LJ Idol, Season 9, Final Entry - why you should vote for ME instead :DDD
Because nothing's impossible if you BELIEVE!
***
I started the season with him, and for a laugh I continued with another installment halfway through. I figure it's only fitting that I conclude the story, at the close of Season 9, in the only appropriate fashion.
***
A man strode with easy purpose through the automatic doors. He wasn't especially short, but he was made tiny by the grim hulks flanking him, their scarred and mustachioed heads poking out of incongruously new golf polos. The little man tapped a silver dome on the front desk with a happy chime.
A moment later, a hairsprayed mountain of curls emerged from a side room, as the old battleaxe that ran the Davy Crockett Retirement Home backed up to the Reception desk, still barking orders at someone. She finally turned and smiled at the man, and then forcibly maintained that smile while eyeballing the refrigerator-sized goons with him.
"I'd like to see the Inspector", the man said mildly. "Sorry, the retired Inspector."
"Ohh, y'must mean Mister Argon. And you are?"
He spoke with the rigid fluidity of a long-practiced second language. "A benefactor of the Arsenal City Precinct, here to 'catch up'. In what room might I find him?"
"Only one place you WOULD find him. When he donated the funds to build this retirement home, he insisted on reserving Room 4 over in the Corinthian wing. Helped build it himself, the crazy old bastard. Head down that hall to the intersection, make a right, and just past the courtyard you'll find room C-4."
The men nodded, and a minute later were crowding a doorway that smelled like powdered old people and poorly-concealed cigarettes.
An old man was sitting back on one of those derelict brown recliners that all old men seem to sprout on their sixtieth birthday. He retained wiry traces of a former athleticism, and his hard eyes stared at them over a steel-gray mustache. His feet were up on a stack of firearm maintenance manuals, sheathed in some truly preposterous neon-pink bunny slippers. Ashes from his cigarette were snowing on a forgotten clicker, naturally abandoned during the hour that Matlock 2035 was on.
"Yeah?", the old man guttered, looking them over: "Well. I figure I know who you are, don't I." It wasn't really a question.
"Mister Argon, I am Fernando. You met my uncle Armando years ago, God rest him."
Retired Inspector Rod Argon grunted. "International Drug Kingpin Armando, yeah. An' there's only one reason you'd be here, I figure."
"I wanted to let you know that after my uncle rained upon Arsenal City, a power vacuum was left behind. I was able to usurp his heroin network, and use it to distribute my own personal product, Pinko. Congratulations, Inspector. You had successfully paved the way for the most anti-American drug in the world to flood your shores." He beamed at Retired Inspector Argon, then glanced at each of his men in turn, who slid their hands in unison down the back of their pants. "Now, yes. The event you alluded to."
Rod grumbled and reached for a Nurse call-button dangling from a wire. Fernando chuckled indulgently.
"No, no no, Mister Argon. Let us at least have some decorum here. No need to get that nice nurse lady involved, would you not agree?"
"This ain't a nursing home."
"What?"
"This is a retirement home. There ain't no nurses here."
"I don't--"
***
Outside on the grounds, a pair of old men in stupid hats stood beside the 18th hole of a golf course, where a neon green ball sat defiantly on the brink, refusing to edge in there. With a dissatisfied grumble, the fatter old man hauled out his wallet and began piling up the bet money - when a deafening boom rocked the nearby line of pine trees and shook the earth beneath them. When the men had recovered and finished trading their holy-shit looks, they peered down at the neon green golf ball, now resting in the hole. The thinner old man yelled and bawled, but couldn't come up with a ruling in his favor. Ultimately, he began piling up the money instead, as clouds of underlit, billowing smoke began pluming from the retirement home.
Overhead, a smoking recliner left a contrail across the sky. As it neared the distant treeline, a parachute deployed. A moment later a second parachute popped open, halting the descent of a television, lit with the familiar image of Cyber-Matlock. The back of the chair reclined as they both disappeared from view.
