Promo - Mr. Elbows Goes to the Shoe Factory

[Angel_Grace_Blue 0]

Brief note about this promo: I was kinda thinking of returning as Doom a while back, and I figured I might as well think of a reason for the return (Since I've never done one before. It was always "Oh, hey, yeah, I'm back. Why did I leave? I didn't. I was over there, eating cake, just, like, hanging out. I was probably out getting more cake each time you looked over here."). So, I wrote up this promo and began working on stats. However, I just couldn't ever get the stats to click. Something just never fit with turning the complete wackjob that is Jimmy the Doom into a snobbish, dick of a heel. Plus, the more I thought about it, I wasn't that thrilled with writing as Doom again, and thanks to you guys what said "I liked Buck" (A thought I share), I decided to write as Buck. However, I really like this promo, except the ending is tacked on so I could keep Doom out of action (Even though he never was back in action, so it's kinda dumb). Anyway, I like it, so I'm posting it. This is not a brief note at all. Huzzah for being an idiot some moressssss!

 

Last thing and then the promo: Bonus points to whoever correctly identifies/defines "Fishyback".

 

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Note: All words in italics were originally Doomtopian and translated into English.

 

Dateline: Septobruary 1F.93, Niner-Deuce Sigma.

 

Jimmy the Doom is tired. He's just made the long trek from the United States to Doomtopia on the basis of a cryptic telegram reading, "Much Home Now Get!" He has finally arrived, though, and is now in the process of determining the reason for his summons. The Doomtopian legend, wife Lois as always by his side, stares at his childhood home. It's a small, dull gray cube, almost a tiny office building, currently covered with a pattern of limes nailed to the walls in concentric circles.

 

"NO!" Jimmy shrieks.

 

"Oh, God, Jimmy, I'm so sorry," Lois says.

 

Doom drops to his knees and violently rips his mustache off. Jimmy frantically crawls to the front door and slams his head against it. It opens, and Doom looks up into the face of a wizened old crone of a woman.

 

"Mother! Thank goodness, I was afraid maybe you were the one...but, not Father?" Jimmy stammers.

 

"No, James, not your father. It was dear old Uncle Silington," she replies.

 

"How...how did he pass?" Doom asks.

 

"A pack of feral gnomes, I'm afraid."

 

"Dear God!" Jimmy exclaims. "Is the rest of the family holding up?"

 

"About as well as can be expected. Of course, we'd all sleep better at night as soon as the damn gnome coup was put down," she says.

 

"Well, if there's anything I can do to help around here, just let me know," Jimmy says.

 

"As a matter of fact, there is. You see, Silington requested that you oversee his funeral," she says.

 

"I shall take care of everything, Mother," Doom states.

 

Dateline: Auguly Deca-Ohm, Treble.

 

"We shall now execute the last will and testament of Sir Silington Pembrooke, Lord of Grunfeld. He leaves his entire estate, lands, titles, deeds, NetFlix queue, collection of vorpal blades, snicker-snack, gremlins and mogwais, all gewgaws, curios, and all other such sundries to his nephew, James Doomington. Wait, me?" Jimmy mumbles, bewildered. "Why would Uncle Silington leave me everything? Didn't he have a wife or children? Or what about whichever of you he was brother of?"

 

"No, he had no family, and was an only child," Jimmy's father says.

 

"Besides, he always did like you ever so much, son. I mean, Lord of Grunfeld," Doom's mom says.

 

Dateline: Mayember 0753, Tri-Beta.

 

"There, of course, is glorious Grunfeld Hall, which I shall show you the inside once we finish the tour of the grounds, Sir Doomington," says a hunched, burlap sack bedecked man.

 

"Manservant Fishyback, how prosperous is Grunfeld, exactly?" Doom inquires.

 

"Oh, it is a very rich region, Lord. We, or, rather, you, have two very lucrative resources on your land. First, we shall see the ink farms," Fishyback says.

 

The group of Fishyback, Sir James and Lady Lois come across the vast stretch of water that is the Grunfeld ink farm. Row upon row of serfs reach into the water and pluck a squid. With a deft hand and a sharp knife, the ink sac is quickly removed and placed into a soft pouch. The dying cephalopod is thrown into a large bucket and the process begins again.

 

"This is a very profitable enterprise, you say?" Lois asks.

 

"Oh, yes, my Lady. The ink is sold to numerous companies. We used to also harvest the squid's pen, but most companies use plastic ones these days," Fishyback replies.

