neigedens: shirley examining tiny nipples (Default)
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear? ([personal profile] neigedens) wrote2010-02-10 11:01 am
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Oh man, so I have been meaning to repost this forever because I really like it and I think I posted it at a comm or something. ANYWAY, here it is, for posterity's sake. It's a fic I wrote during a darker time in my life, when I was eating a lot more tuna than I'm strictly comfortable with.

Title: Of Hostages and Hot Dish
Author: [ profile] neigedens
Rating: G for General
Word Count: 1132 words
Time Period: Episode 512--Mitchell
Summary: Mike faces the reality that he will be shot into space and that some people are annoyingly fond of their own hot dish.
Notes: MST3K and related characters and settings are obviously the property of Best Brains, Inc. Good on them.

Of Hostages and Hot Dish

He looked down at his plate, which was empty at the moment, then back up at the man who had put it there.

“Frank,” he began, “this is crazy. You do know this is crazy, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“All this!” If he could have gestured to the ropes binding his arms and torso he would have, but of course he could not. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Well, yeah. You filed my old head away earlier, don’t you remember?”

If Mike could have put his own head down on the table in frustration he would have, but, again, the ropes prevented him.

Just then, the second of Mike’s new employers walked into the room. He said nothing but acknowledged Mike and Frank’s presence by nodding at each, as if captive temps were something normal at his dinner table. (Hell, maybe they are, Mike thought.) The strange man then sat down and began to read the Minneapolis paper without so much as a word to either of them.

Look,” if you’ll just be reasonable I’m sure we can come to some--,”

“We’re having the tuna hot dish tonight, Steve,” Frank said, offhandedly, and then to Mike, “and would you quit whining? This is your last meal on Earth, try to enjoy it a little, huh?”

“What’s not to enjoy?” Mike shook his head. “How am I supposed to eat it, anyway?”

This question appeared to stymie Frank as well. “Well…well, maybe you can…we can loosen some of the ropes….”

“Are you nuts, Frank?” cut in Dr. Forrester. Mike silently answered the question for the both of them. “First rule of having a hostage, you don’t untie them just so they can have hot dish.”

Frank appeared disconcerted at this. Hostage or no, people deserved to be fed when it was dinnertime. Unwillingly, he sat down and began to eat his portion. Nobody at the table spoke (although periodically Mike’s stomach growled; he was quite hungry), which made an atmosphere already stiffened by the presence of mad scientists and captive temporary workers all the more awkward. Mike’s habit at time like this was to clear his throat and nervously inquire about that weather we’re having lately or the Vikings, but it occurred to him that perhaps it wasn’t the appropriate time.

A few more minutes into the meal, however, Mike had steeled his nerves enough to speak again.

“Dr. Forrester?”


“I’ve been thinking…don’t you think this ‘experiment’ thing…it’s all a bit…I mean, it’s not by far the most useful thing I can do around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, I’m pretty experienced at sitting around and watching movies and doing jack squat, but it’s not what…what I’m qualified for.”

“Why on earth would I care what you’re qualified for?”

Mike panicked, but recovered. “Because…because it’s not exploiting your core competencies to the fullest degree.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that there are a whole bunch of other jobs I can do better. I could….” He trailed off. Mike felt that up until then he had been doing pretty well because Dr. F looked increasingly confused at all his talk, and confused people were easier to deal with. Mike searched his brain for a plausible lie. What had he gathered from all his working as a temp, other than how to work the coffee machine at the temp agency’s office? “Well, if you needed a…a receptionist or something I could probably do it. Most offices’ systems are about the same anyway, I’m sure I could figure it out pretty quick.”

“What do I need a receptionist for?”

“Who doesn’t need a receptionist, really? If people call or…or need directions to the mad scientist’s lair down the way or…I can get the phones hooked up so you can conference call and—”

“Thanks,” said Dr. F, “but no thanks. I need an experiment subject more than a secretary, thank you, Miss Hathaway.” He smiled smugly. “You’ll be leaving in the rocket when it finishes re-fueling. Frank, why don’t you get him situated in the cockpit while I go check on everything?”

Dr. Forrester was obviously a lost cause. Mike supposed there was nothing for it. He would just sit here and wait for a nice ride from plant Earth to a lifetime of Joe Don Baker movies.

Just who was it who decided to give every whack job with a green lab coat a rocket ship, anyway? And a satellite, too…

He had almost given up when he caught a glimpse of Frank’s face. It was still troubled and it occurred to Mike that perhaps everything hadn’t gone completely pear-shaped; if he could win Frank over to his side….

“Frank,” he said urgently as the ropes securing him to the chair were loosened. “Listen, buddy, could you help me out here?”

Some long-forgotten feeling of compassion must have arisen in Frank. “Sure. I mean, I can sympathize with what’s just happened to you.”

“You can?”

“Sure. I’ll help you out, if I can.”

“Will you really?”

“No problem. Just sit right here and I’ll be right back.” Mike was so grateful he didn’t even mind when Frank shoved him into the rocket’s cockpit and chained him to the seat, which certainly was a little disconcerting, but Mike assured himself that he would be leaving Deep 13 in just a few minutes.

Mike jumped without thinking when he saw Frank coming back a few minutes later. He cursed as his head collided with the metal hull of the rocket, but it didn’t matter. “So? Can I leave?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Steve said he’s going to launch the rocket in about five minutes.”

“Not that, I meant--,”

“Well, here you go.” Frank handed him a plastic Tupperware dish and a plastic fork.

“What’s this?”

“Your dinner. You looked hungry, I figured you can eat it on the way up.”

Mike stared blankly at the tuna hot dish and utensil in his lap and didn’t even hear Frank’s cheery “Safe trip!” and the slam of the hull doors.


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