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dimensionsunited · 4 years

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JULY 2020 DIMENSIONS ENTERTAINMENT SCHEDULES & REVIEW

Members may earn 3 points each (up to 6 points) for writing, by the end of August 7 KST:

A solo para of 400+ words based on their monthly schedule (does not count toward your monthly total).

A thread of six posts (three per participant, including the starter) based on their monthly schedule.

Threads do not have to take place directly during an important date listed on the schedule, but must be related to what the muse is mentioned to be doing in the paragraph explaining their schedule/the company’s schedule for the month and/or their thoughts on the mentioned activities or lack thereof.

These schedules may be updated throughout the month if new information needs to be added.

Reminder: June schedule posts are due by the end of July 7 KST. Please do not post schedule posts in the fmdschedule tag.

OVERALL COMPANY

All Dimensions idols are scheduled for a meeting with upper management the day before the news of the upcoming base Culture Complex is leaked to the media. They’re given a more detailed rundown of plans for the facility than the public is, although not all the details are made clear. In the meeting, everyone is informed Dimensions has partnered once again with BC and Gold Star to fund the construction of a new building in Gangnam meant to become the ideal location in the world for fans of idols. The building will include a museum with exhibits dedicated to the history and music of each group and soloist, a handful of theatre venues for intimate concerts and company-sponsored musical productions, a merchandise mall, a cafe, and many other fan experiences. (admin note: For reference, imagine something similar to SM COEX Artium —with over three times the budget.) The idols won’t spend much time there even once it’s finished being built, but content starring them is critical to the financial success of the venture, so the next several months leading up to its opening will have all three companies’ idols working hard to make its opening a success. This month, that mostly involves producing photo shoots: all idols will attend a photo shoot session this month where three categories of photo will be tacked: profile pictures for the artist wall (grayscale, professional and serious tone), images for life-sized cutouts of each idol (wardrobe will consist of jeans and a single-color top for each idol, fun and bright tone with fanservicable poses such as here and here encouraged) and 3D imaging for 3D-printed figures of each idol.

Important dates:

July 5: base Culture Complex briefing meeting.

July 12-July 31: Photo shoots for base Culture Complex, as individual muse schedule allows, at unspecified photo studio in Gangnam (admin note: muses may encounter idols from other companies while there).

DIMENSIONS SOLOIST 1

As promised, she begins work on her next comeback this month with a new digital single. She’s planned to make her comeback in October, so this month isn’t too busy as she’s only in the studio to record the final vocals for the song. At the end of the month, she’ll have her first fittings for potential stage outfits. The goal for this round of fittings is mainly to get her opinion on potential styling.

Important dates:

July 30: First MV and stage outfit fittings.

DIMENSIONS SOLOIST 2

He’ll be debuting a new song, “When You Call My Name”, at his concert next month, so in addition to rehearsals for the concert, he’ll be in the studio to record the song throughout the month of July. He won’t be releasing it until November, but the song needs to be recorded in full now so that a backing track can be made, though he’ll be expected to sing it mostly live at his concert.

Important dates:

N/A.

DIMENSIONS SOLOIST 3

She’ll be holding her first ever solo concert in September, something Dimensions will be announcing this month as tickets go on sale for her fans and the public. It’s a big deal for her to hold solo concerts already and is a big show of faith from the company in her following the impressive performance of her debut, even if the venue isn’t huge. She’ll be rehearsing live performances all of her released songs and OSTs, and will also be able to cover up to three songs of her choice (as long as they don’t conflict with her public image too much). Rehearsals will be filmed for her OnStyle reality show.

Important dates:

N/A

GAL.ACTIC

News of a new comeback comes to the members in the form of a meeting this month. At the meeting, they get to hear demos of the upcoming mini-album and are informed that the concept for their comeback will be “black swan”, something more elegant and darker than their recent comebacks. Throughout the month, they’ll be in the studio recording the album. They also have a photo shoot for Arena Homme Plus and they’ll be performing “B.B.B”, “Someone Like U”, and “Be Ambitious” at a festival at the end of the month.

Important dates:

July 6: Photo shoot for Arena Homme Plus’s August issue.

July 29: Performance at Blue One Resort K-Pop Festival in Gyeongju (also performing: BEE, Knight, and Lipstick).

ALIEN

After they have the fittings for the “Follow” MV and comeback music show stages, Alien will move on to wrapping up comeback preparations by filming their comeback MV on July 7. Filming is simple compared to the overseas travel and acting they’ve had to do for some recent releases, as they’ll be filming solo and dance shots on a series of sets this time. After that, they’ll spend the next two weeks hard at work in the dance studio to fine-tune all of the details of their performance until the day of their comeback on July 20.

Important dates:

July 1: Comeback MV and stage outfit fittings.

July 7: “Follow” M/V filming.

July 14: Release of pre-release track “Find You”.

July 20: Release of “Follow” & Follow: Find You album, music show promotions continue through August 20.

MARS

MARS are back to work as ambassadors for Jambangee jeans by shooting an ad campaign for the summer season. It’s a simple shoot concept with simple styling, so it isn’t planned to take very long. The day after that photo shoot, MARS will be informed that they’ll begin preparing for a Japanese comeback this month by studio recording their Japanese comeback single, “Can’t Say”.

Important dates:

July 2: Jambangee summer ad campaign photo shoot.

7ROPHY

Now that 7ROPHY wrapped their most recent comeback promotions, they get a break from the cycle of comeback preparations for this month. Instead, they’ve been asked to participate in two magazine photo shoots that Dimensions has been happy to accept on their behalf to keep them in the public eye despite the disappointing performance of their last two singles. They’ll be the cover models of August’s issue of The Star and will have an inside spread in Nylon Korea the same month. For Queendom, they’ll be filming the first two episodes on July 16 and July 30, and they’ve been asked to prepare a performance of their representative hit song, “Latata”. Full details of Queendom filming for this month can be found here.

Important dates:

July 1: Photo shoot for Nylon Korea’s August issue.

July 4: Photo shoot for The Star’s August issue.

July 16: Queendom episode one filming (introductions).

July 30: Queendom episode one & two filming (representative hit song stage).

UNITY

The first two days of the month, Unity fits in both the photo shoot for their album photo book and a photo shoot and interview for Harper’s Bazaar Korea’s August issue. After that, the CHAMPION sub-unit members will leave for the US, and once they return, it’s the final month leading up to their long-awaited comeback, so pre-promotion activity kicks into high gear, including MV filming and the filming of a series of videos that will be released in the lead up to the album on Dimensions’ Youtube channel.

Important dates:

July 1: Album photo book shoot.

July 2: Photo shoot for Harper’s Bazaar Korea’s August issue.

July 16: “Kick It” MV & behind & 1?Q 7!A filming day one.

July 17: “Kick It” MV & behind & 1?Q 7!A filming day two.

July 19: Welcome To The Unity Zone filming (The Opening Show, U.N.I Shopping)

July 29: Welcome To The Unity Zone filming (Looking For The Best Bruce Lee)

↳ CHAMPION

CHAMPION has already broken records, soaring to the top of the Billboard Hot 200 album chart last month, a feat only Origin has previously achieved. The achievement has BC and Dimensions quite proud and the lack of significant performance on the Korean charts isn’t considered a big deal to them due to the overseas success. This month, they begin their tour in Texas (flying out from Seoul late on July 5) and hold five US dates total before they fly out back to Seoul in the early morning hours of July 12. As previously mentioned, the two involves all of the songs on their mini-album, two unreleased songs (”Dangerous Woman” and “With You”), and solo stages by those who have made solo debuts before the tour.

Important dates:

July 6: CHAMPION: We Are The Future Live concert at Dickies Arena in Forth Worth, TX, USA.

July 8: CHAMPION: We Are The Future Live concert at United Center in Chicago, IL, USA.

July 9: CHAMPION: We Are The Future Live concert at Infinite Energy Center in Duluth, GA, USA.

July 10: CHAMPION: We Are The Future Live concert at EagleBank Arena in Fairfax, VA, USA.

July 11: CHAMPION: We Are The Future Live concert at Madison Square Garden in New York City, NY, USA.

LUCID

Beginning on July 4, the Lucid members begin their Welcome to The Dream World tour, which is dedicated entirely to songs from their nightmare realm concept, along with the special stages mentioned in last month’s schedule. From July 7 to July 9, they’ll be in Taiwan, and then on July 23, they’ll fly out from Seoul again to continue their tour overseas. For the first chunk of the month, while they’re in Seoul, they’ll be busy learning the choreography for their title track, “Navillera” and b-side “Gone With The Wind”, along with outfit fittings.

Important dates:

July 4: Welcome to The Dream World concert at Shinsegae Mesa Hall in Seoul, South Korea.

July 7: Comeback MV and stage outfit [2] fittings.

July 8: Welcome to The Dream World concert at Legacy Taipei in Taipei, Taiwan.

July 24: Welcome to The Dream World concert at El Teatro de Flores in Buenos Aires, Brazil.

July 26: Welcome to The Dream World concert at Club Chocolate in Santiago, Chile.

July 29: Welcome to The Dream World concert at Maracanã in Lima, Peru.

July 31: Welcome to The Dream World concert at Teatro ECCI El Dorado in Bogota, Columbia.

#fmdschedule #queued post

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bittysvalentines · 6 years

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I’ll Talk Bromance (if I can get it)

From: @leftwinglibrarian

To: @redneterp

Rating: Teen. Tags - Holsom, friends to lovers, mutual pining, Valentine's Day, canon-typical language

A message to your recipient - Happy Valentine's Day @redneterp! I loved getting your request, because it was almost exactly like the one I'd submitted! I felt like the world just needs more Holsom content, so that's what I went with. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for giving me the chance to write something for this pairing I love so much!

“HOLSTER? ARE YOU WEARING A TIE OR ..” Ransom’s query is cut off by the sound of the doorbell. “Shit. CAN ONE OF YOU GUYS GET THAT?”

Apparently not, if the repeated ringing interspersed with door knocking is any indication. Ransom would grab it but he’s still standing there shirtless, which seems OK for the Haus but somehow not for Haus 2.0. Maybe this is the moment he achieves actual adulthood, he muses to himself as he grabs a dark red V-neck sweater from his drawer and pulls it on as he heads to the door.

“On my way, just one sec!” he calls out to the maniac who seems intent on knocking down their door.

He finally gets his sweater on, muttering under his breath about the uselessness of his roommates. Honestly, what is the point of living with four other people? Can’t one of them help out a guy who doesn’t want to answer the door half naked? Though to be fair, Shitty and Lardo aren’t home, because they are spending the holiday at a romantic B&B in Rockport. They both made a big deal about how they were staying “ironically” but Rans and Holster aren’t buying it. And their other roommate spends all of her time either out of the house or holed up in her room, so Rans hasn’t actually seen her in … well, it’s been a while. And Holster …

Holster is standing at the front door holding a bouquet of red roses and a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates.

“What the hell Holtzy?”

“And a Happy Valentine’s Day to you as well, Justin. May I come in?”

