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Author Topic: Dead Composer's opus of fanfiction  (Read 1431 times)
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Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« on: 09-15-2006 23:02 »

This thread is where I'll post stories that are not posted anywhere else (yet), and are unrelated to my "Bender's List"/"Freaky Fry Day"/"In Zoid We Trust" trilogy.

I'm currently toying with two story ideas:

- "Futuranma"  Yes, it's a "Ranma 1/2" parody.  The twist is, when Fry falls into the cursed spring, he's transported into an alternate universe where all his friends are the opposite gender of what he expects, while a female version of Fry takes his place in his own universe.  Being doused with hot water sends him back to his own reality, but cold water reactivates the curse.  It's gender-bending without anyone actually being gender-bent.

- "The Assassination of Richard Nixon's Head"  A parody of the Sean Penn movie "The Assassination of Richard Nixon".  Fired from his job and rejected by Leela, Fry becomes more and more despondent and deranged.  He soon comes to the conclusion that the President of the World, Richard Nixon's head, is responsible for his (and by extension, society's) woes, and his responsibility becomes clear...

Bending Unit
« Reply #1 on: 09-15-2006 23:15 »

Great ideas can't wait to read them.

Bending Unit
« Reply #2 on: 09-16-2006 06:20 »

Ooh, it's good to see you've got more planned. I'll be looking forward to them.  :)

Liquid Emperor
« Reply #3 on: 09-16-2006 15:43 »

COOOOOL, me likes the sound of a Fry assainating Nixon
Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #4 on: 09-17-2006 00:57 »

"The Assassination of Richard Nixon's Head"

Chapter 1


The mob of Lucy Liu lookalike robots showed no sign of tiring as they pursued Fry into a darkened alley.  Just as it occurred to him to stop running and surrender, he woke up.

"Uuunngh," moaned the young redhead.  "I must be the only guy in the 31st century who gets hung over from Slurm."  He yawned, stretched, and didn't feel any better than before, so he yawned and stretched again.  After the fourteenth yawn and stretch, he managed with tremendous exertion to pull one of his legs off the mattress and land his foot on the floor.

Bender, bright and chipper as ever, had already seized the day by leaning back on the couch and activating the TV.  "Next on The Today Show," announced the preserved head of Meredith Viera, "we'll talk to a man who's devoted his life to the legalization of spinach.  But first, a word or two from our sponsors."

"Head Off.  Apply directly to the forehead.  Head Off.  Apply directly to the forehead.  Head Off..."

Bender looked aside, and an image even more gruesome than the one on the TV screen appeared before his lightbulb eyes.  Fry's face was a mask of stubble, his hair resembled a chunk of unruly coral, and his faded boxers were barely clinging to his waist.  "Mornin', gorgeous," said the robot.

"Oh, man," grumbled Fry.  "I can't believe how groggy I am."

"That's easy to explain," said Bender.  "It's your body's way of telling you it's time to go to work."

Fry glanced at the digital clock on the wall, which read 0900 hours.  "Oh, crap," he said in a raspy morning voice.  "I unintentionally overslept again."

"Overachiever," said Bender mockingly.

Within seconds, Fry was scrubbing his back, brushing his teeth, and flossing his teeth simultaneously.  "Leela is gonna kill me," he mumbled through the toothpaste foam.

"Meh," said Bender flippantly.  "She's cool.  She'll let you off with a slap on the wrist."

"You really think so?" said Fry, squeezing into his blue jeans.  "Gosh, maybe she'll hold my hand while she's slapping me."

Into the cluttered living room scurried Robopuppy, yapping wildly.  The little cyberpet hopped up and down at Fry's feet, prompting him to say, "Cool, I've got voice mail!"

Robopuppy fell back on its haunches and emitted beams of digitized light from its eyes, which coalesced into the form of Leela.  "This is an automated message," said the cyclops officiously.  "If you are listening to it, then you have just been fired."

Fry turned to his robot friend.  "It's for you, Bender."


Chapter 2 coming soon!

