Celebrations for All: Doc’s Hybrid Holiday Proposal

     All of this comes to an abrupt halt as an almost spectral black form looms over the otherwise blurry screen of the meeting room door.

     Him.

     All attention and gazes shift from the frantic leadership to the ominous shadow cast upon the entryway. The door creaks gently, as if the villain of a horror story was ready to creep in and take a victim. It was no ordinary villain, but a Techo in a familiar plague doctor garb. And behind him, a convoluted eccentric-looking device is carried upon a “motorized” pull wagon. Much like the machine, the wagon hisses and wheezes in seeming anguish.

     “Ladies and gentlemen, and all others, of the board! I have arrived at last! Hold your applause!” bellows out the maniacal figure toting the equally maniacal machine. His greeting is met in half-hushed gasps and bulgy eyed stares. The awkward inventor shuffles and shambles, tugging his abomination behind him, slowly towards the presentation area of the board room. All those he passes cringe in revulsion over the agonizing rusty screeching of the wagon wheels. The board room observes in locked focus as the robed menace slowly makes his way towards the presentation area. As if from hammerspace, the ominous Techo reaches somewhere on his person, pulling out various display stands and paper charts detailing various facets of his creation. However, the use of strange symbology and technobabble with terms like “psionic hypo-dimensional fractal-proof manipulation” and “cross-planar holiday reality augmentation” leaves the board scratching at their heads, confusion replacing initial terror. The uneasy quiet and puzzled stares abruptly end as a set of hands emerged from the sleeves, which meet together and create a quaking CRAAAACK. The figure mutually bends his back in a stretch. The figure points upwards, like a disco dancer overcome with weekend roller rink fever. He hunches over, reaching into some likely implausible dimensional space, only to snap his form back into place. Within his left hand, he materializes some sort of remote-like device.

     “Good people of the voice”, grabs Doc in commanding boom, “I present to you the solution to your seasonal woes! The past couple of years have proved most challenging for the realms of CELEBRATION!” The booming rattle of his voice causes the glass window panes to shake, if only briefly. Reasserting authority, the well-dressed Grarrl puffs his chest a bit while reconfiguring his face into a façade of toughness.

     “You have quite the proposition, Mr… Doc”, bellows the company head in self-assured triumph. Regaining confidence proper, he begins to rise from his swivel chair like a mighty king dictating to the masses from a castle balcony. “But our financial support and backing require proper explanation and presentation.” An aura of smugness begins to resonate and hover around the boss, his arms crossing in certain victory. He glances down at an investor, a grey Ixi with thick glasses connected to a string of luxurious pearls around her ears.

     “Indeed, profit margins have been down in lieu of dubious choices on behalf of our marketing team. We’ve had to prune some bad branches to ensure the mechanism of the sales point. Why should we consider you?” chimes the Ixi in equal hubris to her boss. A devious grin slides upon the Grarrl’s face, which he quickly masks under a chiselled and stoic expression. Far from deterred, Doc’s stance shifts from that of awkward hefting to that of a giddy excitement of a hyperactive youth.

     “Oooooh! I’m glad you asked!” Continuing his jovial response, he fiddles with his remote contraption as maniacal giggles and cheerful bouts of gibberish flutter under his mask. The bulky monster machine barely resting upon the strained wagon begins to twitch and jerk, as gears turn and belts race. Clicking and computerized chirping overtake any attempt at conversation, as a light show of colours emits from all of the glassy square boxes found throughout the overly complicated contraption. As Doc begins to raise his arms up in excitement, several of the less cynical members of the board slouch forward in intrigue. However, a harsh grinding roars from within the bizarre prototype, as smoke bellows to a disappointing machine wheeze. A sputtering sound follows awkward silence.

     A similar wheeze erupts from a Lenny beside the company boss, with a tag pinned upon her blouse stating “Head of Research and Development”. The wheeze quickly slides into uproarious laughter, before blurting out “You serious?” Rather than calling out the inappropriate reaction, the board turn their glances towards Doc expectantly, as if to see how he would react to such a challenge.

