Ridiculous Fanfic: Escape from Seattle Part 2

Snake Shirtless Welcome back to Snake Plissken Month, where we are supposed to celebrate Snake Plissken, but I didn’t because I was really nervous about writing a part 2 and not doing as well as I did on part 1. Hey, I’m human. Still, I hope you’re all enjoying the month of Snake, celebrating in your own black-clad way.

If this is your first time joining us, read Part 1!

With only 16 minutes left, Snake has no time to be choosy. He heads for the nearest of the three Starbucks, the smallest building on the left corner. He bursts through the entrance and sends a display of environmentally-friendly, made-from-recycled-plastic travel mugs flying across the store. They ricochet off of walls, customers, and Police Commissioner Bob Hauk’s shiny bald head.

Snake does a double-take at Hauk.

“Hauk,” he hisses.

“Hello, Snake. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I know, but how did you get here?”

“I have a car.”

Snake’s eyes narrow. A low, raspy growl reverberates from his throat. “If you have a car, why did you send me?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is the syrup –” A sly smile spreads across Hauk’s face. “ – and this place is all out.”

“I’m going to beat your ass, Hauk.”

Hauk laughs. “But you don’t have a weapon.”

“Oh no?”

Snake grabs a bag of chocolate-coated blueberries from the nearest display case and rips open the top. “Everything’s a weapon to me, Hauk!” Snake lobs a blueberry. The hard, purple confection beans Hauk between the eyes and bounces away.

“Ow! You’re a dick, Snake!”

Snake hisses a laugh. “Sticks and stones, Hauk.” He chucks another candy.

Hauk ducks, narrowly missing another hit, jumps back behind the counter, and sprints for the door. More purple candies pelt the walls, following Hauk to the employee break room, where he ducks out a back door.

Snake pops a candy into his mouth and checks his wrist timer. 14 minutes. He turns away and stalks back outside, where the intersection collision has completely gridlocked traffic. Two police cruisers are parked on the opposite side of the street, their red and blue lights flashing. Drivers are out of their cars, shouting at each other and at the police to clear the roads. Someone sees Snake and points. People turn and stare. More people point.

Snake shrugs back and crosses the street.  Horns blare as he weaves between the cars and approaches the next Starbucks, a square brick building with a drive-thru window. By now, he’s feeling a little discomfort in his stomach and he’s thinking about a bathroom.

As he approaches the door, a clerk in a green apron is taping up a sign that says “Temporarily Closed.” Snake pulls on the door anyway, because people who follow signs are sissies. Unfortunately the door does not open.
“We’re closed,” the clerk shouts through the door. “Some bald jerk cherry-bombed the toilet. It’s a mess in here.”

Snake’s eyes narrow into angry slits. He hisses, “I’m gonna make him sorry.”

The clerk shouts, “What?”

“I’m gonna make Hauk sorry.”

The clerk presses his ear against the glass door. “I still can’t hear you. What are you doing?”

“Playing with myself!” He turns away and growls, “I’m going in.”

The third Starbucks is on the next corner, inside a Barnes & Noble bookstore. Despite the late hour, it appears to be open and very busy. Snake dodges around the cars and jogs into the parking lot, noting a long line of customers inside who are waiting for a midnight book release. Snake storms into the store and looks around for the coffee counter. He sees it at the far end of the store, tucked behind the magazine section. He tries pushing through the crowd but it’s so thick that he can barely move. The crowd becomes agitated. People start screaming at him, refusing to move in case they lose their place in line.

He ducks into the magazine rack and grabs the latest copies of Guns & Ammo and Maxim magazines. He rolls them up and holds one in each hand. He steps back out into the aisle, arms swinging wildly, yet pointedly, at customers.

Whap! Slap!

Customers start screaming, desperate to get away from this black, eye-patched whirlwind.

Whap! Slap!

A floor manager pushes toward him. “Sir,” he says sternly. “Please —”

Whap! Slap! Slappety-slap! Whap!

