20147/Candy Crown Patrol

Candy Crown Patrol
Date of Scene:	26 February 2025
Location:	New Jersey
Synopsis:	The stunning debut of an all-new hero, King Kandy! Or maybe Longshot's having a schizophrenic break off the Jersey Turnpike. You, the reader, must decide!
Cast of Characters:	Cliff Steele, Longshot
Tinyplot:	Threads

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Cliff Steele has posed:
Wednesday, 3 AM. Port Newark Containment Terminal, off the Jersey Turnpike. 40 and cloudy, threatening to rain.

In a darkened parking lot, weedy and unmarked, an enclosed phone booth yet stands, its flickering overhead light a beacon for those weary, turned-about travelers who find themselves on this service road of ill-repair. The small lot is shrouded by an expressway overhead and separated by chain-length from massive cargo ships that sidle beneath a row of bright blue cargo cranes of boggling scale, hauling a bounty of containers of every color to be stacked into a labyrinth of seemingly endless dimensions.

The night is filled with the cavernous bellow of sea-horns and the titanic clash of metal on metal, like the hammer of the gods.

With a brilliant flash, a lone figure appears in this desolate place, his strange journey to worlds unknown coming to a sudden stop.

Longshot has posed:
The wind is wicked off the water, sharp and cold. The air wet with the smell of the coming storm and the scream of machinery echos so loudly that the laughter of the figure is likely not audible at first.

And yet, here he is, hands reaching up to the sky a moment, then jumping up with an inhuman dexterity and speed, punching up with a gleeful celebration. The moment feet hit the pavement again, it is in dance and more laughter. The wind whips through blond hair and Longshot beams out at the dark world with a pure joy not felt fully in weeks. There are no words, just happy, private celebration of freedom.

This might be Longshot's new favorite day. Longshot is having a great day now! Most days are great when you are Longshot, but the past few weeks have been, even by his standards, not great. But now? Great! NOT being in Ryker has been even more great than usual.

After all, Ryker is a very sad and angry place and Longshot is a psychometric empath. It's hard to think and be optimistic in buildings not super kind to people who feel the hate of the world literally and still need to sleep. Though as a rule, Ryker is not super kind to most people, perhaps that's related.

STILL, thanks to the help of a time and space witch that will remain unnamed for unknown reasons, Longshot is breathing the bitterly cold, tinged with gasoline and grease air of a free man again. He doesn't know where he is, and frankly he doens't care. Longshot isn't in Ryker anymore! He doesn't have a lawyer to disappoint by leaving, he's already done it! AND HE CAN THINK! And Feel the Wind and See The Sky!

AND LOOK! What an incredibly convenient phone booth! AND, a quarter on the ground right there!

Longshot scoops up the quarter and skips to the phone box, hopping in and dropping the coin that will surely be enough in, dialing the number for Doom Manor with a hum. Everything is great. He doesn't need to know where he is, Cliff will help. Someone will come pick him up and take him to a place where sleep will be easy and food is nice and people don't bother him about the mob or his hands or say things that should be nice, but definitely are not.

Cliff Steele has posed:
As the aluminum doorframe rustily comes to a close, the flickering overhead steadies, an eveloping island of fluorescence in the dim sea of the night.

The booth has seen better days--scarred, marred, a mural and a toilet. Yet still it stands, a vestige of the last century defiant against all odds.

As the stranger takes the receiver from its cradle, a slight jolt of electricty is felt, like a static release. A quarter consumed, a number punched.

The Operator intrudes.

"We're sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service."

The overhead clicks off and the darkness rushes in.

"We're sorry, but the number you have dialed. . ."

An undertone, a fuzz puntuated by intermittent pops, like an old record. A golden light begins to illuminate the phone box from within, setting the keypad ablaze.

"Rerouting. One moment please. Rerouting."

A backlit sequence plays out on the pad, repeating itself once, twice, three times:

4-3-7-6

"Duh-duh-duh-dial huh-uh-huh-H. . ."

