LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos: "Tony"
Sep. 30th, 2025 09:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
halfshellvenusTony
Idol Wheel of Chaos | Week 11 | 2000 words
Tiger Team
x-x-x-x-x
Tony the Tiger was losing his zip. After seventy-three years of being the Frosted Flakes mascot, he was having to fight harder and harder to hang onto his legacy.
He'd always evolved with the times, even when the fads made no sense. In 1960, his eyes changed from green to gray. A decade later, they became yellow, and his nose turned blue like one of those creepy monkeys. In 1984, he finally became three-dimensional, and by the '90s he was on steroids.
Now, he was just struggling to hang onto his job.
First, it was the tooth veneers. That was after he'd already chipped a fang on a cereal bowl decades earlier. In 2015, he'd had plastic surgery to remove the double chin that had plagued him all his life. The next insult was fur and whisker dye, and he'd had to get tooth implants in the early 2000s (because he was not about to get dentures). There was an entire team of specialists devoted to making him look good.
But they couldn't fix his memory.
"Kellogg's Frosted Flakes! They're good!"
"Cut!"
It was a TV commercial, like any one of the dozens he'd made over the years. With all of that experience behind him, why did he keep blanking on the tag line?
"Let's go again," the director said.
"Kellogg's Clotted Snakes! They're grrrreat!"
"Cut!"
What's wrong with me? Tony wondered. He used to be able to pop those lines out in his sleep, and now he couldn't get through them to save his life.
"Again!" the director said.
"Balrog's Busted Rakes! They're grrrreat!"
"Cut!" the directory yelled. "For crying out loud–take ten!"
Tony went off to his jungle-themed trailer and paced circles inside it until his feet were sore. Why couldn't he make those two simple lines work? Was it his memory? Was there a short-circuit between his brain and his mouth?
Back on the set again, the camera crew was ready for him.
"Frosted Flakes outro, take four," the clapper loader said.
"Kellogg's Frosted Flakes! They're terrrrrific!"
"Cut! Get it together, Tony!"
"Frosted Flakes outro, take five." *Clack*
"Kettlecorn Crusted Shakes! They're grrrreat!"
"No! Cut, already!"
Fifteen takes later, Tony finally got it right. It was the longest day he'd ever spent on the job, and the embarrassment was crushing.
The director had called the voice coach in to go over the lines with him for a good ten minutes, even though there was nothing wrong with the inflection or the power in Tony's delivery. He was THE tiger, for heaven's sake. He'd always been the star of the whole operation. It wasn't like those rotating Lassies who'd done that one TV show, or the millions of Morrises who'd shilled for cat food back in the day. Tony was the one and only, the way it was supposed to be.
Now, he wondered how much longer that would be true.
He stopped off at the store and bought a whole salmon and a gallon of butter brickle ice cream, his usual reward for a job well done. That night, he drowned his sorrows in them instead of celebrating. What else could a tiger do?
But the next morning, he decided he would not go down without a fight. He was used to having the right people on hand for the job, but he couldn't risk word of his problem getting back to the studio. Instead, he would form his own team of specialists to get to the bottom of things.
The studio's team included Dr. Feelgood, physician to the stars and a guy who definitely couldn't keep his mouth shut. Tony picked Dr. Ballard at the UCLA Medical Center, who had a good reputation and no ties to Hollywood.
"Turn your head and cough," Dr. Ballard said.
Then, after Dr. Ballard had climbed down off the examining table, he clarified, "Cough, not roar."
"Oh." Tony tried again, much more softly.
"Better," the doctor said.
The doctor listened to Tony's heart and lungs, and rapped on his knee with a rubber mallet. "Good, good," he said. "Now let's move on to some other tests. What do you see on this card?"
"An elephant. A balloon. A thumb. A canoe," Tony said.
"Good. And could you draw me a picture of a clock that shows the time as two forty-five?"
"Sure."
"A clock with hands," the doctor said, "not a digital clock."
"Oh. Okay." Tony tried again.
Doctor Ballard frowned. "Your fine motor skills seem a little impaired."
"Have you seen these paws?" Tony said. "What do you expect?"
