ph_logs | [Open] Hail to da King

[Open] Hail to da King

have it your way, Pumpkin Hollow!

Hail to da king

There is a Burger King in Pumpkin Hollow.

Why? That is a fantastic question. Considering the fact that this is a Victorian-esque village in a fantasy world that has never even heard of Burger King, one can only assume it was created by a modern individual with a mischievous sense of humor. This is only further implied by the interesting set of rules on the wall...

At some point during February of 16:55, the role of "The Burger King" is bestowed upon one Capochin Bastone, Grillmaster Extraordinare, by the Daedric Prince Sheogorath. Since then, he's hired a few of the locals (mostly younger folks) to work the shop and checks in on it daily, but largely lets the thing run itself. Still, he could really use a general manager...

Well, anyway. Feel free to grab a seat, get yourself a Whopper, check out the Help Wanted sign, or just hang out! If you're lucky with your timing, you may just see a little blue man in a fuzzy red robe far too long for him and a paper crown hop up onto the enormous throne to hold court. He sure does look pleased with himself.

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[ For Sheogorath ]

Before the coronation, even, there is the invitation.

The spirits of the Aurbis have many faces, each of them ascribed to them by the peoples who know them as one thing or another.

So when the Madgod decides to show up to the smell of great godly grilling, it’s in a form of incoherent glory- a stooped treant-like figure, draped in a mantle of fungus and lichen, topped with a stone head of three faces from which hangs a beard of moss.

The voice it speaks with is not so incoherent as the Worm, but it’s still an inhuman sound- like rapid staccato notes played on the cello, occasionally getting excited enough to take on a viola’s tendencies instead.

“I think you may be exactly what the people need.”

Capochin turns from his grill, looking up, then back to his food, then double-taking before finally realizing he ought to be startled.

"AH!"

He leaps directly up on impulse, hurling himself at the brick siding of the house he shares with Hector. His claws dig into the mortar as he beholds the source of the voice. "Wh-- what--- Tree?????"

Some kind of nature god??

"A tree. A song. A bad idea. Something out of the corner of your eye that was never there." Its voice drips with whimsy, then menace, deepening and spiraling into dark, uncomfortable places. The suddenly, it rises up again, like an excited choir of crickets.

"I suppose you could say I'm an oracle of sorts, but not the sort you should always trust. I think you ought to trust me now, though. Of course, that might not be something you should take my word for!"

The tree-thing shifts at its edges, as the gathered swarm of butterflies rearranges itself, expanding into a cloud of ever-shifting hues, and then compressing itself into the shape of an old man who looks the very definition of a trickster. He's grinning such a smile that it threatens to escape his face.

"I must say, that smells delightful!"

These odd quirks, the changes in tone and talking foliage and shapeshifting, they might terrify nearly anyone or anything else. But Capochin's been in the presence of gods most of his life now, and very little phases him now.

If anything, the guy just reminds him of Cobigail.

"Well, if you're a liar sometimes, I at least know you're tellin' da truth about da food. I know for a fact my food smells as good as it tastes!" Today, it's shish kebabs. Gotta find a way to get more vegetables in Hector's diet so he doesn't die again. He holds one up by the skewer for his visitor, offering it.

The visitor accepts the kebab, raising it to his mouth… and not quite getting there, as his beard reaches out to taste it first, the hairs testing it like tiny fungal fibers before he actually puts it in his mouth, biting down with two layers of teeth.

“Hmm, delicious, and arguably nutritious! Let’s see… I taste a strong work ethic, unrivaled devotion, and just a hint of fermented self-loathing in the aftertaste. Gives it some real character!”

Okay the beard thing is weird, and it takes every ounce of Capochin's self-control not to look deeply perturbed. He manages to get out of it with just a nose wrinkle. He has less success hiding his displeasure at the remark, opening his mouth as if to protest and then quickly closing it again.

Okay, true, but hey.

"Man, what's da big idea? What're you gettin' at?"

"Well, you see, I've a bit of a vested interest in the success of this domain and its lord. Such a duty does not come easily to everyone."

"Izzat so?" A domain? A lordship? Color Capochin begrudgingly interested. "What kinda domain we talkin' about here, bub?"

"Why, the Domain of the Burger King, of course. His Eminence of Convenience and Comfort. His Lordship of the Empowerment of the Individual. He who decrees 'Have It Your Way'. His throne sits absent, his glory unrepresented. Without him, the very notion of this place risks growing static. Sad, sorry, corporate, grey, boring."

It takes Capochin a moment to process all of that flowery language. For a moment it almost feels like talking to Click Clack. But the pieces start clicking together after a moment and---

"Wait, you're askin' me to be a king of burgers???" That's sure a step up from grillmaster.