Liquid Emperor
« Reply #5 on: 09-17-2006 14:49 »

ohhhhhh, me likes me likes
Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #6 on: 09-17-2006 17:15 »

Despair welled up in Fry's heart as the holographic image of Leela dissolved.  "I don't believe it," he lamented.  "Leela just fired me.  A moving picture of Leela just fired me.  She didn't even have the nerve to face me eye to eye...er, I mean, eye to eyes...I mean..."

Seeing his buddy's plight, Bender felt moved to offer some insincere condolences.  "You're too good for that dump anyway," he said, rising from the couch.  "If I were you, I'd march into Leela's office, wrap my cold steely fingers around her throat, and threaten to strangle her unless she writes me a glowing letter of reference."

"If you were me, you wouldn't have cold steely fingers," Fry pointed out.

"Whatever," said Bender.  "On the other hand, this could be an opportunity in disguise.  A meatbag with your qualifications can get a job as a delivery boy anywhere in the universe."

Fry dropped onto the couch and lowered his face into his hands.  "No, I can't, Bender," he said miserably.  "I only got this job because Professor Farnsworth's my great-great-infinity-grandnephew.  I'm in over my head with all this 31st-century tech stuff.  I don't even know how to program an espresso maker--I have to pay someone to work it for me."

"Oh, so that's why the witch doctor was here the other day," said Bender.

Summoning what little courage he possessed, Fry jumped to his feet and waved a fist in the air.  "By gum, Lyndon LaRouche never gave up, and neither will I," he declared.  "I'm going to get my Planet Express job back, and nothing will stand in my way, not even the fact that I haven't de-liced my scalp yet."

"Now that's determination," remarked Bender.


When Leela saw the grim stares that Fry and Bender were directing towards her, the first thing she said was, "Fry, did you forget to de-lice your hair?"

The redhead made a fist and pounded forcefully on his end of the table.  "You fired me, Leela," he stated firmly.  "My job is all I have, and I want it back.  I'm willing to wait until after the delivery to the Screaming Nebula of Death, but no longer than that."

Leela narrowed her eye at him.  "I don't know what you're talking about," she said simply.

"Maybe this will jog your memory," said Bender.  He opened the door to his chest compartment and Robopuppy leaped out, yapping gleefully.  Seconds later the mechanical pet sat down on the round table, fired light from its eyes, and replayed the recorded message Fry had received.

When it ended, Leela chuckled dismissively.  "Pay no attention to that," she said to Fry.  "It's just an automated thing that kicks in after five unexplained tardies.  As long as Hermes has your personnel record on file, you're still an employee of Planet Express."

Fry let out a sigh of relief.  "Thanks, Leela.  You're a lifesaver.  I'm gonna buy you so many lizards."  The cyclops responded with a grim glare.  "Uh...Hermes does still have my personnel record, doesn't he?"

In the accounting office, Hermes hummed idly to himself while rifling through the many folders in his file cabinet.  "Most of these people are dead," he remarked.  "I don't know why they're still in here.  I need to have a talk with Scruffy."  As Fry and Bender reached the breaking point of their patience, Hermes pulled out one of the files and grinned.  "Here it is," he said, yanking it open.  "Philip J. Fry--position, delivery boy."

Fry wiped his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.  "Hold your horses, mon," said Hermes, his tone solemn.  "This refers to a different Philip J. Fry--your evil duplicate from a parallel universe, who I hired to replace you when you didn't show up last Friday."

Fry's brain nearly burst out of his head upon comprehending the news.

"Didn't you get the memo?" said the Jamaican flatly.  "Oh, that's right.  You weren't here."

"Butbutbutbutbut..." Fry stammered in horror.

"What Fry's trying to say," Bender interceded, "is that he is the evil duplicate."

Fry smiled.  "That's right," he said menacingly.  "I am Evil Fry, and if I ever come in contact with Good Fry, both universes will explode!"

"Nice try, mon," said Hermes as he let the file slide back into its position in the drawer.  "But Evil Fry has a scar running down his left cheek, plus he's hiding in the janitorial closet at this very moment."

"He is?" said Fry, rising abruptly from his chair.  "This I've gotta see."