The doctor finished his exam, but found nothing unusual in Tony's health or mental capacity. Tony decided to try a psychiatrist instead, and was able to get in for an appointment a week later.
Tony was nervous when the day finally came. He whispered his name to the receptionist, not wanting anyone else to hear him.
"The doctor's ready for you," she said. "You can go right in."
Tony opened the door to the doctor's office.
"Come in, sit, sit," Doctor Friedman said, gesturing to a large sofa. "Now, tell me about your mother."
Tony blinked. "I never knew my mother," he said. "She might have been a colored pencil, or a paint brush."
"Why do you talk about your mother this way? What did she do to you?"
"What mother? I was never really born," Tony said. "It was more like I was brought into existence."
"I think your self-esteem is very low," Dr. Friedman said. "We must get you better. What about your childhood?"
"I didn't really have one," Tony said. "I've been working my entire life."
"So, you feel you were denied your youth. Terrible!" the doctor said.
This is going nowhere, Tony thought. "I'm not here about any of that," he said. "It's my work. I'm an actor, but lately I've been having trouble saying my lines. The wrong words come out."
"You can speak, but you don't say the right things?"
"Yes, exactly. I know what the words are supposed to be, but they get twisted," Tony said. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Doc. It's like a mental block or something."
"So, you must have been good at this before, or you would have been fired. How long have you been doing this job?"
"Um…" Tony started. He coughed. "Seventy-three years."
"Good heavens!" the doctor said. "No wonder you have trouble."
"But it's only been in the last month or so," Tony said.
"Well, it could be a panic response. You're no spring chicken. Are you worried that they'll decide you're too old for the job?"
Yes! Tony thought. Because he was old. That was the problem.
"I'll give you some meditation exercises to calm yourself. Perhaps that will help."
Tony left the doctor's office feeling no better than before. It was clear he was in a vicious circle, causing the very problem he feared.
He went back home and sat in his favorite chair to regroup. On the shelf to his right, he could see a couple of books he'd bought years ago, when the first signs of aging had occurred. "What Color Is Your Parachute?" and "Get Off Your Butt and Own Your Career" stared back at him.
Tony loved his job, but the writing was on the wall. Someday, the studio would trade him in for a new tiger. He didn't know when, but it would happen. Then what would he do?
So many of the old jobs were gone. The Esso gas tiger had lost his career decades ago. The tigers at the Sambo's restaurants– who only had to pose, rather than speak–had been out of work almost as long. All of them had nicer stripes than his, anyway. And while there were the Cincinnati Bengals and the Detroit Lions and several opportunities for college mascots, that was a young tiger's game. Tony didn't have the energy or the right fur for that kind of work.
He tugged on the red bandana tied around his neck. It had gone back and forth from red to orange over the years, but he'd always thought it gave him a certain flair–even if it was a little Village People for the average tiger. Even the bandana couldn't lift his spirits now.
Seven decades, and what did he have to show for himself now? He'd never married. He and Judy Jetson were madly in love once, but he wasn't brave enough for cross-species dating, so they broke it off and she married someone else.
He had some friends, but they were a mixed bunch. A toucan, a rabbit, and a vampire from the cereal trade, and a pink panther from the world of cartoons. Still, they might offer some ideas, or at least make him feel better. Tony thought about it. The rabbit was kind of nutso, and the Count was usually unavailable during the day. But the toucan was a cheerful, energetic guy. Tony gave him a call.
"Toucan Sam," the bird said.
"Hi, Sam, it's Tony."
"Tony, baby–hey, what's shaking?"
"Not much. Or maybe everything. Hey, you got time for lunch?"
"The bird is the word," Sam said. "Catch you at the usual place around one?"
"You got it," Tony said.
They met at the Sunshine Diner in Sherman Oaks, a hole-in-the-wall place that served breakfast all day. Sam had the deluxe fruit plate and Tony had the steak and eggs.
"So, keeping busy?" Sam asked.
"I just shot a commercial last week," Tony said. "It… could have gone better."
"What do you mean?"
"I just couldn't get the words right on my tag-line," Tony said. "Some kind of mental glitch that just wouldn't stop."
