Written by masterchev
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Monday, 22 November 2010

image for Born to Spoof: Chapter Eight: In Memoriam

Sharing a cell with Jean La Fete was a bit like being Chandler in Friends. Alright for a bit, until you start getting all lovesick. Then it all goes pear-shaped.

So whilst lover boy La Fete was mooching around the three by three cell, I found myself slowly trying to map out my life on the concrete floor.

"Jean, what did you say my name was?" I asked, watching as the Dean Martin lookalike attempted to hammer down the wall separating him from his true love with his fists.

"Masterchev. We met in the Oasis Bar and Grill," he replied, briefly taking time away from battering the wall to explain things.

"You were in the TARDIS when we collided with Mark's Orb of Doom," announced the voice from the other side, who Jean had announced was "Number Three,"

The doorbars rattled to reveal the rainbow haired woman. She was rather young for her age: just on the brink of early womanhood. She sneered slightly, but the expression marred her face.

"The others have already arrived," she whispered, her voice barely climbing over the sound of La Fete's hammerings. "Charpa opened the Portal, and all of the Spoofers came tumbling in!"

"So you're the bad guy in all this. Kinda like Dr. Evil, but without the terrible haircut. And without the killer cat," I grimaced, placing myself opposite her. Separated only by prison bars: something which seemed familiar.

"Come on Masterchev. We both know that there's no bad guys in this. Only one, and his name is..

A wonderous land, hills after hills. Several sheep drifted past, followed by women playing harps.

Walking along a deserted side street.

"Jean... I remember..." I yelped, overcome by the images flashing before my eyes. The images of my true life.

"Shit!" La Fete yelled, turning away from the desperate plight before him and turning to the body on the floor. Number 3.5 looked in concern, before masking it behind an emotionless mask.

A man with a large moustache dragging me off the streets.

Being forced into a tiny apartment with a typewriter. French dictionaries surrounding the space I worked in.

"He's going to burn up unless you can save him. Please, help him!" Jean yelled.

"Honey, what happened?" Number Three yelled from her side of the confinement.

"It's MC. He's remembering his past life."

Writing those cold hearted Spoofs in the dead of night, with no company whatsoever.

"Make it stop..." I gagged, preparing to surrender to salvation.

Then the wall of the prison exploded, sending Jean away from the body of the writhing Welshman. 3.5 could only watch helplessly as the Dean Martin look-a-like picked up the man and approached the chaos outside. The ginger-haired woman from the other room sneered at her, not bothering to comment on the likeliness of them.
*
Charpa stood on the brink of the prison, watching as her giant wheel distracted the Gerbils of Hell. With the help of her macho men, she had successfully crafted the perfect exercise wheel. Now, all the Gerbils were lodged within the confines of the new trap.

From there, it was a simple matter of releasing the two people she needed to see. Beside her stood the man who had fired the cannon at the wall. The man who had helped make all of this possible.

Silhoutetted in the dark of the night, his outline forming against the glow of fire and the Gerbil Ferris Wheel, stood Captain Morse.
*
The Sheriff was on duty that night. He watched from afar as his prison exploded. As his precious playmates were tricked by the Canadian's playwheel.

"The old gang are coming back together Monkey. Send word for a gang led by the local Chieftain to bring them in. The less they know the better!"

Word was soon sent. A man ran down to the old tavern. Nobody compared to the Snippet Master, the man grinned as he made his way inside.

In a distant corner, Bureau grinned wickedly at the newcomer and stood up from beside the fire.

"Want me to catch the Spoofers?"

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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