"No, mon!" cried Hermes in terror.  "You'll destroy us all!"


The sky was clear and sunny, the only clouds being those that covered Fry's mind with a veil of hopefulness.  He trudged along the dingy sidewalk, slouched over, his misty eyes fixed on the concrete.  Bender followed suit, matching his human friend's pace and posture.

Fry gave him a peevish look.  "What are you so depressed about?" he asked.

"I'm not depressed," replied the robot.  "I'm just making fun of you."

Fry groaned bitterly.  "I've lost everything that matters to me," he complained.  "I can't even go back to Planet Express without blowing up the universe.  What's left?  Why go on?"

"Look at the bright side, pal," said Bender.  "I still have my job."

Fry rounded a corner, and his eyes caught sight of a large, bluish-green chamber.  He stopped and stood upright, and a hint of hope returned to his face.  "What is it, bud?" said Bender.

The plaque attached to the side of the chamber read, SUICIDE BOOTH, 50 CENTS.

Fry smiled as if all his cares had been flushed away.  "Bender, I'm going to do something I've been meaning to do for a long time," he said calmly.  "I'm going to kill myself."


to be continued
Tastes Like Fry

Urban Legend
« Reply #7 on: 09-17-2006 17:25 »


Still, reflex reaction aside, that's a great starter.

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #8 on: 09-17-2006 20:51 »

Eeeek! A 'Mirror, Mirror' reference! I'm so excited I wish I had pants!

(That didn't come out right...)

Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #9 on: 09-17-2006 21:30 »

Thanks for the responses, everyone.  Yes, I was referring to a classic Star Trek episode with the "Evil Fry" element.  It wasn't "Mirror, Mirror", however, but "The Alternative Factor" from the first season.  The character Lazarus had an evil duplicate whom he had to avoid at all costs, as both universes would be destroyed if they came in contact.

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #10 on: 09-19-2006 16:48 »

Ooo, I didn't notice that! I was thinking about the scar on evil Sulu's face... But what you just pointed out is even better!

Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #11 on: 09-19-2006 18:30 »

"The Assassination of Richard Nixon's Head"

Chapter 3


Two humans and a robot were lined up at the entrance to the suicide booth, and Fry took his place behind them.  The man ahead of him had a gruff, unshaven appearance and a patch over his right eye, and he looked more miserable than Fry felt.  Bender, queueing up after his friend, asked, "Are you sure I can't talk you out of this, ol' buddy?"

Fry only shook his head.

"Too bad," said the robot, "'cause you owe me money."

The two chums stood in silence.  The tall, lanky robot at the head of the line stepped into the booth and closed the sliding door.  Seconds later the door reopened automatically, and nothing was visible but a computerized wall console.

"Ever wonder what happens to the bodies?" said Bender idly.

"Nope," was Fry's reply.  Eyeing a vending machine half a block away, he said to his robotic friend, "Hey, could you keep my place for a sec?  I'm gonna grab some Soylent Green to snack on."

"Sure, pal," said Bender.

With Fry away on a quest for food, the man with the eyepatch turned and began a conversation with Bender.  "Can you believe they raised the price to 50 cents?" he complained with a Harvard accent.  "As if it's not enough that they make our lives hard, they have to make our deaths hard, too."

"Ah, the good old days," remarked Bender, "when you could buy a beer, a comic book, and a painless death for less than a buck."

The stubbly man stretched out his palm.  "I don't suppose you could loan me an extra quarter," he requested.  "I promise I'll pay you back."

"You seem like a guy who can be trusted," said Bender.  Sticking his hand into his chest cavity, he first pulled out a silver slug on a string, then a gold doubloon, and finally a genuine 25-cent piece.  "Here you go," he said, planting the quarter in the man's hand.  "Don't spend it all in one place."

The stranger closed his fingers around the coin and said, "You're very generous.  May I ask your name, my metallic benefactor?"

"It's Bender," answered the robot.  "That's short for 'Bender is great and you suck'."

"I'm happy to meet you, Bender," said the man with a faint smile.  "My name's Orlando.  Orlando Garrett.  Remember that name, for you'll most likely never hear it spoken again."

