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Worst Case Scenario: "The Permanent Solution"
by Magpie -- Prelude | Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six Act One: Superhero Karaoke and a Trip to the Asylum " Alright! Into action!" Necro-Filia shouted over the background noise. "I don't think this is what I signed on for, Filia!" Goth Cheddar shouted, looking over his shoulder nervously. The shapely bunny in power armor made a point of ignoring him as she continued working. Gnawing on her lip, she forced herself to buckle down. Fight distraction. This was important and she couldn't have her attention diverted now when she was so close. "FILIA!" "Shhhhhh! I need to like... concentrate." Filia ran her finger along the list of numbers, her eyes swiveling back and forth as she studied them. At last with an excited shout, she tossed the binder away and punched out the code on the keypad. The lights began to dim, the countdown beginning on the large screen in front of them. "3" "Filia!!!" Cheddar shouted again. "2" "SHHHHH!" Filia hissed, sliding back her sleek black visor, and shaking out her long white ears. Clutching the microphone in her paws, she took a deep breath, preparing herself. The karaoke machine began to hum as the countdown hit "1". The parrot boy gave up on trying to attract her attention, and flopped down on the couch. This wasn't really quite what he'd expected. He thought that superheroes actually did... things. Like fought crime, or staked out rare art exhibits, or followed bank cars, or... something. But he couldn't really say anything to Filia or her partner. Cheddar had just learned that he was a superhero about a week ago, after discovering he had the miraculous ability to spontaneously conjure cheese from his fingertips. While this wasn't a particularly gothic power, he hadn't been able to find a super team that would take advantage of his unique abilities, EXCEPT Necro-Filia and Captain Cadaver. Necro-Filia and Captain Cadaver were an up and coming duo in the superhero scene, though they didn't seem to have any nemesis or super villain collars. They DID seem to know how to network though, the perky Filia and cool stylish Captain Cadaver becoming rather popular in superhero circles. Cheddar didn't think this was how superheroes did things, but they HAD been doing this for a few months longer then he had. Nudging Captain Cadaver, Goth Cheddar whispered, "Uhmmm, look, Patrick, do we go on patrol, or... anything like that? I just... don't think villains are going to strike in a karaoke bar." A towering bunny, Patrick Patreich was an imposing rabbit out of armor, but in his uniform, he was a juggernaut of black plasti-steel, with enough firepower to level a small country. He seemed to ignore Cheddar as well, only having eyes for Filia as she sang on the small stage. That was dangerous in Cheddar's opinion as well, fighting crime side by side with a loved one. It was just begging for one of them to be taken hostage, and used as leverage against the other. It happened all the time in his research materials (translated: Comic books). Goth Cheddar put his back into it, nudging the behemoth rabbit, trying to get his attention inside the heavy armored shell, "Patrick!" In response, the Captain tilted to the side slowly, falling off the couch with a meaty THUD. Cheddar was speechless for a moment, before realizing perhaps the suit was top heavy... The parrot slowly peered over the edge of the couch, reaching out to shake Patrick, "Patrick? Hey! Are you alright?" Patrick didn't move in response, as if he'd somehow fainted. Was he sick or something? Feeling his neck to check Patrick's pulse, Cheddar was surprised at how cold his skin was. Something else struck the parrot as unusual... there didn't seem to BE a pulse to check, "Filia!" "I'm like... in the middle of a song here..." "Patrick's dead!" "Huh? He's just resting, Polly. Quiet!" Filia picked her place back up in the middle of the song, smiling cheerfully as she danced back and forth over the mike cord, "I'm a model, ya know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk! Yeah on the catwalk!" No one else seemed particularly concerned by the fact there was a seven foot tall dead rabbit in the middle of the floor. Which was disturbing, considering Cheddar recognized a few faces as being higher profile superheroes themselves. Shaking his head, Cheddar got up, not sure if he should run for help or not. Arriving at the bar, he nodded to the girl mixing drinks as she meowed at him, "What can I get for you?" His eyes strayed to the mole on her cheek before he could stop himself, "I just need to pay the tab." "Oh, CC paid it already." "CC?" "You know... The Captain? He and Filia ARE showing you the ropes tonight, right?" "Uhmmm... yes, but I think he's sort of... dead." "Uh huh." The catgirl agreed as if he'd been talking about the weather, "So what's your handle? I'm Cheshire. Cheshire Muggs." "Oh, I'm uhmmm Goth Cheddar." "... what's gothic about cheese?" "Is there a pay phone I