“Dude, you live here. What are you doing?”

“I am being a gentleman and picking up my date,” Holster says, brushing past him. “Are you ready?”

“Again, why are you picking me up? WE LITERALLY LIVE TOGETHER.”

“Bro, can’t a bro do bromance right and pick up his Brolentine’s Day date in style?”

“Brolentine’s????”

“OK, I concede that ‘Galentine’s’ works better, but I feel like you are focusing too much on the details here and missing the spirit of this holiday. Are you ready for the most Bromantic evening of your life?”

“Sure Leslie Knope,” Ransom says with a smile, glancing down at his outfit. “If you think this is OK? Wasn’t sure how dressed up we needed to get.”

“Looks great, I’m about the same,” Holster says, gesturing down to his dark jeans and a navy blue half-zip sweater. “I’m gonna grab a vase for these while you get your shoes on.”

“Wait, are we doing gifts now? Hang on,” Ransom jogs back to his room. Holster may think he’s gone all out, but two can play at this game.

Which … it started out as a game, but it’s gotten a little intense, or at least it feels that way to Ransom. It had all started a few weeks ago when the group chat started talking about Valentine’s Day. That’s when Shitty had brought up their “ironic” V-Day plans, and Jack was being super cagey, so chances are he’s got something pretty epic planned. Ransom and Holster were the only ones without real plans, since he and March had finally called it quits a few months ago after trying the long-distance thing. Holster hasn’t really dated anyone more than casually for, well ... he’s always been more into hookups than relationships. But then so has Ransom, since the breakup, so who is he to talk?

The team had resorted to those chirps that have started to make Ransom blush a bit, about how the two of them are soulmates and will have an epic Palentine’s Day, etc. And of course they had to do it when Holster had just been on a “How I Met Your Mother” kick that lead to him posting at least 17 different “Challenge Accepted” memes. That combined with his always ardent love for Leslie Knope was enough to get Holster swearing that this was going to be the most epic Galentine’s Day - or, apparently, Brolentine’s - either of them had ever experienced.

Somehow the evening had morphed from beer, pizza and Mario Kart to actual PLANS, with Holster taking on dinner and Rans in charge of the activity. Of course Shitty’s encouragement to “fuck heteronormativity, two bros can celebrate their love” had only upped the ante, and now Holster was picking him up even though they still live together and bringing him gifts … At least Holster won’t win that one.

Ransom returns to the living room where Holster has managed to find something to serve as a vase and hands him a red gift bag, complete with heart-covered tissue paper.

“Rans, are these HIS AND HIS BOXER BRIEFS? ‘Swawesome. We are totes wearing these and doing some snuggling later.”

“Sure bro, of course,” Ransom says, ducking to tie his shoe and hide his blush. That was of course what he’d been planning when he ordered them, but hearing Holster say it, well. It’s just A LOT.

Honestly, ALL of Ransoms feelings about Holster have been a lot lately. He’s always thought his best friend was handsome and funny and talented and basically just the best person ever, but since things started going south with March, those feelings have somehow morphed into something more. He finds himself noticing how Holster’s singing in the shower sets the tone for his day, or how much he misses living in each other’s pockets now that they have separate bedrooms and work in different departments at the consulting firm. Or how perfect Holster’s arms and shoulders are and wondering what they��d feel like boxing him in against the bed as Holster looms over him. And that’s not how you are supposed to feel about your best bro. So Ransom will endure this night of flowers and chocolates and fake hand holding, and he’ll stay chill, and their friendship will be fine.

He stands up to find Holster holding the door.

“My lord, your chariot awaits.”

That earns an eye roll from Ransom as he heads to the door to grab the bag full of cold weather gear he’s packed for their activity, but he lets Holster hold the door and they pile into the car, headed out for the mystery dinner Holster has planned.

Turns out Holster did a pretty damn good job. He might end up winning this thing. Not that there is an actual winner or anything, but fondue was a boss choice. Anything that features the words “beer cheese” is going to be amazing. But served with a nice Chianti, because they are grownups and this is romantic. Still, turns out beer cheese is incredible on pretty much everything, from apples to shrimp to steak tips to the piece of baguette Holster is holding out to him across the table.

“Oh my God, Rans, you have to try this. This is my new favorite combination of carbs and cheese. It is the best thing in my life besides your smiling face.”

“Whoa, dramatic much, Holtz? Besides, you say that about pretty much every combination of carbs and cheese,” Ransom jokes, trying not to let Holster’s hyperbolic talk set his heart racing. He is your best friend, that’s IT.

“I really mean it this time. And if you don’t shut the fuck up and eat it right now and allow even one precious drop of this delicious perfection to escape I will never forgive you.”

They exchange a smile with their eyes as Ransom opens his mouth and allows Holster to feed him, because bromance. He starts to chew and can’t help but let out a moan. He’s already so full but he’s going to have to eat at least a full loaf of bread now because that was fucking delicious.

He opens his eyes to find Holster with a weird look on his face, one Ransom can’t quite interpret. It disappears instantly when Holster realizes Rans is back with him, and they continue on, scraping the bottom of the fondue pot to get every last bit of the melty cheese.

They move on to dessert, Ransom allowing Holster to feed him a brownie bite covered in chocolate and returning the favor with a bit of cheesecake. Ransom could sit here all night, eating delicious food and listening to Holster talk, using his hands to gesture wildly. Ransom probably shouldn’t find it so endearing, especially since he almost hit that waitress who was carrying a full fondue pot, but he lets himself enjoy the moment. The check has come and gone and their feet are casually touching under the table. Holster’s hair looks golden in the dim lighting of the restaurant. The Boston skyline twinkles in the background, and this truly is the best Valentine’s Day Ransom can remember spending.

He’s brought back to reality by a high-pitched squeal and someone yelling “Yes! Oh my god, Tom! Yes!” All heads in the restaurant turn to see the newly engaged couple kiss, earning cheers from the crowd. It’s enough to break the spell.

“So, you ready to head out?”

“Oh dude. I literally can’t imagine doing anything other than going home and lying around in front of the TV with my pants unbuttoned while I digest. Please tell me you aren’t making us go to one of those trampoline places or something.”

“Nope. You killed it at dinner, but now it’s my turn.”

They head to the car and bundle up, Ransom handing out hand warmers before shouldering the remaining items in the bag. He’s glad the restaurant isn’t too far away, since parking in Boston is hell on a good day, and tonight is sure to be even worse.

“Do I get to see what’s in the bag?” Holster asks as they head out to walk the few blocks. It’s cold, but not too bad, and clear — a perfect winter night.

“Nope, it would spoil the surprise,” Ransom says, pulling the bag a little tighter. “You’ll guess it soon, probably before we get there.”

He does start throwing out a few guesses as they near Boston Common (“Dude, is there some special V-Day Freedom Trail thing? Do you think I’m Jack Zimmermann?”), but it’s not until they can actually see the Frog Pond that Holster realizes what the night has in store.

“Skating? That is some next level bromance, taking it back to the place we first met. Can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.”

And that … may have been exactly what Ransom was thinking, but it seems incredibly cheesy now that they’re here. He’s seriously having second thoughts about this plan. Plus the hordes of couples holding hands and the fairy lights strung through the trees are making this infinitely more romantic than any of the places they have skated. He and Holster have shared so many cellies, helmet kisses and bear hugs on the ice, but being surrounded by couples holding hands on a sheet of ice — which will always mean Holster, no matter where it might be — well, that might just be too much.

“It’s super cheesy, bro. I’m sorry. We can bail and go home and binge something, it’s fine. I just … I thought it would be funny if we came here ironically or whatever, you know?” Ransom can tell he’s not sounding convincing, especially to Holster, who knows him too well. But he’s looking around the pond instead of at Ransom, and doesn’t seem to mind the level of schmaltz surrounding them.

“Ironcially? Hell no. This is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. We are totally doing this. Did you bring our skates? Because I am not putting my foot in some stanky rental.”

Ransom’s feeling reassured enough to feign shock at the very idea of getting rentals, and they lace up and pay the fee before taking to the pond, doing lazy loops that remind Justin of the early days of their friendship, lazily passing pucks back and forth as they stayed after practice talking for hours, discovering all they had in common.

It must be weighing on Holster’s mind as well, because he speaks up voice low where he’s skating too close to Ransom, hedged in by all the other couples on the ice.

“Did you ever think we’d be here? That first day we met?”

“I mean, not exactly,” and something in the air is making Ransom’s breath come a little faster and convincing him to be more vulnerable than he thinks is actually a good idea. “But I figured out pretty early on that you were someone I wanted to be a part of my life for a long time.”

“I knew. That day,” Holster says, still quiet in a way he rarely gets that lets Ransom know these moments are to be treasured. “I just like, we met and I just KNEW that you were going to be important to me.”

Ransom realizes that they’ve slowed down and are leaning into one another, so close they are breathing each other’s air. Which, it’s not like that’s anything new for them, but this feels somehow different. The frosty air seems charged, thick between them. Ransom is just starting to question whether Holster might be feeling the same, when someone slams into him from behind, sending him crashing into Holster’s strong arms. It’s only due to Holster’s height and strength that they don’t go crashing down.

“WATCH OUT, ASSHOLE!” Holster yells over his shoulder, as he helps steady Ransom. “What a dick. Can you believe that guy? You OK?”

Luckily the shove was enough to shatter the moment, and Ransom has recovered his wits along with his balance.

“Bro, I’m good. Thanks though,” he gives Holster a soft punch on the arm, shouting after him. “YOU COULD DO BETTER MISS. I MEAN REALLY, YOU COULD DO SO MUCH BETTER.”

They start skating again, laughing together, best bros once again in a sea of lovers, when Holster’s face lights up.

“Dude, you are so buying me hot chocolate.”

“Are you even serious right now? Do you realize how much chocolate we just ate?”

“Feel the bromance in the air, Justin. That calls for some fucking hot chocolate and snuggling.”

So Ransom forks over the money for hot chocolate (least he could do, after Holster shelled out big time for dinner), and they sit down on a bench, sitting close and quiet the way they normally only do at home in front of the TV or after they’ve been drinking. That’s happening less and less these days, with separate bedrooms and no kegsters to get them schwasted and keep Ransom from climbing up to the top bunk.

The cocoa is too hot to drink, and the rink is getting even more crowded, so they pack up their skates and sip as they walk back to the car, the talk going in a million directions just like it always does, able to follow one another’s mental leaps in a way that wouldn’t make sense to most people. They get in the car and and head home, but instead of pulling in the back, Holster parks out on the street.

“Can I walk you to the door?” Holster asks, turning to look at Ransom.

“Holster. YOU. LIVE. HERE.”

“I know. But can’t a bro try to treat his bro right after an epic V-Day?”

“Sure,” Ransom sighs and thunks his head back on the rest as Holster gets out of the car. “Bros for life, right?”

Holster is still playing the game and comes around to open Ransom’s door which is next level, even for him. They walk up to the door in silence, Ransom struggling to control his emotions. He’s your best friend. Don’t fuck this up. He tries to shake it off and find the joviality from earlier in the evening, which he can tell is a mistake as soon as he opens his mouth. But even as he’s telling himself to shut the fuck up, he hears the words coming out.

