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[trombones]

How did you wind up here? Who knows. Who cares. One minute you're on a walk, the next minute you pass by this guy's driveway.

The faint sound of something plays as you get closer. There's a guy there. Or rather, a skeleton. Skeleton monster. Whatever, he looks like a cartoon. He's reclined back in a lawn chair with a long twisty straw in his mouth, attached to a bright pink drink in a mason jar. Next to him, two child's playpens are just barely holding themselves together on the concrete.

A good collection of eight or nine roombas move around inside them. They're all on. Circling the pen, bumping into the walls and each other, turning, circling, cleaning. It's a weird dance at this point.

There's a cardboard sign between the pens:

roomba daycare
$1
roomba eggs not guaranteed

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[spaghettimonster]

How did he get here? He lives here, thank you very much! And he might, slightly, be responsible for the presence of all those roombas?

Well, partly responsible. They were supposed to be running around inside. But in the hour Papyrus spent on the computer and the phone, searching for the answer of how so many arrived, it seems they've all been relocated. The part where they're outside in a makeshift pet pen, that's all Sans.

"SANS!!!"

He shouts from the doorway, having just slammed the front door open. He turns every which way in search for a familiar skull, before noticing the lawn chair. And the fence. In the driveway.

"Umm. Brother, what... are you doing...?"

[trombones]

"Hey, bro."

Sans doesn't even look up. He takes another swirly-straw slurp.

"Corraling the kids. They all kind of just turned on, so."

Why not make the best of it, basically.

"What's up?"

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus continues to approach, looking at the roombas as they dance their futile dance, trying to clean a section of the driveway that is very nearly spotless. Watches as one of them bumps into the playpen hard enough to nudge it out another centimeter.

"Why are you corraling them here? They could do so much more good in the living room!"

He looks around him at the rest of the driveway.

"Oh! I should get a leash, and take them on walks."

[trombones]

"The box was in the garage. So were a bunch of kid's playpens, for some reason."

Sans actually has no idea why they have playpens. They don't have babies, much less anyone that would fit in one. Besides the roombas, I guess. Finally, he looks over his shoulder.

"Hey, good idea. A couple people left me theirs. We made 2 bucks so far."

[spaghettimonster]

"Oh, I got the playpens. I was going to put them around you, the next time I found you napping in an inappropriate location."

But since their existence is out of the bag, so much for that plan. Papyrus taps at his chin, considering the rest of Sans' bizarre statement. As he's standing closer to the house, with the advertisement sign out of sight...

"You're doing practically nothing, and still making money. I'm impressed! But why did they pay you?"

[trombones]

"Oh."

Long pause.

"Good idea."

Literally childproof your brother. He can't really argue that.

Anyway. Sans looks down at the pen. His hand comes up and a finger counts the roombas. Two. Right, two.

"For babysitting."

[spaghettimonster]

It's a shame he'll never get the chance to do it for real. And a double shame that Sans would just mysteriously appear outside the pen even if he did. Really, this use as roomba-containment is a better plan all around.

Or it would be if they were actually secure. Papyrus steps over, adjusting the fences to fix that ominously tilted one, and notices the sign.

"Ohhh. Wow, I can't believe someone took you up on this. Sticking them in a cage, without any food, and you aren't even entertaining them. Lackluster babysitting, brother! You should spruce the pen up!"

This calls for something... more. he taps his chin, looking around the yard, wondering what they can do to add to it.

[trombones]

"Hey, I fed them. I put some glitter in there."

He glances back up as his brother starts to look around. Oh. He sees where this is going.

"We still got the flamingos from that flea market we went to. And that garden gnome that looks like... what'd Frisk say his name was? Elvis?"

To be fair, a lot of their stuff was from thrift stores and flea markets. Sans and Papyrus always found SOMETHING weird to take home when they went shopping.

[spaghettimonster]

He squints down at the pen. The driveway does seem to sparkle when he tips his head back and forth. "As long as they've been fed. I forget what the guy's name is... He's just 'cool hair guy' to me!"

Thrift stores and flea markets are pretty great. All the delights of shopping at the dump, including the very low prices, except this way they weren't soaked in water and moldsmal slime! And, so far, no fleas. It must work on a roulette basis or something.

"Those flamingos stand up on bendable poles, right? Let's secure the pen with them. Decoration and stability, what a deal."

[trombones]

"I think it's Elvis. Or 'The King', or something."

Sans shifts up to get a better look.

"Oh, yeah. Good idea. I think they're still in the flower bed."

He's helping... by pointing out where they are.

[spaghettimonster]

"I only have one king... and he's not a lawn gnome."

More like a giant lawn goat. Even if he uses clippers on the hedges he shapes, instead of teeth.

Papyrus shakes his head a the very sedentary help, and crosses the lawn to the flower bed. Now they have a lawn gnome and a lawn skeleton! Truly, the Johnsons stand no chance in their competition of ornamentation.

"Do you think it's bad for the flowers, if I take these?"

[trombones]

"He kinda dresses like one, though."

Especially when Asgore wears that floral pink shirt.

Anyway. Sans finally sits up. Of the few things he's bothered to do so far, putting his spine in a barely-straight position is one of them now.

"Nah. Flamingos are freeloaders."

[spaghettimonster]

That image is mildly distressing, but true. Dropping the subject in order to expedite an escape is the better part of... well, valor's probably not the word.

Sans sitting up when he doesn't have to... It's a Christmas in July Miracle.

"Not for long, they aren't!" Papyrus plucks the plastic birds from the soil with all the care and attention of ripping a bandage off.

[trombones]

Wow. That's enthusiastic. Even Sans is impressed. Also, he's in one of the pens now. Just now. He's petting roombas as they go by, though there's not a lot of room between them now.

"Dang. It's like that one time I wound up in the dirt too."

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus does everything with enthusiasm and/or persistence, after all.

Their lawn might have some holes in it now, though. As though a small but determined dog had started to bury many tiny bones wherever the flamingos had been. But that's hardly an emergency; the lawn's herbs and wildflowers and grass and stuff, it'll grow back to cover them eventually.

"...This incident is escaping me. Should I be glad I don't remember?"

[trombones]

"Eh. Basically, one time I wound up in the dirt."

Sans shrugs his non-margarita hand up in the air. He high-fives the roomba next to him in the process. No elaboration. These are just things that happen in their lives, apparently.

"And you pulled me out kind of like that, because I was pretty stuck. Neck-deep stuck. I bend better than the flamingos, though."