The manager wails a high-pitched scream and runs out of Snake’s arm range. Customers follow his example and the crowd parts like Moses and the Red Sea. Snake halts his assault and tosses the copy of Guns & Ammo back over his shoulder. He starts to throw the Maxim, but notices Malin Akerman on the cover. He stuffs it into his back pocket for later.

Snake likes blonde, butt-kicking ladies.

He leaves the bookstore behind, stepping through a small opening between two low walls that encompass the coffee space. He dodges tall racks stuffed with useless impulse purchase items like key chains, bookmarks, and ceramic mugs. A large group has gathered on the left side in a tight circle. Some people are even standing on tables and chairs to see into the middle of the crowd.

There’s no one at the counter so Snake elbows his way into the group – literally. Pained shouts and cries erupt around Snake and the crowd swells, trying to escape, but the bodies are packed too tightly.

A male voice shouts over the crowd, “Stop!”

The crowd stills. Their voices fall silent. Everyone stands frozen, as if waiting for further instructions.

The voice commands again, “Move!”

The crowd backs up slowly, orderly, widening the circle, until Snake finds himself standing face to face with a thin man in a green apron. A sailor’s hat made from newspaper rests on his head and a metal chain with a Pokemon medallion hangs around his neck.

“Snake Plissken,” he says. “I heard you were coming. I also heard you were dead and I thought you’d be taller. Do you know who I am?”

Snake shrugs. “Of course. You’re the Duke of Starbucks, A-Number One.”

“That’s right.” His eyes widen suddenly and he leans in, as if about to share a secret. “Actually, this isn’t a real Starbucks. I mean, we sell Starbucks coffee, but like, we’re actually Barnes and Noble. You know?”

“Yeah.” Snake jerks his head in the direction of the barista counter. “I’m here for the sugar-free vanilla syrup.”

Duke straightens again. He nods. “Yeah, Hauk said you’d be coming for it. There’s only one problem.” He holds up a white iPad. “You’re going to have to compete for it.”

He tosses the iPad to Snake, who catches it with one hand. The crowd murmurs appreciatively.

“What’s this?” Snake snarls.

“It’s an iPad.”

“iPads are overpriced pieces of crap. I prefer electronics that run open-source firmware.”

Duke puts a hand on his hip. “This is a Barnes and Noble, Snake. We don’t have that here.”

“Fine, what do I have to do? Beat you with this until you give me syrup? Because I can do that.”

“No, Snake.” Duke reaches behind him and produces another iPad. “You’re going to have to Draw Something! No one’s ever beaten me, Snake. What do you think of that?”

Snake glares back. His voice is a threatening growl. “I think you better not have stuffed this iPad into your pants before giving it to me,” he says, holding up the iPad, “because if you did, I’m going to come over there and beat your ass.”

“Of course not. Now play!”

Snake looks at the iPad in his hand. User “DukeisAwesome” begins to draw a crude stick figure with frizzy hair, then a second stick figure with an X over it, then a crescent moon. Squiggles are added to the space around everything. The picture is indiscernible. It looks like a kindergarten assignment.

Duke looks up, triumphant. “Do you know what I’ve drawn, Snake? If you don’t, you lose!”

“It’s obvious,” Snake says nonchalantly. “You’ve drawn existential nihilism; the idea that life is without significance, that human beings are without purpose and unable to change the totality of existence.”

The crowd oohs and aahs. Duke’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush a deep crimson.

Snake smiles. “Is it my turn now?”

He draws. His image is of a bearded stick figure with soft, feathery hair and an eye patch beating the crap out of another stick figure wearing a Starbucks apron. Snake draws tiny droplets of blood flying everywhere and a large pool on the ground. On the figure wearing a Starbucks apron, he draws tiny x’s for eyes. A red tongue lolls out of the beaten stick figure’s mouth. The crowd gasps and murmurs fearfully.

Snake looks up and smiles. “Now what did I draw?”

As Duke stares at his iPad, his confident stance changes. His shoulders slump and he hugs his arms across himself protectively. The crowd cheers. A chant starts to emerge in their cheers. Before long, everyone is shouting Snake’s name.