     Doc lurches back, as many a mad scientist has done to unleash an evil fit of laughter. But rather in his case, a declaration, “A simple warm-up! The battery needs a replacement, but it gets the job done!”

     Taken back by attempts to defeat him, the Grarrl sputters out, “Battery? The product of the future, dependent on batteries?” A sinister reflection of light bounces off Doc’s mask, or perhaps his eye.

     Doc retorts, “My good sir, this is but an early model. I have notes and charts to detail how future iterations will be far superior and energy-efficient. So, let’s try this again!” As before, the machine provides an impressive show with the turn of a dial and press of a button. This time, an incredible synthetic hum bursts like an orchestral sting meant to awaken an audience. Most of the board room jumps back. Put in his place, the Grarrl ushers Doc to continue. Doc grants a cheery nod as he whirls around, cape and all. Vials containing some means of alchemical samples whiz out and slam against the table, bursting open. In puffs of smoke, silly hats materialize on the heads of the board members.

     “Oops”, chips Doc, “Those were party favours for after the show! Save those hats for later… please!”

     The board, unamused, unanimously removes the strange hats immediately. With one hand, Doc raises the remote pointed towards the heavens above. A finger from his other hand moves to guide eyes around the bits and bots that crowd and overwhelm the fantastic device.

     With throat cleared in quick *aaaa-hem*, Doc continues. “With only so much time to celebrate and so many stressors of the modern world to contend with, why not mix things up a little? Thanks to my wondrous works of SCIIIEEEEEENCCCE- “, the windows rattle harder, “one can literally do just that! Why not sample direct mental essence of an actual event or two… or three! And from there, meld them together into something wholly new!” Further dial twisting causes the glowing and flickering big box to almost stretch and bounce as some manner of screen begins to open with a faint grey mist emerging. From within, the sounds of exhaust hiss as something begins to rattle within. Doc’s form seems almost elastic as it twists to and fro, like a frantic conductor of a disturbed concert.

     “Halloween? The Chocolate Ball? Both are deceptively sweet! So, I give you the Chocolate Bat!” Doc continues his delighted pointing, now focusing on the figure that swoops out of its hiding spot. A chocolatey orb with leathery brown batwings darts out of the machine, unleashing a gurgling and pulsing screech. The board mutually recoil in shock and horror. The candy-thing flutters and flies about in destressed confusion, swooping down towards the various members before an entryway emerges from its centre. A hot fudge regurgitates out of the foul beast and onto one of the investor’s notes.

     A sky blue Xweetok wearing a suit with bowtie and suspenders yelps, “No no no! That’s months of relevant data, ruined!”

     Doc grips his fists, lowering himself in disappointment and anger. He faces his nightmarish creation, like a parent disappointed in their child, “Gregory, how dare you!? I created you to entertain these people, not startle them!” The chocolate bat-thing slumps before flying back into the machine. The Grarrl, pressed to the edge of his seat, nearly grabbing at a shirt pocket over his heart, begins to ease back forward. Aghast and in shock, his mouth slowly begins to open, his eyebrows arching from terror into growing frustration. As he prepares to shut the madness down, an anxious Doc cuts him off.

     “Oh, worry not, people of the board! I can provide far better than that, hehe… From the bounds of speculative alternate history, I now blend Feyora Day with Sloth Appreciation Day! Who remembers my tales of Faerie Queen Sloth!?”

     The board turned from disturbed to shocked, as could such a thing be possible? Tales of this strange parallel reality shoot fear down the spines of those who heard it. Rumours, spread by the mysterious Doc, tell of an eldritch horror who rules through uncanny joy. With the adjustment of some alien modules and doodads, the machine begins to shake about harder than the previous experiment. A tall creature with a bulbous head climbs out like the antithesis of Santa Claus. Paradoxically beautiful and grotesque, the Faerie Queen unfurls their wings, showcasing a maniacal Sloth smile.