"Something like that. It's quite the responsibility, you know. Not something to take lightly, though of course, I won't stop you."

His forms stirs again, and for a brief moment, briefer than a blink, that tree-thing is there again, before he's back to the old man.

"It means there will be times where you have to stop being you, taking the role of the Burger King instead. One of the laws of this place, a peculiar bit of its contract and its magic."

He might be right, but he could also be spouting total nonsense.

"Dat's awful serious business, over some hamburgers," he remarks, raising a skeptical brow. Hypocrisy, coming from him. "Do I gotta, like... fill out paperwoik or somethin'?"

“I have no idea! That’s Town Hall business, and for once, signing off on matters of the realm isn’t my responsibility! Wonderful, isn’t it? Why, I could make a few heads roll in celebration! Ah, but that’s not very good for food safety, is it?”

"It'd probably be bad for PR, too," Capochin notes. He shrugs. "Maybe we oughta just stick to streamers n' confetti?"

Gods. He's really doing this. What has he gotten himself into?

"Ah, you understand! Wonderful!" he chirps. "Yes, heads and entrails are really more for a different sort of occasion. It's good to know someone so discerning is in such a position!"

The poster on the door reads:

- HELP WANTED -

Seekin a general manager 2 run da place durin Bizzyboy hours of operation (9am-6pm M-F and occasionally a coupla hours on Saturdays) and shift leads to assist wit minor managerial duties. Schedules for shift leads flexible. Inquire via Sending Stone - contact Owner Capochin Bastone - or attend court on Thoisday nights at 7pm. Experience helpful but not required. Tanks.

He stands at the threshold, looking in. Thinking. Wringing the gold-trimmed sleeves of a uniform indiscernible from his last.

If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can pretend nothing's changed. This door is like every other. He'll open it and usher a guest inside. He'll close it and leave them to die. And if there is no guest, he knows his job isn't quite finished. There are horrors to machinate.

He'll reach for the knob, the button, the handle, and four sallow walls will yawn in response.

Rooms never really welcome him. Just concede to him. Ignore him, to the best of its ability.

But if this door is like all the others, why is he so afraid?

Well, probably because he's never applied for a job before.

The Bizzyboys are different. He hadn't really applied, so much that Olivia heckled its leader to let him join.

The Lobby Boy gnaws on a dry lower lip, adjusts his collar and opens the door. He's ignored by the empty restaurant.

"Ah. H...Hello?" Then, louder. "Hello?"

At the sound, Capochin sticks his head out from the back of the building, where he's prepping veggies for the day. Piles of lettuce and tomato slices sit atop a clean counter. He cranes his neck, then makes eye contact, looking surprised.

"Hugo! Whatcha doin' here, kiddo?"

[ Don't reply here yet, I'll edit it with text later! ]

[ THE JACKPOT HAS BEEN WON. THE NUMBER ON THE CARD BECKONS ITS WINNER TO CALL NOW! OR, JUST WHENEVER, REALLY. IT'S NOT LIKE IT'S GOING ANYWHERE. ]

Every time Capochin sees this stupid thing, it makes him laugh. He's had it pinned to his cork board for about a month now, after buying it from Calloway for a frankly obscene amount of Brass. Hector chided him for doing so, but he can't help it, it's just so funny!

He considers calling the number. Maybe it does something. Some kind of charming new joke on the other end, maybe? But he forgets repeatedly, always too busy to pull the thing down and dial the bizarre number.

Until one day, work wraps up early, and screw it. Capochin decides he needs a laugh, especially after that godsforsaken opera. So he sits at his desk, ticket in hand, and he dials.

The line gives a click! as it's picked up, and instantly, music begins.

Or... it tries to begin, it seems. Compressed-yet-cheerful horns begin a fanfare that never seems to proceed past what sounds to be the start of the song. However, they're quickly spoken over by a voice, the sound of it just as compressed as the audio; the speaker makes up for it that with volume and gusto.

"CONNNNNNNGRAT-U-LATIONS!" The voice on the other end of the line cheers, making the phone's speaker squeak with the volume, before he quiets down to something more manageable. He loses none of his cheer, however. "You've gotten the SLICK DIGITS of Spamton G. Spamton, which must mean you're either a DEBT COLLECTOR, or a GRAND PRIZE WINNER! Press one if you're a GRAND PRIZE WINNER! Go to the AFTERLIFE YOU DESERVE if you're a DEBT COLLECTOR!"

And then, abruptly, save for that ever-looping fanfare, silence, awaiting a response.

Woah okay! At first Capochin has to hold the phone away from his face a few inches, it's so loud and crunchy. Admittedly, the line about debt collectors gives him another good laugh. So far this seems to be mostly just as funny as he expected it to be.