 

"What do they eat? Is there any way to save money on squid food?" James inquires.

 

"I'm afraid that would be most unwise, Lord. When the standard food is not supplied, subpar ink is created. Fortunately, the squid subsist on things unfit for people to eat. Mostly sturgeon roe, but also duck and goose liver, and of course, smaller squid," Fishyback says.

 

"Why are the workers putting the squid carcasses into buckets instead of throwing them back in the water?" Lois asks.

 

"Ah, that is because of the salt mines. Let me show you," Fishyback says.

 

Fishyback leads the new nobles past the ink farm and to a large cavern.

 

"This is one of the salt mines on the land. The salt can only be removed in large, hard-packed blocks, so it must be broken down at the mills. We use the squid carcasses as fuel for the mill furnaces so the salt can be ground down to a fine powder," Fishyback explains.

 

"I think we've seen enough of this part of Grunfeld, Manservant Fishyback. We shall retire to our Hall," James says.

 

The three slowly trudge up the small knoll to Grunfeld Hall, an impressive wooden building, full of rustic charm. Fishyback opens the door for the new masters, who look upon the sparse furnishings with disapproval.

 

"Oh, no, no, no. This will not do at all," James sighs.

 

Dateline: Janune 2.GG9, Epsilon Epsilon Epsilon Epsilon Trey.

 

Sir James Hackenford Doomington, Lord of Grunfeld walks towards an enormous marble dining table. He is clad in a shiny and squeaky dolphin-skin suit, wife Lady Lois Fenniter Doomington, a flowing gown of pure gold leaf.

 

”I must say, I’m glad we made the changes to Grunfeld Hall. I can’t see how old uncle Silington lived here for so long in what practically amounts to squalor,” James says.

 

”Oh, I know. Rough-hewn wooden tables and pewter flatware is simply too beastly for proper nobles. It’s a good thing we were able to advance the profits from the ink farm and salt mine to pay for the improvements. I don’t think I could have lasted if we had to wait for the actual sales,” Lois says.

 

The gigantic front door swings open and Manservant Fishyback rushes towards the Doomingtons. He swiftly drops to his knees and bows his head.

 

”What is the meaning of this interruption, Fishyback? The good Lady and I were just about to eat breakfast!” James roars.

 

”My most humble of apologies, Lord, but there is a situation of grave importance,” Fishyback grovels.

 

”Well? Out with it already! I don’t want my panda hash getting any colder,” James says.

 

”Yes, M’Lord. The tax assessor is here, and he claims that you owe a very considerable sum,” Fishyback explains.

 

”What? The taxes are paid each time a shipment of ink or salt is sent out. How on earth could I owe?” James grumbles.

 

”That’s the thing, sire. There have been no shipments for some time now on account of most of you not having any serfs or laborers,” Fishyback says.

 

”How did that happen?!” James booms.

 

”Most of them were conscripted by the Armynautics to fight off the gnome coup. When the number of squid harvesters dwindled, the squids went rogue and killed and ate most of the rest. What few remained fled in terror several weeks ago," Fishyback says.

 

"What?! Why was I not told?!" shouts James.

 

"Well, sir, if you recall, you gave very specific instructions that I was not to disturb you with anything regarding your workers," Fishyback says.

 

"Damn, damn, damn! What are my options?" James asks.

 

"The assessor has suggested that you could either begin working in the ink farm, or perhaps sell off your new furnishings," Fishyback says.

 

"How dare that insolent commoner say such a thing! A Lord, working his own lands? It shall not be done, nor shall I force myself into substandard living conditions simply to meet my debts,” James says.

 

”I have an idea, James. You could earn a wage by returning to the profession you had prior to becoming Lord of Grunfeld. Surely the Smarks Wrestling Federation is in dire need of a member of the nobility,” Lois says.

 

”Lady Lois, that is a phenomenal idea! However, there is no way that I’ll return to the dangerous hardcore environs I so easily excelled in. I must protect myself as a nobleman. That means only competing in the very upper levels, and that requires strategy. Lois, I know you helped guide me in previous encounters, but I don’t feel that you would have the safety you require as the wife of a Lord. I need a new strategician. I’ve got it! Major Feldspar! Muahaha!” James laughs maniacally as he rubs his soul patch.

 

Dateline: Octember 88, Zeus-Figaro Popsicle.

 

James is in a smoky room, sitting in front of a barrel-chested man, very obviously afflicted with hypertrichosis (Sometimes known as Wolfman Syndrome), in full military dress, and smoking a pipe.