     The entity turned towards the crowd, “It is a time to celebrate… me! Are you not happy?”, they exclaim in portentous cheer. The haunting voice rang of a fusion between Feyora and Sloth, bolstered by echoing rings of both as well. Nervous large grins are worn over the office crowd’s faces, to evade the fates heard about in Doc’s prior tales. Brainwashed Grinning Zombies, this is what the office deeply fears.

     “Don’t worry, as long as you maintain the grin in front of your majesty, festivities continue”, twirls Doc in detached joy. Several awkward and silent minutes pass, as Faerie Queen Sloth basks in the “wondrous energy” produced by the smiling crowd.

     The suit-clad Grarrl, whose jaws struggle to maintain a toothy maw of a grin, manages to cough out, “Doc, while it’s an honour to meet your majesty, don’t they have important business that you’re pulling them away from?”

     Doc smacks a gloved hand to his forehead. “Oh, how selfish of me! Anyway, in ya go, Queenie!” Doc hastily grabs Faerie Queen Sloth by the arm and shoves them back into the device like an old decoration shoved into an attic box.

     “You’ll suffer dearly for your transgressions, traitorous Techo!” cries out this Faerie Queen as they vanish back into the machine’s dimensional void. The previously fear frozen personnel loosen their jaws in soreness and relief. After a moment of clutching his face in pain, the company leader, shakes off a shocked expression. His brow lurches into an angered point.

     “You have some nerve—“ hollers the enraged Grarrl, before being cut off by the oblivious Doc.

     “Ah, nerves! Of course! That last one was far too serious, and a smidge pompous. I have something with much greater levity!”

     Before the board room can protest their presenter-turned-captor, he continues as before. Switches, dials, nobs and all means of wondrous parts are activated once again. Just as before, the machine rocks about, but more erratically this time. The Lenny in charge of R&D scoots her seat back, clutching onto the handles. The Xweetok in the bowtie meanwhile begins to paw and grab at whatever is in front of him, in vain attempt to salvage his damaged notes. The machine eventually bounces up slightly before plopping back on the ground with a loud *THUNK*. Mist clouds an object that likely hops about. From within the shaft that unveils each holiday horror, the audible sounds of jingle bells and maniacal giggling can be heard.

     With a jolting reveal, a wrapped gift unearths itself by bouncing about. Upon its tacky bright blue and orange wrapping paper is a tag that says “Open Me”. Doc looks around his crowd, with a pointer finger extended as it traces its way around the mortified crowd.

     “Who wants to open it?”, Doc inquires. Tense silence once again hangs over the board room, save for the jingling bells and absurd cackles coming from the bouncing box. The plague doctor Techo shrugs, reaching for the animated thing. Like an eager child on the Day of Giving, he tears the paper off with haste. Said paper evaporates after leaving its ‘host’. A simple white top seals the container beneath it. As Doc lifts it off, the box in turn speaks.

     “FOOLED YOU!”, it cackles in a familiar and somehow referential voice. Not a second after, a vortex emerges, sucking all matter of supplies, briefcases, mugs and unguarded objects into a vacuum. The whipping funnel begins to grow, as both wintery bells mixed with evil laughter grow stronger. The board members grab onto whatever seems stable as they are slowly picked off of their feet. Amidst the battering winds, several scream to close the accursed box. As if able to fight the sucking winds, Doc slowly paces himself with the lid before slamming it open the petty package. A previously quiet employee, a Lupe in a semiformal dress shirt and skirt, emerges and slams the thing with a chair broken by the howling vortex. The box shifts from wicked chuckles to screams of pain as it leaps into the machine before a flash of light makes it disappear. Rocked to the core, the observers remain on the floor, unsure what had befallen them.

     The company lead, clad in torn-up rags that were once a luxurious suit, shakes off any remaining quakes of horror. Balling a fist and thrusting it into an empty hand, he glares at the mad scientist.

