EXTEMPORANEOUS FICTION - "American Idol"

first comment: a city of the world -  Michael B.: Bangkok

second comment: a song - Dennis. C.: "Do You Wanna Funk"

third comment: a holiday or festival -  Christopher DeB.: Groundhog Day

fourth comment: a fictional character - Serge C.: Edina Monsoon

fifth comment: a color -  Casey F.: purple (or indigo)

It had started like pretty much any other Tuesday in February for Phillip. Well, maybe not like any other Tuesday. That morning he had been woken from a sound sleep by none other than Sylvester himself, dead since 1988, somehow screechily demanding at full volume from the room next door: "Do you wanna funk? Wontcha tell me now?" He fumbled around for his glasses and looked blearily at the alarm clock. 7-fucking-23. 

"Toby! Jesus Christ!" he screamed, pounding on the wall between their rooms.

He heard a loud thud and what could possibly have been a cocktail being spilled before Sylvester abruptly stopped mid-screech. 

"Sorry, sweetie! I didn't realize it was so late... -or, err, early..."

How Toby managed to party like a club kid from Manhattan in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania, was always a mystery to Phillip. "Yeah, well, just, whatever..." His voice trailed off as he realized that the damage had been done, he was already awake. Another Tuesday in February.

Then he remembered it was Groundhog Day. Phillip happened to live in the one town on earth where Groundhog Day actually meant something: Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, the home of The Groundhog. It was a huge deal here in Punxsutawney, and today especially, the town would be jam-packed not only with tourists but with every over-moussed, under-educated TV "journalist" from every third-rate hometown TV station that could afford the airfare. They can grow a human ear in a Petri dish but all of America wants to know if the Groundhog predicts an early spring.
He stumbled out into the hallway, and after a quick pit stop in the bathroom, went down to the kitchen and made a quick cup of strong coffee. The kitchen looked as if Toby had hosted a cocktail party for forty of his closest friends, but Phillip knew from experience that Toby was fully capable of creating a mess like that all on his own. It made Phillip uncomfortable to sit among the dirty ashtrays and empty jars of Nutella, not to mention the fact that he suspected he was sitting in something wet, so he took his coffee cup and sat down in the living room. 
He had never really been much of a morning person, really, but once in a while, Phillip could appreciate those first few minutes, when the only noise outside was the birds chirping and the sound of the morning paper when it hit the driveway next door. The coffee smelled good and strong, and his mind was still a blank page, yet to be scribbled and scratched upon by the thousand little aggravations of daily life. His eyes wandered to the bookshelves, where he had displayed his prize possessions: the collection of puzzle boxes he had been accumulating since he was twelve years old.
They all looked different. They varied in value, from just a few dollars to possibly hundreds. They were from countries as diverse as China, Russia, and Vietnam. Some were plain, some were hopelessly complicated, some looked like "tramp art" from the 1930s. What they all had in common was that they could all only be opened by following a secret series of manipulations, by sliding a piece here or pressing a part there. Phillip had gotten one as a souvenir after a visit to Atlantic City in the summer after seventh grade, and once he had solved the puzzle, he found himself fascinated, and over the years had gone on to acquire and unlock more and more complicated boxes.
Suddenly, the Sumatra Dark Roast kicked in, and he remembered the box which had come only yesterday. He had been waiting months for delivery; it had to be delivered all the way from Thailand, but when he had seen it on Ebay he had known right away that he had to have it for his collection. Nobody else wanted it, or maybe they were scared off by the fact that it came without instructions, but he had won it for a song. The delivery charges ended up being more than what he paid for the box, but in the end it was still cheap and well worth the wait. 
He went and got the package from his room, and brought it back to the living room. He checked again to make sure there were no notes or diagrams or anything, but there weren't. Just an incomprehensible Thai return address and the words "Ebay Merchant diabol8". He tossed the package aside and regarded the box itself. Beautiful. Some kind of exotic wood, a deep bluish-purple or indigo color, like nothing he had ever seen before. The box was perfectly smooth on all sides, no visible seams of any kind. For a moment he wondered to himself whether he had been ripped off, whether he had just bought himself a sort of pretty-ish block of purple wood. But some part of him knew that it was indeed a puzzle box, and when he shook the box, he swore he could feel something, something light as a feather even, moving around inside. He was determined to figure it out. 
It would have to wait until later, though, because Phillip could smell the unmistakable blend of cigarette smoke, Peppermint Schnapps and Febreze that was Toby, making his way towards the living room. 
"Good morning, sweetie!" he crooned. "Why are we up, again?" he asked in all sincerity as he hit the couch with a dull thump, using his finger to spin the ice cubes around in an otherwise empty highball glass. 
"Groundhog Day," answered Phillip. He could never really be angry at Toby. Phillip had always thought of him as the real-life, male version of Edina Monsoon from "Absolutely Fabulous", and in a way he found it amusing that life had somehow paired him up with a roommate like that.
"Right! Groundhog Day!" said Toby, managing somehow to balance an ash which comprised at least 60mm of his 120mm cigarette. "I'm supposed to go with that Kitty Whatshername from Fox News. She can still get Vicodins!"

