Round Three: (13) Kitty Pimps v (18) Circus [Archive]

chumley

06-18-06, 04:39 PM

Chumley entered the entrance hall without knocking, apprehension darkening his usually jocund features. A grandfather clock ticked in the gloom. A faded carpet moldered on the floor. Cobwebs encased the chandelier hanging from the cracked ceiling above. A dead cat lay in the corner. Squinting to see through the murk, Chumley crossed the hallway toward the open door across from him, leaving tracks in the dust on the floor. Voiced wafted through the darkened doorframe, indistinct figures shifting in the shadows. The pachyderm knew not why he had been summoned to this collapsing mansion on a hill in the middle of Lornius, only that the invitation card had carried with it the unmistakable odor of garlic and old cheese, and been written by a left-handed person (the ink had been smeared). Those signs were enough to tell Chumley who lived here, as if the dead cat and dilapidation weren't enough: Italians.

"Hey-a Guido, a-fetcha me some mozzarella!" The tell-tale pidgin English made Chumley sure of who was through the door. He reached within his coat, but realized with a thrill of horror that he had brought nothing to ward them off, not even a bar of soap. "D--m them," Chumley thought to himself, sneaking into the back room, bringing his fists and trunk up into a defensive boxing stance. "Thank G-d they aren't Irish."

"Ahhhh, our guest-a, he has arrived! Ciao Chumley," A quivering voice rose over the sound of bubbling water and the foreign chatter of Italians. The elephant grimaced as the darkness into which he had descended suddenly disappeared in a flash and hiss of gas lamps. The sight surrounding him was almost too much to bear, and he had to recoil in horror. Three men sat in a corner, playing penuckle with a stack of half-dollar coins at their elbows. A wood stove topped with several boiling pots of pasta and marinara sauce simmered in the corner. A fat geezer lounged directly across from the door, sitting in an armchair, reading a catechism, his outstretched feet resting on a stack of Bibles. A skinny, lecherous looking adolescent leaned against the fireplace mantle, tearing off a piece of Old Glory to roll a cigarette. A mongrel was defecating on a picture of George Washington in the center of the room. And in the opposite corner from the cardsharps, sat the most fearsome sight of all.

"I knew I recognized that voice," Chumley snarled, pointing an accusatory trunk at the figure hunched behind a stack of usurious loan contracts. "How did you get here, Mama Mia?"

"Yesssssssss!" the old woman hissed, leaping up from the chair she had fashioned out of a child's skeleton. "It is I, Mama Mia, criminal mastermind extraordinaire and your old nemesis." She was dressed in a red jumpsuit, a double M insignia plastered on her chest, a mask surrounding her eyes like a racoon's facepaint. A purple cape draped from her shoulders to her black knee boots. She cackled and adjusted the white topknot on her head, shuffling her jiggling bulk out from behind the stack of bills used to gyp decent farmers out of their hard-earned money.

"If it weren't for you, we wouldn't need a silver standard," Chumley said, shaking his fist in anger. Mama Mia chuckled, her triple chins shaking.

"Nor would Tammany Hall be more expensive than our land purchase from the Russians!" Chumley's jaw dropped at this revelation, only driving Mama Mia to more ferocious laughter. "Yes, it was I who organized Boss Tweed's greatest accomplishment. I assure you, he and I are no match for your pitiful little band." Chumley took a step forward, his fists raised, and the Sicilians, Luccans and Venetians scattered around the room leapt to their feet, shivs and croquet mallets in their hands. Mama Mia ordered them down with a deft motion of her wrist.

"Why did you trick me into coming here?" Chumely asked through gritted tusks. "Doesn't me being here put your entire misbegotten venture in jeopardy?" Mama Mia shook her head, tittering with laughter that had no ceased since Chumley had recognized her.

"Oh, I think you'll find I have a few tricks left up my sleeve," and with a clap of her hands, the wall behind her exploded outward in a storm of plaster, brick and splintered wood. Chumely stepped backwards, coughing into one of his dozens of handkerchiefs, his eyes watering at the dust and mildew blasted into the air. It took a few minutes for the air to clear, showing what had caused the eruption. As the form standing in the jagged hole took shape, Mama Mia's laughter reached a terrible, Italian-accent tinged crescendo.

"By the clanging of Prometheus' Titan-forged chains," Chumley breathed. "It's... it's..."

"It is Mecha-Chumley!" Mama Mia responded, leaping from one foot to the other with excitement. And indeed, it was Mecha-Chumley. The machine took the form of the elephant, the boilerplate of its stomach bolted into its steel body, a series of wheels and pistons visible in the cracks of its arm and leg joints. Its top hat seemed to serve as a smokestack, spewing an acrid cloud, and a brass steam whistle poked out from behind one of its canvass ears. Instead of eyes, it had two telescopes, embedded deep in its head, that maneuvered independently of each other. The roar of a steam engine deep within its construction grumbled low and deep in Chumley's ears. Instead of tusks, it had two shining bayonets. And its trunk was a fearful mess of metal, wire and tubing, that moved slowly like a charmed snake, sniffing the air.

