Fandom Island and Town

When Max woke up on Wednesday afternoon in a Bears jersey, a furry winter hat and sunglasses with his hand wrist-deep in a jar of honey, it took him a moment for him to register that he was not in his house doing the hibernating thing he always did, but was, instead, on a park bench.

He groaned and did his best to extract his hand, then found that he couldn't without doing something about the honey affixing his hand to the inside of the jar. So he glanced around to make sure no one attractive was looking, then ducked his head and started to work on that.

Sometimes Max had the patience to wait until noon for burgers. Sometimes he did not. When there were polar bears in his hotel room giving him Cokes and making him all hungry, he definitely did not.

Which was why as the clock struck noon on Tuesday, he could be found exiting Mooby Land, having just enjoyed a... well, a breakfast of burgers and fries. And it was delicious, thank you. The polar bear he'd shared his breakfast with thought so as well.

Jonothon, on the other hand, was less in a hurry to get himself a burger, and more... feeling hungry after his radio broadcast that morning, and not particularly in a rush to get back to The Boards in order to do... some paperwork or other. He was just passing by Max on his own way in to Mooby as the other man exited, and he offered him a nod and a slightly amused smirk. What better place to bump into someone he'd mocked Ronald McDonald with than at the clown's competition, right?

And Max would have reciprocated that nod. He would have, if it weren't for a sudden sharp pain in his left ankle. With a yelp of "Ow!", he turned around to identify the source of the pain and found... a tiny green something-or-other scampering off on its way, but not before nipping at Jono's ankle, too.

That... couldn't be good.

[[prewritten with apocalipped, ofc! 'stablishy, but there is another bit to come!]]

It turned out that Max had found a lot of tiny presents yesterday. Many, many of them. The main ones being about ten miniature baseball player figures, each one about half as tall as one of Max's fingers. He was now playing with them on the bar.

"Aren't there only nine players on a team?" Tiny asked.

Max held up the tenth player. "This guy's not a real player, he's just stalking them," he explained. "See how he's got a uniform and everything? You have to admire that kind of dedication, Tiny."

Tiny announced that he had to sweep the back room, and departed.

Max was on time and behind the bar like usual, but today his focus was on flipping through a magazine the club apparently subscribed to in the hopes of finding a decent Halloween costume.

"What do you think, too many feathers?" he asked, holding a page up so Tiny could see.

The face Tiny made in response said it all. Okay, back to the drawing board.

Penny's texted suggestion, a reprise of his Mandonna outfit from college, was not appreciated.

Tonight was Max's very first bar shift, and because he was a supremely mature human being, he was not celebrating it by drinking the entirety of the doughnut vodka that bartender from the weekend had introduced him to. Or any of it at all. That was how committed he was to this job.

Instead, he arrived, greeted Tiny with a "Hey, what's up, I'm Max," gave the DJ an appreciative nod for this evening's selection of underappreciated eighties hits, and settled behind the bar to await customers. He was feeling pretty good about his bartending skills.

Then the DJ's trend of eighties music began to progress toward the overappreciated, and Max began rethinking his satisfaction with this job.

He glanced at Tiny. "Hey, man, you think he'd turn that down?"

Tiny somberly shook his head. Great.