The Lusty Giggling Maidens' Auction of Absolutely Useless Treasures
Castle Anthrax was buzzing with anticipation. The Great Hall had been hastily converted into an auction house, complete with a rickety podium that Zoot insisted “added charm” (it didn’t—it wobbled). A crowd of bizarre characters milled about, eyeing the treasures on display.
Zoot took the stage, microphone in hand, radiating enthusiasm. “Welcome, one and all, to the auction of treasures you absolutely do not need but will somehow desperately want! Let’s get started, shall we?”
The first item: the papier-mâché Holy Grail, bedazzled with glitter so violently sparkly it could blind a knight.
Elon Musk, still inexplicably in a soot-stained chimney sweep costume, raised his paddle. “One hundred thousand Dogecoins!”
Zoot squinted. “We only accept actual currency, Elon. Or barter. What else have you got?”
Elon rifled through his satchel, producing a signed poster of himself riding a Tesla-shaped rocket. “This is worth millions in inspiration!”
From the back of the room, Frank Costanza bellowed, “Get this guy outta here! What’s next, the Tooth Fairy buying Bitcoin? I’ll bid five bucks, take it or leave it!”
Estelle elbowed him sharply. “Stop embarrassing us! You don’t even want the Grail!”
“It’s the principle, Estelle!” Frank barked. “Nobody outbids me!”
Zoot banged her gavel. “Sold to Frank Costanza for five dollars and a lifetime of bickering! Next up, the enchanted teaspoon!”
The crowd gasped as the teaspoon was revealed. It shimmered faintly under the flickering torchlight, though it did little else.
Satan, standing near the back, chuckled darkly. “Perfect. I’ll use it to stir the boiling souls in my cauldron. Five hundred hell dollars.”
“What’s that worth in real money?” Estelle whispered.
“Nothing,” Frank grumbled. “I’m going in. Ten bucks!”
A bidding war erupted between Frank and Satan, escalating to absurd insults. “I’ll curse your soup forever!” Satan growled.
“Joke’s on you—I don’t eat soup!” Frank shot back.
Eventually, Estelle seized the paddle and won the teaspoon for $15 after Frank began shouting about the moon landing being staged. Satan sulked in the corner, nursing his wounded pride and autographing aprons for fans.
Next, the pièce de résistance: the orangutan-suit headshot of Donald, described by Zoot as “a postmodern masterpiece.”
“Starting bid, $1,” Zoot announced.
Elon immediately raised his paddle. “I’ll trade you a flamethrower!”
At this point, Cerberus, the three-headed security detail, became distracted by the flamethrower’s smell and promptly lunged at Elon, who yelped and scrambled up a chandelier, still clutching his paddle.
“Do I hear $2?” Zoot asked, unfazed.
Satan sighed and raised his claw. “Fine. I’ll hang it in the break room in Hell.”
Frank, smelling another chance to win, shouted, “Three bucks! And I demand free shipping!”
Chaos erupted as Cerberus began chasing bidders who didn’t pay immediately, all three heads barking in stereo. Elon was flung from the chandelier into a bowl of medieval punch, Satan absconded with the "World’s Best Dad" apron, and Frank declared victory over a photo he didn’t even want.
As the dust settled, Zoot leaned into the microphone, beaming. “What a success! Thank you all for coming. And remember, all sales are final—especially the cursed ones.”
The crowd left in varying states of bruised dignity, with Frank grinning ear to ear. “Estelle, we cleaned up today! Who needs Mars when you’ve got a teaspoon and a fake Holy Grail?”
Estelle rolled her eyes. “I married a lunatic.”
From the podium, Zoot waved them off, already planning her next event: Sexy Bingo Night.