Without looking back, he marched into the suicide booth and inserted two quarters into a slot in the wall.  "Quick and painless, please," were the last words Bender heard from him before the door cut him off from view.

One less meatbag I'll have to kill, thought the robot.  He looked to the east, where Fry was struggling with an uncooperative vending machine.  When the young redhead found that shaking and punching the machine yielded no result, he angrily tore a branch from a nearby tree and used it as a club.

"Hey, tin pants," grumbled the trashily-dressed old woman who stood behind Bender.  "Some of us have places to be."

Amused by Fry's relentless assault on the vending machine, Bender slowly became aware that several impatient people and robots were mentally urging him to step into the booth and end his life.  "Er, ah, I'm just holding a spot for my pal," he explained to them.  "I'm not here to kill myself like you losers are."

"Get the k--- into the booth, you y--- g---!" howled a short, fat man.  "We don't have all q--- h--- t--- day!"

New New Yorkers, Bender muttered to himself.  "Hey, Fry!" he called out.  "Speed it up a bit!  We're dyin' over here!"

Having made over a dozen dents in the machine, Fry threw down his branch and gave up.  "I'm coming," he told Bender.

The robot gave him a farewell pat on the back, and he walked hesitantly into the empty booth.  As the door clanged shut behind him, a feminine computer voice asked, "Please select mode of death--quick and painless, or slow and horrible."

The air seemed ice cold and stagnant about him as he dropped his first quarter into the slot.  In a few more seconds, I'll either go to heaven, go to hell, or cease to exist altogether, he mused.  With my luck, I'll probably go to hell.


to be continued

Liquid Emperor
« Reply #12 on: 09-21-2006 15:08 »

Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #13 on: 09-24-2006 04:07 »

Here's chapter 4.


Don't be afraid, Fry reassured himself.  Being dead is no different from being asleep for a long, long time, with no hope of ever waking up.

"I'll take quick and painless," he told the booth computer, and he raised his quivering fingers to release the second quarter into the fateful slot of doom.  What if I come back as a ghost? he wondered.  Or as a zombie?  Or as both a ghost and a zombie?

He suddenly dropped the coin, startled by an earnest voice in his mind:  You're making a huge mistake!  His first impulse was to  bend over and pick up the quarter, but strange as it seemed, part of his mind wouldn't allow him to move.  That's funny, he mused.  A minute ago I wanted to die, but now I don't.  It's like...it's like there's something I still have to do.


No more than a dozen blocks away, a hovertruck carrying a shipment of tortilla chips and another hovertruck laden with potato chips collided with a deafening CRUNCH.  As the drivers ranted and swore at each other, a certain slender old woman in a purple catsuit gazed down at the wreckage from a lofty window.  Those two didn't even know each other, and now they're enemies, she thought.  The pettiness of human beings will never cease to astound me.

The old crone known as Mom turned away from the cityscape.  "Get in here, boys!" she called out.  "It's time!"

A door whooshed open, and her son Walt marched dutifully into the office, followed by his brother Larry, and the pumpkin-headed Ignar taking up the rear.  "Which talking head are we teleconferencing with this time?" Walt asked his mother.

"The biggest head of them all," replied Mom with relish.  "The President of the World, Richard Nixon."

"Oh, how exciting!" said Larry.  "There's not a man in the world I admire more."

"Not even your own mother?" said Mom, peering at him.

"Oh, goody," said Ignar, clapping his hands eagerly.  "There's something I've wanted to ask President Nixon for a long, long time."

"Quiet, you," said Walt, giving him a back-handed slap.  "The President of the World is not interested in your silly underwear questions.  He doesn't even wear underwear."

"How do you know?" Ignar retorted.  "Did you ask him?"

"Cram an ass in it, you stooges," said Mom, who was watching the high-definition viewscreen light up.  "Because there he is."

To the tune of "Hail to the Chief", the image of Richard Nixon's head inside a jar attached to the neck of a giant battlebot appeared.  "Well, whaddya know," said the pointy-nosed president.  "I asked the magic mirror to show me the hottest mom in all the land, and whose  face do I see?  Howoooo!"