The buzz of the dial tone, expectant, growing louder.

Longshot has posed:
Longshot was humming to himself when he entered the booth and will stop at the words and an unfamiliar voice, "What does that mean?"

The words being repeated will clue him into this being a recording, but still, what an odd way to use the word Service. 'Service' in this context is not something Longshot has run into before, but the number no longer being for Doom Manor seems clear after some consideration. Wonder who the number is serving now. He didn't realize numbers served in the way people did, but that people all have their own phone numbers, sure. That makes sense? Sort of. Maybe he should punch in a number at random and see what happens, that's gotten him connected with friends in the past?

The Booth going dark brings the first real flicker of something like worry for Longshot, but the return of light, even if it's from the keypad will still him trying to retreat back outside. If there still is an outside? He checks, then returns to the phone, "Hello? I'm, um-looking to make a call?"

The problem with a context-less existence is that Longshot must take things in stride, he has no way of knowing exactly what about anything is normal. Despite this, he has a relatively reliable set of instincts that generally push him without thought as to why. Luck maybe, maybe some muscle memory that recalls how to sense danger better than his mind does. Now, the sense that this ISN'T normal will push Longshot to gently loosen some knives from a sheath and pull them out. He shifts and puts his back to the wall, a brief tug to see if the door of the booth opens and is unsurprised when it doesn't.

Longshot dials slowly, 4-3-7-6, his voice is bright, steady, but careful, "Hi, this is Longshot, I don't know where I am."

Cliff Steele has posed:
4-3-7-6.

As the last number is dialed, the booth begins to tremble with expectation, the light growing ever brighter until looking at the keypad is the same staring into the sun itself. A heavy smoke of dry ice gathers at the stranger's feet as even his shadow is consumed in the incandescence of a higher plane.

Amidst the ceaseless clangs and klaxons of the port, the crash of lightning cuts through as the booth is filled with an otherworldly energy before going dark once more.

The door clicks open, and from it emerges... someone else.

King Kandy was his name, and he was a Hero. Of this, he was certain. He knew, too, as he saw his reflection in the puddle at his feet, that he was a king not just in name but in deed, his candied crown wrested from Lord Bittersweet, the Don of Dark Chocolate, when he was still a lad lost in Kandyland, armed only with his endless Licorice Lariat and his comparatively-great Earthborn strength. He leapt over the Sugar Hills, swam the raging Soda Streams, and clambered atop Big Rock Kandy Mountain itself, all in the name of his sweetheart, Princess Peep--now his Cadbury Queen.

The Scion of Sweets pauses, uncertain. It is he... isn't it?

From within the booth, weakly a(n) (un)familiar voice calls from the speaker:

"Uh, hello? Hello?"

How did he come to be here? What is Riker's Island? Who is... Cliff?

"Uh... I guess I'm going to hang up now?"

Longshot has posed:
And why is he holding a knife?

The master of all things sweet dips and sourdrops drops the odd flat knife and crouches down to study himself a little closer in the puddle, this seems so right! He knows this to be his face and his hands, he even notes the number of fingers.

Why is that notable? He's not sure. It probably isn't? After all, five fingers on each hand is just how hands are made for those made of flesh and not of confectionaries. Still, the fingers will be flexed and studied.

The vague sense that this is how many fingers nightmares have will be dismissed. He knows who he is and he is the great, one and only King Kandy of the great halls of Twizzler Towers!

The sound from the box will pull his attention briefly, surely this is some trick or foe to be conquered in this strange new predicament that he's found himself in. The voice from beyond does not sound like anyone he knows, but it does sound very trustworthy.

Trustworthy and likely someone who Knows Things. Why he would assume that the voice in the box that he was just in would know things or is good is not considered. UnImportant right now, but answers are needed! A course of action should always be an informed one!