“You win,” Duke says. “You’re the Duke now, Snake. A-Number One.”

“The name’s Plissken. Now where’s the syrup?”

The crowd cheers and swarms around him, clapping him on the shoulder and shaking his hand. Someone hands him a bottle of sugar-free syrup.

Snake checks his wrist timer. He has only 4 minutes to return to Hauk. There’s no way he’s going to make it in time. Even if he hijacked a car, the street is impassible.

“I gotta get out of here,” Snake says.

The former Duke perks up. “I’ve got a glider on the roof. It’s all yours, but there’s no wind.”

“I don’t need wind,” Snake says, tossing his magical mane of feathered hair. “I’m Snake Plissken.”

Snake follows him to the stairwell.

Will Snake make it back to Hauk in time? Will he ever find a bathroom? Stay tuned for next week — for real this time, because Snake Month is almost over. Continue reading “Ridiculous Fanfic: Escape from Seattle Part 2”

Ridiculous Fanfic: Escape From Seattle Part 1

Snake Demotivational Welcome back to Snake Plissken month! I hope everyone’s enjoying their month and celebrating accordingly. (Eye patches and feathered hair welcome.)

I promised some really ridiculous Snake Plissken fanfic, and I mean to deliver. Here is PART ONE of a Snake adventure called “Escape from Seattle”, AKA “Snake Goes To Starbucks”. Enjoy!

It’s 2:00am. The streets of Seattle are pitch black and lonely, save for the occasional, near-burned-out street lamp casting pools of dim, yellowed light on the asphalt, and a 24-hour Starbucks on every corner and squeezed into the spare square footage of every bank, gas station, and grocery store. A lone man stalks the sidewalk, his black leather pants and matching wife-beater blending with the darkness, and his long, feathered hair rustling gently in the breeze. One eye squints dubiously at the Starbucks. The other is hidden behind a black eyepatch.

The man marches straight through the Starbucks parking lot and jerks the door open. Inside, a long line of customers trails from the register to the door and doesn’t seem to be moving. The man charges forward, shoving college students and hipsters aside. Their screams fill the air as they’re tossed to the ground or into large displays of organically grown, free-trade coffee beans. He charges toward the front, his mission urgent: Snake Plissken needs a latte.

The green-aproned barista behind the counter smiles stiffly and wets his pants. “Welcome to Starbucks. How can I —”

The black-clad man’s arm is a blur as it shoots forward and grabs the barista by the collar of his shirt. He leans in closely.

“I need to find a latte,” he hisses.

“Wha— what size?”

“Grande. Triple shot.” He releases he barista and shoves him back to the other side of the counter. “And make it soy milk,” he growls.

The barista grabs a cup and a black Sharpie. “What name should I put on your drink, sir?”

“Call me Snake.”

The barista grimaces slightly but doesn’t question. He quickly scribbles the name on the cup. “Yes sir, Mr. Snake, sir.”

Snake slaps a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change,” he mutters, and walks to the opposite end of the counter.

Snake’s coffee order is rushed out and set on the counter. The barista calls out, “Grande latte for Snake.”

Snake picks up the paper cup. He pops the top off and checks for the appropriate amount of foam. He sprinkles a small dash of cinnamon on top. He presses the plastic lid back on and takes a long, slow sip.

His latte is delicious. He sneers his appreciation.

As he turns, a figure catches the corner of his lone eye. He whirls around. His eye narrows angrily.

“Hauk,” he hisses.

A tall, slender man with a cone-shaped, balding head emerges from the back room.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Snake,” he says.

“What do you want?”

“I have a job for you. I’m now the manager of this Starbucks and we’re out of sugar-free vanilla syrup. We’ve poisoned your latte with military test virus X2P-4ZZ and, if you don’t retrieve a couple of bottles in the next 25 minutes, you’ll die.”

The two men stare each other down for a few seconds.

“I’m not going to fall for that again, Hauk. My latte tastes delicious and I know I’m not poisoned.”