could use?" He looked back over to find the Captain was seated in the couch again, watching Filia as if nothing had happened. From here, now that he was LOOKING, Cheddar still didn't think the Captain was breathing. The parrot scratched his head, very confused. Were they playing a joke on him maybe? "I think I need something to drink." Waving away the money, the cat gave him a light pat on the head, "Oh, forget it. CC said your drinks are on him." Taking another look at the monstrous armored rabbit on the couch to confirm, Cheddar had to point out, "... he's still not breathing." "You just have to know how to talk to him." Cheddar shook his head, not wanting to ask. The evening had been too strange already. He frowned at Cheshire, leaning forward to examine her face. Something was definitely wrong, "I'm sorry to ask, but... has your mole moved?" "It's a beauty mark... and no." "About that phone..." "In the back by the restrooms." "Thanks." Cheddar pushed his way through the sea of fur that was the dance floor. He was starting to see why Bleu hated being called a superhero. After all, superheroes were just people too when you got down to it. He sure didn't feel any different, which was something of a let down. Cheddar had hoped that with his new powers, maybe it would all make sense. As he retreated to the bathroom, Filia hopped down from stage, plopping next to Patrick on the couch, "Can we leave now? I'm like bored... We could..." Leaning forward, she whispered in the Captain's ear, giving him a wink and a nudge as she smiled naughtily up at him. The towering bunny wobbled as he was nudged, falling on top of Filia, "No! Patrick! Not here! I... oh... I don't think that's a good... oh my..." Meanwhile... Taking a weak defensive stance, Bleu meditated on her breathing. Inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale... Opening her eyes, she was conscious of every molecule in her body, her muscles relaxed, the palms of her hands open and out. She waited in the almost complete darkness, untensed yet ready at any time to strike. There was a crinkle of plastic wrap to her left, but she ignored it, waiting for the enemy to come to her. With a burst of speed, her opponent launched from the shadows, sprinting across her den with frightening celerity. Taking to the air, he spun about, performing a spiraling drop kick. The cowgirl sidestepped at the last second, the impact of the blow causing the floorboards to splinter. The dust settled revealing her sparring partner, one of her recently purchased packages of twinkies. Bleu was impressed at his recovery, as the pastry planted himself, lunging forward with a double fisted strike. Having no other option, the cowgirl shielded herself, blocking the full force of the blow. Most people don't think a pair of siamese twin cream-filled sponge cakes could pack much of a punch... they would be wrong. The spongy cakes could strike with the force of cannon balls if properly motivated. And even if she was the savior of their kind... she was still a shopper, and that made for some friction among the more aggressive factions of junk food. Dr. Belle let out an irritated moo as she as driven back across the mat by the strength of the blow. Ducking the second strike, she could feel the wind of the spongy fist as it sailed over head. Belle dove forward, avoiding the twinkie's vicious back swing. Outstretched palms slapping on the practice mat, she quickly altered course, pushing off into a powerful mule kick. The snack cakes reeled back, striking the far wall with such force, they were knocked out of their wrapper, and thrown to the floor. Quickly regaining their senses, the duo began to pummel Bleu mercilessly. Belle was sadly at a disadvantage, two on one weren't good odds, and the twinkies seemed to be moving faster now that they had been freed from their oppressive cellophane. The cowgirl swayed back to avoid a vicious left hook, then brought her forehead forward to head butt the sponge cake. Leaving herself open, she took a twinkie to the gut causing the air to rush out of her lungs in an abrupt moo of pain. It's sibling took advantage, sailing up from the ground to deliver an uppercut smash. Though winded, Bleu's years of training kicked in, her reflex action being to open her mouth. The twinkie tried to halt it's onward momentum, squealing as it drew closer to her teeth in what seemed like slow motion. *CHOMP* Enjoying a sudden sugar rush, and only dealing with a single opponent, the odds were back in the cowgirl's favor. The twinkie backed up from her, taking it's place across the mat. It showed her it's moves, performing a number of painful looking aerial attacks. Bleu snorted, performing a quick sweep, pivoting on her foot to channel the momentum into a follow up roundhouse. The two warriors sized each other up, each waiting for the other to make a move... to leave an opening... Bleu's ears lifted as the phone rang, "Mooo? Who'd call me at th... OW! Why you son of a OW! TIME OUT!" The twinkie sullenly dropped back to the mat, pouting as Bleu Belle jumped over him, running for the kitchen as the phone rang a second time. Skidding along the throw rug in her hallway, the cowgirl caught herself from falling only by the most frantic of maneuvers. Considering how infrequently her phone rang, it was a matter of life and death that she pick it up before the answering machine. The third ring! One more... she was going to make it! She was going to make it! Hurdling the counter, Bleu snatched the phone off the receiver, answering breathlessly, "Hello?" Attacked by a sudden case of nerves, Goth's mouth felt dry. