Battle of the Snowflakes: Part Seven

You know the drill, full story after the cut!

Part Seven: Easy as Pie

My dress may be in shambles but at least I’m right back where I’m supposed to be: directly in the center of everyone’s attention and jealousy.

“You were stunning, stunning.

I’m not even sure how you survived that.”

“That was utterly ridiculous.”

Natasha Satantastic, formerly named Black Leopard Violet the Magnificent, points to me from her section mouthing, “you’re next.” She completes the threat by melodramatically drawing a single finger across her neck. I’m momentarily freaked out–until I remember that she’s done this empty threat to everyone who has won their match.

“What a finale,” Natasha Satantastic says. “Flixit, clearly with the upper hand just happening to trip and fall to her death because you implied you needed to get to the next round. Such sacrifice.”

Though I do my best to ignore her, the implication of my incompetence still stings a little. And by a little I mean not at all.

The Voice clicks back on and begins to announce the next round. As everyone’s attention shifts to the upcoming match I feel a bit relieved but also worried. I’ve done well but what can that possibly mean when “doing well” involves watching someone else accidentally throw themselves into a wood chipper? The rounds are only going to get more difficult and I can’t help but feel that a matchup against some of the stronger opponents could destroy my dress beyond repair, or worse, damage my elaborate hairdo. Despite all this I’m content in the fact that, because I didn’t actually kill anyone in the last round, I’m still a likable protagonist.

This round is the last of the prelims and as such features the only two contestants left who haven’t fought: Hope Faith Charity Love and the Mysterious Mech-suit. On a much more interesting note, the snacks this time around appear to be a variety of pie slices neatly arranged on the platter to look like a high-heeled converse. All fourteen pieces are delicious.

The bright flash indicating two contestants have been beamed to their arena interrupts my pie-eating. As my wallscreen flickers on, I recall Hope’s pristine skirt and blouse and find myself vehemently wishing a garbage heap or sewer system ends up as her battle arena.

Instead, a stunning grassy green meadow stretches across the screen. Off to the side, a slight hill rises from the plain, topped by a single oak beneath which a red and white checkered picnic blanket is spread. The postcard-perfect scene is completed by a large wicker picnic basket and a vase of roses.

Faith and Mech-suit appear on either side of the blanket, much closer together than any of the previous battle-pairs.

Mech-suit is the first to move, snatching the picnic basket up in a half-second and reeling back for a blow.

Fastest round ever, I think.

But Mech-suit doesn’t strike.

Charity is blinking attractively and somehow managed to end up on the ground again without dirtying her outfit.

“Why?” she cries. “Why do we fight?” She turns to the mech-suit and asks, “why do you fight?”

Mech-suit seems frozen by the question. Slowly, the picnic basket is lowered back down to the blanket. While Faith Hope Meta World Peace continues begging chastely for her life, the entire suit shudders violently, then backs up a few steps and opens.

Out of it comes a ridiculously attractive. . .man?

“I–I don’t know,” the ridiculously attractive man says in a ridiculously attractive way. “I don’t know why I fight.”

He then begins to cry.

Hope Faith Charity Love moves over and gives him a hug.

“It’s going to be all right,” she says, her eyes looking like they’ve seen a thousand lifetimes and are the windows to the soul. “I’m not going anywhere.”

My fourteen flavors of pie threaten to make a violent reappearance.

The boy-man (with such an attractive face, it’s hard to tell at times) wastes no time at all sharing nearly a decade of tragic backstory with Joy Love Kindness. His name is apparently Gabrielle Garth Rockalanche Steel. He goes by Gary. He has  single-handedly mass-murdered at least half of the species in the galaxy. He tears up when talking about his father.

In response to this thrillingly disturbing tale, Hope Faith Charity Love blinks attractively and dramatically whips her glossy hair over her shoulder every few seconds. This combination has the incredibly fascinating quality of being irritating both to watch and listen to. Since I can practically feel and taste the cheesiness perhaps it’s taking out those senses as well.

The five minutes following this tale consist of the two simply sitting on the picnic blanket and staring into each other’s eyes while birds chirp merrily in the background.

