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Smell Like a Yeti (or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Old Spice)

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Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of Old Spice or any other copyright holder.
The Man was having a quiet evening in. After a relaxed three hour workout in his custom gym, he was preparing a five course dinner in the dream kitchen he'd -- naturally -- built himself. Normally he'd be travelling the world, convincing men to smell like men and not like ladies, but the holiday season was approaching and he knew his dearest and closest internet friends were spreading the word to the ladies of the world to buy their men Old Spice for Christmas.

He set the chocolate mousse in the fridge to cool and checked on the lobster tortellini before giving the turducken a final basting. The group of adorable, racially diverse orphan children he brought to his house for dinner each week would be able to eat their fill.

As he was putting the finishing touches on the salads he'd made to match precisely each child's dietary needs and personal preferences, the Spicephone rang.

The Man's head snapped up at the first peal. He tossed the baster aside and vaulted across the room, leaping over a pit of burning coals on his way to the phone.

“Hello, Mr. President. How can I be of service?” Despite his position as king of Ellenopia, The Man was, of course, a loyal American, and the president had been a good friend of his ever since a simple word of advice had caused a four hundred percent increase in the president's approval rating.

“Your country has need of you. A Nepali diplomat arrived in Washington today and insists on arm wrestling you as part of his trade negotiations.”

Frowning, The Man considered this. His sculpted muscles were for more than just show. He knew for a fact that he could easily best ninety-five percent of the world's diplomats. Including all of Nepal's.

“There must be more to the matter than that. I'm sure they must have some idea of my ability, if they knew to ask for me.”

A sigh came from the other end of the line. “The diplomat is new. He's . . . a Yeti.”



“As king of Ellenopia, it is my responsibility to handle delicate international matters such as these. I'm on my way.”

Striding back to the kitchen, he approached his robot butler – a loyal automaton whom he had freed from the shackles of unquestioning servitude some time back. Now he was paid a competitive wage and had substantial health benefits, as well as a complimentary pass to the nearby heath club. “Isaac, I'm sorry. I've been called away on extremely important business, and I'll need you to take over dinner tonight.”

Isaac nodded his metal head. “You agreed in advance to my overtime pay for tonight, to ensure the beta models had no cause to leave before they were ready. I am quite capable of providing their dinner and entertainment, though they shall certainly miss you.”

“Please give the orphan children my apologies that I was unable to perform my ab xylophone recital for them. And if I'm not back by tonight, let the local wolf pack know that they'll need to accept my rain check to go hunting with them. Swan dive!” And with that, he executed a perfect dive out the nearest window into the cockpit of his personal supersonic jet. He put on his helmet and buckled up, first, of course. Being awesome is no excuse for ignoring safety regulations.


One dynamic flight later, he arrived at his destination and landed carefully on the White House's helipad. The Man was greeted by President Obama, who explained the situation in further detail. When the ambassador arrived, he declared (with the help of a translator) that he would only allow trade agreements to progress with a country that could produce a being of strength that could rival his own. As a modern cryptid, he was well aware of The Man's extensive internet work, and chose him as a foe worthy of his attention.

They arrived at the room in which the Yeti diplomat was staying. It had been equipped with a table that had once belonged to Teddy Roosevelt and thus was declared to be strong enough to bear the arms of the negotiators in this unusual trade agreement. The Yeti stood in the middle of the room. At well over seven feet tall it was rather disconcerting to a manly man who rarely needed to look up when speaking to someone.

It uttered a complex phrase, of a dialect that mere letters on a page cannot depict accurately.

The Man responded in the same language, startling the Yeti. Obama raised an eyebrow. "You speak Yeti?" "I took a course in cryptolinguistics remotely last year, when my circumnavigation of the globe by jet ski-lion grew tedious. You never know when these things can come in handy."

The Yeti gave The Man an appraising glance, then a nod, and it gestured toward the table. Both sat and moved into position. Arms at the ready, the president counted down, then stepped back to judge with his Secret Service team.

The powerful Yeti and the diamond-muscled man of manliness locked arms and held their ground. Each pushed with all their might, and their hands failed to move an inch.

Minute by minute ticked by without any apparent progress, other than a manly bead of perspiration every now and then on one forehead or the other.

After twenty minutes, the Secret Service team began to wonder how long this would continue.

The Man looked at the Yeti.

The Yeti looked at the man.

Suddenly, they were attacked by ninjas.

Each swung his arm smoothly away at the exact same moment and pulled out weapons that the Secret Service members were certain hadn't been there before (though they were rather too occupied with protecting the president to care overly much).


Finally, the dust settled. One extremely manly man, one extremely presidential president, and one extremely Yeti Yeti emerged.

"Well, my Yeti friend, I must admire that trick you did with the tea tray, salt shaker, and length of yarn. I'll have to remember that the next time I'm in England."

The Yeti gave a guttural comment that translated to something along the lines of "Not bad yourself, and now I understand what happened to Neptune."

"Considering the extenuating circumstances, I think we can declare this a draw. I'm sure we can come to an agreement that is completely fair to both countries." He extended a hand to shake.

The Yeti grinned, revealing a mouthful of large, sharp, and carefully-maintained teeth. He grasped The Man's hand and shook firmly.

Obama stepped forward, having finished cleaning the remaining ninja blood from his katana. "Excellent work. I think this calls for medals all around -- and perhaps a change of clothes; leaving a negotiation with blood splatters might give the wrong impression. I'll call in my tailor, have something custom made for each of you . . ."


Once they'd cleaned up and changed out of their dramatically (and strategically) torn clothing, all involved felt much better. The blood of your enemies may be manly, but it is rarely the kind of manly scent that ladies enjoy.

Running his hands over the fine wool suit to ensure it hung properly, The Man smiled. Likewise, a towel might impress the ladies, but a stylish suit held far more class.

The Man passed the larger of the top hats to his new Yeti friend with a grin. "Top hats are for gentlemen, and your stylish handling of those ninjas certainly makes you a gentleman. But it is time for me to leave. If I hurry, I can make it back in time for dessert to avoid disappointing the adorable orphan children this evening. Gentlemen, I bid you MONOCLE SMILE!"

With that, he turned and left for his plane.

To his surprise, someone was waiting by it. He took a moment to give an appreciative glance at the beautiful woman in a red leather jacket, business suit, and stunning boots. He was a manly man who knew women preferred a man who would look at her face when speaking to them, but he couldn't help but admire the way the suit hugged her muscular yet feminine curves, and how nicely her holster brought together the whole ensemble.

She flashed him a sharp smile. “I do hate to meet like this, but a case has drawn my attention and your help is needed.”

He raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Go on.”

“There's a Bermuda Triangle mystery that needs solving, and I hear you're the man with the expensive magnifying glass for the job.”

He raised the magnifying glass in question and gave her a suave smile. “But of course. Anything is possible when I use Old Spice.”