"This machine is now the ultimate power in the world," Mama Mia chortled, pointing a finger at Chumley, marking him for death. Although desperately fearful, the pachyderm merely shook his head and snorted.

"Don't be too proud of this technological terror you've created," he responded, wagging his trunk admonishingly. "The power to destroy me is insignificant compared to the power of the American spirit." Mama Mia didn't respond, but merely turned to Mecha-Chumley and nodded. With that, the machine sprung into action. A lasso shot out from one of the nostrils of its trunk, wrapping around Chumley, pinning his arms to his side. Shocked beyond movement, Chumley was dragged forward, nearly falling to the floor. When he came within swinging range of the machine, it lowered a fist and punched up quickly, catching the elephant on his chin and propelling him into the air. He blasted through the ceiling above, and then the next, only getting a brief glimpse of the bedroom he rocketed through before shooting into the attic. He lost momentum among the spare hatstands and chests-of-drawers, and fell back down, smashing through the attic floor and coming to a stop, with a thud, on the second floor. With a groan, he rolled over onto his hands and knees, pushing himself up and steadying himself. He could feel a dozen aches and pains spreading over his body.

"Sorry about taking off like that," Chumley cried down through the hole in the floor he had been blasted through. "I decided to drop back in!" Two explosions below and the sudden stench of gunpowder forced Chumley to duck for cover, leaping behind a standing mirror in the corner of the bedroom. He didn't hear the buzz of bullets or slap of shot against wood, however. Confused, he peaked out behind the mirror, but was horrified by what he saw. Mecha-Chumley was slowly rising through the hole in the floor, jets of flame shooting out the bottom of its feet.

"I purchased those from a Chinaman in San Francisco!" Mama Mia's voice could be heard below over the roar of the rockets. "Your wiseacre comments can't save you now, Rochfeltingham!" The machine's head swiveled toward Chumley, its telescopes extending toward him, zooming in on his face. With a cry of surprise, Chumley lifted the mirror and tried to throw it at his robotic twin. The glass shattered as it fell to the floor only a few feet from Chumley.

"I need to work on my throwing arm," he said, looking up from the ruin of the furniture to his opponent. The machine's jets cut off with a hiss, and it crashed to the floor with a horrible bang like the temple falling upon Samson. Chumley began backing toward the open door to the room, which he had caught a glimpse of while sailing up through the floor. Sensing his movement, the machine raised its arms. With a series of clangs, a barrel shot out of either side of each arm and extended forward.

"FOUR WINCHESTER REPEATERS?!" Chumley cried. He did some quick math in his head, using the multiplication skills that had made him famous on the Western Math Circuit. "Napoleon was right about the storm of lead!" Chumley turned and ran as the machine opened fire. Bullets whooshing past him, the elephant leapt through the open door, crashed through the railing of the balustrade ringing the top of the entrance hall and latched onto the chain of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Swinging toward the doorway, Chumley groaned to himself.

"I hope this has something to do with the tournament! If Ranger doesn't show up soon, I'm deader than William Henry Harrison in a rainstorm."

Abbie

06-21-06, 03:25 PM

As the crowd melted around the two, Abbie smiled knowingly, enjoying the fact that despite the inexperience of her partner, they were getting away with the theft with ease. Without warning, Jon muttered something unintelligible to her, and at the same moment a large man smelling of moldy gym socks jostled her. His hand slipped from hers, and he disappeared into the throng of townies and tourists. Franticly she searched the heads of those near her, but none of them glinted dully in that particular way his did, or had quite the same shape or color. Her calm, happy expression turned to one of confusion as she realized she was alone, her mind tripping over what to do next.

*slap* Both her forehead and the palm of her right hand stung mildly now, the impact leaving a red mark on them. Abigail, you’re a THIEF! Act like one! Her soft green eyes flitted over the surrounding area, searching for something safe. Ahead she noted a small lane that veered off to the left and into a residential area. Without hesitating, she darted through the multitude then walked with apparent purpose down the small road. The key, she knew, was to blend in, to look as though you belonged, and she was very good at it despite her outlandish style of dress and childlike ponytails.

After a block or two, the poorly paved lane dissipated into even worse cobbles, the stones loose and breaking apart. Not long after that, even the stone ended, leaving only pockmarked dirt, the holes large enough to trip an elephant. Deftly maneuvering around them, the pooka allowed her mind to wander, though it did not stray far from her biggest problem: where was Jon? Furrowing her brow unconsciously, she pondered the situation, trying to choose the best course of action. She could try to trace his steps, but she had no idea which direction he’d chosen. She could head back to the gym, but at best it could be hours before that was safe. Sighing softly, she realized that for now she would just have to kill time.

So lost in thought was she, the girl missed the change in texture, the sudden shift in the general mood of the area. Buildings transformed from clean, neat dwellings indicative of three-child families, to dilapidated hovels that resembled mansions only in the sense of size. Without warning, a large-ish rock leapt up from the ground, biting her leg and throwing her to the ground (or so she would explain later). Falling to her knees, she heard a whistling sound above her, and looked up in time to see a few of her own fiery locks float to the ground next to her. Recognizing the now-audible sounds of battle, the pooka instantly looked for a place to hide, unwilling to be shot to death so early in life.