[Author's note: This is a Farscape-based story. 30d954A, that's me, makes no attempt to pretend to own the characters expressed here, unless, of course, he does. Feb's is an original creation of <--P e o p l e H u r t i n g T V s-->. Due to the common names of various locations in the story, special text effects have been utilized to proviude increased clarity for you acting as reader.]
click this for the color version of this page
Feb's had been around since before the dawn of time, it seemed. Nobody could remember a time when there wasn't Feb's. It was the first national chain of fast food restaurants, and every town had at least one. Consumer historians could tell you that "Feb's" wasn't the original name of the place. When the first Feb's was built, it originally had the name of "Industrial Fast Food Park," but everyone called it "Feb's." Today's generation called it by the name which they picked up from their parents, and the parents before them: Feb's.
These days, Feb's was a standardized square building with "Feb's" written in big, cursive letters on the side. It's also about 20 stories tall, with the last three stories comprised of glass for the thrill-eaters to use. Each floor had it's own separate kitchen, big window-with-a-view, and bathroom section. For the first thirteen or so floors--where the "Feb's" sign wasn't--there was a big window in the front facing out. There was no windows in the back, where the kitchen was, on any floors. On the floors where the front of the building was occupied by the "Feb's" sign, there were two smaller big windows o either side of the building. Those were the only views the cooks got, so if someone got a job to work in the kitchen of Feb's on the fourteenth-through-twentieth floors, he was considered a lucky person.
The first Feb's was constructed in the center of a city called Monorail, the largest city of the state Monorail, which is the largest state of the continent Monorail, which is the largest continent on the planet Monorail, which is overlooked by the glowing sun Kole. Nobody calls the sun by it's name, though; they just call it "the sun." The corporation behind Feb's--which had made too many other bad investments, and only remains in the memory of the Feb's workers--had chosen to build the first Feb's there for obvious reasons.
The Feb's in Monorail was, believe it or not, not the largest Feb's in the country. It was, however, the only Feb's to be awarded landmark status by the Monorail Government. Feb's was also the inspiration for the booming Consumer Historian profession. Consumer historians, also known as commercial archeologists, research the history of businesses. To date, there are 5 official Consumer History museums on Monorail, the biggest one--of course--being in Monorail.
***
Today, at the Feb's in Monorail, Matt and Scott--best friends since grade school--met again in their usual booth to discuss life. The interior of Feb's was rather nondescript. White and blue tiles interlaced throughout the porcelain floor, with light blue leather booths decorating the rim of the building. Plastic faux-wood chairs and tables decorated the center of Feb's. It was an exercise in conformity--every Feb's looked exactly the same as the other, with the exception of building size. The third booth away from the entrance/exit door in a clockwise direction was the one that Matt and Scott always used.
"Did you ever notice how there's never anything good on TV anymore?" Matt asked.
"Yeah, I have. There was this one show on an off-the-wall cable network that I used to like, but I stopped watching."
"Oh, yeah. That's the one with the puppets, right? I could never watch a sci-fi show with puppets."
"That's the one. They somehow made it so that there was this machine, see, and it cut the lead character in half! He became two independent halves, that could still do all the functions they would normally do."
"Except for the ones on the other halves," Matt added.
"Of course. I just didn't see how they could resolve that plotline, so I stopped watching. The show's just gotten too risky, you know?"
"Risky or risqué?"
"Risky."
"Ah."
"Hey, what's the difference between a puppet and a poppet?" asked Scott.
"Uh," Matt paused, "I think a poppet is a puppet from adult-type puppet shows."
"No, I don't think so," Scott said, thinking.
Just about this time, the neighborhood mad scientist, Old Man Simmons (he had strange parents) burst into Feb's, babbling and cackling like mad scientists do. Now, Old Man Simmons was born in Monorail, to Tammy and Tommy Simmons, who moved to Monorail from Richardton, where they were born. Old Man Simmons's first word was "experimentation." He was the kind of kid who tried to blow up his cat with the homemade chemistry set. He was the type of kid who people told stories about, like the time when he actually built a working time machine, but managed to go back in time and accidently stop the development of xackjim, which is a compound necessary for time travel, which is why the time machine isn't working anymore, and why nobody's ever heard of xackjim. Anyway, so Old Man Simmons somehow managed to make a great deal of money, and spends his time mostly coming up with oddball experiments. He lives across the street from Matt, who managed to get lucky and get a living place very close to Feb's.
"Hey, Man," said Matt.
"Hey, Foxwort," said Simmons. He always called Matt "Foxwort," because that was his (Matt's) last name, just like Matt always called Simmons "Man," because that was his (Simmons's) middle name. Simmons sat down in the booth next to Scott. Scott got as far away from Old Man Simmons as he could. Being Matt's best friend, he had known Simmons for most of his life as well, and was freaked out by him.
"Hey, Simmons," Scott said, "Do you know what the difference between a puppet and a poppet is?"
"Yeah," Simmons said. "A poppet is like a puppet, only it's an animal. You know, like a wooden dog."
Matt and Scott nod and say, "Ah."
"So, what were you babbling about when you came in, Man?"
"I just blew up the sun!"
"Oh," Matt said, paused, then added, "you what?"
"Well, I didn't exactly blow it up. But I will. I triggered a rocket to fire at the sun in," Simmons paused and checked his watch. "Two hours and 12 minutes. If my calculations are correct, this will result in the destruction of Kole." Simmons was one of the few people who actually called the sun "Kole".