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath before shouting over the background karaoke, "Hi... It's uhmmm Cheddar... is this a bad time?" "No! Moo! No! I was just exercising." "Well, it's a slow night, and we're at the Screaming Possum Karaoke, and I remembered I had to call you, and I didn't know if you like Karaoke, so... I..." "... moo?" "So I..." Cheddar went blank, trying to think of a suave way to ask her if she wanted to go out. Selecting the perfect line, he lowered his voice an octave and asked, "So... What'd you think of the book?" "Do you want me to meet you there?" "Yes, very much." Cheddar agreed, glad she couldn't see him over the phone as he hung his head. Just pathetic... The twinkie crawled up the countertop and despite not having the proper anatomy for the task, managed to give the appearance of tapping his foot impatiently. "Let me take a shower. I'll be, moo... an hour?" "Great! See you!" Hanging up the phone, Bleu shook her head at the pastry, "I can't play right now, I need to get ready." Cupboards opened curiously, followed by the shuffle of packaged goods stirring up from all sides as the refrigerator latch popped open. Peeking out from the shelves were Oreo Cookies, Doritos, Cupcakes, pixie sticks, rock candy, soda cans, ice cream cartons, and all of her surrogate family members. "Get ready?" "For what?" "She's blushing!" "Blushing? A date?" "Oh! What's his name?" "He's not a smoker is he?" "How old is he?" "Why are you blushing? Have you and he..." "Oh don't be so blunt, she knows to take precautions." "Where did you all meet?" "He's not one of those artists, is he?" "An artist, huh? Well at least he's not a superhero..." Mooing wearily, Bleu Belle looked back and forth amongst the crowd of excited snackables, before covering her ears and retreating to the relative privacy of the bathroom. Meanwhile yet again... Resting his face on the glass door of the specimen freezer, Dr. Richard Frink's eyes rolled back into his skull as he allowed himself a brief cat nap. A bookish overweight armadillo of a man, the doctor found sleep simply wouldn't come now that he had a five minute span to enjoy it. The over-medicated Dr. Frink had been nursing a migraine since arriving at Pleasant Grove Asylum, which was to be expected. Villainy was seasonal in Supermegatopia, somewhat like tourism. With many of the heroes still in college or high school, when they returned home for the summer, villains always tried to take advantage of the lessened number of spandex clad vigilantes on the streets. And with this being July, this was the height of the season. Dr. Frink was given less and less sleep, thus required more and more caffeine to remain on his feet during his hectic schedule. It was true that while the social disorders that brought criminal behavior about was indeed considered "mental defects", only about five percent of the gross annual super-villain surplus were considered to require therapy rather then incarceration. Unfortunately while five percent was a small slice of the pie... it was a rather LARGE pie, with over two million recorded super villains last year, and that increasing by twenty more each week. He'd wasted three out of five minutes of his break, but he finally felt himself drifting off. That was nice... two minutes and he'd be right as rain... well maybe he'd at least stop seeing the bright sparks in front of his eyes... sleep... The alarm claxon sounded with a shrill whirring accompanied by the rapid gong of a bell. Looking at his watch, he concentrated all of his will into making the numbers come into focus. The prison transport was a minute early. The bastards... Pulling his cheek off of the specimen locker with a sound that was like nothing so much as yanking apart a damp strip of velcro, Dr. Frink reached for his emergency thermos. The armadillo held his breath before unscrewing the cap. The smell of the tar like substance was such that he felt nauseous if he allowed himself to inhale it before he'd dropped a cupful down the hatch. Swallowing the viscous black fluid, he gagged and sputtered like the dying engine of a cargo plane. Dr. Frink got up, jauntily taking the few steps out of his door to the admittance hallway. Struggling to keep his eyes open, the good doctor waited patiently while the heavily armed guards escorted his new patient down the corridor. Clad in a steel harness, her entire torso was covered in thick armor plate, weighed down by massive