From the creative minds behind The Testing Pages of Doom and The Inevitable Adventures of Grim and Crazy (plus people who happened to be on IRC as we came up with this stuff), I give you:
The (Inevitable?) Adventures of Lawnsby and Winters (Lieutenants)
John Lawnsby and Raymond Winters are a pair of junior grade lieutenants determined to drive their ship's first officer (Commander Victor Magnusson) completely insane. It starts off with dissolving soup and... well, let's just show you the first chapter (written by myself with ideas from Grim Reaper, Crazy, and to a lesser extent Murska, and to a much lesser extent E_net4 and Narvius (who both came into the chatroom to be completely confused by the bizarre conversation we were having)).
Chapter 1
"Lawnsby! Winters! What are you doing in a maintenance tunnel without trousers?!"
Lieutenant Junior Grade John Lawnsby jumped in surprise, before turning and managing a salute. Lieutenant Junior Grade Raymond Winters was a split-second slower in coming around, but actually managed to not look guilty.
"Sir," said Lawnsby, "I regret to inform we have identified a trouser-thief aboard ship."
Commander Victor Magnusson somehow scowled at both of them simultaneously. "No great task to identify yourself."
"I am astonished by your insinuation, sir!"
"Yes, well, I'm astonished you're still in the service. Kitchen duty for the both of you."
"But sir--!" began Winters before Magnusson cut him off.
"For a week!" Magnusson said, and stormed off fuming.
Once he was out of sight, Lawnsby and Winters high-fived. "Powder, dye, and a week of kitchen duty," said Lawnsby.
"And all it cost us was two pairs of trousers," agreed Winters with a nod.
TWO DAYS, A FEW DROPS OF DYE, AND A VIAL OF SOME NOT-STRICTLY-LEGAL POWDERY STUFF LATER:
"Lawnsby!"
Lawnsby cautiously stepped through the door seperating the kitchen from the mess hall, into the angry stare of Commander Magnusson. "Yes, sir?"
"What did you do to my soup?"
Lawnsby raised an eyebrow. "Your soup, sir?"
Magnusson's voice was nearly a growl. "Yes, my soup."
"What's wrong with it, sir?"
"Look at it!"
Lawnsby took another few steps forward, carefully leaned down, and sniffed a few times. Finally, he rose and nodded. "Yes, it's definitely soup, sir."
"OF COU--" Magnusson began before he remembered he was in the mess. He took a deep breath and tried again. "Of course it's soup. The point is the colour of the soup."
"Is it not supposed to be purple, sir?"
"No, Lieutenant Lawnsby, soup is not supposed to be purple. Nor is it supposed to dissolve before it reaches my mouth. And the spoon--"
Lawnsby's expression was innocent confusion. "Spoon, sir?"
Magnusson sighed. "Lawnsby, do not try to tell me that you did nothing to my spoon."
"I didn't say anything, sir, but if you must know, I did nothing to your spoon."
"Oh really? Nothing at all?"
"Nothing but place it on your tray, sir."
"So this," he said, grabbing the utensil in question angrily, "was not your idea?"
Magnusson thrust the spoon into the bowl, and immediately a gravelly voice boomed out, "I HUNGER!"
Completely unfazed, Lawnsby replied, "No sir, wasn't my idea."
"Well, then, I know what's going on here. Winters!"
Almost immediately, Winters walked through the kitchen door. "Yes, sir?"
"Come here."
Winters stepped up next to Lawnsby. "Yes, sir?"
"Was this your idea, then?"
"Was what, sir?"
"My soup."
"Soup, sir?"
Magnusson's cheeks began burning red. "Yes, you foul-minded nincompoop, my soup!"
Winters leaned over, sniffed a few times, and nodded. "Definitely soup, sir."
"I BLOODY WELL KNOW--" Magnusson couldn't quite stop himself that time. "I bloody well know it is, Lieutenant! Do not make me demote you for sheer idiocy!"
"No, sir, I expect you'll demote me out of spite."
"WINTERS, YOU LITTLE--"
"Would you prefer if it was green, sir?"
Magnusson blinked. "What?"
"The colour. Would you prefer green to purple? Or perhaps lilac?"
