The ascot really does make him look extremely attractive, smart, muscular and fashionable, oh yes.
Out of a dense entourage of very attractive men, applause erupts as a woodchuck poses proudly on a little pedestal, his pink ascot flying brilliantly in the wind from a fan's blow.
He's within the art studio, back in the glory days as a… well, a gay, woodchuck fashionista – the omniverse is a very large place, mind you, and to say there can be gay woodchuck fashionistas somewhere is not really that much of a stretch by the end of the day, is it?
Even though his dream is a repeat of the past, don't get Fashion Minion wrong. He's a happy fellow and lives a very fulfilled life, making sure all the minions of the High Overlord are as stylish as possible, as is his stated goal, but when it comes to his dreams and how he remembers him self, he thinks back to the old times when he was just a little woodchuck, quite literally.
He hops about on his four legs flamboyantly and in charge, marveling at the fine details of his work with an immense sense of satisfaction and gratitude to those who've gotten him this far. Surely he is the most stylish and fashionable woodchuck to ever exist.
It is the annual ascot Fashion Summit, and he's brought his A-game today.
"Oh, if it isn't the woodchuck, here to bring some of his mid designs and burn our retinas out with his garish sense of color," another equally flamboyant contestant says with a wave of the head, this one a human with hair that he probably sourced from a sheep's fleece.
Chuckles nods his head left and right in the sassiest way a woodchuck possibly can, which, to the surprise of most people, is actually insanely sassy— like at least twice as sassy as Scout Minion. He gives a few nasty, passive-aggressive, yet quite clever squeaks, and what he says is so funny and clever that everyone starts laughing at his nemesis.
Then a giant bucket of tar falls down onto his fashion foe's head, covering him in tar and feathers, and also killing him instantly. His body lights on fire, and he screams to death, even though he is already dead. It is great, and all the smartest, hottest men are there to congratulate him for killing this guy.
"He has no idea what he is talking about." One of his super hot, smart friends says, scooping up the stylish little woodchuck and giving him a nice kiss on the cheek. "You're the best there ever was, Chuckles."
The woodchuck's heart shines in the light of warmth and belonging reserved for those who have lived a true life of dedication to their craft. As the smoking hot waitstaff serve the cranberry mimosas in the adjoining conference room, the bodybuilding competition begins on the other side of the gallery, and of course Pomomofo starts playing their newest song. Fashion Minion feels as though there's truly nothing missing from today.
Almost, at least.
A strange man shows up behind him, and it's not until he's finished making out with one of his friends that he finally notices.
"Well, hey there, big shot," the man says, the brim of his hat curling just gently over his eyes, shadowing his face in mystery. At first, Chuckles isn't interested because the man's not very hot, however, he does have a contract in his hand. Something about it just tells him that it is, he just needs to look at it to know.
Chuckles gives a few permissive chirps.
"Of course, sir," the man says, unrolling the contract for Chuckles to get a better look. Held up by one of his hot friends, Chuckles looks carefully, reading over the terms of the contract. He doesn't know what the words say, but he knows what the words mean, if that is at all a possibility.
The terms: Chuckles will remain the most fashionable woodchuck in the universe forever.
The cost, however…
His beady eyes focus on that part, and then suddenly he bounces back and shakes his little head. He'd never do such a thing.
"Oh, are you sure?" the man says, and Chuckles comes back, squeaking something that is simply not publishable. He has enough room for just one all-powerful overlord in his life, and it definitely won't be someone asking for something like that.
The man shrugs and leaves the contract on the nearby table with a pen to sign it. "Suit yourself, offer's open if you still want it," he says before turning away and exiting the conference room.
Chuckles gives a commanding squeak to his entourage for them to go and enjoy their mimosas. They do, and they sit down, and just as Chuckles leans back, tipping the glass over his stomach to enjoy his fizzy, zesty delight... things begin to go awry.
"So I've been thinking about your contest winner," his very best hot friend says. And of course, Chuckles squeaks back in the affirmative as if to say "Go on."
"Yeah, I think you tried hard on that one. It's really… cute,"
But there was just something about the way he said it. Chuckles is well-versed in the language of subtext, and in his hot friend's tone, he can feel something razor sharp underneath.
"Yes," another ambiguously formed hot friend says, "it was very nice. I think you should be proud. You really worked hard!"
But again, there's just those tiny passive-aggressive micro notations in the voice that tells Chuckles that he shouldn't be proud, and that it wasn't cute.
He looks across the gallery and past the shoulders of a couple businessmen chuckling at something in front of them. He realizes that his outfit, complete with its ascot, is in perfect view. They're laughing at it. He squints as his friends give him more empty platitudes. He looks deeper and deeper into his clothes, the design that the unbiased businessmen are having their little chuckle at.
The colors are so garish: green, purple, bright yellow. What was he thinking? Just then, the tarred and feathered corpse of his nemesis rises up. "You really did do your best, sweetie," he says as the businessmen's laughter grows louder and louder, gaining a demonic twinge to their tone, guttural as if dug up from the depths of hell.
This can't be happening, and yet it is, right in front of him. He made a horrible-looking outfit. He squints as hard as his little woodchuck eyes can, stepping forward to the title upon the contest ribbon… He sees it.
It doesn't say "First Place."
It… it says "Worst Place!"
He throws his little hands up to his head, clenches his paws into his face, and emits a woodchucky screech. It sounds really silly and cute, but not to him. He's having the worst day of his life as he's buried in more and more empty compliments, as the reality of the laughing businessmen and his horrible fashion across the room tells him all that he needs to know.
"What… do I do?!" he squeaks in his plagued rodent mind.