riptide_asylum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
riptide_asylum) wrote2009-11-18 10:30 pm
riptide_asylum) wrote2009-11-18 10:30 pm
Entry tags:
"That Mustache Feeling" (Crack, 1999)
Title That Mustache Feeling
Rating G
Summary: Nick, Cody, Murray, JD, Buck, the Tick and Arthur walk into a computer convention. Stop me if you've heard this one before.
It turned out this Bozinsky fellow was only to happy to answer every last one of JD's questions, and Buck hung around, only half-listening to the answers. Most of it flew over his head like a pair of flap-happy grouse, but it gave Buck a kick to see JD so plumb animated.
Bozinsky's companions, though...Buck didn't feel nearly so easy about those two. For a start, the dark-haired guy was strung tighter than a buffalo fence. His eyes didn't linger much of any place for long; he kept glancing from his two companions to the crowds to the exits, one long continuous nervy loop, and if Buck was mistaken about the telltale bulge under the guy's sweater, he'd eat JD's socks. That guy was carrying.
Now the other one, though, he was a real piece of work, with his brightly patterned sweater and his overly dandified--
Buck startled as he caught the fella staring right at him. Simultaneously, both men raised a hand to their upper lip, then dropped them, quicklike, when they noticed the other.
Huh. Buck huffed into his own luxurious 'stache. Amateur. It was clear the guy spent time and attention and--Buck swallowed at the word--product, but some folks just didn't have it in them to grow a world-class cookieduster. Buck liked to think he was in the group of them that could, and this blond guy now, he was a member of the other.
Buck only realized he was staring when blondie clenched his jaw, eyes widening. The dark-haired guy put a restraining hand on his arm and Buck accidentally snorted. Please. He could take Mr Whiskers there with one hand tied behind his back.
The dark-haired guy stepped forward at Buck's snort, and that's when Buck noticed he was packing muscle as well as heat. Oh hell. A couple paces away, JD and Bozinsky were fast becoming bosom buddies, just about, clearly oblivious to the tensions ratcheting up next to them. They'd given in to the urge to start bouncing, both of them, and looked just like a couple of those damn kangaroos, like he saw at the computer thing JD'd dragged him to in Australia last year.
"GREETINGS FELLOW CONTESTANTS! Have I at long last found the pre-contest room where mingling is to occur?"
Buck stared, his attention torn from the couple in front of him by this newcomer. Oh what in the Sam Hill?
The guy had to be seven feet if he was an inch, and he'd seen fit to appear in public in a bright blue skin-tight spandex body suit, complete with hood. Buck whipped his hat off and held it in front of the guy's all-too-spandexed johnson. "Hey now," he hissed. "There are ladies present."
The big guy whirled, staring, and that's when Buck noticed his antenna. His jaw dropped.
"There are lady entrants? Arthur! This contest becomes more and more progressive every year!"
"I think what he means, Tick, is that we're the only ones wearing superhero outfits." By the big guy's side stood a portly middle-aged cherub of a guy, dressed as...a moth? Buck squinted. Yup. Moth.
Hoo boy.
"And that your outfit might be considered a little," the moth swallowed hard. "Revealing."
"Nonsense, Arthur!" The big guy boomed. "The Tick is simply flush with good health, that's all!" He drew in a deep breath and puffed out his chest.
"The Tick's sure flush with something," the dark-haired guy commented.
"Listen, buddy," Bozinsky's blond stepped forward. "You mind tellin' us what this is all about?"
The Tick folded his arms over his immense chest. "Why the 23rd Annual Mustache Deathmatch, of course!"
Looking aghast, the blond took a step back, and his companion moved closer, sliding an arm round blondie's shoulders. Buck raised his eyebrows at them. The dark-haired guy glared back.
Buck returned his attention to the Tick-thing. "Mustache...deathmatch? Did I hear you correctly?"
"If you did not, my tiny boot-wearing friend, THE TICK CAN CERTAINLY SPEAK LOUDER AND MORE CLEARLY!"
The mothman sighed. "He can. Really."
"Y'think The Tick can talk about himself in the first person, like regular folks?" Buck shook his head, then stopped and stared. He'd suddenly noticed the two thin lines of black hair trailing from the upper lip of blue hood covering most of The Tick's face. The two sides of the mustache hung straight down to the carpet of the convention hall, where they lay coiled like thin, wire lariats.
"Okay now Mr Tick, that ain't fair!" Buck stepped forward, one finger raised. He came approximately level with the bottom of The Tick's ribcage. "Those monstrosities are obviously glued on to your outlandish outfit! If there was a so-called 'Mustache Deathmatch' those--those abominations! Would certainly not qualify!"
Which is when the strand of 'stache closest to Buck twitched, then dove for his boot, winding tightly around the worn leather.
Bozinsky's blond gasped and his companion slipped in front of him and pulled a Desert Eagle from the waistband of his jeans, clicking off the safety and pointing it in the direction of the rogue facial hair.
