#magicalmaxau

☆Masterpost☆:

[Short 1: Things Keeping Your Windows Shut Can Prevent]

[Short 2: A Game of Fizzball, Interrupted!]

♤FAQ ♤

Q: What does Max's outfit look like?

A:

Q: Hey thats a choice of color scheme there

A: MagicalMax contains moderate spoilers for Sam and Max The Devil's Playhouse, but does not take place within the events of that game. Don't worry about it.

Q. Is this the Sam and Max from the Telltale trilogy?

A. Yup, post season 2.

Q. Content Warnings?

A. This blog is rated T for Teen, and for; cartoon violence, non-cartoon violence, and minorly suggestive dialog. There will be more specific warnings on individual stories and comic pages. Please keep asks pg-13.

Q. Who are you?

Stagnant air, picked up by the dutifully spinning yet tragically ineffective ceiling fan smothered like everything else in the office on the late summer heatwave. Falling somewhere between seedy and decrepit, all four walls had some kind of wear; cracks, peeling walls, gunshots, tire marks, and sappy pictures of precious memories. A butcher's knife fell from where it was embedded, a bullseye target, to instead embed itself into the floor as the rotary phone began its ringing.

"I've got it!" Max, the rabbity thing exclaimed as he dropped off the dual knives he was using to scale the walls. Underneath the leftmost window, left open out of habit rather than a futile attempt at temperature regulation, 2/12ths of a box of donuts was left to fail at rotting. Then, they were unceremoniously kicked aside in the mad rush to the telephone. Sam had a head start on the competition, but Max was rapidly closing the gap. If Sam didn't use one of his signature tactics- like picking him up, compressing him into a more or less throwable ball shape, and flinging him out the door and down the stairs straight into the street in a highly improbable sequence of events- he very well may have lost the phone.

Very well may have lost the phone if not for the blur of searing, brilliant scarlet that flew through the window and stabbed square into Max's back.

Committing to the bit had become second nature to the pair, even if Max was shot? (It didn't sound like a gunshot, but in this neighborhood you never know.) Grabbing the phone, he then swerved back to ensure Max was still breathing.

"Max, you still with us? Max?"

Thank all things that were good, Max was still breathing steadily and had minimal bleeding. In fact, he was still standing, with a characteristic blank look on his face. Unfortunately, the moment Sam's hand fell on Max's shoulder, his vision blacked out with a horrible, stinging pain scratching its way up his arm.

They were definitely, somehow, on some kind of stage. With everything more than 3 inches from his body entirely shrouded in thick clouds of darkness and the floor underneath him blurred beyond recognition, there was no reason for Sam to think this, yet he knew that this was a stage.

"Max!"

About 46 Glazed McGuffins away, there was a garish, translucent glowing cloud of glitter with a clear Max-shaped silhouette within. Moving only made the pain spread and intestify, like he was diving straight into a thicket.

Up next to the glitter light show, Sam could see the insult to good taste and fashion that was forming around his partner. Bows tied themselves around the base of Max's ears, a petticoat flared out the priorly limp skirt of a monochromatic dress. Excluding the vivid highlights and the sleeve from one of his old suits that was "mysteriously chewed off by moths", the entire outfit was in cold grays. It was nice to see him get the chance to dress up again.

"Well, that was bizarre, hyper-specific and vaguely sinister," Sam noted. Max's eyes had met his, and they were instantly back in the office in strangely girly action poses with absolutely no explanation. If not for the shallow yet bloody scratches crossing over his hand and matting his fur (and Max's new charmingly hideous getup), there was no proof that whatever that was had occurred. "In fact, I would suspect it was some kind of heavy-handed subversion of a common trope if I had any familiarity with anything remotely resembling what just happened."

"Weird, right?" Max shrugged. The telephone had been tugged off the table, taking the plug and a large amount of the wall socket with it, so Max simply shoved the broken wiring back into the wall. "Think the commissioner will call us again?"

"Probably, even Flint Paper has stopped accepting the commissioner's jobs."

For about 20 seconds, the pair stared at each other.

"Want to sit on the couch in a near catatonic state for hours while we watch terrible reality television?" Before Sam could finish his sentence, Max was already settling into the fourth-hand sofa with mysteriously sourced pork rinds.

"Oh, Sam, you know me so well!"

Settling on the latest WARP syndication offering, Hate Isle, Sam and Max proceeded to do very little for about 3 hours and 12 minutes. With the sunset's full, unadulterated wrath shining in their faces, focusing on the TV show had become rather difficult.

"Hey, why didn't you mention I changed clothes?" Somehow, he hadn't realized that he was in an outfit, instead of his usual lack thereof. Now, Max was completely preoccupied with fiddling with the new ribbons and frills attached to him.