The Case of the Triste Leches
Jonathan eyed Chris warily. "Explain to me again why you're doing this?"
"Dude," sighed a slightly beleaguered Chris, "I'm telling you - every crime fighting duo needs theme music. In fact, duos, trios, solo - anyone who fights crime needs theme music. I'm almost done."
"Okay, but you said you'd be done a few hours ago," retorted Jonathan. "You've probably been tweeting all day, writing silly short stories, and not actually working."
"Au contraire, mon frere," was the response. Chris fiddled a bit more with his laptop, and the haunting tone of a didgeridoo wafted through the air. "There we go!" He smiled triumphantly.
Jonathan looked dubiously at Chris. "Seriously? You've worked on this for, what? Days? And the best thing you can come up with is the B side of a Men at Work album?"
"One, it's distinctive and to the point, and lets the bad guys know what's going down. Two, Men at Work was a great band," answered Chris, smiling impishly.
Jonathan waved his hand dismissively and started to respond, but a flashing yellow light and klaxon interrupted him. He looked serious and snapped, "Trouble! To the Inner Sanctum!"
The pair arose from their booth at Beaver's and headed to the walk-in. Jonathan slapped his hand on the back panel and it rumbled open, revealing a fireman's pole leading down to murky darkness. They each jumped on it and slid down, movements only slightly constricted by a lunch of CFS and the best mac in Houston.
The darkness of the Inner Sanctum was suddenly awash in the green glow of the Beavatron 2000, Jonathan's communications monitoring system that put ECHELON to shame. Jonathan sat in front of the main screen and peered at a flashing alert. "I just got a red flag in the vicinity of midtown. The system picked up some chatter about desserts." He typed in some commands and his face took on a somber aspect. "They're bagging on tres leches, man. Fuckers."
"Level Omega Intervention?" asked Chris.
Jonathan concentrated for a few moments and answered, "No.... too much. Remember what happened during the Felix Queso incident?"
Chris made a moue at the thought of the viscous concoction and shuddered.
"Nah," continued Jonathan, "I think we'll best be served with an insertion and demo. Um... that's 'demo' as in 'demonstration', not 'demolition'. I don't want a repeat of the Okrapolypse."
Chris shrugged and utterly failed to look innocent. "Fine, then. Let's get geared up and head out."
"I've got some tres leches that I whipped up last night," said Jonathan, walking over to a large hovertank, patting the side with his hand. "I"ll stash it in the Dam Buster and be ready in five. Want a lift?"
"Nah, I'm going to fly there," was the response.
Jonathan stopped. "You can fly? What the hell, man? I thought me having a hovertank was cool, but what's this shit about you being able to fly? What else can you do? Do I have any special powers?" He looked pissed.
"Um," stalled Chris. "Yeah, you see, you have all of this really cool technology to help you out, but I'm magical. It's a good balance between us that will highlight our different approaches to fighting crime. I mean, I don't have exploding French fries and homing missiles that lock on to bacon like you do. I don't have a robot butler with an English accent and napalm spray. I can just fly, teleport, and shoot lasers from my fingers. Trust me, you got the good end of the stick here." He gestured placatingly.
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "Lasers? Lasers aren't magic. This is bullshit."
"No, my lasers are magic. They taste like cherries and burn like a thousand volcanos. Anyway, it's not important. Let's get this tres leches situation under control! After you, boss!" Chris leapt into the air and hovered there.
Jonathan grimaced, muttered something about "fucking cherry flavored lasers, my ass," and went to get the cake.
Stay tuned for the next chapter of "The Case of the Triste Leches!"
"Dude," sighed a slightly beleaguered Chris, "I'm telling you - every crime fighting duo needs theme music. In fact, duos, trios, solo - anyone who fights crime needs theme music. I'm almost done."
"Okay, but you said you'd be done a few hours ago," retorted Jonathan. "You've probably been tweeting all day, writing silly short stories, and not actually working."
"Au contraire, mon frere," was the response. Chris fiddled a bit more with his laptop, and the haunting tone of a didgeridoo wafted through the air. "There we go!" He smiled triumphantly.
Jonathan looked dubiously at Chris. "Seriously? You've worked on this for, what? Days? And the best thing you can come up with is the B side of a Men at Work album?"
"One, it's distinctive and to the point, and lets the bad guys know what's going down. Two, Men at Work was a great band," answered Chris, smiling impishly.
Jonathan waved his hand dismissively and started to respond, but a flashing yellow light and klaxon interrupted him. He looked serious and snapped, "Trouble! To the Inner Sanctum!"
The pair arose from their booth at Beaver's and headed to the walk-in. Jonathan slapped his hand on the back panel and it rumbled open, revealing a fireman's pole leading down to murky darkness. They each jumped on it and slid down, movements only slightly constricted by a lunch of CFS and the best mac in Houston.
The darkness of the Inner Sanctum was suddenly awash in the green glow of the Beavatron 2000, Jonathan's communications monitoring system that put ECHELON to shame. Jonathan sat in front of the main screen and peered at a flashing alert. "I just got a red flag in the vicinity of midtown. The system picked up some chatter about desserts." He typed in some commands and his face took on a somber aspect. "They're bagging on tres leches, man. Fuckers."
"Level Omega Intervention?" asked Chris.
Jonathan concentrated for a few moments and answered, "No.... too much. Remember what happened during the Felix Queso incident?"
Chris made a moue at the thought of the viscous concoction and shuddered.
"Nah," continued Jonathan, "I think we'll best be served with an insertion and demo. Um... that's 'demo' as in 'demonstration', not 'demolition'. I don't want a repeat of the Okrapolypse."
Chris shrugged and utterly failed to look innocent. "Fine, then. Let's get geared up and head out."
"I've got some tres leches that I whipped up last night," said Jonathan, walking over to a large hovertank, patting the side with his hand. "I"ll stash it in the Dam Buster and be ready in five. Want a lift?"
"Nah, I'm going to fly there," was the response.
Jonathan stopped. "You can fly? What the hell, man? I thought me having a hovertank was cool, but what's this shit about you being able to fly? What else can you do? Do I have any special powers?" He looked pissed.
"Um," stalled Chris. "Yeah, you see, you have all of this really cool technology to help you out, but I'm magical. It's a good balance between us that will highlight our different approaches to fighting crime. I mean, I don't have exploding French fries and homing missiles that lock on to bacon like you do. I don't have a robot butler with an English accent and napalm spray. I can just fly, teleport, and shoot lasers from my fingers. Trust me, you got the good end of the stick here." He gestured placatingly.
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "Lasers? Lasers aren't magic. This is bullshit."
"No, my lasers are magic. They taste like cherries and burn like a thousand volcanos. Anyway, it's not important. Let's get this tres leches situation under control! After you, boss!" Chris leapt into the air and hovered there.
Jonathan grimaced, muttered something about "fucking cherry flavored lasers, my ass," and went to get the cake.
Stay tuned for the next chapter of "The Case of the Triste Leches!"
