me some grub, you two-legged freak."
"Hey, I'll cut you off and leave you for Brother Aristotle's pleasure toy if you aren't careful! Remember, the last hand that fucked with me got amputated via a chainsaw, so watch it, shorty." Ash shakes the snow off his finely tailored and very fashionable clothes and walks through the door looking over the place... "What a fucking dump... I just hope I get a good burger in this place, that damn Church and Munch doesn't have anything decent... and I'm damn tired of the Moses Red Sea Big Gulps."
For a brief moment the interior of Bucket-o-Weenies looks like something out of the Omaha Beach scene from "Saving Private Ryan" as crickets detonate in all directions. Timmy - poor luscious Timmy - is last seen being buried under a pile of shattered plascrete, and most of the PCs (Mphmmum excepted) dive for cover as the room erupts in explosions, then fills with flying body parts, table parts, weenie parts, and bit parts.
Then, an almost preternatural calm settles over the devastated remains of Bucket-o'-Weenies. Shell-shocked survivors crawl from their places of concealment. The titanium blast doors around the counter open to reveal the staff, staring horrified at the prospect of immediate demise from the barrel of the Harbinger of the Void, are serving Led and Snuggly without even telling them to take a number. And as the dust and smoke clear a gasp goes up from PCs and NPCs alike, as a tall, dashing figure looms into view.
In appearance he looks rather like a cross between Ricardo Montalban from "Fantasy Island", Ricardo Montalban from "Wrath of Khan" and Ricardo Montalban from the Chrystler Cordoba commercials. In short - he looks an aweful fucking lot like Ricardo Montalban - but with that corny artificial chest seen in "Wrath of Khan" replaced with real, rippling muscle that threatens to rip the jacket of his immaculate white suit in twain. Instantly recognizable by his perfectly manicured nails and salon cut hair (as well as his soft accent which identifies him as a native of Castilia IV "The Lisping Planet") there is no mistaking him for another... he is
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