He turns to the box and points a single of his five fingers, voice booming out with all the authority of a man of great renoun! "SPEAK CLIFF BAR!!! YOUR KING DEMANDS IT OF YOU! WHERE IS HERE?! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

Cliff Steele has posed:
The King felt weak as he stepped forward, his footing uncertain. He felt like he was crashing after a long sugar high, even as he powered irritably through to bark at the receiver.

Our Hero had lived in Kandyland since his 11th year, and he was coronated King at the foot of Kastle Kandy, the westernmost of the Twizzling Twins, on his 13th birthday, high atop the windswept crags of Rock Candy Mountain. He can still hear the rocks popping merrily as they crunched beneath his sandaled feet, feel the fizz of soda between his toes, smell the sticky sweetness of the clouds of cotton candy and the heat of a smiling sun. And there she was, his dove, bedecked in an armor of gold to protect her marshmallow heart from assassins and suitors alike, save for the King.

But there was little time to tarry, or be moonstruck by memory, for somehow he had been returned to his native plane after many years gone. How many, he could not clearly say. The last year he could recall was... 1954?

"Uh, prank caller?"

An uncertain pause.

"Wait, hold on--is this about the Clover Ten? Not, like, the town, but T-E-N."

The King grows impatient, for his sweet tooth aches, a clear sign that the cavity of crime has gone deep to the root in this... Clover Ten.

But it has been long since he was a lad alone, in search of adventure. Today, he would be more likely to send his lollipop legions and candied commandos to meet a foe than he was to jump on top of their heads himself. Still, he is well-equipped, his bag of treats by his side, his candy stripes bejeweled by the alchemical confections of Lady Lemonhead, the sorceress of sweets, and the licorice lariat was forever at his hip. Finally, his candied crown was also a quiver for the Lollis of Light, blessed by the Lords of Lindor.

The King would only need to leap away and begone from this terrible place, the noise and smell and damp chill unknown for many years gone.

Not since... Ryker's? But that was only... Enough.

The King leaps in an Elonesque fashion, hopping little more than a foot off the ground.

"Uh, hello?"

Of course! His amazing strength and enormous leaps--they were of Kandyland, and in this place of his birth he was no different than any other, save for those gifts that he had on hand--and that damned sweet tooth, which cries for sweet vengeance!

Longshot has posed:
Ryker was really not great. Really unpleasant actually. He doesn't even like considering how Not Great Ryker was, and besides that was behind him. He doesn't generally worry about the past. It was the Past and didn't matter most of the time that he didn't have one. He didn't live there, he lived here.

He didn't live here either. King Kandy's Castle Awaits! His great love and life on the shores of sugar and spice and-

He didn't live there either. He lived in a television box that he wasn't allowed to destroy because it didn't belong to him.

He didn't live in a television box, that's ridiculous! He lived in a Castle with the love of his life.

He is a hero! He is a King! He is a great friend to all he's met, striving to uplift all he meets!

He is very confused. He doesn't actually have a Home, just a lot of really nice friends.

He really would like a home someday, but he's forgotten something important about it. Something so important that he was willing to kill.

But.

The Great King Kandy stands there, staring at the receiver and the voice that is so very Not familiar in such a familiar way.

Clover Ten. Cloverton. Clover Ten. Cliff Bar.

King Kandy, the great and benevolent walks up to the phone booth and picks up the receiver very carefully, very gently, almost afraid that if he touched it, he'd know things about it-which is ridiculous, but his hearts hurt in a way they shouldn't, because he only has one heart and it is filled with an acqe for sweet relief!

He just holds the phone and looks at it, everything is wrong, but there is no reason for it to be wrong, "Hello. I'm lost but I didn't fall out of the sky this time."

Cliff Steele has posed:
"Wait. Shit. Is this Longshot?"

7. There are 7 Lollis remaining, one for each of the Lords of Lindor that dance atop candy clouds, spinning castles with kisses from their cotton keeps that melt midday as the sun rises apologetically, embarassed for the inconvenience. As the dazzling crystal castles of the morning dissolve like a watch by Dali, syrups sprinkle the trees of hazelnut and irish cream and fields of cinammon candy cigarettes alike, whose chalky puffery is dampened by the sucrose shower of honeydew and the mysterious flavor known as 'blue'.

