Episode 3 – Warm Hogs & Chilly Dogs
Walter H. White: “Yes. Yes, that’s what we need. We need a distributor now. Do you know anyone like that?”
Jesse Pinkman: “Yeah. I mean, I used to until you killed him.”
“Now if only chili dogs grew on trees.”
– Sonic the Hedgehog
(Click here for the Shark Horse Series Bible)
Splinter had brought a little bowl of rat pellets to feed the warthog he had chained up in his basement. “Please, eat.” Splinter nudged the bowl forward while keeping his distance.
The chain was wrapped around Bebop’s pink, veiny and sausage-like neck, forcing him to reach out with his feet to pull the bowl closer. He ravenously devoured the food like a… well, like a pig. “Thank you,” came out between belches and slurps.
“I don’t want to keep you locked up down here,” Splinter started, filled with remorse, “but I can’t let you go. I have no reason to believe you won’t kill me, won’t kill my whole family. I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re right. You should probably kill me.” The warthog grunted as he farted, filling the room with a vile stink, worse than the melted body Raph was cleaning upstairs. “But, I mean, like, how would you kill me? I’m a mutant warthog with jackboots and a purple Mohawk. You’re a rat with cancer—“
“I have ratatouille!” Splinter shouted, remembering his collapse earlier.
“I don’t think that’s a real disease. Wasn’t that a Disney movie or something?” Bebop finished his food, chucking the bowl back to Splinter who narrowly dropped it between his shaking rat-hands.
“I… I’m going to let you go. I got into the pizza game to make money for my family. I didn’t think it could get this far.”
“Tubular bro! I promise, I’ll just leave and you won’t ever hear from me again.” The warthog stood as straight as his bonds would allow, trying to look innocent beneath his visored sunglasses.
Preparing to free the warthog, Splinter set down the bowl. But as he approached the lock, a horrible revelation hit him: there was a spoon in that bowl! Quickly he grabbed the chains and pulled as hard as he could, desperately trying to choke Bebop. Unfortunately, his feeble rat hands weren’t strong enough to strangle a pig. And Bebop began to repeatedly poke him with the stolen spoon.
“Agh, stop, ow. Cut it out, that hurts. Ugh. I think that’s going to bruise.” Splinter coughed as he released the chains and stumbled away.
“You’re never going to be able to kill me, old man.” Said the talking pig. And exactly that instant, the pig began to cough, and boils broke out over his body. “Oh, god! The plague!!!”
It seems, without knowing it, Splinter had killed him. Because rats carry the plague. The black plague. Which pigs are highly susceptible to. Read a history book.
Anyway, Bebop was dead. Splinter walked upstairs to go get some Coke. He was thirsty. Raph was scooping the last of the ivory horn into a bucket to pour into the sewers.
“It’s been a long day,” said Splinter, “I’m going home to get some sleep.”
“Are you going to fuck your wife?” Raph asked, genuinely curious.
“No,” Splinter sighed, “For you see, my little rat-penis does not possess the ferocity that once it did. April will remain rat-dick free for tonight.”
Raph shrugged, “Okay.”
“See if you can sell the rest of that pizza that we made,” Splinter ordered. Then he was off. He was weary. The pig’s death was already haunting him.
THE NEXT DAY…
Splinter went over to Raph’s subterranean sewer-house to check on the situation. He was hoping his young protégé had melted the other body the correct way this time; with Coke. He knocked a few times on the manhole cover, but received no response. So, being as he was a rat, he slipped down the storm drain into Raphael’s home. What he saw was to chill him straight to the core of his rat-dick.
Raphael was lying in his bed, beaten, bruised and bloody. He’d clearly had a rough night. Splinter shook Raph awake.
“Hey, how’d you get in here, bitch?” Raph demanded as he awakened.
“Never mind that,” Splinter said, “Who did this to you?”
Raph sat up in his bed, “I was trying to find us a distributor. I got the shit kicked out of me.”
“But, my son,” Splinter said, “Have I not trained you in the mystical arts of Ninjitsu? Who could so easily defeat you?”
“You don’t understand,” said Raph, “He was fast. He’s really fast. He’s a hedgehog. A blue hedgehog. His name is Sonic. Sonic the Cholo. ”
“I must speak with this ‘Sonic the Cholo,’” Splinter said.
“Wait! He knows who you are,” Raph called as Splinter began to slink out of the sewer.
“You told him my name? But… my family!” Splinter spun around to face Raph, looking his pupil straight in his turtley eyes.
“He asked who the cook was, I had to tell him something. But I didn’t tell him your real name.”
“Then what did you tell him?” Splinter asked.
“I said the cook’s name was Chuck E.”
“Chuck E. Cheese,” said Raph.
And with that, he was off. Back to his fan-boat.
Back to cook.
Splinter was carrying a pizza box as he was lead onto a strange floating chunk of land, which lifted him above the loop-de-loops, through the casino and beyond the water level and into the laboratory belonging to Sonic the Cholo.
Something about how Sonic’s henchman, the orange fox with two tails, greeted him unnerved Splinter.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the cook. I’m Chuck E. Cheese,” said Splinter.
“Boss wants to see you,” said Tails, beckoning him into the laboratory.
Sonic, who actually looked nothing whatsoever like a hedgehog, but more like a cross between a stegosaurus and a blue koosh ball (wearing a sombrero), sat alone at his desk, enjoying various junk foods, which he ate at ludicrous speeds.
“My favorite are Chili Dogs,” the boss said through a mouthful.
“You owe me money.” Said Splinter, unerringly. “Money for the pizza you stole from my partner, and money for kicking the shit out of him.”
“Aw, are you his daddy?” Sonic mocked as his sucked back his 64oz Slurpee.
“I’m a rat. He’s a turtle. But yes,” Splinter answered, “in a way.”
“You stupid fool, you pendejo estupido, you el pollo loco,” Sonic shouted as he rose from behind his desk. “You think you can come in here and mess with me?” Suddenly he sat down and belched. “Oh, excuse me. I think I ate too much, feeling a little bloated. Normally I’d deal with you myself, but at times like these, I’m glad I’ve got my henchmen. Yo, Tails! Get those stupid clowns in here!”
A small remote-control car whizzed into the room. As soon as it stopped, a dozen clowns with bright red noses and baggy polyester pants popped out and surrounded Sonic. His guards and henchmen were literal clowns.
“And the STUPIDEST thing you could do, hijo de puta, you bring me another pizza pie.” Sonic chowed down on another Wienerschnitzel.
“You’re right, except for one thing,” Splinter said as he opened the box. “This pie is not pizza.” Before anyone could make a move, Splinter hurled the banana cream pie right into Sonic’s face. The blue blur was so shocked that he couldn’t even move. A look of paralyzing fright climbed across Tails’ face, but the clowns… the clowns silently applauded.
“You got balls, rat-man.” Sonic said as he licked the pie off his face. “And this is good. You’re a good cook. You have earned my respect. Give him what he asked for.”
The clowns took their hobo sticks and untied their bindles, handing wads of cash over to Master Splinter. He may have appeared calm and composed, but inside, the little rat-man was doing a little rat-dance, shouting “YES” over and over inside his head, clutching the wads of cash in iron clad grips, grips so tight they would have been able to strangle a giant mutant warthog.
“So,” said the hedgehog, “what are you going to do now?”
Splinter turned, his little rat-boner knocking over 2-liter bottles of soda and stacks of discarded pizza boxes. As he left the room, his once weak voice reverberated off the walls, filling the room with his strength.
“I’m going home to fuck my wife.”
TO BE CONTINUED…