 

”Major Feldspar, I'm so glad I could speak with you. I'm in dire need of someone with a wealth of strategery for my upcoming Smarks Wrestling Federation campaign. Can you help?" James asks.

 

"Strategery, you say? I should hope I can be of assistance, Sir James. I'm the best damn Armynauticleer commander ever born. Why am I only a Major, you might ask? They claim it's because of my cursed affliction," Feldspar says, gesturing towards his hirsute face with his pipe. "Too much smoking, they say. Bullshit, say I! It was all political! Besides, if they were that concerned with my smoking, why didn't they ever reprimand me over my habitual ether use?"

 

With that, Feldspar firmly clenches the stem of his pipe in his teeth. He takes a handkerchief and pours a liberal amount of ether on it from a nearby jar. Feldspar takes his pipe in his left hand and inhales deeply from the ether-soaked cloth.

 

"Well, if you do come with me, Major, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to cease your ether abuse, as I'm fairly certain it's illegal in America. So, what say you, Major Feldspar?" James asks.

 

"I shall make the voyage, and I think I can manage without ether, Sir James. However, you must know that I've a terrible case of croup that I doubt I'll survive," Feldspar says.

 

"Oh, make no mistake, Major, should you fail me, I'll kill you myself. Muahahaha!" Doomington laughs maniacally whilst rubbing his soul patch.

 

"Quite," Feldspar replies.

 

Dateline: Lobstobruary 0, Brunch.

 

Sir James Hackenford Doomington, Lord of Grunfeld, is in America for the first time since becoming a nobleman. He exits the airport, Major Feldspar at his side and Manservant Fishyback dutifully carrying the luggage.

 

"Such ghastly people. I cannot believe I'd forgotten how absolutely awful America was. I must admit that becoming Lord of Grunfeld has truly opened my eyes to the disgusting nature of the commoner's world," James says.

 

"Well, let us quickly acquire lodging and comestibles. The first key to stratergizery is a rested mind and a full stomach," Feldspar states.

 

The two men in agreement, they venture across the road, paying no heed to the lack of a crosswalk, nor the speeding ambulance that collides spectacularly with the duo.

 

SERAGLIO!

 

Doomington and Feldspar fly through the air and land several hundred feet away. Fishyback rushes over while the EMTs scramble out to assist the injured pair. Fishyback tries to force the paramedics to see to James first, but he is ignored as Feldspar has a rather serious case of "lung protruding from mouth" syndrome. With Feldspar in the ambulance, Sir James and his minor "bleeding from every hole above the waist" condition is loaded.

 

Dateline: Thrombosis 90210, Kine.

 

Sir James and Major Feldspar are sharing a hospital room, and with respect to the severity of their injuries, are doing moderately well. Feldspar has only vomited blood twice today, while Doomington can turn his neck a full eleven degrees.

 

"Lord Doomington, I have most incredible news!" Fishyback beams.

 

"I shall be allowed to leave today?" James mumbles.

 

"Sadly, no. It will be many more months, at the very least. However, once you have recovered, there is no need for you to return to the Smarks Wrestling Federation, should you choose. The ambulance company has decided to pay you off so you aren't compelled to sue. They'll cover your medical bills and your taxes, several times over, in fact," Fishyback says.

 

"Yay," James whispers.

 

"Quite," adds Feldspar.

[The Ill One 0]

Alright, so for fishyback it's either a) term in vein with piggyback using water and truck system or b) John T. Ashley song, which is something google yielded. But it's nice to have a sense of closure for the Doom-man even if it's through a real tragedy.

 

By the way, why not return G.O.A.T. and then we'll have a handicap match against, like, a grillion midgets at a Macky-Daddy-D's?

[Angel_Grace_Blue 0]

A is the correct answer. And of course, Birdyback is another form of intermodal transport, utilizing truck and air services (For those that don't know, piggyback refers to combining truck and rail transportation. Yes, I'm taking a supply chain management/logistics class. Sue me).

 

I'm not returning GOAT because I think he's kinda lame-store. It was my first attempt and was rather crappy. Sorta like how you'll never return Midjit.

 

Oh snap! Looks like I don't have to go to Mickey-D's since I just got some internet beef!

 

Lolzerzpsant!

[The Ill One 0]

Yeah, I just felt like kickin' an ol' school joke so I can feel all special about myself, way to go. Plus you're an asshole since I totally ended to win the World Title then IL will rip off his skin, revealing it was a costume, and it was Midjit all along~!