chains. The warden from Supermegatopia Penitentiary's Superhuman Branch followed behind the foursome of burly guards, reaching out to shake Frink's hand, "Good evening, Doctor. You've looked over the case file, I hope?" Yawning, the doctor shook his head to clear it, before grunting, "Case file. Yeah." "Ms. Tina Quills, you've probably heard about her on the news. The Snugglebug. Three hundred and twenty four separate cases of assault, she's the most prolific criminal in her field. She's been recently transferred here from maximum security. She's to be treated with extreme caution, you understand, Dr. Frink." Frink could feel the surge of caffeine slowly spreading through his body, giving his toes and fingertips a new vitality. Slowly he could feel the tingle as it moved up his forearms... why couldn't the caffeine move any FASTER? "Yeah... do you want some coffee?" "No, thank you. Now, I understand you ARE the doctor, however, I would strongly recommend you keep the restraints on her at all times, even during therapy sessions." "Yeah, sure, whatever..." Dr. Frink replied as blurry splotches began to creep across his vision, dancing merrily around the Warden's head. The Warden nodded, passing over the file and custody of the patient, "Good luck to you, sir." "Yeah... do you want some coffee?" The warden's frown broadened at the question, not sure if he should point out he'd already refused a cup, "... no. Thank you. Come on. Let's pack it in, guys." Watching the escort team leave, Dr. Frink stumbled into the cell. Taking a seat, he drew his clipboard from the confines of his lab coat. The heavily bound patient had been escorted to her seat and promptly handcuffed to it. "Well, I'm Dr. Richard Frink, and I'll... excuse me a moment." The armadillo rested his hand on the table and leaned forward to blearily examine it. With a sudden shout, he swatted it, bringing his clipboard down with all his might. The sudden flash of pain jolted him a little closer to wakefulness, and brought the patient into focus, "Well, as I was saying, I'll be administering your treatment here, Ms..." Flipping through the notes on his clipboard, he trailed off, searching for her name. "Quills!" She offered helpfully, her voice muffled by the thick steel helmet that covered her face. As the caffeine settled into his system more completely, Dr. Frink smiled, jotting down the name, "Of course, now... let's see. Orderly! Why is she still in that harness?" Madrox, the husky polar bear orderly sighed, trying to explain, "The Warden said..." "Madrox, I'm the doctor. I need to speak to her, or how can I be of any help? Now... Ms. Quills. Let me see..." While the heavy steel harness was removed bit by bit, he reviewed the file, unconsciously murmuring out loud bits that caught his attention, "... most prolific in her field, yadda yadda, a dangerous philosophy of pacifism, yadda yadda... the world's only know serial hugger?" Rubbing his eyes to make certain he wasn't seeing things, the doctor set the file aside, looking up at the inmate. The petite porcupine girl waved cheerfully back at him, her eyes squinting from the bright light, "Hi doctor!" She didn't look older then eighteen, and her face gave the impression she was even younger. Quills' face was possessed of an innocent cluelessness via a carefree smile on her lips, which was shared by her blue eyes. Tapping his fingers on the files with nervous caffienated energy to spare, Frink watched the inmate for a moment as the orderly was forced to drag the heavy armor away, "I don't believe in reading files, to tell you the truth. They only tell you the facts. Explain to me, why you're here..." "I... don't know." Tina admitted, giggling as she shrugged helplessly, further confirming Frink's suspicion he was dealing with a moron. Opening the file, he reread the particulars of her crimes, and scratched his head, "It says here that you are in fact a... serial hugger? What does that mean?" "... Cereal? Like Crunch Berries?" Her eyes lit up at the thought, a far off dreamy look taking over as she pondered the joys of the breakfast table, "They never have crunch berries in jail, even though I asked like twenty times. The doctor there said I couldn't have any sugar..." Snapping out of her delirium, she eyed Frink suspiciously, leaning forward to whisper, "Do you think I shouldn't have sugar too? I promise I won't eat too much! I ju..." "No, not that kind of cereal..." Frink finally replied, needing a few moments to form the answer. The armadillo was just too tired to tell if she was kidding or really that stupid, "So you like to hug people?" "Oh yes I do! I think that really is the best way to solve any argument! It gives you a warm fuzzy feeling inside, and a piece of you just melts, and you smile, and they smile, and everything works out! Although I think that a hug just to hug is a good idea too, because it's the best way to tell people how happy you are, and also it cheers them up too! But what would really cheer me up would be some crunch berries... Do you