http://path-that-rocks.livejournal.com/ (
path-that-rocks.livejournal.com) wrote in
milliways_bar2006-03-12 10:02 pm
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First Entrance
A tiny poof of ... smoke? mist? ... appears on the bartop. It resolves into a perfect three-inch-tall replica of one of the Milliways tables, with two chairs to scale.
In one of said chairs comes an even smaller poof of white cloud, dissipating to reveal a tiny white-robed figure with little feathery white wings, a halo, and a golden harp roughly the size of a Sacajawea dollar (circa early 21st century America).
In the other, almost simultaneously, comes a poof of flame, dissipating to reveal ... a tiny red-jumpsuited figure with little spiky red wings, horns, and a pitchfork that an ordinary human-sized patron might easily mistake for a salad fork if it weren't barbed.
Both of them are looking around in startlement. The red-clad one gives a short, dry laugh.
"What are the odds?"
In one of said chairs comes an even smaller poof of white cloud, dissipating to reveal a tiny white-robed figure with little feathery white wings, a halo, and a golden harp roughly the size of a Sacajawea dollar (circa early 21st century America).
In the other, almost simultaneously, comes a poof of flame, dissipating to reveal ... a tiny red-jumpsuited figure with little spiky red wings, horns, and a pitchfork that an ordinary human-sized patron might easily mistake for a salad fork if it weren't barbed.
Both of them are looking around in startlement. The red-clad one gives a short, dry laugh.
"What are the odds?"
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"Don't you have anything better to say about it?"
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"Besides ... look what I can do."
He hops off Oats's shoulder and performs ... a one-handed handstand. On the bartop.
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The white one's shoulders slump, defeated. He can never top the one-armed handstand.
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"Er. Very ... impressive."
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Yeah, he's got nothin'.
Siiigh.
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"I trust I've made my point," he says smugly.
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"Well, er.
"I must admit to some confusion as to, ah, exactly how gymnastics relate to the choice between good and evil."
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"I suppose it is a compelling argument ..."
Don't be daft! It's idiotic! What has it got to do with *anything*?
Back in Omnia, it was usually at this point in a theological debate that Oats would begin to converse with himself.
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The white one propels its little arms. The harp twangs. "But don't listen to it anyway!" he shouts.
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Well, I'd rather not be pathetic my *whole* life ...
No, no! That's pathetic in the eyes of the *world*! What about the eyes of Om?
All right, all right, get ahold of yourself.
... Why can't they just go away?
"Thank you," he says to the devil, stiffly and politely, "but your services ... really will not be required at this juncture.
"Or any other," he adds hastily.
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The white one pumps his fist.
Then he catches himself, clears his throat, and reassumes his dignified pose. "Then my work here is done," he says.
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"You're making a bad mistake, kid."
A pause, and then a slow smile. "If you change your mind, just let me know."
And he's gone, in a *poof* of flame.
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... That was weird.