"Why two hours and 12 minutes?" Scott asked.
"Well, when I set the timer, it wasn't for 2 hours and 12 minutes. Time passes, you know."
Matt and Scott both shrugged this off as another one of Old Man Simmons's crackpot schemes.
"So, what are you guys doin'?" Simmons asked.
"Eh, not much," Matt said. "Do you ever watch TV?"
"Not so much as I used to. I turned my set into a radio antenna to communicate with aliens," Matt and Scott rolled their eyes.
Missile Launch Countdown: 2 hours, 0 seconds.
Scott and Matt were walking to Matt's house, which was just about a block from Feb's. On one side of Feb's is the towering sunblockers of the modern metropolis, and on the other side, the skyscraping buildings disappeard and were replaced by skyscraping apartment complexes and other residential places. In between the Greater Metro Area Rest-A-Way™, the most prolific of apartment complex-slash-inn-slash-restaurant chains in the country (and purveyors of the famous "We'll leave the light on for ya" slogan), was a small three-by-three (house) neighborhood where Matt and Scott have lived since they were kids, and where Old Man Simmons has lived since Matt and Scott were kids as well.
So Matt and Scott were walking back to Matt's house, which was generally where they liked to hang out-- Matt's house had all the cooler gadgetry--when Scott saw something that sparked his attention: A small child-business booth put out by some young neighborhood entrepreneur called "Poppet Theatre". It was a wooden room with a large window that served as a makeshift stage. The name of the establishment was painted crudely on the wooden board that topped the stage.
"Hey, Matt, look at this," Scott said, pointing at the Poppet Theatre. "Maybe the person who built that would know what a poppet is."
"Scott, didn't we already go over this?"
"Yeah, but I think you and Simmons are wrong, and I really want to know!"
Matt shrugged and continued walking along toward his house. Scott broke off of the path and walked to the Poppet Theatre, where he stood, waiting for the owner of the establishment to return.
Missile Launch Countdown: 1 hour, 27 minutes.
Scott waited at the Poppet Theatre for 33 minutes, and the owner of same never returned. As Scott stood in front of the Poppet Theater waiting for the owner, a long, black limousine pulled into the 3x3 square where Scott, Matt, and Old Man Simmons lived.
The limousine was occupied by the vice president of the local branch of the Feb's Fast Food Chain, Phil Philphil, Mr. Philphil's secretary, Miss United, and the Feb's Chief Operating Officer, Dan Rather. As it turns out, the president of the local branch of Feb's had suffered a terrible parachuting accident, and would not be able to return to work. Mr. Philphil, Miss United, and Mr. Rather were cruisin' the neighborhood to keep up appearances, while they discussed who to hire for a replacement.
"Do either of you know what a poppet is?" asked Mr. Philphil.
"No," replied Miss United and Mr. Rather in unison. They turned and looked at each other.
"Jinx! Buy me a coke!" shouted Miss United, before Mr. Rather could beat her to it. Faced with defeat, Mr. Rather snapped his fingers.
Mr. Philphil noticed Scott standing next to the Poppet Stand, and instructed his driver to pull over. "He must know what a poppet is," Mr. Philphil said.
The limousine coasted to a step right at Scott's feet. Mr. Philphil rolled down the window and said, "My name is Phil Philphil. Is this your poppet theater?"
Scott recognized the name and said, "Philphil? The vice president of Feb's?"
"Aye, lad, the very same!" Mr. Philphil said with a pirate-y accent. "Would you like to take a ride with us?"
"Sure!" Scott said. Mr. Philphil opened the door, and Scott got in the car. He sat next to Miss United, as that was the only seat available.
"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Mr. Philphil said, "Neither my associates here, nor I can figure out what a poppet is. Obviously, the fact that you own that poppet theater out there proves that you do, in fact, know what one is. Now, I'm sure you heard about the unfortunate incarceration of the former Feb's president, Lou Shakêstringflüteplaíre, and his involvement with the altogether tragic parachute indecent." Scott nodded. "What I am offering you, Mister, uh..."
"Davis," Scott said.
"Mr. Davis, is a job, provided you can tell me what a poppet is."
Scott was flummoxed. He proceeded to check the facts. "Let me get this straight," he paused, "I get to be the new president of the local Feb's and the only prerequisite is that I have to tell you what a poppet is?"
"That's correct," Mr. Rather said.
"We all really want to know," Mr. Philphil added.
Scott thought quickly, which of the definitions he got earlier seemed the most likely-to-be-correct. He eventually decided on Matt's. "A poppet, as far as I know, is an adult puppet."
Mr. Philphil said, "Ah!" and nodded. The limo drove toward Feb's.
Missile Launch Countdown: 32 minutes.
Matt's phone rang. It was Scott. "Hey," Matt said.
"Guess what?"
"You discovered uranium?"
"I'm the new president of Feb's!"
"Get out of here! Our Feb's?"
"Our Feb's!"
"What happened to the old president?"
"He was convicted after the parachute incedent."
"Oh, right. The parachute incedent. I knew he did it," Matt switched thoughts, "So, anyway, you run Feb's now, huh?"
"Yeah, and it's great! I got a corner office with a window and free meals and my own secretary and everything!"
"Free meals? Do I get that, too?"
"No," Scott said with a chuckle, "You don't work here."
"Yeah, but I know you!"
"So?"
"Nevermind."
"Wanna see my new office?"