What follows this eye-gazing is an occurrence I may never be able to properly explain. Not because it is beyond comprehension but rather because there are no words in Elvish, Entish, or the tongues of men to properly describe such an atrocity.

The closest I can get is that it was technically a montage. And that it was set to the song “(I Just) Died in Your Arms.”

At one point, baby pictures were shown.

I would attempt to continue but I prefer you not set this story on fire in disgust.

As the montage freeze-frames and fades, I’m not sure how my already fraught stomach survived the encounter. My prevailing theory is that it went into shock along with the rest of my body and then shut down entirely.

You didn’t bat an eye at the wood chipper incident, I tell myself. Pull yourself together. With difficulty, I force myself into a crumpled but upright position and try to refocus on the screen.

Chastity and Gary are staring deeply into each other’s eyes again.

“You are so unique,” Gary says.

“I know,” Gentleness Kindness Self-Control says.

“I could stay here forever,” Gary replies.

“So stay.”

A loud ZAP interrupts my concentration and the room suddenly smells like burned meat. In the section beside me, it appears Natasha Satantastic has purposefully flung herself into the section barrier and is now lying on the floor motionless and smoking.

Back onscreen, things are heating up.

“I wrote a poem for the games,” Grace Trust says, pulling a small notebook from a previously concealed skirt pocket. “I could read it to you, if you’d like.”

“I wouldn’t like that,” Gary says.

Hope looks as if she’s about to cry.

“I would LOVE it,” he continues.

ZAP. Another contestant has taken the easy way out.

Hope Charity Love. . .what was that other one? Eh. Purity clears her throat and begins to read in a charming, tinkling voice:

Unique and special snowflakes,

Drifting gracefully towards each other 

About to collide

One to live

One to be destroyed for ever

A loss to the universe

I cry pools of limpid tears

Such beauty, 

Such destruction

Battle of the Snowflakes.”

A chorus of tortured moans from the other girls rise around me.

I’ve managed to survive the sappy setup, the cringeworthy declarations of love, even the. . .montage. But that poetry. . .

Fourteen flavors of pie eject themselves from my stomach and into a bag that conveniently replaced the empty pie-platter a few minutes ago. When I’ve recovered enough to speak, I direct my rage to the Stat-O-Vision 9001.

“Did she just pretentiously name-drop the title in her crappy poem?” I demand. “Did she?!”

The Voice comes on line with a squeal.

“Please calm down,” it requests, “the pain should recede momentarily.”

“No! This has gone too far!” I shout at the same time Gamer Girl says:

“This is unacceptable! Lines must be drawn!”

When we both look at each other, I realize we’re the only ones left. The other two girls are either smoking and unconscious or curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth and muttering to themselves. The room suddenly feels very large and very empty.

Ever oblivious to our reactions, the cringe-worthy romance marches onward.

“I love you,” Gary says.

“Of course,” Hope replies.

Gary leans forward and kisses Chastity chastely. Then he punches her in the face which knocks her out cold. He lays her gently on the blanket and stands, looking down at her sadly. A single tear trickles out of his right eye.

“I must do this,” he says, even though she can’t hear him. “Your goodness must continue. You’re the only one who can stop the madness with your overwhelming hope, faith, charity and love.”

I’m suddenly and strangely glad my stomach is empty of pie.

With one last lingering look (and always a lot of alliteration), Gary returns to his mech-suit and, once completely encased in it, takes off at a dead sprit across the meadow.

Halfway across the grassy green field he shouts, “FOR LOOOOOOOOOVE!” and jumps into the air.

The mech-suit implodes on itself in a spectacular fireball which litters the scenic meadow with burning chunks of metal and sets a large swath of grass on fire.

Hey, maybe my wish for a terrible garbage-arena came true after all.

The explosion somehow wakes Love, who sits up slowly and takes in the flaming carnage.

“No,” she whispers.

“Yes!” I cheer. Crap, there goes my whole likable-protagonist thing. Oh well.

At least round five is over.

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Posted on September 17, 2013, in Battle of the Snowflakes, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Comments Off on Battle of the Snowflakes: Part Seven.

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