Actions

Work Header

Heart of Blartness

Work Text:

Characters: Xena, Paul Blart Mall Cop
Location: Dracula's Castle
Scenario: Competing in a baking competition

 

All characters, locations and scenarios were pulled out of a hat to create this story, which was written in 30 minutes or less.

--

There was the embarrassing sound of half a dozen coffins flipping onto one another in sequence like a row of morbid dominoes, accompanied by the frenzied shrill wailing of a man in his mid 40s trying to retain his balance while sacrificing all of his dignity. If written down, the sound went something like this:

KCHUNK KCHUNK KCHUNK STMPH BLARGH WAAAAAHHHHOOOOHOOOOO!

It loses something in the writing.

Paul Blart stood over the unfortunate mess he had created out of his own incredulous ability to break everything around him. Even the unbreakable stuff. For example, the ancient tome of dark magicks - which was so powerful they spelled magic with a K on the cove - placed on the altar on the opposite end of the row of coffins. That exploded in a cloud of purple energy, accompanied by the sound of the ancient words scribbled within screaming themselves aloud one final time before being cast into the obscurity of another hellish dimension.

That kind of thing hadn't happened in Dracula's castle before. Not until the fanged blood sucker had hired a security guard to watch over his abode while the ageless undead parasite slumbered.

Paul Blart had jumped at the chance to work a gig like this. Or at least, he had stumbled comically at the chance to work it. Getting to travel to Translyvania with his daughter Maya had been a dream come true. Or so he'd thought before being presented with the creepy, rickety bridge he'd had to cross to get from the civilized part of the country to the significantly less civilized Castle Dracula.

The job paid well - he was working for a Count, for crying out loud, and if watching Sesame Street with his little girl had taught him anything, it's that you could always trust a Count to give you a high figure salary, if only so he can vocally count all the way up to the six figure digit and then laugh while a cheesy lightning sound effect played.

This Count Dracula wasn't nearly as fuzzy, however, nor did he enjoy his work to the same extent as his muppet counterpart. But still, he was getting paid several thousand drachmas per day. He wasn't sure how much that was in Euros, but the coins were big and shiny and gold - and nothing was more valuable to him than the glee in Maya's eyes when they both took turns to put each individual coin into her piggy bank. The satisfying clink of the coin landing within the porceline porker's belly made her face light up. But not too much - Dracula had a very strict rule about no natural light within the castle grounds.

That had become a moot point when, to Paul's surprise on his second week on the job, the castle was broken into - and very nearly broken altogether.

Xena, the warrior princess, had busted her way inside with all the subtlety of a cornered rhinocerous in a tight leather corset. Her war cry of "AYAYAYAYAYAYAYASHEEEEYA!" had reverberated throughout the dilapidated fortress - loud enough to wake the dead. Well, almost. Dracula was a sound sleeper. Paul Blart knew this because he had pratfallen and belly-flopped onto pretty much every loud object in the building, and it had done nothing to wake his thrifty, bloodsucking employer. Hell, he'd even done that trick where you dip the sleeping person's fingers in warm water, and it didn't so much as result it the faintest trickle of urine from the wizened fiend's under robes. It was still funny, though. Especially when accompanied by Paul Blart's trademark Blartisms.

"Whoa ho ho hold on missy!" Paul emitted a defiant Blartism in the direction of the steely eyed, muscular amazon that had backflipped unnecessarily into his Transylvanian turf. "I'm afraid we're closed for the night! Mr. Dracula needs his beauty sleep! And trust me, if you've seen him, you know he needs it! Wow! Hoo! Wee! Woo! Whoa! Ha! Sheesh! Kcha!"

Xena held up a finger, silencing Paul's unstoppable train of goofy mouth noises. Her free hand rested poised on the chakram at her side. "The name's Xena. Warrior Princess. You might've heard of me."

"Oh yeah? Well the name's Paul Blart. Mall Cop. And much like you, I also have many skills!"

"Impress me." Xena's voice was hushed and sultry, a mask to hide her wild and vicious nature.

Paul wobbled in place for a minute, and then whistled through his fingers - as if by magic, a segway forged from the decaying flesh of Dracula's victims rolled unpleasantly toward him. He hopped onto his steed, a gift from his ancient master - the company car, so to speak. It buckled and cried out beneath him, multiple mouths splitting open and bleeding from their deformed lips. Strangely it was still all very amusing because it was happening to Paul Blart.

"Ride 'em, cowboy!" Paul Blart hollered anachronistically - for this story took place neither in the old west, or in some sort of derby scenario. He rode the mutant segway back and forth in front of Dracula's coffin where his master slept. He attempted to spin donuts with it, but then noticed he was leaving behind a trail of blood and scabby flesh, and it made progress rather difficult. He span in place and faced Xena, an exasperated expresson on his face. "Like to see you do that!"

"I've ridden much scarier looking things," Xena remarked after she'd finished yawning. She held up the circular weapon she'd been fingering and hurled it upward, the chakram shattering a stained glass window that depicted Dracula in his youthful state, surrounded by creatures of the night. Now instead of glass, the castle wore a gaping wound - through which an intense beam of sunlight now pierced. It honed in on Dracula's exposed body, his coffin having been flipped over by Paul Blart's own frantic stumblings. "This Dracula guy? Not much of a challenge. I had a harder time fighting Bacchus."

"You fought B. A. Baracus?" was all Paul Blart could think to say as his employer began burning to a crisp behind him. He gulped, sniffing the air and noticing the distinct bite of singed undead flesh in the air. Then he barreled off the deformed, stitched together corpses masquerading as a segway, and stumbled to Dracula's side, trying in vain to blow on the flames rising from his sleeping frame.

Xena rolled her eyes at the goofy scene taking place before her. For some reason, she was reminded of Joxer. She strode forward, hips swaying pleasantly beneath her as she watched the villainous creature slowly succumb to the holy flames. Then she gave Paul Blart a supportive slap on the back.

"Looks like I win the baking contest," she quipped.

Paul Blart looked up at her, his mustache twitching in confusion. He didn't understand actual humor or witty dialogue - the only stuff that made sense to him was slapstick and loud exclamations in an falsetto. Also fat jokes.

Then Xena brought her horse Argo into the castle and had her kick Paul Blart until he turned into a CGI model of Paul Blart. Because that's what happened at the end of his last movie. That's the only reason that happened.