Toggle sidebar

Useless Thread MMI: Millerade Appreciation Thread

1.0
 

Chapter 59: The Cursed Beanie Baby Heist​

I don’t know what I expected from a Bill Clinton-organized plushie heist in Russia, but it certainly wasn’t a shady underground auction filled with oligarchs, black-market toy dealers, and at least one guy who looked like he wrestled bears for fun.

Yet, there we were—dressed in ill-fitting tuxedos (except Brenda, who had opted for a floor-length sequined gown that she claimed made her look “regal as hell”). Juan, ever the wild card, had accessorized with a plush eagle bowtie and kept muttering to himself about how “General Freedom always comes prepared.”

Bill Clinton, our fearless leader, adjusted his sunglasses and leaned toward us. “Alright, team. The cursed Beanie Babyshould be coming up soon. It’s a one-of-a-kind Misprint Princess Diana Bear. The eyes are slightly crooked, and it’s said to be haunted by the ghost of capitalism itself.”

Hargrave groaned. “Why do you know this?”

Bill took a sip of his drink. “Let’s just say I have a history with haunted plushies.”

That raised more questions than answers, but before I could press him, the auctioneer—a guy who looked like he’d just walked out of a 90s Bond movie—tapped the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced in Russian, “we now present the rarest item of the evening: the cursed Princess Diana Beanie Baby.”

The crowd oohed and aahed as a glass case was wheeled onto the stage, inside of which sat a perfectly preserved, slightly off-center-eyed purple bear. The atmosphere grew tense.

“This is our chance,” Bill whispered. “Whatever it takes, we get that bear.”

The Bidding War​

The auction started at one million rubles. Before we could react, a mysterious woman in a veil raised her paddle.

Juan squinted. “Wait a minute… that’s—”

“Angelina Jolie!” Brenda gasped.

“What the hell is Angelina Jolie doing in Russia?” I asked.

Bill nodded knowingly. “She’s got a thing for rare plushies.”

Juan, unable to resist the challenge, raised his paddle. “Two million rubles!”

Angelina didn’t even flinch. She countered instantly.

“Five million rubles.”

Juan started sweating. “FIVE?! Oh, hell no! I’ll give you six million rubles AND a plushie of Bigfoot riding a unicycle.”

The auctioneer blinked. “Sir, we do not accept… extra plushies.”

Juan sighed and withdrew the Bigfoot plushie from his jacket. “Fine, six million rubles.”

Then, from the back of the room, a new voice called out.

“Ten million rubles.”

The entire room went silent.

We turned and saw Vladimir Putin himself, sitting in the VIP section, stroking a taxidermied ferret like a Bond villain.

Bill’s face paled. “Oh, hell.”

Brenda gasped. “Putin collects Beanie Babies?!”

Juan clenched his fists. “We’re getting that bear.”

Hargrave, at his limit, whispered, “Can I quit?”

“No,” I said.

Juan Makes His Move​

Realizing he was out of his financial depth, Juan resorted to Plan B: Crime.

“I got this,” he muttered, adjusting his plushie bowtie. Then, with the confidence of a man who had failed at literally everything in his life, he lunged onto the stage.

In one swift move, he grabbed the glass case containing the cursed Beanie Baby, lifted it over his head, and screamed:

“FOR GENERAL FREEDOM!”

The room erupted into chaos.

The Getaway​

Security swarmed the stage. Juan, somehow fueled by pure adrenaline and questionable life choices, drop-kicked the auctioneer and bolted for the exit.

Bill Clinton, surprisingly nimble for a man his age, grabbed Brenda and me by the arms. “We gotta move, NOW.”

Hargrave, muttering what sounded like a string of curses and a resignation letter, followed.

We sprinted out of the auction house as alarms blared. Behind us, Putin personally leaped from his seat, pointing dramatically and yelling in Russian. I didn’t need a translator to know he was saying something along the lines of, “Arrest that plushie-obsessed idiot!”

Juan barreled through the doors, cradling the stolen Beanie Baby like a newborn. A fleet of black SUVs screeched to a stop outside.

“We need a getaway car!” Brenda shouted.

“Way ahead of you,” Bill smirked. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a set of car keys. “I may or may not have stolen Putin’s personal limousine earlier.”