"Not the fucking colour, you twit! It dissolves as soon as it leaves the bowl! And the spoon...!"
Magnusson once again thrust the utensil into the purple, liquid depths, and once again the voice boomed out, "I HUNGER!"
"What about it, sir?"
"So you deny this was your idea?"
"Wasn't my idea for you to thrust your spoon into the bowl, sir, no."
"LIEUTENANT, I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS BEHAVIOR!"
"Good thing you're sitting then, sir."
A vein on Magnusson's throat looked as though it was about to burst. Lawnsby suddenly interjected, "Would you prefer a different spoon, sir?"
"A different spoon, a different soup, and most definitely a different set of cooks!"
"I'm hurt, sir. I slaved for significant fractions of an hour to produce that soup you have before you--"
"Winters, will you cease your pointless mewling?!"
"I'm sorry you feel you need to mistreat your underlings as you mistreat your spoons... thrusting them heartlessly into soup without a care for their intended use--"
"Winters, shut up!"
Winters suddenly became intently interested in his boots. "Yes, sir."
Lawnsby cleared his throat loudly. "I'd just like to add--"
"No. You shut up too."
Lawnsby closed his mouth with an audible click.
"Now," said Magnusson, his face expressing his desire to space the both of them. "You will take this bowl and this spoon, and you will de-atomize them. Then you will consider yourselves confined to quarters for the remainder of the voyage. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" said Lawnsby and Winters in unison.
Magnusson waved them away. As they took the offending soup (with spoon) back into the kitchen, another set of high-fives was exchanged. Lawnsby grinned. "I didn't hear him say what to do with the soup in the bowl. Did you?"
Winters made a show of thinking it over. "Come to think of it, neither did I. Oh well! I guess we can't de-atomize it, then."
"Shame."
"Yes, such a shame. Still, t'least we can dye it green now."
"What is it with you and green?"
"It's a weakness."
"Well, we'll make the robot green, how about that?"
"Sounds good to me."
Chapter 2
In the dark depths of Ventillation Shaft 32A-5, a whirring noise could be heard. Also, giggling. But mostly whirring. Standing just outside vent panel 32A-5-G (located conveniently in the quarters of one Lieutentant (J.G.) John Lawnsby) were two figures. In their hands was a control panel for the tiny robot standing in the vent in front of them.
"Make him do a dance," said Winters, his voice low but excited.
"He can barely stand up in there," replied Lawnsby. "We'll just send him in and do the test, like we'd planned."
"Well, can't we paint him green first?"
Lawnsby arced an eyebrow. "Before we've even made sure he works?"
"Pl~ease?"
Lawnsby rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine. Just hurry it up."
Ten minutes of meticulous painting later, the whirring noise started up again, and Yog-Ventoth ("We're naming it after a Great Old One?" "Why not?") began its trek through the bowels of the A.M.S. Demeter, toward the command deck and Magnusson's quarters. After getting lost a few times along the way (and locating what was either an illegal prostitution ring or a band of LARPers (it's hard to tell these days)), Yog-Ventoth found the vent Lawnsby and Winters had been so happy to locate in the design schematics for the Lancer-class battlecruiser. Yog-Ventoth looked down, giving his scheming masters a perfect view of Commander Magnusson, asleep in his quarters.
Winters cackled and rubbed his hands together. "Can I push the button?"
Lawnsby made a hurt expression. Winters countered with puppy eyes. "Oh fine," said Lawnsby, "you can push the damned button."
Winters gave a whoop and slammed down on the big red button on the control panel directing Yog-Ventoth. Immediately, Magnusson was blasted awake to a voice similar to the one that had infected his spoon... only now it was yelling, "DO A BARREL ROLL!" Now, neither Lawnsby nor Winters was aware of this, but Magnusson had been a pilot before he became an officer. So when an authoritative voice shouted at him to "DO A BARREL ROLL," he did a god-damned barrel roll.
Magnusson flopped onto the floor with an anguished cry and began swearing at the top of his lungs. Lawnsby and Winters began laughing so hard they couldn't stay on their chairs and were reduced to lying on the floor, giggling their heads off.
"What in the..." Magnusson groggily stood up and looked around. "What the bloody hell was that? Who did that!?"
