"...Pumba the warthog." the vulture continues.
"What?!" TImon and Simba shoutes in union.
"Hang on kid, I've gotta talk to Pumba in private." SImba nods and runs off elsewhere in the crowd. Timon glares at Pumbaa. "What were you thinking?!"
"Uh, that I wanted to wrestle?" Pumba answered.
"Against Simba? If he beats you, you'll end up a rump roast served with butter!"
"So I beat him."
"Be- alright, alright. First of all, you beat a lion? How?"
"Uhhh-"
"Second, even if you somehow beat Simba, you just tell every predator watching that Simba won't protect us!"
"O-oh no! What do I do?"
"Let me think, let me think... Got it. Simba'll verbally abuse you, then you, terrified, run out of the arena. Simba wins, and you live. Got it?"
"Yeah, good plan." Timon then crawls over to Simba and recites his plan to him.
"Timon and Simba, come to the arena!" the vulture shouts. Simba and Pumba march up to the arena, certain that they'd both walk out of this okay. The two reach opposite corners, and Simba begins his half of the plan.
"Pfft, I'm fighting this lard?"
"Agh! Your words wound me!" Pumba overacts.
"Seriously, what'll this guy do? Sit on me?"
"Argh! My emotional state cannot take much more of this!"
"Can't take the heat, then get out of the kitchen, pig!" He shouldn't have said that. Upon uttering his sentence, Pumba quits the façade, having just registered what Simba just said. He grits his teeth, and grinds a foot on the ground beneath him, nostrils flaring. "Uh oh," Simba says to himself.
"They call me Mr. Pig! CHAAAARGE!" He runs full speed towards Simba while squealing "charge," and Simba only watches as hundreds of flesh barrels towards him.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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