“You WHAT?!”

Bill hit the unlock button, and the sleekest, blackest limousine I had ever seen beeped in response.

Juan dove through the open window headfirst as the rest of us piled in. Bill floored it.

The Great Plushie Escape​

The Russian secret police were hot on our tail as we sped through Moscow. Brenda leaned out the window and started hurling lasagna at our pursuers.

Juan, holding the cursed Beanie Baby, grinned manically. “We did it! We stole Putin’s rare plushie!”

Hargrave buried his face in his hands. “I hate my job.”

Bill, grinning, took a turn so sharp we nearly flipped. “Y’all,” he said, “I haven’t had this much fun since the 90s.”

The sounds of sirens blared behind us. We were fugitives in Russia, on the run from Vladimir Putin himself, with a haunted Beanie Baby and a former U.S. president as our getaway driver.

And somehow, this was still not the worst situation we’d ever been in.

TO BE CONTINUED…​

 
  • Love
  • Haha
Reactions: MetalheadPenguinsFan and PanthersPens62

Chapter 60: The Affair That Never Was​

We were still on the run from Vladimir Putin, crammed into a stolen Russian limousine with Bill Clinton at the wheel,when Juan made his next grand declaration of stupidity.

“Guys,” he said, clutching the cursed Princess Diana Beanie Baby like it was a sacred relic, “I’ve decided to have an affair with Angelina Jolie.”

A long silence followed.

Brenda, who was hurling stale lasagna out the window at our pursuers, froze mid-throw. “What?”

Juan nodded solemnly. “She’s into plushies. I’m into plushies. It’s fate.”

Hargrave, whose soul had clearly left his body several chapters ago, sighed. “Juan, you don’t even have a girlfriend. You can’t have an affair if you’re not in a relationship.”

Juan wasn’t listening. His eyes burned with determination. “I am going to seduce Angelina Jolie and make her my plushie queen.”

Bill Clinton, eyes still on the road, let out a long whistle. “Son, let me tell you something. You don’t just decide to have an affair with Angelina Jolie. Angelina Jolie decides to have an affair with you.”

Juan scoffed. “That’s quitter talk, Bill.”

Brenda rubbed her temples. “Why are men like this?”

Step One: The Grand Gesture​

Juan wasted no time crafting a plan that had all the subtlety of a brick to the face.

Step One, he decided, was to send Angelina Jolie a grand, romantic gift that would sweep her off her feet.

We found an abandoned gift shop outside of Moscow, where Juan spent the last of his rubles on a six-foot-tall plush Russian bear, a box of expired chocolates, and a handwritten poem he made me write because, in his words, “Women like poetry, but I refuse to do the work.”

I read the poem out loud.

Dear Angelina Jolie,
I have seen your films, and you are great,
You deserve a man who is also great,
I am that man.
I own many plushies,
And I believe we are soulmates.
Also, I stole Putin’s Beanie Baby,
So we have a common enemy.
Please call me.

Love, Juan (aka General Freedom)
Click to expand...
Brenda stared at the poem. “This is a crime against literature.”

Juan grinned. “She’s gonna love it.”

Step Two: The Ambush​

Step Two of Juan’s master plan was finding Angelina Jolie in Russia and ambushing her with his raw, uncontainable masculinity.

This, of course, was immediately doomed to failure for several reasons:

  1. Angelina Jolie was probably no longer in Russia because she wasn’t an idiot like us.
  2. Juan’s idea of romance was essentially grand theft plushie.
  3. Juan’s masculinity was very much containable.
Still, undeterred, he managed to bribe a shady cab driver into taking us to a luxury hotel where he was convinced Angelina was staying.

Hargrave, who at this point had given up trying to stop crimes and now just observed them like a weary documentarian, sighed. “If this ends in another international incident, I want it noted that I did not approve.”

Bill Clinton nodded sagely. “Son, I gotta admit, I respect the hustle. It’s insane, but I respect it.”

Step Three: The Cringe​

Somehow, we managed to sneak Juan into the hotel lobby.

And that’s when he saw her.

Or, more accurately, a woman who vaguely resembled Angelina Jolie from behind.

Brenda barely had time to say, “Juan, don’t—” before he launched into action.

He dashed across the lobby, dramatically dropping to one knee like a medieval knight.