Deciding to humor the canned voice, he dials 1 on his rotary phone.

"Thank you! You have selected... a NUMBER!"

Brimming with enthusiasm despite clearly not knowing what number he'd dialed, the fanfare changes for one triumphant moment! Then it's right back to its loop.

"You're our GRAND-SLAM WINNER of ONE! WILLIAM! KROMER!" The voice on the phone announces, jubilant. "You can collect your winnings via mail, check, or TORRENT DOWNLOAD! This transfer will take two to EIGHTY-THREE days!"

A pause, before that joy suddenly lowers to something almost conspiratory.

"...Unless," the voice starts, as if letting a friend in on a secret. "You'd like a ONCE-IN-A-TIMELINE offer. Want to hear your options? Money with the HONEYS, or something a little special with the---" He cuts off, sounding suddenly more distant, as though he's been pulled away, wailing with agony. "OH, GOD, NOT THE BEES! ANYTHING BUT THE BEES! THEY'RE KILLING ME! THEY'RE KILLING M---"

And, just as quickly, he's back to speaking perfectly normally, as if nothing had happened at all. "What do ya say, Big Winner?"

For a beat or two, Capochin is silent in stunned confusion.

"Wait, this ain't a recording? You're actually there?"

"No sir! You're there! I'm STANDING RIGHT HERE!"

Is that canned laughter in the background?

More silence.

"Alright."

Silence again.

"So, uh--- what do I win exactly?"

"Didn't you read the card, you HANDSOME LITTLE FREAK OF NATURE? You're the grand-prize winner of A HEAPING HELPING of kromer! The kinds of money that someone would KILL for! Or WORSE!"

Ever-cheerful, even despite those long beats of silence, he goes on, until he pauses. One moment, then two, then three pass, before he speaks again, jarringly quiet compared to his prior ~~wildly oscillating~~ volumes.

"Unless... you're willing to trade those winnings, stranger."

"What in the Drain is kromer?" The question is asked under Capochin's voice, barely audible through the phone as his face scrunches into a more deeply puzzled look.

"Uh, trade it for what?" A beat, and his tone turns more confident. Scheming, almost. "I mean, if we're talkin' this kinda money, it'd better be worth my time, capische? You're not stringin' me along, are ya?"

"Well worth your time, my good MAN, WOMAN, OR OTHER DESIGNATION!" There's a desperation that creeps into the gusto the voice on the phone projects. "HAHAHAH! I'll tell you what! Just because we're BEST FRIENDS FOREVER, I'll cut you a deal I've only offered to HELLISH ROYALTY!"

There's a sound that pops and crackles on the other end, like party-poppers. He coughs and hacks for a moment, as though he's gotten confetti in his mouth.

"See, here's the situation, friend. I signed on to do business with Aster, Demon Prince! You know him! Nice suit, deer face, HUGE RACK? ANTLERS! GET IT? PLEASE, GOD, DO YOU HEAR ME?? I'm willing to sell my unlimited BETTER BUSINESS FROM A NAME YOU CAN TRUST for your winnings! You need it done, I'll do it! All for the low, low price of THAT LITTLE TICKET of yours!"

Huh.

Stealing an Infernal Servant from Aster does sound pretty clever. But does he really want this unholy lovechild of a used car commercial on VHS and a corrupted GIF of a wacky inflatable tube man as his hired help? Does he even want a servant?

Then he remembers a job posting he made a little while back.

"Got any experience in fast food?"

"I CAN MAKE A BURGER SO GOOD YOU'LL ██████ YOURSELF!"

He's censored in real-time by a beep so loud it causes the speakers to squeak like they're in pain.

"WOAH JEEZ!" Capochin has to hold the phone away from his face again. "Watch yer language, bub! I'm lookin' for a manager to mind my place when I'm away. Think you can handle it? Without givin' the employees or customers a heart attack, preferably?"

"So long as they're not asking for a one-way trip to HEART ATTACK CITY, your BURGER BOYS and HUNGRY CITIZENS are safe with me! I won awards in BEST BUSINESS PRACTICES IN CYBER CITY for AN AMOUNT OF TIME!"

Capochin raises a brow at the dubious statement, then shrugs. "Eh, you'll do. Come get yer weird paper."

"AYE AYE, CAPTAIN!"

Abruptly, the line cuts dead, dropping harshly to silence. Just outside the windows of the home, there's sounds of rustling, and metallic shaking; if one didn't know any better, it'd be an easy assumption to make that a raccoon that woke up after a late-night trash heist.

After a bang! and a clatter of the lid being shunted off, there are remarkably small thuds up the front steps, before there comes a knock at the door. Then, silence. For all the ruckus, at least he's waiting politely.

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[Open] Hail to da King

The Coronation

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Court

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