![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
[Open] 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
Deciding to humor the canned voice, he dials 1 on his rotary phone.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"Wait, this ain't a recording? You're actually there?"
no subject
Is that canned laughter in the background?
no subject
"Alright."
Silence again.
"So, uh--- what do I win exactly?"
no subject
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 oscillatingvolumes."Unless... you're willing to trade those winnings, stranger."
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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!"
no subject
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?"
no subject
He's censored in real-time by a beep so loud it causes the speakers to squeak like they're in pain.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
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.