"Well, we're not young anymore," Sam said. "Gotta retire sometime. How's the money situation?"
"I've saved a ton over the years," Tony said. "No point in blowing it on luxuries. Nobody wants to see a tiger in a mansion or behind the wheel of a sports car."
"So, nothing's stopping you. Think of all the books and hobbies you'll have time for, and all the places you could go. I travel every chance I get. And do you know where they love me? Africa and Brazil. It's all the colors."
"I don't have wings, though, and I don't have a passport," Tony said. "And I'm not sure I could get one."
"Pfffftt," Sam said. "I know a guy."
"I'm not sure I want to travel alone anyway, " Tony admitted.
"Yeah, what's the deal there? Why aren't you out dating and meeting people?"
"I tried," Tony said. "But it was never the same after Judy. No one else had that spark, you know?"
Sam leaned back and preened. "But Judy is a widow now. And I have her phone number."
"Really?" Tony said. "Hey, Sam, I've gotta go."
Tony sped home, thinking about everything that had happened. Why not try those meditation exercises to prepare for whenever his next gig came, and when he eventually got fired, he'd deal with it? Retirement wouldn't kill him, and maybe he'd have someone to spend all that free time with.
He got home and copied down the contact information from Sam's text. Then he tugged on his bandana for luck–Judy had always liked it– and dialed her number. What would it be like to hear her voice again? His paw shook as he held the phone up to his ear.
"Hello?"
Tony's heart clenched. Judy sounded just the same as she had all those years ago. He'd never forgotten a single thing about her. "Hello, Judy?" he said. "It's Tony."
"Tony the Tiger?" Judy exclaimed.
He could hear her excitement, and his spirits soared.
"Yes, it's me," he said, hoping against hope that she still felt something for him.
"Tonyyyy," Judy breathed.
She sounded so happy, and Tony thought about what a fool he'd been to let her go.
"Oh, Tony, It's been so long. I was hoping you would call…"
–/–
If you enjoyed this story, please vote for it along with many other fine entries here.
Idol Wheel of Chaos | Week 11 | 2000 words
Tiger Team
x-x-x-x-x
Tony the Tiger was losing his zip. After seventy-three years of being the Frosted Flakes mascot, he was having to fight harder and harder to hang onto his legacy.
He'd always evolved with the times, even when the fads made no sense. In 1960, his eyes changed from green to gray. A decade later, they became yellow, and his nose turned blue like one of those creepy monkeys. In 1984, he finally became three-dimensional, and by the '90s he was on steroids.
Now, he was just struggling to hang onto his job.
First, it was the tooth veneers. That was after he'd already chipped a fang on a cereal bowl decades earlier. In 2015, he'd had plastic surgery to remove the double chin that had plagued him all his life. The next insult was fur and whisker dye, and he'd had to get tooth implants in the early 2000s (because he was not about to get dentures). There was an entire team of specialists devoted to making him look good.
But they couldn't fix his memory.
"Kellogg's Frosted Flakes! They're good!"
"Cut!"
It was a TV commercial, like any one of the dozens he'd made over the years. With all of that experience behind him, why did he keep blanking on the tag line?
"Let's go again," the director said.
"Kellogg's Clotted Snakes! They're grrrreat!"
"Cut!"
What's wrong with me? Tony wondered. He used to be able to pop those lines out in his sleep, and now he couldn't get through them to save his life.
"Again!" the director said.
"Balrog's Busted Rakes! They're grrrreat!"
"Cut!" the directory yelled. "For crying out loud–take ten!"
Tony went off to his jungle-themed trailer and paced circles inside it until his feet were sore. Why couldn't he make those two simple lines work? Was it his memory? Was there a short-circuit between his brain and his mouth?
Back on the set again, the camera crew was ready for him.
"Frosted Flakes outro, take four," the clapper loader said.
"Kellogg's Frosted Flakes! They're terrrrrific!"
"Cut! Get it together, Tony!"
"Frosted Flakes outro, take five." *Clack*
"Kettlecorn Crusted Shakes! They're grrrreat!"
"No! Cut, already!"
