“So, what’s next on this guided tour of hell?” Mr. Santa Claus felt himself up, checking to make sure he was all there. The bear pointed up. There was a sign. Maximus Bulkimus. It taunted them with its tawdry lettering, and its dirty colors, and its saucy lighting. “A gym?” Mr. Santa Claus asked uneasily. He felt his blood pressure rising. He was on a strict No Effort diet. “Why?”
“Well Mistuh Santa Claus, ya’lls gotta go in dere, an’ defeat Glute Maximus, da head traina, ta get tha Magic Prahtein Powdah. Is tha second key ta tha Octabahg’s Kingdom-Unda-Tha-Mountain,” the bear said. It hoped next time he’d have a smarter hero to work with.
“Anything you wanna warn me about this time? That last test made no sense at all.”
“Mmm… tha head trainah’s kind of an ass. Tha’s all ya gotta know, sah.” The bear fell silent. Mr. Santa Claus hiked up his pants, and marched in.
A baby-faced receptionist languished behind a desk, filing her nails. Nick approached her, and waited. She didn’t look up. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He waited again. He almost moved to ring the silver bell on her desk, but decided it would be too forward of him. As the tension reached a screaming crescendo, her eyes flicked over to him, then back to her nails.
“Yeah. So?”
Nick fidgeted with the drawstrings on his pants. “Well, I’m here to see Mr. Maximus about Magic Protein Powder?”
“’Kay.” The secretary jabbed a button on her blouse. “Mister Maximus, your five o’ clock is here to see ya. Mr. Maximus, five o’ clock, to see ya. Maximus, five o’clock, see ya. Maximus, five, ya.” She sat back, and picked up the nail file. “He’ll see ya now.” She didn’t look up.
“Thanks, you’ve been most helpful,” Nick drolled. He trundled into the centre, and looked about. Acres of sweaty woodland creatures puffed and wheezed on exercise machines as far as the eye could see. Everything smelled of half-cooked meat and desperation.
From off to the left, past a row of hippos on cycle machines, a heavyset man wearing orange spandex came lumbering Nick’s way. Though he didn’t look so much like a man, as an inverted traffic cone in trainers. Mr. Santa Claus shielded his eyes –the colour of his clothes was too intense to look directly at.
“Can you turn down your shirt? I need earplugs to look at you.” Mr. Santa Claus said. The large man sneered.
“Well, at least there’s no chance you’ll try an’ eat me.” He replied. “Now, what d’you want?”
“I’m s’posed to defeat you to get Magic Protein Powder to help unlock the Octoborg’s Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain. Or something.” Mr. Santa Claus’ eyes began to burn.
“Alright then, Tubbles, fight to the death it is. Let’s go.”
“Wait, what?”
“C’mon!” Glute dragged Mr. Santa Claus into a spacious office overlooking the street. The walls were covered in Krav Maga trophies. Shiny trophies. The ceiling was coated in animal feet. Mr. Santa Claus bit his lower lip. This didn’t bode well.
Thirty-one seconds later, Mr. Santa Claus found himself face down on the sidewalk, covered in broken glass and the tears of a thousand angry orphans. Sir Reginald lumbered over, and helped him up.
“Well, that didn’t go so well.” Nick dusted himself off, and burst into song. A heart-wrenching ballad about loss, about longing, and about wheatcakes.
“Looks like tha wahld is doomed, Mistuh Santa Claus,” the bear sighed, heading down the street towards the train station that appears when Someone wants it to. “Ah’m headin’ home.”
“Whuh?” Nick cried, jogging after the bear.
“Gotta see Britahn’s Gaht Tahlent, afore Roboshahk et’s ‘em,” the bear replied. They snuck past the Great Kraken statue and waited on the platform for the train.
“So, what now?” Mr. Santa Claus said, surveying the station uneasily. He felt the Roboshark would come up any moment to unleash a high five. No Roboshark. A few yards away, a Swedish man was embroiled in a heated argument with a vending machine.
“Förbannade maskin!”
“English, Margaret! Do I look like fuckin’ Abba?!” The machine taunted. Infuriated, the Swede took to kicking vending machine rather vigorously.
“You fight like a French librarian!”
“Ge mig min jakla dricka!”
Mr. Santa Claus regarded this exchange, and strolled over. “If I may?” He brushed the Swede aside, turned his back to the vending machine, and slammed it with his fist.
“Eeey! No bloody fair!” The machine cried. It coughed up a soda, and settled down, muttering colorful angerings under its breath. Mr. Santa Claus reached into the belly of the machine, and handed the drink to the Swede.
“Bub bub?” The Swede regarded the drink for a moment.
“I was Italian once,” Mr. Santa Claus said. He shrugged. “No problem.”
The Swede smiled, and groped around in his pocket. Just as Mr. Santa Claus turned to leave, the Swede thrust a slip of paper into Mr. Santa Claus’ hand.
“Huh?” Mr. Santa Claus uncrumpled the wad of paper.
The Octoborg’s Magical Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain: 1-Day Pass, Train & Main Park Attractions. Admit One Adult.
Mr. Santa Claus looked around for the Swede, but he had gone. He looked around for the bear, but Sir Reginald had gone. Mr. Santa Claus checked to make sure he hadn’t gone as well. A small yellow bird flitted through the station, alerting everyone that the train for Glasgow and the Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain would be leaving in five minutes. Considering it hadn’t even arrived yet, Mr. Santa Claus began to think he wasn’t doing at all well with this, whatever it was.
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