"Charming as always, Dick," said Mom with a pleasant smile.

"Well, let's get down to brass tacks," said Nixon.  "Do you remember our last conversation, where you offered to contribute generously to my re-election campaign, in exchange for a bit of harmless abuse of executive power to help you prop up your unchallenged monopoly?"

"No, I don't," answered Mom.

"Neither do I," said Nixon.

"But now that you mention it," said Mom, "I am having some difficulty with an upstart delivery company called Planet Express.  That little crew has been snapping up the jobs that my pilots are afraid to take--deliveries to hazardous regions of space, like the Xenophobe Imperium and the Constellation That Eats People.  And somehow they manage to pull through and survive again and again...as if there's a special bond of mutual tolerance between them."

"Ah, yes," said Nixon, trying to nod.  "I've had my dealings with those petulant punks.  My unrivaled intellect tells me that you have three options.  First, hire on some new pilots who don't know the meaning of fear.  Second, provide health care and life insurance benefits to your existing pilots, and...oh, who the hell am I kidding?  I'll crush them for you, and I'll make it look like free market forces did them in."

"Excellent," said Mom sinisterly.

"Ooh!  Ooh!" said Ignar, waving his finger.  "Mr. President, I just gotta ask you a question."

"Go ahead, my young man," said Nixon.

Ignar clasped his hands and grinned.  "Did you kill John Lennon?" he inquired.

"No, Ignar," said the president firmly.  "I was never a member of the conspiracy to murder John Lennon.  I went to one of the meetings, that's all."


To Bender's disappointment, Fry emerged from the suicide booth without a mark on his body, and with an expression of fresh confidence.  "Wuss," the robot mocked him.

"Yeah, maybe I am a wuss," said Fry in a carefree tone.  "Or maybe I realized that getting fired from Planet Express may have set me on the course to my real purpose."

"Don't give me that 'real purpose' crap," said Bender.  "My real purpose is to destroy all humans.  My assigned purpose is to bend girders.  Yours is to be a delivery boy.  You gotta do what you gotta do."

"I guess you're right, Bender," said Fry glumly.  "Well, if I gotta be a delivery boy, then I'll be the best damn delivery boy ever.  I'll rise so high, I'll have delivery boys working for me."

"News flash, Fry," said Bender.  "There's only one place in town where 'delivery boy' is a career path."

He turned his gaze skyward.  In the distance, partially obscured by smoggy haze, stood a mighty tower with a large sign that read, MOM'S FRIENDLY DELIVERY COMPANY.


to be continued

Liquid Emperor
« Reply #14 on: 09-24-2006 12:19 »

Ohhhh, more please
Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #15 on: 10-10-2006 21:10 »

"The Assassination of Richard Nixon's Head"

Chapter 5


The azure-blue tower that hosted Mom's Friendly Delivery Company stood like a mighty colossus in the center of New New York, its endlessly tall spire seeming to lose its outlines and merge with the sky.  It was bigger than any building Fry had ever stood, awestruck, at the base of--the Empire State Building, the World Trade Center, the Museum of Modern Art.  Yet it was a dwarf in comparison to the city's tallest structure, the mile-high monolith which New New Yorkers affectionately called "The Finger".

I can't believe I'm resorting to this, he thought as the plexiglass entrance doors slid apart to make way for him.  I've tangled with Mom before.  I don't know whether she's pure evil, or just chronically constipated.  I hope she doesn't remember me as the guy who ate the last anchovies in existence.  Nah, it's been a long time.

"Well, well," he heard a petulant male voice from the reception desk.  "If it isn't my old friend, Anchovie Boy."

It was Mom's boy Larry, who had pinned a nametag to his gray uniform.  "Been a while," said Fry casually to the smirking man.  Above his head, a gigantic screen showed a looping video of Mom preparing a batch of cookies.

Larry punched a button on his desk console and barked, "Walt, Larry.  Tell Mom that Anchovie Boy just arrived.  She may want to cancel her ten o'clock."

