#mr pickle

[fashioninpaper]

[sugarkitty-pickle]

there is only one thought in his head, and it is Yogurt

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Mr. Egg, Mr. Pickle, and Mr. Hot Dog

Debut: BurgerTime

BurgerTime is one of those retro games and that's about it. It existed, and it's Retro!, and I feel like people don't really care about it aside from that. It never even got an awkward attempt at a scrimblo adventure reboot, like Frogger did! Poor BurgerTime.

Anyway, my first time playing BurgerTime was not by playing BurgerTime at all, but a SpongeBob Flash game clone of it. I have no personal connection to BurgerTime itself... but I know it has some enemies that are living foods! I always get a kick out of that! So I'm going to talk about some of the various design incarnations of them!

These original designs are exactly what you would expect from a 1982 arcade game. I feel like I've seen Pac-Man ghosts drawn EXACTLY like this. I like how Mr. Egg has the strangely realistic crispy bubbling detail around his edges. They're all fine.

...is what I felt before I noticed their elbows and knees! Ew! Bones! Wretched creatures!

Ohoho... now what have we here? The in-game sprites are delightful! The simplicity makes them very cute! Their feet are interesting, being just little floating lines, except for Mr. Egg's, because his legs are made of amorphous albumen! Mr. Egg is really the breakout star here. Look at his yolk! That's his EYE! This is so awesome! That's such a rare design choice to see, especially since egg creatures that are not of the "creature hatching from them" variety are pretty rare themselves.

Mr. Pickle is no slouch either! I appreciate him being specifically a pickle slice, often portrayed as nicely crinkle-cut. I just have to question why he is a villain! Pickles are one of Burger's best friends! This is like if Cheese was a villain! I think if anything Mr. Pickle should be a cute little sidekick on the side of burgers, and in his place can be, I don't know, Mr. Olive? Of course, pickles are much funnier than olives!

Mr. Hot Dog is not as interesting as the other two, but a simple sausage with eyes and feet is still cute. He is like the leader of the bunch, the main antagonist of our hero, Peter Pepper, who I do not really care about. I like that it's him! Burgers and hot dogs are like counterparts, but in no way equals. Hot dogs are easier to hold and eat, but burgers are just Better. And hot dogs have finally decided to give burgers a piece of their mind!

This flyer art is funny. I don't LIKE any of the designs showcased, but they're funny! Faces are moved around on the foods, noses are introduced to the series, and Mr. Egg is now a slice of a hard-boiled egg. You will also notice the elusive Mr. Lemon! Mr. Lemon is not real! I don't know why there is such an emphasis on lemon here. Finally, of course, you will notice the personified Cheese, as she noselessly beckons Peter to recline atop a beef patty. Ooh la la! Don't you wish you were invited to hang out with such a beautiful female cheese who is a girl woman?

Really, the designs of the core food fiends never diverged much from the classic cartoon-style versions they started out with, appearing like that in pretty much every sequel. Except...!

In BurgerTime World Tour, which was not a good game at all, these guys have been utterly rebooted! Now known as Frank Furter, Ruthless Dill, and Sonny! Are these their real names? Or just some similar guys?

The designs are rather basic, as to be expected from Foods With Faces, but it IS interesting seeing them generally made so much more monstrous. Something ESPECIALLY interesting is that Sonny the egg is the only one with limbs, reminding me of how Mr. Egg is the only one to have actual legs in the original sprites!

Ready for the SCARIEST redesign from World Tour?

This game's version of Peter Pepper is this horrible gentrifying millenial and I'm glad his game was prematurely delisted. I hope he got eaten by an egg and chewed by teeth made of yolk. I hate him!

[hopelessoptimisttea]

A few thoughts on the characters #6

When Harry was about 20 years old, he got Mr. Pickle. The dog died 11 years later, and Harry made a stuffed animal of him. He didn't bury it and get a new furry friend. No, he looked at his dead dog in the bathroom every day.

His understanding of love and friendship is questionable. 

His walls are constantly cluttered with something (whether it's his office, dining room, or cell at Statesman). Most of his paintings at home are landscapes. And they're pretty monotonous. But the breeds of dogs in the drawings are very different. As are the butterflies on the walls of the room at TGC. Coin collections are present.

There are almost no portraits or images of people in Harry's house (I saw two drawings of children, some generic portrait of military men (?) and two dark portraits of some woman (?)).

By the way, there are portraits of the founders hanging in the Kingsman's dining room. Arthur has pictures of people hanging in his study. Eggsy has pictures of his father hanging in his room, and pictures of Tilde on his study table.

It's a small thing, of course, but it always confused me that first he says he wants a butterfly collection and then brings up his mom.

It's fair to say that we don't know much about Harry and these are just my impressions of how he builds relationships with others and other little things. But it's like Harry was somewhat disillusioned with people and Mr. Pickle was making him feel less alone. And like the bathroom with the stuffed dog and the dead butterflies was really the place for him to feel happy.

[thrilmalia]

Drabble advent calendar: Door 3

“Happy New Year to you, my boy,” Harry cooed and knelt on the ground, offering the teaspoon of eggnog to Mr Pickle. He was used to the sounds of gunfire from the time he'd been trained alongside his Galahad, but although he was a brave little dog, he didn't enjoy the New Year's fireworks. Eggnog, on the other hand, was something he would jump through hoops for.

When the clock struck midnight and the fireworks started, Harry stood by the window with a glass of champagne and took a sip before kissing Mr Pickle's head, holding him on his arm.

@ess-jay-oh @agentdagonet @killer-kelp @apolloamongothers

[sammykruegher]

This is a scene which I can never watch without crying like a baby.

[telibabyjackson]

[deepdarkwaters]

Dog Nanny, part 2!