Hauk fingers his short, trimmed mustache deviously. “You’re right, but I do know your stomach has trouble with lactose — and we switched your latte to whole milk.”

Snake looks at his latte in horror, then back up to Hauk. “You don’t mean —”

“That’s right, Snake. In 25 minutes, your tummy will be upset, and you’ll need something to settle it. So you may as well pick me up some sugar-free vanilla syrup while you’re out.”

Snake’s upper lip curls. “You’d better hope I don’t make it back.”

Hauk smiles and pulls from his pocket yet another enormous digital timer with a wide Velcro strap. The timer is counting down from 25 minutes. Snake shakes his head and takes it, then slips it on his wrist.

“There’s another Starbucks two blocks from here, Snake. Your mission is to get the syrup and get back here as soon as possible.”

Snake starts toward the door.

“Wait.” Hauk pulls a red credit card from his back pocket. “I almost forgot. Use this to pay for the syrup.”

Snake takes it and holds it up. His face puckers in an angry scowl.

“A VISA gift card? These things are a pain in the ass to use! You have to put in the exact amount, minus the fee — what’s the fee on this card?”

Hauk shrugs. “I don’t know. The math is your problem, not mine.”

“Asshole,” Snake mutters, and stalks out the door.

In the parking lot, Snake scans the area for a fast ride, but finds himself surrounded by hybrid cars painted in bright green and blue. These won’t do for Snake, and not just because they don’t match his black leather wife-beater — Snake can run faster than a hybrid.

So he does. Choosing the most direct route through the parking lot, Snake breaks into a dogged jog toward the street. He hurdles a yellow bicycle, wedges himself through a smooching hipster college couple, and slides across the hood of a green Prius covered in Phish bumper stickers. He lands gracefully on his feet and jogs into the middle of the street. Snake stops and looks both ways.

He realizes he isn’t sure which way the other Starbucks is.

Snake jogs back into the parking lot, slides back across the green Prius, and grabs both of the hipster college kids by their throats.

“Which direction is the next Starbucks?”

The kids point in opposite directions. Snake’s eye narrows. His voice resonates with a low growl.

“You better not be messing with me or I’m going to make you sorry.”

The boyfriend stammers, “Th-th-this is Seattle! Starbucks is everywhere, man! EVERYWHERE! Starbucks is THE MAN, man!”

The girlfriend nods her agreement.

Snake releases the two kids and stalks back to the center of the street. Then he changes his mind, returns to the college kids, and gives the hipster boyfriend a big bitch slap across the face. The boyfriend presses his hands to the side of his face and lets out a piercing shriek.

“You’ll thank me later,” Snake hisses, then returns to the center of the street. He checks the wrist timer Hauk gave him. 19 minutes left.

Snake looks down the street each way, but neither direction seems to hold a clue. He pulls a coin from his pocket. He tosses it in the air, watching it soar six, seven, eight feet high, then drop back down to earth. Snake catches it in one hand.

Instead of looking to see which side of the coin came up, he chucks it as hard as he can toward the hipsters and hears another high-pitched squeal. Snake Plissken is a badass who doesn’t need that hokey fate crap. He turns to the right and starts to run.

As he approaches the next corner, he notices that the lights here are brighter than on previous street corners, and the sounds of voices and cars are louder. He jogs into the center of the intersection, causing a three-way car crash that he barely notices. Snake stops and casts a quick glance around the intersection. He scowls.

There are three Starbucks in this intersection, and Hauk didn’t give any more clues. Snake checks the digital timer on his wrist again. He only has 16 minutes left.

Which Starbucks will Snake Plissken choose? Will he choose correctly? Will he make it back to Hauk in time? Tune in next week for PART TWO of “Ridiculous Fanfic: Escape from Seattle”!

How are YOU celebrating Snake Plissken month? If you’re doing your part to honor Snake Plissken and his fans, let me know in the comments below! Continue reading “Ridiculous Fanfic: Escape From Seattle Part 1”