Remember the thread where we did this? And we wrote a bunch of shit based entirely on scenarios? Well, now I found this monstrosity in my Google Docs, and found it was unfinished and that I desperately owed this to Tim, much like the thing he won in the writing exercise thread. So I'm going to finish this shit, because I have no other choice. More bits and bobs will be posted as more bits and bobs are finished to proper levels of perfectionation.
Ladies and gents, here I present, "Scentimal Porgwhalmf", an amalgamation of the names of everyone important to this story.
Here's FIFTEEN scenarios in one! Tried to put them in order of what I planned, but that order might get switchy-swooed depending on where I push this shit.
1. Tim gets a contract to assassinate ISentinelPenguinI
2. Sentinel giving Tim a Present.
3. Tim and Sentinel fight over the last piece of delicious food.
4. Tim and Sentinel get handcuffed together and lose the key.
5. Sentinel as a superhero and Tim as the sidekick
6. Tim and Sentinel sing to each other.
7.Tim knits an ugly sweater and forces Sentinel to wear it.
8. Tim as a superhero and Sentinel as the sidekick
9. Sentinel and Tim pretend to be in a relationship for the purpose of an undercover mission.
10. Sentinel gets bitten by a zombie and has to be put down by Tim.
11. Sentinel is frustrated losing a board game or card game to Tim.
12. Tim and Sentinel are the leaders of rival gangs.
13. Tim and Sentinel in hand-to-hand combat.
14. Sentinel is about to do something stupid. Tim does not think this is a good idea.
15. Tim and Sentinel watch fireworks together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Happy birthday, Tim!” Chris said, passing Tim his present.
“Thanks, Chris!” Tim’s smile was audible in his voice.
He didn’t know what was in the heavy box, but he did his best shaking in an attempt to figure it out. Oooh! Was it a mini-nuke? Tim shuddered with barely-contained enthusiasm, it was the perfect thing to blow up the cockroach hive in their yard with, and this box was just about the right size, shape, and weight for it! Eagerly, he tore at the paper and flung open the cardboard flaps. Inside, there was a gallon of milk with a ribbon on it.
“Oh ha-ha, very funny!” Tim said, pulling the milk out of the box.
“I just thought I’d get you one, since, y’know, it was so difficult for you last time.” Chris smirked.
The dirty old man Chris had also invited for some reason was next, and he slammed his parcel on the table. It happened to be a sweaty, disembodied kangaroo ballsack full of jingling change and topped with an equally appropriate birthday ribbon. Tim sighed, it was a disgusting gift, but it was a gift. It was hard to blame the poor eunuch for his taste, he probably managed to get syphillis-brain before he was robbed of his dick.
“Go ahead and open it, yeli’l SHIT!” he said excitedly, about to stand up and fire a “warning shot” into the ceiling for the third time today.
Chris had to restrain him. They would’ve taken his gun away earlier if they could’ve found a way to get the holster off his belt. But the old man’s reflexes were fast and his grip was spiteful, so they just had to calm him down whenever he got… ‘excited’...
With much apprehension, Tim untied the old ballsack and opened it, pouring out its contents. There was a piece of construction paper with words snipped out of magazines and hastily hot-glued to it, a great pile of crusty old coins that had definitely been in some detestable places, and some sort of powdery white substance coating most of it, all smelly, wet, and slightly sticky with the “tanning fluid” that had been used to cure the ballsack into its mildly leathery state.
“Hope ya like it. I tanned it with my own piss.” scowled the old man, scratching his ass proudly.
“Err, yeah…” Tim said, trying to pick up the paper without it breaking, he decided to read it out loud without sticking his hands in any more piss,
“Dear Tim,
I gave you 200 Jeon, a piss-proof Kangaroo ballsack, and all the crack I could smuggle past the mods at the border. This is all just a taste of the shit that awaits you if you complete one simple task for me:
MURDER THE GODDAMN PENGUINITE.
-Love Uncle Coins”
Everyone at the table except old Coins was visibly shaken, and Chris’s eyes were starting to water.
“The C-man provides!” Coins smiled a mostly toothless smile, eating something out of his scraggly beard, “Now, I’ll just give you a moment to consider your little birthday job alone, pressure-free! You can tell me your decision when I get back. I gotta take a wicked shit… Where’s yer sink?”
Silas was walking happily down the road to Tim’s birthday party. It was, as the invitation assured him, going to be absolutely the best birthday party that had ever happened for anyone ever. He was sure of this, because he knew Tim would never lie to him. Neither would Chris, who it looked like was the one that made the card. Apparently it was going to be a surprise party, thrown by Tim’s own roommate. Silas smiled his impossible beak smile, Tim and Chris were throwing things all the time! They should have their own show!