A dead silence filled the spacious lobby.  Fry knew he was probably imagining it, but the video image of Mom seemed to set down her tray of cookies and glower at him.


Leela, a protective visor over her eye, was welding one of the Planet Express ship's fuel lines in place when Bender strolled into the launch bay.  Switching off her torch, the cyclops asked him, "How's Fry?"

"He's alive, as usual," replied the robot flippantly.

"Happy to hear it," said Leela, raising the shield from her face.  "I was worried he'd try to kill himself."

"He did try to kill himself," said Bender.

Leela gasped.  "Oh, my God!"

"Not to worry," said Bender, snatching a beer from one of the refrigeration compartments.  "I was able to convince him that life's worth living, even for a human."

"Where is he now?" asked Leela.

Before Bender could answer, a cascade of Olde Fortran flowed down his throat.

In Zoidberg's clinic, the crustacean doctor scuttled in to find a young man with flaming red hair and a prominent scar lounging in an office chair.  "Evil Fry," he stated, "I thought I told you to check the expiration dates on my pharmaceutical stock, yet there you are, sitting."

Evil Fry gave him a weak glance of acknowledgment.  "If you wanted it done quickly," he said, "you should've asked a robot."

"I asked you," Zoidberg insisted.

The redhead yanked his legs away from the top of the doctor's desk.  "In my universe, we wouldn't dream of assigning such a mundane task to a human being," he related, swiveling about in his chair.

"That's because your universe is evil," said Zoidberg with a dramatic wave of his claw.

"Oh, criminy," said Evil Fry peevishly.  "How many times do I have to say it?  Your universe is the evil universe.  Mine is the good one."


to be continued (soon, I hope)
Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #16 on: 10-11-2006 23:06 »

Here's chapter 6.


Fry was escorted to the 157th floor by Ignar, who stopped suddenly in the corridor and began to scratch his head.  "What's wrong?" Fry asked him.  "Are you lost?"

"Nah," replied Ignar.  "It's really hard to walk and scratch my head at the same time."

As he walked along, Fry noticed a row of portraits attached to the wall, each with a small plaque reading "Mom of the Year" and featuring, oddly enough, the same person.  The only exception was the 2976 picture, which indicated a tie between Mom and the Statue of Liberty.

"Boxers or briefs?" Ignar asked him out of nowhere.

"Huh?" said Fry, taken aback.  "What kind of question is that?"

Ignar only stared vapidly as he stopped in front of an imposing double door.

"Oh, you're talking about underwear," said Fry.  "Boxers."

Ignar pressed a button in the wall, and a pleasant chiming noise was heard.  "Who is it?" gushed an elderly female voice.

"Mom, it's Ignar," replied the pumpkin-headed man.  "I've brought Mr. Fry to see you."

"It's about time, you blundering excuse for a...er, I mean, thank you, Ignar.  Mommy loves you the most."

The doors flew apart, revealing a spacious office with a vaunted ceiling.  Several picture windows offered a view of the crowded New New York skyline, and before them sat Mom in a battered old rocking chair, yarn and knitting needles in her hands, a heart-shaped coiffure on her head.  "Come in," she said tenderly.  "Ignar, you may leave us."

Once the doors had closed behind Fry, Mom leaped to her feet with surprising agility.  She hurled one knitting needle, then the other, so forcefully that they pierced the flaps of Fry's jacket and embedded themselves in the paneling.  Pinned helplessly, the redhead could only listen and wriggle as Mom launched into her tirade.

"Damn you, Philip J. Fry!  I could have made billions with those anchovies, but to you they were no more than hors-d'oeuvres!  And now you have the gall to look me in the face!  Impudent worm!  I should grind you into a pulp and make you clean up the mess with your tongue!"

"P-please don't destroy me," stammered the quivering Fry.  "I-I only came here to ask for a job."

Mom's indignant expression softened into a toothy smile.  "A job," she said, clasping her hands.  "You want to work for me.  I accept.  When can you start?"

"Like, right away," was Fry's response.

Mom put forth her spidery left hand, and the knitting needles pulled themselves out of the wall and flew to her under their own power.  "There, there, my pets," she addressed them.  "You'll have ample opportunity to kill later."