“So, does this mean I get a goodnight kiss?” he tries for a laugh but it sounds strangled, and Holster is being silent and Holster isn’t laughing, why isn’t he laughing?

Ransom realizes Holster has stopped walking and he turns back to find him looking absolutely shattered. Does Holster know? Did he take this too far?

“Rans, I … I can’t do this, OK?”

“Holster, what … what do you mean? I’m sorry, OK? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t joke about that shit. I just … it was a stupid thing to say, OK?” he moves to pull Holster into a hug, and for the first time Ransom can remember, Holster pulls away.

“I didn’t realize you knew. I’m sorry. I’ll drive up to Samwell and crash there for the night, and we can figure it out tomorrow.” Holster won’t look at him, and he starts to shuffle back to the car, and he just looks so small and miserable and Holster should never feel that way and it’s Ransom who made him look like that.

“Adam, no. It was my fault, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he calls after him, grabbing Holster’s arm and turning him around so they are face to face. “I just … I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?” Holster is looking at him incredulously. “Dude, I’m … Justin. I’m in love with you.”

Ransom can’t help the gasp that escapes from his lips. He feels himself sway a bit, feels the panic rise. This is what he’s been wanting for so long, including Holster’s strong arms wrapping around him, but Holster is still talking to him, soothing, holding him close but rubbing his back to calm the panic attack he can tell Ransom is trying to fight off.

“I love you, but I just can’t do this again. After we made out that time sophomore year, I just … Rans, that almost killed me. I just can’t do it again. And you deserve better than a creepy roommate who is mooning over you, so I can move out. I still want to be your friend, but I understand if you don’t want that.”

Ransom is still trying to get himself under control, and words are a struggle.

“I … I want. I wanted tonight to be real.”

“Justin … please,” and he’s cold as Holster is pulling slightly away, looking at Ransom with the saddest eyes Ransom has ever seen. “Please don’t say that when you don’t mean it. It hurts too much.”

“No, Holster … Adam, I. I’ve wanted it for a while now. It’s part of why I broke it off with March. I just … I thought it was just me.”

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No. No, I wouldn’t. Holster, I would never …” Ransom still can’t think of the right words to fix this, to let Holster know how he feels, so he does the only thing he can think of and pulls him into a kiss.

Holster is tense at first, surprised, but as Ransom keeps kissing him, trying to express what panic isn’t letting him say, he feels Holster relax into it, his arms sliding up to hold Ransom and opening his mouth to let the kiss deepen. Ransom is unsure how long it lasts, could be seconds, also seems like years, and they pull apart breathless, foreheads resting together, gulping down the cold air.

“So,” Holster says, still a bit breathless as his arms slide down to take Ransom’s hands in his. “You’re telling me that we have basically been pining away for each other for MONTHS now?”

“Uh, I guess so,” Ransom can feel himself beaming, panic sliding away as he lets himself realize that this moment is actually happening. “Should have told you, we missed so much time.”

“Bro, we still have time,” Holster says, pulling their joined hands up to his mouth and cupping them to his face, turning to kiss Ransom’s palm. “What do you say we turn this into a real Valentine’s Day?”

“Dude, only if we put on our matching boxers.”

“We can put them on, I’m just not promising they’ll stay on,” Holster says, wagging his eyebrows as he unlocks the door and they tumble inside, kissing as they move down the hallway.

Ransom loves him so fucking much.

“Hey Holster? I love you, too.”

“Bro. ‘Swawesome. Me too, obvs. Now, the big question … your room, or mine?”

Ransom drags Holster after him, wondering if it’s too soon to make one room “theirs.”

#holsterransom #fanfiction #bittysvalentines #bv2019 #omgcp

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vmheadquarters · 7 years

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What Goes Around... (Part 27b)

This is PART 27b of a story that is being told in segments by twenty-seven different authors, campfire-style. Each author will take over the story with no prior planning and then pass it on after putting their own spin on it! Expect the unexpected! :) You can check our vmhq campfire tale tag for all of the previous installments or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Part 27b is written by @cheshirecatstrut.

[Part 27a]

PART TWO--CONCLUSION

DICK

This new tunnel Rubes found, just to switch things up, is artificially lit, fluorescents attached at intervals along the walls. Plaques at every junction read, “NO FIREARMS, NO SMOKING, NO CELL PHONES, NO LAPTOPS, PLEASE WEAR PROTECTIVE GEAR.”

“Something’s flammable down here.” Ruby pauses to consult the blueprint, points right. “Also secret.”

“Bunch of wine crates were stacked near the spot where you left Sean,” Dick says. “Old ones. I bet these catacombs were used for smuggling once. Toss a match on some two-hundred-years-buried booze, you’d have a big-ass underground bonfire, amirite?”

“Sure, but I don’t think that’s the reason for the signs.” Ruby taps one as they pass. “These mention modern tech, and someone’s keeping every light working.” She glances back at him. “Is it just me, or is your brain reverting to normal?”

“Haven’t smoked up in, like, half an hour,” Dick says. “And I’ve got what you’d call a high tolerance. There’s a roach in my pocket, still, but do you really want me to ignore the warnings?”

“Probably it’s best to hold off.” She stops at a metal door with a plaque that reads PROCESSING ROOM and tests the handle. “We’ll never save America from the Fuchsia Menace if we’re unexpectedly burned alive.”

Removing supplies from her purse, she goes through her straw-air-hammer routine again; the safety door swings open with a clang. Ruby’s eyes widen as she enters. Once Dick sidles through behind her, he totally concurs.

The big round space on the blueprints marks an enormous underground cavern, walled in rock machine-scraped smooth. Higher-tech coffins than the one in the barn fill most of the available floor space—they look like hyper-sleep pods from Alien, windows showing pink soup beneath. Gigantic steel tanks at the cave’s center sprout spiderish sprays of pipes, each attaching to one coffin. Dick wonders how any amount of revenge could be worth lying Matrix-style for DAYS.

“I KNEW IT!” he crows, prompting Ruby to shush him. His voice echoes. “Didn’t I call this scenario, last time we were theorizing? Seriously, I need to patent this weed-- it’s, like, miracle shit, Rub-a-roni.”

“Did you breed and grow the particular strain in your pocket? No? Then you can’t patent it, dummy. Now hush. Something just started beeping over there, and I need to figure out what and why.”

She crosses the room, picking her way carefully between coffins; for lack of anything better to do, Dick follows. When she stops at a screen of scrolling, random-seeming words he looks over her shoulder, shifting his murse back out of the way.

“Is that the names of the pink dudes?” He squints at one line that reads ‘Henson’, and another, “Soloway’. “And if so, what do you think ‘BEGIN DETACHMENT’ means? ‘Cause it seems like some of these coffins are doing it.”

Ruby gasps as, with a loud, clanking hiss, half the tubes uncouple from coffins and begin, slowly, to retract. The list pauses, flashes a ‘DETACHMENT COMPLETE’ message, and begins scrolling again with new names.

“Shit!” she murmurs, and looks up at him with terrified eyes. “Shit, shit, shit, Dick, I think all these zombies are about to wake up! We have to hide; if they find us in here, who KNOWS what they’ll do?”

Dick casts around for a likely nook, but it’s a fucking cave. Notices part of the wall to their left contains an inset desk, and shoves her that direction. “Under there!” he hisses, as several coffin lids creak open. “Quick, we’re out of time!”

“But we’re not hidden!” she whispers back, obliging just the same. He scrambles in after and pulls the rolling chair in front. “They can see us if they look!”

“That Pez guy turned into a moron,” Dick argues, feeling his pocket to make sure the joint’s still there, for after. “Just shut it--I bet you a grand they won’t notice.”

One by one, the coffins’ inhabitants rise, in a flurry of flailing pink limbs and high-pitched shrieks. Hulks of various shapes and sizes, all clad in white t-shirts and briefs, claw and stumble free as if coordination was a casualty of the process. They land on heads and sides, with zero instinct for self-preservation, then bicycle like upended cockroaches until they make it to their feet.

The room fills, rapidly, with milling, squealing pinkness; Ruby clutches Dick in a way that would be gratifying under less gross circumstances. Then, abruptly, a voice booms out across the room. The hulks turn, as one, towards a white movie screen slowly descending from the ceiling.

Sean Friedrich appears in ten-foot Technicolor, wearing a laurel-leaf crown and toga, lit in such a flattering and gilded style Dick’s positive he directed this segment. Raising his arms like that Italian dictator from Call of Duty: World War II, Sean shouts, “Welcome to the Pantheon, demigods!” Then giggles, the way he always does when he’s had a shitload too much coke.

The Hot Pink Funky Bunch cock their heads and screech like a bunch of brain-damaged birds. But at least they quit staggering around, and a few actually try to listen.

“You’ve been selected, after a VERY competitive search, and gifted with powers FAR beyond those of mortal men,” Sean intones, voice getting higher and rapider as if someone’s switched him to fast-forward. “Now it’s time to USE those powers for our common good. And to teach the assholes populating the rest of the world their PLACE!”

Lots of howling punctuates this statement, along with rudimentary words; a few fights break out between Hulks that stumble into each other. “Please form a line,” Sean continues, more prosaically, “and walk through the door beneath the flashing red light to get street clothes. We’ll gather in the auditorium for a speech. Then you’ll be bused to the location specified on your liability waivers, so you can FULFILL YOUR HEROIC DESTINIES!”

More chaos accompanies this statement--the screen retracts into the ceiling as ‘A Film by Sean Friedrich’ flashes across. Then a red safety light, accompanied by a klaxon, begins flashing over a door on the far wall. The Hulks gather to stare, attracted by the noise and color. When the door swings open, they file out, screaming and punching all the way.

In the quiet after the last of them leave, Dick exhales, then checks to make sure he didn’t pee himself again. Ruby peeks out from beneath the desk.

“Come on!” She turns to tug urgently at Dick. “We need to LEAVE, pronto, and call somebody! If those guys are set loose all over the city to wreak havoc, it could become a statewide emergency!”

He shushes her frantically as booted footsteps echo through the room—this guy moves like he’s got a purpose, and more importantly, is wearing shoes. She hears, presses in close, but her silence comes too late. The feet pause, the chair’s jerked aside, and the owner of two denim-clad legs says, “Come out right now, you idiots. Don’t make me shoot.”

Ruby emerges slowly, hands up. Dick follows, wishing for once she’d let him go first. Then sighs with relief when he sees who exactly it IS, holding the gun.

“What the hell?” he demands, shoving their discoverer back a step. “You scared the crap out of me! Don’t you realize this place is dangerous?” Then, as the gun barrel pointed at him doesn’t waver, adds, “Wait, wait, wait…you’re not…IN on the whole zombie thing with these douchebags, are you?”

VERONICA

V pushes aside a branch and peers past it into a clearing; at the center stands a tall, pink individual in rags and Hanes Big Boys, face pressed fervently against a piece of fabric. Birds have fallen silent as the woods reverberate with his moans.