"Nice." Buck commented. Then the mustache tightened its grip on his ankle and he went down in a heap. Buck grabbed at his foot as the evil adornment squeezed harder. The mustache was somehow slick and greasy to the touch and Buck recoiled from the contact. Remembering the knife strapped to his other boot, Buck whipped it out and began sawing madly. He heard The Tick hollering above him. "BAD MUSTACHE! BAD, BAD MUSTACHE! LET THE TINY DEAF MAN GO!"
But the mustache paid its wearer no mind, and continued to savage Buck's boot. It had tightened now to the point Buck was afraid he'd be leaving this infernal convention with one less hoof than he'd come in with.
"Hey, catch!"
Buck looked up just in time to grab the lighter tossed down to him by Bozinsky's blond. What the...then their eyes met and Buck nodded, everything becoming clear at once. "Mr. Evil Mustache," he growled, "I have just one word for you: singed." He flicked open the cap and directed the flame towards the offending hair.
With a terrified squeak, the mustache stiffened, then retracted at speed. But it was too late. A thin line of flame crept along the hairs towards The Tick's face. "ARTHUR! Mustache fire! Most unexpected!"
The fire grew, fed by whatever greasy substance gave the evil entity life. Buck sat on the carpet of the Monterey Sheraton and stared, fascinated.
As a tongue of flame licked The Tick's chin, he shrieked and, dashing to a nearby table, dunked his entire head in a complimentary pitcher of ice water and left it there. There was a startled steaming and the entire convention hall fell quiet. Buck frowned, watching. After a few seconds it appeared that The Tick was deep in conversation, presumably with the rogue face fur. His mothman companion put a hand over his eyes and shook his head.
"ARTHUR! ARTHUR!" The Tick's voice sounded muffled and distorted through the plastic pitcher's side. "I THINK I'M STARTING TO GET THE HANG OF THIS MUSTACHE THING!"
The mothman left his hand firmly in place. "He's still in the pitcher, isn't he?" he asked forlornly.
Buck and Bozinsky's companions answered in unison. "Yup."
"And this isn't a mustache deathmatch, right?"
Buck got to his feet and dusted off his tuckus. "Not last time I checked. But I'm just here with a friend. See, he'd been hoping to meet their friend and..." Buck looked around wildly. He was just in time to see JD disappear into the elevator with his longtime hero, and from the looks of it, the two of them had a helluva lot more on their mind than talking. "That little horndog," Buck muttered.
"Yeah," the blond answered, "Murray's pretty friendly. By the way, I'm Cody Allen." He held out his hand.
Rating G
Summary: Nick, Cody, Murray, JD, Buck, the Tick and Arthur walk into a computer convention. Stop me if you've heard this one before.
It turned out this Bozinsky fellow was only to happy to answer every last one of JD's questions, and Buck hung around, only half-listening to the answers. Most of it flew over his head like a pair of flap-happy grouse, but it gave Buck a kick to see JD so plumb animated.
Bozinsky's companions, though...Buck didn't feel nearly so easy about those two. For a start, the dark-haired guy was strung tighter than a buffalo fence. His eyes didn't linger much of any place for long; he kept glancing from his two companions to the crowds to the exits, one long continuous nervy loop, and if Buck was mistaken about the telltale bulge under the guy's sweater, he'd eat JD's socks. That guy was carrying.
Now the other one, though, he was a real piece of work, with his brightly patterned sweater and his overly dandified--
Buck startled as he caught the fella staring right at him. Simultaneously, both men raised a hand to their upper lip, then dropped them, quicklike, when they noticed the other.
Huh. Buck huffed into his own luxurious 'stache. Amateur. It was clear the guy spent time and attention and--Buck swallowed at the word--product, but some folks just didn't have it in them to grow a world-class cookieduster. Buck liked to think he was in the group of them that could, and this blond guy now, he was a member of the other.
Buck only realized he was staring when blondie clenched his jaw, eyes widening. The dark-haired guy put a restraining hand on his arm and Buck accidentally snorted. Please. He could take Mr Whiskers there with one hand tied behind his back.
The dark-haired guy stepped forward at Buck's snort, and that's when Buck noticed he was packing muscle as well as heat. Oh hell. A couple paces away, JD and Bozinsky were fast becoming bosom buddies, just about, clearly oblivious to the tensions ratcheting up next to them. They'd given in to the urge to start bouncing, both of them, and looked just like a couple of those damn kangaroos, like he saw at the computer thing JD'd dragged him to in Australia last year.
"GREETINGS FELLOW CONTESTANTS! Have I at long last found the pre-contest room where mingling is to occur?"
Buck stared, his attention torn from the couple in front of him by this newcomer. Oh what in the Sam Hill?
The guy had to be seven feet if he was an inch, and he'd seen fit to appear in public in a bright blue skin-tight spandex body suit, complete with hood. Buck whipped his hat off and held it in front of the guy's all-too-spandexed johnson. "Hey now," he hissed. "There are ladies present."