To taste the Lolli would dethrone the Lord, at least until such time that a new Lolli might be mined from the Kaverns of Konfection, deep in the heart of Rock Kandy Mountain. Worse, should all seven be consumed, the candy crown would corrode, and the dire cake within would rise unto it's appointed time...

A fear, deep-seated, of age and mortality, grips the King.

"Something's wrong with the phone, I think. Your voice sounds funny. Are you still in jail?"

Longshot has posed:
Fear is not something Longshot experiences often.

Longshot.

That's his -Name-.

He forgot his -Name-. That was so bone-deep -Wrongness- about forgetting the one thing that was His. That was so undeniably His, the one thing he Owned. The one thing that couldn't be taken away from him again and again when all else was denied him.

Longshot forgot his name.

Because his name was King Kandy.

"I'm not in Ryker and I am King Kandy. I remember-" He stops at that. He remembers something. That's odd. He remembers something. It shouldn't be, after all he has a whole life of adventure and grandeur behind him! A whole life where he led his people and kingdom to new heights of prosperity and caloric value!

The man takes a breath, that fear eating away at him as a cavity only can. Eating away at any assuredness a King should feel!

"I remember-Ryker." He's sure of that wretched place! The pressing of Anger and Hate and Fear and Hopelessness and the Lonely that pushed from the walls themselves-"Someone helped me and-"

Longshot lives in the present, he doesn't have a past, he doesn't plan for a future, his only existence that is real is NOW.

But Now Isn't Right, he is King Kandy and the smell of rain has turned sweet, the wind beating on the side of the phone box has started to sound like something starting to fall, like hail-colorful hail of gumdrops.

"-Help Me."

Cliff Steele has posed:
"Jesus! Longshot! What's happening? Where are you?"

The tooth is pounding. His right molar, warning him that something was amiss--and the only balm was to be found in Cloverton, of that which Longshot was sure as sugar. He knew in his heart that the cakes were rising, and with them... Birthday wishes. King Kandy shuddered at the thought.

Though sweetness and light shined on all that lived betwixt the Twizzling Towers, from the fighting sugar plum fairies of the far eastern shore of the sea of sugar and spice, to the western reaches where the Butterfinger Battalions man Kastle Kandy, vigilance is the price of freedom. For ever Kastle Kandy maintains its lonely watch over the Pancaked Plain, wary of raiders and bandits that seek sweetmeats for the slavers from Cakeland, and its twizzled twin, Confectionary Keep, likewise is constantly beset by pirates and freelances from those desolate isles where craven cakes and bitter biscuits crowded, exiles from the Kingdom.

"Hey! Buddy! I'm right here. Talk to me, pal."

Once, before the King's time, all was right in the Domains of Dessert, before the First Birthday.

That was when the Candlemaker came, and with him the power of wishes.

Cakes Alive! If the Candlemaker was involved...

"Wake up! Are you hurt? Look for a sign--something that tells you where you are!"

Longshot has posed:
The gumdrop rain continues in earnest now, the sky crying out with the pain of a throbbing mouth and head and heart and Everything is Bad. The pain is nearly unbearable, Longshot isn't Hurt often. He's really, really difficult to hurt and now everything is pain.

"Candlemaker? Cake?" He CANNOT forget his name again, neither of those are his name. His name Is Kandy. King Longshot. Longshot Kandy. King Candy? His name is-

Look around. Everything hurts and now there is colored blobs of something on the ground, rolling away, splatting against the booth. He sinks to the ground and sits there, phone cradled in one hand, other staring at his fingers. He has five fingers. That's the right number of fingers, he's always had Five.

He remembers these hands uplifting the lost Peppermint Patty from dunes of powdered sugar snow sparkling around him, saving her from an avalanche caused by-

He remembers these hands wrapped around a quill, ink of darkest chocolate scratching across paper of pressed cane-He's always had five fingers.

