NationStates Jolt Archive

1. The Henson Deal

09:34 Wednesday.

Natalya Vojska, fourth under-secretary in the PrattCo Conglomerate Public Assets executive division, read her orders with a laugh building in her throat. Years of scorn and frustration were about to be made all better. She didn’t feel the least bit bad about it. At last, the miserable subhumans would be erased from the mainland. Hell, from the islands too. Possibly from the whole planet.

She picked up the phone and hooked it over her ear. ‘Tzu,’ she selected in the interface, which immediately dialed Gonzalo Tzu’s office in the Internal Intelligence Agency.

“Gonzalo? This is Natalya here. Are we secure? ... okay. Looks like PA and IIA are gonna be working together on something.... I’m gonna need you on this one.... Yeah?... Oh, Henson died. The terms explicitly stated his assets would go to us, and they’re still trying to keep their residences.... or hide out somewhere, running away. I trust you, Gonzalo.... some of the others, I wonder if they’re actually competent or just some bureaucrats..... You too? Yeah, they’re everywhere.... well then, I guess that’s it, you’ll probably receive the orders any minute. You’ll love them.... You too. Vojska out.”

She put the phone down. Tzu was an old man now, but despite his increasing tendency to engage in small talk now and then, he was still cold, dangerous, and even his voice held a note of quiet, but commanding power.

It was New State City that Bob wanted them out of first. She wanted them out too.

2. Muppetnacht

19:34 Tuesday.

Grover, approximately 40 years old, blue. He arrives home from the Business District, uneasily sneaking the door quietly open and letting himself in. Like all the muppets, he’s aware of the terms of Henson’s deal, and now without his presence and guidance, his employment prospects are grim. He’ll be unable to afford his one-room flat on Bulwark Avenue within a week or two, after his last paycheck from the now-defunct Hensoncorp runs out.

He walks into the living room (featuring muppet-sized furniture, of course), throwing his coat onto the couch and then himself. The TV makes a satisfying “blip” as its turned on, and the warm light of PBS comes on, filling the room with a flickering TV light-

...Or not flickering, that is. As the picture comes into focus, PBS shows only a still image fo the PBS logo, with the PCC logo -
http://www.nationstates.net/images/flags/uploads/santa_barbara.jpg

- in the background and the phrase, “Conglomerate Officials Apologize For Permanent Lack Of Service On This Channel. Please Switch Stations” written along the bottom in smooth, pleasing metallic-3d looking letters. And the ubiquitous yellow smiley face at the end- :D - a recent Conglomerate marketting theme treated much like Hello Kitty.

Well that’s not good, he thinks.

All of a sudden, the sound of breaking glass fills the room, and a brick flies in and kill his TV set. Outside, the sound of tires peeling rubber on pavement signals the car driving off, the attackers gone. Still, he looks out the broken window, and sees that his car-- an ‘08 Toshiro-- has had its windows smashed as well. He’s not sure, but he thinks there’s something brown that might be manure inside as well.

But mostly, he notices the top and hood. Spraypainted in blood red, the words “DIE MUPPET DIE” can be seen.

19:40

Big Bird, 46, yellow, steps off the magbus onto the corner of 34th and Panda Ave. Like most muppets, he was at one time a star in Sesame Street, and cameo’d in the Muppet Show, not to mention several movies. But, like most stars, he had fallen, and little did the [admittedly few] muppet-adoring children of Santa Barbara know, his character- Big Bird, after himself- had been taken over by someone else, someone younger and more appropriate for the role. He has fallen onto hard times, watching the imposters on the “new” Sesame Street, lost and forgotten at book and album cover signings, lonely.

He has opened up a used bookstore in past years, trying to scratch a living under the uneasy shadow of the Conglomerate. Taxes have gone up, lately, and the Conglomerate frowns upon independent businessmen. That’s not all it frowns on, though.