think maybe I..." "We'll talk about them later. Right now, I want to know how I can help you. If we talk, I'll know what you need, so maybe together we can cure you." "Oh... Do you all have television here? I like nick at night. Mchale's Navy is the best... Tim Curry is God. Actually, I'd like to hug Tim Curry. Have you ever seen McHale's Navy? Not the movie though. That wasn't very good..." Tina sighed wistfully, watching the doctor as he began to doze softly, "What do you think?" Dr. Frink opened his eyes with a start, shaking his head to clear it, "What? Oh, yeah." Slapping his hand again with his clipboard, Frink cleared his throat as he leaned forward, "Well, Ms. Quills... would you like some coffee?" "Yes please! Lots of cream, lots of sugar! So if you were to pick a favorite episode, which one would it be?" Rubbing his eyes, Dr. Frink turned on the tape recorder, nodding to Madrox as he lumber back into the room, "... could you get us some coffee, please?" Meanwhile... (yet again) " My Girovelle'! It was custom made by Girovelle' the third himself! One of a kind! The stupid cow chewed on it! Honestly, herd animals. They should all be sent back to Texas... present company excluded of course." Victoria was quick to add, patting Mignon's hand lightly, before attacking her shrimp enbrochette as if it had offended her, skewering the shellfish through with a triumphant shout. "Oh, of course..." Mignon agreed with her customary blasé', taking another casual bite of her kiwi salad. Mignon Fillette was decidedly mellow, even for a cow. Though most assumed that it was her refined and aristocratic breeding that kept her so very cool and calm, it was actually the anti-psychotics she took regularly. While Mignon was a super-villainess on occasion, it was so difficult to find girlfriend's in the same tax bracket and caste as Victoria , and thusly, she was forced to hobnob with the evil-doer out of necessity. There was that, and if truth be told, Victoria had a taste for beef, not quite sure what was so fascinating about cowgirls. All that aside, Mignon was an excellent chef and conversationalist... even if she was "The Masked Mad Cow" when she took a few days off of her medication. Compromise was important in a relationship. Victoria was technically a superhero, that much was true, but she didn't plan on actively following in her grandfather's footsteps. It wasn't that she didn't want to honor the tradition of her family. The Titan was the most powerful weapon on the planet, even now... no earthly technician could match it's fantastic design. Unfortunately, no earthly technician could maintenance it's fantastic design either... After sixty years of frequent use, followed by being moth-balled for another twenty... well, the suit could use some work. The hyper advanced audio-visual system had begun to pick up terrestrial radio stations, and would fill the pilot's cabin with tejano music at inopportune times. Victoria had to admit that the suit was on it's last leg... It was getting worse as well. Last week a power brown-out occurred that lasted four hours. Four hours with Victoria trapped inside after having drank three glasses of iced tea with her lunch. She spent the majority of the time trying not to think of running water and praying she didn't lose bladder control and cause another short when the system finally DID come back online. And there was the time the week before when the life-support system had begun synthesizing helium instead of oxygen for half an hour during her address to the graduates of S.M.University... Yes, the Titan was in a bad way... But it WAS Victoria's birthright, to inherit the mantel of the greatest hero of the golden age. "Oh, look who it is..." Mignon waved over to a young mouse-girl as she passed their table. Small in stature, as all of her kind, she somehow managed to hold herself as if she were ten feet tall. Her taste in fashion was as flamboyant as her behavior, though not quite so outlandish as her stories. With an elegant red silk captain's coat, worn over a ruffled lace shirt, she was dressed in the height of fashion, if it were the 1600's and she were a man. Neither was the case, but she was gracious enough to remove her three corner hat and bow when Mignon shouted to her, "Baroness!" Baroness Munchmausen was wealthy, young, single, and mad as a hatter, but she told an excellent story. That sadly seemed to be her only real talent actually... Making her way through the dining hall, she bowed her head again, with a broad smile that allowed her pristine white teeth to sparkle in the light, "If I might join you ladies?" Victoria had also met the Baroness Madeline Renard Erroneus Von Munchmausen. No one was quite sure where she came from though on separate occasions she claimed to have been born on the moon, to have sprung from a cucumber tree in southern Missouri, and even once she claimed to actually BE the city of Delaware, traveling incognito on a journey of self improvement. These were all more likely then not incorrect. What was most