The Journey to…the Mysterious Island – Interlude

The Idol had been very grumpy all day.

It had been slow to respond to his commands, and when it did, it did so in a half-hearted, distracted fashion, like a Linden during Burning Man. How could he possible destroy all of Caledon by Johnny Appleseed Day if the Idol wouldn’t cooperate. He knew letting it go to SLCC had been a bad idea. He had hoped it would just get laid and learn about making bitchin’ machimas, but instead it came back infected with the geek-hipsterism of the Linden overlords.

The Busy Man shoved a finger under the ornate Tiki mask to scratch his nose. This wasn’t nearly as easy as the prophecy had said it would be.

Just then, one of the Itchysportchowchow crawled in, careful to avoid the trapdoors that led to the shark tank as well as the pools of boiling lava, crotch-slicing lasers and other toys that dotted the red-lit evil lair.

He had bad news for The Busy Man.

The Itchysporkchowchow cleared his throat. “Oh most busy and good natured one, there are intruders from the Land of Annoyingly Dramatic Gits on the Island.”

The dark haired man wearing a tiki mask nodded. “And they have been destroyed in the surf, yes?”

“They landed on the beach, oh sweet despot who strums my fate with his fingers, until half were surrounded by Chief Templeton and the rest were pursued by one of the greatest of the Fuzzysporkhoppyhoppy.” The Itchysportchowchow warrior tried to kowtow lower with limited success due to the fact he was wearing the hood ornament from a Mercedes Benz around his neck.

The tiki mask nodded. “So they were all destroyed on the beach, yes?”

The warrior hesitated. “That depends on your interpretation of destroyed, oh he whose shoes are spit polished by the Gods themselves and buffed by devils with creamy wax like products. If you mean by “destroyed” that they escaped from the cook pots of my people even though most of them were in their scanties, due to the intervention of a terrifyingly adorable kitty girl after she, her mate, some naked chick with a thing for Fuzzysporkhoppyhoppy lurve and a penguin-shaped bunch of deux ex machina somehow tricked the poor Fuzzysporkhoppyhoppy into the Hissyscreamcracklecrackle and escaped from the Fishytoothnibblenibble.”

The Busy Man’s eyes narrowed behind his Tiki Mask. “But THEN they were destroyed before reaching the entrance to The Singing Caves of Premature Doom, yes?

The warrior nodded is head vigorous. “They would have been, oh greatest of all potential telethon guests who would be called an old and dear friend by Jerry Lewis himself before singing a duet of My Way with him, save for the falling Scottish ball.”

This did not sound promising. “…Falling ball?”

The warrior was still nodding somewhat hysterically. “Yes oh he who would wipe away the competition in Dancing with the Stars even were he paired with Dom Deluise or the ugly woman from the Drew Carey Show, the falling Scottish ball with the little winged woman and the big bumpy man in it’s sporran. It appeared and frightened the tribe as it reminded us of the way that you first arrived amongst us, oh bless the happy memory and serve scones and ice cream upon it’s anniversary forever and ever amen.”

The smallish man shook his head wearily, the Tiki Mask making him look a bit like something Bobby Brady would discover in a cave. “So what you are saying then is that they escaped from the Itchysporkchowchow, along with these new people in a balloon, and made it down into my caves and could ruin my carefully revised business model?”

The warrior swallowed hard, and decided to take the high road. “Ummm…Yes?”

The Busy Man nodded. “That’s what I thought. Oh well, we will move on to my Destruction of Intruders Backup Plan. In the mean time, Evil Genius regulations require that I kill the messenger, so please shove your head in the lava, there’s a good lad.”

The Itchysporkchowchow warrior nodded. “Yes Sir. Hold my breath?”

“Don’t bother.”

*SPLUSHSSSSSSHISSSSSSSSSCRACKKLE*

The Busy man stepped over the spasming body of the now mostly headless warrior, pulling off the Tiki Mask with annoyed furvor.

The brown haired man looked down at the model for his new masterpiece, which will soon replace all those silly Sims with odd clothing and absurdly stilted comic operetta accents once the earthquakes and lava wipe them all away.

Desmond Shang nodded to himself wearily. “Very well, if that’s the way they want to play it…no more Mr. Nice Guvnah.”

~ by BardHaven on September 10, 2007.