Despite the fact that it was cold, 35° and windy in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, the heat sits on the skin of Bangkok; itchy, sweaty and stifling, like a wool sweater. In a decaying neighborhood on the outskirts of town favored by British ex-pats who are either too impoverished, intoxicated, or addicted to leave, one Mr. Underhill sits beneath a feeble, asthmatic ceiling fan, futilely fanning himself with a souvenir fan from one of the shadier bars in Patpong. He sits hunched forward, myopically studying the monitor of an enormous, hopelessly obsolete PC.
The room around him is purple. Purple walls, purple floors, purple curtains. Nearly everything in the room is purple, everything except the 1991 Gateway and the La-Z-Boy, which only came in a dried-blood shade of "burgundy". He wears a suit as well, entirely purple, which was probably meant to look either elegant or arcane, but instead makes him look like a pasty-white British parody of John Shaft, not to mention the fact that it's been laundered so many times that it is a bit threadbare, and Mr. Underhill is sweating so profusely that the suit is starting to cling to him in places.
"The package has been delivered, Mr. Overmoor," he announces to the purple gloom around him. Even his voice, somehow, seems soaked with sweat.
"It's all happenin', innit?" answers Mr. Overmoor, somehow stepping out of the amethyst-tinted background. He too is dressed all in purple, but his look leans definitely further toward Charity Shop than Saville Row. His voice is as thick and as Cockney as warm English beer and fish & chips wrapped in newspaper.
"Yes, Mr. Overmoor! Just as the prophecy foretold!" He attempts to laugh maniacally to punctuate his point, but before long it degrades into a rasping, consumptive coughing fit and he has to pop a Ricola just to regain his composure.
Mr. Overmoor and Mr. Underhill give the overall impression of impending menace, of evil intent, but also that they are just too bloody stupid to do any serious harm. 
Mr. Overmoor looks momentarily unsure about something. Before speaking, he enthusiastically picks his nose and wipes his finger on his purple T-shirt. "Are you sure, Mr. Underhill? I mean, bloody hell, we sold the feckin' thing on feckin' Ebay!"
"I am sure, Mr. Overmoor! The signs were unmistakable. "Φίλιππος" - Philipos! Phillip! When I saw his name, I knew he was the right one."
"Yeah, but there's millions of bloody Phillips, Mr. Underhill! Maybe we should have sent it to Buckingham fecking Palace!"
"How quickly you forget, Mr. Overmoor," wheezes Mr. Underhill, wiping his upper lip with a yellowed handkerchief. "The portent we received last Beltane...?"
Not a glimmer from Mr. Overmoor.
"We had to sacrifice a bloody squirrel! Don't you remember how hard it is to find a bloody squirrel in bloody Bangkok, Mr. Overmoor?"
Still not a glimmer.
"The portent read 'δάσος Πεν' Mr. Overmoor! The forest of Penn!"
"Yeah..." says Mr. Overmoor, hesitantly, although it is clear he has no idea what Mr. Underhill is getting at.
"Penn-sylvania, Mr. Overmoor. Pennsylvania! The forest of Penn! Our friend, Mr. Phillip-" he pauses and squints again at the computer screen, "-Smith, lives in Pennsylvania! It's perfect! Perfectly, diabolically perfect!" He opts this time for a much less ambitious demonic laugh, just a quick "ha-ha-ha." 
"What happens now, Mr. Underhill?" says Mr. Overmoor, despite the fact that they had already had this very conversation dozens of times.
"Phillip from Pennsylvania receives the box. He opens the box. He releases the demon. Phillip of Pennsylvania, the Chosen One, will be found by our Master the demon, Lord Indicum, and his long wait for a physical form will be over. Before long, according to the prophecy, "the people of the world shall be at his feet!" And you and I, Mr. Overmoor, shall rule the world by his side! The world, Mr. Overmoor!" he considers another maniacal laugh, but eventually thinks better of it. 
"So now, we wait, Mr. Overmoor. I shall sit vigil by this noble screen, eager for word of our new world order as it spreads."