Lawnsby carefully turned Yog-Ventoth around and guided him back towards his quarters. Winters kept sniggering. "What do we do tomorrow night?"
"Same thing we do every night, Raymond. Try to drive Magnusson insane!"
Commander Victor Magnusson wasn't sleeping well.
He'd tried sealing the vent in his quarters, but however those two buffoons were doing whatever they were doing, they just did it louder to compensate. Also, he suspected it was against regulations to block off his air vent. He tried placing traps in the vent, but it hadn't had any effect on the damned noise. Every night it was something different. From "DO A BARREL ROLL!" to that first, infernal, "I HUNGER!" to everything from "LEEEEEEROOOOOOOY JEEEEENKIIIIIIINS!" to "PUNCH THE KEYS, FOR GOD'S SAKE!" All shouted at the top of the lungs, all incredibly annoying, and all references that the poor, uncultured Commander Magnusson did not get.
He'd spent his own personal money on two somewhat-great expenses at their last stopover at Starbase 25. The first was toilet paper with the faces of Lawnsby and Winters (somewhat juvenile, but Magnusson didn't care... revenge was revenge, even if it was juvenile revenge). The second was a pair of "Punching Target Bots" (an overly-cumbersome brand name if Magnusson had ever heard of one). He'd gotten two just in case one broke, but they were more durable than he'd thought. He spent many of his free afternoons working out his tensions on one of them (the other he left in the cargo bay after making sure it also worked). After a while, he'd almost allowed himself to believe that Lawnsby and Winters had done their worst.
And then Lawnsby had an idea.
"I've got the perfect idea for that dissolving soup."
Winters, who had been spinning around in his chair, shrugged. "We can't exactly try to make him eat it, again."
Lawnsby shook his head. "We don't need to make him try to eat it... besides, that gag was only funny the first time. No, we'll do something far more dastardly with it."
"I like the sound of 'dastardly.'"
"As well you should, friend. Come, let us plan a way to steal Magnusson's pillow..."
THREE DAYS, A BRIBE, AND THE DISCOVERY OF A SECOND VENT IN MAGNUSSON'S QUARTERS LATER:
Yog-Ventoth carefully whirred his way onto the floor of Magnusson's quarters. Lawnsby and Winters had carefully made sure he wasn't in the room before they commenced their plan. Yog-Ventoth whirred his way over to the side of the bed, and immediately encountered a problem.
"He's too small to reach it," said Winters.
"Thank you for stating the blindingly obvious," replied Lawnsby. "I gave him an extendo-arm for a reason."
"You gave him an extendo-arm?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I forgot. Now, observe..."
Yog-Ventoth's arm extended upwards, and snagged onto Magnusson's pillow. Carefully pulling it off the bed ("We don't want to rip it!" "I know, stop poking me!"), Yog-Ventoth withdrew back into the ventilation shaft, pillow squeezed in behind him.
"Well, I see another problem," said Winters.
"That being?"
"If he tries to put the replacement in with that extendo-arm, it will look noticeably 'off' from the way he left his pillow."
"Do you have a better idea?"
"...Miniature jetpack?"
Lawnsby snorted. "That is not a better idea."
"Repulsor collar?"
"How in the hell would we get our hands on a repulsor collar?"
"Why not build one?"
"With what?"
Winters paused at that. "Good point."
Lawnsby thought about it while Yog-Ventoth made his way back to his quarters (they'd added a basic navigational chip to avoid having to manually control his journeys to and from Magnusson's quarters). "Well, what if he lifted himself up with the extendo-arm?"
"Can that thing support his weight?"
"Sure. Well, probably. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it?"
"'Stands to reason'? How, exactly?"
Lawnsby shrugged. "We'll just have to try it and see, won't we?"
AFTER A RUSHED THIRTY MINUTES DURING WHICH THERE WAS MUCH MODIFYING OF PILLOWS AND MUCH PANIC THAT MAGNUSSON WOULD RETURN EARLY:
Yog-Ventoth took a quick look around the quietly-opened vent to ensure that Magnusson had not, in fact, returned early, then whirred his way back to the side of the bed. Then he performed what looked for all the world like a piece of spontaneous break-dancing, finally winding up on his head.