Fifteen takes later, Tony finally got it right. It was the longest day he'd ever spent on the job, and the embarrassment was crushing.
The director had called the voice coach in to go over the lines with him for a good ten minutes, even though there was nothing wrong with the inflection or the power in Tony's delivery. He was THE tiger, for heaven's sake. He'd always been the star of the whole operation. It wasn't like those rotating Lassies who'd done that one TV show, or the millions of Morrises who'd shilled for cat food back in the day. Tony was the one and only, the way it was supposed to be.
Now, he wondered how much longer that would be true.
He stopped off at the store and bought a whole salmon and a gallon of butter brickle ice cream, his usual reward for a job well done. That night, he drowned his sorrows in them instead of celebrating. What else could a tiger do?
But the next morning, he decided he would not go down without a fight. He was used to having the right people on hand for the job, but he couldn't risk word of his problem getting back to the studio. Instead, he would form his own team of specialists to get to the bottom of things.
The studio's team included Dr. Feelgood, physician to the stars and a guy who definitely couldn't keep his mouth shut. Tony picked Dr. Ballard at the UCLA Medical Center, who had a good reputation and no ties to Hollywood.
"Turn your head and cough," Dr. Ballard said.
Then, after Dr. Ballard had climbed down off the examining table, he clarified, "Cough, not roar."
"Oh." Tony tried again, much more softly.
"Better," the doctor said.
The doctor listened to Tony's heart and lungs, and rapped on his knee with a rubber mallet. "Good, good," he said. "Now let's move on to some other tests. What do you see on this card?"
"An elephant. A balloon. A thumb. A canoe," Tony said.
"Good. And could you draw me a picture of a clock that shows the time as two forty-five?"
"Sure."
"A clock with hands," the doctor said, "not a digital clock."
"Oh. Okay." Tony tried again.
Doctor Ballard frowned. "Your fine motor skills seem a little impaired."
"Have you seen these paws?" Tony said. "What do you expect?"
The doctor finished his exam, but found nothing unusual in Tony's health or mental capacity. Tony decided to try a psychiatrist instead, and was able to get in for an appointment a week later.
Tony was nervous when the day finally came. He whispered his name to the receptionist, not wanting anyone else to hear him.
"The doctor's ready for you," she said. "You can go right in."
Tony opened the door to the doctor's office.
"Come in, sit, sit," Doctor Friedman said, gesturing to a large sofa. "Now, tell me about your mother."
Tony blinked. "I never knew my mother," he said. "She might have been a colored pencil, or a paint brush."
"Why do you talk about your mother this way? What did she do to you?"
"What mother? I was never really born," Tony said. "It was more like I was brought into existence."
"I think your self-esteem is very low," Dr. Friedman said. "We must get you better. What about your childhood?"
"I didn't really have one," Tony said. "I've been working my entire life."
"So, you feel you were denied your youth. Terrible!" the doctor said.
This is going nowhere, Tony thought. "I'm not here about any of that," he said. "It's my work. I'm an actor, but lately I've been having trouble saying my lines. The wrong words come out."
"You can speak, but you don't say the right things?"
"Yes, exactly. I know what the words are supposed to be, but they get twisted," Tony said. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Doc. It's like a mental block or something."
"So, you must have been good at this before, or you would have been fired. How long have you been doing this job?"
"Um…" Tony started. He coughed. "Seventy-three years."
"Good heavens!" the doctor said. "No wonder you have trouble."
"But it's only been in the last month or so," Tony said.
"Well, it could be a panic response. You're no spring chicken. Are you worried that they'll decide you're too old for the job?"
Yes! Tony thought. Because he was old. That was the problem.
"I'll give you some meditation exercises to calm yourself. Perhaps that will help."
Tony left the doctor's office feeling no better than before. It was clear he was in a vicious circle, causing the very problem he feared.
He went back home and sat in his favorite chair to regroup. On the shelf to his right, he could see a couple of books he'd bought years ago, when the first signs of aging had occurred. "What Color Is Your Parachute?" and "Get Off Your Butt and Own Your Career" stared back at him.