“That’s definitely not Wallace,” Logan observes in her ear, barely a breath of sound. “He’s as tall as me, and his hair is spiky.”

“No,” Veronica muses, “but he seems familiar somehow. Like I met him once but can’t quite remember the name?”

“WHERE YOU GO RONKAAAAA?” the figure wails, turning its face in profile to the sky, and Mac says hesitantly, from behind them, “Listen I hate to be the one to point out the obvious, but…isn’t that Piz?”

“Oh shit!” Veronica says, and apparently the Hulk hears THAT. It turns abruptly, face lighting up in a ghoulish-pink too-many-teeth grin.

“RONKAAAAA!” it yells, staggering towards her on twisted, bleeding feet. Extends the piece of fabric and adds, “RONKA YOU MEET MY MOTHERRRRR!”

“Is he holding a woman’s jacket?” Veronica takes an involuntary step back, hand on Logan’s arm. “Why does he have…and what’s the milky smear, that CAN’T be…EW!”

“Maybe he thought it was yours?” Mac suggests, sotto voce, and Veronica shoots her a scandalized look. “So what are our options? We can’t hurt the guy, it’s Stosh Piznarski! You used to do his laundry.”

“As if.” Veronica shifts to evade when Piz lumbers closer. “And he’d better not be hoping I’m willing to wash THAT.”

The creature stops, head cocking, to study Logan, who’s standing very quiet and still, rhythmically flexing his hand. Eyes going wide with belated-recognition rage—confused, possibly, by the donkey shirt—he screams, “LOGAN I KICK ASS YOUUUU!” at the top of his lungs. Then charges.

Pink Piz is fast, far faster than he was as a person; V flinches in reaction, expecting him to take Logan down. But her boyfriend somehow manages a spectacular leap, vaulting over the zombie’s shoulder like an Olympic gold medalist. He lands, crouched and sneering, at the clearing’s center and beckons.

“What was THAT?” Mac demands as Piz shrieks and lowers his head. He does another flailing run, reminding Veronica why she stopped going with him to dance clubs. Logan stands braced until he’s a foot distant—then unexpectedly runs top speed out of the woods. Bellowing, Piz follows.

“Ugh, he’s protecting us by leading that thing away!” Veronica growls, giving chase. Raises her voice to add, “I’m the one with the gun here, dipwad! Will you EVER quit acting suicidally heroic?”

“You can’t shoot, though,” Mac chides, stumbling along behind her. “Because you’d be offing your ex. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Veronica shoves branches aside, emerging onto the lawn. “But I’m not letting him murder Logan based on an excess of sentiment, either.”

“Clearly,” Mac says, dry. Moves up beside her as Piz chases Logan in circles like a frustrated pink Elmer Fudd. He makes an actually-successful grab, ripping a flap loose from the donkey shirt, and Logan uses the moment of confusion to punch him in the face.

With a roar, Piz lunges and catches him, lifting him high into the air; pink lips peel back from giant pink teeth as excited zombie squeals fill the air. Veronica cocks the golden pistol and aims, falling into a two-handed stance.

Then a cop car barrels up over the hill, emergency lights flashing, horn honking, and makes straight for the unequal combatants.

Piz tosses Logan aside like he used to toss aside used towels, even when the laundry basket was right there. Screams at the approaching vehicle, “LOGAN GO TO JAIL NOT MEEEEE!” then takes off at a shambling run for the woods. He shouts, “I COME BACK RONKAA!” as he goes.

The car skids and squeals to a halt. V rushes across the yard, uncocking the gun as she goes. “Are you okay?” she asks, landing on her knees beside Logan, visually inspecting him for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”

Logan manages to sit up, flushed and sweaty, shakes his head like words are a bridge too far. Grabs the flap that used to be his shirt sleeve, and uses it to wipe his face. “Just chill for a minute,” V says, brushing back his hair. “We should head up to the house and get you some water.”

The cruiser’s driver door opens, and Veronica does a double-take as Weevil climbs out, definitely the worse for wear. “Forget Echolls, he’s just winded,” Weevil calls, voice muted by distance. “Fennel here is in way worse shape. I hope you’ve got the antidote ON you.”

“Oh thank God,” Veronica says, as Logan fumbles in his pocket for the vial of green liquid. “We came back and everyone had disappeared. We thought something terrible happened.”

“Your yuppie ex rampaged all over the house chasing Casablancas in a wig.” Weevil beckons her impatiently closer and opens the rear door. “We escaped through the catacombs, then I TRIED to drive this guy to the CDC.”

“The WHAT-acombs?” Veronica kneels on the floorboard beside Wallace, laying a palm along his forehead. He’s bright pink and thrashing, burning up with fever; a slow dribble of foam leaks from his mouth. Quickly she uncorks the vial. “Jesus, hold that thought. How much of this should I give him?”

Mac moves up behind her, carrying the slip of paper with the formulas. “Whoever wrote this could stand to work on penmanship,” she says. “But it looks to me like the dosage is one drop.”

“Okay, buddy, keep it together just a little bit longer.” Very carefully, Veronica tilts the vial over Wallace’s slack mouth. A single, emerald-green drop slips between his lips, and the effect is immediate. Wallace’s whole body stiffens and jerks, arms thrashing, nearly spilling the antidote before Veronica can re-cork. His jaw opens wide like he’s gasping for air, his lashes snap up, and the pink flush staining his body begins slowly to turn…green?

He stares at Veronica upside down for a moment, face frozen in rictus; then all his muscles relax and he manages a smile. “Just in time,” he says, faintly. “I can always count on you to milk situations for every ounce of drama.”

WEEVIL

Sparing a glance for Echolls, who doesn’t look so hot after fleeing Pinkzilla, Weevil runs his palms over his shaved head, breathing out stress. His hopeful musings about this weird-ass night maybe being over are interrupted by Veronica’s friend Cindy, who sidles up beside him.

“Not to pry,” she says, prying, “but how on Earth did you show up in the nick of time with Wallace, driving a police car?”

Oh right, Weevil thinks. Keith. So much for even half an hour of sleep in his own bed. And he can’t call Hector to open the shop, because there’s no freaking cell service.

As if on cue, his phone rings. Mac lifts a brow as he removes it from his pocket and reads ‘unknown’ on the caller ID. “It’s Clayton’s vehicle,” he tells her, pressing ‘accept’. “I dropped him at the Pro Med on the way through town--I’ll explain in a minute.”

“MAN, the mobile reception here is weird.” Cindy shakes her head, looking as disgusted as Weevil feels. Across the line a male voice calls, “Hello?”

“Navarro,” Weevil says, curt, and the guy says, “Oh, thank God. I was beginning to think I’d never reach anyone but Casablancas. And no offense, but that guy sounded WAY too high to help much.”

“If you think I’ll be offended by someone ragging on Casablancas, you don’t know me very well.” Weevil walks away from the ongoing tearful reunion so he can hear better. “Who is this, and how’d you get my number?”

“It’s Leo D’Amato.” The voice pauses to cough. “I’m looking for Veronica Mars, you seen her?”

“Yeah, she’s here.” Weevil relaxes—he knows this cop’s a friend of V’s. “But now’s not a good time. She just gave the antidote to her pink friend, and it’s having some weird-ass side effects.”

“The ANTIDOTE? She FOUND it? Navarro, that needs to get to the CDC, like yesterday! At last count thirteen pink individuals have been captured all over the city, after wreaking havoc to confuse the news crews. If we don’t provide a remedy soon, those men are going to die.”

“Yeah, that was never gonna happen before Fennel got a dose.” Weevil smirks. “Guy’s eyeballs were pink, and you know V takes care of her people first.”

“Fine, whatever. Just make sure she saves some for testing; the government scientists can reverse-engineer it. Look, here’s the main reason I called—you guys aren’t anywhere near the Van Vliet winery, right?”

“We’re standing in the middle of it,” Weevil says. “Strange shit’s been going down here all day. Piznarski’s running around hot pink in his underwear. And your dirty detective pal has you would not BELIEVE how complicated a plot going with Liam Fitpatrick, this drug dealer I know, and my high school English teacher.”

“Explain all that to me later,” Leo says. “When I’m not hopped up on morphine and can figure out what you mean. Right now I need to warn you--this plot you’re talking about goes way beyond drug dealing with a side of rosacea. Military officers keep turning up to grill me about secret armies and political rebellions, and one of them made a crack about going in hot. Which means someone’s thinking of dropping a bomb. On YOU. SOON.”

“Shit,” Weevil says, takes a step back like that will somehow protect him. Then promptly falls down a hole.

He lands on sand after a ten-foot drop, winded but mostly unhurt, gazing up at the night sky through a small, square opening. His phone, not so lucky, hits a rock, and shatters into a hundred sharp fragments.

“Mackenzie!” Weevil calls--pauses to cough, tries again. Hopes fervently he’s not catching a cold on top of everything else. “Echolls! Get over here, I found something!”

Silence for a minute, while he sits up with a groan. Then Echolls’ smug face appears in the rectangle of sky. “Looks like…you found a hole, man.”

Weevil extends a middle finger, pushing up to standing; Echolls slaps a previously-unnoticed ladder bolted to the rock. “Trap door,” he says, unnecessarily. “Can you climb?”

“Yeah, give me a minute.” Weevil spreads palms on knees and bends over, trying to get air back into his lungs. A stray moonbeam flashes across metal, making it shimmer, and he kneels to pick the shiny object up. It’s a tie clip, shaped like a pair of handcuffs.

“You recognize this?” He passes the clip to Echolls, then slowly, painfully, returns to the yard. “Looks familiar, but I’m not sure from where.”

“Yeah, Keith.” Echolls sits to study the thing, rubbing a thumb along the crease between his eyes. He glances apprehensively at Veronica, still by the car cooing over Fennel. “It’s…Mr. Mars. Was wearing it tonight.” Spreading a palm over his face, he shakes his head, as if trying to clear it.

Mackenzie approaches to touch Echolls’ shoulder. “You OK?” she asks, concerned. “Did Piz clobber you?” She inspects his scalp for lumps, then extends a hand, palm out. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Mac, I’m just tired,” Echolls says. Weevil sighs, because he’s the one who fell down a fucking hole.

But he’s not a whiny two-year-old, so, “Mars!” he calls, instead of complaining. Her head bobs up over the cop car, like a prairie dog on some nature show. “We got a situation!”

Veronica helps Wallace gently out and offers a shoulder. The guy admittedly seems better, coherent and moving on his own, despite rocking the Jolly Green Not-So-Giant look. “What’s wrong?” she asks, with a concerned frown at Logan, when she gets close enough to talk.

In answer, Echolls holds up the tie tack; V sets Fennel on the grass to examine it. “This is Dad’s.” She looks between them for confirmation. “He was wearing it earlier. Where did you find this?”

Weevil points to the hole, and Veronica lies beside it, peering down. “Do you hear CHANTING?” she calls, girly voice audible despite the wind. The rest of them move closer, and yeah.

