From: Plonq Subject: The Twinkie Date: Saturday, April 18, 1998 6:59 PM I mentioned the incident upon which this story is based in IRC last night, and Susandeer said, "Why don't you write a story about it?" At first I balked, but the damage was done. This little story basically wrote itself in my head while I was trying to get to sleep last night... 8<----------- SNIP HERE ------------- Plonq lived in one of those drab, grey apartment high-rises that modern Muck councils love to pass zoning bylaws against. Like a concrete wart on the landscape, it towered above the other buildings in the neighbourhood in hideous testament to an architectural style dubbed, "Early Furrymuck Plain" in some journals, and "Butt Ugly" in others. The rent was reasonable, however, and it was in an otherwise good part of the Muck. The little morph arrived home to find the high-security, double-locked front door propped open with a large rock. This came as a relief to the cat, as it meant he did not have to risk accident by fishing for his keys. Shuffling the shopping bag full of catnip and Tender Vittles to his other arm, he pulled the door open and slunk through, taking careful note of the location of his tail throughout the process. Snow leopards were prone to being a little tail-shy around doors, and Plonq was no exception to his species. He stepped off the streets and back into the seventies - or at least that is the impression that one would get from the lobby. The floor was carpeted with an ugly, but serviceable puce shag that was arguably out-of-style the moment it was laid, but had held up admirably against years of countless pads, hooves and claws. A floor-length mirror, bordered in simulated gold broke the burgundy traced-felt wallpaper between a pair of boil-like plastic clamshell lights. The mirror was so badly warped that it would have been more apropos in a funhouse than an apartment lobby, but it served as a source of amusement for the kits and cubs. Across from the mirror was a mauve Naugahyde davenport with a pair of plastic ti palms standing like sentries at each end. They had probably looked very real before they lost their colour. Little signs were posted everywhere in the lobby, bearing such legends as, "attention furs: please don't eat the plastic plants", "please do not eat the furniture" and "please do not eat the other tenants". The last bit of advice was especially poignant, as this was one of those mixed tenements. Plonq stopped at the row of mailboxes and gave his a light kick. It obediently flipped open - the lock had been broken for years - and the little morph began rooting through his mail, humming an old Blue Oyster Cult song to himself as he tossed most of it into the trash bin. He found three keepers in the mailbox: an issue of "Gerbil Recipes for Connoisseurs", a renewal notice from Playlion magazine and a small, odd-shaped, unmarked package. "Hrm," mewled Plonq, stuffing the other two letters into his shopping bag and examining the parcel. It was large enough hold a really big cigar, or very small bottle of scotch. The little morph could not think of anyfur who would be mailing him scotch or cigars, so he decided to take the course of least resistance and open the parcel. Brown wrapping paper flew in all directions to reveal... "Oooh," said the snow leopard in delight. It was a Twinkie. Plonq had almost forgotten that he had signed up for the Twinkie-Of-The-Month club. He examined the little sponge cake - slightly brutalised by the efficient Furrymuck postal service, but still appetising. It would go wonderfully with a coffee, and as luck would have it he had bought a pound of Starbucks the previous day. "Mmmm... Twinkie..." said the morph, holding the delectable treat in one hand and scooping up his shopping bag in the other. He was so fixated on the little cake that he failed to notice that the elevator was sitting in the lobby with its doors ajar. The apartment block had three elevators, but only one of them worked. The other two had been closed for repairs for all of recorded history, and the lone elevator was the slowest transport in the Muck. The sound of childish laughter caught the snow leopard's attention, and when he looked up from the Twinkie he spied two fox kits in the elevator. Oh no! It was those terrible fox kits from the fifth floor. What were their names again? Mike and Mark - or something like that. One of them was pointing at the approaching cat and giggling while his brother pounded frantically on the "Close Door" button. "Ack!" yowled Plonq, making a dash for the elevator as the doors began closing. If he didn't catch it now, he would be waiting until next March for it to return. He almost made it. There was just enough of a crack in the doors for him to wave his hand through in a futile attempt to trigger a sensor that had not worked in years. It was to no avail, however, as the doors clapped emphatically shut. The morph managed to pull his hand to safety, but he was not quick enough to save... "Aaaaaagh! Noooooooo!" wailed the cat morph in distress as creamy filling ran down the front of the elevator doors. "My Twinkie!" For many long moments, Plonq could only stand motionless, staring at the door while his whiskers twitched in disbelief. "My Twinkie," he whimpered again. Suddenly anger welled up, and with a growl of determination he turned and stalked back through the lobby. The kits had gone too far this time, and somebody was going to hear about it. The snow leopard muttered and cussed to himself as he stomped up to the intercom and buzzed the manager. "Manager Bob," croaked a sibilant voice over the crackle of static. There was a pause. "This had better not be Plonq." "Um, it's Plonq," said the snow leopard. "What do you want now?" hissed the rapture morph at the other end of the intercom. Manager Bob always sounded grumpy over the intercom, but he could be a very nice morph if one could get past the fact that he had spent most of his life in prison for trying to kill a bunch of furs. "What, are you locked out? Swallow your keys again?" "No!" yowled Plonq indignantly. Yeesh, you do something once and they never let you live it down... okay, twice. "Oh, let me guess then. Oooh! Oooh! I'll bet your bathtub drain is blocked up again. Am I right? Well, am I?" "Um, well... ya." admitted Plonq. "Snow leopards - oy!" said Manager Bob acidly, "I may as well just freaking well go out and buy freaking Liquid Plumber by the freaking truck load, eh?" Of course, he did not actually say "freaking", but this is a "G" rated story. "That's not why I buzzed," said the cat morph. "Did one of your cats chew through the cablevision wire? Is that it? Destructive little vermin!" "Ack!" said Plonq. "What, you don't think I knew you had cats - in clear violation of our 'no pets' policy?" asked Manager Bob. "You didn't think you could fool me by painting spots on them and claiming they were your kids, did you? I'm telling ya, I didn't get early parole by being stupid. Well if it's not the cats, and it's not the tub then what are you wasting my time with now?" "The elevator doors closed on my Twinkie," said Plonq petulantly. There was a pregnant pause. "I think you're telling me more than I want to hear," said the manager dryly. "It was those rotten kits from the fifth floor again," mewled the snow leopard. "They pushed the close door button, and when I tried to grab the door it crushed my Twinkie. I was going to have it with coffee, but now it's all squished and there's simulated cream filling running down the elevator doors. I was really looking forward to that Twinkie. I like Twinkies." "Plonq, quit drooling on my intercom!" snapped the manager. "So you're wasting my time here over a sponge cake?" "A Twinkie," corrected the cat morph. "Whatever," said Manager Bob. "Tell ya what, I'll talk to the kids' mom and deduct the cost of the Twinkie from next month's rent. Now why don't you just go to the store across the street and buy another one if you wanted a Twinkie so bad?" "Hrm?" said Plonq in disbelief. "They DO sell them over there you know," said the manager. One could almost hear him rolling his eyes at the other end of the intercom. "Oh," said Plonq sheepishly, "thanks." As he turned from the intercom and trundled off in search of a replacement Twinkie, he couldn't help but wonder what the world was coming to. * Plonq