“Angelina, my love! I have traveled across Russia for you!” he declared, holding out the giant plush bear like an engagement ring.

The woman turned around.

She was not Angelina Jolie.

She was, however, an incredibly angry Russian woman, who immediately screamed something in rapid, terrifying Russian before smacking Juan across the face with her purse.

Juan, stunned, whispered, “Plot twist.”

Brenda facepalmed. “You absolute moron.”

Security descended upon us immediately, dragging Juan away as he shouted protests.

“But I have a poem!” he yelled. “It’s romantic!”

Hargrave rubbed his temples. “Bill, I don’t suppose you have another stolen limousine ready for a quick exit?”

Bill grinned. “Buddy, I always have a stolen limousine ready.”

The Escape​

We barreled out of the hotel with Juan, who was now nursing a bruised ego and a slightly swollen cheek.

Brenda, shaking her head, muttered, “I cannot believe you thought you could pull Angelina Jolie.”

Juan, staring out the window with pure dramatic heartbreak, sighed. “She was clearly playing hard to get.”

I stared at him. “Juan, that wasn’t even Angelina Jolie.”

Juan waved a hand. “Details.”

Hargrave sighed, pulling out his phone. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Bill patted Juan’s shoulder. “Listen, kid, you gave it a shot. That’s more than most people can say.”

Juan nodded solemnly. “Next time, I’ll win her over with a better poem.”

Brenda groaned. “There won’t be a next time, you idiot!”

As we sped away, sirens blaring behind us, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was, somehow, against all logic, not the dumbest thing Juan would ever do.

TO BE CONTINUED…​

 
  • Haha
Reactions: MetalheadPenguinsFan and PanthersPens62
**Chapter 30: Will & Electra Enter the Scene**

The **Forrester Creations penthouse party** had already seen its fair share of **unexpected guests, heated debates, and surprise encounters**, but as the evening carried on, another duo arrived, drawing their own share of attention—**Will and Electra.**

Will, tall and confident, carried himself with the ease of a man who **knew he belonged anywhere he stepped foot.** His sharp charcoal suit was tailored to perfection, and his piercing gaze scanned the room like he was always a step ahead of the conversation. Beside him, Electra was **every bit his equal**—a striking presence in a shimmering emerald dress, her auburn hair cascading in soft waves. She had the look of someone who had **seen it all** and still managed to stay one step ahead.

As the pair walked through the grand space, a **few heads turned**, whispers following in their wake. They were known—**but not well-known.** People knew *of* them, but few truly knew *them.*

**Lisa Vanderpump** was the first to acknowledge their arrival. She turned to **Hope Logan**, tilting her head ever so slightly. “Darling, look who just walked in. Will and Electra. Now this party just got *much* more interesting.”

Hope glanced over, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t know they were coming.”

Lisa smirked. “Neither did I. But they always seem to turn up at just the right moment, don’t they?”

Across the room, **John Price, Brenda Prissen, and Juan Gomes** were still nursing their drinks, fresh off their conversation with **Canelo Álvarez**, when **Electra approached the bar**.

Brenda nudged Price. “Well, well. Look who decided to show up.”

Price took a sip of his drink, watching as Electra leaned against the counter, ordering something with effortless grace. Will stood a few steps behind her, surveying the party like a man **taking inventory of the room.**

Juan grinned. “You think they’re here for business or pleasure?”

Brenda chuckled. “With them? *Both.*”

Electra, drink now in hand, turned and met their gazes with a slow, knowing smile. “John. Brenda. Juan.” She nodded in acknowledgment, her voice silky smooth. “Enjoying the party?”

John smirked. “We were. Then we got into a debate with Canelo about why he ducked Jake Paul.”

Electra laughed softly. “Oh? And how did that go?”

Brenda rolled her eyes. “Exactly how you’d expect. He denied it. We called him out. He still denied it. But he did say he’d knock Jake out in one round.”

Electra sipped her drink. “Well, he’s probably not wrong.”

Will finally joined the group, nodding to John and Juan before fixing his gaze on Brenda. “Still stirring up trouble, I see.”

Brenda grinned. “Wouldn’t be a party if I didn’t.”

Price raised an eyebrow. “So, what brings *you two* here? Didn’t think Forrester Creations was your scene.”