Eventually, Silas came up to the little bungalow on the corner and knocked. Tim opened the door… And he was wearing a designated birthday cone on his helmet! SHIT! He was onto them!
“SURPRISE!” Silas yelled with a deer-in-the-headlights look, desperately trying to improvise.
“Oh…” Tim said, “We… Uh… We already did that. Well, Chris already did that. The party started hours ago, people just started showing up…”
Silas stood for a moment in silence, trying to take in the bizarre sensory experience that was going on inside the house. An old man was grunting and shouting graphic sexual exclamations at the top of his lungs before something half-liquid loudly burst forth like a shotgun blast from an ass of some sort. A much younger man was desperately screaming at someone to get out of the sink. Very strong, distinct smells were emanating from the little dining area from behind Tim, wet, hot metal, dirty old man piss, and-
“Tim... Are yae doin’ cocaine?”
“No, no… Coins gave me this, uh, dirty money. I don’t think I’ll be using any of it.”
Silas was perplexed, and he thought for a moment more. First of all, Coins got here before he did. Second, he was late to a surprise party. These were two things that never happened, ever.
“I dunnae think the time I’s given was right. It said 3:60…”
“I don’t doubt that, Chris is terrible at writing in crayon. I think he meant to say 8:50, which was when he jumped out of the stove at me.”
“Wow, that’s… I’m sorry…” Silas said, fast losing hope that this would be the best birthday party that had ever happened for anyone ever. In fact, some of the Mongolian National Pride Days he had celebrated in places other than Mongolia were starting to beat this one out, and most of those barely qualified as parties or birthdays.
“It’s alright. Wanna come inside?”
“Why yes I do!” Silas said, following Tim inside and eyeing the disturbing ballsack contents spilled out over the table, “Didje already open presents?”
“Ah, yeah, we ran out of things to do besides play Slapjack and Monopoly…”
Silas wore a pained expression. He so hated to miss out on monopoly!
“Well, uh, here's mine.” Silas passed the heavy wrapped box to Tim.
Tim beamed under his helmet. This box was precisely the right size, shape, and weight to be a mini-nuke! He could light the skies with pleasant radioactive fire at last! Eagerly, he tore at the paper and flung open the cardboard flaps. Inside, there was another gallon of milk with a ribbon on it.
“Wow, I, Uh…”
“Figured ye’d wanna gallon o’ milk, seein’ as ye nearly stabbed me fer that last one, eh?” Silas laughed, giving Tim a light punch on the arm.
“Haha, yeah, thanks!...” Tim forced another smile, even though no one could rightly see his face.
“Happy bi-irthday tooo you!” Sang Chris with broken breath, as if he was recovering from horrendous sobs. His eyes were red and teary, and a conspicuously brown, spotty handprint was lain across his cheek.
Perhaps more remarkable was the fact that he seemed to have been recently shot in the foot, and was limping toward them suspiciously like a zombie. Tim moved behind Silas just in case. Most remarkable of all, however, was the enormous box labeled “cake” that he was struggling to carry on his back. Even Coins seemed happy about it, following him eagerly as Chris placed the box as far away from the pile of ballsack and pisscrack as he could and gingerly opened it.
But there was no cake, only a strange little man dressed in rags and wearing rope manacles on his wrists and ankles, with everything else covered in cake remnants.
“Ah… Mornin’...” he brogued awkwardly, looking about at the universally disappointed faces around him.
“You BASTARD!” Silas shouted, stepping up onto the table and moving to strangle the Irishman.
“It was cake! How was I supposed to know it was birthday cake!?” he said, crab-walking out of the box and away from the Penguinite as best he could.
“I spent days writing ‘Happy Birthday Tim’ on it…” Chris sighed wistfully, watching blood pool around his foot.
“You did not!” Steve cried, “That was a bunch of random gibberish if I ever saw it! Just like the birthday cards!”
“How long have you been hiding in our house!?” said Tim.
“Days, I think. Better than Chase’s basement, that’s for damn sure!”
Just as Steve was about to be cornered by the avian brute, Coins pointed out the small remaining corner of cake.
“Still some cake left, don’t get yer tampons in a twist.” Coins said, he waggled a crusty finger at the little corner yet untouched by the ravenous ex-captive.
Chris, lightheaded and half-ragdolled, haphazardly cut them into different pieces with a nearby spoon.
Coins took one, and promptly ate it whole. Chris took one, and subsequently took a bite out of it, before setting it down and leaving to go fix his foot before he bled to death. Silas took one, and it was slapped out of his hands by Steve, tumbling to the floor and splattering.