     “No more psychotic holiday fusions. These aren’t just dangerous, they’re deranged. Who wants to celebrate any of this? It’s not fun, it’s pure evil! You’re done here! In fact, let me call the authorities that arrested ‘your clone’!” The Grarrl reaches for a cracked cellular phone, somehow intact. As Doc quickly leaps to his feet, he races to try to grab the phone. But, before he does, the Techo accidentally dropped his remote, stepping upon it with a careless footstep. Once again, all in the room pause.

     “Oh no”, squeaks a sheepish Doc, as the machine whirrs and chirps once more. However, this is no mere rocking, but violent thrashing as the contraption practically flails back and forth with a deafening screeching and grinding cacophony. Eyes dart between Doc and the fracturing holiday doohickey. Poorly fastened bits and pieces break off and fly through windows and walls. Streams of colours blend into phantasmagorical rainbows and eldritch colours beyond comparison. Almost all, save for Doc, crowd under the bashed and cracked meeting table. Only Doc turns to face his greatest creation, practically rapturing at the seams. But, as all seemed lost and his work was about to explode, it simply falls silent and coughs up a cloud of smelly grey exhaust. Its cough proves to be more of a final throe than a successful experiment. An echoing sigh of release washes over the ducked and covering crew.

     Slowly, the employees slink from their safety, akin to night creatures emerging from the shadows. All back away from the madman, all looking at each other. While still remaining silent, their frantic glances accuse each other of inviting him in the first place. Doc, hunches in embarrassment, proceeds to apologize profusely. All seemed unaware that something clanked, crawling and slithering towards the entryway of the machine shaft. A familiar paw and ear made itself known to the accountant, who was mostly silent through the meeting, now gasps and points to the final creature. More of the mystery Thing continues to reveal itself. The ear poking out proved longer, connecting to a head, which connects to… overalls. Could it be? A clone of Topsi!? Did Doc create a non-evil and fully organic double? The Grarrl clutching his phone, readied to call, locks eyes with the cloned creature.

     “Topsi? Is that you?” he stutters near-choking on his words. The Topsi-Thing whips his head around, a sharp grin stretches from normal length to lifting above his brow line.

     “No! Me Entropsi. No time for Negg, only…”, leaves the thing’s demon maw in a shrill and distorted tone, “-DESTROY!”. The glass shaking pitch increases, leading to cracking veins upon the windows. A cruel glow emits from the creature’s eyes, as the Topsi Clone inverts its colours, clothing included. It leaps to the ceiling, clinging to the dated popcorn ceiling tiles. The Fake-Topsi’s head swerved in a half-circle again, in a sickly motion that would be lethal to any mundane creature.

     “This go bye-bye now! DESTROY!” The monstrous thing reaches out to touch a ceiling light fixture, causing it to immediately vanish. The crowd in awe quickly descends into panic, as the Topsi-Thing is partially covered in shadow. All quickly rush out not just the door but also crashing through the glassy panes cutting the meeting room from the rest of the office. Before the last of the crowd flees, the Grarrl looks back to see the creature leap down to the meeting table.

     “Don’t go, more bye-bye to happen!” slips from the garbled parody’s mouth. And with another touch, the table too disappears.

     Overwhelmed in mind shattering horror, the Grarrl nearly weeps “Fine, do what you want! Just leave us alone!”

     He too flees the mostly empty and wrecked room, leaving Doc alone with the monster.

     The gremlin-like mockery yawns, “bored now. Me bye-bye!” The Topsi-thing darts back into the machine, which promptly vanishes. Doc now stands alone, with gradually fading caterwauls of panic and hysteria leaving the office building. Looking out from the shattered windows towards the escaping crowd below, Doc begins to inhale with much gusto and passion.

     “This was great, I hope you’ll invite me back again!” he exhales upon the scattering masses. Once again alone, Doc shuffles towards a scrap piece of paper and a discarded pen.

     “Note to self:”, Doc writes to himself, “Next time, use fresher batteries.”