Will gave a small, knowing smile. “Let’s just say we have an *interest* in what’s happening with Hope for the Future.”

Electra nodded. “A *very* specific interest.”

Brenda crossed her arms. “That sounds *cryptic.*”

Electra simply smirked, exchanging a glance with Will. “Doesn’t it?”

Juan sighed, shaking his head. “Here we go.”

It was clear—**Will and Electra hadn’t just come to party.**

They were here for something *bigger.*

**To be continued…**
 
  • Haha
Reactions: PanthersPens62
**Chapter 31: Backroom Deals and Forrester Power Plays**

While the main penthouse party raged on, filled with industry elites, celebrities, and unexpected guests, the real **decisions**—the ones that actually **mattered**—were being made **behind closed doors.**

In the **dimly lit back room** of the Forrester Creations penthouse, **Brooke Logan and Ridge Forrester** sat across from each other at a sleek glass table, a half-empty bottle of expensive scotch between them. The room was soundproofed—on purpose. In a world where **image was everything**, some conversations weren’t meant to be overheard.

Ridge, always the visionary, leaned forward, his hands clasped together. His usual charisma was replaced with **calculated intensity.** “We need to make a decision about *Hope for the Future.* The line is bleeding money.”

Brooke sighed, swirling her glass. “It’s not *bleeding*, Ridge. It’s just… in a transition period.”

Ridge shook his head. “We don’t *have* time for a transition period. We need to either **double down** and restructure it, or we let it go before it drags Forrester down with it.”

Brooke’s expression hardened. “We’re not letting it go.”

Ridge exhaled, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Then we need to **fix it.** And that means making *bold* moves.”

Brooke knew what he was really saying. **Hope wouldn’t like what needed to be done.** But business wasn’t about feelings—it was about survival.

“Lisa Vanderpump and Sami Brady both made some *valid* points tonight,” Brooke admitted. “Hope for the Future needs exclusivity. It needs an *edge*.”

Ridge nodded. “Which means we bring in someone who knows how to make exclusivity *work*.”

Brooke pursed her lips. “You’re thinking about Will and Electra.”

Ridge didn’t even hesitate. “They showed up here tonight for a reason, Brooke. We both know they don’t do *anything* by accident.”

Brooke took a slow sip of her drink, considering the implications. **Will and Electra were ruthless. Visionaries, sure—but also dangerous.** If they were brought into Hope for the Future, it wouldn’t be the same company.

“It’ll change everything,” she said finally.

Ridge leaned back, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Brooke stared at him, weighing the risks.

Hope would fight it. Steffy would have *opinions*. But at the end of the day, **Forrester Creations wasn’t built on sentimentality.** It was built on **power plays.**

She exhaled. “Fine. Let’s talk to them.”

Ridge clinked his glass against hers, his smirk deepening.

This was just the **beginning.**

**To be continued…**
 
  • Haha
Reactions: PanthersPens62

Chapter 61: The Plushie Showdown​

After Juan's disastrous attempt to woo Angelina Jolie, we found ourselves in a dimly lit safe house on the outskirts of Moscow. The air was thick with tension, and the scent of stale vodka lingered. Bill Clinton paced the room, occasionally glancing at the assortment of plushies we'd accumulated during our misadventures.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and in strutted Donald Trump, his signature hair unmistakable even in the low light. He eyed the room's occupants before his gaze settled on a particular plush figure—a 10-inch representation of himself, complete with a red tie and stern expression.

"What's this?" Trump demanded, pointing at the plushie.

Bill smirked, holding up a similar plushie of himself. "Bleacher Creatures made these. They're quite popular.

amazon.com
"


Trump's eyes narrowed. "I bet mine outsells yours."

Bill chuckled. "Care to wager on that?"

Before anyone could intervene, the two former presidents were nose to nose, each clutching their respective plushie. The tension was palpable.

"You think your plushie is better than mine?" Trump challenged.

Bill raised an eyebrow. "I know it is."

Without warning, Trump lunged, attempting to snatch Bill's plushie. Bill sidestepped, and the two tumbled into a pile of stuffed animals. Plushies flew through the air as they grappled, each trying to assert dominance.

Juan, nursing his bruised ego in the corner, looked up and muttered, "This is the weirdest day of my life."