Unbeknownst to him, the door to this bookstore is right now being broken down. The windows smashed, and buckets of unprocessed semi-solid poultry are thrown inside, spattering and ruining the books. Hooded men-- at least, they look like men-- retrieve armfulls of any remaining books, throwing them onto a pile on the sidewalk directly in front of the store. They are burned.

Equally unknown to him, he isn’t going to be lonely tonight. As he walks with his ridiculous orange feet down Panda Avenue towards his brother-in-laws’ friends’ apartment, he just has time to hear the squealing tires of a fast-approaching car. (He doesn’t hear the engine, of course. There are still combustion-engine cars in Santa Barbara, but they are few and getting fewer.)

Suddenly, just as he is turning to look at the source of the sound, something hard smacks into the left side of his head and breaks, glass shards flying into the skin along his face, missing his eye by centimeters. He stumbles, clutching his wounded head with his wings, the lower half of his beak agape in shock and confusion. “No-ooo,” Big Bird manages to say.

Then they are upon him. He can barely see as tears mix with blood and whatever was in the bottle, let alone defend himself. He is hit multiple times, and he sees flashes of hooded men surrounding him, beating him. He falls, rolling helplessly in pain as his silent, unknown attackers proceed to kick him. His beak is jarred into the pavement, and chips of it fly off. The beating has stopped, but he is losing consciousness.

The last thing he sees before passing out is his own yellow feathers floating into his own spattered blood along the sidewalk.

:lol: Tag :lol:

19:47

Animal returns home from the grocery store, and immediately he can tell something is wrong. He can smell it in the air-- strangers are in his home. “Animal! Raaaa!” he says, thoughtfully. He drops this weeks groceries (2 bags of potato chips, a 24 pack of beer, and a crate with 80 eggs. Animal likes eggs) and flings open the door, his googly eyes staring into the blackness.

But there’s no one in there. That’s weird. He steps forward, cautiously, desperately searching for the intruder.

Suddenly a cloth is pulled over his perfectly spherical head, and he is jerked backward powerfully. “Raaar!” he exclaims, surprised. He has been outwitted! Suddenly arms, several arms, restrain him as he flails helplessly, clawing and trying to beat his attackers with his stringy cloth arms.

“Oof. You got him? This one’s feisty,” says a voice. He can feel his limbs being bound tightly to something-- possibly a metal bed or stretcher.

“Yeah. Stop! Don’t hit him, this one we gotta keep.”

“What about his wife?”

“We’re not here for her, she’s just human. It’s this one’s DNA that’s of any use to the PA.”

“Then... do you mind if I...?”

“Fine. Just don’t take too long, we have a long drive tonight.”

21:08

“Well, Fozzy, that time we kept talking about but never really prepared for? It’s come. I have a bad feeling somethings going to happen to us, all of us, and I don’t know what to do. Hide? Why should we hide, just because of who we are? The audiences love us, we’re cute and besides, they think we’re just puppets anyway. Still, I do have this bad feeling. I think we have to meet somewhere, I dunno, anywhere. Somewhere the damn Conglomerate won’t-- hello? Fozzy? Hello?”

Kermit hangs up the phone, waits a moment, and tries again. But no avail. The connection has been terminated, and that can only mean one thing! Oh shit- he thinks, and on cue, his windows are shattered instantly with a spray of automatic rifle fire.

He falls to the ground, trying to cover himself from flying glass, his heart racing in panic. The shots punch holes in his house; his signed self portrait, a few vintage Muppet posters, an autographed copy of Miss Piggy’s Swimsuit Issue Calendar. Everything in the kitchen exploded with violence. Kermit heard bullets impact very close to him.

Then he notices an object fall right in front of him. It looks like a gray plastic potato, until the top bursts off, and gas rolls out in clouds. He is pinned down by the rifle fire, and has no time to react before the pungent chemicals are inhaled. The scent is pleasant.

Then the world... disappears.

B :D mp

Can i join i got a grudge against oscar the goruch.