Fry grinned with relief.  "I have lots of experience as a space delivery boy," he told Mom.  "I used to work for Planet Express, until they replaced me with an evil twin from another dimension.  I can also break dance.  I have an encyclopedic knowledge of Star Trek, and on a good day, I can belch both verses of the National Anthem."

"Say no more," said Mom with haste.  "Just answer me this one question.  I need someone to ship a top-secret package to the planet Genocidus within the next solar day.  Can you do it?"

"Genocidus?" said Fry, intrigued.  "You mean the planet with the big war memorial and theme park?"

"No, the other Genocidus," said Mom.

"Cool, there's two of them," said Fry eagerly.  "Sign me up, I'm in."

It was only seconds before he held a pen in one hand and a contract in the other.  Sure, I'm giving away my soul, he thought, but look at the nifty pen I'm getting in return.  Now all I have to do is sign the thing, and...

His musings were interrupted by the buzz of a video screen being activated.  Glancing aside, he noted that Mom was gazing intently at the image of World President Mixon's head on the wall.  I wonder what Mom and Mixon have to talk about, he thought.  No, forget it, it's none of my business.  Just sign the damn contract.

As he pressed the tip of the pen against the dotted line, Mom's words caught his attention:  "I just solved my own Planet Express problem, Dick.  Philip J. Fry works for me now."

"Howooo!" exclaimed the disembodied president.  "I love it when I don't have to get my own hands dirty."

Fry couldn't take his eyes away from the chuckling head in a jar on a robot body.  That Nixon was a schmuck was no secret to him, but at that moment he felt something more--dread, anger, hatred.

The unfamiliar emotions quickly passed.  Whoa, he thought.  What was that?

"Well, hello, Mr. Fry," the President's head acknowledged him.  "I'm glad to see that you've finally realized who your true mother is.  Tell me, how did you take it when your so-called friends at Planet Express let you go?  Did it make you bitter?  Vengeful?"

Fry paused to search his feelings.  "Yeah," he admitted.  "Yeah, I am bitter.  And vengeful, too."

"That's the spirit, my boy," said Nixon.  "Together, the three of us will teach those filthy commies a lesson they won't soon live through."

An unexpected burst of outrage seized Fry.  "You're the filthy commie!" he shouted, pointing at the screen.

"What?" said the startled president.  "How dare you!"

How dare I indeed, Fry said sheepishly to himself.  I have no idea how that came out of my mouth.

"Philip, 'filthy commie' is not a title of respect," Mom chided him gently.  "Your manners could clearly use some improvement.  I suggest you sign up for my mandatory obeisance seminar.  Now, hurry up and sign the contract.  I don't have all solar day, you know."

The voice in Fry's gut simply would not be denied.  "I'm sorry," he said, slowly tearing the contract in two.


to be continued

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #17 on: 10-12-2006 01:55 »

Us poor Communists get such bad press... it's not fair.

Good stuff.

Liquid Emperor
« Reply #18 on: 10-13-2006 10:04 »

Brill stuff, we demand more, pleeeeeeeeease
Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #19 on: 10-29-2006 00:32 »

"The Assassination of Richard Nixon's Head", Chapter 7

(sorry it's so late in coming)


Fry, once again wearing nothing but his boxers, stared with bleary eyes at the newscast on the TV screen.  "After centuries of mistrust, North and South Dakota have finally become one state," reported the lovely Linda.  "The historic unification has attracted media attention unprecedented in the history of the two states.  In other news..."

Fry hunched lower in the sofa, stuck his nose toward the ceiling, and sighed plaintively.  I just threw away the opportunity of a lifetime.  Why?  Why couldn't I sign my name on that line?  I don't owe those gooks at Planet Express anything.  If Mom and Nixon want to force them out of business, then...no, it's not right!  Don't you get it, Fry?  This is why small companies like Planet Express can't get ahead in the world.  This is why guys like me end up unemployed or in dead-end careers.  It's a problem inherent in the System.  Wait...why do I suddenly care about the System?  And what exactly is the System anyway?