Brenda sighed, "Just another day with you, Juan."

As the scuffle continued, Hargrave stepped forward, pulling the two apart. "Gentlemen, please! We have bigger issues at hand."

Both men, disheveled and out of breath, glared at each other before reluctantly releasing their grip on the plushies.

Trump straightened his tie. "This isn't over, Bill."

Bill smirked. "Looking forward to round two."

As the night wore on, the absurdity of the situation settled in. Two former leaders of the free world, reduced to bickering over stuffed versions of themselves. It was a stark reminder of how far we'd all fallen into this bizarre adventure.

TO BE CONTINUED…​

 
  • Haha
Reactions: MetalheadPenguinsFan and PanthersPens62

Chapter 62: The Plushie Cold War​

After the ridiculous fistfight between Donald Trump and Bill Clinton over their own plushie merchandise, an uneasy truce settled in the safe house. Juan, who had been sulking ever since his failed attempt at seducing Angelina Jolie, perked up.

“You know,” he said, nursing a vodka bottle like a sippy cup, “we could settle this like real men.”

Brenda groaned. “Please don’t say a plushie duel.”

Juan slammed his fist on the table. “A plushie duel!”

Hargrave, who had long stopped questioning his life choices, rubbed his temples. “I’m afraid to ask, but what exactly does that mean?”

Juan grinned. “We take Trump and Bill here, arm them with their own plushies, and let them battle for dominance. May the best former president win.”

Surprisingly, neither Trump nor Clinton objected. In fact, Trump seemed delighted. “I love this idea. It’s the greatest idea. I’m the best at plushie duels. Everyone says so.”

Bill smirked. “I wrestled Al Gore in ‘94. I got this.”

Juan scrambled together an impromptu arena in the middle of the safe house—a circle made of vodka bottles and half-eaten blini. The rules were simple: each contender would be given a plushie version of themselves, and the first to knock the other out of the ring would be declared the winner.

Trump stood tall, holding his Trump plushie like a weapon. “This is going to be huge.”

Clinton twirled his own plushie. “I’ve been in tighter spots than this.”

Brenda, always the opportunist, decided to act as referee. “Alright, gentlemen. I want a clean fight. No biting, no hair-pulling, and absolutely no mentions of Monica.”

Clinton’s smile faltered for a brief second before he regained his composure.

Hargrave sighed. “This is a low point in my career.”

“BEGIN!” Brenda shouted.

The two men lunged at each other, smacking plushies with all the force their aging bodies could muster. Trump swung wildly, yelling about election fraud as Clinton dodged, muttering something about saxophones and McDonald’s. The plushies flopped against each other, their stuffing taking the brunt of the impact.

Then, in a shocking turn of events, Trump feigned a stumble, falling to one knee. Clinton, sensing victory, moved in for the final blow—only for Trump to hurl his plushie at full force, knocking Bill square in the nose.

Bill staggered back, tripped over an empty vodka bottle, and tumbled out of the circle.

Brenda gasped. “Winner: DONALD TRUMP!”

Trump pumped his fist. “Tremendous. Just tremendous. Best plushie fighter in the world.”

Clinton, rubbing his nose, muttered, “I demand a rematch. Best two out of three.”

But before Juan could arrange another match, the door burst open. A Russian officer stormed in, flanked by armed guards.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he barked. “Mr. Trump, Mr. Clinton—you are both coming with us. President Putin has requested an audience.”

Hargrave exhaled. “I was wondering when this would go completely off the rails.”

Juan, never one to think things through, raised his hand. “Can I come too?”

The officer sneered. “Absolutely not.”

Brenda elbowed him. “You idiot, why would you volunteer to get arrested?”

Juan shrugged. “I just thought Putin might want a plushie.”

The guards ignored him, escorting Trump and Clinton out of the safe house. The rest of us stood in stunned silence.

Brenda broke it first. “Well… that was a banger of a plushie war.”

Hargrave shook his head. “I need a raise.”

Juan rubbed his chin. “I should’ve sold them some plushie armor. Next time.”

TO BE CONTINUED…​

 
  • Haha
Reactions: MetalheadPenguinsFan and PanthersPens62
You must log in or register to reply here.

Latest posts

Ad

Upcoming events

Ad

Top Bottom