The big guy whirled, staring, and that's when Buck noticed his antenna. His jaw dropped.
"There are lady entrants? Arthur! This contest becomes more and more progressive every year!"
"I think what he means, Tick, is that we're the only ones wearing superhero outfits." By the big guy's side stood a portly middle-aged cherub of a guy, dressed as...a moth? Buck squinted. Yup. Moth.
Hoo boy.
"And that your outfit might be considered a little," the moth swallowed hard. "Revealing."
"Nonsense, Arthur!" The big guy boomed. "The Tick is simply flush with good health, that's all!" He drew in a deep breath and puffed out his chest.
"The Tick's sure flush with something," the dark-haired guy commented.
"Listen, buddy," Bozinsky's blond stepped forward. "You mind tellin' us what this is all about?"
The Tick folded his arms over his immense chest. "Why the 23rd Annual Mustache Deathmatch, of course!"
Looking aghast, the blond took a step back, and his companion moved closer, sliding an arm round blondie's shoulders. Buck raised his eyebrows at them. The dark-haired guy glared back.
Buck returned his attention to the Tick-thing. "Mustache...deathmatch? Did I hear you correctly?"
"If you did not, my tiny boot-wearing friend, THE TICK CAN CERTAINLY SPEAK LOUDER AND MORE CLEARLY!"
The mothman sighed. "He can. Really."
"Y'think The Tick can talk about himself in the first person, like regular folks?" Buck shook his head, then stopped and stared. He'd suddenly noticed the two thin lines of black hair trailing from the upper lip of blue hood covering most of The Tick's face. The two sides of the mustache hung straight down to the carpet of the convention hall, where they lay coiled like thin, wire lariats.
"Okay now Mr Tick, that ain't fair!" Buck stepped forward, one finger raised. He came approximately level with the bottom of The Tick's ribcage. "Those monstrosities are obviously glued on to your outlandish outfit! If there was a so-called 'Mustache Deathmatch' those--those abominations! Would certainly not qualify!"
Which is when the strand of 'stache closest to Buck twitched, then dove for his boot, winding tightly around the worn leather.
Bozinsky's blond gasped and his companion slipped in front of him and pulled a Desert Eagle from the waistband of his jeans, clicking off the safety and pointing it in the direction of the rogue facial hair.
"Nice." Buck commented. Then the mustache tightened its grip on his ankle and he went down in a heap. Buck grabbed at his foot as the evil adornment squeezed harder. The mustache was somehow slick and greasy to the touch and Buck recoiled from the contact. Remembering the knife strapped to his other boot, Buck whipped it out and began sawing madly. He heard The Tick hollering above him. "BAD MUSTACHE! BAD, BAD MUSTACHE! LET THE TINY DEAF MAN GO!"
But the mustache paid its wearer no mind, and continued to savage Buck's boot. It had tightened now to the point Buck was afraid he'd be leaving this infernal convention with one less hoof than he'd come in with.
"Hey, catch!"
Buck looked up just in time to grab the lighter tossed down to him by Bozinsky's blond. What the...then their eyes met and Buck nodded, everything becoming clear at once. "Mr. Evil Mustache," he growled, "I have just one word for you: singed." He flicked open the cap and directed the flame towards the offending hair.
With a terrified squeak, the mustache stiffened, then retracted at speed. But it was too late. A thin line of flame crept along the hairs towards The Tick's face. "ARTHUR! Mustache fire! Most unexpected!"
The fire grew, fed by whatever greasy substance gave the evil entity life. Buck sat on the carpet of the Monterey Sheraton and stared, fascinated.
As a tongue of flame licked The Tick's chin, he shrieked and, dashing to a nearby table, dunked his entire head in a complimentary pitcher of ice water and left it there. There was a startled steaming and the entire convention hall fell quiet. Buck frowned, watching. After a few seconds it appeared that The Tick was deep in conversation, presumably with the rogue face fur. His mothman companion put a hand over his eyes and shook his head.
"ARTHUR! ARTHUR!" The Tick's voice sounded muffled and distorted through the plastic pitcher's side. "I THINK I'M STARTING TO GET THE HANG OF THIS MUSTACHE THING!"
The mothman left his hand firmly in place. "He's still in the pitcher, isn't he?" he asked forlornly.
Buck and Bozinsky's companions answered in unison. "Yup."
"And this isn't a mustache deathmatch, right?"
Buck got to his feet and dusted off his tuckus. "Not last time I checked. But I'm just here with a friend. See, he'd been hoping to meet their friend and..." Buck looked around wildly. He was just in time to see JD disappear into the elevator with his longtime hero, and from the looks of it, the two of them had a helluva lot more on their mind than talking. "That little horndog," Buck muttered.
"Yeah," the blond answered, "Murray's pretty friendly. By the way, I'm Cody Allen." He held out his hand.