The End
....OR IS IT??
***
I started the season with him, and for a laugh I continued with another installment halfway through. I figure it's only fitting that I conclude the story, at the close of Season 9, in the only appropriate fashion.
***
A man strode with easy purpose through the automatic doors. He wasn't especially short, but he was made tiny by the grim hulks flanking him, their scarred and mustachioed heads poking out of incongruously new golf polos. The little man tapped a silver dome on the front desk with a happy chime.
A moment later, a hairsprayed mountain of curls emerged from a side room, as the old battleaxe that ran the Davy Crockett Retirement Home backed up to the Reception desk, still barking orders at someone. She finally turned and smiled at the man, and then forcibly maintained that smile while eyeballing the refrigerator-sized goons with him.
"I'd like to see the Inspector", the man said mildly. "Sorry, the retired Inspector."
"Ohh, y'must mean Mister Argon. And you are?"
He spoke with the rigid fluidity of a long-practiced second language. "A benefactor of the Arsenal City Precinct, here to 'catch up'. In what room might I find him?"
"Only one place you WOULD find him. When he donated the funds to build this retirement home, he insisted on reserving Room 4 over in the Corinthian wing. Helped build it himself, the crazy old bastard. Head down that hall to the intersection, make a right, and just past the courtyard you'll find room C-4."
The men nodded, and a minute later were crowding a doorway that smelled like powdered old people and poorly-concealed cigarettes.
An old man was sitting back on one of those derelict brown recliners that all old men seem to sprout on their sixtieth birthday. He retained wiry traces of a former athleticism, and his hard eyes stared at them over a steel-gray mustache. His feet were up on a stack of firearm maintenance manuals, sheathed in some truly preposterous neon-pink bunny slippers. Ashes from his cigarette were snowing on a forgotten clicker, naturally abandoned during the hour that Matlock 2035 was on.
"Yeah?", the old man guttered, looking them over: "Well. I figure I know who you are, don't I." It wasn't really a question.
"Mister Argon, I am Fernando. You met my uncle Armando years ago, God rest him."
Retired Inspector Rod Argon grunted. "International Drug Kingpin Armando, yeah. An' there's only one reason you'd be here, I figure."
"I wanted to let you know that after my uncle rained upon Arsenal City, a power vacuum was left behind. I was able to usurp his heroin network, and use it to distribute my own personal product, Pinko. Congratulations, Inspector. You had successfully paved the way for the most anti-American drug in the world to flood your shores." He beamed at Retired Inspector Argon, then glanced at each of his men in turn, who slid their hands in unison down the back of their pants. "Now, yes. The event you alluded to."
Rod grumbled and reached for a Nurse call-button dangling from a wire. Fernando chuckled indulgently.
"No, no no, Mister Argon. Let us at least have some decorum here. No need to get that nice nurse lady involved, would you not agree?"
"This ain't a nursing home."
"What?"
"This is a retirement home. There ain't no nurses here."
"I don't--"
***
Outside on the grounds, a pair of old men in stupid hats stood beside the 18th hole of a golf course, where a neon green ball sat defiantly on the brink, refusing to edge in there. With a dissatisfied grumble, the fatter old man hauled out his wallet and began piling up the bet money - when a deafening boom rocked the nearby line of pine trees and shook the earth beneath them. When the men had recovered and finished trading their holy-shit looks, they peered down at the neon green golf ball, now resting in the hole. The thinner old man yelled and bawled, but couldn't come up with a ruling in his favor. Ultimately, he began piling up the money instead, as clouds of underlit, billowing smoke began pluming from the retirement home.
Overhead, a smoking recliner left a contrail across the sky. As it neared the distant treeline, a parachute deployed. A moment later a second parachute popped open, halting the descent of a television, lit with the familiar image of Cyber-Matlock. The back of the chair reclined as they both disappeared from view.
The End
....OR IS IT??