“So I guess we follow the creepy underground cult sounds?” Weevil asks, resigned. Veronica gives him the you-get-a-gold-star smile he learned to dread in eleventh grade. “Can Fennel even hike?”

“Somebody should take him to a hospital,” Veronica decides. “Mac, you game? You’re most able to explain his symptoms from a scientific perspective, and I’m sure the CDC doctors will have questions.”

“Of course.” Cindy holds out her hand for the car keys, which Weevil slaps into her palm. “You want me to surrender the antidote formula?”

“Yes,” Veronica says. “But first…” she takes the slip back, pulls out her phone, and quickly photographs both sides. “Insurance,” she says with a grin, returning it. “In case they have trouble distributing medicine to anyone in need. Oh, and after Wallace is squared away, call Bob Dillen at the San Diego PD and tell him everything. He’ll make sure nothing important gets swept under the rug.”

Veronica and her friend hug goodbye; Echolls sits on the ground staring at the tie tack while Weevil helps Fennel back to the car. Seems like V’s BFF is fading, exhausted by his ordeal--but he still grabs Weevil’s arm as soon as he’s buckled in.

“Thanks, man,” Fennel says, flashing a tired green smile. “For working so hard to save me, I really owe you one. And thanks for sticking around to look after these characters, too.”

“No problem, man, just get better.” Weevil pats the hood. “And less like a glow-stick at some rich kid’s party, this right here is not a good look for you.”

“Beats being dead,” Wallace says, and Weevil smiles and shuts the door. Veronica waves as Cindy drives away.

They descend into the tunnel, Weevil first (of course), Echolls shambling along ten feet back; Weevil wonders, watching him, if another trip to Pro Med’s in the cards. V has a hard time with the ladder, her hand doesn’t want to grip. She keeps flexing her fingers and frowning as they traverse the sandy dimness.

“You all right?” Weevil asks. V glances up at him with a faint smile.

“I landed weird when I fell this afternoon. My whole arm was numb for a while, then seemed better—maybe adrenaline masked the pain.” She waves off personal injury, activating the flashlight on her phone. “Doesn’t matter. Breitski’s got Dad’s down here somewhere--job one is to find him.”

“Dick’s on the premises, too,” Echolls contributes from behind. “And my stalker, whatshername, Jetson, and…Piz.”

“Oh yeah,” Veronica says, unenthusiastically. “Those guys. Sure, we can save them as well, if the opportunity presents.”

“Whatever we’re planning, we need to do it soon.” Weevil frowns as the chanting grows louder. “D’Amato called right before I smashed my phone, said the military’s gonna drop bombs.”

“Great.” Echolls emits a choked half-laugh. “Shock and awe. My karma.”

“Man, what did Piznarski DO to you?” Weevil demands, turning back to watch the guy stagger. “Usually your conversation’s all five-dollar words, and you won’t ever fucking shut up.”

“I’m fine,” Echolls says, stubbornly, and manages a reassuring smile. “Gotta find Dad, can’t…get lit up. Then X-rays.”

Veronica frowns, laying a palm against his cheek; but takes him at his word, because they’re both drama queens with hard-ons for saving humanity. Weevil shakes his head, checks his watch, and points at the door through which chanting filters.

He tries the handle--it’s unlocked, so he cracks it and peeks through. Echolls and V line up above and below so they can see, and softly, Veronica gasps.

Inside a big-ass cave, done up like a Broadway theater, a hundred pink idiots mill, dressed in street clothes, bumping each other and yelling. A video screen on the wall is playing loops--a pink Nice Guy shoves a leather-clad douche off a pretty girl, who then melts into Pinkie’s arms.

That senator’s son who framed Echolls for murder lounges in a throne center-stage, surrounded on three sides by soldiers-for-hire. He’s desultorily leading the Pinks in a chant of, “What do we want? Revenge! When do we want it? Now!” between sips of Topo Chico.

And handcuffed to a bench, stage left, are Dick, Ruby and a groggy-looking Keith Mars.

DICK

Richard Casablancas, Esquire is way glad, at this point, he’s high as fuck. Because watching LUKE, of all people, turn out to be the brains behind a zombie superhero rebellion is…really pretty hilarious, when he thinks about it.

To Dick’s left, Keith Mars is finally starting to rise and shine. Which takes a load off, because Ron Ron would ruin anyone who let the guy die. “Wha…?” the slightly-less-tiny detective manages, trying to make it upright. “Where?”

“Take it easy, man.” Dick uses his shoulder to lever Daddy Mars upright. “I think Breitski whomped you good. You’ve got a knot on your temple the size of an egg.”

“Where am I?” Keith asks, sinking against the wall for support. “And what on Earth is…all this?”

“You’re in the catacombs,” Ruby buts in, on top of the sitch as usual. “Under the Van Vliet winery. I’m Ruby Jetson, by the way, Mr. Mars. You’ve probably heard of me?”

Keith frowns, clearly at a loss, and Dick explains, “Dude, she’s on our side, no worries. And as for ‘all this’…looks like a motivational meeting to rouse the idiot brigade?”

Luke abandons the chant, because none of the zombies are listening, and beckons one of the mercs. “They’re as riled up as they’re getting,” he says, draining his Topo Chico. Snaps for someone to fetch him another. “Get ‘em on a bus, drop ‘em off all over the city, let them wreck as much infrastructure as possible. And try to monitor their…activities during the trip. Last time we had to hose the seats down.”

The guy salutes, activates another flashing-light-klaxon, and rounds up a couple buddies to herd out the Hulks. The dumbasses moan, punch and protest—one tries to grab and hump the girl in the video—but the soldiers have cattle prods to keep them in line.

“Your evil plan will never work!” Ruby calls out, movie-bravely, and Luke spares her a bored look.

“Are you talking about them?” He accepts a fresh sparkling water and gestures with it at the Pink Horde. “What do you take me for? They couldn’t execute a plan if you drew it out in crayon. They’re just meant to tie up police resources--and confuse the public--while our REAL operation goes down.”

“Which is what?” Keith asks, seemingly calm. But Dick, who’s been interrogated by the guy more than once during Keith’s Sheriff days and Dick’s vandalism ones, recognizes his sneaky cop face. “World domination? Why is it always world domination with you guys?”

“Not the WORLD,” Luke says, impatient. “Just the nice part of California, from Neptune to Malibu. Our non-pink militia is poised to take over, during the chaos caused by those morons.”

“But dude,” Dick protests. “Why work so hard? You’re already rich as fuck, your dad’s a politician—you framed Logan for murder, plus threw Susan off a boat, and all you got was PROBATION.”

“Duh,” Luke says. “Would YOU want to report to some mouth-breather every week for a year? I’m sick of being told what to do! First my dad forbids me to come out, then that douchecanoe Cobb makes me pretend to be his friend, and THEN the cops get all up in my face, sending me to rehab for six MONTHS. All because stupid Carrie Bishop had to sing about my every tiny mistake, for catharsis or whatever.”

“Hey!” Ruby yells, struggling to get loose like she’s overcome with fury. “Carrie was a goddess! You take that back!”

“Whatever, wannabe.” Luke favors her with a dismissive look. “Anyway, a lot of us missed the old days when Van Lowe and the Lambs were Sheriffs, and we did what we wanted, and no one cared. So we figured, the whole country’s expecting Calexit anyway--why not oblige? Create our own little utopian kingdom, where nobody can tell us no. Sean, admittedly, got carried away with his Gods Among Men delusions of grandeur; but you know how cokeheads freak when their artistic travesties fail. Have you seen Sean around this evening, by the way? He’s been missing since last night, and he was supposed to run this meeting so I wouldn’t have to. He lives for the Dr. Wayne Dyer shit.”

“Yeah, he’s at the bottom of your service-road Pungi pit with a broken leg,” Dick says. “And some dead body named Andy to keep him company. Ruby gave him Kleenex, though, to wipe away his tears.”

Ruby snickers beside him; Dick smiles, ‘cause it feels good to make her laugh.

“Damn it!” Luke throws up his hands. “WHY is good help so hard to find?”

A yelling uproar begins as Veronica, Logan and Weevil burst in from the hallway--Dick grins, because about fucking time. “Ronniekins!” he calls, even though he knows she can’t hear. “You came to save me!”

“Veronica Mars,” Luke says with disgust, draining his Topo Chico and tossing it aside. “Always showing up to kill my buzz. Go take care of them for me, will you boys? We’re on a tight schedule of California-conquering, we don’t need Miss Nosy butting in.”

The mercs file down to fight, only Wei remaining behind, presumably as Luke’s bodyguard. Logan and Weevil, neither of whom frankly looks so hot, go back to back and raise fists; Veronica, who seems fine despite that memory-loss business, comes running towards the stage. She’s waving a gun…and granted, Dick’s still kinda high, but they can’t make pistols out of solid gold, can they?

“Get away from my father, Luke!” she yells, aiming; that little Ronnie face Dick privately considers chipmunk-ish is screwed up into a scowl. Wei doesn’t bother to take her weapon—probably he knows as well as everyone Veronica won’t shoot. Luke, safely shielded, stifles a snicker.

“Come on, guys, Star Wars reference!” He points at Veronica, then himself. “God, you’re a bunch of buzzkills. It’s like you’re not even grateful I’m changing the world for your BENEFIT!”

“Maybe Dick would rather live in the REAL world…with people who are actually his friends,” Ruby says defiantly, and laughter distracts Wei and Luke long enough for Veronica to toss Dick a handcuff key. He can’t catch it, because, well, handcuffs; but he puts his foot over it on the floor and winks.

“Friends like you?” Luke asks. “Or Veronica? Whatever, Veronica Mars CONSTANTLY oppresses Dick and me both. And it’s not like she doesn’t want the status that comes with being elite. I mean, she hitched her wagon to Logan fucking Echolls. That guy used to be our KING.”

Everybody turns for a minute to look at Logan, who’s mid-room fighting like a BOSS, throwing super-mercs around as if they’re Cabbage Patch dolls. Ruby fans herself, muttering, “HUBBA, HUBBA!” Veronica gets so distracted LUKE kicks her gun out of her hand.

Keith falls on the floor during the chaos, faking unconsciousness, but secretly whacking Dick in the ankle to attract his attention. Obligingly, Dick moves his foot. Keith grabs the key, and gets to work on his handcuffs.

“If I wasn’t so appalled, I’d be impressed,” Veronica bluffs, glaring at Luke and gauging the distance to the fallen gun. “Who knew you had a scheme like this in you?”

Breitski picks up Keith and sets him back on the bench; studies the fight mid-room, frowning, as he tosses the gun backstage, then reluctantly wades into the fray. Luke says, “Hey, I’m just tired of being kept down by the Man. If people would let me do what I want with no CONSEQUENCES, I would never have had to get nasty.”

Handcuffs undone, Keith covertly passes the key to Ruby, and chimes in to distract their captors’ attention. “I think you might want to brush up on your Bill of Rights, Haldemann,” he says. “You seem to be laboring under some misconceptions.”