commonly believed was she was a descendant of the original Baron Munchmausen. It remained the best explanation anyone had come up with to date, "What brings you to Megatopia, Baroness? I thought you'd gone back to France?" "Oh, well, it's a good story if you've got the time..." Taking a seat, she waited for the waitress to set down a glass of port, before starting her tale, "Indeed, a man... or a woman... I can't say I know which... that's a poor start to a story, isn't it? Well it'll have to do, because even by the end of my tale, I still didn't know what it was. But whomever it is, it's here in Supermegatopia. Nothing so fiercesome lives at either end of the world, nor in the dungeon's of the Martian cricket people." "Is this the story about "the infernal barber, who's going to open the gates of Hell?"" Mignon asked between mouthfuls of Caesar salad. The Baroness' mouth dropped as she prepared to continue, then with a curious look to the bovine she sniffed, her whiskers twitching madly, "... have I told you about it already?" "Uhmmm... last year I think. At Vanessa Tull's Christmas party?" "Oh, so I did. Well, be on the look out." "For a demonic barber? You should check out my salon, Baroness. With the prices they charge, they're all going to hell eventually." Victoria commented, giving the Baroness a reassuring pat on the back. Munchmausen shrugged, sipping at her port thoughtfully, before tapping her ear, "So what's this I hear about a cowgirl eating a Girovelle'?" "Excuse me for a moment." Mignon interrupted, standing up from her chair. She'd heard quite enough about the pen and "stupid cows", "I'll be back in just a moment, pardon." She gracefully retreated across the restaurant, making a beeline for the lavatory, passing by a secluded booth without a sideways glance. Had she spared the time, she might well have recognized one of the diners as one of the most feared villains in the whole of the city. True, there were more powerful, more intelligent, more sadistic super villains out there then Magpie, but none that were just so damned unlikable. The black bird had an unusual smell about him, if unusual could be equated to a blend of raw sewage, foul body odor, with the subtle undertone of garlic and onion. The tiny little bird introduced himself as Magpie, criminal henchbird for hire, and while he was impeccably dressed, looking like nothing so much as an advertisement for Old Crow Whiskey, complete with a dapper little top hat, he apparently wasn't as keen on hygiene as he was on style. Snorting loudly, serenading the lemur-woman opposite him with the sound of inhaled mucus followed by a grunt, the magpie shoved his beak into his coat. "Ye want to hire me..." he repeated in his thick Scots accent, further muffled by the leather of his coat as he dug about in the pockets. "I represent someone interested in your services, yes. You've heard of the Stylist I expect. I'm Ratchet Cordova... The Reverse Psychologist, and I work for the Stylist." Withdrawing his head from the confines of his coat, Magpie had apparently found what he was looking for, a thick black cigar. Blinking at her from across the table, he didn't respond. An impromptu staring match began as Ratchet waited for the words to sink into the grungy little bird's head. The silence stretched on, until finally Magpie mumbled around his cigar, "... ah little help here, fur-girl? Light it already." Cordova frowned, pushing the candle closer to the bird, who gratefully inhaled until the tip glowed. The stench of the tobacco was oddly enough a refreshing change after his body odor, "Look, I dinnae care who ye are. What do ye want, and what do I get fur it?" "You'll meet your contact at the Screaming Possum Karaoke bar on main... You'll play look out for her, just... keep any superheroes off her back while she does her job. We'll reward you something to the tune of... fifty thousand for your services for the next... two days." Magpie cleared his throat again, wharfing up a greasy ball of phlegm into his empty glass, "Ah'm backing a lady? She a pigeon? Always did have a thing for pigeons. All breast meat, and what not..." "... she's not a pigeon." The woman in question, Hurly, wasn't much of a lady either, the lemur thought to herself. It would seem the Stylist had matched the two operatives together perfectly, both being repellant in the extreme, "She'll be wearing a carnation, that's how you'll recognize her." Her eyes had begun to water, the overpowering odor of the bird like a malevolent... THING, it attacked her eyes and sensitive nose with a sadist's glee. Standing up suddenly, she coughed, "I'll pay the bill on my way out. Remember, look for the carnation." The lemur walked briskly away from the table, desperately in search of fresh air. The bird cocked his head to the side, watching Ratchet as she left. Taking a deep pull from his cigar, he pondered the upcoming job. It seemed simple enough, only one thing puzzled him, "... what the fug is ah carnation?"
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