"The more you use your Platinum Visa card, the more points you accumulate," said the TV pitchman.  "Accumulate enough points and you'll qualify for our HMO plan."

I suppose I should get off my duff and start looking for a job, thought Fry.  But this is the 31st century--shouldn't a job come looking for me?

The doorbell suddenly rang.  There it is, thought Fry as he clambered to his feet and threw on a bathrobe.  I just love this century.

He opened the door to the "closet", stepped into the small metal chamber which Bender called home, and peered through the spyhole, catching a glimpse of a Chinese girl in a pink sweatsuit.  "Oh, it's you, Amy," he said with a tinge of disappointment.

"You were expecting the lottery commissioner, maybe?" said Amy with a smirk.  The blocky-haired girl stepped into Fry's cluttered apartment and sniffed the air.  "You've got a mold problem," she said, and Fry quickly examined his armpits.

"As soon is I heard you'd been fired, I called my folks on Mars," Amy related to him.  "They said they could use a hand on the ranch.  It's not much of a job--mainly milking buggalo, scaring away crows, and junk--but it includes room and board."

Fry smiled gratefully.  "Your parents are wonderful people, Amy, but I don't think I'm ranch-hand material.  If they could set me up with something else, though..."

"They do have one other open position," said Amy.  As Fry opened his mouth to inquire, she added, "Son-in-law."

"Oh," said Fry thoughtfully.  Hmm...why not?  She's cute, she's rich, she likes to have a good time...and her tangible assets aren't bad either.

"I honestly think you'd be better suited for the ranch-hand job," Amy told him.

She's got me there, thought Fry.  "Okay, I'll consider it.  I guess I could get used to the hard work and long hours and crap."

"Right," said Amy sheepishly.  "I forgot to mention the crap."

"Just one thing," said Fry.  "My career chip makes me a delivery boy."

"Schno problem," said Amy.  "On Mars, you can be anything you want.  It's like America was before the New New Deal."

Fry grinned.  "Mars is sounding better and better.  When can I meet with your folks?"

"Saturday morning, first thing," replied Amy.  "I'll even fly you there myself."

"You know how to fly?" said Fry, surprised.

"G'uh," said Amy.  "Leela's been training me as a substitute pilot."

"Isn't that really hard?"

"No, it's easy.  All I have to do is think of the control column as a..."

"A joystick?"

"Er, yeah.  A joystick."

"Sure, let's do it," said Fry.

"Schmawsome," said Amy eagerly.  "And just to make sure you don't starve to death before Saturday"--she drew a tiny metal box from her handbag--"I brought you some Shrinkies."

"Shrinkies?" said Fry, scrutinizing the small item in his palm.  "Never heard of them."

"They're the latest development in food technology," said Amy.  "Just add a little water, and you'll have a month's supply."

"Cool," said Fry.  "Thanks, Amy."

The moment the Asian girl had left, he wandered toward the kitchen sink, gazing pensively at the little box.  Hmm...Shrinkies.  I hope this isn't one of the professor's wacky inventions.

He flipped open the box, allowed a few drops of water to fall in, and was instantly buried in an enormous pile of cream-filled pastries.


to be continued

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #20 on: 10-29-2006 02:16 »

Oooh... I want some.

Liquid Emperor
« Reply #21 on: 10-29-2006 13:32 »

Dead Composer
Delivery Boy
« Reply #22 on: 11-09-2006 18:18 »

Having realized that this site is little more than a private club for Fry/Leela shippers, I've decided to stop posting my fiction here.  You can find my stories at fanfiction.net if you're interested, which you're apparently not.

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #23 on: 11-09-2006 19:37 »

Self-pity can be endearing in small doses, but after a while it can really start to suck like only self-indulgent nonsense can.
Get over it - it's not that important.

Liquid Emperor
« Reply #24 on: 11-10-2006 12:32 »

Jeez louise, you can hardly expect people to post without more material to post on, you leave to gaps too long, and I was actually enjoying that story....DAMN YOU
Writer unit32

« Reply #25 on: 11-16-2006 08:24 »

What?!I just found this thread and you stopped posting?!
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