“Yeah, well soon I’m not going to be laboring at ALL.” Luke cracks up over his own joke, then dives for the gun a half-second after Veronica does. They begin tussling on the floor for possession; Keith wades in to help, and Ruby gets herself free, then uses the key to unlock Dick.

Dick grabs his sort-of girl, plants one on her, says, “My hero!” while she blushes and shoves him (but not like she means it). Then he yells, “DUDE, I’M COMING!” and takes a running leap, stage-diving into the fray.

The fight’s down to six mercs versus the Three Amigos; Navarro’s getting the shit beat out of him, which Dick finds weird. It’s not like these guys are especially tough. Dick’s grabbing and throwing them like it’s a Matrix video game, and Logan’s a freaking machine. Super-soldier shmuper-soldier, he thinks, kicking one jackoff sideways across the room. They’re no match for the Wonder Pot. Dick just needs to figure out how to grow the stuff from scratch, then he’s gonna make millions.

“Dude, military training is seriously underrated!” he shouts at Logan, who grunts in response. His pal knocks two bad guys together just as Navarro goes flying, landing against the stage with a thud. Dick blocks a hammer punch by stupid Breitski, kicks the douchebag in the nards, and says, “Yeah, that hurts, doesn’t it?” when the guy stays down for a minute, writhing.

He forgets what he’s doing for a second—apparently he IS still baked--then cackles and punches some asshole in the neck. Navarro shakes it off and forges back into the fray. “It’s like this is all going in slow motion!” Dick yells with glee, spinning in a circle and striking a karate pose. “Super Weed is so cool! I know kung fu!”

“Man, how much dope did you SMOKE?” Navarro asks, barely dodging a blow that would have broken his nose for sure. “And why do you smell like piss?”

“Long story.” Dick waves it off. Then gapes as Logan grabs one of the two mercs still standing, swings him around over his head by one arm, and throws him all the way across the fucking room. “Holy shit, dude, someone ate his Wheaties this morning! Did you SEE that, Weevs? Even all sunburned and exhausted and shit, he is kicking ASS!”

“He’s sunburned?” Navarro demands, grabbing up an empty shoe and slamming it into Breitski’s face. “You’re practically scalded, even your eyes are fucking….oh SHIT! Shit, Casablancas, man, did you and Echolls touch the pink goo?”

Dick thinks back as he grabs Breiski and throws him onto the stage, where he slides halfway under the big, red curtain. “Well, Rubster said not to, while they were giving Wallace a bath. And Piz just chased me around and tried to hand me flowers…oh crap! Logan and I carried Wallace inside the house, after I kinda-sorta ran him over, and we didn’t wash off! We’re fucking PINKIFYING!”

Logan lets out a roar, snarling as he waits for the next threat to come at him. Dick glances around, observes that all the nearby mercs look unconscious, and pulls the half-smoked joint out of his pocket. “Don’t worry, dude, I’ve got this. I just need to spark up and blow some in Logan’s face. This pot must work, like, synergistically with the pink to make people extra-smart; because every time I’ve gotten high all afternoon, I turn into, like, this super-efficient genius.”

Weevil manages a skeptical look with his swollen face; but Dick, undeterred, sticks to his plan. Logan tries to attack him when he ventures close—man the guy really does look as grapefruit-colored as Piz—but Dick just says, “No, dude, trust me.” Then grabs his arm, and blows the biggest drag he can right up Logan’s nostrils.

“Help!” Veronica yells from the stage, and Weevil goes sprinting off her direction--but Dick’s got his hands full, so he doesn’t bother to look. He feeds Logan another hit, which brings enough of his friend’s mind back to bat weakly at the smoke and go, “No, Navy….trouble…BREITSKI!”

Then he shoves Dick down and aims a punch over his head, right into that pain-in-the-ass rogue cop’s face.

Rolling his eyes at Wei’s deck shoes with no socks, Dick trips the guy and stands to feed the last hit to his friend, because that’s the kind of sharing bros do. Logan coughs, says, “I can’t believe this is helping,” then kicks Breitski for good measure. “You need to resign yourself…jail,” he adds, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s two against one, and we’re all on the same drugs.”

“Ah, but I believe in the righteousness of my cause.” Wei grabs Logan’s foot and tries to yank him down—but Logan does some jump-over-the-leg martial-arts thing and plants a foot in the guy’s head because he’s just. that. awesome.

“Impressive,” Breitski admits, shaking off the blow. “I could use fighters like you two. And frankly, I’ve never understood why you’d both thwart us rather than join us. Aren’t you as sick of lawyer fees and taxes as I am? Superior officers threatening to court-martial, parents causing trouble even from jail, and never enough time to REALLY surf?”

He backs off and begins to circle, somehow under the impression they have time to listen to words. “Help us establish our kingdom, and all that’s behind you. The wannabe’s dumb enough to sign up for Pink Formula take the fall. And you know the serving class will fall in line, because things won’t be so different, really, from the way they are now. You could be kings again, just like you were in high school. You’ll never face another murder charge as long as you live.”

“Wow.” Logan tilts his head to loosen his neck, bones cracking. The smirk on his face clues Dick in that whatever comes next will be sweet. “Ten years ago, right after Veronica left, that line might have held faint appeal. But I’ve cleaned up my act, since, and learned something your desperate-to-be-Bodie-Chang ass won’t—rules and social accountability are GOOD.”

“Whoo, political arguments from the Log-meister! The Wonder Pot is wor-KANG!” Dick claps as Logan lays his right hook on Brietski, a really epic one, like a sledgehammer. The guy goes flying backwards and lands on his knees, flush to the edge of the stage. Rushing forwards, grinning (because no matter how spit-shined he gets, Logan’s always gonna love a good fight) he cocks a fist to annihilate. But before he can, Veronica appears from behind the curtain, and administers a whack to the poor bastard’s head with the butt of her golden gun.

Breitski goes down with a smear of gold to his temple, eyes rolling back. “And that,” she tells his unconscious form, with satisfaction, “is what you get when you mess with the bull. Or the bull’s impressively ethical boyfriend, as the case may be.”

“Ronniekins!” Dick crows, as Logan leaps onto the stage to lift and embrace her. “Is that gun, like, made of titanium? Because nobody’s disputing you have balls, babes, but this asshole’s super-soldier strong.”

Veronica holds out a palm, which is bright pink; pushes up her sleeve to reveal creepy-ass pink tendrils stretching up her arm. “I held hands with Logan,” she says, favoring her biggest admirer with a worried glance. “So temporarily, I am, too.”

Dick glances up at the stage, where Haldemann lies hogtied with the curtain rope, under the watch of Keith Mars and his handgun. Navarro slumps, panting, on the bench. Around the room, a sea of out-of-it super mercs lie groaning, but…Dick frowns. “Where’s Rubes?” he asks, patting his pocket and wishing he had just one more joint. “I ran off to help fight, and when I looked up, she was gone.”

Veronica ignores him, naturally, busy administering antidote to Logan and herself. Just as Dick’s about to remind her he could use that shit too, the door at the far end of the room slams open. A Special Forces squad storms in, late as usual because fucking military red tape.

Dick knows the drill so he just lies on his face with his hands behind his head. Wonders if his lawyer’s even awake yet.

A small boot nudges him, after a moment. A voice from above says, “You can get up now. We’re only arresting the actual criminals.”

He rolls over, and there, looming, is Ruby, decked out in a flak vest and helmet over the Lara Croft gear, carrying a freaking automatic. She extends a hand to help; he stands and gestures up and down at her outfit. “What’s this all about? Where did you GO?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she says, with a faint smirk, and he actually can’t tell if she’s kidding. She pats his chest. “But let me remind you, I DID hint from the start I had a part to play.”

Going up on tiptoe, she kisses Dick’s cheek, then wanders off to confer with what looks like the squad’s leader. She looks scarily at home holding a gun. Dick files the moment away for the spank bank, since it’s clear, now, she’s too badass to date him.

Logan moves up beside him, sweaty and starting to show bruises—though it’s pretty hard to tell how big they are, since the poor bastard’s currently bright green. “Was that Ruby JETSON?” he asks, running a hand through his short Navy hair. “I thought her leg was broken!”

Dick shrugs and mutters, “Women.” He figures that pretty much says it all.

VERONICA

A half hour of general chaos follows, during which super-soldiers are cuffed and hauled to quarantine, and Luke is led away in chains; her friends are herded up to the surface for individual debriefs, while the catacombs are quartered and searched. Veronica answers a tired commando’s questions to the best of her ability. Watches Logan joke, out of the corner of her eye, with a couple of armored guys who seem to know him.

When her story’s told she searches the crowd for Weevil, last spotted in an ambulance receiving first aid; she still has no clue what he was doing here, and curiosity’s her besetting sin. The ambulance hasn’t moved—Sean Friedrich, attached to a stretcher, is being loaded into it--but Weevil’s long gone. Probably he headed back to Neptune, away from all the authority figures with guns. V decides to stop by his shop on Monday. She needs help with a few more cases, and he’ll be easier to grill if she gets him alone.

Veronica DOES find Dick, sprawled morosely on the lawn with his back to a tree, a woman’s purse and grocery bag beside him. He’s still lobster-pink, in startling contrast to his yellow hair. Glancing around covertly to make sure they’re unobserved, she hisses to attract his attention, and administers a drop of antidote.

“Aw, I KNEW you cared.” Dick tilts his head back, letting the violent trembling that seems to be a side effect overtake him. Watches, amused, as she re-pockets the still-half-full vial. “Not planning to give that up to the brass?”

“Do YOU trust our government to use powerful drugs for the good of humanity?” She sits beside him. “I told them we drank it all. Besides, they’ve got the formula, if they really want to save people. If not—if some kind of cover-up takes place—I want as much proof as possible squirreled away, so I can create a counter-narrative.”

“You’ll need this, then.” Dick hands over the woman’s bag; Veronica frowns, because it looks just like hers from college. “It’s Ruby’s,” Dick explains, maybe reading her expression. “She disappeared and left it behind. Her cell’s dead, but there’s a video in ‘photos’ of Lydia, Sean and Jeff confessing to crimes.”

“Nice!” Veronica fishes out the heavily-bedazzled phone and pockets it. “Way to be a player on the noble team for a change.”

The commandos begin loading up their transports; the guy in charge approaches, followed by Logan leading Dad (who’s got a bandage around his head, but looks a lot more chipper). “Ms. Mars, Mr. Casablancas,” the officer greets them, admirably avoiding comment on their general greenness. “Is your vehicle on the lawn over there operational?”

Dick shrugs and looks to Veronica, who nods. Logan says, “I’ve got the keys, I’ll check,” and crosses to the SUV. A moment later, the engine revs, and he returns with a thumbs-up.

“Excellent,” Guy in Charge says. “What we need you to do is remove it from the premises immediately. Unofficially, this place will look like the surface of the moon in about half an hour, and we don’t want any debris found that point to your presence. As for the serum you absorbed through the skin--medic says you all seem healthy. But we’d like you to avoid contact with civilians for the night, just in case. If you report to the base in Coronado you’ll be given temporary rooms, and a full repeat eval in the morning. Maybe the docs can help with the…staining issue.” He glances over at Logan, just barely represses a snicker, and adds, “Good thing Echolls already has a girlfriend.”