“The last piece should go to the birthday boy, you inconsiderate asshole!” Steve shouted, more because he didn’t want his biggest political rival to have any cake than anything else.
“There should be more pieces left than three, you twat-biting urethra pinecone!” Silas shouted back, more because he wanted to call Steve what he most certainly was than anything else.
“Uncouth primitive furfuck!”
“Impotent racist douchewank!”
“Guys, it’s fine…” Tim said, pushing them apart, but the mention of impotence triggered some primal rage in Coins, who screamed something incoherent and shot at the three until he ran out of bullets, hitting mostly nothing anyway.
There was a scuffle to end all scuffles. Furious feathered fists dented armor and delivered bruises, raging rope restraints strangled struggling Penguinites and tripped trashy tramps, killacious Korean claws slapped faces and ears with impunity, and the glorious greenhorn grappler graciously and pacifistically attempted to pull them all apart. And then they saw it… The last unbesmirched piece of cake… True, it had a bite taken out of it, but at least it wasn’t on the floor.
No one knew exactly what they were fighting for anymore, only that cake seemed like a reasonable reward for doing it. In the adrenaline and cortisol-fueled thought process that follows most attempts to kill your fellow man, the war they fought became a war for one thing and one thing only, the last delicious morsel of cake…
“That’s mine!”
“No it isne’!”
“Fuck you!”
“Asshole!”
“Shitmonkey!”
“Moldy buttplug!”
“Yeasty cunt!”
Kiel was driving his standard issue mod car to Tim’s surprise birthday party. He had been assured, by the card, that it was going to he the best birthday party that ever happened for anyone ever, but, having been to some pretty good birthday parties in his time, he doubted this would ever beat his top 3 birthday parties, especially by such a ridiculously large margin. He did notice, by the cards’ time of 64:30, he was about to run late… That just wouldn’t do. It would indeed ruin the image of Cystia’s Moderator Force if he were late to a surprise party… So he sounded off his sirens to get everyone out of the way as he sped off to this most urgent of deadlines.
“FUCK!” Shouted Coins, hearing the siren from literally a mile away, “The mods are coming! Fuck the cake, you can have it, I’m not going to The Hole again!”
The others slowly stopped fighting, shocked by the odd urgency in his voice, as Coins fiddled around in his pants. He pulled out a large pipe of some sort that might’ve been compensating for something, and shoveled the ballsack and its drug-powdered contents into the bowl.
“We gotta dispose of the evidence!” screamed Coins, itching his scalp fearfully, “We gotta smoke all this crack before the cops find it!”
“Dunnae think that’s how it works…” Silas said, confused.
“How would you even light that on fire?” said Tim.
“You’re lunatics, the lot of you!” said Steve.
Coins reloaded his gun. “GET OVER HERE AND SMOKE THIS FUCKING CRACK!”
Steve, because he felt that he might seem the least dangerous out of the three of them, slowly put his hands up and submitted himself to the crack-pipe, which Coins had just miraculously lit somehow as Chris stumbled into the room.
“PUT THE GUN DOWN, CHEKOV!” He shouted as the strong stench of hot piss and burning crotchal flesh tainted the air. It seemed Chris had a machine gun or two of his own, both of which he pointed at Coins, sideways.
It was at this unfortunate moment that Kiel opened the door, and he was shocked by what he saw.
“I… I can’t believe this!... Never before have I seen so much heinous crime in one place!…” Kiel said, awestruck and horrified, “You’re all under arrest! This whole house will have to be deleted!”
“No! Our house!” Tim said.
“Look, I can explain!” Silas attempted, but he was immediately shut down by Kiel.
“Explain why you gathered here before the party was supposed to start just so you could eat the whole cake without me!? Explain why you invited me to the best birthday party that ever happened to anyone ever, but made sure I only came when it was all over!? I think that’s pretty self-explanatory, Silas! You’re all going down for a long time so you can all think about what you’ve done! You heartless monsters!”
Kiel, ever the stoic, held back his tears, though the fiery heart beating beneath his manly exterior wept too deeply for words to describe.
“I’m calling in another car. Come on and accept your handcuffs with dignity, if you have any souls left in you!”
And so there they were, Tim and Silas, handcuffed together and riding in the back of Kiel’s car, in front of a little line of backup law enforcement vehicles that were now bringing the partygoers all to the nearest police station. Both inmates in Kiel’s company got the distinct impression that he wasn’t quite in the mood to hear their excuses, and so it was a long, silent, uncomfortably warm ride at the front of the prisoner caravan.