"You forgot to have him grab the pillow before he did that," said Lawnsby.
"...Damn it," said Winters.
"Give it here, I have an idea."
"No, you'll ruin my perfect break-dancing pose!"
"It's ruined anyway if he doesn't actually have the pillow, isn't it?"
Winters glared at Lawnsby, as if he might challenge this rhetorical question, then finally rolled his eyes. "Fine, you take the controls."
Lawnsby gleefully had Yog-Ventoth balance on his non-extending arm while the extendo-arm telescoped out and snagged the nearby pillow. Then he did a complicated pirouette to switch which hand was grasping the pillow without letting his legs touch the floor.
"...What was the point of that maneuver?"
Lawnsby gasped. "If his feet touch the floor, we lose the game, dummy!"
Winters gasped, astonished he could have forgotten. "Wait... damn it, we lost the Game anyway!"
Lawnsby swore so loudly, and facepalmed so hard, he didn't notice his elbow nudging Yog-Ventoth just slightly enough to make him fall over... until the loud "clang" coming through the speaker on the controls notified him, anyway. "Oh, damn it, there goes the other game... and that sweet break-dancing pose."
About ten minutes later, Yog-Ventoth had satisfied his controllers vicarious enjoyment of break-dancing to extend himself upward one-handed, and tilted himself over to land on the top of the bed. After pushing himself upright, he retracted his extendo-arm and set about putting the pillow back exactly as it had been found.
"That corner isn't as poofy as it was before."
Lawnsby rolled his eyes. "I don't think he'll notice an insufficiently-poofy corner."
"He totally will! He's just that anal-retentive to notice."
Lawnsby considered this with a glower before finally having Yog-Ventoth reach up to make the corner in question more "poofy". Satisfied, Winters commanded Yog-Ventoth to return through the vent.
Without first telling him how to get off of the bed.
Another loud "clang" sounded through the speaker, and Winters winced. Lawnsby smirked. "Tell me, Raymond: how did you expect him to get off the bed without clear instructions?"
"...Shut up."
AN EMBARRASSED TEN MINUTES (AND A LESS-EMBARRASSED FIFTY MINUTES) LATER:
Commander Victor Magnusson gave a sigh as he returned to his quarters; he'd had a long day, and he wasn't looking forward to the mysterous voice from the vent; still, maybe he'd be tired enough to sleep through it.
Yeah, he thought to himself sarcastically. I'm sure you've had years of military training just so you could sleep through a loud noise. Just sure of it.
Still, he hadn't heard the voice last night; maybe Lawnsby and Winters had given up when they hadn't provoked him into throwing them in the brig... Right; and I'll believe that when I see it.
Magnusson sighed, and began taking off his uniform. The shirt he tossed up in the closet, without washing or hanging it up; the automated closet would take care of it. His undershirt he left on, while his pants went onto the chair; he'd left a few items in the pockets, but was too tired to take them out, and he didn't want to put it in the closet without removing them first. Finally, he sat on the bed, removed his socks, swung up his feet and laid his head on the pillow.
The pillow, in fact, which he did not notice anything amiss about. It was exactly as poofy as he'd left it, after all! However, the instant his head touched the pillow, it burst open and drenched his hair with a green, soup-like substance.
"Aaurrgh!" Magnusson cried out.
"Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!" Lawnsby and Winters agreed, watching the scene from Yog-Ventoth, which was monitoring from the safety of the second vent.
"What the--" Magnusson continued, but stopped when he realized the soup had instantly dissolved, lasting only long enough to scare the crap out of him and give him the vague impression that he smelled lentils. Also, chicken. "Damn you, Lawnsby and Winters!"
This last comment resulted in enthusiastic high-fives. "Eeeexcellent," said Lawnsby. "Now we just need to figure out how to convince him he hallucinated the whole thing."
Winters suddenly grinned. "Ooh, I have an idea! We could have him wake up with his original pillow!"
"But... his original pillow just exploded."
"No no, I mean another pillow that looks exactly like it."
"Oh. Right. Hmm... maybe. How would we put it in without him waking up, though?"
"...I think it's time for dastardly scheme number three."
Stay tuned for more adventures of Lawnsby and Winters (Lieutenants)!
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