Logan offers him a bland, yet still somehow sarcastic, return smile, and the guy grins. Shouts, “Move your asses, we’re Oscar Mike!” and climbs into the nearest vehicle. The military convoy moves slowly down the service road…accompanied, faintly, by the sound of some jackass singing “It Ain’t Easy Being Green.”

“Hoo-kay.” Logan dusts his hands together in a good-riddance gesture. “Anybody want to enjoy a re-enactment of my basic training days, insufficient-sleep version? Sounds like they have some uncomfortable cots and scratchy blankets with our names on them, waiting.”

“I’m doing concussion watch, so I’ll be in the sick bay,” Dad says, with a wry smile. “But I’d love a chance to lie down. It’s not every day an old guy like me helps his daughter wrestle evil masterminds.”

“Need a hand climbing up?” Logan asks. Dad waves him off and gets in alone. Logan takes the opportunity to grab Veronica and kiss her senseless, the sweet-but-promising-scorching variety that always gets her going. She sighs, happily, twining her arms around his neck…surprisingly unfazed that he DOES look vaguely Kermit-y.

Dick snorts disdain. Removes a blonde wig from the bag, which he slaps on his head, muttering, “Oh, Logan, do me, you’re so MANLY!” Reaches back in to locate an old wine bottle, which he uncorks and toasts them with in one economical motion. Lifts it to his mouth, sniffs…then tosses it away, repulsed.

“Pink goo,” he explains, examining his hand to make sure nothing got on him. “Maybe some of that super-old wine zombie-formula-ified when it spoiled? Lydia could have figured out her crackpot idea from there.”

Logan laughs, bends his head for another kiss. Which is when Piz comes rushing out of the woods, screaming, “RONKAAAAAA!” and tackles Dick sideways.

Veronica digs for her taser, before remembering she gave it to Mac; Keith calls, “What’s happening?” from the passenger seat, and attempts to get down. Logan runs straight towards the altercation (of course), but trips on a tree root. Piz begins humping a startled Dick with a fervency that’s truly disturbing.

“Dude, get OFF,” Dick shouts, an unfortunate choice of words, and fumbles for the purse beside him. Manages to remove a can of air before any of the rest of them can find a weapon, and sprays it directly into Piz’s eyes.

Captain Pinkness shrieks and scuttles back, and Dick follows, whacking him with a hammer. “Give it up, man!” he yells, striking Piz’s shoulder with a meaty crunch. “Veronica is NEVER going to date a guy who acts so needy!”

“YOU NOT LOVE LOGAN LIKE YOU LOVE MEEEE!” Piz screeches in response, deterred from romance by the viciously swinging hammer. He stares, panting, for a moment, angry longing of a thousand thwarted Nice Guys in his eyes; then turns and runs, past the barn and off into the distance, almost too fast to track.

He’s just reached the line of foliage near the cell tower when the first bomb hits. Both the fake tree and NPR’s Greatest Millennial Hope are abruptly reduced to a plume of white ash.

Veronica winces. Logan shouts, “We need to MOVE!” grabs her hand, and races for the car, Dick on their heels. They pile in. Executing the kind of tidy three-sixty only a jet pilot could, Logan guns it down the service road at top speed, the approaching apocalypse literally at their heels.

Bombs are going off in the rearview by the time they make it onto the highway--Veronica winces as incandescent flashes and sonic booms wipe the Van Vliet Experiment from existence. Sighs, as they gain distance and the noise fades, slumping back into her seat.

“Hey guys?” she asks, not opening her eyes. “Thanks for riding to the rescue when I didn’t make it home.”

“Protecting Veronica Mars is job one,” Logan says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “If you went and made it easy on us, life would be no fun.”

“Well in that case…” she says. “I won’t bother fake-promising never to do it again.”

“You gotta be you.” Dick elbows her from his position sprawled against the window. “Come on, let’s get to that base, see what they can do about this whole turning-green problem. Maybe Rubester will show up dressed like a naughty nurse and administer the treatment.”

“Ew,” Veronica says, but not with any heat. She stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankle. Drifts off as they speed down the road, the receding sound of explosions like a lullaby.

THE END

This concludes our VMHQ Round Robin / Campfire Tale story. We hope you all enjoyed this collaborative fic as much as we did. Many thanks to all the wonderful writers who participated, and all the wonderful readers who commented and reblogged the story posts.

Next up at VMHQ is our Holiday Fic Grab Bag challenge, which will post on Christmas Eve! Submit your prompts to our Ask Box now, and maybe your favorite writer will be inspired!

#vmhq campfire tale #vmhq round robin #vm fanfic #veronica mars #vmhq

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fighttowinfanfic · 8 years

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Fight to Win: Dave’s Cut - Bowser Jr. Vs Joffrey Baratheon

HELLO, 2017! And welcome to Dave’s Cut, where we just don’t have time for research or analysis! To ring in this young, new year, it’s a battle between young, fresh villains! The wicked Koopa Prince Bowser Jr. is to match wits with the Westeros’ teenaged tyrant, Joffrey Baratheon.

((Cue: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bf7yYuH9D3U ))

Joffrey anxiously watched the crowds mingle. When was the damn pie going to be served already? He was tiring of opening Nameday presents. A bunch of lousy toys and trinkets...but one rather impressive sword, he had to admit. He couldn’t wait for SOMEONE to just step out of line already, so he could execute them and make his mother proud with his new sword. In between a few hearty, ale fueled laughs, the gate to the courtyard shook. The entire crowd, Joffrey included, turned to the gates, which burst open. The Lannister family gasped and pointed to the strange monsters that filled inside. “Bring me everything they’ve got!” Bringing up the rear of the crowd of creatures that looked like turtles and mushrooms with faces was another shelled, dragon like being. The prince of Mushroom Kingdom monsters, Bowser Jr., coasted inside the festival, hovering in his prized Koopa Clown Car. “I need some more toys, and this kingdom has gotta have some good ones!” Joffrey stood up from his extravagant chair, stomping his foot. “Who DARES interrupt the celebration of my Nameday?!” “Name...day…?” Bowser Jr. looked over the wooden animals that laid in a pile by Joffrey’s thrones; the gifts that were hand carved day and night to perfection for the young king. “Your toys look lame…” Bowser Jr. rolled his eyes. “But I’ll take ‘em anyway.” Joffrey aggressively gripped his favorite crossbow. He’d have this strange beast cooked for his Nameday feast. FIGHT! Joffrey didn’t hesitate to pull back one of his arrows in his crossbow, flinging several in Bowser Jr.’s direction, one after another. The arrows raced into Bowser Jr.’s clown car, but each bounced off the vehicle’s metal hull, sending the wooden arrows hurdling to the ground. “I see your puny, little arrows, and raise you THIS!” Bowser Jr. pulled a lever in his vehicle, sending forward a massive, lead cannon ball at Joffrey, who leaped off of his throne stand with a slight yelp. Joffrey landed safely beside his seat, although his chair was broken to pieces by the cannon ball. “That little shit!” Joffrey loaded another arrow into his crossbow while he took cover behind the stand, while Bowser Jr. threw various cannonballs and hammers to terrorize the crowd for his amusement. Joffrey rose from his place, pointing his weapon at his foe. “DIE, BEAST!” Joffrey screeched, alerting Bowser Jr., who turned back around. “Still wanna play, huh?” Jr. giggled. Before Joffrey could fire his next arrow, the mouth of his Koopa Clown Car opened up, releasing a stream of fire. Joffrey jumped out of the way again, but felt his right arm burnt by the flames before he rolled over through the dirt. Joffrey squealed as the blazes stung and blistered his arm. A seething anger welled up inside Joffrey, who, despite the burning of his arm, lifted his crossbow up high. Joffrey pulled the trigger, sending the arrow at his foe. Bowser Jr. was sticking his tongue out at his unfortunate opponent, and doing so for a moment too long while Joffrey’s arrow plunged into the Koopa Clown Car’s open mouth. Bowser Jr. felt the arrow cause the gears inside his vehicle to stir and click to a stop. The Koopa Clown Car vibrated violently. Joffrey smiled as the machine his opponent piloted burst into flames and exploded, sending Bowser Jr. spinning through the air. “Target practice…” Joffrey mused as he loaded yet another arrow into his crossbow, pointing it at the soaring Koopa Prince as he fell. Joffrey, with careful aim, shot off another arrow, striking Bowser Jr. out of the air and sending him hurdling to the ground like a bird knocked out of the sky with a stone. In the dirt, Bowser Jr. wiped tears from my eyes. “You...broke my favorite clown car!” Joffrey picked up the sword he had just received for his Nameday, storming over to the knocked down dragon prince. “I sentence you to execution!” Joffrey yelled, surely loud enough for everyone to know and see how great and triumphant he was. Jr. looked up at the diminutive King, and in a panic, retreated inside of his own spiked shell. Joffrey lifted the heavy sword (with some effort) above his head. “Come out, COWARD!” Joffrey brought his sword down on the Koopa’s hard shell, before lifting it once more. “I said come OUT!” He slammed his sword down again, prompting no response from Jr., and sending a vibration down the length of his sword. “That is an ORDER!” Another strike, and no response. “I am the KING!” Joffrey lifted his sword as high as his scrawny arms could, and with every bit of strength he could muster brought it crashing down on Bowser Jr.’s shell...and afterwards, felt a burden on his arms relieved. His sword broke into two different pieces against the monster’s tough shell. Joffrey’s jaw dropped as he watched the silver blade fall into the ground, leaving only the golden hilt in his grasp. The young King was paralyzed by the development, before he heard a precocious chuckling echo from within Bowser Jr.’s shell. A flare of raging fire shot from the the hole in Jr.’s shell from which his head extended. Joffrey’s face was coated in the hot flames. The young King screamed in anguish as his skin melted from his face, buckling backwards. Bowser Jr. reemerged from his shell, this time, brandishing a small hammer. “HAHA! I win!” Bowser Jr. leapt at the screaming Joffrey, and with a single swing of his mallet, shattered what remained of King Joffrey’s head into a bloody pulp. KO The decapitated Joffrey fell, charred and bloodied, his crown rolling to the floor behind his body. Bowser Jr. picked it up himself before turning to his Koopa and Goomba subjects. “Now get all his toys!” Jr. dusted a bit of ash off the crown before he placed it atop his scaled head. “And tell my Dad that I need a new clown car!”

The winner is...Bowser Jr.

