From: Plonq Subject: Re: Leaving the Bleachers for a while. Date: Monday, April 13, 1998 9:09 PM Lisa Jennings wrote... >The bleachers aren't just to hide from the flames, but to talk in a >flame-free environment. While we might want to slap your paws for >flaming, up here is as good a place as any for you to get your breath Uh oh... the little snow leopard appears to have found his way into the bleachers - and he's strapped into his Furburner 2000! Yes, it's the latest in flamewar technology, and can hurl a smouldering retort from over twenty paces, leaving indignant furs writhing in the heat of spurious logic. What's worse, it looks like the little morph has finally read the instruction manual because the weapon is clearly powered-up and armed. Plonq's fur - what little can be seen through all the straps and hardware - is stained and singed from the multitude of flame wars he's been tiptoeing his way around. He reeks of napalm and burnt hair, and he is forced to apologise after almost every step as the Furburner drips hot kerosene on various furs from one of its multitude of leaky hose clamps. His weapon is literally covered in lights and gauges. One of the lights catches attention because it is blinking in accompanied by a loud buzzer, and it bears the cryptic text, "DANGER: Consult owners' manual!" When nervous furs ask Plonq what the light and buzzer indicate, he shrugs and politely mewls, "I don't know, it goes off all the time. It usually stops on its own." As the little morph waddles his way up the stairs into the bleachers, his destination finally becomes clear. Before the poor stoat morph can slap up a "CLOSED" sign in the window, the snow leopard is standing in front of the a.f.f.b concession stand. "What do you want?" demands the stoat, eyes playing nervously over the buzzing, whining hardware strapped onto the other morph. "Oooh," says Plonq, licking his muzzle hungrily. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and pondering the menu board. "What's good?" "It's all good," snaps the stoat, leaving the "just buy something and get lost" unspoken. "Well what's filling?" asks the snow leopard. "Flame wars can really whet the appetite." "It's all filling," snarls the stoat, "just buy something and get lost! Er, did I say that out loud this time?" The snow leopard starts, then his ears fall back and his whiskers droop. His voluminous tail begins lashing as he engages in an inner struggle of hunger pangs versus hurt feelings. "Oh don't go looking all droopy-faced at me now," says the other morph gruffly. "How would you feel if another morph came toddling up to your concession stand up in the supposed safety of the bleachers, strapped into enough flameware to torch half of furrydom?" "Oh, this?" says Plonq, holding up the custom form-fitting muzzle. "Eek!" shrieks the stoat, diving down behind the counter. "It's okay," says Plonq, leaning forward to peer over the counter. "The safety's on..." FOOOOOOOSH! "Ack! Sorry!! I thought it..." FOOOOOOOSH! "WILL YOU POINT THAT THING THE OTHER WAY?" screams the fur from her hiding place beneath the counter. "Omigod! You torched my Furnation calendar! Oh no! My corn dogs!" "I'm sorry," says Plonq sheepishly. "Don't be sorry - just get out of here! You're a menace!" "Ack," says the snow leopard. He turns to high-tail it away, but pauses in mid-step and looks back. "Urm, I suppose I couldn't just get something to go... ack!" he says again, ducking a charred corn dog. The little morph lopes down the bleacher stairs as fast as he can manage on his little legs. When he reaches the bottom tier, he stops and sits dejectedly by himself. As he's sitting there feeling foolish, lonely, guilty and still quite hungry, his little feline eyes spy a half-eaten bag of popcorn. He looks around quickly for its owner, but he seems to have the corner of the bleachers entirely to himself. With a sigh, he swallows what modicum of pride he possesses and grabs the rogue popcorn. It's greasy and stale, but to a hungry refugee of the flamewars it's the tastiest ambrosia. Plonq wolfs back the entire bag of popcorn, then tears it down so that he can lick the butter off the insides and bottom. It wasn't quite his first choice for a meal, but it's taken the edge off his hunger. The cat morph begins rooting through more of the rubbish at the lowest tier of the bleachers, hoping that a discarded Twinky isn't asking for too much. Apparently it is. He gives a mewl of resignation and hefts himself and three-hundred pounds of hardware back to his feet. With a sad look back at the tranquillity of the bleachers - with the notable exception of the flurry of fire extinguishers being discharged around the refreshment stand - the little snow leopard turns and plods back toward the fire pit. It seems that some furs just weren't meant for the bleachers. As he leaves, he ponders on the fact that he's never actually fired a flame in anger - but he's gotta admit that it's some pretty cool hardware he's packing! >ermine >[Undo the Knot to Reply.] * Plonq