He's never had five fingers before. He lifts the hand up flexing them, the light of the abandoned parking lot shining through to a rusted sign falling off a post in the distance. Fingers wiggle and the words beyond grab his attention. "Port Newark."

A gumdrop bounces off of his crown and he catches it. Stares at it. Eats it. There are tears, not audible, but they run down his cheeks as slow as syrup, "Cliff Bar-Who am I? Who is Longshot? I can't remember anything about him-I remember a whole life! I'm King of CandyLand! What is TV Land? Is King Longshot King of TV-Land?"

Cliff Steele has posed:
"Newark? How'd you end up--Fuck. Somebody must've done a number on you, Longshot. That's you. You escaped from TV Land, Candyland's a board game--not real. You're my pal, and I'll be round--"

Click. Click.

An ominous presence intrudes, probing, uncertain, unseen. It seeks from the speaker, a black thing buried in the wires but everpresent, a lurking darkness ready to spring.

The Operator speaks.

"To continue your call, please insert twenty-five cents."

"Just stay where you are! I'm on my way!"

"Your call has been ended. Thank you for using Mother Bell Telephone, please submit to Bureau agents upon arrival."

A chill runs down King Kandy's spine, and he feels painfully alive, like taking a morning dive into the frozen ponds of Mountain Dew at Christmastime, those sprightly springs which bubble up from the Kandy Kaverns deep within Rock Candy Mountain.

The presence withdraws, puzzled, the dial drained of darkness and the tone dull, muted, lifeless. The shark, whatever it was, has passed, thinks Longshot. It knew me but not King Kandy.

But where do such thoughts come from? Neither Longshot nor King Kandy knew for certain.

Longshot has posed:
An adult man in stripes and a candy crown sitting scrunched up on the ground of a phone booth in the gummy color-splatted abandoned lot while quietly weeping on the now-silent phone is, strangely enough, not the weirdest thing to happen on Earth. What a magnificent place Earth is.

Longshot is, in fact, whole-heartedly in love with Earth. Earth is the best. Everything is bad right now, but Earth is still the best.

He was in some sort of danger and the danger has passed.

That's a good thing, right?

It doesn't feel good. He is sure Cliff Bar will help, sure that whoever that is, whatever knight of this realm Sir Bar of the Cliff is will surely swear fealty to his land and assist in returning him to the sparkling cliffs of sucrose that is his home! He is sure this person who speaks of a Longshot that doesn't seem to have ever existed in his memory so must not be a real person at all! This Cliff will be a valuable ally in the fight to come! A fight against the bitter darkness and the cake that might bring the ire of wax fingers!

And yet he still cries silent tears, some horrible feeling coming with the thought of a friend swearing anything like undying loyalty to him. That was such a horrible idea, having a friend backing him was really bad for his friends when it mattered. That leading an army into battle would kill them all and he would live. He'd always walk away okay. Always remain standing.

Of course he would! He was their king! It was his job to stand tall when all was looking it's darkest and the storms of chocolate milk threatened the worst on the crops! King Kandy starts to struggle to his feet, fighting that heaviness throughout his body. He's sure the Knight Cliff meant well, but he could not sit by and wait! Since he was eleven he has not once done what he was told to do! This is how you become a king! Charging ahead into waiting danger! Fighting the pain and fear coursing through him!

But this resolve flickers and he sinks back to a sit on the floor of the phone booth, leaning against the side, motionless.

Longshot is hurt, and he doesn't know how. He isn't sure he is Longshot, but that name Has to be his. He isn't a king. The sense without any memories attached to it is that him leading armies is really bad for the armies. He has so many memories of successful battles, victory so sweet it tastes like taffy on his tongue.

But Longshot can't claim those. He can claim that was his friend on the phone who knew things. Cliff was coming, he'd promised and told him to wait here.

And, generally speaking, Longshot does what he is told.

Someone he trusts, somehow, told him to wait here. And That's What He Does. Whoever it is. He waits.