What a way to kick off 2017! But hey...Tommy still needs to kick the year off himself, right? His first full length fight of the year is gonna be Gorilla Grodd Vs Winston! You can vote for who you think will win here!

http://fighttowinfanfic.tumblr.com/post/154813143046/gorilla-grodd-and-winston-go-ape-for-a-fight-to

#Fight To Win Fanfic #joffrey baratheon #bowser jr #game of thrones #super mario bros

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itsworn · 6 years

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1931 Ford Roadster Packs ARDUN V-8 Power

You could say that Bobby Hilton has reinvented the Model A Ford. His angry-looking A/V-8 coupes are seriously chopped and dropped, and they’re running vintage OHV V-8s (but not Chevys) with open headers. Hoods and fenders? Radials? Forget ’em. Big ’n’ little bias-plies, honey-finished interior wood, minimal chrome, and exceptional paint finish them off. Hilton’s hot rods ooze attitude. You can’t miss them—and they beg to be driven. Bobby and his clients think nothing of boogying from his shop in The Plains, Virginia, all the way to Austin for the Lonestar Round Up.

First time they did that, it rained like crazy, but all four of Hilton’s hoodless, fenderless coupes just hammered along. Nothing broke, and in Bobby’s words, “We flat had a ball, man.” An ex-drag racer whose wife Diane’s parents are famous drag racers Jim and Allison Lee, Bobby is down-home southern, through and through. His syrupy Virginia accent is sprinkled with jazz slang. He does most of the work on his cars himself, in a tiny shop that’s tucked away in a posh equestrian park. Don’t look for a fancy garage with matching tools. That’s not happening. Bobby has an artist’s keen eye for aesthetics, a drag racer’s can-do attitude, and the hands-on skills of a crew chief who knows how to do things right.

Bobby achieved national recognition when he built a chopped Model A coupe for Tony Lombardi of Ross Racing Engines, in Niles, Ohio. It was a Hilton-style car, for sure, but done with a bigger budget that permitted little more chrome and a lot better paint. Perched on Deuce ’rails, hoodless, and packing a 400-cid stroker Olds V-8 with a polished 4-71 blower, Lombardi’s Model A was selected as the Goodguys 2014 Hot Rod of the Year in Indianapolis.

“That whole Goodguys thing was the best,” Bobby grins. “And I had never even been to a Goodguys event before.”

Ask Bobby Hilton how he defines one of his cars and the answer is immediate. “It’s got to look pissed off.” His cars don’t have hoods. They don’t have fenders. The big V-8 motors are souped to the gills, and very nicely detailed. They’ve got that 4-1/4-inch chop and that sneaky little sunvisor. They are Model As with an attitude.

“Maybe I painted myself into that corner with these Model As,” Bobby admits, “but right now, I think it’s a good corner. I like them slammed in the front, man. They have flat front crossmembers. Put them down on the ground in the back, make the wheels follow the wheel. Put 7.50s, 4.50s on old steel wheels, get a nice rake going. They’ve got to have a vintage motor, and I like to keep real Ford parts on them. I try not to use a lot of aftermarket stuff in the suspension.”

Bobby’s a good mechanic because he had to be one from the outset. “I was raised at a time in drag racing where you were damn lucky if you had a professionally built chassis. Later on, Woody Gilmore built some cars for us. But I was working on race cars when I was 13. We did it all, man, from A to Z.” And he still does.

“We’ve been building those cowl steering boxes ourselves, in-house. That’s a big part of the look. They are F-100 truck boxes. We’re modifying the sectors on ’em and creating a center steer box, similar to a Schroeder setup, but more true to hot rods instead of being a racing box. Every one of my cars has one. I put a center steering setup in my son Tyler’s car 10 years ago. It’s not brain science. It’s got a lot of racing background in it. Plus, it makes it damn simple to get the steering around these vintage motors. Typically, they have the starter on that left side; they’ve got some big filter or something else going on. You wouldn’t be able to get a steering column in them if you wanted to.”

For a guy who’s admittedly not an engineer, Bobby is an intuitive technician with some ingenious solutions that don’t break the bank and work really well.

More builds and even more exposure followed the success at Goodguys. Bobby has a suite of 1932 Ford chassis modifications he likes. He uses original Ford parts wherever possible. Hilton’s “Angry A’s” are immediately recognizable with their fully exposed, 4-71 blown, OHV V-8 motors from Oldsmobile, Buick, Cadillac, and Chrysler, flowing outside headers using reworked 1936 Ford driveshafts, flattened X-members, kicked-up 1932 Ford frames, Buick finned brake drums, 5-inch handmade dropped axles, and TREMEC five-speeds. Hilton Hot Rods’ Model As sit right and run like crazy.

But they’ve all been coupes.

A couple of years ago, Bobby told me, “If I had my grand plan of the world, I’d want to put a roadster of mine in the AMBR. I don’t have to win. I just want to get in line. I’ve wanted to build an East Coast, channeled-style roadster, with Tony’s motor and Travis’ paint. We could build such a cool car, man. Maybe do like an old-style 303 0lds with a LaSalle transmission and a chrome banjo … something to really make it pop. That AMBR thing is due for an East Coast–style car anyhow.”

So here we are … with just a few things changed.

Bobby Hilton’s AMBR contender, owned by Ray Enos, Sacramento, California, is a 1930-1931 Model A roadster with a Brookville steel body on a seriously Z’d 1932 Ford frame. It started with elegant renderings by Eric Black (eBDCo) in Portland. But take a closer look. This car will fool you. The body has been treated to what Bobby calls an “anti-section,” meaning a 1-1/2-inch strip of steel has been discretely added all around the lower perimeter. So the body now has more depth, like a 1932 Ford, but it still retains that classic upright Model A tight shape and early style stance. The 18-inch wheels perfectly follow the rear wheelwell’s radius. Bobby calls it “a wannabe Deuce,” adding, “when you put a Model A body on 1932 ’rails, it looks squatty. We released it, kinda raised it up for a little more girth.” You know something’s been changed here, and you like the proportions, but just what’s different is not immediately apparent.

About that engine … it’s not an Olds Rocket as Bobby once imagined, it’s a Ross Racing Engines–built 294-cid (3.315×4.25 inches) ARDUN V-8. The block and ARDUN heads are from Don Ferguson, famous for his modern reinterpretation of the classic Zora ARkus-DUNtov overhead valve cylinder heads. Tony Lombardi finished the block externally and performed all the internal machine work. There are custom billet pistons and a custom flat-tappet camshaft. That super trick finned Scintilla magneto is from an airplane engine that’s been converted to HEI. “We left the fan off,” Bobby says, “so you can see it, but it doesn’t overheat anyway.”

There are no mufflers, not even tailpipes, and the sleek four-into-one headers exit just before the doors. “It’s a hot rod, man,” Bobby says, “you don’t need mufflers.” The ARDUN makes a deep throaty racket, and it sounds like a Bonneville racer.

The fuel injection system, with its eight individual housings and tall chromed stacks, was adapted from a 331-cid Chrysler Hemi mechanical setup, and meticulously converted to EFI with high-pressure injectors, to run electronically. There are no visible fuel rails or anything modern. All the ports are matched. Tony Lombardi says it dyno’d at 322 bhp and 340 lb-ft of torque. That’s impressive from a naturally aspirated “flathead.” The polished powerplant features a Centerforce clutch and it’s backed by a T5 TREMEC five-speed gearbox. An open driveline leads to a polished Winters quick-change rear with 1940 Ford axle bells. “That’s all Classic hot rod stuff,” Bobby adds. The front wires are 17-inch 1933-1934 Ford steel spoke wheels. The rears are 18-inch 1932 Ford wires, widened in the back, with 5.25s and 7.00s for a decent rubber rake.

Other mechanical niceties include a 5-inch handbuilt dropped axle, Model A crossmembers, a 1933-1934 Ford-like center X-member, 1935-1936 Ford trailing arms, a custom V’d spreader bar, Bobby’s own design cross steering, Schroeder-style, with a custom draglink, tubular shocks (“those old-style lever shocks are terrible for long drives,” Hilton says, and he knows from experience), and buggy springs with reversed eyes, front and rear. The framerails are kicked up in the rear and notched to clear the front spring. The hydraulic drum brakes are early Lincoln style by Brian Bass (Bass Kustom) in Dallas.

Rare old Arrow accessory headlights with a discrete fin are mounted on vintage stands. The rectangular taillights are 1948 Kaiser, just to stay period but be a little different. The aluminum instrument panel, by Hartman Machines and polished by Jeff Smith, is old style with eight custom gauges from Classic Instruments. The steering wheel is a thin, four-spoke item from a 1948 Ford COE truck. I’d never seen one of these wheels before but it fits this car’s theme to a T.

The classy interior, by Mike Lippincott, aka Mikey Seats, is handcrafted of dark contrasting leather and there’s a subtle divider that makes quasi-buckets out of the bench. Bobby fabricated the aluminum transmission cover. The bare floor has polished wood panels. The door panels sport old-style door pulls and polished inserts (again by Jeff Smith), all tastefully done to a very high level.

Acclaimed painter and pinstriper, Travis “Tuki” Hess (Kolor by Tuki) from Bucky’s Ltd., in Martinsburg, West Virginia, was responsible for that Hershey chocolate finish. It was painstakingly rubbed out over the Christmas holiday. I visited Tuki, he’s a consummate perfectionist, when the freshly painted body was in his spray booth and he was seriously pressed for time. “I was supposed to get this in September,” he muses, “but we’ll get ’er done,” and he did. Tuki and John Shank were responsible for the bodywork; everything is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. The finish is flawless and the gleaming milk chocolate hue, Porsche Cockney Brown, contrasted with ebony black wheels and painted running gear, and very little plating is beautifully understated, like the subtle pinstriping and outlining by Jennifer Thomas. “It’s a simplistic car,” Hilton says, “and we built it to stay within the budget.”

Like many AMBR projects, work continued at a frenetic pace, right to the end. The Model A body and 1932 chassis, wired and plumbed, was trailered to Ross Racing Engines, in Niles, Ohio, near Youngstown, where they were mated with the freshly dyno’d and tuned ARDUN. Last-minute details were all accomplished over four sleepless nights and days, and they loaded up in a snowstorm for the Banzai Run West. Driving straight to Pomona through a blizzard, alternating drivers, so each one got a little sleep, they made it to the judges’ preview, in the nick of time.

An exhausted but exhilarated Bobby Hilton says, “Our goal was to get there. I’ve never been to this show before and I’m excited to be here.” The owner, Ray Enos, saw the car for the first time at the show, he likes classy cars and this was everything he wanted. “He trusted us completely to build it … and he loves it.”

The 2019 AMBR competition was very tough, but the Hilton Model A was definitely a contender. Approving spectators flocked around the roadster all weekend, many of them recognizing that something was very different about the shape of this car, but they were unable to articulate just what that was. … Says Bobby, “This car’s a Model A that wants to be a 1932 roadster.”

On Sunday, the AMBR winner was George Poteet’s spectacular 1936 Ford roadster, built by Eric Peratt and his talented crew at Pinkee’s Rod Shop, in Windsor, Colorado. That didn’t phase the Hilton gang one bit.

“We wanted to learn the ropes,” Bobby said, and we’ll be back next year.” “This is a simplistic car and it speaks for itself. The first time I’d put the clutch in was when we drove up to the judges’ stand. I thought I was out of my mind to just drop everything and do this, but it was worth it. We met a lot of great people and we proved we can compete at this level.”

It’s worth the trip. SRM

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