So…the match comes to its climax. It’s all come down to this.
The arena is strewn with the wreckage of many opponents and many previous attacks, including my own. My Bobs have been laid waste, my Post-Nasal Drip run its course, and my aglets scattered as chaff before the wind. Very well, then. It is time for the grand finale.
The attacks arrayed against me are easily dispelled by the suitcase full of dirty laundry brought back from my long trip to Italy – a potent force, to be sure. While there under the guise of a choir tour, I secretly met with the leaders of the deadly Tartuffo Negro Rochambo cult of Sicily, where after fierce negotiation I received a weapon so devastating that I had hoped never to be forced to use it. It is a thing spoken only of in hushed whispers on the SDMB, and even now I hesitate, hoping against hope for another alternative. But no – the time is now.
I carry a small wooden crate to the center of the ring. The crowd and my opponents watch in wary silence as I pry open the top and cast it aside. Carefully – ever so carefully – I reach inside and lift out the object within. As it is revealed, the silence is broken by shouts and screams of fear from the crowd, followed by a general stampede for the door. My opponents, too, are wide-eyed and perspiring with fear as I gingerly set the device down before me. It is a compact machine, with an assortment of colored buttons and flashing lights on the top, but what draws their eyes inexorably to it, what the crowd fled in terror, are the words crudely stenciled on the side:
THREADKILLER 2001
I know what they must be thinking. Surely this is a bluff – any attempt to actually **use ** such a device would result in my own destruction. Surely I could never do something so mad?
Dismissing a passing thought of “Yes I could, and don’t call me ‘Shirley’”, I sneer triumphantly and reach toward the flashing white button that will start the countdown. My opponents shift uneasily but stand their ground; these are no Rochambo rookies to be broken by mere threats. I pause for dramatic effect, and then…I press the button.
A pleasant female voice rings out across the floor, echoing from the now deserted bleachers:
The Threadkiller 2001 has now been activated. Detonation in 180 seconds and counting…170….160…
I stand over the machine, watching my opponents unblinkingly. A few turn and run, not waiting to see what happens next; the last few glance nervously at the box as the countdown continues and then back at me, sure that my nerve will give and I will stop the countdown. I stand unmoving over the device as the voice continues its litany: …130…120…110…
As the timer nears the 90 second mark, there is a growing feeling of tension in the air as the point of no-return draws closer. All Rochambo veterans knows that it would take at least 45 seconds to get far away enough to escape the impending blast, should it occur. “Feeling lucky, punks?” I say, in a bad Dirty Harry impression. “Or should I press the red button and speed up the timer for you?” There is no reply, but I can see in their eyes that my words have hit their mark.
At the one-minute mark, the counter switches to five-second intervals: * 60…55…50…*.
Finally the last opponents see that I will not be outlasted, will not be reasoned with or threatened, and that I am determined to go down and take them all with me rather than lose. They back away, and then, forgetting all dignity, bolt for the entrance. I am alone in the hall.
I laugh in triumph – I have won! Crowing my delight, I reach down to hit the green button to stop the countdown. And freeze.
Horrified, I realize that my “clash of the tartans” with Bear Nenno on page 5 has rendered me permanently colorblind, and I can’t tell which button to press. Is that the green button to stop the bomb – or the red one to set it off more quickly?
The voice continues: …35…30… There is no time – I stab at a random button. There is a sudden silence, and I relax. I’ve been lucky.
And then a new voice, more sinister, rings out: Omega Option activated: detonation is in ten…nine…eight…
I stare a moment at the box in horror, then turn to flee.
…seven…six…
In my haste, I trip over the remains of a fruitcake and fall heavily…
…five…four…
I attempt to rise, but a sharp pain indicated that my ankle is twisted…
…three…two…
And to add insult to injury, I realized that I have a beer-soaked Uno card stuck to my forehead…
…one…
Oh sh…
<There is a blinding white flash. Dissolve to a field of red poppies waving in the light spring breeze. A bird sings in the background. Fade to black. The Moderator quietly closes the thread.>
[sub]*Okay, so poppies have nothing to do with Rochambo. I like poppies. So there. Get your own thread if you don’t like it.[/sub]