Tony loved his job, but the writing was on the wall. Someday, the studio would trade him in for a new tiger. He didn't know when, but it would happen. Then what would he do?
So many of the old jobs were gone. The Esso gas tiger had lost his career decades ago. The tigers at the Sambo's restaurants– who only had to pose, rather than speak–had been out of work almost as long. All of them had nicer stripes than his, anyway. And while there were the Cincinnati Bengals and the Detroit Lions and several opportunities for college mascots, that was a young tiger's game. Tony didn't have the energy or the right fur for that kind of work.
He tugged on the red bandana tied around his neck. It had gone back and forth from red to orange over the years, but he'd always thought it gave him a certain flair–even if it was a little Village People for the average tiger. Even the bandana couldn't lift his spirits now.
Seven decades, and what did he have to show for himself now? He'd never married. He and Judy Jetson were madly in love once, but he wasn't brave enough for cross-species dating, so they broke it off and she married someone else.
He had some friends, but they were a mixed bunch. A toucan, a rabbit, and a vampire from the cereal trade, and a pink panther from the world of cartoons. Still, they might offer some ideas, or at least make him feel better. Tony thought about it. The rabbit was kind of nutso, and the Count was usually unavailable during the day. But the toucan was a cheerful, energetic guy. Tony gave him a call.
"Toucan Sam," the bird said.
"Hi, Sam, it's Tony."
"Tony, baby–hey, what's shaking?"
"Not much. Or maybe everything. Hey, you got time for lunch?"
"The bird is the word," Sam said. "Catch you at the usual place around one?"
"You got it," Tony said.
They met at the Sunshine Diner in Sherman Oaks, a hole-in-the-wall place that served breakfast all day. Sam had the deluxe fruit plate and Tony had the steak and eggs.
"So, keeping busy?" Sam asked.
"I just shot a commercial last week," Tony said. "It… could have gone better."
"What do you mean?"
"I just couldn't get the words right on my tag-line," Tony said. "Some kind of mental glitch that just wouldn't stop."
"Well, we're not young anymore," Sam said. "Gotta retire sometime. How's the money situation?"
"I've saved a ton over the years," Tony said. "No point in blowing it on luxuries. Nobody wants to see a tiger in a mansion or behind the wheel of a sports car."
"So, nothing's stopping you. Think of all the books and hobbies you'll have time for, and all the places you could go. I travel every chance I get. And do you know where they love me? Africa and Brazil. It's all the colors."
"I don't have wings, though, and I don't have a passport," Tony said. "And I'm not sure I could get one."
"Pfffftt," Sam said. "I know a guy."
"I'm not sure I want to travel alone anyway, " Tony admitted.
"Yeah, what's the deal there? Why aren't you out dating and meeting people?"
"I tried," Tony said. "But it was never the same after Judy. No one else had that spark, you know?"
Sam leaned back and preened. "But Judy is a widow now. And I have her phone number."
"Really?" Tony said. "Hey, Sam, I've gotta go."
Tony sped home, thinking about everything that had happened. Why not try those meditation exercises to prepare for whenever his next gig came, and when he eventually got fired, he'd deal with it? Retirement wouldn't kill him, and maybe he'd have someone to spend all that free time with.
He got home and copied down the contact information from Sam's text. Then he tugged on his bandana for luck–Judy had always liked it– and dialed her number. What would it be like to hear her voice again? His paw shook as he held the phone up to his ear.
"Hello?"
Tony's heart clenched. Judy sounded just the same as she had all those years ago. He'd never forgotten a single thing about her. "Hello, Judy?" he said. "It's Tony."
"Tony the Tiger?" Judy exclaimed.
He could hear her excitement, and his spirits soared.
"Yes, it's me," he said, hoping against hope that she still felt something for him.
"Tonyyyy," Judy breathed.
She sounded so happy, and Tony thought about what a fool he'd been to let her go.
"Oh, Tony, It's been so long. I was hoping you would call…"
–/–
If you enjoyed this story, please vote for it along with many other fine entries here.
no subject
Date: 2025-10-01 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-10-01 05:15 pm (UTC)So glad you enjoyed it. :D