Teeny Tiny Tales Presents... was made by ManMan on 2/18/2003 at 10:20:23 PM.
"Ooooh..." moaned the Thighmaster, finding himself laying spread-eagled on a beach. "Where...where are we, Browning?" he asked of his newly reunited Butler.
"Sir, I think we may be in a spot of..." Browning looked for the right word. "...bother," he decided upon.
"Why?" Thighmaster enquired, propping himself upon his elbows for a better look. "Oooh," he realised, seeing the 50ft square island they'd miraculously crashed on.
Teeny Tiny Tales Presents - The Castaways.
It had been relatively plain sailing since their retreat from Las Vegas, Browning had pulled his master to safety and they were both on their way back to the ThighCastle, when a stray seagull and smashed into the side of their hover-pad sending the multi-billion dollar transportation device careening off course and out of control.
"It's a miracle we've survived at all...considering," noted The Thighmaster as he pulled himself onto his feet. "In all the Pacific ocean we land on a bare patch of sand the size as big as my bathroom!"
"Of course sir," Browning agreed, slightly apprehensive.
"Come on Browning!" Thighmaster gave him a playful nudge on the shoulder. "We're alive! And when you fix the hover-pad we can get back to my castle and think of really nasty ways to kill ManMan, like the good old days!" he enthused spitefully.
"I see a number of potential obstacles preventing us from reaching our ultimate goal, sir," the butler speculated.
The arch-villain sighed with a smile -- good old Browning, always putting a downer on every situation. "And what's that then?" he asked, faintly amused.
"We've no food," he began.
"Well...We can eat parts of you..." improvised his master. "What don't you need to fix the Hover-Pad?"
"And uh..." the butler quickly continued. "Unless I can whittle that piece of driftwood into a set of spanners, the Hover-Pad won't be fixable."
The Thighmaster nodded. "I suppose I'll have to live here then, feeding slowly off of your body until help arrives...sorry about this Browning, I promise not to enjoy meals." Thighmaster unholstered a laser gun he'd been carrying.
"And another thing sir," flustered the butler.
Thighmaster set his gun to 'crispy fry'. "Hmm...what's that?"
"This island..." Browning observed. "Its getting smaller, sir. I think the tide is coming in, we could be 30ft under water in the next hour."
Thighmaster paused. "...better get cracking on that whittling then."
----
Water sloshed in the Thighmasters boots as he paced nervously, the tide reaching his ankles. "Everything looking good?" he asked his butler, who had propped the hover-pad on two mounds of sand and was making adjustments underneath, coming up for breath every few minutes.
“I think that should do it sir,” replied Browning, standing up. “The wood panelling should hold for a few hundred miles, although I regret to say that the bevelled edges didn’t quite turn out the way I hoped.”
“Right then!” announced the arch-villain. “Let’s go!”
The pair climbed aboard the hover-pad, now floating gently on the surface of the ocean. Browning pushed start on the remote control panel and the motor whined, spluttered and burst into life sending the board 10ft up in the air. Thighmaster clapped his hands gleefully. “Excellent! Now, which way is Europe...?”
“Sir, we only have a few hundred miles before this hover-pad breaks down again,” the butler reminded him. “I suggest, that we go back the way we came sir, back to the North American continent, where I can perform proper repairs.”
“No, we’re going home,” Thighmaster decided.
“But sir, we could end up dropping in the middle of the Pacific Ocean again, with no island,” Browning pointed out.
“We’re not going back and you can’t make me!” The Thighmaster crossed his arms in a sulk.
Browning sighed. “Then that is west, sir, the way to Europe.”
“Good,” replied the villain in a clipped tone. “The let’s go!” he bellowed. “I’ve got some devious plot machinations forming in my despicably evil mind!”
The hover-pad wavered uneasily and set off.
----
“Ooooh,” moaned the Thighmaster clutching the front of his skull as he slowly regained consciousness. “Browning, where are we?”
“I‘m not entirely sure sir,” replied the butler. “ But I think it’s safe to say we’re in another spot of bother.”
“The tide again...” assumed the villain, sitting up gingerly.
“Unfortunately not sir...It’s them we should be worried about,” Browning pointed to several hundred pygmies, brandishing sharp little sticks and hungry looks.
The End?