The crowds in Punxsutawney had reached their peak. It was cold, and everyone was bundled up and layered in hats and scarves and gloves, and it was just beginning to dawn on people in the crowd that unless you were standing in the first three or four rows from the stage, you weren't going to see a damn thing. Some of the little kids were getting cranky and once in a while you could hear a mom or a dad snarling something like, "We're here to have fun, godammit!" Toby and Kitty Whatshername were drinking mimosas while Kitty's cameraman took some B-roll shots of the crowd. 
Phillip was in his own little world, oblivious to the chill in the air or the crush of the crowd around him. He had been totally absorbed by the purple puzzle box, but so far had found himself no closer to unlocking its secrets. 
The big moment drew nearer. Speeches, speeches, speeches, by the mayor of Punxsutawney, by some pencil-pusher from the Chamber of Commerce, by some has-been weatherman from The Weather Channel. Finally, this year's Groundhog Queen, 19 year-old Bridget Clatterbuck, stepped forward and took the microphone. 
"Ladies and gentlemen!" she squealed into the microphone. "Let's hear it for our very own Groundhog: Punxsutawney Phil!"
Two things happened at that very moment: Punxsutawney Phil the groundhog stepped out for the crowd to see, and the puzzle box in Phillip's hand clicked and opened.
Something flew out. It was kind of like a dragonfly, or maybe like walking through a spider web, but it was definitely something. And Phillip thought for a second that it made a sound as it flew past him. Something like, "Woo-hoo!"
The next thing Phillip noticed was that the groundhog on the stage looked like it had just been hit in the chest by something. Bridget Clatterbuck looked a little confused as she tried to maintain her Beauty Queen smile even though she suspected that Punxsutawney Phil had just dropped dead in front of her. 
Moments later, though, the groundhog stood back up, and then stood up on its hind legs like a human. It raised its two front paws in two tiny little groundhog fists and began to squeak.
"Umm, what..?" said Bridget Clatterbuck. She held the microphone close to Punxsutawney Phil's little rodent mouth.
"I am Indicum, Demon of the Seventh Circle of Hell! Bow down before me!" came the tiny little voice over the microphone. Lord Indicum sounded a bit as if Alvin and the Chipmunks had been huffing helium.
A stunned silence fell over the crowd.

Mr. Overmoor slept. He snored, and a ribbon of drool hung precariously from one corner of his thin, unappealing mouth. 
"You've got mail!" the 1991 Gateway announced.
Mr. Underhill wiped the sweat once again from his upper lip. He leaned in to the computer screen, squinting. 
"Google News Alert" said the header. "Your search for 'Phillip+Pennsylvania+Indicum' has a new result."
"It is here, Mr. Overmoor! The news we have been awaiting!"
Mr. Overmoor snorted as he woke, sucking the ribbon of drool back into his mouth.
Mr. Underhill had already opened the email. It contained a link to a YouTube video, a segment from an American television show called "Jimmy Kimmel Live" His keywords were highlighted in the text below; "Punxsutawney Phil, Pennsylvania's talking groundhog sensation, who refers to himself as "Lord Indicum", wins over America's late-night TV crowd."
No footage of Armageddon. No crowds cowering in fear from their new Evil Overlords. No submissive masses. Just ten minutes of a groundhog, a bloody talking groundhog, telling bad "That's-what-she-said" jokes and waxing nostalgic about the days before Christianity. At the end of the interview, Jimmy Kimmel turned to the groundhog for one last question. "Fifteen seconds, Phil. Any messages for the world?"
"Yes, Jimmy, as a matter of fact, there is," replied Lord Indicum, as the cameras zoomed in for a closeup of his pinched up little rodent face. "The Prophecies have been fulfilled. The world is truly at my feet." The crowd cheered jubilantly at this. "Now where's that latté?"
The YouTube clip ended. Mr Overmoor and Mr. Underhill sat in humid, sticky silence, the feeble ceiling fan wheezing and creaking its way around uselessly. 
"Right, then," said Mr. Overmoor.