Eggsy wakes with a hard on, which he'd be much more excited about dealing with if he were in his own bed and not his employers' spare room.

He groans softly, pawing at it through his borrowed pyjama trousers like that might make it go away, and searches blearily for his phone to check the time before remembering he left it charging in the speaker dock downstairs. It's early, he can tell that much from the silvery pre-dawn light showing around the edge of the curtains. Far too early to get up, but there's not much point going back to sleep because he's learned by now that Mr Pickle has some kind of weird sixth sense and the little bastard knows when there's someone awake in the house even if they don't get up or make any sound. Ten minutes at most, possibly fifteen, before the whining starts from downstairs and he'll have to drag himself down to earn his wage.

He rubs his palm over his cock again, slow and sleepy, not really awake enough or turned on enough for this yet but still quite into the strange, lazy comfort of it. For a minute that's all he does, a gentle rhythmic stroke up and down through the fabric with one hand as he's idly picking sleep crumbs out of his eyes with the other—then he suddenly remembers Harry and Merlin are secretly spies, not tailors, and everything gets more complicated.

They're asleep in their bedroom down the hall, just two walls and a bathroom away. A creeping dirty insistent little thought wriggles its way into Eggsy's consciousness: Last night was their anniversary. Wonder if they celebrated?

"Fuck," he mutters on his next exhale, very quietly, then sucks in another chestful of air when the base of his hand manages to snag the head of his cock in just the right way.

This is so fucked up, he tells himself, trying to be stern but just feeling weak and wobbly. And it's fucked up in two ways: firstly it's fucked up to be groping himself in his bosses' guest room. Talk about shitty manners. And secondly, it's really really really fucked up that the lingering image in his head right now is of Merlin holding a light grey suit jacket completely soaked in blood that's smeared all over his hands and dripping onto the floorboards while the shower squeaks on in the room next door and Harry washes the rest of it off his naked skin.

Harry did that. Harry, his boss, his friend, who drinks strawberry frostinos without embarrassment in the street. Harry, self-proclaimed mother to the tiniest, most spoiled little puppy in the world. Harry who took deep offence at Eggsy's poor knowledge of Nora Ephron films and organised a marathon viewing party with such obvious glee at getting to share something he loved that Eggsy didn't have the heart to tell him afterwards how much he thought Sleepless in Seattle sucked. That same Harry, for his job, made some guy bleed so much all over him that he came home drenched like Carrie.

And Eggsy wishes he'd seen it.

An interesting one to think about, that. Especially when you've got your hand on your cock. There's just enough fuzziness here in this funny place between asleep and fully awake, blurring the uncomfortable edges of everything and turning stuff that should be nightmarish into some weird soft-focus fantastical dream. He imagines what Harry must have done to slop all that blood out of someone, dawdling through the gallery of intriguing, vibrant pictures his brain throws up: Harry creeping along a dark film-noir alleyway, silently slipping a straight razor from his pocket and slitting a guard's throat before he even realises he's no longer alone. Harry fighting with knives in both hands, sinuous and lightning-quick, his long limbs keeping a dozen baddies from getting anywhere near him. Or someone attacking Harry first, and Harry having to struggle literally for his life, buttons tearing off his shirt and his hair falling out of its neatly-combed swoop to collapse in untidy clumps over his sweating forehead before he manages to overpower the other guy and slowly, slowly turns his own knife on him, plunging the blade between his ribs and into his hot thudding heart.

"Oh no," Eggsy whispers, stunned and horrified into helpless, silent laughter. Nice to learn new things about yourself and apparently he's some kind of fucking psychopath now because he can't remember his dick ever, ever being this hard or this wet without the help of someone's mouth. He fumbles his pyjamas down around his thighs so as not to mess them up any more than he already has and spits into his cupped palm, letting that help the tight glide of his hand as he strokes himself with a quick, shallow rhythm to get it fucking well over with.

Accidentally wondering whether these pyjama trousers belong to Harry or Merlin is what does him in eventually. The rushing hot surge of goosebumps takes him by surprise somehow, a shocking little flood of tingles through all his extremities before the helpless pulsing starts, his dick hard as hell twitching in his fingers and then the sublime release of tension and breath, followed immediately by the panic of trying not to get his jizz all over the sheets. It collects on his belly instead, dripping stickily into his navel and beading dew-like on the seam of dark hair leading down to where his hand is still fisted around the base of his cock, thumb pushing and stroking slowly, encouraging out the last few drops and the last few tremors.

"Fuck," he mutters again, then swallows hard and glares at his messed up hand like it did the whole thing on its own without any input or permission from the rest of him.

Merlin, he decides when he's rinsing his hands and trying to sluice his stomach clean in the little washbasin in the corner. He doesn't actually know. Can't even guess, really. But after what he's just been thinking about Harry for the last twenty disturbingly filthy minutes, imagining Merlin's nine mile long legs in nice wholesome blue striped cotton pjs is like the cherry on a gigantic decadent sundae. Imagining Merlin in anything at all—or, yes, in nothing. The images fling themselves at him and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it but luxuriate: Merlin in the crisp, flawless pilot uniform he came home in one day without bothering to offer an explanation, beckoning Eggsy into the cockpit of a plane to do something that's got to be against any number of aviation rules. Merlin in his favourite smart trousers and soft cashmere jumper just flinging Eggsy effortlessly over his shoulder so the leather patch sticks to his sweating belly under the flipped up hem of his t-shirt, carrying him off to use however the fuck he wants.

"Why are you like this?" Eggsy asks himself in the little mirror, but his reflection looks just as fucking baffled and stunned as he feels.

READ THE REST ON AO3 HERE

(First part is here)